by Brent Weeks
“Pardon me?” she asked.
“Worst deal.”
“How rude.”
“You have something Lord Andross Guile demands,” Master Sharp said.
“Pardon me?”
“The slave girl, Teia.”
“Who? What? I have no such—”
“Did you think you could keep your ownership secret? My dear, you are so far out of your depth, the shore isn’t in sight. You’re going to sign over her title, and the more quickly you do it, the less bad it will be for you.”
“You need to leave. Immediately,” Aglaia said. She wanted to spit in this monkey’s blithely smiling face. Andross Guile? She’d die first.
“The Red did tell me it might be like pulling teeth. How long should I give you to reconsider?”
Aglaia turned her back and strode toward the mantel where her slaves’ bell sat. She wasn’t even aware of Master Sharp moving, but suddenly he was holding her from behind, one arm around her ribs as if embracing her, but the hand a steel claw around her throat. His other hand stabbed behind her ear into a spot that eviscerated her with pain.
“I want you to know. I intend to enjoy this,” he whispered in her ear. His breath was sweet, minty. “You have very. Nice. Teeth.”
Then he released her. He was out the door before she even rang the slaves’ bell.
“Go after him,” she told the muscular young slave, Incaros, her new favorite. “Take Big Ros and Aklos. Beat that son of a bitch. Badly. Break bones. Go. Now!”
She ordered her chamberlain to call up more guards and then went up to her chambers. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that even now Incaros, Ros, and Aklos were beating the hell out of that bastard, but he’d shaken her. She was trembling, and furious that she’d been so frightened. She closed her door and rubbed a kerchief across her brow.
A fist smashed into her forehead and her head slapped into the wooden door she’d just closed, stunning her. She fell, and hands guided her down. The man straddled her, and when she tried to scream, he stuffed something thick and sharp and metallic into her mouth. He strapped it onto her face quickly, expertly.
The gag held her tongue down and blocked air from her mouth, so she started screaming through her nose, and he simply pinched her nose, holding her down with one hand by her throat.
His amber eyes smiled.
She stopped screaming and he lifted her to her feet, mostly by her throat, and moved her to a chair.
How had he gotten here? Climbed up the outside of the house and broken in through a window as soon as she’d thrown him out? That fast? And no one had seen it?
Furious, she thrashed. He punched her so hard in the stomach that her breath whooshed out of her and she unwittingly bit down on the gag. It was like a horse’s bit, but sharp, and it dug into her teeth and tongue cruelly. She had to keep her mouth open as widely as possible.
In moments, she was strapped to her own chair with broad leather straps.
Master Sharp stepped back, pushing his floppy fringe of red hair back over his head from where their wrestling had thrown it askew. His pearl necklace had come out of his shirt—and those weren’t pearls.
“You can scream,” he said quietly. “Anytime you want. But if you do, I’m going to punch you in the jaw. The gag you’re wearing has tiny chisels above each tooth. If I’ve measured your jaw properly, it should break each tooth, top and bottom, neatly into four pieces. It’s a bit of a rush job, so it may not be perfect. Sadly. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to do the extractions myself, so you’ll have that to look forward to with some other, less skilled hand on the pliers. But.” He shrugged, as if it couldn’t be helped. He said, “Bottom line of the ledger. If you make my life difficult, I will break your teeth. In order. Molars first. I’ve never had anyone make it to the incisors.” He breathed minty breath in her face. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll be the first.”
Chapter 57
Two days after their real-world testing, the scrubs had an elimination fight. Kip could only hope that some of the boys he would have to fight today might still have bruises enough to inhibit them from mopping the floor with his face.
But hope wasn’t enough. He lost twice, quickly. He walked out onto the testing field again, flexing the fingers of his left hand lightly. It still hurt like small animals were gnawing at every joint and sprinkling salt on the flesh in between courses, but it hurt less than the beating that was to come. He stared at the youth across from him. Come on, turtle-bear, come on.
