The Broken Eye

by Brent Weeks

  Through the slits in the curtain, she saw Teia hunch forward in her seat, propping elbows on knees. “The Order tested me. I don’t even really know how. They say I’m a lightsplitter. I mean, I passed. They said they would have killed me if I hadn’t.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Teia told her everything, and Karris did her best—using the mnemonic tricks the White had taught her—to memorize every word. Karris thought she could see the outlines of how the lightsplitter test must have worked, and was surprised that Teia didn’t. Then again, Teia’s mind had been occupied by other things, not least being forced to strip almost naked in front of terrifying, masked, leering assholes.

  When she thought of it that way, Karris was surprised Teia had done as well as she had. If she were honest with herself, Karris didn’t know if she would have done as well herself.

  “Did you know your last handler’s identity?” Karris asked.

  “I already told you I did.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  Teia’s head cocked. “You don’t know?”

  “Do you have any reason not to tell me?”

  “Pardon me if it seems strange that you wouldn’t know. If you don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t—”

  “Your place is to obey orders,” Karris snapped. “You’re under my command now.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s served in an army,” Teia said. She obviously couldn’t help but try to figure out who Karris was. “But things in this field are a little less clear.”

  Dammit, girl. I hope we don’t get you killed. You’re a natural at this.

  And Karris couldn’t let someone she was handling think she was inept. If your agent doesn’t trust you, and you have to give them an order that doesn’t make sense with their limited perspective, they might not obey it.

  “Feel free to speculate on my identity, but realize that the closer you get to the truth, the more likely you are to get me killed. There’s no benefit to—”

  “I already told you the benefit.”

  “This is not an argument,” Karris said sharply.

  Even as she said it, she could remember her dearly departed father saying those very words to her when she was a girl. Clearly, it is an argument, young Karris had snapped back. All her defiances had been petty, back then.

  Teia’s chin floated up. “I am not a slave,” she said.

  “No one is saying—”

  “But I was one. And let me tell you, slaves know how to obey an order without actually accomplishing anything. People like you think that slaves are stupid. Slaves are smart enough to use that belief against their masters. ‘So sorry I did what you said, and not what you meant, Mistress, I’m just a dumb slave.’ Treat me like I’m stupid, and you’ll get stupid out of me.”

  The red in Karris reared up, and she nearly lost it. She was the commanding officer. She would be obeyed. But then for an instant, she tried to imagine the White shouting at a subordinate.

  Of course, the White was the White. There was an institutional power in addition to the woman’s personal presence. When you answered her, you were addressing all the weight of the Chromeria. But still.

  How large could the pool of possibilities of who had been Teia’s handler previously be? Because the key wasn’t someone who was smart and ambitious and willful—in the upper echelons of the Chromeria, that ruled out practically no one—the key was that the person had to be able to report to the White. The White’s infirmity had confined her to her own floor in recent months.

  So it had to be someone with easy access to her floor. Who had that access? The Colors… but most of them have their own agendas, and they’d have spies tracking them, too, because they’re already so important. Who else? The Blackguards.

  Orholam have mercy. A Blackguard? Of course, and it would have to be someone who could juggle watch schedules so that he or she could report to the White immediately if there were an emergency that demanded it. That meant one of the watch captains, as she herself had been.

  Blademan was too straightforward to manage spies. Beryl was a gossip and had been since her youth. Tempus was possible. Loved his books, good administrator. But he never got out. He was always either on duty or in his office. Blunt was too dumb. Not that he was stupid, but you had be very, very bright to handle all of this. Unless he faked that?

  No, not Blunt.

  So, none of them. Her breath escaped. Unless… Commander Ironfist? The man was always working, always going places and meeting with people. Karris had always thought of him as a man who kept his own counsel, but one could just as easily label him secretive, even reclusive.

