by Brent Weeks
“I have a better idea,” Zymun said. “How about—” He shot a spike of blue luxin through the face of the man nearest him. The sharp luxin went straight through the man’s aquiline nose and into his brain. Zymun spun with the kick of having shot so much mass, using the spin to flick out another blade of blue luxin. He lopped off the other man’s hand at the wrist. He shot a blunt rock of blue luxin into that man’s chest, knocking him off his feet. In an instant, Zymun had another seething spike spinning slowly in his left hand, pointing it at the captain.
His actions, so sudden and swift, and so swiftly stopped, stunned the slavers. They didn’t react, and Zymun didn’t move. If he did, he’d spook them. If the whole ship attacked him, he might be able to kill everyone, but he couldn’t command this ship. He didn’t know how it worked. He took advantage of the pause to replenish his luxin.
“How about,” Zymun repeated, “I join your crew for a time? I’m a polychrome, Captain. This, this was me using one color. I can use six. You give me the mate’s room, and I’ll fight with you for three months, or three battles, whichever is first. My magic will make all the difference. Three battles that you’re guaranteed to win. Then, when I’ve paid you in full, you take me to Big Jasper and let me debark with the share of the treasure that you think I’ve earned. You’ll still be the captain, and I won’t take a thing from you. We’ll part as friends.”
“Or?” the captain asked. His hand was twitching toward the pistol in the bag at his belt.
“Or I kill you and offer the same deal to your first mate. Maybe he’ll not be so fast to leap to defend you, knowing that by doing nothing, he gets rich himself.”
“Barrick was a good man,” the captain said, looking at the dead man. The other, handless, had already passed out from blood loss. He could still be saved.
“So you know,” Zymun said, ignoring that, “I’ll be the most important man in the Seven Satrapies soon, and I could use a man of your talents in the future.”
The captain looked from Zymun to his mate, who was stony-faced. The captain dipped his fingers into a pouch and pulled out some tobacco. He tucked it under his lip. He stared at the man, still bleeding on the deck. “Rawl, bind him up.”
The mate, apparently named Rawl, did as he was bid. The captain still said nothing to Zymun.
Zymun let it sit, the captain’s death still spinning slowly in his hand.
The captain spit brown juice onto the deck. It landed in blood. He scowled. “Deal,” he said finally. “I got a few grudges you might help me with. If you can help me take one pirate in particular, I’ll let you go after one battle, on my honor as son of a slattern and a sailor.” He extended his hand, a bit gingerly. That flash of fear comforted Zymun to no end. A man who feared him this much, having barely seen what Zymun could do, wouldn’t attempt treachery soon. Perfect.
“Who’s this pirate?” Zymun asked.
“Fancies himself a bit of a cannoneer. Calls himself Cap’n Gunner.”
Chapter 8
When the Wanderer came in to the pier, Teia was already waiting at her spot on the railing. In addition to the normal crush of sailors and longshoremen and merchants and fishermen and scattered noblemen, the piers of Big Jasper were crammed full of small folk desperate to find out if their loved ones had made it home.
At the same time, there was a crush of Ruthgari soldiers, loading ships to go join the fight that Teia and her friends were just returning from.
The ship’s passengers crowded around midships where the plank would be lowered. Teia hopped up on the railing, one hand holding a rigging line to keep her balance. She stepped outside the railing, grabbed the hemp webbing in both hands, and rolled down. It was a brief flash of joy that she even remembered how. Her early lessons had included acrobatics daily, but since she’d started practicing with the Blackguard, there had been none.
Clinging to the webbing, Teia could already see their pier was lined with people desperate to hear more news. Andross Guile’s flagship was the first of the mangled fleet to make it home. Word of the defeat had already reached the Jaspers by homing pigeon, but the people were hungry for details. The ship came to rest against the pier with a bump. A sailor balanced next to Teia on the webbing grinned at her and hopped off first, running to secure the lines on massive cleats. Teia hopped off a moment later, not able to jump quite so far with her short stature, and plunged into the surging crowd of gossips, friends, and families, and food vendors and wine sellers eager to find those eager to cleanse their palates of hardtack and stale water.
