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.
Married women were the best. Sometimes harder to seduce initially, but with more access to money and secrets, and less likely to cling when you cut them loose, and while he was still young, it was easier to make them take the blame. After all, he was just a boy. That they had husbands also meant that they had a harder time keeping tabs on him, so he could seek out other excitement at the same time.
Liv Danavis was the only one who’d really escaped him. In his defense, she’d been the side excitement while Zymun was involved with a general’s wife. There’d been so much else going on, too. It was a failure, but not one for which he could blame himself. He was young, after all, and he hadn’t perfected his technique.
He was drifting, though. There were plenty of handsome women here, but he wouldn’t pick one only for her looks. Not with his new position.
Maybe on the side. But he’d have to learn who was who before he committed time and energy. His grandfather had kept him in the dark about the nobility, and his own plans.
It meant Andross feared him. Zymun didn’t know whether to be more flattered—an equal!—or irritated. It made things ever so much more difficult. Especially since Zymun needed his grandfather. He couldn’t move against the old man without destroying his own power. Not until he was Prism. Prism-elect could be undone.
Clever old goat.
But what had Andross been doing with Kip just now? Kicking him out? Zymun thought that Andross was going to keep Kip around to guarantee Zymun’s good behavior. Had he simply let his anger get the best of him? He was the Red after all, and old. Stupid.
This morning, in the nauseatingly early hours before dawn when they’d woken to come to the Chromeria, Zymun had done his best to eavesdrop on his grandfather, who was giving orders to his slave, that old wrinkled prune, whatever-his-name-was.
Something about tell him he gets an hour. Him?
That slave had come into the hall with Kip.
Andross was giving Kip an hour to run away. Why would Andross do such a thing?
So Kip would get away. Whatever the plan was, Andross wanted the pursuit to look real, and Kip had an hour.
Zymun fidgeted in his seat and leaned over to his grandfather, who appeared to be listening to the High Luxiat’s sermon intently. “I need to use the latrine,” he said.
Andross said nothing. Eventually he turned a baleful glare on Zymun. “What are you, a child? Hold it.”
Zymun was about to go anyway when the side double doors opened once again. It was a rude way to enter the audience hall when there was another, more subtle entrance at the back, and the hinges creaked loudly. Some slave or discipula would be beaten for that, Zymun hoped.
A woman stepped in, petite, early thirties, skinny, oddly muscular, dark hair. Her dress was rich enough that it was clear she must be of the high nobility. Who would be brash enough to interrupt this ceremony? She was beautiful, though. Rich enough. At her age, certainly married. Maybe she would be a good target for his next seduction. She looked familiar for some reason.
Oh, she saw him now, and she looked transfixed. Zymun was uncommonly handsome. And he was Prism now. Women love a powerful man.
Prism-elect. Damn.
She tore her eyes away from him and looked to the slave at her elbow who was supposed to usher her to a seat. The man seemed flustered; there were no seats up front, where her position obviously demanded she be seated.
Then a noble got up from the very first row. He walked confidently down the center aisle, as the preaching luxiat faltered briefly and then went on about sacrifice and the light of truth or whatever. Zymun felt more than saw Andross cock his head.
The noble waved the slave off and escorted the woman forward. Odd. There were literally no places at the front, and the way the benches were packed, they couldn’t simply make room for her.
But the noble brought the woman, who looked alternately confused and still captivated by Zymun, up to where he’d been seated himself. The noble seated her in his own seat, shot a single inscrutable look at Andross Guile, and then left by the side aisle. Zymun watched him go to the back and take a seat with the low nobles. How odd.
Zymun had a sense that something important had happened, so he looked at Andross Guile, but could read nothing there.
He wasn’t always good at reading emotions, though.
He shifted in his seat again, and said, “Grandfather, I’m going to leave a puddle if I don’t go. Pardon me.”
Without waiting for a response, Zymun went out, head bowed and consternation writ on his face so it was clear he was not trying to cause an interruption. He left by a side exit near the dais.
Blackguards stood at the door both inside and out. After the doors closed behind him, Zymun headed toward the lift.
“Latrines are that way,” a Blackguard offered, pointing the opposite direction.
Zymun ignored him and walked briskly until he came to the Lightguard checkpoint. “Name?” he demanded of the limping commander.
“Lieutenant Aram, sir,” the man said. There was a bit of fear in his face, but he was muscular and sour-looking. Zymun knew how to deal with his type. Not much different than the scurvy-ridden pirates he’d just spent months with.
“My grandfather has changed his mind about his disowned grandson Kip,” Zymun said. “Lieutenant, are you capable of taking decisive action and delicate orders?”
“Yes, sir!”
“And your men here? They know how to keep their mouths shut when given a vital assignment?”
“Yes, sir!” they said.
Zymun said, “Promachos Guile wants you to capture Kip and any one of his squad who try to stop you. You may use all of the Lightguard.” Zymun lowered his voice. “And lieutenant … by capture, the promachos means kill. Make it look like you had no choice. You must never breathe a word of this, not even aloud to the promachos. Our enemies have spies everywhere. I promise you great rewards if you show you can be trusted. Perhaps even advancement. I am now the Prism-elect. I can be a good friend to you. Do you understand?”
Aram’s eyes glittered. “Yes, Lord Prism. We’ll obey gladly. More than gladly.”
“The luxlords will be in ceremonies until after noon. Today is a holy day, I don’t expect you to get the whole city in an uproar, you understand? Do it quietly, but do it. If you have to use every Lightguard in the city, do it, say you’re after a thief or something. Yes?”
“Yes, my lord, I understand absolutely. I can summon every Lightguard in the tower. We have access to the room crystals.”
“Perfect. But—not on this level. We want no interruptions for our ceremonies. Shut down the lifts first. That bridge, the Lily’s Stem, yes? Looked like a good choke point to me.”
“Yes, my lord, absolutely. Only way onto the island. That and the back docks. We can cover those, too.”
“Don’t come report until he’s dead. Or don’t come at all.”
They rushed off, the lieutenant at an odd hobbling gait aided by his boar spear. Zymun went to the latrine. It was only as he was pissing that he realized who the woman in the front row must be and why she’d looked familiar. He’d seen her from afar once in King Garadul’s camp. It was his mother, Karris!
He laughed aloud. How perfect! Was he good enough to seduce his own long-lost mother? Now that, that would be a challenge. But who better to use to get all the money and information he could ever need to use against Andross Guile?
Was he that good? Yes, he thought, of course he was.
He laced up his trousers, readjusted the gold crown on his head, and walked back into the audience hall with a big, big smile on his face.