The wheels had come up Red, and Unarmed. Red was lucky, very lucky. Kip had just been practicing it last night with Teia. He could finally, finally make a stable red—though that was all he could do. He’d only figured out two ways to use the sticky stuff. One was flammable goo, and setting opponents on fire was decidedly frowned on. The downside was that the boy across from him, Ferkudi, was a blue/green bichrome, currently two places above Kip. There were about fifty people gathered around the circle, watching closely. Between injuries and nervous sponsors, there were now only twenty-eight scrubs left.
Ferkudi was short and thick through the chest, but strong as a bull, and deceptively quick. Kip had watched him fight, and the boy was better at grappling than almost anyone else. The fights that Ferkudi had lost, he’d lost because his reach was short. On a good day, and with the colors he had, he’d be in the top three or four fighters. It was just bad luck that he was fighting for position fifteen right now.
Kip shrugged his shoulders, rolled his head to stretch out his neck, and signaled that he was ready to fight.
The corner of Ferkudi’s mouth twitched. He thought he was going to destroy Kip in a quick hand-to-hand fight.
No reason to let the other guy know what cards you’re holding, is there? Thank you, Andross Guile.
Thank you, Andross Guile? Did someone slip haze into my breakfast?
The whistle blew and the circle was flooded with red light. Ferkudi came in straight.
Kip kept his hands up, between himself and Ferkudi so the boy wouldn’t see Kip’s eyes filling with red luxin. Then he threw his hand down and sprayed sticky red luxin at the boy’s feet.
They stuck, and Ferkudi almost fell over. He rebalanced, brought his hands in, and Kip sprayed them with red luxin, too, gluing Ferkudi’s hands to his chest. It worked just as Ironfist had taught him.
Red was sticky, but it wasn’t as strong as iron. Kip’s will was. He threw all of his desire for the boy to be imprisoned into that drafting.
Ferkudi obviously hadn’t been prepared for Kip to be drafting red, but Kip wasn’t prepared for it either. The color breathed life onto the flames of his rage. He wasn’t mad at Ferkudi, but red obliterated reason.
He closed the distance and, before he even knew what he was doing, buried his fist in the astonished boy’s face.
The late-night training sessions seemed to be doing something, because the punch went right where he wanted it to—he punched low, straight for Ferkudi’s chin; and exactly as Commander Ironfist had said, the boy instinctively ducked his chin, and Kip’s fist smashed his nose. With his feet stuck in red luxin, the boy toppled straight onto his back.
Kip sprayed red luxin around the fallen boy so he was stuck to the ground. He raised a foot to stomp on the boy’s head—and barely stopped himself as the whistle shrilled.
Frightened at what he’d almost done, Kip flung away the red luxin. Orholam’s beard, for a moment there, he wanted to kill the boy.
The red luxin disappeared, and Ferkudi sat up. “Oh,” he said. “I think you broke my nose.” He squeezed it gingerly, plugging its bleeding. “I ’idn’t even owe you could draff red. Nice!” He grabbed the bridge of his nose, took a quick breath, and pulled it back into place. Groaning, he punched the ground twice. “Oww, oww.” Blinking tears from his eyes, he extended his hands and some friends helped him up. “Nice one, Kip,” he said.
Just like that? No anger?
“Uh… sorry,” Kip said. “About your nose. The red so
rt of came over me.”
“Ah, it’s nuffin. ’Snot the first time.”
“Nor probably the last, you big ugly mug,” Cruxer said, coming up to join them. “Take a seat, Kip. I don’t think you’re going to have to fight again today.”
“Really?” Kip asked. He was exhausted. The long workouts, the late nights, then not sleeping, then when he slept only having nightmares. He was hanging on by one frayed thread. He threw himself down into a camp chair.
Crack! The back legs of the chair snapped and Kip felt a stab of panic as he lost his balance and toppled flat on his back.
Fatty.
The scrubs laughed. Everyone laughed. Kip felt his face turning red as pyrejelly. Even Cruxer was laughing.
Kip jumped to his feet, but then couldn’t move. Damn me. Just when I was making inroads. Just when I was starting to belong for once. Sick self-loathing shot through him, froze him. What could he do?
