by Brent Weeks
The Office had sent luxors after paryl drafters? “So it does work. You’re admitting it,” Teia said, despite her tight throat.
“I’m admitting nothing. I’ve never seen solid paryl, and I can’t make it. I don’t believe it can be done. There were some of us, hundreds of years ago, who worked for the Order of the Broken Eye. Assassins. I think they probably killed with poisons, but by claiming that they could kill invisibly and without leaving any trace, they got many more contracts. But then, when people did die, it got out of control. That’s why there aren’t any paryl drafters anymore, you fool girl. Not because it doesn’t work, but because everyone fears it might work better than it actually does. That’s why we’re still perilously close to being called heretics, why the libraries have been scrubbed of references to us, and why the present White has had to fight so hard to rein in the Office of Doctrine. She believes all light is Orholam’s gift, but there are the superstitious people in every age. They call it darklight, oralam—hidden light. They say it is a gift from the lord of darkness. A darkness that can only be driven away with fire. Do you understand? A darkness that can only be driven away with fire.”
“Burnings,” Teia said quietly.
Magister Martaens seemed abruptly calm. “I met her once, you know. The White. She apologized. Said that drafters treat paryl drafters like the benighted treat all drafters. Said she was working to overcome it, but that it would be a labor of several generations. A good woman. Don’t you dare overturn all her work with foolish rumors. We may never have such a friend in the Chromeria again. This is bigger than you and me. This is for generations yet to come. Your mistress has already asked me all sorts of questions and I’ve had to lie a thousand ways to convince her you were delusional. When next you meet her, you tell her that just before you came to see her, you saw the paryl again. Describe it as a streak, but that there was no one there. That it originated from thin air. Be confused, and if she asks, tell her you haven’t asked me about this yet, but you will. That you never said anything to me about the dead woman. I’ve told her that paryl drafters tend to see streaks at times, that it’s a side effect of our drafting. You’re to make her believe that what you saw was a coincidence. Because if you don’t, our kind will be purged again.”
“Yes, Magister.”
“Then let’s get to work. I want to see how far away you can place a beacon, and how tight a beam you can use to see through clothing,” Magister Martaens said.
“Magister,” Teia said, “how does it work? I mean, how does it supposedly work? I’ll never speak of it again, I promise, but, please.”
The older woman sucked on her thin lips. She looked around again. “In the stories, if she had the knowledge and tremendous will, a drafter could sharpen paryl not only to a solid, but into a needle so fine a person wouldn’t feel it poke them. The drafter would then make a tiny stone inside their target’s blood and release it. Supposedly, that eventually causes apoplexy—a stroke, the chirurgeons call it now. But there’s no reason paryl should hurt anyone. I’ve cut myself and touched paryl to my blood; it isn’t poisonous.”
“But you’re describing exactly what happened!” Teia said. At the woman’s glower, she lowered her voice. “Sorry.”
“And I’m telling you that you must have read the same story I did and forgotten it. Hallucinations are not uncommon among exhausted drafters. We who work with light sometimes have our eyes do strange things.”
Teia couldn’t believe the woman’s willful blindness. She struggled to maintain a respectful tone. “Magister, does my mistress think it can be done? Does she believe you, or me? Does she want me to do that to someone?”
Magister Martaens looked like she’d swallowed vinegary wine. “I know two things about your mistress. She’s more interested in who she can take to her bed than she is in dusty old tomes in forbidden libraries she’d have to pay a fortune to gain access to. Dangerous knowledge is often hidden under ponderous grammar and obscurantist vocabulary. She hasn’t the patience to sift through mysteries. Everyone’s heard silly stories about dark drafters and night weavers. No one knows anymore that those stories are about us. Which is why it behooves us not to remind them. Which is why I’d like you to wear darkened spectacles whenever you draft paryl publicly, or to always draft quickly so that no one sees your eyes.”
“And the second thing?” Teia asked.
