The black prism l-1

by Brent Weeks

  Kip found his way back to his rooms and packed what he guessed he'd need. Cloak and food, and more food, and short sword, and a stick of tin danars in a money belt. It was more than he thought he'd need-he hoped they'd forgive him for that, but he might need money for bribes. Then he decided he'd need to leave a note so they didn't waste precious time searching for him.

  There was a quill and parchment on the desk in his room, so he scratched out the letters laboriously. "I'm Tyrean and young. More help as a spy than here. No one will suspect me. Will try to find Karris." He signed the note, folded it after the ink dried, and stuck it under the covers in Liv's bed.

  Then he scratched out another one. "Went to buy some food and watch minstrel shows. Shaken after drafting. Will be back by midnight."

  That one he left on the desk. They would find it first and give him a head start. They wouldn't find out he was truly gone until after nightfall. At that point, they'd know he would be too far gone for them to catch him.

  With what he felt must have been suspiciously overloaded saddlebags, Kip made his way past the gate guards and to the stable.

  "I need a horse," Kip told the stableman imperiously.

  The man returned his gaze, not moving from his position leaning against one wall. "Right place," he said.

  Kip had a sinking feeling. The man wasn't buying that he was anyone who could give orders. If Kip couldn't get a horse, he couldn't do anything. It would be the shortest attempt at running away in history. He hadn't even gotten out of the house. "Uh, I need something not too ostentatious, and not too… spirited."

  "Not much of a rider, huh?" The man's tone said, Must not be much of a man.

  Confess your ineptitude and fall on his mercy, Kip. "What's your name, shit shoveler?" he demanded instead. Oops.

  The groom blinked and stood up straight unconsciously. "Gallos… sir," he added uncertainly.

  "I don't ride these stinking meat barrels much, but I need one that's reliable, that can handle my fat ass, and that won't panic when I use magic, you understand? And I don't have time for your superciliosity." Was that even a word? Kip bulled forward. The groom probably didn't know either. "There's a war on. Get me my damned horse and save the shit-packing for your stable boys."

  The groom moved with alacrity, saddling an old draft horse. "Best I got for what you've asked, sir," the man said.

  A draft horse? I'm not that fat.

  "Sorry, sir, only one I got."

  "It'll do," Kip said. "Thank you." No need to press his luck. The stirrup did look impossibly high, however. Instead of humiliating himself by trying to mount and most likely failing, he took the reins and led the beast out into the city, taking care to tip the groom.

  Orholam, I really was an asshole. Kip didn't know what made it more disconcerting: that being an asshole had promptly gotten him his way, or that he had enjoyed exerting mastery over another man. Back home, he would have been whipped, and he would have deserved it.

  In the streets, he kept his eyes peeled until he found a man roughly his own size, wearing a coat despite the heat. It looked old, worn, and cost maybe as much as one of Kip's coat's pockets. Kip traded with the man. Then he bought wine and water in one of the streets leading to the water market and was convincing a shopkeeper that he really did want to trade his fine cloak for a plain woolen one when he heard loud voices. He turned.

  Some old man was standing in the back of a wagon, exhorting the crowd heading into the water market, most of whom were ignoring him. "-to have our own nation again. With our own king! You all want to writhe under the bootheel of the Parians again? Do you remember what they did last time? Have you no memory?!"

  "They killed hundreds for listening to nonsense like yours!" someone shouted.

  "And I say we don't have to let them ever do it again," the old man snapped back. That got some murmurs of agreement.

  "Everyone who wanted to listen to your shilling for King Garadul has already left!" a shopkeeper yelled.

  "The king isn't willing that any should perish. Come, join him, and fight!"

  "We don't want to fight. We don't want to kill. We don't want to be killed. We want to live."

  "Cowards!" the old man said. Then he shuffled off to look for a more sympathetic audience.

  Kip was about to head out of town when something caught his eye. There was a new ship in the bay, a galleon flying a white flag with seven towers. The Chromeria's flag. Almost at the moment that he identified the flag, he saw a line of men and women walking through the streets led by at least a dozen Blackguards. He froze. Guilty conscience. They didn't know him, and he didn't see the only two Blackguards he'd seen before, Stump and whatever the other one's name had been.

