"Corvan Danavis," the guard announced loudly. "He says he has an emergency message, my Lord Prism."

It was like lightning hit all three men at once. The Blackguard-an actual, real Blackguard, for Orholam's sake-had two pistols out and his blue spectacles on half a breath after Corvan's name was announced.

The Prism-not a princeling, Gavin Guile himself-stood and turned. His lip curled. "General Danavis, it's been too long."

Chapter 60

Gavin kept his face carefully neutral. After sixteen years, Corvan Danavis still looked fit, healthy, and sharp as ever. His skin was deeply tanned, no doubt to try to cover the freckles and look as Tyrean as possible, and there was no sign of his famous beaded mustache. His blue eyes were only about half-haloed with red, not much more than when Gavin had last seen him. The lines, both smile lines and deeper worry lines, were new, however. His eyes flicked to Ironfist, and then he looked dismayed.

Consummate actor, Corvan Danavis.

"Commander Ironfist, please relieve this man of his weapons, and reprimand the guards. Carefully, yes?" Ironfist would understand instantly. The Ruthgari guards couldn't be too harshly treated or it might inspire general fury at the new boss. But if Gavin let such lax-or possibly insolent-duty stand uncorrected, the Ruthgari soldiers wouldn't respect him. Ironfist would put the fear of Orholam into the guards, without actually making them hate Gavin.

"You wish me to leave you with this traitor, Lord Prism?" Ironfist knew as well as Gavin did that the original guards who'd allowed Corvan into the palace would have beaten a hasty retreat, which meant he'd have to go after them and wouldn't be close if things got out of hand.

Gavin nodded curtly.

Ironfist lowered the hammer of one pistol and tucked it into his belt without taking his eyes or the other pistol off Corvan. He walked forward and took Corvan's sword, eyes flicking only briefly to it in appreciation. After putting the sword and Corvan's bag in a small closet off the main room, he put away his other pistol and frisked Corvan briskly.

Before turning to go, Ironfist looked one more time at Gavin. Are you sure? You know this is a bad idea, right?

Gavin nodded fractionally. Go.

The door closed behind Ironfist. Gavin looked around the room. He hadn't been here long enough to know if there were peepholes or eavesdropping tunnels behind the walls. Corvan stood, hands folded, waiting patiently. "Come out onto the balcony, General."

"Please, I've not been a general for many years," Corvan said, but he followed Gavin out. Gavin closed the double doors behind them. The balcony was spacious, with a number of chairs and tables spread out so the governor and his visitors could enjoy the view over the bay. It made Gavin glad he'd flung the governor a long way. Dropping the man off the roof onto this wouldn't have been quite as humorous-and he hadn't remembered this balcony protruding quite so far. Lucky, Gavin.

Funny that I always think of it as luck, rather than Providence.

Corvan glanced over the edge. "Bay looks deep enough here," he said, the corner of his mouth twisting wryly.

Gavin leaned on the balcony's railing. The sun was just touching the horizon, setting the sea alight, pinks and oranges threaded through thin clouds. Suddenly, the lost years were rolling down his cheeks and he was holding the railing like a drunk, simply to be able to stand. "It cost too much, Corvan."

Corvan glanced around for spies, checking the docks, looking back into the counsel room, up at the roof. He said, "It's good to see you too. Now quit that or you're going to get me started."

Gavin glanced at him. Corvan wore his quirky grin, but his eyes betrayed him. That grin was him trying to give his face something to do so the depth of his emotion didn't overwhelm him.

Suddenly, appearances didn't matter. Gavin embraced his old friend.

"It's good to see you… Dazen," Corvan whispered. That broke open the floodgates for both of them. They wept.

The grand deception had been Corvan's idea from the beginning, sixteen years ago. It had been a throwaway idea when he'd proposed it. Neither had really believed Dazen could beat Gavin. One night, when they'd had a rare respite from the battles and had been sharing one too many skins of wine, Corvan had said, "You could win and simply take Gavin's place."

"That's sort of the point of a Prisms' War, isn't it? Last man standing?" Dazen had said. "Last Prism shining?"

Corvan ignored the joke. Dazen was a little further gone than he was. "No, I mean you could be Gavin. You two look almost the same. For years, every time the two of you played scrum, the only way anyone could tell you apart was Gavin's prismatic eyes. You have those now."

"Gavin's a peacock. And I'm taller."

"Clothes can be changed. And he wears lifts in his shoes to make himself as tall as you are. Which would actually make things easier."

"He's got that scar. Which you gave him, I might add," Dazen had said.

"I could give you one too. Nice symmetry to that, huh?"

Now Dazen was taking it seriously. "I've gone a while without a haircut. The scar's right along the hairline. I could hide the cut while it was healing."

"If I can remember which side I cut him on," Corvan said. "Pass me that skin, I'm getting parched."

A few days had passed, and Dazen had asked Corvan to stay after another council of war. After dismissing everyone from the tent, he'd handed Corvan a piece of paper. On it was written a precise description of Gavin's scar.

"I was joking," Corvan said, looking into Dazen's serious eyes.

"I'm not. I've got a chirurgeon waiting outside the tent to stitch me up. If anyone notices, we were sparring and had an accident. I'm embarrassed about my clumsiness, so I asked you not to say anything about it."

Corvan had said nothing for a long time. "Dazen. Have you thought about what this would mean? You'd have to maintain a charade for years, maybe the rest of your life. Everyone who loves you now would think you dead. Karris-"

"I lost Karris when I killed her backstabbing brothers."

"Are you prepared to be Gavin in her eyes?" Corvan had asked.

"Corvan, look at our allies," Dazen had said, tense, lowering his voice. "I've practically sworn a port in every satrapy to the Ilytians. I've promised the Atashian throne to Farid Farjad. The cultists joined us in hopes that their strength would help us shatter the Chromeria. Once we win, they'll turn on us. And the Blue-Eyed Demons have been too valuable to us to be content with mercenaries' wages. I expect Horas Farseer to come to me on the eve of the battle with some outrageous demand: lands, titles, permanent bases. I'll have to agree. After we win, I might renege with one group, but not with all of them. I don't know how it got to this, but however things started, we're the bad guys now."

"We're the bad guys. After what they did to Garriston," Corvan said bitterly.

"In terms of what will happen to the Seven Satrapies if we win? Yes."

A long silence. "You'll be discovered eventually," Corvan said. "You must know that. It can't last forever."

"I don't need to fool them for long. A few months. Enough to consolidate the victory. Even if the Spectrum found out, they wouldn't expose me until our enemies are crushed. Some morning, I won't rise from my bed. I can accept that."

"We're not without options," Corvan said. "I mean, if we win. These problems can be handled. We don't know what will happen after we win. If we can take Gavin's army relatively intact and get the Chromeria to capitulate quickly, we could counter-"

"Do you see the White capitulating quickly?"

Corvan opened his mouth. Closed it. "No."