by Brent Weeks
“I insist. Come to my quarters later. Now you’re excused,” Andross Guile said.
The rest of them just watched as Kip struggled with the dismissal. He didn’t want to leave, but he clearly saw no way around it. He bowed after a moment, and left.
Karris was certain she’d just seen one or the other of them bought off, but she wasn’t sure whom. Maybe both. The sheer gall of them to do it in front of the whole Spectrum. And the sheer brilliance, to be able to get away with it.
If it had thrown Andross Guile off, though, he didn’t show it. “Well, this is marvelous. There will be some real challenges in getting my son back before anyone else does, but I think we can overcome those difficulties.”
As Kip stepped out, Arys Sub-red came in the door, heavily pregnant and winded.
“What are we talking about?” she asked, moving past Karris to her seat. She didn’t have her youngest child with her this time, but she did reek of luxin and sex. Karris was no naïf, everyone knew that greens, reds, and sub-reds most of all liked to mix drafting and sex. It heightened the sensations and the emotions. Karris didn’t care who Arys bedded, but coming to a Spectrum meeting sex-flushed and stinking wasn’t something Arys would have done when she was in full control of her faculties.
The strain of rule kills us all.
Karris had thought that Arys had at least two years left, but now she wasn’t so sure. Sub-reds tended to get territorial and fiercely, passionately protective of those they loved as they reached the end of their natural spans. And, of course, libidinous, but a woman in Arys’s position shouldn’t be showing that. Not publicly.
Andross pointedly looked at Arys, and then ignored her.
Delara Orange said, “If the Color Prince ransoms the Prism instead of us, we’ll be destroyed. It will utterly cripple morale. They would hold him hostage as guarantee that we wouldn’t attack, and then—”
“No, no, no,” Andross said. “Do you not understand what the sea chariots mean?”
Blank looks. Andross smirked. He loved it when his superior intelligence found such undeniable expression.
“How is a pirate to hide for long from us? How is he to fight us? We dominate the seas, even if no one knows it yet.”
“If we can dominate the seas, why don’t we go after the Color Prince directly?” Delara asked.
“Because he’s on land,” Andross said.
“I’m not stupid, thank you very much. I mean, if the seas are ours, why not land our men in whatever place is most advantageous? Behind enemy lines, perhaps, and—”
“Have you even looked at the sea chariots? We’d burn out a thousand drafters trying to move a single transport ship. We can deny the seas to others; we can search the seas for my son, and with grenadoes and other arms, we can sink the Color Prince’s pirate mercenaries, but until we rebuild our own fleets, our armies can only approach by land.”
“So they don’t really change anything,” Klytos Blue said.
“Other than assuring that we can’t be attacked unawares and that we will know exactly where the Color Prince is at all times weeks before he knows where our armies are, yes, I suppose they change nothing,” Andross said, dripping contempt. “What matters for the moment is that Gavin will be ours before long. We can’t guarantee we get him alive, of course. But no one else will get him instead.”
And there was the serpent in him. That what he said was true didn’t make it any more comforting. The White would have said the same, but she would have spoken to the emotions of the fact first, the thought of losing Gavin through some accident or through some pirate’s fury.
But then all of what she’d been hearing hit Karris. Gavin was alive. Gavin was alive. The tears of relief blindsided her, and then blinded her. She didn’t want to cry in front of Andross Guile, didn’t want to show weakness in front of the Spectrum, but a single sob escaped her lips.
Everyone on the Spectrum looked at her, and Karris had to bow her head and clamp her eyes shut to avoid breaking down entirely.
She should keep her eyes open. She was a spy now. She should be paying attention. She should be of use.
Alive. It was hope and light and life and mercy. It was Orholam himself, reaching through the gathering darkness.
For once, Andross Guile didn’t bludgeon Karris for her weakness. Instead, he said, “Let us all go and send out our scouts and our messages and report to our satraps about this news. But most of all, let us all pray. For without Orholam’s hand, our situation is dire indeed. Let us meet again soon, but for today, I think we’ve seen and said enough. High Lady Pullawr?”
