“Yes, Ironfist, he was under your command. And your negligence grieves me. You have served long and hard, and I am loath to hold your failures against you, Commander, but you have done your term of service honorably, if poorly in this last year. Commander Ironfist, you are hereby relieved of your command and your commission. You will retire with full honors and stipend, effective immediately.”

Kip felt like he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. One part of him saw the art in the lies, the questions spawned by Andross’s words. People were suddenly wondering, in what ways had Commander Ironfist failed? Many of them knew that Ironfist and Andross Guile hadn’t gotten along, but Andross’s apparent grief at having to relieve Ironfist of command, and the way he seemingly honored the man even as he kicked him out—his very grace in victory made it seem obvious that whatever the conflict had been, it had been Ironfist’s fault.

Ironfist looked gutted. He seemed like he didn’t even know where to look, glancing from Andross Guile to Kip, even at Grinwoody.

Kip wanted to throw up. He wanted to kill Andross Guile.

“And you, Kip,” Andross said. He turned, as if suddenly aware of how public this had become. “Everyone, I’m terribly sorry you had to see this. Kip, I will not shield you because you are family. The evidence, though far from certain, is quite suggestive. Kip, you’re expelled from the Chromeria, expelled from the Blackguard, and exiled from the Jaspers. Effective immediately. If any of your Mighty go with you, they, too, are expelled and exiled. Begone, grandson.”

“I—”

“Begone! Before I change my mind! Out!” he roared.

Kip trembled with rage. Not for himself, but that he’d let Ironfist get caught up in this. And suddenly, Gill Greyling and Kalif were very close behind him.

To protect Andross Guile against him.

No, no. Not like this.

In a daze, Kip went out. The squad and even Commander Ironfist went out with him. The double doors closed, but before anyone could say anything, they opened once more, and Andross poked his head out. “Commander,” he said quietly. “I know how your Blackguards love you. If you lead a rebellion, I bet half would join you. So it’s your decision: is that what you want for either half of the Blackguard? Afterward, I’ll disband them. You’ll have ended your precious Blackguard.”

Then Andross disappeared back into the room. The doors closed after him.

Kip looked at Ironfist’s face, and was afraid. The huge warrior trembled with rage, his fists clenched hard at his sides. Kip never precisely forgot that Ironfist was huge and tall and perhaps the best fighter he would ever meet, but being reminded of it like this was something else altogether. He heard Ironfist breathing: in on a four count, hold for a four count, out for a four count, empty for a four count. It was the very calming technique he’d taught them to moderate the battle juice or to steady rage.

The commander turned to Kip. “So she’s dead, then?” His voice was controlled. He meant the White.

“By now. We saw her not ten minutes ago. She was passing quickly.” Kip wanted to say more, but the other Blackguards were still in the hall.

Ironfist started walking toward the lift, and they fell in behind him naturally.

“Well, who looks like whipped puppies?” Aram said as they passed the Lightguard checkpoint. He laughed noisily.

Following Ironfist’s example, Kip did nothing. Aram would expect him to attack. Kip did nothing, and Aram turned, laughing at him.

After Kip was past him, he heard the clong of helmet on stone, and the laughter abruptly stopped.

Kip glanced back, but the squad hadn’t even broken stride. Aram was tottering, eyes unfocused, his helmet pushed forward over his eyebrows. The wall behind his head was scratched, as if from a helmet striking it. He sat heavily. His Lightguard compatriots were looking at him, puzzled. Kip looked forward, so as not to draw more attention.

They got to the lift, and Ironfist, who had never turned, said, “Thank you, Big Leo.”

Kip looked up at his squadmate, but the hulking young man kept looking forward, a slight, smug grin on his face.

They had to wait for the lift to arrive, and when it did, Karris was on it with two slaves. She was dabbing her flushed face with a handkerchief as if she, too, had been running, as one of the slaves tried to wrestle her long dark hair into some order, and the other, scandalized, was still lacing up the back of Karris’s dress.

Karris and her slaves stepped off the lift. “What happened?” Karris asked. “Do they know?”

“No,” Ironfist said. “The promachos just stripped me of my commission.”

“What?!” Karris asked. “We were only apart for—”

“You need to go in there. Learn what you can,” Ironfist said. “Tell them when it’s time. It’s what the White would have wanted.”

“So she’s dead.” Karris’s face twisted with grief, rapidly pushed down.

“Don’t let it make you stupid. Go. We’ll meet later,” Ironfist said.

Karris looked around as if there was more she wanted to say, but that she thought spies would overhear. “Tell Kip,” she said. Then she looked at Kip, but didn’t seem to know what to say. She reached a hand out and touched Kip’s shoulder awkwardly, as if trying to apologize for their last encounter. But there wasn’t time. Then one of her slaves dabbed one last bit of powder on her face, and Karris was off.

She waved off her slaves and glided right through the Lightguard checkpoint. Aram was still seated, holding his head. The other Lightguards looked unnerved.

“You’re not going to touch me,” Karris announced, looking right past them, head held high, the force of her personality preceding her small figure like a wave. “You’re not even going to speak to me.”

They didn’t.

Chapter 91

Zymun was seated with his grandfather on the dais, where he belonged. For now. The crown of the Prism-elect on his forehead was a welcome weight. But he’d hoped for more. Prism-elect? Why was he not simply the Prism?

It was his grandfather’s work, of course. The old man was keeping a leash on him. Zymun would make him pay, eventually. He was already irritated that the High Luxiat was the center of attention, droning on and on. Zymun had feigned respectful deference for some interminable length of time, but the luxiat simply wouldn’t shut up. So now Zymun was looking out at the assorted nobles and deciding which women he would bed.

Women afforded such drama; he loved it. The hunt was a thing of beauty. An avalanche of words and your full attention, watching always to see what flattery worked best, feeling out the weak points, returning to them often. Unrelenting attention, pretending she was the center of your world.

Then the lovemaking. First sweet and passionate, animal desire and total focus. And then, once you had them, indifference interspersed with total focus. Apologies, little gifts, confusion, and more lovemaking, degrading now.

That was, perhaps, the sweetest part. To watch a woman fall in love and to see in her eyes that she knew she shouldn’t and yet she was.

From there, it was merely a matter of completing the destruction. Fighting, making up, slapping, apologizing, cheating, first stealthily and then getting caught on purpose, apologizing, degrading, stealing and blame shifting, then acquiring whatever blackmail you needed to make sure that when you cast her off she stayed gone. Sometimes with whole weeks of sweetness mixed in. And when they were wrung out, poor, humiliated, self-hating, and ruined, he would move on, perhaps to her friends.