The Broken Eye

by Brent Weeks

  But if one is going to be a fraud, one ought to do it well.

  He jumped off the stage and headed back inside, past agape managers and slave overseers and luxiats who had just seen the labors required of them also double, the logistical nightmare, the long hours they would have to put in so that Gavin would look good. “Make it so,” Gavin said. “I don’t care how. Do it.”

  Inside, he walked past Commander Anamar and toward the next room. He paused at the door and turned back to the frowning Blackguard. “Oh, Commander, I almost forgot.” Gavin had draped invisible superviolet in nets around the commander’s legs as he’d walked down the hall, and now he shot green luxin up and along those nets. The green luxin wrapped around the commander’s knees before he could react. Gavin clenched a fist and the green luxin crushed both of the commander’s knees.

  The commander dropped to the floor, admirably without crying out.

  Dear Orholam, Gavin had been brash, but it had worked. Now he would have thought through what friends the commander had, who would be offended, whether they would take vengeance—and in the time he would have taken the window for such an action would have closed. Gavin had gotten away with a lot on brute charisma.

  “Have your replacement report to me by the time I finish,” he said.

  But the dream didn’t end there.

  He walked into the little room and shrived an Atashian green, Prayan Navayed, who confessed to cheating her employer, and to sloth in service, and to frequent defiance, and to beating the other slaves unnecessarily harshly.

  Then came Jaleh Rodrez. She was a red. Lust, pride, wrath.

  Tahlia Blue. Wrath, envy, sabotaging her sister’s marriage.

  Khordad Cruzan. A blue/green. Pride. Hatred of most of her family, hatred of her employer, hatred of even Orholam.

  Estefania Kamael. A red. Bitterness and hatred.

  Nairi Patel. A green. So close to wight she couldn’t articulate anything.

  Belit Beraens. A blue. Pride.

  Bilit Beraens. Her twin. A blue. Pride. Even proud she’d outlasted her older twin, if only by a few minutes. Gavin didn’t point out that since Belit had been born a few minutes earlier, her dying a bit earlier meant they were really about equal.

  Alondra Patel. A superviolet. So close to wight she had to be held down.

  Ada Khan. Envy. Fear. She was a mess of tears. Couldn’t find her bravery no matter how Gavin tried to inspire her. The luxiats had to hold her down.

  Mahnaz. A red. Already confessed.

  Ameretet. A blue. Already confessed.

  Pelagia Phloraens. Heresy. Since had renounced it, but still harbored it secretly.

  Ihsan the Tailor. Cheating her customers, claiming she’d used magic when she rarely did.

  Niga Roe. Spying on her employer, who’d been good to her.

  Nin-Ki-Gal Day. Green. Already confessed.

  Yiska Thews. A green/yellow. One of the only drafters of Angari descent in the group. Envy. Pride. Disbelief.

  And a short break for dinner. More prayers. Gavin didn’t even hear them. Didn’t taste the food in his mouth. Went back to work.

  Hagnes. A green. Had gotten roaring drunk during the ceremony, and was too incoherent to confess. Gavin tried to cover all the bases in praying for her before he killed her.

  Fidelia Door. A superviolet. Claimed she had no sins. But did have a litany of destroyed relationships. Couldn’t see, even with gentle prodding, that she was the common element in all of them.

  Li-Lit Ohwarea. A red/orange/yellow. Had secretly tried to go wight. Admitted she couldn’t figure out the problems.

  Mylitta Ali. A red. A warrior who had been captured, her tongue ripped out by a squad of the Blue-Eyed Demons who had served Dazen. She was illiterate, so Gavin had to use sign language and yes-and-no questions to shrive her. She seemed relieved. None of the luxiats she’d visited before had thought of it or had time when she’d attempted to confess to them. Assholes.

  Ghila the Mason. A sub-red. Quiet woman. Attacked Gavin when she thought his guard was down.

  Please let me wake.

  Elpida Bowyer. A yellow. Confessed that she loved her children more than she loved Orholam. And meant it. She thought it a real sin. She had to encourage Gavin to kill her.

  Nukimmut Rose. A blue. Said nothing. Eyes full of hatred, watched Gavin all the way. He expected her to attack, but she never did.