Let us pray? This was Andross Guile saying this? How shaken was he? The man made a mock of the faith at every chance.
The White made the sign of the four and the three, and the rest of the Spectrum followed her lead. They lay their hands, palms open, on the table in front of them, receptive, open to the light, open to truth. “Father of Lights, Holy One, Orholam.” She aspirated the h, giving it the old pronunciation. “Righteous Father, Strong Tower of Kalonne, All-Merciful One, Comforter of the Downtrodden, Guardian of Orphans, Good Teacher, Deliverer, Unfailing Defender, Savior, Warrior of Justice, Supreme Magistrate, Worthy of Honor, Mighty to Save, Bright Morning Star, Fire in the Night, Hope of the Last Tribe, Indefatigable Healer, Restorer of the Broken, Father, King, and God.”
That last sent a shiver through Karris, even through her tears. Even as Parian men covered their hair from respect, that their glory not compete with Orholam’s, so were there ways one rarely addressed Orholam—that name itself was but a title, a euphemism to show supreme deference, to show how high above the pagan gods he was. In speaking that small word, huge in implications, the White was revealing just how dire she thought the situation was.
“God,” the White breathed.
The room fell utterly silent. Karris fancied she could feel the play of light across her face.
“God, you are God alone. God, please save us.”
After the long introduction, Karris expected more eloquence, more beseeching, more … words. The salutation had been longer than the letter.
Then she realized that was the White’s point exactly. The eloquence, the focus, should be on Orholam. His was the beauty and majesty and the power. He knew their need. He knew how best to help them. This heresy was not only a threat to an earthly order, it was a threat to the worship of Orholam throughout the Seven Satrapies, it was a defiance and renunciation of him. The White was merely declaring her loyalty and begging the help of their lord, as loyal vassals. What else, in the end, was there to say?
It was a mirror to the very help that the Blood Foresters in those border towns would beg, and that the Spectrum had silently agreed to deny. You must die, they had agreed without so much as a vote: you must die so that our purposes can be accomplished.
Karris only hoped Orholam was not so callous and practical with them.
Chapter 21
Teia hesitated outside the door of the Prism’s training room, deep under the Prism’s Tower, looking at a band of blue light illuminating the floor. She had never seen the room illuminated with colored light before. She hadn’t even known it did that.
She heard the unmistakable percussive action of someone punching combos against one of the dummies, and oddly, that violent sound eased her mind. Whoever was here was training—and thus, wasn’t an enemy. Though she knew from how he moved that Murder Sharp must train often, it was somehow impossible to imagine him doing it. He was only the finality of action, not the preparation for it.
Opening the door with the key that Commander Ironfist had given her, Teia went inside. She was just in time to see Commander Ironfist burst into action. His fists snapped out, punching the fraying leather heavy bag full of sawdust: stomach, chin, kidneys, and back up and down, too fast to follow, then he darted off to the side, running toward an obstacle course. He drew two practice swords while he ran.
Maneuvering with even one sword in hand or at your belt was part of Blackguar
d training that Teia’s class hadn’t even started yet—and that she’d noticed immediately during her brief participation in the battle at Ruic Head: trying to run and fight while carrying even a scabbarded weapon was hard work. Corners you knew your body could slip around suddenly caught your hip, threw you off your step. Carrying a blade openly was even worse, because you had to maneuver it by hand—if your blade stopped on a doorframe and you kept moving into it … not good.
So watching Commander Ironfist move through an obstacle course with two full-length swords was an education in itself. The commander was shirtless, wearing only his tight black trousers and the boiled-rubber-tree-sap-soled boots full Blackguards were issued: sticky, and nearly silent. Watching him explode from a full standstill was like watching a lion pounce—a ripple of muscles, a flash of flesh, and he was off, near full speed in barely four steps.