“There are those who can savor a silent victory. Your mistress is not one of them. She’s not looking for quiet ways to kill the Guiles. But when she figures out whether helping the Prism’s bastard or hurting him will hurt the Guiles more, you can expect to be used. No matter what it costs you, or her. She’s insane with hatred. So don’t get too close to that boy Kip. You’ll probably have to betray him.”
Chapter 49
Kip followed Grinwoody sullenly. Everything about the room was the same as always. Door, curtain, darkness. Andross Guile was already seated at the table.
As Grinwoody brought out the superviolet lantern, Kip took a seat across from the old man.
“Can I use your deck this time?” Kip asked.
“No,” Andross Guile said. “You play the hand given you. You’re a bastard. You get the bad deck.”
“Oh, I’m a bastard now? So you don’t doubt who my father is?” Kip swallowed. He shouldn’t have said it.
But Andross Guile said nothing. He picked up his deck and began shuffling. “That my son sired you has never been in question, you fool. Even your voice sounds like his. The question was whether your mother was a concubine or simply a whore. If he’s claimed she was a concubine merely to vex me, I shan’t let it stand. I know for a fact there was no marriage, and I bet you know it, too.”
“I didn’t exist yet, so actually, no.” Snotty. Dangerous, Kip.
“You still have that bandage on your hand?” Andross asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
His eyebrows lifted above the dark glasses for a moment: Oh, it’s “my lord” now?
Kip didn’t know if he hated himself more for his earlier recklessness, or for his later deference to the old buzzard.
“Take off the bandage.”
Untying the knot near his wrist took his fingers and his teeth, but soon Kip had unwrapped the linen. The burns were healing, but the skin was pink where it wasn’t white with scars, and his fingers were bent permanently. He could tighten them into a fist, but it hurt to even try to straighten them. The chirurgeon and Ironfist both urged him to try, but it was agony.
“Put your hand out, bastard, I’m blind.”
Kip put his hand on the table. The old man put his hand on top of Kip’s. “Please,” Kip said. “It’s very painful.”
Andross Guile hmmphed. He traced his bony, pale, long, loose-skinned fingers over Kip’s hand, heedless of the oily unguent. It stung, but Kip held still.
“You’ll lose the use of this hand quickly if you don’t stretch your fingers,” Andross said.
“Yes, my lord. I know.”
Andross Guile turned Kip’s hand over, palm down. “You know. So you’ve chosen to become a cripple? Why?”
Kip clenched his jaw. Swallowed. “Because it hurts.”
“Because it hurts?” Andross mocked. “You’re ashamed. I can hear it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You should be. Keep your hand on the table. Scream when it hurts too much.”
What?
Andross pushed down on Kip’s hand, flattening it slowly. Kip felt the new-formed skin at his joints tear open. A squeak escaped his lips, but he didn’t scream.
I’m a big tub of lard, a shame, an embarrassment, but I am the fucking turtle-bear. You can go to hell, Andross Guile. You old, heartless, cruel—
The ligaments in Kip’s hand were on fire, his whole palm was touching the tabletop, but his fingers were stubborn claws, arched up.
And then suddenly, the pressure stopped.
Tears were leaking down Kip’s cheeks. He gasped and cradled his hand to his chest.
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Andross Guile said, “That which you would have serve you, you must bend to your will. Even your own body. Perhaps especially your own body, fat one. Did the skin tear?”
It was a moment before Kip could trust his voice. “Yes, my lord.”
“Smear the unguent back into the cuts. You don’t want it getting infected.”
With a trembling hand, Kip did.
“You know what I’m going to tell you next, right?” Andross Guile said.
“Keep doing it, all day, every day, so that it heals right,” Kip said.
Then he felt another wave of shame. He did know what to do. He simply hadn’t had the will to do it. Andross Guile didn’t even have to say anything.
“You did well,” the old man said instead.
“Huh?”
“You didn’t scream. I expected you to. So this time, no stakes. A practice game. Next time is for your little friend, though, so I hope you’re getting better.”
