The Blinding Knife (Lightbringer)

by Brent Weeks

  “Can I use the new cards?” That would be one way to truly foil Andross Guile.

  “No. Absolutely not. They’re not finished, and when they are, my life will be in greater peril than usual. I’ll accept that risk when the time comes, but not yet.”

  “Someone would kill you, over cards that are true, that must be true?”

  “Especially over such things, Kip. If I could just make up whatever I wanted, then, well, who am I?” She tamped some tobacco into her pipe. It seemed awfully dark. “Some old woman. No one. Truth gives power. Light reveals—”

  A sparkling, crackling whoosh of fire from the tip of her pipe interrupted her. It leapt up to the ceiling. She cried out a curse and dropped the pipe she’d loaded with black powder. She stamped on the scattered flames trying to set the garbage alight, but soon the gunpowder burned itself out.

  “Dammit, second one this week.”

  Kip was round-eyed. “Are you—are you in danger?” he asked.

  “Of course I am,” she said. “But I’m very hard to find. And I’m very well protected.”

  “I found you no problem.”

  “That’s because I meant you to find me, little Guile. Besides, haven’t you seen my men?”

  “Um…” Kip had thought he’d been watched.

  “Black clothes, silver shield sigil? Hmm, say that six times fast. Well, good, then perhaps they’re almost worth what I’m paying them.” Janus grabbed another pipe off the wall and tamped it full of tobacco. “Now where were—Oh, never mind, come upstairs.” Kip followed her as she kept speaking. “Here’s the catch.”

  I knew it!

  “I won’t let you take a card until you’ve lived it.”

  “Lived it?”

  “Lived the memory in the card. Like before. In case you lose it, I don’t want those memories lost.”

  “How about, um, instead of taking your worth-a-fortune original cards, how about I take copies? You know, like people usually play with? Normal people, I mean.”

  Janus Borig scratched the side of her nose with her new pipe’s stem. “That is… that is the most sensible idea I’ve heard in a long time. It would also allow me to put the blind man’s marks on the cards, which would make Lord Guile far more likely to allow you to use them. Kip, you’re brilliant.”

  Brilliant? She hadn’t even thought of using cheap cards. Janus Borig was so smart, it was a miracle she could get dressed in the morning. Him thinking of the normal thing wasn’t evidence of being smart; it was the opposite.

  “Great,” she said cheerily. “Well, let’s make you a deck.”

  Chapter 53

  Back into the same one. There was something important about this one. He had to find the right time. He had no idea what he was doing, but he had to learn. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  ~Gunner~

  Captain Burshward is a bit crabbed this morning. That might have had something to do with us killing two of his men and presently attempting to make off with his fine galley, his excellent rowers, his rich cargo, and his miserable self.

  “Captain Gunner is going to ask you one more time, Cap’n Burst Wart,” I say. “I need that chain key.” I scowl. “I suppose that wasn’t a question, was it? But that was.”

  The captain and his brother and two officers are seated, hands tied behind their backs, on the gunwale. And on this galley, it is a gunwale. Their two cannons are propped up on it. It was only twenty years ago that all ships were thus, before some genius had the idea to make gunports. In a mere two decades, the idea spread all around the Cerulean Sea—but maybe not beyond it. Guns braced on the gunwale are less accurate left to right, and of course, they can’t shoot low—ships have to stay far out, because if they get closer, they’d just be blowing away each other’s rigging. When fighting oar-driven galleys, that isn’t the best way to cripple a ship.

  The captain looks furious, his brother gray despite his naturally ruddy complexion, the two sailors with them terrified.

  They’re Angari folk, from beyond the Everdark Gates. Big, burly men, wear their blond hair long and braided. Matrilineal. Sons a disappointment. Odd barbarian customs and strange cloying drink made with honey, but great sailors. Worthy of respect for being able to shoot through the Everdark Gates.

  It is one thing that Captain Gunner hasn’t done. Yet.

  “Where is the chain key?” I ask, real nice like. A finger’s breadth from his face.

  The key is for the galley slaves’ chains, belowdecks. Not to free them or some such silliness, but because the oars are locked in place. It isn’t common, or I would have prepared for it.

