by Brent Weeks
He’d seen that look before. That look was the look Andross gave when Kip had made a mistake playing Nine Kings. It was the look of a child being given an unexpected gift, as if the world stunned him at times with its sheer stupidity. Andross hadn’t planned that Commander Ironfist be here, but he knew what to do now that he was.
“Yes, Ironfist, he was under your command. And your negligence grieves me. You have served long and hard, and I am loath to hold your failures against you, Commander, but you have done your term of service honorably, if poorly in this last year. Commander Ironfist, you are hereby relieved of your command and your commission. You will retire with full honors and stipend, effective immediately.”
Kip felt like he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. One part of him saw the art in the lies, the questions spawned by Andross’s words. People were suddenly wondering, in what ways had Commander Ironfist failed? Many of them knew that Ironfist and Andross Guile hadn’t gotten along, but Andross’s apparent grief at having to relieve Ironfist of command, and the way he seemingly honored the man even as he kicked him out—his very grace in victory made it seem obvious that whatever the conflict had been, it had been Ironfist’s fault.
Ironfist looked gutted. He seemed like he didn’t even know where to look, glancing from Andross Guile to Kip, even at Grinwoody.
Kip wanted to throw up. He wanted to kill Andross Guile.
“And you, Kip,” Andross said. He turned, as if suddenly aware of how public this had become. “Everyone, I’m terribly sorry you had to see this. Kip, I will not shield you because you are family. The evidence, though far from certain, is quite suggestive. Kip, you’re expelled from the Chromeria, expelled from the Blackguard, and exiled from the Jaspers. Effective immediately. If any of your Mighty go with you, they, too, are expelled and exiled. Begone, grandson.”
“I—”
“Begone! Before I change my mind! Out!” he roared.
Kip trembled with rage. Not for himself, but that he’d let Ironfist get caught up in this. And suddenly, Gill Greyling and Kalif were very close behind him.
To protect Andross Guile against him.
No, no. Not like this.
In a daze, Kip went out. The squad and even Commander Ironfist went out with him. The double doors closed, but before anyone could say anything, they opened once more, and Andross poked his head out. “Commander,” he said quietly. “I know how your Blackguards love you. If you lead a rebellion, I bet half would join you. So it’s your decision: is that what you want for either half of the Blackguard? Afterward, I’ll disband them. You’ll have ended your precious Blackguard.”
Then Andross disappeared back into the room. The doors closed after him.
Kip looked at Ironfist’s face, and was afraid. The huge warrior trembled with rage, his fists clenched hard at his sides. Kip never precisely forgot that Ironfist was huge and tall and perhaps the best fighter he would ever meet, but being reminded of it like this was something else altogether. He heard Ironfist breathing: in on a four count, hold for a four count, out for a four count, empty for a four count. It was the very calming technique he’d taught them to moderate the battle juice or to steady rage.
The commander turned to Kip. “So she’s dead, then?” His voice was controlled. He meant the White.
“By now. We saw her not ten minutes ago. She was passing quickly.” Kip wanted to say more, but the other Blackguards were still in the hall.
Ironfist started walking toward the lift, and they fell in behind him naturally.
“Well, who looks like whipped puppies?” Aram said as they passed the Lightguard checkpoint. He laughed noisily.
Following Ironfist’s example, Kip did nothing. Aram would expect him to attack. Kip did nothing, and Aram turned, laughing at him.
After Kip was past him, he heard the clong of helmet on stone, and the laughter abruptly stopped.
Kip glanced back, but the squad hadn’t even broken stride. Aram was tottering, eyes unfocused, his helmet pushed forward over his eyebrows. The wall behind his head was scratched, as if from a helmet striking it. He sat heavily. His Lightguard compatriots were looking at him, puzzled. Kip looked forward, so as not to draw more attention.
They got to the lift, and Ironfist, who had never turned, said, “Thank you, Big Leo.”
Kip looked up at his squadmate, but the hulking young man kept looking forward, a slight, smug grin on his face.