Being swallowed by an uncaring crowd was an odd relief. Teia was short enough that she disappeared. Her acrobatics and fighting teacher back in Abornea had been only a little taller than Teia, and she’d encouraged her to explore crowds, to get to know their moods, from the angry crowd streaming out of a hippodrome after a horse race where their favorite had lost, to the eager crowd meeting the arriving dancers and menageries of exotic animals for the Odess Sun Day Festivals.
There was an awareness you could cultivate only in the claws of such a beast. A thousand or ten thousand bodies might move, but you could only be aware of perhaps a dozen immediately around you, especially if you were small. And you had to be most aware of your own movement. There’s a mesh point, a fuzzy line where your movement can be assertive, even rude, without being taken as aggressive. There was a timing: a momentary sharp annoyance could be ignored if you were gone by the time the person you’d jostled hard turned to find you. Teia ducked and pushed and surged and slithered through the bodies, her form fluid, her mind submersed fully in her body.
Her trainer, Magister Lillyfield, with a body like a young woman’s and her face craggy as the Red Cliffs, had even wanted to take Teia and her master’s daughter to experience a crowd in riot in the Darks, the wretchedly poor Angari ghetto that had persisted for centuries in Odess, but Teia’s master would never let her.
The familiar beauty of the Chromeria’s seven towers gleaming in the sun brought no joy to Teia today. Teia had nowhere to be. Commander Ironfist had said only to his Blackguards, “Take the day. Tomorrow, dawn at the field, as usual.”
A restless energy filled Teia. She needed to wander. It was good practice. The better she knew the city, the easier her Blackguard training would be. But today there was something she needed to do. She felt herself clutching at that damned vial again, using up a precious hand that could help her maneuver through the crowd.
Too much thinking, T.
She was just making it out of the docks area when a man bumped into her. She’d moved enough to merely brush past him. It could only be deliberate.
But he was gone, and there was something in her hand.
Teia turned and, stationary, lost her momentum, lost her rhythm. The crowd spit her out into the bazaar adjacent to the docks. She hadn’t even see the man. Had seen a dark cloak, maybe a grayish tunic … Damn, it was gone. Like she was an amateur. She moved out of the stream of people and looked at what was in her hand. A note.
She knew immediately she wasn’t going to like what was written there.
“Teia, look in paryl. Now.”
Teia’s formal lessons in her special color had been brief, but Magister Marta Martaens had pounded into her that seeing a woman’s pupils grow until the whites of her eyes disappeared was not merely disconcerting for others, it was terrifying. That manipulation of the eyes was what had to be done to see paryl, which sat on the spectrum as far below sub-red as sub-red was below visible red. In the past, she’d dilated then constricted her pupils quickly, but it was tiring. Now Teia put on the darkened spectacles Commander Ironfist had given her and relaxed her eyes, farther, farther.
The first place she saw paryl was written across the chest of a broad-shouldered Chromeria guard. The words, shimmery, floating, lighter than air and delicate, glowed: “Bribed.”
Her chest tightened. What? Why? She was suddenly passive, standing like a mark, agape, like a new arrival to the Jaspers, gawking rather than moving,
working, planning.
“Help you, miss?” the guard asked, noticing her gaze.
Teia shook her head and ducked past him. She strode into the market where a herald standing on his small box looked at her. Floating above his head was one word: “Ours.” Had he stared at her?
Who were they? What were they doing? Why were they showing her this? It obviously meant they had a paryl drafter. A skilled one. More skilled than Teia, to make words that persisted. Or one very nearby, who was placing these beacons mere moments before she arrived.
On a wall down an alley, the words: “This way, Teia.”
She froze.
On another wall: “We won’t hurt you.”
On another wall, there was a puff of released light as a man leaned a hand against a wall where the ephemeral words had been placed: “Only we can—” the rest was gone, and even those tore and disappeared as the man shifted his hand, unseeing.
