“All six? That would be excessive, wouldn’t it?”

“You think you’re the best at all your games. But Orea beat you. She beat you.”

Andross smiled and shrugged. “Luck,” he said, as if Karris’s selection as the White and the death of two of his cat’s-paws were trifles in the course of a friendly wager between friends.

“Not luck. Orholam turns his face against the proud, Andross Guile.”

“You think the divinity himself selected you?” Andross said, amused.

“It is the point of the entire ritual, isn’t it?” Karris asked.

Andross laughed, as if he couldn’t believe how naïve she was. “You drew one stone in seven. And perhaps there was no luck involved at all, depending on how far Orea stooped to get you where you are. You won. Take your victory, but to mistake that for a divine mandate on your—”

“That’s exactly what it is,” she interrupted.

He paused, and saw she was serious. “Oh, you are surprising, aren’t you? I can’t tell if you’re bluffing or if you actually believe that. No, don’t tell me. I like the uncertainty. You’re not a player, but you are a fascinating card, aren’t you? After all these years, I finally start to see what my son saw in you.”

“Sons,” Karris corrected. Both of them had fallen for her, after all. To the whole world’s sorrow.

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Andross said, his voice suddenly stone.

Oh, so this wasn’t all games and feeling out weaknesses and triggers. There was a personal edge in there. Andross blamed her for all this? For the war, for the loss of his sons? The sheer blind audacious folly.

But Karris wasn’t here to destroy Andross Guile. She was here to make a partner of him. And the truth was, their problems were mutual. Much as they both hated it, they were yoked together not only against external threats, but against internal ones as well. Three Guiles in power went against tradition, if not law. No one was going to be comfortable with one Guile as promachos, another as Prism-elect, and a third as the White.

Karris waved the Blackguards back. “So, how about it?”

“It? You mean me smoothing over your murder of Jason Jorvis and Akensis Azmith? Surely you’re joking.”

“Not murder. Summary judgment of traitors. Which is the direction I’d go in my defense if I were brought to trial.”

“Not self-defense?” Andross asked. “A petite woman like you, against two big men?”

Any trial would be agonizing, of course. People who’ve never been in a fight to the death always seem to think that split-second decisions can be derived rationally, and that a good person will naturally always make the best choice and then carry out what she intends flawlessly.

Self-defense would be the stronger case, as Andross knew. Karris had been targeted for assassination by those two men, each of whom was bigger and stronger than she was.

She’d been scared, she could say. If her reaction had seemed disproportionate, people had to remember that she was a small woman, and they were large, threatening men. She’d merely done as her training taught her: she’d put an end to the threat.

It was all true, but it wasn’t all the truth.

Karris hadn’t been afraid. Combat was scary: you could do everything right and still get killed by a stray bullet or an ally’s error or dumb luck. Fighting two untrained idiots hand to hand? Not that scary.

She might have been able to save them, but she’d had time for only two thoughts as they held on, balanced at the edge of the testing platform: First, that they were the sons of noble families that were needed in the war, and thus they would get away with their treason and blasphemy and murder. Second, that she wasn’t going to let that happen.

Self-defense was a perfectly good legal defense, but telling people their new White had been afraid wasn’t the way she wanted to start her term.

Or she could point out that by the rules of the selection as it had been presented, other than that none of them were to draft, there were no rules, no laws. Whoever came back would be the White, and the White would be immune to prosecution. Another perfectly good and true defense.

But her path, alleging treason? That would tear those families apart. If, during the ensuing investigations, someone folded and admitted they’d tried to manipulate the selection of the White, Karris had no doubt the fingers would end up pointing at Andross Guile. He would have to be executed as a traitor and heretic on Orholam’s Glare, along with who knew how many others.

Andross said, “If you take that path, you’ll fatally weaken our war effort.”

“Even if I succeed,” Karris admitted. Rallying allies wouldn’t be easy after decimating several powerful families and showing that there was corruption at the very heart of the Chromeria. “I’ve not been elected to be the Gray. I am the White. What is white without purity? Bad enough that our promachos is faithless.”

Andross Guile gave her a long, appraising glance. “Are you suddenly so ins—so zealous.”

“Hmm,” Karris said.

After a long moment, Andross said, “I’ll take care of the Jorvises and Azmiths. A trial won’t be necessary.” He nodded and moved as if to leave, then stopped. He smirked. “May I be excused, High Lady Guile?”

She grinned a little back—no harm letting him think his charisma worked even on her—and motioned that he was dismissed.

Only after the door closed behind him did she breathe again.

Survive first meeting with Andross Guile.

Chapter 5

It was Sun Day night when Teia discovered the note on her bed. It was simply folded and dabbed with red wax, no seal impressed on it. Teia flared her eyes to paryl, saw nothing suspicious, and picked up the note: “Report to Cowardice 27. Now.”

No signature.

Cowardice was the nickname of the sixth floor on the dark side of the red tower, not just the apparition strangling Teia.

Here was the problem with serving two masters who demanded total discretion: Teia had no idea whether Karris or Murder Sharp had left this message.

She hoped it was Karris. She had so much to report it was ridiculous.

She also hadn’t slept for two days, and she wasn’t at her best. Sleep deprivation led inexorably to bad decisions. If this note was from the Order, she couldn’t afford any bad decisions.

The more immediate problem was what Teia should do with the master cloak. But what could she do with it now? Leave it in the trunk at the foot of her bunk? A treasure worth empires, hanging quietly on a hook from her bedpost? She could disguise it, sure, but as what? What if the laundresses came through and grabbed it? What if laundering destroyed the magic in it?