He continued, “It’s a high hurdle, to be sure, but Orholam has given us a way to move forward despite that. You all have known me for many years, and you’ve known Orholam and how he works. You all know the crisis before us. I see no need for further deliberations. I call the question.”

Klytos voted yes, of course. Andross voted yes, saying that abstaining would be a false modesty. That left Jia Tolver Yellow and Delara Orange. He only needed one of them. If he lost both of them, the White would vote.

“I vote nay,” Delara Orange said, folding her arms. “You have played me the fool for the last—”

“This is not the time for speeches,” Andross snapped. “It’s time for votes. Jia?”

Jia scowled, her unibrow squirming as her face went through a dozen expressions. “I cannot stand in the way of Orholam. Our personal differences aside, this seems to me to be a very real miracle. I vote aye.”

A breath went out around the table.

“The ayes carry it,” the White said. Her tone and face both were inscrutable. “We will administer the oaths of office tomorrow in the great hall. Acceptable, promachos-elect?” she asked.

“More than acceptable, High Lady.” Andross Guile smiled. He didn’t even try to hide his triumph.

They were adjourned. Karris stood and walked out into the hall. She handed the dagger back to a confused Gavin Greyling as the young Blackguard stepped into the hall, but her chastising quip caught in her throat as she saw a familiar figure waddling down the hall.

“Caelia?” she asked. The little woman was not only a keen mind, she was also a drafter. Caelia had been the Third Eye’s right hand, and had become indispensable to General Danavis—now Satrap Danavis—in ruling Seers Island, which Gavin had made a new satrapy. “What are you doing— Oh no.”

“That’s Caelia Green to you, appointed by Satrap Corvan Danavis of Tyrea,” the woman said with a grin. “Boat just landed a few hours ago. Would have been here sooner, but there was some mix-up at the docks. I miss anything important?”

So that’s why Andross had seemed rushed. He’d found out a dissenting vote was arriving. One vote would have been enough to ruin his plans. A mix-up at the docks? Andross’s people had been stalling Caelia while the Spectrum met.

And on a difference of three minutes, all of history changes.

Chapter 33

Going back to the library after all that had happened to him since he’d been here last was eerie. Everything was exactly as it had been when Kip left. He walked past study tables with holes cut in the desktops for inkwells to rest, protecting them from being spilled. He passed down aisle after aisle of books, specially laid out to deal with the circular nature of this library, the bookcases themselves each slightly curved. This was only one of many libraries on Little Jasper, but it was the one that even first-year discipulae had access to, so it had been where he’d spent the bulk of his time.

A pang of nostalgia struck him, and he made his way to one of the desks. A stoop-shouldered nearsighted young scholar sat there. “Excuse me,” Kip said. “I’m looking for Rea Siluz.” The kind librarian had helped his studies of the cards and everything else. She’d also been the one who’d directed him to Janus Borig, the Mirror.

“Uh-huh,” the young man said. He turned back to his work. He had his own stacks of books and notes that he seemed deep in the middle of.

“Hey, I was—”

“There aren’t any books on Rea Siluz. If you have a problem with that, lodge it with the Office of Doctrine.”

“Huh?” Kip asked. “I’m not looking for a book on her, I’m looking for her. This tall, skinny, narrow face, dark hair? Usually works the late shifts?”

“Tell Timaeus very funny, and I hope his treatise rots in review.”

“I don’t know anyone named T—”

“Shh!” The librarian turned back to his own work.

Kip gave up. Maybe someone in one of the later shifts would know her. Weird, though. “I need access to the upstairs library,” Kip said.

“What year are you?” the librarian asked, peeved.

“I’m a Blackguard inductee.”

“Prove it,” the librarian said.

“Step out here for a bit,” Kip said. He cradled a fist in his other hand.

The man didn’t look intimidated in the least. “Accosting a librarian will get you banned from all libraries for a year.”

The cards spread in Kip’s hand:

Ram, the bully. “A year? Doesn’t sound so bad.” A little looming, a little violence threatened. A little bit of taking a young man’s physical weakness and rubbing his nose in it like dogshit. Smart Ram. “A year?” Kip said. “During war? And me a Blackguard, who might need this knowledge to fight? I don’t think so.” Lord Ram: “I’m a Guile. You think anyone’s going to punish a Guile for breaking your face? I could throw you off a balcony, and no one would say a word.”

And he actually considered playing each, or all. He stopped, disgusted.

Come a long way since Rekton, haven’t I? From powerless weakling to slaveholding bully. He had long known he was changing, but to this? Was this what he wanted to be?

“I’m sorry,” Kip said. “It was a jest, and a poor one, unworthy of me and unfair to you. I beg your pardon.”

The librarian looked at him as if a Blackguard apologizing was the oddest sight he’d ever seen. “Given,” he said. He shrugged. “Name?” he asked, fishing through his piles for a list.

“Kip Guile.”

The librarian coughed. “The Godsl— Ahem!” He shuffled his papers. Stopped. “Uh, you can go straight up, Master Guile,” he said.

But Kip had no joy in it. Godslayer. It was another burden, another expectation, like he’d done it once, so surely he’d do it again.

“Uh, question,” Kip said. He turned on a chagrined, charming smile. “Could I have just gone up without asking?”

“Of course. But if anyone is discovered in those libraries who is not allowed there, the penalties are severe. But we don’t guard the door or anything. I mean, it’s books.”

Good old Kip, ready to bash down doors—that were unlocked.

The first person Kip saw in the restricted library was Commander Ironfist. What?

“Commander! It’s great to see you!” Kip said. “I was kind of intimidated by the whole ‘restricted library’—”

The commander looked up sharply. “I’m working, Breaker.”

“What are you working on?” Kip asked eagerly.

“Breaker. Move on.”

Kip craned his head to see the title, and read aloud, “Mothers of Kings: An Unconventional Inquiry into Abornean Bloodlines? What’s that about? And all these others?”

“How far do you think you can run in twenty-four hours?” Ironfist asked flatly.

A dim light bloomed in Kip’s tiny, tiny brain: Warning, stupid! “Yes, sir!” he said, and retreated before he could hear any more words, which could only spell pain.

Kip moved to a desk where another luxiat five or six years older than him was studying. “Pardon me, can you tell me where the genealogies are kept?”