He hurdled an obstacle that came up higher than Teia’s chest, ran straight at a wall that had only a circular hole a pace across on it and leapt—diving, swords stabbing through, shoulders barely clearing the narrow opening, body not even nicking the edges. He rolled to his feet smoothly, blades flourishing.
He ran at another wall, barely losing speed, and ran up it. His momentum seemed to flow into the wall, all of it completely at his legs, his hands and swords coming into his chest, waist cocking. He leapt off the wall, twisting, the blades flashing out to hit a dummy on either side, each of them held in a box ten feet off the ground, everything below their necks protected.
The momentum of swinging both swords left-to-right meant Ironfist landed sideways. He tumbled, taking the fall, and popped back up to his feet. He looked irritated. Teia saw the problem. Without maintaining his speed, Ironfist had no way of leaping the chasm that was the next obstacle, at least not without stopping and backing up and losing precious time.
He saw Teia, of course, but he saw that she had no pressing business, so he said nothing. He went back to his starting spot and repeated it again.
This time, as he ran up the wall, he slapped the swords against the wall, each wrapped in blue luxin, released them, twisted his body, grabbed them with the opposite hands, and leapt straight from the wall, slashing in from both sides, cutting through the dummies, and landing flat. He charged the chasm, not losing any speed, and jumped it, skipping off a platform that was too small to stop on and then regaining speed, leaping for a rope that hung over the next chasm.
He lost a sword on that maneuver, but he spun down to the ground and laughed.
“The Prism’s own obstacle course. Of course, he cheats outrageously with luxin at every turn. He challenged me to beat his time before he left. I think I may just.”
As he approached, Teia was suddenly aware again of the sheer size and physicality of the commander. Her glance at his naked, scarred chest seemed to make him aware of his own half-dressed state. Oddly, he seemed embarrassed, the old habits of Parian modesty not totally overcome even after many years in the Blackguard. He grabbed his tunic and pulled it on.
“Here to train?” he asked Teia. “I can get you started on drills.”
Teia stared at him, somehow unable to speak. She thought of telling him everything. But Murder Sharp could be standing in this very room.
“Turned in your papers, did you?” he asked. He’d seen her coin sticks.
“Oh. Yes.”
“Are you going to leave?”
“Can I really?” Teia asked. It still seemed impossible.
“If you turn in the money to the Blackguard, you’re free. You’ll be able to make more money as a mercenary if you stay in and leave right before final vows, but some leave at your place. If you’ve grown up as a slave, sometimes the thought of real freedom is too sweet to put off for even one more day. Others just talk about it. I’ve known Blackguards who talked for fifteen years about buying their commission back—fifteen years after final vows, you understand—and traveling the world. Treg was in his last year before retirement and was still talking about buying that commission back.” Ironfist grinned, but then the grin faded. “He didn’t make it back from Garriston.”
“I want to be a Blackguard more than anything in my life, but…” Teia’s nerve failed her.
Commander Ironfist said nothing, just folded his beefy arms and waited. It was a patient silence, though, not demanding. Here was a man so busy he rarely slept more than five hours a night, but when he dealt with his Blackguards—even the nunks—he had a way of being present, unhurried. Teia had never really noticed how generous he was with his precious time, but now that she was experiencing it, she realized how often she’d seen it before, and she added it to the long list of things she admired about the commander. But …
I’m not a slave. Not anymore. And I won’t be made a victim. I won’t sit and let it happen, even if by moving I die. “I’m being blackmailed,” Teia said.
“What’d they get you for?”
She was so startled by his total lack of surprise that she simply said, “Theft.”
“How?”
“I’ve been trained as a pickpocket for years. It wasn’t really my choice, you understand? My master? With my paryl vision, I can see where coins and scroll cases and the like are hidden. Half the time, I’ve been stealing from trainers who worked for Aglaia Crassos—who I just learned was my real mistress all along. But I just figured out today that they were smarter than I’d given them credit for.”