  Zenana Zenamus. A red. Proudly filled every second of her time with him recounting her sins. There was cruelty, shocking things with animals, torture, cannibalism, numerous murders, blasphemies, defamation of altars with luxiats she’d seduced, anything to sow chaos and horror. “And now,” she said, “since I go to my death shrived, I’ll join Orholam in paradise.” She laughed.

  Tahirith. A yellow. Had merely killed her husband who habitually beat her. It was a relief, after Zenana.

  Kyriaka Kyraeus. A blue from a noble family. Had joined Dazen’s rebels, and when they lost had bribed slavers to take all of her servants if only they would spare her. Had been looking for her slaves since to redeem them, but ran out of time.

  Loida. A red. Had participated in a small massacre in some Atashian village during the war. Didn’t, on the other hand, feel guilty for spraying red luxin into Garriston.

  Tsul. A sub-red. She confessed a thousand small cruelties, which she realized sprang from a life of hatred. She’d hated and envied multitudes, and though it had never reached any pinnacle of expression in violence or sabotage, she’d wasted all her years and talents. Said she’d sinned most against Orholam, for wasting the gift he’d given her, life.

  Sar-Rat Bibiana. A sub-red. She’d tried to go wight, and had been so heavily sedated that she couldn’t confess.

  Shala Smith. A red. Drunk and high on poppy. Couldn’t confess.

  Tasmituv. An orange. Lies, she confessed. Always lying and manipulating. Long ago, she’d confessed to a luxiat for cheating on her husband, but still felt guilt for that, too.

  Edna. A blue. Said she couldn’t speak her sins, they were so black. Not even to the Prism. No prodding would move her.

  Illi Patel. A yellow. Attacked Gavin. Had hidden how much she’d gone wight.

  Lemta. A red. Wight. Was bound to the kneeler when Gavin got there. Couldn’t speak.

  Meghighda. A blue. Wight. Was bound. Spoke, but couldn’t be understood.

  Tamayyurt. A superviolet. Too wounded from the war to speak, burn scars and seeping sores covering her body, but smiled at Gavin, fully aware, refusing the poppy, ready for release. Gavin had taken a full minute after that one, unable to go into the next room.

  Parvin. A red. A thief.

  Tamazzalt. A blue. Another with a litany of sins, but so outlandish Gavin suspected she was lying, ill in the head.

  Dulceana Havid. A young sub-red, and an Atashian-born Ruthgari noble. She’d cheated on her husband with a young noblewoman named Eirene Malargos. Information to be remembered, and the first time of the night Gavin had used his position for selfish ends.

  Tamment Tailor. A blue. Simply said, “Envy, lust, hatred, greed, sloth. You’ve got lots to do tonight, so let’s be efficient about this, shall we?”

  Tazêllayt. Blue. And Gavin discovered the real reason they’d anointed his body with oil: it made it easier to wipe your skin clean when someone coughed blood all over you. A quick rub at the washbasin that stood between each room, and a quick change of ceremonial clothes that the luxiats kept on hand, and he was on to the next room as if nothing had happened.

  Tinsin Khan…

  Tinsin Khan he could never remember. He’d even looked her up, afterward. Tinsin Khan, green, of the Floating City, Blood Forest, in service to the satrap’s steward. No memory of her. Something had broken in him when the luxiats had washed the blood from his face and put him in new garments, as if it were commonplace. Had broken his very memory, of which he was so proud.

  And now, though he could call up their colors and stories and sins and attitudes if he tried, he sa
w each one of the drafters differently; he pushed them back, away. They became only a name and a sin to be shrived.

  Illi Alexander. Gossip.

  Loida Moss. Poisoner.

  Tinsin. Rebellious.

  Tahlia. Envy.

  Bell Sparrow. Seductress.

  Li-Li Solaens. Wight.

  Xenia Delaen. Wight.

  Myla Loros. Wight.

  Pelagia Breeze. Spy.

  Meghida Talor. Hatred.

  Tahirith Khan. Greed.

  Edna Wood. Sloth.

  Tasmituv. Lust. Was it possible for a woman dying a virgin to have lust be her principal sin? Yes, Gavin learned.

  But he soon settled back into the torpor. Jaleh Smith. Incitement to murder.

  Nairi Many Waters. Lust.

  Lemta. Hatred.

