Karris laughed. She shook her head at Orholam—and then watched, stunned, as a young man went flying down the cable from the top of the tower. She thought she recognized him, but he was moving too fast. Cruxer?

She went back to the stones. Her choice mattered. She knew now. Orholam had not led her to a place where her choice was pointless. She looked at each in turn, and again, felt drawn to one and repelled by the other. But she didn’t touch either. Instead, she knelt by the pedestal on which one of them sat. She couldn’t see anything there. She scratched a fingernail across it—and the tiniest shell of solid orange luxin cracked and dissolved.

And just like that, her feeling of desire to pick up this ball was gone. A hex. Magic forbidden with the sentence of death by Orholam’s Glare. But then, interfering with the choice of the White carried the same sentence, so there wasn’t much added deterrent there.

Andross—if it were Andross—had found an immensely talented orange drafter trained in forbidden arts, and had somehow defeated whatever security the luxiats had, and whatever checks were in place to make sure hexes were never placed here.

But that was a problem for another day.

Karris walked to the other ball, scratched her fingernail across the hex there, and waggled a finger toward the window beyond which Andross Guile sat. Naughty, naughty. She picked up the ball.

Some sixth sense warned her—maybe the step of a running man beneath the sound of the wind and the musket fire still ringing out from the roof. Karris pivoted and dodged as Jason Jorvis closed on her. She was only saved because he went for the ball in her hand rather than simply trying to shove her off the tower.

She spun with him, using his momentum against him to send him on toward the edge, but he snagged her weak left arm and pulled her with him.

She broke his grip with a strong move that turned his wrist; he lost his grip but grabbed again, snaring the belt rope of her robe.

He stumbled, one foot flying out over the edge, dropping his own white ball as he twisted back toward safety. The green in Karris hated to be bound. With one hand she whipped her belt rope from its two simple anchors at either side of her waist, while with the other she played out enough rope that Jason was tipping over the edge, totally dependent on the rope for balance.

She heard more steps. The backup plan to the backup plan. Of course. Everyone inside could see this, but there were no rules. Whoever came back with the correct ball was the White, and there would be no prosecution for murder.

A fist went right through where Karris’s head had been a moment before. Another punch—but this one she blocked with the white stone itself. As Akensis stood frozen with the pain in his shattered fist, Karris tossed the stone into the air. With her hand now free, she looped the rope into an open knot, and flipped it over Akensis’s hand as he watched the flying stone. Feeling the rope drape over his hand, he jerked away from her, pulling the knot tight.

Karris dove, dropping the rope, and rolled to her feet. She caught the stone.

Akensis hadn’t taken up the slack immediately, and so Jason Jorvis fell parallel to the platform they were on. But he kept his feet planted on the edge. It was an uncommonly smart move. Most people, falling, will panic and flail. Keeping his body tight, he gave himself a chance.

Akensis pulled against the rope to save himself, screaming as the knot tightened on his wrist. He grabbed the rope with both hands, and stood balanced precariously.

For a moment, Karris thought about bringing them in. They were big men, though, heavy and strong. She was still forbidden to draft; it was the only rule. If she pulled them up, they would work together to kill her. With her left side injured, there was no way she could bring them both in. Would the others intervene? And if so, on whose side? How many would die to save these two traitors?

There is a time for Orholam’s gentle gaze, and a time for his glare.

With a yell that was both dirge for her old life and rage that men would betray Orholam himself and swelling pride that she knew all of her pain and training and even her waywardness was being redeemed, Karris delivered the slippery side kick that was the pinnacle of Blackguard perfection. With such a kick, a small woman moving masterfully could launch a man into the air. And she did.

Both men flew off the platform, and plunged to their deaths.

Everyone, silent, stared at Karris.

The windows opened and the disk slid back into its place inside. Karris dropped her stone into the clear bowl and didn’t even watch the solvents do their work to reveal the stone’s color beneath. She knew.

Karris turned and addressed a stunned audience of Colors and the promachos and the highest nobles in what remained of the Seven Satrapies.

“We’re at war,” the new White said. “We’re going to start acting like it.”

Chapter 96

By the time Kip and Teia hit the ground, they saw that the squad was safe—and they’d been joined by none other than Tremblefist.

Kip had never felt more glad to see anyone.

“Which dock?” Tremblefist asked.

“Red, berth five.”

“Good news and bad,” Tremblefist said. “There’s probably two hundred Lightguards between here and there. They’ve got a big house they use as a barracks. And they’ve signaled with mirrors that they want you dead. And everyone on both islands knows exactly where you landed.”

“How do they know that?” Ferkudi asked.

“The big steel cable pointing right to us?” Leo said.

“Oh. Right.”

“You know their codes?” Ben-hadad asked.

“Please tell me that’s all the bad news,” Cruxer said.

“It is.”

“And the good?”

“I don’t like Lightguards.” And then Tremblefist grinned, and somehow, Kip thought they were going to be all right.

“Tremblefist, sir,” Cruxer said. “Before we go: we’re not Blackguards anymore. We’ve been kicked out, exiled.”

Tremblefist looked at him. “Let’s move,” he said.

And move they did. Kip would have died after about two blocks of this pace six months ago, much less a year ago. Ben-hadad couldn’t run with his knee busted up, so Kip and Big Leo—who was injured himself—carried him. And ran.

They ate distance in huge gulps, trading off who was helping carry Ben-hadad. They were aided by the fact that most people were already thronging to the main streets, so the side streets were free of the usual early morning traffic. But then they came across a knot of four running Lightguards.

The squad tore them apart before the Lightguards got off a single shot.

Then they were at the wall. Two blocks of running along the jagged edifice and they came to a small gate, barely big enough for one person to get through. The streets were laid out according to the light beams from the star towers, but the walls were laid out to conform to the shape of Big Jasper. It made for some odd nooks and crannies.

“Throw fire in the air,” Tremblefist said. “Make noise. We want to draw them here.”

Kip donned his red spectacles and threw luxin skyward and lit it. The others threw other colors into the air, too.

On any normal day, it would have drawn a thousand spectators in moments, but today was no normal day. On Sun Day, drafters who specialized in such things came here from all over the Seven Satrapies. Most of those, however, were lining the parade route, hitting up the crowds for thrown coins.