The black prism l-1

by Brent Weeks

  The pistols staring at her were of Ilytian design. The Ilytian renunciation of magic usually meant their mundane tools were the best. With pistols, however, it was still dicey. This drafter had wheellock pistols. They negated the need to keep a fuse burning, but the flints failed to ignite the black powder at least one time in four.

  Unfortunately, both pistols were double-barreled, and all four hammers were raised. Karris tried to do the figures-was it one time in sixteen or one time in two hundred fifty-six that all four shots would fail? Her heart despaired. She wasn't going to gamble on those odds, not even one in sixteen.

  So… talking.

  "What do you draft?" the man demanded, his voice strained.

  "I don't know what you're talking-"

  "What. Do. You. Draft?!" he screamed. He flung her ataghan aside and put one pistol directly against her forehead. It was too dark for him to see her irises, but he was going to figure out soon, anyway, so Karris said, "Green. Green and red."

  "Then draft a ladder and get out. Now!"

  Another time, Karris might have been irked that she obeyed so promptly, but her spectacles were on her face in an instant and she turned toward the light. Everything in this chamber was covered with either open red luxin or blackened, seared, closed red luxin. Finally, she found an ironwood beam up in the temple that reflected a pure enough white light to allow her to draft a good solid green.

  Even as her body filled with green, she saw why the drafter was so urgent. This chamber was filled with red luxin. She shouldn't have put it together so slowly. There were two entrances to the room, and the dead soldiers were seared but not roasted to death-and the red luxin had remained, coating everything rather than burning as it should have.

  And it still remained. This room was full of red luxin, old and new. They were inside a powder keg.

  A burning pew fell over, spilling smoldering and flaming brands toward the hole. One tottered on the edge, promising death.

  Karris ran forward, throwing down green luxin thick enough to stand on. She drafted what was effectively an impossibly narrow staircase, the steps only wide enough to hold her feet, only strong enough to hold her weight if she concentrated her will. But it only had to last for two seconds while she sprinted out-and it did. She stepped, stepped, stepped, fleet-footed as a hind, and vaulted, landing on the church floor. She felt a bit of the floor give way to drop into the chamber below, so she rolled again and kept running for the open front door. That much red luxin in the basement meant the whole thing could-

  Whoomp!

  The explosion made the floor jump beneath Karris's feet. It hit just as she was pushing off of a step, and it flung her like a spring. The yawning open doors of the church yawned wider and she was lifted and thrown forward. For a moment she thought she would make it through them and be flung harmlessly outside, but she'd been lifted high by the explosion-too high. The ironwood frame above the door loomed. Then her upper body smashed into it, and through it. The burned, weakened ironwood gave way after only an instant, but the instant it held was long enough for her to be spun viciously, upside down, flipping so fast she didn't even know how many times she tumbled.

  Then she was skidding on cobblestones and gravel, not sure if she'd blacked out for a second or exactly how she'd come to the ground.

  She turned over, ignoring the just-starting screams of protest from all too much of her body, and looked toward the mangled front door of the church.

  A gigantic crimson snake, all aflame, stabbed its head out the front door. No, not a snake, a tube of pure red luxin, afire, the width of a man's shoulders. Then the serpent vomited, and just a little faster than fire could curl up the flammable red luxin, the drafter was shot clear of church and fire and luxin alike.

  He landed not far from Karris, and far more gracefully, rolling to bleed off speed, and finally standing. He scanned the streets on every side and, seeing no one, only then allowed himself to relax a little. But once he did, Karris could see the bone-deep weariness steal over him. Drafting as much magic as she'd just seen left him looking about as bad as she felt, deathly pale and tottering on his feet.

  "Come on," the drafter said. "I think Garadul's soldiers are all gone, but if not, they'll be here soon after what you just did. We need to go."

  Karris stood, wobbled, and would have fallen if he hadn't grabbed her. "Who are you?"

  "I'm Corvan Danavis," the drafter said. "And if I don't misremember, you're Karris White Oak, aren't you?"

  "Danavis?" she asked. Orholam how she hurt. "You were Dazen's. A rebel. I can make it on my own, thank you." She shrugged off his help, leaned crazily to one side, then the other, and finally collapsed. He watched, arms folded, and didn't catch her. Her shoulder hit the ground and the world swam.

