Kip kept his eyes open and felt them go wide-but not with fear, fear was gone. His eyes widened at the sight of the fire like a lover's eyes widen at the sight of his beloved. Yes, beautiful. Yes, mine.

A rushing sound like a mighty wind roared out of nowhere. The fire deformed, leapt toward Kip-into Kip. And disappeared. The entire fire went out in an instant, plunging the camp into darkness.

The men dropped Kip with a shout.

And Kip barely noticed.

He'd fallen among the embers. He caught himself with his left hand, and heard a sizzle as his hand closed around a burning faggot. Though he'd sucked up the whole fire, the embers were still red-hot.

And Kip barely noticed. Rage was a sea and he merely floating in it. He wasn't himself, wasn't aware of a self. There were only those he hated, who must be struck down.

He screamed, throwing a hand heavenward. Heat gushed out, becoming fire a foot away from his hand, painting the sky blue, yellow, orange, and red. He stood, heat roaring through his veins. Unbearable heat. Despite the darkness, he could see the men who'd been holding him clearly. He saw their warmth. One had tripped and was staring at him, openmouthed.

Kip flung a hand at him. Fire enveloped the man from head to foot.

The others fled.

Kip threw his left hand toward one. He felt skin crack as he opened that hand, but the pain was a distant echo. He aimed with his right hand, too. Pop, pop, pop. Three fireballs, each the size of his hand, flew into the night, almost pushing him back into the fire with the recoil. But each found its target, burying itself in a man's back, gutting him with fire, cooking him from inside even as he fell.

Falling to his knees, still hot, so hot, so overwhelmed, Kip raised his hands once more. Fire poured into the sky from both hands, even his crippled left hand. Then his vision returned to normal. He heaved deep breaths, like some demon had just released him, leaving him empty, hollow, part of his humanity burnt away.

The fire was burning once more, much smaller, the heat of the coals slowly returning the wood to flame, illuminating the wagons and the faces of the fearful crowd gathering to see what had happened.

In the light of the lanterns and torches and the reawakening fire, Kip saw the scene with sane eyes. Scores of people were staring at him from a wide circle around the fire, all looking ready to bolt. There were bodies strewn about: the four men who'd tried to throw him in the fire were dead, one a charred meaty skeleton, the others with holes the size of Kip's hand in their backs.

Somehow, the others were worse. The man Kip had doused with grain alcohol had skin sloughing off his face and chest and knife wounds all over his arms and body. He lay moaning softly, a few tufts of hair still protruding from his burnt scalp. The fat woman lay next to him, openly weeping. The flaming man must have run headfirst into her, because her face was scorched, blistered on the right side, her eyebrow gone, her hair melted back halfway up her head, and somehow her own knife had been plunged to the hilt low into her right side. Blood dribbled down her cheek. The man Kip had flung into the fire was the worst, though. He'd caught the spit to stop himself, and only his head had dropped into the fire, falling directly onto the hottest coals.

He'd dragged himself out of the fire, and by some dark miracle he was still alive and still conscious. He was crying softly, as if even weeping hurt, but he couldn't stop. He'd rolled over, exposing the burnt side of his head. His skin hadn't just sloughed off-it had stuck to the coals like burnt chicken sticking to a pan. His cheekbone was exposed, his cheek burned through, exposing teeth now washed red with coursing blood as he wept, his eye burnt a chalky white.

The only one who might survive was the bearded man whose teeth Kip had smashed. He was unconscious, but so far as Kip could see, still alive.

Kip tottered toward his horse, unfeeling. He didn't have a plan. He just had to get away. He was so ashamed. He got all the way to the beast before he saw the soldiers. They had surrounded the camp, but were staying back in the crowd. Kip looked at one of the soldiers who was mounted, an officer, he guessed.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't let you leave," the officer said. "One of the Free will be along for you shortly."

"They attacked me," Kip said, exhausted. "Tried to rob me. I… I didn't mean…" He leaned against the horse. Stupid beast hadn't run away. Oh, it didn't have a line of sight, and it had been tied up so it couldn't leave if it wanted to. Still, he would have expected it to be going crazy. Instead, it stood, placid as ever. Kip leaned against it.

With his left hand. Orholam. The skin cracked and tore open and started bleeding at every joint. Kip gave a little cry. But even the thought of his own agony dragged his eyes back to the fire, to the people he'd killed, and those who weren't dead yet but would be. His heart felt wooden, like he should feel more, but he just couldn't.

Looking back, though, he saw a young man moving among the bodies, checking them. The young man-no, boy, for he couldn't have been more than sixteen despite his splendid clothing-was pulling white fawnskin gloves off his hands. Large hooked nose, light brown skin, dark eyes, dark unruly hair. Over his white shirt, his forearms were covered with multicolored vambraces with five thick bands of color against a white background. His cloak echoed the pattern, from a band outlined in black that looked fuzzy-sub-red?-to red to orange to yellow to green. There was no blue or superviolet. It didn't take a genius to guess he was a polychrome.

But that wasn't what arrested Kip's attention. Out of all the thousands of people in this camp, and out of the hundreds of drafters they must have, Kip recognized this one. He'd been part of the force that massacred Rekton. He'd personally tried to kill Kip at the water market. Zymun, the boy's master had called him. Kip's heart plummeted like a child jumping off a waterfall.

Zymun put on a pair of green spectacles. "Hello, firefriend," he said. "Welcome to our war. I assume you've come to join the Free?"

"Right," Kip said, finding his voice. The Free?

Emerald smoke swirled down into Zymun's hands. "Just so you know," he said, "you can kill who you must-though Lord Omnichrome prefers it not be so indiscriminate-but when you do, please clean up your messes." He swept his arms in a martial circle, slowly, bending his knees, giving the impression of gathering energy. Then his hands snapped across each other, flashed out. Pa-pop, pa-pop. Four spikes of green luxin, each as long as a finger, shot out in two volleys. Around the fire, almost simultaneously, four heads burst open with wet splatters. The wounded. Their moans stopped instantly.

Kip goggled.

Zymun looked pleased with himself. He folded his green spectacles and tucked them in a pocket.

He's showing off. He's showing off by killing people.

Zymun frowned suddenly as Kip stepped close. "What's your name?"

"Kip," Kip said, before thinking that it might be a poor choice to use his real name.

"Kip, you have a tooth in your head."

Huh? Kip showed his teeth and pointed. "Actually, I have all my teeth in my head." Play it like you don't want to throw up, Kip. Push through this.

"No, not your tooth," Zymun said. He gestured to his own scalp like he was being a mirror.

Kip reached up and, sure enough, there was a tooth sticking in his scalp. What the hell? He pulled it out, wincing, and fresh blood dribbled down his face.

"Hmm," Zymun said. "Maybe we'll take you by the chirurgeons first and get you looked at."

"First?" Kip asked.

"Yes, of course. Lord Omnichrome insists on meeting all of our drafters. Even the sloppy ones."