“My grandmother was desperate, and I solved so many problems for her. But she never forgave herself for letting the blacksmith clip my ears. Because the moment he cut, our course was set.”
Here Gavin thought he’d tried the most insane gambit possible to save himself in the fallout of the civil war. He felt numb. Marissia. A Pullawr.
“It wasn’t a bad life,” she said.
“What?”
“I served the Seven Satrapies. I got to see my grandmother, whom I had always loved dearly, almost daily. I wouldn’t have seen her ever if I’d had my old dream. She would have been here, and I would have been off somewhere, paired with some fool or other who wasn’t half my equal. That’s what grandmother said, when she was trying to look on the light side. And I got to be with you. And you loved me after your way, didn’t you? Not quite in the way I thought you did early on, but you cared for me.”
There was something plaintive in how she said it, as if she couldn’t bear to make it a question, but wanted to know the answer more than anything.
Not stupid, Marissia. Of course she’d seen through that lie, eventually. She, who was closer to him than anyone, had eventually realized what being a slave meant.
He wanted to break down in horror for what he’d done, for who he’d become, but if he did, the orange in him knew she would come comfort him. He, who had hurt her, would take from her even comfort.
Gavin had once thought his father a fool because the old man had been so close to Gavin and had never seen him for what he was. He himself had been closer still to Marissia and had never seen her at all. It was a bitter mirror to hold.
“Marissia, I did—”
But his pause, the very pause he’d taken because he had been trying to be fair to her, was too long. She took it as a negative. She swallowed, and interrupted, “My lord, it was an honor to serve you. But not one I would repeat, given the choice.”
He squeezed his eyes tight shut—and pain lanced through his left eye. “Marissia, please…”
“Don’t lie to me now, my lord.”
“I loved you as a master loves his best slave. I was well pleased, but I took it as my due. I never saw you, Marissia.” And that says nothing about you, and everything about me.
She took it like a slap in the face, but after a moment, she breathed. “Truth, from Gavin Guile. I should thank you for that.”
He was not exactly Gavin Guile, either. But that was a confession too far afield.
“Marissia… Marissia. You did more for me than anyone. I owe you more than I can ever repay. But I have nothing to give you for all you’ve sacrificed for me.”
“Then see me now.”
He looked at her, unsure what she meant.
“Talk to me. Talk to me like I’m a free woman. Like I’m your friend. Like I’m here.”
And so they talked. They talked of people they had known. They talked of Marissia’s childhood, and her family, and of her grandmother. Marissia shared stories Gavin had never heard of the old woman, and not just of her. Marissia told him of intrigues in the Chromeria he had never even guessed at. She told him about times he’d almost caught her spying for her grandmother.
Something tight in Gavin’s chest loosened.
Despite their situation, they laughed.
For once, Gavin imitated his mother rather than his father, and asked questions rather than giving commands. As Marissia spoke, and Gavin listened, she became more animated than he had seen her in years. She glowed beautifully, unmissable. Yet Gavin had missed her.
He saw her now.
And though time had no meaning down here, and the gray light never varied, they spoke what must have been long into the night. Finally she stood and stripped off her slave’s dress, leaving only her shift. She crawled up onto his narrow convalescent’s palanquin. He had a bad feeling, but she merely draped her dress over the two of them as a makeshift blanket. There was no way he could deny her the comfort of his arms, and he needed the warmth. She snuggled against him, and soon fell asleep.
His left arm was around her, with its two lopped-off fingers. His left eye was toward her, blind and seeping. He was a cripple, in the prison he himself had constructed, and he was holding the wrong woman.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to this woman who had lived and would die for him. “I’m so, so sorry.” But for this cold night, he cuddled close to her and thought of his wife.
Karris, will I ever see you again?
Chapter 9
This wasn’t shit creek. This wasn’t no paddle. This was shit ocean. This was I can’t even see land.
In the three days since Sun Day, Teia hadn’t had a single moment when she could go see Karris. Every waking hour had been filled. Double shifts with the Blackguard, guarding Carver Black and other members of the Spectrum as they’d investigated what exactly had happened in the city, sometimes being debriefed herself about what she knew, and then clearing rubble and scraping floors with the other nunks on the top floor of the Prism’s Tower. The nunks weren’t even excused from lectures, so Teia had only had a few hours’ sleep each night—and no time at all to sneak away and meet Karris, even if the woman had left a response to Teia’s signal that they needed to meet.
Teia had wanted to report to Karris before she’d talked to the Old Man. Now it was absolutely necessary—and utterly impossible. Teia was being followed. If she met with Karris and was seen, it would mean the death of both of them.
But Teia had a superpower that no one had counted on: she was completely paranoid. She had thought she was being followed a hundred times since she’d started working for the Order, so she’d figured out a thing or two.
One, she was a paranoid mess.
Two, she was pretty good at it.
She knew all the places where she could lose a tail. Whether in the Chromeria itself or on Big Jasper, she knew some good tricks, and she was always adding to her list.
So. No time to sit here gulping like a beached fish. Find the tail, lose the tail, and then report. She could worry about everything else after that.
She started walking, quickly, heading back to the barracks and the master cloak. The first thing to do was to figure out how many people were following her, and who they were.
If you were being followed by a team of professionals, it was well nigh impossible to tell. The front-follows, the handoffs, the disguise switches—if a squad had three or four people of medium height and build in any area with decent traffic, there was no way you could figure it out.