The Broken Eye

by Brent Weeks

  The librarian looked at him as if a Blackguard apologizing was the oddest sight he’d ever seen. “Given,” he said. He shrugged. “Name?” he asked, fishing through his piles for a list.

  “Kip Guile.”

  The librarian coughed. “The Godsl—Ahem!” He shuffled his papers. Stopped. “Uh, you can go straight up, Master Guile,” he said.

  But Kip had no joy in it. Godslayer. It was another burden, another expectation, like he’d done it once, so surely he’d do it again.

  “Uh, question,” Kip said. He turned on a chagrined, charming smile. “Could I have just gone up without asking?”

  “Of course. But if anyone is discovered in those libraries who is not allowed there, the penalties are severe. But we don’t guard the door or anything. I mean, it’s books.”

  Good old Kip, ready to bash down doors—that were unlocked.

  The first person Kip saw in the restricted library was Commander Ironfist. What?

  “Commander! It’s great to see you!” Kip said. “I was kind of intimidated by the whole ‘restricted library’—”

  The commander looked up sharply. “I’m working, Breaker.”

  “What are you working on?” Kip asked eagerly.

  “Breaker. Move on.”

  Kip craned his head to see the title, and read aloud, “Mothers of Kings: An Unconventional Inquiry into Abornean Bloodlines? What’s that about? And all these others?”

  “How far do you think you can run in twenty-four hours?” Ironfist asked flatly.

  A dim light bloomed in Kip’s tiny, tiny brain: Warning, stupid! “Yes, sir!” he said, and retreated before he could hear any more words, which could only spell pain.

  Kip moved to a desk where another luxiat five or six years older than him was studying. “Pardon me, can you tell me where the genealogies are kept?”

  The young luxiat looked up. His eye twitched guiltily, like he was reading something he shouldn’t be. It was in some language Kip didn’t know, though, so he had no idea what it was. The young luxiat scowled and said, “You walked past it. Where that huge Blackguard is.”

  Huge Blackguard? Commander Ironfist was legitimately famous. People on Big Jasper stopped and stared when they saw him, and not just because he was huge and handsome.

  But the Chromeria was an enormous community, and to some, the famous people here were scholars or luxiats—people Kip had barely even seen. This young man would probably be as stunned that Kip couldn’t identify the six High Luxiats as Kip was that this luxiat didn’t know Ironfist. It was a little dose of humility.

  Usually I need those more directly.

  Anyway, much as Kip wanted to see the genealogies and family histories—how much time and blood had he spent getting access to those? It had been his original purpose in joining the Blackguard—he couldn’t go and sit down by Ironfist, not now. “Black cards,” he found himself saying. It just slipped out.

  The young luxiat just looked at him. He looked somehow familiar, but it was probably just that everyone looked the same in those goofy robes.

  “The heresy decks,” Kip said. Digging deeper, Kip.

  “You young ones. You get access earlier than everyone else, and you still push it.” The young luxiat shook his head. “Those books are in the restricted library.”

  “This is the restricted library,” Kip said. “Isn’t it?”

  “You think there’s only one?”

  “I did until just now.”

  “Smarter than you look.”

  “Huh?”

  “But not by much, apparently.” The luxiat closed his book. He still looked tense. “Sorry. Look, you’re a Blackguard inductee, I can see that. That doesn’t give you access to everything. Heretical materials and forbidden magics are off-limits to everyone except the Colors and those they’ve given special permission. The black cards are black because they’re heretical, ergo…”

  “Ergo, books about them are in the heresy section.”

  “In the restricted libraries, but close enough.”

  Kip saw that this wasn’t going anywhere. More permissions? He’d just been talking to the White. He could have asked her. She would understand his interest in the black cards, at least, but that was no guarantee that she would think he should have access to them. And what was he doing here anyway? Trying to find scandals to destroy Klytos Blue? Who knew if his father even needed that done anymore? Too late, Kip. Again.