  Karris saw Corvan's boots come close. He was probably going to leave her here for the soldiers. She deserved it, too. Stupid, stubborn girl.

  Chapter 28

  The dory Gavin drafted while they were still five leagues from Little Jasper Island was modeled on one he'd seen an Abornean wild drafter use, with high sides and a flat bottom, a pointed prow, and a flat bow plate. It was safer and far less efficient than the sculls Gavin preferred, but that was the point. Not many drafters dared to use a scull on the ocean, because if you were going to use a scull on the ocean, you had to be willing to fall in the water. That meant being confident of getting out of the water solely by drafting, and not many drafters had the skill or the will to swim in rough seas and draft at the same time.

  Gavin's skill-or recklessness-meant his usual silhouette on the open sea was instantly recognizable. He didn't want that. Thus the dory.

  Kip was sulking, nervous about the Thresher and Gavin's refusal to tell him anything about it.

  Within a couple of leagues, they passed two merchant galleys and a galleass. Each time, a mate inspected them through a spyglass, saw Gavin's muddled clothes and no distress flags, and rowed past without a word. There was little wind today, so the sailors got to rest while galley slaves manned their banks of oars. Each time he encountered another ship, Gavin waved gamely when the spyglass came out, and returned to his own oars.

  What people called the Chromeria was really two islands: Little Jasper, covered entirely by the Chromeria itself, and Big Jasper, home to embassies, merchants' estates, shops, stalls, taverns, brothels, prisons, flophouses, tenements, warehouses, rope makers, sail makers, oar turners, fishermen, convict slaves, and far more than its fair share of graspers, schemers, and dreamers.

  Big Jasper had two large natural harbors, one on the east that provided natural protection during the dark season, and one on the west for the light season, when the storms came from the east. As the island had grown in population and importance, breakwaters had been built on each side so both harbors could be used year-round. After several occupations, which had never touched the Chromeria but had purged Big Jasper in fire and blood, a wall had been built to encircle the entire island. Thirty paces thick and twenty high, it was now used mostly by the city's runners to spot and stop crimes in the streets below.

  Gavin's business was on Little Jasper, but he couldn't dock in its single, smaller harbor without being seen by spies from every one of the Seven Satrapies. Even Tyrea would have a spy watching those who were important enough to dock there directly. So he rowed them between the two islands. Between the jaws of Little Jasper's U-shaped harbor was Cannon Island. Only twenty men were garrisoned there at any time, and there were always two drafters on duty, ostensibly because of the hazards of docking on the island when there was anything more than the gentlest tide and lightest wind. It was a loathed posting, and one from which not even the Blackguards escaped. It was thought that the White kept the rolls restricted to higher-ranked Chromeria guards in order to be able to teach humility to a certain class of men and women who tended to be a little more brash than was good for themselves.

  And indeed, the White and the Black did use postings to Cannon Island as punishment, but only for t
rusted soldiers. The fiction worked better if it was half true. When other soldiers traded postings-I'll take your Cannon Island post next week if you'll just take my rounds this next weekend-the watch commander noted the names of anyone who switched. Those were then watched carefully while they were on duty, and more carefully afterward. Spies had certainly infiltrated the island, which was strategically important for purely mundane reasons, but none had yet-the White believed-penetrated Cannon Island's real importance.

  Amid the crashing waves of high tide, Gavin brought the dory around the back of the island. With his drafted multitude of oars, he had far greater control than he would have had over a mundane boat, but it was still tricky business to line up with the rollers erected long ago so boats could be pulled clear of even storm-height waves. They'd been seen, of course, and two Blackguards-Blackguards were always given the boat duty-greeted them.

  The men, imposing brothers with coal-black skin, recognized Gavin instantly. Each held up a hand-not in greeting, but to give Gavin a stable target. He aimed superviolet at each hand, stuck it there, and then flung a coil of green luxin along that stable thread. Like rope, the luxin stuck in each big man's hand. Gavin fastened the other ends directly to the boat with two small globs of red luxin. The men pulled him in expertly. The dory rattled as it settled awkwardly from the waves onto the rollers and then slipped smoothly up the ramp.

  Commander Ironfist, the elder brother, spoke first, as always: "Sir." His eyes flicked down to Gavin's tattered clothes. The "sir" was his laconic equivalent of, Of course I recognize you, but if this is supposed to be a disguise, I'm smart enough not to ruin it. What do you want us to call you today?