He hated them. He didn’t want to be part of this anyway. They could all go to hell.
Cruxer raised his hands. “That clinches it! Kip, I already knew you needed a new name among us. Kip is no Blackguard name, and we’ve seen that you most certainly need one.”
Was Cruxer making fun of him? What did he mean, “You need one”?
“I don’t understand,” Kip said quietly, wary of a trap.
Trainer Fisk was standing there, looking bemused. “I’m sure you’re not the only one. How many of you lot grew up in Paria?” Less than half raised their hands. “Well then, story time. Not everyone’s third-generation Blackguard, Cruxer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Trainer Fisk glowered at the ground, as if he didn’t know exactly where to start. “When Lucidonius came, he was protected by thirty mighty men, some of whom he first had to defeat. Many of these men had been heroes and priests of the old gods and had names taken from those false gods, like El-Anat and Dagnar Zelan and Or-mar-zel-atir. They couldn’t keep their old names, so they took new names. Though some of them went nameless until they felt they’d earned a new name in service of Orholam. El-Anat became Forushalzmarish for a time, but then as the light spread beyond Paria, more of them took names that the locals could pronounce—or fear. So Forushalzmarish changed his name again, and went by Shining Spear. Now, the Blackguard names don’t mean quite what they used to now, because none of us is shedding a name associated with those old blasphemies. You can take a name, or not. If you’re given a name, you can choose whether you want to use it all the time or just among the Blackguard. Names generally spread widest that are best earned, and best fit their wearer. It’s up to you.”
“But I’m not a Blackguard yet,” Kip said. What if they gave him a name, and he didn’t make it in?
“The tradition is that if the name is adopted, it’s only used among your fellows until you become a full Blackguard.” Trainer Fisk shrugged. “But then we get children whose parents give them Blackguard names before they even come to the Jaspers… like Cruxer here.” He seemed amused. “So, Cruxer?”
“I say Kip is no Blackguard name, and I say he needs a good one.” There were some murmurs of agreement. “But what name?” Cruxer asked. “It’s got to fit, right?”
“Tiny!” someone shouted.
“Meh, too obvious,” Cruxer said. “So what’s he done? Arm-breaker, Will-breaker, Rule-breaker, Nose-breaker…” He paused for effect. “Chair-breaker.” The scrubs roared.
With a flourish, he said, “Kip, we dub thee Breaker.”
The scrubs cheered and laughed. It was the perfect Blackguard name: it could be used to laud or to lampoon. Kip rolled it over on his tongue. Breaker. Despite everything, despite how he could excuse how each of the incidents that led to him earning the name weren’t really indicative of his character, just accidents, he liked it. It sounded tough.
A reluctant grin broke over his face like dawn over Atan’s Teeth. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Among you, Breaker I am.”
Chapter 58
“Breaker, huh?” Andross Guile said, sardonic. “I feel like I’m being visited by a high personage.”
“And I feel like I’m visiting a bitter, hateful old man. Oh.” Kip sat down in his chair opposite the old man.
Andross laughed. “So, Breaker, does your little friend Adrasteia know that we’re playing for her future right now?”
“No.”
“And which will you break, her heart or her maidenhead? Ha-ha! Mmm. You play like a failure, Kip. Do you know why you didn’t tell her? Because you thought that if you lost, whatever happens to her could just be a tragedy that you could pretend you had nothing to do with. You didn’t want her to hate you if you lost. Poor Kip. Poor orphan boy of a haze-addled mother.”
“Shut up and play,” Kip said.
“Kip the Lip. You never know when to stop, do you? Lean forward, lard boy.”
He obeyed. The blind man groped, found his face, and slapped him heavily.
Kip accepted the blow. There was something purifying in pain. He was a madman. He spat bloody penance on Lord Guile’s floor. Kip the Lip. Ramir had called him that, mocked him.
“Boy, your defiance is inspiring, but be aware that I set the rules, and I have no compunction about changing those when I please. You think you have nothing to lose? Fool. Don’t vaunt until you’ve won, don’t scream defiance until you’ve lost.”