  The people behind the Blackguards were perhaps more interesting, though, and Kip studied them as they passed half a block away and turned down a street to head toward the Travertine Palace. There were perhaps two hundred of them, and Kip was sure that every last one was a drafter. A few had eyes light enough that he could see their irises were solid blue or green or red, but some of the lighter-skinned among them actually had a visible tint to their skin. Some concealed that with long sleeves. Other didn't seem to care. "… be true, but it looks better than the last time we were here, Samila," a blue-tinged man said. Despite his light-enough-to-show-color skin, the man had his hair in dreadlocks almost to his waist. The woman was stunning, perhaps forty years old, with solid blue irises, high cheekbones, and the olive skin of the western Atashian upper classes. Both wore rich clothing.

  Samila Sayeh and Izem Blue? No, surely not. Those names were just from stories. Surely there were plenty of drafters their age who happened to be blues and reds who had special relationships with each other.

  Next came more Blackguards, helping infirm drafters or wheeling them in chairs. Kip decided not to wait to see if Stump were with them.

  He turned to slip through the crowd-and found himself face-to-face with Liv. She stood with her hands on her hips, her jaw tight. She flicked her eyes to the horse and back to Kip. Gulp.

  "I can explain," Kip said.

  "You already did. Twice." There was no amusement in her tone.

  She'd found both notes. Oh hell.

  "Don't stop me, Liv, please."

  "What do you think you're doing?" She lowered her voice. "You think you're going to spy? You're going to find Karris? And do what?"

  His jaw set. "I'm going to save her."

  She made no effort to hide her incredulity. "That is one of the more ridiculous things I've heard in my life, Kip. If you want to run away because it's too dangerous here, you don't need to pretend-"

  "Go to hell!" he said, stunning even himself. Her eyes shot wide. He couldn't believe he'd said that to Liv-Liv, for Orholam's sake! "I'm sorry!" He said it too loud and some people around them looked at him. He lowered his voice sheepishly. "I'm really sorry, that was stupid to say, and mean. I didn't mean it. I-Liv." He paused, then bulled ahead. "I'm nothing. I've been a nothing for my whole life. And I'm being catapulted into having people treat me different because of something I had no control over? Because of my father?" He could see on her face that she understood. She knew exactly what he meant. "Liv, I owe Gavin everything, and he hasn't asked anything of me."

  "He will," Liv said darkly.

  "Has he ever asked you to do anything wrong, Liv?"

  "Not yet," she admitted. "I'm just saying that you have to look out for yourself when it comes to people from the Chromeria."

  "And what? You're not one of them? If you make me go back, you'll be making me break my word."

  "What?" Liv looked like he'd just slapped her face.

  "I swore that I was going to save Karris. Don't you see, Liv? I'm perfect precisely because I'm a nothing. Look at my eyes!" Still confused, she looked at his eyes. "No color, no halo," Kip said. "But I can draft. Liv, for the first time in my life, I know exactly what I have to do. No one is making me do this. I'm doing it because it's right. There's something tremendously-" He
clenched his hands, trying to pull in the words. "Freeing. Powerful. I don't know what, but I know it feels good."

  "Even if you go to your death?" Liv asked.

  He chuckled joylessly. "I'm not being a hero, Liv. I just don't like myself that much. So what if I die?"

  "That's the most awful thing I've ever heard," Liv said.

  "I'm sorry," Kip said. "I'm not trying to be pitiful. I'm just saying-I've got nothing. I'm an orphan, at best a bastard. A shame. I just don't have that much to lose. If I can do something good with my life-or even with my death-then how could I not try?"

  He could see her wavering. For the first time, he had hope that he could actually get away with this.

  "Please, Liv. If I fail in this-if I can't even get out of the city-I really am a nothing. Please. Don't make me fail in the most important thing I've ever tried to do."

  She blinked, then grinned. "I never thought what might happen if you turned that wily tongue against me. You ought to be an orange."

  "I do resemble one in general shape, but I'm not sure-"

  "A drafter, not a fruit!" she said, laughing.

  Oh, he was like a slippery drafter.

  "Does this mean you're not going to stop me?" Kip said.