  "I'll need a Blackguard to take Kip to the Chromeria, Commander. I've told him about the escape tunnel, by the by, so keep an eye on him."

  Both men absorbed that in displeased silence.

  "We'll need to wait until low tide for-" Tremblefist began.

  "Immediately," Gavin said, not raising his voice. "He's to be put through the Thresher. No rush, tomorrow will be fine. Report the results to the White. Tell her Kip is my… nephew."

  Ironfist's eyebrow twitched, and Tremblefist's eyes widened. Kip, on the other hand, looked stricken.

  Gavin looked at the boy, but Kip seemed suddenly shy.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," Gavin said. "You'll do fine. After all, you've got my blood." He smirked.

  Kip looked baffled. "You mean you're not… saying I'm not your, um, bastard?" Kip himself looked confused with all the negatives.

  "No no no. I'm not disavowing you! When I say 'nephew,' everyone knows what it means. It's just more polite. And it pays to be polite where the White is involved."

  Ironfist coughed. He could cough quite pointedly.

  Gavin looked at him pointedly in return. Ironfist adjusted his ghotra, his checkered Parian headscarf, as if oblivious.

  "But how do people know I'm not really your nephew?" Kip asked. He was still clutching the luxin oar Gavin had drafted for him.

  "Because they'll pause like it's delicate, and not say your surname. 'This is Kip, the Lord Prism's… nephew.' Not, 'This is Kip Guile, the Lord Prism's nephew.' You see?"

  Kip swallowed. "Yes, sir."

  Gavin looked across the waves to the Prism's tower. He hated being gone overnight. His room slave Marissia would dye the bread and throw it in the chute for the prisoner, and he knew he could trust her. But that was different from doing it himself. He looked back to the frightened boy.

  "Do me proud, Kip."

  Chapter 29

  Kip watched the Prism head out across the waves with something akin to panic. Gavin was so in control of everything, so fearless, and now he'd left him. With two unfriendly giants.

  As Gavin finally disappeared from sight, Kip turned to look at the men. The scarier one, Ironfist, was putting on blue spectacles with large oval lenses wrapped close to his eyes. As Kip watched, the blue luxin filled the man, but it was almost invisible against his coal-black skin. The whites of his eyes already looked blue when you saw them through the blue lenses, so it wasn't until the skin under his fingernails turned icy blue that Kip was sure he hadn't just imagined the Blackguard was drafting at all.

  "Grab a rope," Ironfist told his brother. "With the float on it." Tremblefist disappeared, leaving Kip with his brother.

  "I don't know why you've been trusted with this island's secret," Ironfist said, "even if you are his… nephew. But now that you know, you're a guardian of it like the rest of us, you understand?"

  "He did it so if I betray him men like you will come kill me for him," Kip said. Was he never able to keep his mouth shut?

  A look of surprise flitted across Ironfist's face, and was quickly replaced with amusement. "A deep thinker, our friend," he said. "And a young man with ice water in his veins. How appropriate."

  From the "our friend," Kip understood that they weren't even to say the Prism's name here, not even now, with the wind whipping around them and the possibility of eavesdropping nil. It was that kind of secret.

  "The story is you and your master, a scribe, came out on a friend's boat to… hmm."

  "To study some local fish?" Kip asked.

  "Good enough," Ironfist said. "He didn't account for the waves and had no skill with boats. He tried to bring you here for shelter. Your dory capsized and he was lost. We pulled you out of the sea."

  "Oh, to account for why he isn't here if any of the others saw us coming in," Kip said.

  "That's right. Hold tight."

  Kip was holding a luxin oar up between himself and Ironfist, but he almost didn't get what the big man meant until too late. With a quick, snapping punch, Ironfist lashed a hand through the luxin and stopped it so close that Kip flinched. He barely even noticed the luxin crumbling to dust in his fingers. He had a sudden urge to urinate.

  "I don't know if you've given your sire reason to suspect you," Ironfist said. "But if you betray him, I'll tear your arms off and beat you with them."

  "Good thing I'm fat, then," Kip shot back.

  "What?" Incredulous.

  "Soft arms." Kip grinned, thinking Ironfist had been kidding. The stony, flat, willing-to-kill look on the big man's face made Kip's grin break and disintegrate like broken luxin.