  But he seemed like he would stand out too much. Too famous, too recognizable. On the other hand, his official duties had him rubbing shoulders with everyone, high and low. If he checked in with the kitchens, no one would be surprised. If he talked with room slaves, no one would bat an eyelash. If he spoke with a Color, or with that Color’s personal guards…

  He was the perfect spy. His position gave him enough access, and was so obviously impossible, that he could hide in plain sight. Teia’s handler was Commander Ironfist.

  “Marissia,” Teia said, apparently unable to bear the silence.

  Karris couldn’t find breath.

  “Because when slaves aren’t invisible, they must be beautiful. And when a slave is beautiful, she can only be good for one thing, right?” Teia said, the acid in her tone spraying all over Karris’s face, and burning, burning.

  Anyone but her. Anyone else.

  “Funny. She trusted me with her identity,” Teia said. “But to you, I’m just a former slave.”

  Karris had fought when wounded. Had fought with that sick feeling that something was terribly wrong, but you couldn’t stop to gauge how wrong it was. Stopping to judge meant death. It was the same here. Fight on, fight on, turn your eyes to the task.

  Teia was a good girl. Defiant, but every Blackguard had steel in them. Study her, figure how to use her best, and don’t let her get under your skin—either to anger or to love.

  You’ve got to keep your distance, Karris. What’s the most likely outcome here?

  That she disappears at some point, and is simply gone. That’s what the Order does. We’re going against them where they’re strongest. They practically invented spycraft.

  “At some point,” Karris said, as if the storm had washed past her without leaving a trace, “they’ll want you to steal a shimmercloak.”

  “What?” Teia asked. She’d wanted a fight, Karris could tell. Without it, Teia was like a ship becalmed.

  “The White’s been studying the shimmercloaks. You need to be a lightsplitter to use them. We thought light splitting was a gift only given to Prisms. We were wrong. But more to the point in your case, a lightsplitter without a shimmercloak is useless. None of their current Shadows—if there is indeed more than one—is going to give you theirs, are they? So if the Order can use you to steal a shimmercloak for them, then even if you’re a spy and they have to kill you eventually, they still come out ahead. If they distrust you, you’ll be getting that assignment soon.”

  Teia slumped in her seat. She knew a death sentence when she heard it.

  “You have to understand, Teia. The Order are masters of subterfuge. They’re very, very good at finding and killing spies.”

  Teia turned and looked at the curtain between them. Her eyes were dead. “You expect me to fail. That’s why you can’t let me know who you are.”

  “Odds are.”

  There was only bitterness and resignation in Teia’s voice. The sound of a soldier sent to die, who thinks his death won’t even accomplish anything. “So what do I do? Feed that perception that I’m a clueless young girl?”

  Pretending to be stupid enough that she couldn’t be used by their enemies, but still smart enough that the Order would trust her? It would be a difficult line to tread. Impossible for one so young.

  Suddenly, Karris remembered what it was like to have her future taken o
ut of her own hands and decided by her elders, to be thought beneath consideration. She’d hated it, railed against it, and finally, she’d left a wake of destruction rebelling against it. She was still paying the price of that rebellion, and still dodging the cost of it—the son she’d abandoned, the damnation she felt.

  With an uncertain hand, Karris pulled open the curtain. Teia looked up, jaw clenched. Scared. Karris unsnapped the voice-modifying choker. She took off the mail cowl and aventail. “So,” she said. “Now we’re in this together.”

  Tears welled up in Teia’s eyes. “I hoped it would be you,” she said.

  Chapter 51

  Tremblefist was grinning. Kip could hardly believe his eyes, but the morose giant was grinning.

  All the squads were crowded into the Prism’s training room, and every last young man and woman was agape, barely blinking for fear of missing a critical moment. Tremblefist was faced off against his brother Ironfist. Both wore training armor of leather imbued with luxin that would burst with spectacular yellow light if struck, to declare a solid hit. They wore steel helms with bars woven like wicker, thick leather gauntlets, and they bore bamboo swords.

  And they moved. How they moved. The bamboo swords beat a tempo against each other that was like the music of the spheres, the great soft swish of the grinding gears of the universe keeping its time.