  "Worse," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "You have to do what's right; I have to do what's right. You're my responsibility, Kip."

  "Oh no you don't."

  "Yes. I'm going with you-or you're not going."

  "Liv, you don't understand-" She doesn't understand what? That you're totally smitten with her? That she's beautiful and smart and wonderful and amazing and your whole soul longs just to be with her, but you can't imagine putting her in danger?

  "I don't understand what?" she asked. Damn it.

  "You're light to me." It slipped out. He couldn't believe he'd said it out loud. His eyes went wide even before hers did.

  He'd been nearly physically naked before her when that assassin had tried to kill him. This was worse. He was paralyzed. His lips failed him.

  "Very funny, Kip, but you're not going to fool me and slip away when I'm not looking or something. You might be wily, but I wasn't born yesterday."

  Oh, thank Orholam! She thought he was joking! A wave of relief passed over him, leaving his knees weak.

  "I'm going with you," Liv said, "and that's final. You're right: what you're trying is a good thing. I know Karris is worth saving, and what she's learned could change the whole war. And if you want to succeed, you're going to need my help, and you'd be making me break my oath to look after you if you don't let me come."

  He had used that "don't make me break my oath" thing as the whole linchpin of his argument. He didn't particularly like having it turned against him, but with his whole brain in a fog-his heart was still pounding hard-he couldn't exactly counter it.

  "Besides," Liv said more quietly, "even if you're not running away from anything, maybe one of us is."

  "Huh?" Kip said. "Huh" is the best I can manage? Great.

  "I'm coming. Let's go," Liv said.

  Together, they found the old man who'd been shouting at the crowd earlier, and got directions to King Garadul's army: "Head south and follow the tracks. Thousands have gone already. If you want to join the army rather than be useless like the rest of the camp followers, tell the recruiting sergeant that Gerain sent you."

  The guards at the Hag's Gate didn't even look at them twice. Outside the city, Kip found a rock, stood on it, and wiggled his way into the saddle. Liv took his hand and climbed up behind him. The huge draft horse seemed to have no trouble with the weight. Kip willed himself to relax as Liv put her arms around his waist to hold on.

  Still, Kip hesitated, looking north, looking back at Garriston. Come on, Kip, you've done dumber things and lived to tell the tale.

  Not so sure about that. Still, Kip prodded the big horse and they began the long trip.

  Chapter 67

  It started as a dull throb. It always did. For a while, Karris hoped her stomach was reacting to the food King Garadul was practically forcing down her gullet. Karris hadn't had her moon blood in six months. Like most of the women of the Blackguard, her flow was irregular at best. Their level of training simply precluded it. But when Karris had hers, it was like her body was making up for lost pain.

  Damn King Garadul. This was his fault. The enforced boredom was driving Karris mad-sitting in the wagon, unable to do much, and constantly checked on. When they'd found her doing strength exercises, they'd sent in three drafters and two Mirrormen. The six barely all fit in the little wagon. Karris had been seized by the Mirrormen and laid over the knee of one of the drafters. Literally laid over her knee.

  The woman had produced a man's leather belt and beat Karris's bottom raw. Like she was a recalcitrant child. She'd been caught three times, and the punishment never changed, but gradually her will to resist did. It had seemed like too small and inconsequential a rebellion to keep up.

  Now she wished she had. The throbbing was already spreading to her back. Not long now for the diarrhea to start.

  Love being a woman.

  The other women of the Blackguard took advantage of their relative freedom from moon blood as also granting relative freedom from worrying about pregnancy. Karris just enjoyed her relative freedom from pain. It had been years since she'd had sex with anything more than her pillow. Not that she wanted to think about that right now. In fact, she thought if she even saw a man she'd tear his eyes out.

  It was for men that women suffered this. As the old saw said, a woman has to bleed to fertilize man's seed. Chronologically confused, but true enough.

  They brought her the dress in the morning.

  It wasn't the kind of clothing one would expect to be asked to wear for one's execution. It wasn't an exact copy of the dress she'd worn when she'd finally given in to her father's demands and joined Gavin at the head of his armies when they'd reclaimed Ru, but it was close. For one thing, it was black silk rather than green. King Garadul's tailor had obviously been working either from memory or a painting of the day or they had simply decided to alter the dress for the changes of sixteen years of fashion.