“Uh-hmm.” Commander Ironfist’s face was as placid as a lake at dawn. He gave no indication of what he was thinking. She was afraid some monster might burst from placidity though, so she sped up.
“They bet I’d get into the Blackguard, and they knew that once I was free, they wouldn’t have any hold on me, so everything I’ve been stealing has been stuff that is recognizable. They’ve probably got it all stowed somewhere in a place that they can tie to me.”
“So that’s how you knew how to disguise yourself at Ruic Head,” Ironfist said. “How good are you?”
“At lifting things?” Teia asked. She hadn’t thought this would be his first question. “Better than I am at fighting.” Not that she liked the fact.
“What would you say if I told you I work for Aglaia Crassos, too?” he asked.
Her heart dropped. She looked at the door for an escape. The commander calmly stepped between her and it.
“No,” she whispered. Begged. “No, please.”
There was no way she could make it. No way she could fight off Commander Ironfist if he wanted to stop her anyway. It was madness to even think to oppose him.
But what was her other option? To just give up?
Her only hope was paryl, and even that was a thin hope. During the battle at Ruic Head, she’d done something with paryl that made everyone within sight think they were being burned to a crisp, but it had actually done nothing. If she could remember exactly how she’d done that, maybe it would be enough.
“Relax,” Ironfist said. “I don’t. I’m just surprised that it didn’t occur to you. Usually those being blackmailed become paranoid.”
A breath whooshed out of her. “Sir, I’m so deep in my own problems that I can’t even imagine how bad my life would be if she’d gotten to you.”
“Can you describe the items to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In writing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do so. I’ll take care of it. If.”
“Sir?”
“If this is all of it. You understand?”
All of it? Confessing to stealing trinkets was one thing, but what about Teia’s own brush with murder? Would they believe her? What was more plausible: that Teia had botched a theft and panicked and stabbed a man, or that she had crossed some cabal of invisible assassins?
Even if they believed her, somehow Master Sharp would find out. She would wake to find him in her room again. And he would know. The thought turned her knees to jelly.
“Is this all of it?” Commander Ironfist asked.
�
��Yes, sir,” Teia said.
“Then let’s go talk to the White.”
Talk to the White?! Oh, no. No no no. Even the best liars could have a bad day. Teia couldn’t afford for that to be today.
Chapter 22
Time was measured out with such perfect regularity that time lost meaning. Gavin’s every day had a similar rhythm. Pull. Twist. Push. Twist. Pull. Up, down, life circumscribed in ovals of work and rest and transition from one to the other. Scrape off the inefficient edges of every moment. Breathe in, breathe out, try to make the motion of the one to the other as painless as possible. Wake, sleep, and spend no time in between. Up before dawn, eating gruel, more gruel at lunch, sometimes with a slice of fruit to fend off scurvy, beans most nights, meat when they’d been particularly good. The ship stopped at a port only once a week, though they stopped at other times, too, for freshwater and for the sailors to have a chance to hunt. But most days were a blur, the round of pumping blood, or of the whip striking, falling, being raised, hesitating in the air for one instant, striking again.
Up before dawn, eating gruel. A chance at the waste bucket. Then rowing. Gruel, then a chance at the wash bucket.
The tempo ate leagues, a perfect balance between speed and exertion. If some emergency came upon them—or if they were to be an emergency that came upon someone else—the slaves needed to have the push to escape doom or to bring it. But that didn’t mean they rowed slowly, not with this crew, not with this captain, not with this accursed overseer Leonus.
It was measured, and it was the same when they hit bad weather, the light Angari ship bobbing like a cork on top of the waves, vomit and water washing past the slaves’ hardened feet. As the weather grew so bad that other ships stayed in port, wintering, they never slowed. These men had shot the Everdark Gates. A storm was a frivolity to them; they had only contempt for it.
Gavin could hear the drums in his sleep. His breath as he lay under his bench came in the same intervals it did when rowing. His hands healed, formed new calluses, ripped open, bled again, fresh agony every morning.