“Well then, I hope you’ll accept my vaunting in about half an hour.”
Andross said, “Let’s get to it, then. Best two of three. Which deck would you like today? I’ll be taking the red.” He gestured. He had white and yellow decks set out for Kip.
“I’ll pass,” Kip said.
Thin eyebrows appeared briefly over the top of Andross Guile’s huge dark spectacles. “Ah, your own deck? Show it to me.”
“They’ve got the blind man’s marks,” Kip said. “Here.” He handed over only one card.
Andross rubbed the corner where the marks were, as if looking for a reason to reject it, but it was perfect work. Janus Borig wouldn’t do less.
Kip half expected the old man to tell him he couldn’t use other cards. It was a rule that had never been addressed.
“If any of the cards don’t have the marks, I’ll reject the entire deck, and you lose, understood?” Andross said.
“Understood.”
“Wondered how long it would be before you finally made your own deck,” Andross said. “Slower than I thought you’d be.”
“Mm-hmm,” Kip said. The insult meant nothing, not in the same breath as the much larger victory of being allowed to use his own deck. “Me first?” Hoping that the old man would contradict him and go first.
Indulgent smile. “Be my guest.”
So Kip set the field of play to outside. Outside made it harder to control the light, which was usually a good call against red. So many of the sources of light indoors were torches or fires—light sources that gave yellow and red and sub-red easily—that it was harder for greens and blues to source their spells.
But Kip going first meant Andross got to draw an extra card.
They established the area quickly, the art on the cards giving them an imaginary space—outside the red walls of a castle. Grass, forest. Blue sky, of course. These were the sources. Either could draft from them, but Kip was on the forest side, so he could draft more quickly from it, powering his green drafting quicker, while the converse was true for Andross and the red walls.
Now that Kip knew the rules, Andross played a fast variant of the game. There were two tiny sand clocks, five seconds each. Absent the visual cues of seeing the grains drain through, the luxlord had a fantastically worked model that rang a bell each time a player ran out of time. If you didn’t play during your five seconds, you lost your turn. As he liked to say, in real life, drafters fought each other simultaneously, each drafting as quickly as they could, deciding on the fly what to do, making mistakes.
Andross Guile’s blindness was the one huge advantage Kip had. He could see his opponent’s
card as soon as it was turned over, where Andross had to reach across the table and feel for his. Kip put his new card in the same place every time so that the handicap was as little of one as possible, but it was still at least a second per turn extra that he had. And Andross had to remember everything on the play field.
In the normal variant, turns were taken in a leisurely fashion with no clocks, but Andross despised it, said it taught nothing. Life and death and drafting were fast, he said. The sands of our lives are always pouring out, always too fast.
“Ominous name,” Andross said. The first few moves never took too much concentration.
“What’s that?” Kip asked, trying to decide whether to spend his turn establishing more colors in the field or putting on his spectacles.
“Breaker.”
Spectacles. He didn’t want to be unarmed for any longer than absolutely necessary. “Ominous how?”
“You didn’t put him up to it? Here I was giving you credit for doing that behind the scenes. Clever move, I thought.”
Clever move? Apparently Kip’s silence spoke for him.
“You’d have me believe you getting that name was a coincidence?”
“What’re the two things that are coinciding?” Kip asked.
“Breaker’s one of the epithets the prophecies apply to the Lightbringer.”
“It was a joke. I broke a chair.”
“Funny,” Andross said, tone flat.
“And I broke a boy’s nose. And a bit of drafting someone was doing.”
The Lightbringer? Something in Kip’s soul soared at the very thought. He was distracted by talking and almost missed his turn. He played quickly, putting Damien Savoss on the field and flipping Andross Guile’s clock.
Oh hell. That was one of the forbidden cards. Kip had meant to hold on to those for another couple of turns.
Andross ran his fingers over the marks. Hesitated. Ran his fingers over the marks again. “This is Damien Savoss,” he said. “This card is illegal.” He was one to talk.