  The fit would be perfect, of course.

  Karris stared at the dress with loathing all day, as cramps wracked her guts, as the inevitable diarrhea came, as she nearly passed out a couple of times. That dress symbolized more than giving in to Rask Garadul's childish fantasy. That dress was Karris's youth. It was the girl she'd been. It was femininity, softness, yielding. The desperate grubbing for people's eyes, for the jealousy of the other girls, for the envy of older women, for the attention of men. Karris had been weak and petty and stupid, hopelessly dependent.

  They would force her to wear the dress, of course. She could wear it now, or be beaten until she gave in and wore it. Of course, she could tear it to shreds. While satisfying, that would only delay the inevitable. Besides, they weren't going to let her out of here without the dress. She was certain of that much. What she didn't know was if they would let her out even with the dress. Still, it was a better chance than nothing. And how was she going to kill Rask Garadul from in here?

  She put on the dress.

  She wanted to hate it. She wanted to hate it with a passion. But she hadn't worn anything that fit her so well in years. Her Blackguard garb, of course, fit like a glove, but those were work clothes. This, the whisper of fine silk on skin, was altogether different. It fit like a sheath. If it hadn't been so perfectly tailored, she wouldn't have been able to breathe, much less move. The dress was curve-hugging around her hips and stomach, and the more generous scalloped neckline drew attention to both the liquid dazzle of folds of fine silk and to her cleavage. Surely her old dress hadn't been so low-cut in the back, the few thin interlaced ties only emphasizing her back's essential nakedness. Looking down at her chest-there was no mirror in the room-she hoped she didn't get cold. If she did, everyone was going to know it.

  Had her dress been unlined when she was t
hat stupid sixteen-year-old? Had she not even noticed? She honestly couldn't remember. All she could remember was loving that dress. She'd felt like the goddess Atirat standing next to Gavin in it, long hair caught up in a diamond-and-emerald-encrusted tiara, people practically worshipping them. She'd convinced herself that she could love Gavin. At first, before the Luxlords' Ball, she'd felt more attraction toward him than toward Dazen. Surely she could blow that coal back to flame.

  Dazen had been perpetually in his elder brother's shadow, and he seemed content with it. Gavin had been so confident, so masterful. She'd been drawn to him irresistibly, as everyone was. But after that night at the Luxlords' Ball, everything had changed. After she got to know Dazen, suddenly there hadn't seemed to be much depth to Gavin. Dazen had never understood his own strength. He had worshipped Gavin, projected all his own virtues onto his older brother, been blind to his faults and exaggerated his qualities. Gavin had fed on all the adoration and grown fat on it.

  But Gavin was still gorgeous, stylish, commanding, and admired. To the sixteen-year-old Karris, other people's regard had been very important. She'd always wanted to please her father, her mother, Koios and her other brothers, her magisters, everyone. Gavin was everything good. He was the Prism, his brother by that point a disgraced runaway and a murderer. Karris remembered convincing herself she could be content with the Prism. Content-with the most admired, feared, desired man in the Seven Satrapies. Besides, after what Dazen had done, she had to marry Gavin or what was left of her family would be ruined.

  On the platform announcing their betrothal, Karris had thought she really was going to be happy. She had admired her fiance. Gavin always cut a fine figure. She had enjoyed every minute of the attention.

  At dinner that night, Gavin had made a jest to her father about taking Karris back to his rooms and not sleeping a wink. Karris's father, ordinarily so traditional, the man who'd always sworn his daughter wouldn't give milk until some young satrap bought the whole cow, the man who had beaten Karris for giving her virginity to Dazen, that man, that hypocrite, that coward, had chuckled nervously. Until that moment, Karris had been able to stave off her rising panic. At least I won't have to sleep with him until we're married, she'd thought. I'll be able to fall in love with him in the coming months. I'll forget Dazen. I'll forget my shivers when he kissed the back of my neck. I'll forget that swelling in my chest I felt every time he gave that reckless grin. Everyone else is right, Dazen isn't half the man Gavin is. I can't love Dazen after what he did.