same time that donkey-trains loaded with gold had made their way into royal houses. Gavin knew it had been thus when his own father had joined.
The White, in her wheeled chair, said, “I call this meeting to order. Let the record show that all Colors except for Red are in attendance.” They hated that. Hated that they couldn’t get rid of Andross Guile. They hated that in defiance of all convention, he hadn’t attended a meeting in five years but still insisted that his votes be counted. They hated what his having his vote delivered by messenger said about how little he valued their opinions. No eloquence would ever move Andross Guile. He would see and weigh every issue alone, and decide, regardless of the mummery of these Spectrum meetings. But they feared him, too. The White said, “Lord Prism, you have called this meeting, so I turn over the proceeding to you.”
She thought she was thwarting him. That he’d grown too independent. That he might become dangerous if she didn’t yank the leash.
Careful, Orea. When choked, dogs go docile—but wolves go wild.
Gavin’s relationship with the Spectrum had always been thorny. Of course, when he’d been recuperating after Sundered Rock, they’d stripped him of his title of promachos, taking control of the armies away from him, as custom dictated. But they hadn’t known whether he would allow it. Still learning his new guise, he had, but he didn’t care much for any of the Colors personally. Nor did they care for him. He’d lived too long, become too powerful. He didn’t need them, and that scared them.
They hated his father. They hated the Guiles, and they stymied Gavin whenever they could.
Patience, Gavin. Plenty of time for purpose six. Plenty of room to maneuver. You are Andross Guile’s son.
“We need to release the city of Garriston immediately, pull out all of our men, and give it back to King Garadul,” Gavin said. “Preferably with an apology that we didn’t do it sooner.”
Silence. Followed by awkward silence.
Klytos Blue chuckled uncertainly. When no one else joined him, he fell silent.
“King?” the White asked.
“That’s what he’s calling himself.” Gavin didn’t elaborate.
Sadah Superviolet said, “Surely you’re not serious, Lord Prism. The governorship transfers to Paria in a few weeks. It’s our right. People have made plans. Ships are sailing already. If we must have this conversation, let us have it two years from now.”
“Absolutely not,” Delara Orange said. She was a forty-year-old bichrome, with great sagging breasts and the red and orange in her eyes pushing to the very edge of her irises. She was an Atashian. Atash got the governorship right after Paria’s. “Paria took the very first rotation, when there were actually a few treasures left in the city. And you looted it all.”
“We also had to repair a city that had been burned to the ground and care for its injured and ill. We took only what was an appropriate recompense.”
“Stop,” Gavin said, before it could go any further. “You’re having the wrong fight. This isn’t about who has the governorship, in what order, or for how long. It’s been sixteen years since we crushed Tyrea. They still don’t have a representative in this room. There are fewer Tyreans in the Chromeria every year. Why is that? Have they suddenly stopped bearing drafters there? Or is it because we have demanded a tribute from them so ruinous they can’t support their drafters, which in turn impoverishes their land further? Then we hold Garriston, their main port and their largest city, and your governors tax every orange and pomegranate and melon. I’ve been to Garriston, and it’s a shadow of its former greatness. The great irrigation canals are full of sand. The fields are worked by women and children or no one, and there’s not a drafter to be found.”
“You pity them?” Delara Orange asked. “When my brothers rise from the dead and the Castle of Ru is rebuilt, I’ll feel pity for Garriston. They joined Dazen. It was their war that killed tens of thousands. I saw them cast Satrapah Naheed’s two-year-old son down the Great Steps. I saw them cut open her pregnant belly, take her babe, and make bets on how far down the steps one of their men could throw the screaming child. They cut off the satrapah’s nose and ears and breasts and arms and legs and threw her down after. While we watched. The babe made it all the way to the last step, in case you’re