With no further talking, Andross Guile dealt himself his cards. Six facedown, two up: a Stalker and a Green Warden.
That meant he was using his green and shadow deck. One of his best. Kip wrapped his bandages loosely around his hand and drew his own cards from the pure white deck Andross had given him to play. Kip had played with it twice before, and he was finally getting comfortable with its strategy. His up cards were the Eye of Heaven—a power enhancer—and the Dome of Aracles.
Kip cursed inwardly. No stakes? He’d just drawn this deck’s best possible opening hand. His hand cards were good, too. He actually had a reasonable shot at winning. There were no choices for his first two rounds, and unless he drew something game-changing in the interim, all he had to do was survive until the sixth round, so Kip said, “When you say we play for my little friend, what do you mean?”
Andross played Cloak of Darkness, making Kip’s gambit much less likely, and said, “That slave girl.” He seemed to be at a loss to remember her name. Kip didn’t supply it, for fear that he was being baited. Andross snapped his fingers.
“Adrasteia,” Grinwoody said quietly from the darkness. Kip looked at him. The man was wearing odd, heavy spectacles Kip hadn’t seen before.
“Adrasteia,” Andross said as if he had remembered it, as if Grinwoody were an extension of himself. “I’ll buy her, and if you win, I’ll give her to you. You can take her as your room slave. I don’t imagine your village gave a boy of your dubious charms many opportunities for the pleasures of the flesh, did it?”
Kip’s stomach turned. “And if I lose?” he asked, hoping to steer far away from those topics.
“She’ll be my slave. Worry about that as you will.” His mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile.
Kip, I’m a slave, Teia had said. You don’t even know what that means.
He did now. Kip was a fat bastard from the armpit of the Seven Satrapies, but he had choices. Teia didn’t. Other people might look down on Kip, but they didn’t even see Teia. Or when they did, it might not be in the way she’d want to be seen.
“What’s your plan for me?” Kip asked.
Kip couldn’t see the old man’s eyes through his dark, dark spectacles, but Andross’s head cocked to the side, brow twitched, surprised. “A question my own son would never have dared to ask. Are you bold or stupid, boy?”
“Both. And you’re avoiding the question.”
Andross Guile’s lips pursed. He lifted two fingers, waved them forward.
A fist crashed across Kip’s cheek. Grinwoody. May Orholam scratch out his eyes with sand.
Kip had fallen out of his chair and dropped his cards. He picked them up slowly, regaining his composure.
“It’s amusing once in a while, Kip, but I don’t tolerate much disrespect. Remember, or be reminded.”
“So are you going to tell me or not?” Kip asked. He was treading the line, and he knew it, but Andross Guile let this one pass.
“It depends on how good of a Nine Kings player you are.”
Kip was too smart for once to follow that up with, But what’s the endgame, Rossie? Sure, the Guiles nearly rule the world, but Prisms don’t last forever. Your family’s almost gone. What do you want?
Maybe Andross Guile had been scheming so long that he didn’t know how to not scheme. Maybe there was no winning, and he knew it, but losing was definitely possible, and his pride wouldn’t allow him to lose. So he’d fight and fight and tear down a hundred other families and keep clawing until they finally nailed shut his crypt under the Chromeria.
“I don’t have that much left that you can take away from me,” Kip said. “So how many more times can we play?” After a while, with nothing to lose, I’ll only be able to win.
But it was impossible to imagine Andross Guile putting him in a position where only good things could happen.
“Three more times,” Andross said.
He had thought of it, the old shark.
Kip said nothing, and lo and behold, silence actually paid off. “Once we play for who owns Adrasteia. And then we play again, for your future.”
“I don’t think I like you very much,” Kip said.
“That’s a cryin’ shame, because I mean for you to hate me as much as you hate your mother.”
“Don’t,” Kip said, suddenly cold.
“Excuse me?” Andross Guile said.
“Don’t,” Kip said.
Again, the head tilt, weighing Kip. “Your move,” the old man said.