  ’Course, it is just a chain. We can get through it. We have tools; we have powder. I can make a perfect charge in probably three minutes, and most likely not even set fire to the boat or kill anyone. But a key’s faster.

  And the majority of Burshward’s men are coming back to the galley right now from shore leave in the city of Ru, their rowboat ambling over the waves, men hungover and sloppy. Not five hundred paces out. There isn’t even a swivel gun on deck to take care of them. We’ve only found two muskets so far, old matchlocks that I don’t want to trust my life to. If his men make it to the galley, they’ll likely kill us all.

  “Nice galley,” I say. “Triple sweeps. Faster, but more likely to get the oars crossed, eh?”

  “Tenth fastest in the blue god’s fleet, which means it’s the fastest fookin’ galley in Ceres’s piss puddle by a long tom’s shot,” he says. “Best oar boys in the world. Didn’t foul the sweeps once, not even coming through the Gates themselves.” I’ve noticed his galley slaves aren’t the usual skinny lot that stupider galley captains keep. You let your rowers waste away to nothing, and they get weak, and you get a slow boat. Burshward is smarter than that. His slaves are thick-muscled men, clean, no diseases, and big. Expensive to keep slaves in that good of shape, but worth it. Worth it double for a pirate, especially if they’re well trained. I’m taking a richer prize than I’d realized. If I can get away with it.

  “Chain key,” I say. Real polite.

  He says nothing. Brave man, balancing precariously on the gunwale. I can admire that.

  “Rinky, sinky, dinky, or doe?” I ask.

  “Rinky what?” Apparently he’s not familiar with the game.

  “Rinky ’tis.”

  I kick the first man in the chest. He flies overboard, lands with a yell and a splash. It isn’t easy to swim with your hands tied behind your back, but it can be done, for a while.

  But not by Rinky. He panics. Thrashes. Sinkies.

  “Gimme a number, Captain.”

  “Wh-what?” A sudden look of fear.

  “Ceres’s tits, Gillan!” the brother says. “Pick a fookin’ number!”

  “Rinky, sinky, dinky, doe.” I pull out my pistol and point at each man in turn as I singsong the words. “Once was a pirate by the name of Slow. Picked a sinner as a winner, and here’s the way ’twould go—”

  “Three!” the captain said.

  “One…” I stick the barrel of my pistol against the captain’s forehead. Cock it. Watch him shiver, go blank. Grit his teeth in defiance an instant later.

  “Two…” I release the hammer and bring up my knife with the other hand, to the brother’s throat. I draw the knife up to his chin through his thick braided blond beard. His eyes are squeezed tight shut.

  “Three…” I pull the dagger back. “And this is the way it shall be.”

  “No no no!” the third man yells.

  I poke him hard in the forehead with one bony finger instead of stabbing him. He tries to keep his balance, but I keep pushing. He tumbles off into the water.

  “Cap’n, we ain’t got much time,” one of my men tells me.

  I look at him. “This is me hurrying,” I say. He swallows and shuts up.

  “Gimme a number, Captain,” I say. I aim the pistol at him first. Odd numbers will land at the captain, evens at his brother. Easy to figure, if you’re figuring straight.

  “That ma
n had a family! He survived the—”

  I start, “Rinky, sinky, dinky—Ah, fuck it.” I shoot his brother in the knee.

  A lead ball the size of your thumb hitting a kneecap and squishing will basically tear your leg off. I have to grab the brother to keep him from tumbling off the gunwale.

  I say, “I’m tired of this game. Last chance, or I kill you both and fight. I like fighting. Tell me, and you live.”

  “In my cabin, above the doorframe,” the captain says.

  Worst hiding spot ever. If I had more men, I’d shoot one of them for missing it.

  My first mate is already running for it.

  He emerges a second later and heads belowdecks with a couple of others. They’re following the plan. Should make a good crew. It’ll take perhaps half a minute. We’ll make it.

  “You’re going to kill us now, aren’t you?” the captain says bitterly. His brother is barely conscious. I’ve heaved them both back onto the deck.