Teia’s heart pounded. Breathe, Teia. This is how people go lunar. Seeing things no one else sees, imagining conspiracies.
But madmen are mad because what they see isn’t there.
Teia had only seen two other paryl drafters in her life. Magister Martaens, who’d given her a handful of lessons at her former owner Aglaia Crassos’s behest, and a man who stabbed paryl into a woman’s neck and left her seizing to death.
The alley was right there: “This way, Teia.”
That man, that assassin, had used solid paryl to kill, like in the stories. Magister Martaens had sworn that solid paryl was impossible. Or at least that she couldn’t do it. If Teia could learn to draft solid paryl, she could defend against it, right? Perhaps these people could teach her.
Paralyzed, indecisive, passive and hating herself for it, Teia looked down the alley. Paryl’s greatest strength was that no one could see it except a handful of people in the world. If someone else could see their murders, those assassins lost their greatest weapon.
Which made Teia a threat to their power. Teia had seen an assassination. Perhaps they feared she’d seen the assassin, too.
So, Teia, do you isolate yourself with a man you know has murdered an innocent before, and who is threatened by your very existence?
Putting the matter that way made what remained of Teia’s curiosity shrivel from a big succulent grape to a nasty little raisin. Teia hated raisins. Loved grapes. They weren’t the same thing at all, no matter what people said.
If the man had wanted to simply murder her, he could have done it already. With his paryl messages, he’d proven that he could move nearby without her noticing him. So he wanted to get her alone first. Why?
It couldn’t be for something good. The man was a murderer. If your enemy wants it, don’t let him have it.
She ran.
Teia got a few startled looks as she bolted, but she didn’t care. As long as no one shouted ‘Thief!’ no one was going to care much about a young girl running. She hit the next busy intersection and slipped through the crowd there as fast as humanly possible. She slid between a yoke of oxen and the cart piled high with hay they were pulling before the man driving the team could even squawk. She ran along the lip of the little fountain at the center of the intersection and dodged through the line gathered for the water. She ran toward the next street, then stopped, backtracked a few paces, and dodged into an alley. She ran down that alley, nearly slipping on the garbage and slops, turned the opposite way down the next street, and turned up the next alley.
It started misting rain. Teia hadn’t even noticed the clouds gathering. She took off the dark spectacles, dropped her pack at her feet, flipped her cloak around so its muted blue side was out, put the pack back on, but in the front, and pulled the cloak on over that. She pulled up the hood and joined the streams of people hurrying in the rain. It was harder to modify your gait when you were rushing. Throwing your hips around to mimic a curvier woman was easy for her at a walk, she could merely bring her steps together as if walking a rope. Doing that while half jogging as if to get out of the rain? She wasn’t that good.
She began rummaging through the pack as she walked. She hadn’t brought much she could use for disguises to wear, but she did have a bright yellow shawl and a scarf. At the next intersection, she ducked into a merchant’s stall as if using it to cut a corner into another alley. She dropped the hood, pulled out a red scarf—or maybe it was green, the squad liked to play its little jokes on each other, and knowing her problem with colors, none of them would tell her straight.
She bound the scarf around her hair, and threw the shawl around her shoulders, tying it quickly. She ducked her chin and then walked back out the way she had come, holding the cloak shut and using the bulk of her pack on her front to make it look like she was pregnant. She put a hand on her belly to complement the disguise.
Teia hated slow disguises. Hated not making a speedy exit. But so did everyone else, and that was why this kind of disguise could be so effective when fleeing. She walked right by a tall man in a gray cloak who cut through the shop and headed into the alley. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe he was just a man hurrying home in the rain.
After two agonizing blocks at a slow deliberate place with a hand on her swollen belly but not too much waddle, Teia ran again—but not home. She ran to the brewery where Marta Martaens had said she’d taken a room.
The brewery, the Maiden’s Kiss, was housed in a squat, square building. It was whitewashed like almost all the buildings on Big Jasper, with a domed roof. This one was a shocking pink, the wooden doors were plain except for a stylized maiden in profile, offering a kiss. There was no text. Teia knocked firmly on the door.