Kip made a mistake on the seventh round, not correctly calculating the cascading effect of the cards’ abilities on each other, and watched Andross put together a brilliant series. Kip lost on the next turn.
With a sigh, Kip collected his cards. It was, as Andross Guile had said, a practice round, without even timers. But Kip could have won. With luck, he could win against Andross Guile. It was possible, even with Andross Guile’s decks. Just unlikely. Kip flipped through the deck, seeing what cards would have come next, what might have happened if he hadn’t botched it.
“How long do I have?” Kip asked.
“A drafter of your abilities? Maybe fifteen years,” Andross Guile said. But he was grinning. He knew that wasn’t what Kip meant.
So Kip didn’t take the bait. For once.
“One week, then we play the first game. I’ll arrange it with her present owner. And you can fantasize about what you’ll do with her if you win. Of course, you have to win first.” Andross Guile chuckled. “You think you’ll free her, don’t you? Truth is, you’re not as altruistic as you think. No one who shares a drop of the Guile blood is. Blood is destiny, bastard. Don’t forget it.”
Kip heard the words, but suddenly they lost meaning, blew apart into irrelevance. The art on one of the white cards was different than he’d remembered. Or maybe because he’d been studying miniature portraits of all the cards, he simply hadn’t noticed. Heaven’s Finger. It was a dagger: white, veined with black, with seven colorless gems gleaming in the blade. It was the dagger Kip’s mother had given him. He was stunned.
Hearing Grinwoody whispering something in Andross’s ear, Kip looked up quickly.
“Hellfang,” Andross Guile said. “You’ve seen it. Not the card. The real one.”
It was a shot right in Kip’s big soft stomach. He started. “I—No, what are you talking about?”
“Hellfang is its other name. Marrow Sucker. The Blinder’s Knife. You’ve seen it. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Kip said nothing, but he realized the last part wasn’t to him. Grinwoody said, “He jumped when he saw the card, my lord. Definitely recognition.” He made no effort to hide the smugness in his voice.
He’d been set up. Andross Guile had been playing him these games all this time simply to lure Kip into a false sense of security, complacency. Kip had played the White deck twice now, and the card had never come up. Andross Guile had been content to play him again and again so that Kip would be off guard when it did. All that time so that Kip would give an honest, startled reaction if he had seen the knife
before. It had all been a trap.
“We’ll talk more, when you’re ready,” Andross Guile said. “I know your mother stole it. I know she wanted to give it to Gavin, maybe in return for him making you legitimate. I want to know where it is and what my son knows about it. In return, I offer you the girl. Think about it. Not only will you get someone to warm your bed, which, face it, you have no hope of otherwise, but also a drafter’s contract is worth a lot of money over the course of her life. Your tuition has been paid, but you have no other income. Maybe you can beg some scraps from Gavin, if he remembers you, if you want to be a beggar. Otherwise, tendering her services is the only way you’ll be able to keep from having to find a sponsor yourself. All for a few bits of information that I’m going to find out regardless. If I learn it from somewhere else, you get nothing.”
Kip was out of his depth. Playing his wits against Andross Guile was like playing Nine Kings with only two cards against an expert with a full deck. Kip’s cards were Ignorance and Stupidity. Not winners.
“I’ll see you in a week,” Kip said. “Have Teia’s papers ready. I intend to win.”
Chapter 50
As soon as Kip got out of sight, he ran. He took the stairs down to his level and ran until he was within sight of his barracks.
There was a man standing outside the barracks. “Hello, sir,” he said as Kip approached.
“Uh.”
“I’ve been told to tell you that Lord Andross Guile wishes to reward you for your fine play. You’ve been given your own room. Your things have already been moved. Would you like to follow me?”
That old, decrepit, infuriating spider. He was magnificent. He’d just played a Scry and looked at Kip’s hand. For one moment, Kip couldn’t help but admire how well played it was. How better to go through all of Kip’s possessions than by helping him move? And how could Kip object? He was getting a better room, for nothing.