  “Told you I wouldn’t,” I say. “And I’m the son of a whore and an apostate luxiat. My word is my bond.” I grin crazily at him.

  He goes white.

  I tie a narrow rope tight around his brother’s leg to stop the bleeding. “You want your brother to live a cripple, or die?” I ask.

  He swallows. “Live.”

  I take the captain’s sword—odd Angari thing, it’s fat down at the point, sweeping broadly so there’s no way you could put it in a scabbard. But I’ve used more awkward things to kill a man.

  I slash the blade into the brother’s leg, just above the knee and below the tied rope. I’m wiry, but I’m strong, and I know how to put a lot of speed into a blade. It lops the limb clean off.

  Not clean clean. It still bleeds, of course. Tourniquet only does so much good.

  The man screams and kicks. The captain looks like he’s about to vomit. I toss the blade aside, check the progress of the rowboats. The men in those boats realize something is wrong; they heard my pistol shot, and now they’re rowing with purpose. It’ll be a near thing.

  I roll One Leg over and pour black powder on his bleeding stump. He’s whimpering, thrashing weakly. It takes three tries before I can get a spark to catch. Then it flares, filling the air with smoke and the smell of frying pork, cauterizing the stump. Odd how appetizing cooking man smells.

  One Leg passes out. The captain is looking at me like he doesn’t know what the hell I am.

  “Lash ’em to barrels,” I order those of my men who are just standing about. “Empty barrels, you morons!”

  They do, just as fifty oars on each side rattle out. Triple sweeps. Puts more oars in the water, gives you more speed. I jump on the tiller—no wheel on this boat, sadly, just a straight tiller. Raiders can’t be choosers, I guess.

  Captain Burshward is staring at me still, shaking and shivering, but now with fury. “The old gods are being reborn,” he says. “All of this is dying, pirate. The Everdark Gates will open, and we’ll descend on you like the Raptors of Kazakdoon. We won’t be exiled forever, thief. The White Mists will part for us. Our time is—”

  I punch him across the face. Motion to my men.

  “Mot is being reborn even now, pirate!” he shouts, bleeding. “Can’t you feel it? We’re here to announce his coming! Your days are over!”

  Mot, the blue god. I’ve got my hands full with one blue goddess already.

  My men throw the captain and his brother over the side. They land with a huge splash, and bob to the surface by the buoyancy of the barrels, but then roll underneath the water by them. Have to fight to breathe, as do we all, every day.

  The Angari men in the rowboats are shouting now. The galley’s oars dip and sweep, slow.

  “That’s your captain and his brother,” I shout. “Save ’em or let ’em drown. It’s all the same to me.”

  Giving the men in the rowboat the choice of rescuing their captain or coming after us divides their attention, gives us another few seconds. I see a couple of muskets come up. I duck.

  The rattle of muskets. Ceres, I love the sound. A few men even blow chunks out of the wood. Excellent shots.

  Wish I could have them on my crew.

  The first rowboat has gone after the captain, the second is coming after us.

  “Droose, tiller!” I order.

  He takes it, and I leap up onto the gunwale and salute the men rowing after us.

  “Good day, boys,” I shout to the rowers. “You’ve just been bested by Captain Gunner. Ain’t no shame in losing to the best. You’ll tell your grandbabies about this day. And you’ll live to do so! So turn back now. Because I’m Captain Gunner, slayer of sharks and sea demons, and I’ll add you to the tally if you want.”

  I’ve made a makeshift grenado, but I’d rather not use it. The fuse is a rag with a bit of black powder rubbed into it. The grenado’s a flagon full of black powder with a piece of wood shoved hard into the top. It’ll just as likely blow up in my hand or not blow up at all. I need me a drafter. Magic makes me nervous as a virgin pillow girl, but sometimes even Gunner don’t get what he wants. Sometimes you oil your bung, sometimes you oil your bunghole.

  The men in the boat start cursing me. They’ve already fired their muskets, but a couple leave off rowing to charge their muskets. Good. Less men rowing means less speed.