  But not for long. Each point was scored within five seconds. With warriors at this level, a single mistake led to a touch. It was too fast for Kip to even tell sometimes who’d scored the point. Other times, he only saw the luxin bloom.

  Ironfist and Tremblefist didn’t rest between points, didn’t move back to the center of the circle, merely took ready positions, touched swords and began again. The score stood at five to five. Tremblefist readied himself, but instead of tapping his bamboo, Ironfist removed his left hand from his sword.

  Tremblefist nodded and took his own left hand away. Kip had trained with those swords, and though both men were taller and bigger than he was, even then those swords were too big, too long to wield perfectly in one hand. If you had the hand and arm strength of an Ironfist, you did gain reach, but you lost speed. A good trade if you could hold a shield, perhaps, but not to hold nothing.

  But each man moved fluidly into a fighting style Kip had never seen. They didn’t hold the sword in one hand, they merely held the hilt in one hand. Each put his other hand almost halfway down his blade. What followed was some odd blend of sword-fighting, staff-fighting, and body throws. Lunges flowed into blocks into foot sweeps. It was just as fast, but more muscular, each circling, constantly moving, using not just the point of the sword but also blade and even pommel, dodges and even jumps blurring past. The speed of the men was incredible, but in this, Kip could see the full flower of the seeds his own training was planting. Those dodges, this strike, that way of rotating the hips to get force.

  A clash and a rattle of bamboo, and Tremblefist’s hips twisted and his sword point was batted aside low, but he was merely cocking the gun, his hips snapped back, the sword point dipping behind Ironfist’s knee and pulling sharply back toward Tremblefist and up.

  Ironfist leapt with the cut, trying to avoid what would be a hamstringing. He did a backflip, but before he could land, Tremblefist shoved his blade in that two-handed grip against Ironfist’s stomach. Without any base, it flung Ironfist backward. There was no way he could keep his feet. He flew across the circle and landed, skidding, on his back.

  Seeing Ironfist put on his ass was like seeing the moon outshine the sun. The nunks were aghast. Of course, they’d heard of the famous battle between the brothers, more than a dozen years ago in front of the whole Chromeria, so they’d known that Tremblefist was nearly as good as his elder brother. But Tremblefist had somehow quietly faded into the background since then. He wasn’t even a watch captain, while Ironfist was legend. It was said in the Battle of Garriston Ironfist had taken out whole batteries of artillery by himself. The man could walk on water. Seeing anyone equal him was a shock. Seeing someone best him? Blasphemy.

  But Ironfist merely leapt to his feet and shook his head while Tremblefist grinned. They began again. They traded points, but Tremblefist led all the way. Ironfist barely tied it at nine-nine when his brother dodged back from a blow, but not far enough, and got his head yanked to the side as Ironfist’s bamboo brushed the steel bars of his helmet. In a real fight, it wouldn’t have hit him at all.

  Ironfist racked his sword and pointed to Big Leo and to a nunk named Antaeos. “Pick weapons.”

  “Clawed bich’hwa and a sword-breaker,” Antaeos said. It was an odd combination, both usually secondary weapons. But of course, that was part of the fun of putting masters through their paces—seeing not just what they could do if they were in a strange position, but seeing what was possible even in strange positions. As Commander Ironfist had told them many times, in the chaos of battle, you might end up with any weapon in hand, and you had to make it work.

  Big Leo grinned. “Heavy chain.” He’d been working on using thicker chains. When he draped the thick chains over his draft horse shoulders, he was quite the sight. But chain weapons were difficult, brutal. You were more likely to hurt yourself using a chain than any other weapon.

  “That’s a bludgeoning weapon,” Ironfist said.

  “It’s not only a bludgeoning weapon,” Leo said defensively.

  “But most of its attacks are, Leo,” Teia said. “You’d be making one of them fight with half a weapon.”

  “Uh, then…” The big man suddenly felt the weight of everyone’s stares on him and got flustered. He shrank into himself, which made him merely much bigger than everyone except Ironfist and Tremblefist.