They had to wait for the lift to arrive, and when it did, Karris was on it with two slaves. She was dabbing her flushed face with a handkerchief as if she, too, had been running, as one of the slaves tried to wrestle her long dark hair into some order, and the other, scandalized, was still lacing up the back of Karris’s dress.
Karris and her slaves stepped off the lift. “What happened?” Karris asked. “Do they know?”
“No,” Ironfist said. “The promachos just stripped me of my commission.”
“What?!” Karris asked. “We were only apart for—”
“You need to go in there. Learn what you can,” Ironfist said. “Tell them when it’s time. It’s what the White would have wanted.”
“So she’s dead.” Karris’s face twisted with grief, rapidly pushed down.
“Don’t let it make you stupid. Go. We’ll meet later,” Ironfist said.
Karris looked around as if there was more she wanted to say, but that she thought spies would overhear. “Tell Kip,” she said. Then she looked at Kip, but didn’t seem to know what to say. She reached a hand out and touched Kip’s shoulder awkwardly, as if trying to apologize for their last encounter. But there wasn’t time. Then one of her slaves dabbed one last bit of powder on her face, and Karris was off.
She waved off her slaves and glided right through the Lightguard checkpoint. Aram was still seated, holding his head. The other Lightguards looked unnerved.
“You’re not going to touch me,” Karris announced, looking right past them, head held high, the force of her personality preceding her small figure like a wave. “You’re not even going to speak to me.”
They didn’t.
Chapter 91
Zymun was seated with his grandfather on the dais, where he belonged. For now. The crown of the Prism-elect on his forehead was a welcome weight. But he’d hoped for more. Prism-elect? Why was he not simply the Prism?
It was his grandfather’s work, of course. The old man was keeping a leash on him. Zymun would make him pay, eventually. He was already irritated that the High Luxiat was the center of attention, droning on and on. Zymun had feigned respectful deference for some interminable length of time, but the luxiat simply wouldn’t shut up. So now Zymun was looking out at the assorted nobles and deciding which women he would bed.
Women afforded such drama; he loved it. The hunt was a thing of beauty. An avalanche of words and your full attention, watching always to see what flattery worked best, feeling out the weak points, returning to them often. Unrelenting attention, pretending she was the center of your world.
Then the lovemaking. First sweet and passionate, animal desire and total focus. And then, once you had them, indifference interspersed with total focus. Apologies, little gifts, confusion, and more lovemaking, degrading now.
That was, perhaps, the sweetest part. To watch a woman fall in love and to see in her eyes that she knew she shouldn’t and yet she was.
From there, it was merely a matter of completing the destruction. Fighting, making up, slapping, apologizing, cheating, first stealthily and then getting caught on purpose, apologizing, degrading, stealing and blame shifting, then acquiring whatever blackmail you needed to make sure that when you cast her off she stayed gone. Sometimes with whole weeks of sweetness mixed in. And when they were wrung out, poor, humiliated, self-hating, and ruined, he would move on, perhaps to her friends.
Married women were the best. Sometimes harder to seduce initially, but with more access to money and secrets, and less likely to cling when you cut them loose, and while he was still young
, it was easier to make them take the blame. After all, he was just a boy. That they had husbands also meant that they had a harder time keeping tabs on him, so he could seek out other excitement at the same time.
Liv Danavis was the only one who’d really escaped him. In his defense, she’d been the side excitement while Zymun was involved with a general’s wife. There’d been so much else going on, too. It was a failure, but not one for which he could blame himself. He was young, after all, and he hadn’t perfected his technique.
He was drifting, though. There were plenty of handsome women here, but he wouldn’t pick one only for her looks. Not with his new position.
Maybe on the side. But he’d have to learn who was who before he committed time and energy. His grandfather had kept him in the dark about the nobility, and his own plans.
It meant Andross feared him. Zymun didn’t know whether to be more flattered—an equal!—or irritated. It made things ever so much more difficult. Especially since Zymun needed his grandfather. He couldn’t move against the old man without destroying his own power. Not until he was Prism. Prism-elect could be undone.