  "That fat'll make you float, too. Get in the water," a cold voice behind him said.

  Kip flinched. He hadn't even heard Tremblefist approach. The man was carrying a hollow log with numerous knotted ropes and loops attached. The wood was carved with several handles too, so it would be easy to throw into the sea. A swimmer could then grab for whatever length of rope he needed.

  Tremblefist handed the log to Kip and Ironfist rang a loud bell. "Man overboard!" Ironfist shouted. "We've got two in the water!"

  "Move it," Tremblefist said. "And you'd better get completely wet. Fast. Help will be here in seconds."

  Kip clutched the hollow log and jogged down the ramp between the rollers. The first big wave knocked him cleanly off his feet. His head smacked one of the great wooden rollers and he saw stars. Then the water was over him.

  The water was shockingly cold at first. It was a cold that you quickly got used to-the Cerulean Sea was fairly warm-but Kip didn't have moments. He gasped and inhaled salt water as another wave passed over him. As he coughed his lungs clear, flapping his arms like an injured bird, he could feel the riptide grab him. Where was the log? He'd lost it. It was gone.

  Someone was shouting, but he couldn't hear what they were saying over the crash of the waves. The swells were only a pace high, but it was enough to blot out Kip's vision. He turned in a circle.

  There was a bell ringing, ringing. Kip turned toward it, and despite the swells, he could see the looming black of Cannon Island. It was still receding. He started swimming. A wave pummeled him, drove him under the water and spun him. He kicked, kicked, trying not to panic. Failing. He had no air. Orholam, he was going to die. He kicked, desperate.

  He bobbed to the surface like a cork, but he was lost o
nce more.

  His panic receded. He'd floundered somehow to the side of the riptide, and now the waves were bringing him in toward Cannon Island, but not toward the boat ramp. He was headed for the rocks. He swam hard sideways toward the sound of the bell.

  He was rising with one of the swells when he saw something impossible. Ironfist, with a rope tied around his chest, was running-through the air. He was wearing blue spectacles, and both of his hands were pointed down. He was hurling blue luxin toward his feet, sprinting, making a platform to stand on even as he ran.

  As Kip watched, the blue luxin platform-anchored only somewhere back on Cannon Island-cracked with a report and began to crash toward the waves. Ironfist leapt as the platform fell, releasing the luxin and executing a perfect dive.

  He surfaced right next to Kip, his spectacles and ghotra ripped off by the waves, and grabbed Kip with one arm. Then the men on the beach began pulling in the rope as fast as they could. In less than a minute, Kip and the big man were staggering up the ramp. Well, Ironfist was striding, one hand holding a fistful of Kip's shirt in case he fell, and Kip was staggering on jellied, naked legs.

  "We couldn't save your master, son. I'm sorry," Ironfist said. There were a dozen soldiers crowded on the narrow portico outside the back door of Cannon Island. One threw a blanket over Kip's shoulders. "Take this young man inside and take care of him," Ironfist commanded. "I've got business on Big Jasper, I'll take him with me and notify the family. Ten minutes."

  As the soldiers ushered Kip inside, he heard Ironfist swear quietly, "Damn, those were my best blue specs."

  Chapter 30

  Liv Danavis walked briskly over the luxin bridge called the Lily's Stem that connected the Chromeria on Little Jasper Island to the markets and homes on Big Jasper Island, trying to ignore the tension knotting her shoulders. She was wearing rough linen pants, a cloak against the chilly wind of the bright morning, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the same sensible low leather shoes she'd worn when she'd first come to the Chromeria as a terrified fourteen-year-old. She always felt the temptation to dress up in her nicest things when she was summoned, but she always resisted. Her rich, imperious handler would make her feel shabby no matter what she wore, so she might as well be defiant. If Dazen Guile had won the Prisms' War, Liv would be Lady Aliviana Danavis, the daughter of the celebrated general Corvan Danavis. Being Tyrean would have been a badge of honor. She wouldn't have owed anyone anything. But Dazen had been killed, and those who sided with him disgraced, her own father narrowly avoiding execution despite being held in higher esteem than any general on either side. So now she was plain old Liv Danavis from Rekton, the dyer's daughter. And Ruthgar owned her contract. So what? She wasn't scared of being summoned.