  But then even the sins were starting to sound the same. ‘My husband never understood me,’ ‘If only I’d had as much as my neighbor,’ ‘It wasn’t fair that…’ Gavin could paint on a face of full attention, empathy, the same stock phrases, the same words in the same prayers. He could sound so sincere, but he heard his own voice as from down a tunnel. Even with his excellent memory, the penitents became only a name and a single detail. As if it weren’t worth the space to hold a sin for each, unless it was a really good one.

  Titrit. A fatty.

  A part of him was horrified at himself. A fatty? No, she’d been… a blue. A pious and earnest woman. Fearful but resolute. Quavering voice that made her fat little jowls shake, and utterly… utterly boring.

  Alé Aribar. Tried to seduce him to escape. Wasn’t even close to attractive enough to make it tempting.

  Dianthe Knoll. Perfect golden hair.

  Titaia Cox. Odd warts, all over. Washed his hands twice afterwards.

  Hêbê Ali. Claimed a hundred affairs. Ugly as sin.

  Melite Melaens. Big hands. Big, big hands.

  Agata Mason. How did she get any work done with breasts that big?

  Leilah Tree. The grimacer.

  Nurit Hex. Birthmark on her face.

  Beulah Blue. No eyebrows.

  Livnah Smith. Buck teeth.

  Naamiy. Kept clearing her throat. Orholam’s balls, would she never stop clearing her throat?

  Ora Orestes. Seemed nice. Gray hair. Looked like a grandmother.

  Penina Duraens. A coward.

  Minu. A drunk.

  Ercilia. Wight.

  Gilberta Gonzala. Cursed more than any soldier or sailor he’d ever known.

  Neva. So skinny she must have some eating illness.

  Xenia. Ugly.

  Sar-Ra Hesh. Deserter.

  Bili Oak. Stumpy.

  Khordad Ali. Gorgeous, with a flat affect. Smelled of shit constantly due to what had been done to her when she’d been captured in the war.

  Titaia Brown. Farmer.

  Elpida. Smelled of fresh sex.

  Dianthe… something. Weeper.

  Hagnes. Weeper.

  Hêbê Brown. Chatterer.

  Podarge. Odd name.

  Parvin Nyssani. Gavin twisted his wrist when the knife hit a rib.

  Ada Gil. Made a funny little ‘eep’ when he stabbed her.

  Livnah Elo. Wet herself copiously as she died. Dammit, they were supposed to take them to the toilets a few minutes beforehand to avoid that.

  Naamiy Patel. Vomited blood.

  Ora Jon. Attacked, badly.

  Yiska. Rambler.

  Ameretet Ali. Amazing beauty. Tried to seduce him. Gavin actually thought about it until he realized she was simply afraid, and that she would do anything for a few more minutes of life. Even cheat on her husband as her last act, instead of going to Orholam clean.

  Ihsan. Mediocre drafter, mediocre looks, mediocre sins.

  Ercilia. Died proudly.

  Evi Black. Nice name?

  Dulcina Dulceana. He didn’t want to remember Dulcina, but he couldn’t forget her. By the time he got to her, he’d been killing for almost nine hours. The drafter in the room was standing, leaning at ease against the kneeler. She was only perhaps sixteen years old. A dark-haired beauty with halos stretched to bursting with red and orange and yellow and green. She smiled at him, a full and innocent smile, neither seductive nor afraid, simply happy to see him. He was instantly smitten.

  “Greetings, daughter. May the light always shine upon you. Dulcina, if you would like to—”

  “Shh,” she said, touching her lips with a finger. “I’ve already confessed.”

  “Then would you like me to lead us in some prayers or songs?”

  She shook her head. “My High Lord Prism, you’ve been doing Orholam’s work all day, and will do so all night and through the morrow. Let me give you a gift. The only gift I have. The gift of my five minutes. You may speak or we can be silent. You can Free me first if you prefer solitude, or at the end if you prefer company. As you will.”

  He didn’t understand. There had to be some angle, some advantage. It was all she had. It was her last five minutes, whereas to him it would just be another grain in a full hourglass.

  There was no angle. There was no deceit in her open eyes. He stared at her for ten seconds, thirty. And then he was furious for no reason he could understand.

  And then he broke.

  And he wept.

  And she held him. And they wept together.

  And after five minutes, the accursed bell jingled. And he stood. And he begged her forgiveness. And he kissed her lips.

