two in the water!'
'Move it,' Tremblefist said. 'And you'd better get completely wet. Fast. Help will be here in seconds.'
Kip clutched the hollow log and jogged down the ramp between the rollers. The first big wave knocked him cleanly off his feet. His head smacked one of the great wooden rollers and he saw stars. Then the water was over him.
The water was shockingly cold at first. It was a cold that you quickly got used to-the Cerulean Sea was fairly warm-but Kip didn't have moments. He gasped and inhaled salt water as another wave passed over him. As he coughed his lungs clear, flapping his arms like an injured bird, he could feel the riptide grab him. Where was the log? He'd lost it. It was gone.
Someone was shouting, but he couldn't hear what they were saying over the crash of the waves. The swells were only a pace high, but it was enough to blot out Kip's vision. He turned in a circle.
There was a bell ringing, ringing. Kip turned toward it, and despite the swells, he could see the looming black of Cannon Island. It was still receding. He started swimming. A wave pummeled him, drove him under the water and spun him. He kicked, kicked, trying not to panic. Failing. He had no air. Orholam, he was going to die. He kicked, desperate.
He bobbed to the surface like a cork, but he was lost once more.
His panic receded. He'd floundered somehow to the side of the riptide, and now the waves were bringing him in toward Cannon Island, but not toward the boat ramp. He was headed for the rocks. He swam hard sideways toward the sound of the bell.
He was rising with one of the swells when he saw something impossible. Ironfist, with a rope tied around his chest, was running-through the air. He was wearing blue spectacles, and both of his hands were pointed down. He was hurling blue luxin toward his feet, sprinting, making a platform to stand on even as he ran.
As Kip watched, the blue luxin platform-anchored only somewhere back on Cannon Island-cracked with a report and began to crash toward the waves. Ironfist leapt as the platform fell, releasing the luxin and executing a perfect dive.
He surfaced right next to Kip, his spectacles and ghotra ripped off by the waves, and grabbed Kip with one arm. Then the men on the beach began pulling in the rope as fast as they could. In less than a minute, Kip and the big man were staggering up the ramp. Well, Ironfist was striding, one hand holding a fistful of Kip's shirt in case he fell, and Kip was staggering on jellied, naked legs.
'We couldn't save your master, son. I'm sorry,' Ironfist said. There were a dozen soldiers crowded on the narrow portico outside the back door of Cannon Island. One threw a blanket over Kip's shoulders. 'Take this young man inside and take care of him,' Ironfist commanded. 'I've got business on Big Jasper, I'll take him with me and notify the family. Ten minutes.'
As the soldiers ushered Kip inside, he heard Ironfist swear quietly, 'Damn, those were my best blue specs.'
Chapter 30
Liv Danavis walked briskly over the luxin bridge called the Lily's Stem that connected the Chromeria on Little Jasper Island to the markets and homes on Big Jasper Island, trying to ignore the tension knotting her shoulders. She was wearing rough linen pants, a cloak against the chilly wind of the bright morning, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the same sensible low leather shoes she'd worn when she'd first come to the Chromeria as a terrified fourteen-year-old. She always felt the temptation to dress up in her nicest things when she was summoned, but she always resisted. Her rich, imperious handler would make her feel shabby no matter what she wore, so she might as well be defiant. If Dazen Guile had won the Prisms' War, Liv would be Lady Aliviana Danavis, the daughter of the celebrated general Corvan Danavis. Being Tyrean would have been a badge of honor. She wouldn't have owed anyone anything. But Dazen had been killed, and those who sided with him disgraced, her own father narrowly avoiding execution despite being held in higher esteem than any general on either side. So now she was plain old Liv Danavis from Rekton, the dyer's daughter. And Ruthgar owned her contract. So what? She wasn't scared of being summoned.
Much.
Despite having been on the Jasper Islands for the last three years, Liv hadn't come over to Big Jasper very often. The other girls came every week to listen to minstrels, get food not made in the Chromeria kitchens, meet boys who weren't drafters, shop, and drink too much after examinations. Liv couldn't afford any of those, and didn't want to ask charity of anyone, so she begged off, always saying she needed to practice or to study.
The benefit of that was that she wasn't yet jaded to the wonders of Big Jasper. The entire island was stuffed with buildings, but nothing was haphazard, unlike back home or in Garriston. The buildings were white stucco, blindingly bright in the sun, rising in terraces with the shape of the land. Geometric shapes dominated: hexagonal buildings and octagonal buildings topped with domes. Every building large enough to justify one-and many that weren't-sported a dome, and the domes were every color in the rainbow. Blue domes the color of the Cerulean Sea, beaten gold domes on the homes of the rich, copper domes turning gradually green and scrubbed every year to gleam again at Sun Day, domes painted the color of blood, mirrored domes. And with the domes, the doors, too, were beautiful. It was as if all the irrepressible personality of the Jasperites rebelled against the conformity of their white walls and similar-shaped homes, but only in the decorating and designing of their doors. Exotic woods, chiseled patterns from every corner of the Seven Satrapies and beyond, doors apparently carved of living wood with leaves still growing from the Tree People, Tyrean horseshoe arches, Parian chessboard patterns, huge doors to small buildings, keyhole doors in huge edifices.
But at least as iconic as the colored domes and shining white walls of Big Jasper were the Thousand Stars. Every street was laid out perfectly straight, and at every intersection stood pairs of narrow arches, thin, looking impossibly spindly on their white legs, at least ten stories tall, connecting high above the intersection in a groin vault. Mounted on swivels at the pinnacle of the groin vault was a circular mirror, highly polished, flawless, as tall as a man. With the special layout of the streets, as soon as the sun conquered the horizon, light could be directed anywhere.
Long ago the builders had said, In this city, there will be no shadow that Orholam's eye cannot touch. Day was longer on Big Jasper than anywhere in the world.
The original purpose, as near as Liv could guess, had been to extend the power of drafters on the island. In other densely populated cities, the buildings eventually crowded out the sun. Not only did that make a city feel dark, but it meant drafters walking down those streets were vulnerable. The buildings here were separated carefully according to height and width, leaving lightwells, but with the Thousand Stars, a drafter could have as much power available to her as she could handle for hours longer than she would otherwise.
On Sun Day, every one of the Thousand Stars was slaved to the Prism. Everywhere he walked, every mirror turned, illuminating him. Obviously, some beams were blocked by buildings, but no matter where he walked-even in the poorest areas-at least a few had unobstructed views. Indeed, before anyone built a building, their plans had to pass inspection that they wouldn't interfere with the Thousand Stars. Only a very few had been able to circumvent the rules, like the Guile palace.
Of course, Liv thought, the same rules don't apply to the obscenely rich. Never do. Not here.
Every principality in the city was allowed to determine how it wished to use its stars when they weren't needed for defense, law enforcement, or religious duties. Some moved their stars in rigid schedules, making a light clock that everyone in the district could easily see.
Today, the first principality Liv walked through, the Embassies, was having a market day. They'd fitted diffuse yellow lenses over half of their stars, lighting an entire great square with cheery light. A half dozen yellow drafters, hired specially for the occasion, were-without spectacles-juggling brightwater, liquid yellow luxin. Dragons exploded in the air, great fountains of shimmering, evaporating yellow luxin shot skyward, drawing great crowds toward the market. The other half of the stars, fitted with lenses of every color, spun in great circles around the market in a dizzying display.
Liv pitied the tower monkeys-the petite slaves, often children-who had to work the ropes here today. Among slaves, they were well treated, even paid, their work for the star-keepers considered important, technically difficult,