  I laugh at them, and another leaves off rowing. They’re cursing at each other, screaming to row more, swearing they’ll kill me.

  The galley slaves sweep their big oars again, and again. It’s enough. We pick up speed. I remove my hat with a flourish and bow, as the galley leaves its original owners behind.

  A few seconds later, I hear a couple of gunshots. Love that musket music.

  I’ve already turned to my men. “Take an inventory,” I order. “Captain Gunner wants to take another ship within the week. I need to know if I’ll have black powder for the job, or if I’ll have to do it with my giant personality alone. And what the hell do these barbarians drink? Mead? Break out the mead. A measure for everyone, and two more tonight if you keep me chippy!”

  Chapter 54

  The thirty-five scrubs stood in neat lines, hands folded behind their backs, listening intently. Trainer Fisk usually handled their drills and conditioning, but today they were to be addressed again by Commander Ironfist. Two students had left after speaking with their sponsors about the impending war, but only two. Teia was proud of that; she was also keenly aware that being proud of ignoramuses who had no idea what they were getting into was probably silly.

  Commander Ironfist walked to the front of the class, his head freshly shaven and oiled. His Blackguard garb, cotton fibers infused with luxin to make a stretchy second skin, showed the massive V of shoulders to waist, the gold piping down his sleeves emphasized arms as big around as some of his students’ waists, the thick butt of a man who could run down a horse, and legs like towers of the Chromeria itself. He was astonishingly beautiful. The man’s muscles had veins bigger than Teia’s muscles. And all loose, easy, relaxed.

  Teia knew that the relaxed, loose composure of a warrior meant speed. Trainer Fisk was shorter and thicker than Commander Ironfist, but literally muscle-bound. His heavy muscles actually slowed his motion—compared with Ironfist. Compared to Teia, of course, the trainer was fast as a loosed crossbow bolt.

  “Your training is the best in the Seven Satrapies,” Commander Ironfist began. No preliminaries, it wasn’t his way. “Your training is necessary and good and effective. But your training—even here, even among the best—can hamstring you. When we practice punches, we pull them short, because if we don’t, we’d lose you all to injuries. But when you pull punches ten thousand times, it’s hard not to on the ten thousand and first punch: the punch that you throw at a real attacker.

  “Our necessary safeguards can make you bad fighters. Blackguards can’t be bad fighters. Your class will be called on to fight and perhaps to die, perhaps soon, and if you don’t know how to kill your opponents first, a lot of you will die. Your class may h
ave fourteen pass. May. Not will. So your class’s training is going to be different. Accelerated. Harder. We will not allow you to be second-rate. There is no substitute for experience, so experience you will get. This experience will cost some of you injuries that will put you out of contention for those fourteen slots. We’ve never done this before because it’s dangerous and it isn’t fair. But we’re out of time, so we’re doing what we have to. For some of you, the tests will be easy. For some they will be boring. For others, they will be literal fights to the death. These experiences will not be safe, will not be controlled. They may be too hard. You may be crippled or die. If you can’t accept this, you may leave. Now.”

  No one left.

  “Failure on these tests will not automatically bar you from advancement. But it will matter. You fail, you drop three spots. Blackguards deal with what we get, not what we want. Here are the rules: You and your partner will be taken to a point in Big Jasper in one of the worst neighborhoods. You’ll be given a handful of coins publicly, and then you must get those coins to the Great Fountain. You are forbidden to bring weapons or draft. To pass, you must bring back six of the eight danars you’re given. However many you bring back, you and your partner get to keep. If you don’t make it in three hours, we’ll come looking for you. But don’t expect any help. You’re alone out there.”

  They drew straws for the order and an odd thing happened. The first team to draw drew number one, the second team number two, the third team number three. Trainer Fisk scowled and mixed the straws again. But the fourth drawers drew number four, the fifth number five. He mixed again, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He frowned, but said nothing, and they dismissed it as a weird coincidence.

  Adrasteia and Kip got a straw that put them in the last third. Not an auspicious beginning. Then they walked across town, led by Trainer Fisk and several of the older Blackguard trainees. Commander Ironfist didn’t accompany them. He had duties elsewhere.