  Gavin was being held on a pirate ship. Doubtless the pirates would be treating him well—he was the Prism, after all—though Kip figured they’d have to be keeping him blindfolded or something to keep him from ripping them all to pieces with his power. Still, who knew when he would be back?

  “What’s your name?” Kip asked.

  “Quentin. Sorry. Quentin Naheed.” Nervous type, Quentin was. Seemed to have a hard time looking Kip in the eye. Oh well, scholars.

  “Nice to meet you, Quentin. How do I show that I have permission?” Kip asked.

  “You’re just going to go get permission?” Quentin asked, smiling as if he thought it was kind of cute that Kip thought it would be so easy.

  Kip didn’t answer. Didn’t much like grinning condescension.

  Quentin shook his head, giving up. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to one of the librarians’ desks and rummaged through a drawer, making small talk with the woman there. He came back and handed Kip a small square of red parchment.

  Kip quickly filled in the relevant blanks, and as Quentin watched him, perplexed, he walked over to Commander Ironfist. “Can you sign this for me, sir?” He handed him the quill, already dipped in ink.

  “Breaker, do you know how many ways I could disable you with this quill?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you want to find out?”

  “Only if that knowledge is academic rather than experiential, sir.”

  The corner of Ironfist’s mouth twitched, but it might have been Kip’s imagination.

  “This will make you go away,” Ironfist said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Instantly, sir.”

  Ironfist signed it, barely glancing at it. “Breaker, fortune favors the bold… but don’t be bold with me again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kip went back to grab his things and ask for directions to the forbidden libraries. Quentin answered, seeming stunned that it had been so easy for him. “Hey, uhm, Quentin, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

  “My, uh, my—I can’t believe you just—”

  “I know, it’s not fair. Try not to hate me. My family is kind of a bunch of… Well, we’ve got it better than we deserve. Hey, what do you study? Can I grab a book for you while I’m in there that might help you? I couldn’t let you leave the library with it, of course, so I’d have to be here while you used it, but if I can help…”

  “That sounds really danger—fantastic! I’d really appreciate that. I, I study all sorts of things. I’m, I’m a polymath.” He blushed. His eyes flicked up to Kip’s, then away, and he spoke in a rush. “Sorry, I’ve been working on getting over false humility, but it’s really—anyway, I’ve studied first-century saints; I’ve memorized everything on Alban and Strang, and their commentaries. Transitional rituals from the time of Karris Shadowblinder. A little on alternate histories. Your eyes are glazing. The memorization of all those commentaries usually gets some res—it’s five volumes—no? Doesn’t matter.”

  He’d studied all sorts of things? That sounded potentially useful. “Anything modern? Or is that too danger-fantastic?” Kip smirked, though, to show he was teasing.

  “By modern you mean contemporary?” It was a real question, though, and Quentin seemed to forget his awkwardness as their conversation moved to his territory.

  “I didn’t realize there was a—”

  “Sorry, pedantic. Structures of persistent tribal hierarchies in Abornea? Um, modern martyrs? Kind of thought my own path might take a missional turn for a while there, not to mention martyrical. Temple cons
truction techniques?”

  “I don’t suppose you know anything on modern genealogies? Noble families from now and during the False Prism’s War?”

  “No.”

  “Mm.” It had been too much to hope, Kip figured. Like Orholam would simply send him exactly the one scholar who knew everything he wanted to know. He was more surprised how easily he’d called it the False Prism’s War. Growing up in Tyrea, they’d called it the Prisms’ War. Kip hadn’t chosen to call it the False Prism’s War to fit in; it hadn’t even been a choice. This place was changing him. “You seem familiar. Have we met?” he asked.

  Quentin shook his head, blinked, froze, suddenly shy again. What a strange boy. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Please don’t take offense, but I don’t really pay attention to Blackguards.”

  That was fair. Kip didn’t think he’d really looked a luxiat in the face in all the time he’d been at the Chromeria. He had a thought. Quentin had said that he’d memorized impressive amounts, and he’d clearly been given permission to study whatever he pleased. That had to be unusual, so he must be highly favored. Perhaps not so unlike Kip—though Quentin had earned what privilege he had. “Tell me, Quentin, you’re probably famous in your circles, right?”

