“The adults will talk about that when Carver Black arrives,” Andross said. “You know the Chromeria absolutely forbids tattoos.”
“I know. I don’t care.” It was an old and remarkably stupid prohibition. During an early and contentious era before colored lenses were widely available, some lighter-skinned drafters had tattooed blocks of their drafting color on their arms to give themselves an ever-present color source. In a partisan power play, the dominant Parians, whose darker skin made color tattoos less helpful to them, had pushed through a prohibition on all tattoos to solidify their perennial hold on the Blackguard. What would happen to their dominance if lighter-skinned warriors could negate the advantages of dark skin and gain ever-present color sources simply by getting tattoos?
“You can’t afford to thumb your nose at the Spectrum when you come begging favors. We’ll talk more about that thing on your forearm, but for the moment, how about putting on something with sleeves?”
“Of course,” Kip said. And in moments, he was pulling on Ferkudi’s coat.
Andross studied him all the while. Then he pursed his lips. “Yes.”
Yes? Oh, to the mirror array. He was granting permission. Thank Orholam.
A secretary produced a quill, parchment, and Andross’s promachos seal. Andross wrote a brief note himself. As the secretary made copies, Andross drew up another writ granting Kip provisions and shelter for his forces.
“I’ve more defenders coming,” Kip said, taking the parchments. “They’ll need accommodation and supplies, too. We traveled at greatest possible speed.”
“We’ll take care of your people,” Karris promised. She walked with him to the door as a sweating Carver Black came in. The man must have run.
“Is it true?” he asked. “They come?”
Kip nodded, and handed Black the scouting report he and the Mighty had written up before they’d made landfall. “I’m also leaving Ferkudi with you to answer any questions. He’s got a hell of an eye for detail.”
Carver Black tore into the report, heading over to Andross, but Karris stayed behind.
“Kip, I have much to atone for, so I hope we get a chance to speak soon. One pressing question first, though. If you’ll be on the Prism’s array in some manner during the battle, then there’s a question of the disposition of your forces. You won’t be able to lead them personally. We’ll need to integrate them with our forces.”
“Yeah,” Kip said. “It’s not a problem I’ve got a great solution for yet.” This was not a kind of fighting his people had trained for, nor was an effective defense a simple matter of putting warm bodies into the correct places.
“Then I wonder if you’d be willing to consider my solution,” Karris said. “A general who I’d hoped would lead our invasion of Blood Forest is just arriving. If I get my way, he’ll head up our defenses.”
Yeah, hell no, I’m not handing my people over to anyone, Kip managed to not say aloud.
“Forgive me for speaking bluntly,” he said instead, “but I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of the Chromeria’s idea of effective military leadership.”
She winced, accepting the justice of that, but then asked slyly, “Would it change anything if I told you the general I have in mind is Corvan Danavis?”
Chapter 74
With her heart in her throat, Teia shadowed the merchant through the pilgrim-clogged streets.
Unless she misjudged, the leaders of the Order of the Broken Eye would meet tonight, within hours. It would be Teia’s last chance to fulfill her mission.
Through Quentin, Karris had left Teia a single question: ‘If I give you anything and everything at my disposal, can we stamp out the Order of the Broken Eye within the next two days?’ Teia was to leave a marker to get her yes or no to the White immediately.
All of Teia’s hunting and killing had led her to this street, tracking Atevia, and Atevia would lead her to the Old Man. The Old Man would either be carrying his papers or he would have to check them after this meeting, so he would surely head to his secret office.
Teia might be able to kill the Old Man of the Desert today, with the entire Order to follow as soon as Karris could mop them up.
When Atevia’s steps took him to the Embassies District, Teia’s chest tightened further. It didn’t seem that a heretic would head toward the Chromeria and the attendant higher density of luxiats and spies of all kinds, not for an important meeting.
Then he turned in to the Crossroads, the former Tyrean embassy that had been converted into the city’s finest restaurant and kopi house. Situated near the Lily’s Stem and literally at a crossroads, it had long been a favorite haunt of diplomats, nobles, rich merchants, the idle rich who merely wanted to see and be seen, and everyone who wanted to do business with any of the above. Excellent food and drink, a fine and discreet brothel downstairs, superviolet bubbles for privacy upon request, private meeting rooms for hire, and dozens of egress routes all made it a haven for spies and those needing to meet with or even recruit them. There were so many legitimate reasons to enjoy the Crossroads, the illegitimate ones could hide in plain sight.
But all the things that made it a great place to meet clandestinely (as so many did) seemed to Teia to also make it the worst place to meet clandestinely: because so many did. Everyone was watching to see who everyone else was meeting with.
A certain kind of spy might enjoy hiding in plain sight, but Teia couldn’t believe that the leadership of the Order of the Broken Eye would be so brazen. They weren’t a brazen bunch.
She watched from a safe distance as he made the rounds, nodding to people who seemed engrossed in other meetings and dropping a quick word here and there with others, and had a longer, amenable conversation with someone who looked like a floor manager of the Crossroads, then took sips from a number of wineglasses a pretty young slave brought out on a tray, apparently discussing them with the manager.
Of course. Atevia was wine merchant to the nobility. The Crossroads would be a major account, or had the potential to be one, Teia supposed. Atevia was here for his actual business. Maintaining contacts with a huge number of important people was simply part of his job.
As Atevia seemed to be concluding his work with the manager, Teia slid closer.
The manager slipped out from their table and said, “Oh, there are some barrels in the cellar that I’m afraid have gone bad. Could you check on those for me?”
Atevia grinned and said, “Well . . . if you insist.”
“Oh, I do,” the manager said, winking. “There’s a new, ahem, barrel I think you really need to sample.”
Teia actually thought they were still talking about work until Atevia reached a hand down to adjust himself on the stairs.
Oh, gods, she really was naïve. Conspiratorial winks? The new barrel Atevia needed to sample . . . in the basement, which happened to be a brothel?
Dammit, T, how naïve can you be?
Teia had given up her chance to kill Murder Sharp—not to do anything productive, not to save anyone, but to wait around while Atevia emptied his coin purse before his big meeting tonight.
Suddenly, a bubbling cauldron of bile in her boiled and spilled over, hissing and spitting as it hit the flames of Teia’s frustration and disappointment.