Clever old goat.
But what had Andross been doing with Kip just now? Kicking him out? Zymun thought that Andross was going to keep Kip around to guarantee Zymun’s good behavior. Had he simply let his anger get the best of him? He was the Red after all, and old. Stupid.
This morning, in the nauseatingly early hours before dawn when they’d woken to come to the Chromeria, Zymun had done his best to eavesdrop on his grandfather, who was giving orders to his slave, that old wrinkled prune, whatever-his-name-was.
Something about tell him he gets an hour. Him?
That slave had come into the hall with Kip.
Andross was giving Kip an hour to run away. Why would Andross do such a thing?
So Kip would get away. Whatever the plan was, Andross wanted the pursuit to look real, and Kip had an hour.
Zymun fidgeted in his seat and leaned over to his grandfather, who appeared to be listening to the High Luxiat’s sermon intently. “I need to use the latrine,” he said.
Andross said nothing. Eventually he turned a baleful glare on Zymun. “What are you, a child? Hold it.”
Zymun was about to go anyway when the side double doors opened once again. It was a rude way to enter the audience hall when there was another, more subtle entrance at the back, and the hinges creaked loudly. Some slave or discipula would be beaten for that, Zymun hoped.
A woman stepped in, petite, early thirties, skinny, oddly muscular, dark hair. Her dress was rich enough that it was clear she must be of the high nobility. Who would be brash enough to interrupt this ceremony? She was beautiful, though. Rich enough. At her age, certainly married. Maybe she would be a good target for his next seduction. She looked familiar for some reason.
Oh, she saw him now, and she looked transfixed. Zymun was uncommonly handsome. And he was Prism now. Women love a powerful man.
Prism-elect. Damn.
She tore her eyes away from him and looked to the slave at her elbow who was supposed to usher her to a seat. The man seemed flustered; there were no seats up front, where her position obviously demanded she be seated.
Then a noble got up from the very first row. He walked confidently down the center aisle, as the preaching luxiat faltered briefly and then went on about sacrifice and the light of truth or whatever. Zymun felt more than saw Andross cock his head.
The noble waved the slave off and escorted the woman forward. Odd. There were literally no places at the front, and the way the benches were packed, they couldn’t simply make room for her.
But the noble brought the woman, who looked alternately confused and still captivated by Zymun, up to where he’d been seated himself. The noble seated her in his own seat, shot a single inscrutable look at Andross Guile, and then left by the side aisle. Zymun watched him go to the back and take a seat with the low nobles. How odd.
Zymun had a sense that something important had happened, so he looked at Andross Guile, but could read nothing there.
He wasn’t always good at reading emotions, though.
He shifted in his seat again, and said, “Grandfather, I’m going to leave a puddle if I don’t go. Pardon me.”
Without waiting for a response, Zymun went out, head bowed and consternation writ on his face so it was clear he was not trying to cause an interruption. He left by a side exit near the dais.
Blackguards stood at the door both inside and out. After the doors closed behind him, Zymun headed toward the lift.
“Latrines are that way,” a Blackguard offered, pointing the opposite direction.
Zymun ignored him and walked briskly until he came to the Lightguard checkpoint. “Name?” he demanded of the limping commander.
“Lieutenant Aram, sir,” the man said. There was a bit of fear in his face, but he was muscular and sour-looking. Zymun knew how to deal with his type. Not much different than the scurvy-ridden pirates he’d just spent months with.
“My grandfather has changed his mind about his disowned grandson Kip,” Zymun said. “Lieutenant, are you capable of taking decisive action and delicate orders?”
“Yes, sir!”
“And your men here? They know how to keep their mouths shut when given a vital assignment?”
“Yes, sir!” they said.