  “I wouldn’t call it famous—blight and rot! There it is again. False humility.” He sighed. “In my limited circles, yes.” He flushed again. “And sorry for swearing.”

  “How long did it take for them to try to sweep you up into their politics?”

  “What? Who? Sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “The luxiats. Whoever’s over you.” Kip could tell Quentin knew exactly what he was talking about, though.

  “The magisterium is Orholam’s hand on earth. It’s not politicized like other institutions,” Quentin said. Nervous. Defensive.

  For a moment, there was a choice. To Kip the Lip, or not. And then Kip said, “A liar. Huh. That’s too bad. You seemed like you could have been a friend. Good life to you, Brother Naheed.”

  Chapter 34

  Kip didn’t have time to go to the restricted library immediately, and Karris still hadn’t contacted him, so he headed to his next lecture. The magister was Tawenza Goldeneyes. She was ancient for a drafter, perhaps sixty, and with a ferocious reputation. They said she only took three discipulae a year—yellow superchromats, all. Kip, of course, would be joining the class after it had been meeting for months.

  He headed for the yellow tower, crossing through the elevated walk with only a single gulp at the heights, and arrived minutes later at the door of a small lecture hall. He paused at the closed door. There was a sign on it. “No Men Allowed.” He stopped. Scowled.

  Kip Guile, kills gods and kings, afraid to knock on a door.

  Totally different things. This is like walking into a women’s privy.

  He looked down at his burn-scarred left hand that was so quick to curl into a fist. C’mon, fist.

  He knocked, a firm but gentle triple tap.

  The door opened before he rapped for the third time.

  “What are you doing?” an older woman with golden eyes and luminous skin asked him. It wasn’t much of a guess who she was.

  “Greetings, Magister Goldeneyes, I saw the sign—”

  “But didn’t read it? Can’t read? Begone.” She swung the door closed.

  Kip stuck his foot in without thinking. The door hit his shoe and rebounded open. Magister Goldeneyes already had her back turned, and she stiffened at the sound.

  The two young women beyond her in the room, seated, necks craned to see Kip, looked suddenly aghast.

  “Your pardon,” Kip said. “I’m your new discipulus, Kip. I figured the sign was a mistake. Surely it means ‘superchromats only.’ ”

  “And?” she asked, turning. She looked at him like he was an insect.

  Kip paused, not sure what she was doing. He said, “I’m a superchromat.”

  “A superchromat boy is like a dog that can bark ‘I love you.’ It’s a novelty, not a precedent.” She slammed the door.

  Kip took it. Just when he’d been feeling like he was Little Lord Guile Gets His Way. In the scheme of things, he probably was way past deserving it. Besides, it let him go to a forbidden library before Andross Guile could figure out some way to screw him out of it.

  He realized he was blocking the door and a homely Abornean discipula of about twenty with faint yellow halos was trying to get past. He moved. As she slipped inside, she smiled apologetically and said, “Some things the Lightbringer alone will set aright.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  In minutes, Kip was back in the Prism’s Tower, approaching one of the rooms that Quentin had told him about. There was a librarian sitting in a chair in front of the door, reading. He looked excited to actually see someone. “Oh, greetings!” he said. He pulled a key out of a pocket and extended his hand.

  Kip handed the man his red parchment.

  “Kip Guile?” the librarian asked. He could obviously read, so Kip wasn’t sure how to parse the deeper question in the voice.

  “That’s right.”

  “You were there.” The librarian licked his lips. “Is he alive? Truly? They say he is, but that’s what they would say, isn’t it? To make us keep hope until Sun Day, wouldn’t they? Is the Prism really alive?”

  “I swear it,” Kip said. “I helped pull him out of the water. He was breathing. It’d take more than a few pirates to put an end to Gavin Guile.”

  The librarian nodded, heartened, his whole mien getting lighter. “That’s right, that’s right. After all he’s done.” The librarian scowled down at the red parchment and said, “Thank you, and I wish I could let you in for giving me that news alone. But I’m sorry, sir. New rules. Your grandfather has decreed that only those with his personally written permission will be allowed access to this special section.”