An apprentice opened the door, a young girl not past ten years. “Is this where Marta Martaens takes a room?” Teia asked.
The girl’s big brown eyes went bigger. She hesitated. “Can you wait here? Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail?”
Odd one. And Teia didn’t like people acting odd when her life was on the line. Her throat was still tight. But she moved that tension to her body, readying herself for attack. She knew being aware but loose was faster, but there no way she could find that calm right now.
She looked around in the rain, measuring everyone, but there were few people on the streets now, and the rain was coming down harder. Teia’s last talk with Magister Martaens hadn’t gone well. The older woman thought that even talking about the possibility of the paryl assassination would invite all paryl drafters to be hunted down. And Teia had lost the magister’s tutorship briefly thereafter when Andross Guile had somehow gotten Aglaia Crassos to sign over Teia’s slave papers, and she hadn’t seen Magister Martaens since then.
The door opened again, and a wiry woman in an apron gestured Teia in. “Bel!” the woman barked. “Leaving a visitor out in the rain? Where’s your manners, girl?”
Little Bel’s face fell. She bolted.
“Weeper, she is,” the brewer said. She sighed. She wore a headscarf not unlike a man’s ghotra to hold back an impressively large crown of brown hair while she worked. And she was obviously working: her skin shiny with perspiration, the veins on her thready forearms popping out. “I got wort to watch, so apologies for being abrupt, but what’s your name and what do you want?”
“Teia. Adrasteia. I came to see if my old magister Marta Martaens is here.” Teia had pulled her own wet scarf off her head and shook out her cloak, revealing the pack over her stomach.
“Huh, thought you six months on, and I figgered she’d have told me if that was so,” the brewer said, nodding to Teia’s fake belly. “Marta’s gone. And you’re not the first to come asking for her. I’ll tell you what I told him, because it’s the truth. Good tenant. A bit tetchy, but a good woman. I don’t know where she went. She lost her position at the Chromeria, and that was the only reason she was here, so I din’t see nothing amiss in her leaving.” The brewer walked to a counter and reached underneath it. “But I’ll also tell you this. She left a note that I was only to give to a girl named Teia. Just so you know,
the man who came asking after her offered me money if I’d detain you.”
Teia was ready to fight. She shifted her gaze from the woman’s face to her midsection. Motion comes from the core, let your peripheral vision see everything else.
“I didn’t take it. I’m not a savage, and there was something funny about him. Red hair in a fringe, balding, odd necklace. Barely saw it, but my papa used to pull teeth. That necklace was all human teeth. Something nasty about that I’d rather not know. Read your letter quick and go. I wouldn’t put it past him to be watching even now. Oh, and don’t fold the note. Marta was particular about that. You can use the back exit if you want.”
To reach the back exit would require Teia to walk through an unfamiliar building, away from the public, isolated and vulnerable. Maybe the woman was being as helpful as she seemed. After all, she didn’t have to announce that the man had been here. But Teia had been a slave too long. She wouldn’t put herself at anyone’s mercy.
She took the letter carefully and opened it slowly, keeping an eye on the brewer.
“You can burn it in the fire if you like,” the brewer said. “I got wort on. Orholam watch ya, girl.” The brewer turned her back and went back into the shop.
“Teia,” the letter read, “my work with you is done. I’ve learned of my brother falling very ill, so I’m heading back to my family farm in Maelans. My apologies for leaving so abruptly, but I’m sure our mistress will take care of you. Orholam’s blessings on you.” That was all, it was signed with her name and carefully folded. So far as Teia knew, Marta Martaens didn’t even have a brother. She immediately widened her eyes full to paryl.
Fraying apart now that it was exposed, there was something written in paryl. No wonder Marta hadn’t wanted the letter folded. It would have destroyed the secret message. “It’s all true. The killings, everything. The Order of the Broken Eye is real, and now they’re after you. Orholam forgive me for leaving you alone in this, but there’s no fighting these people. Run, Teia. —Marta Martaens.”