  “Rope spear,” Teia suggested under her breath.

  “Rope spear!” Big Leo said, like a starving man reaching for bread.

  “Pick a number, one or two,” Ironfist said to Ferkudi. Obviously, he was making a lottery for himself and his brother for who would get to pick which weapon he fought with.

  “One,” Ferkudi said.

  “To yourself,” Ironfist said flatly.

  “Oh.” Then, light dawning, “Oh! Oh, sorry.”

  “Brother?” Ironfist said. “Be my guest.”

  “Two,” Tremblefist said.

  “Two it is,” Ferkudi said.

  Kip and the rest of Cruxer’s squad all looked at him.

  “What?” he asked, defensive. “What?”

  “I’ll take the bich’hwa and sword-breaker,” Tremblefist said. The bich’hwa was Karris’s favorite, Kip knew. The clawed variety could both be used as a normal dagger (the scorpion’s tail) and as a punch dagger (the clawed feet). The training variety had the claws made of the same boiled rubber-tree sap that full Blackguards used on the soles of their shoes, dipped in red ink to make its ‘cuts’ obvious. The sword-breaker was a short sword with thick barbed notches all down one side, made to catch sword strokes, and used correctly could twist a sword out of an opponent’s hand or even break the blade.

  The rope spear was even more interesting, though Kip wasn’t surprised Teia had suggested it. She’d been practicing with it in private lessons with Ironfist and sometimes Kip, who as her partner got to be her target. The rope spear was like a short gladius attached to a long rope. It could be used as a simple dagger, as a flail, or as a spear when sharply redirected from spinning to fly out straight. But the rope was what made it amazing. An opponent would think that if only he could get inside the whirling death that the blade cut through the air, he’d be safe. It was almost impossible to resist catching the rope and trying to disarm the rope spear wielder.

  But that was where almost half of the rope spear’s techniques began. With a flick of the wrist, the wielder could throw nooses over her opponent’s fist or neck. Grabbing the rope was a prelude to defeat. It was still a secondary weapon—not good against armored opponents, not good in tight spaces—but it was so unusual and challenging to use well that even Ironfist had confessed he needed to do a
lot of brushing up before he’d started training Teia.

  Of course, he’d done the brushing up.

  And he’d done it privately. Tremblefist most likely had no idea that he’d just assigned his brother to a rare weapon that was exactly what Ironfist had been practicing.

  Kip still wouldn’t have wanted to try a rope spear against a sword-breaker, which was made to entangle weapons.

  But that was a sidelight. Ironfist wasn’t fighting his brother to entertain the squads. That wasn’t his way. This was a lesson of some kind.

  So what was the lesson? It wasn’t how to fight with these weapons.

  The two men began fighting, and of course it was dazzling. To most of the nunks, it had to look like Ironfist had picked up a weapon that he hadn’t even thought of in years, and had total mastery of it. It was a good way for Ironfist to use the time he’d had to put into brushing up his skills to a second use. It also gave him an edge on Tremblefist, who obviously hadn’t trained with his own weapons in a good long time.

  Ironfist won, despite having what seemed a worse weapon, nine to six. The brothers finished with double swords. Tremblefist won, but only ten–nine. The total of all the bouts went to Ironfist.

  “Form up,” Ironfist said.

  And here’s where we get the lesson, Kip thought.

  The squads were, by this time, highly efficient at getting into place. In seconds they stood in neat lines.

  “Tremblefist, thank you,” Ironfist said. He bowed low to his brother, as to an equal. His brother bowed a bit lower, but a smirk played on his lips. Ironfist motioned that Tremblefist could go. “Squad Yod!” he barked. “Being the worst has its perks. Take the rest of the day off. You’re dismissed.”

  The members of Yod looked at each other. Some were dumb enough to look excited at getting the day off. The smarter ones looked stung. They’d been called the worst. It was the truth, of course. Of ten squads, they were tenth. But those few had the sense to see that being dismissed early was a perk, but it wasn’t all perk.