  “What?” Did he even have the authority to do that?

  The librarian said, “Just came down this morning, not two hours ago.”

  Two hours ago. Before Kip had even come up with his brilliant plan to get Ironfist’s signature. Kip didn’t know whether to feel better because this meant that his grandfather’s spies weren’t that good, or to feel worse because his grandfather had foiled Kip’s plan before Kip had even come up with it.

  Little Lord Gets His Way, huh?

  It took the wind from his sails. He only ended up going to one lecture. It was engineering, and the lecture covered angles of incidence: mirror armor quality and the refraction of luxin. The class easily had the best demonstrations, with armorers and war drafters standing up and talking about why this quality of mirror armor would perform against a missile of blue luxin at this angle, but not that one, and how keeping the armor clean was one of the biggest problems, dirt making them less reflective.

  Some Mirrormen—usually either the elite infantry of any satrapy or simply the richest—took to wearing very thin cotton coverings over their armor so that they would constantly be buffing their armor to a high shine, either shedding it as they went into battle or keeping it on throughout. It was less impressive, one armorer said, but there was no reason not to let the luxin weapons attacking you do the work of cutting the covering. Most Mirrormen, though, wanted the mental advantage that their shining armor had on drafters. Or, more likely, Kip thought, they thought that if they had to do all the work to keep mirror armor shining bright, they were for damn sure going to show it off when they got the chance.

  They only gave an overview and talked about one color today: blue. The series would be ongoing, and Kip hoped to make it to all of them.

  Suddenly, though, the classes all seemed optional. He certainly wasn’t going to go to the basic class with Magister Kadah, but that was the only class he technically had permission to skip. But there was too much else to do with war looming to waste on histories and hagiographies not directly related to the war.

  ‘Uses of Luxin in Art’? Now? Who were they joking?

  Other than the
engineers, it didn’t seem anyone else had broken out of their denial that the war was real—and that they might lose.

  After that lecture, Kip went to lunch. None of the Blackguard inductees were there. Most were on a staggered schedule to allow them to make it to lectures and still go to practice. Kip saw the reject table where he’d sat just a few months ago. The group was gutted now. Teia and Ben-hadad had left, subsumed into the greater culture of the Blackguard. Kip had barely belonged at all, and the girl with the birthmark, Tiziri, had been sent home because of Kip’s failure, stakes in a game of Nine Kings with Andross Guile. That left only Aras.

  The boy was sitting alone. Kip hesitated, and then went toward him.

  Aras looked up before Kip could sit. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I was… going to eat,” Kip said. “Can I join—”

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  “Only people who need pity say that,” Kip said, the words crossing his lips before he could call them back.

  “Never speak to me again.”

  Kip gave up. He went and sat alone and ate his food in silence.

  Not knowing what else to do with himself, Kip went downstairs. He’d still have Blackguard training later today, but he couldn’t bear to sit and do nothing. Hurry up and start training me, Karris.

  He found his father’s training room almost exactly as he had left it, except the obstacle course had been rearranged. But Kip was drawn to the pull-up bar.

  Before the Battle of Ru, that damned bar had been his daily humiliation. He’d come here alone so the others wouldn’t see how pathetic he was.

  He jumped up and did a pull-up easily. Well, that had been a bit of a cheat. He’d had some momentum from jumping. He did another. And four more. Six?

  Six!

  He dropped to the ground, and for the first time, the burning in his muscles felt like proof of progress, rather than punishment for failure. He wrapped his hands and moved over to the old punching bag, activating the lights with some superviolet. For a half an hour, perhaps an hour, he sank into the simplicity of hitting. Condemnations and memories of mockery rose to the surface like dross in the heat of the exercises, and he hammered them away one by one. Mother’s sneering quips, Ram’s teasing, General Danavis’s disappointment, Aras’s bitterness, punch by punch. He went from hitting the bag with sloppy fury to punching with passionless precision.