  And he slew her.

  And with her died his faith in Orholam. It had survived war and abandonment and massacres and deceit, but it could not survive the holiest night of the year.

  It was midnight. He had killed one hundred drafters.

  Three hundred and twenty-seven to go.

  Thirty hours later, Gavin killed the last man just before the sun rose. And he went to his chambers, and for the first time since he’d brought hell to earth, he drafted black luxin.

  Chapter 25

  Kip took the lift down to head out to the Blackguards’ training yard, but when he got to the ground floor, he couldn’t force himself to get out. He was overwhelmed with people, with having just faced down his grandfather. He was trembling.

  He’d figured out in his weeks coming back to the Chromeria that with both Kip and Gavin being lost to the waves, the Red wasn’t going to let the blame for it land on his own shoulders. Nor would he be deprived of the services of his favorite slave, Grinwoody. That meant whatever story he’d invented blamed Kip.

  Knowing he would have to answer for the crime he had tried to prevent, Kip had prepared as well as he could, charting a course whereby he might find some rapprochement with the man who’d probably accused him of murder and treason.

  When he got off the boat, he’d asked the first person he’d seen what had happened to Gavin.

  Regardless, going into that meeting should have been the prelude to imprisonment and execution. Kip still wasn’t sure why it hadn’t been. Part of what he’d been betting on was that Andross was a wight. And he wasn’t. Not anymore.

  Andross still wore his hood. Still wore his dark spectacles, but Kip had known, instantly. There was something different about his voice, and he hadn’t been wearing gloves.

  Kip’s best card had suddenly disappeared. He’d planned to threaten to reveal that. If nothing else, before they took him away to prison, he could yank back Andross Guile’s hood to show the man for what he was.

  In the chamber, Kip hadn’t had a moment to think about the further implications: a man had gone wight, and was now a wight no longer? Impossible.

  Kip had merely spoken, weaving lies with a facility he didn’t know he had, so befuddled and intrigued by the puzzle that he’d forgotten to be befuddled and overwhelmed by addressing the entire Spectrum.

  And it had worked. Somehow.

  There had been a little spark of joy dancing at the corner of Andross Guile’s mouth. Surprise, but then pleasure. Like he enjoyed playing against a worthy opponent. Mayb
e that was why he’d let Kip off the hook, simply so they could keep playing.

  Kip felt suddenly ill. He was alive because of Andross Guile’s mercy? No, not that. He was alive because Andross longed for entertainment. There. That was more in line with the old horror. That made sense.

  But now, suddenly, the people he should most want to see—his Blackguard compatriots—he couldn’t bear to see, and he couldn’t have even said why. He took the lift down, and down. He got off at the level where the Prism had his private training room. Kip had lost the key Commander Ironfist gave him long ago, but the door had a superviolet panel next to it. Kip had never really noticed them before—they were flat black, and only a few thumbs wide. He’d dismissed them, not realizing what they were, but he realized they were made of the same stuff as the Prism’s room controls.

  After gathering some superviolet, Kip extended it into the panel. Ah, there was another lock inside, so that the door could be locked against superviolets as well, but it wasn’t locked now. Kip pressed superviolet in, and the mundane lock popped open. He went inside.

  The silence was a balm. He wrapped his hands in long strips of cloth the way Ironfist had taught him. The old widow Coreen had given him clothes, and while they weren’t exactly good for exercise, Kip knew that they would be replaced soon with Blackguard garb and a Chromeria discipulus’s clothes, so he set to work on the heavy bag.

  He started slow. Seven to ten minutes, Ironfist said, to warm up your fists and joints to the shock of hitting. Kip bent his wrist on an errant punch. He grumbled. He’d done the wrappings wrong. But instead of untying the whole mess and trying again, he drafted a green luxin brace around his wrist. Then he went ahead and made a full glove out of it. He matched it on the other hand.

  Much better. He punched the bag lightly for the seven minutes, his fists warming, the pain somehow welcome, the loss of thinking, thinking, thinking a relief.

  He moved over to the stretch bag, a smaller target that when hit snapped back toward you, building reflexes. After he got used to its movement, he looked beyond it, using the periphery of his vision to react. Then he went to the chin-up bar, and found he could do three now. Three! It seemed both an impossible achievement and pathetic at the same time. Three. Then back to the heavy bag.