Zymun said, “Promachos Guile wants you to capture Kip and any one of his squad who try to stop you. You may use all of the Lightguard.” Zymun lowered his voice. “And lieutenant… by capture, the promachos means kill. Make it look like you had no choice. You must never breathe a word of this, not even aloud to the promachos. Our enemies have spies everywhere. I promise you great rewards if you show you can be trusted. Perhaps even advancement. I am now the Prism-elect. I can be a good friend to you. Do you understand?”
Aram’s eyes glittered. “Yes, Lord Prism. We’ll obey gladly. More than gladly.”
“The luxlords will be in ceremonies until after noon. Today is a holy day, I don’t expect you to get the whole city in an uproar, you understand? Do it quietly, but do it. If you have to use every Lightguard in the city, do it, say you’re after a thief or something. Yes?”
“Yes, my lord, I understand absolutely. I can summon every Lightguard in the tower. We have access to the room crystals.”
“Perfect. But—not on this level. We want no interruptions for our ceremonies. Shut down the lifts first. That bridge, the Lily’s Stem, yes? Looked like a good choke point to me.”
“Yes, my lord, absolutely. Only way onto the island. That and the back docks. We can cover those, too.”
“Don’t come report until he’s dead. Or don’t come at all.”
They rushed off, the lieutenant at an odd hobbling gait aided by his boar spear. Zymun went to the latrine. It was only as he was pissing that he realized who the woman in the front row must be and why she’d looked familiar. He’d seen her from afar once in King Garadul’s camp. It was his mother, Karris!
He laughed aloud. How perfect! Was he good enough to seduce his own long-lost mother? Now that, that would be a challenge. But who better to use to get all the money and information he could ever need to use against Andross Guile?
Was he that good? Yes, he thought, of course he was.
He laced up his trousers, readjusted the gold crown on his head, and walked back into the audience hall with a big, big smile on his face.
Chapter 92
“How long do we have?” Ironfist asked Kip.
“An hour.” Kip had told Ironfist only that there was a deal with Andross—and that relieving Ironfist of his position hadn’t been part of it.
Ironfist nodded, not wasting words on the obvious. They had to move fast.
They walked quickly into the Blackguard barracks. Teia met them at the door, playing it off to the squad like she’d just arrived from downstairs. Almost all the Blackguards were on shift today. There was so much work to do on a Sun Day that even the nunks had been
pressed into crowd patrol and guard duty and overwatch. There were only four or five Blackguards in the barracks, and those were napping for a half hour or grabbing a quick meal before heading out for more shifts.
Most surprising though, was seeing Ben-hadad. “Oh, thank Orholam,” he said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you all. What is all this stuff? Coin sticks? Weapons? Writs of—”
“Shut it, Ben-hadad,” Kip said. “Not now.”
“I can’t wait to tell you where I’ve been! I was—” Ben-hadad started.
“Ben!” Cruxer said.
“Meet me here in three,” Ironfist said, not even slowing.
The squad scattered, each going toward their own bunks and chests.
“Wait,” Kip said. He already had all his stuff. “What are you all doing?”
The sleeping Blackguards perked up instantly. “What’s happening, Commander?” Stump called, sitting up.
“I’m not your commander anymore,” Ironfist said, not even slowing as he went to his own room. “I’ve been relieved of duty.”
He might as well have hit them with lightning. “What?” Lem asked.
“What the hell!?” Stump asked.
But Ironfist didn’t answer. Kip followed him. “Sir, how much should I tell you?” he asked.
Ironfist didn’t turn. He started loading a pack. “Is what you’re doing right?”
“It’s… not wrong. It’s smart. It’s for the good of my squad and the satrapies.”
“Sounds right to me, then.”
“Will you come with me?” Kip asked. “Even just as far as the docks?”
Ironfist paused. There was a small bag sitting on his desk. He picked it up, looked inside. “Andross. That old fox.” He breathed out again, then he walked over to the painting he kept of a young Parian woman. Took out his knife and slit down the canvas next to the frame. He reached in and pulled out a ceramic tube. He smashed it on his desk. Inside was a slip of paper.
“What’s that?” Kip asked.
“Orders,” Ironfist said. He read them. “From the White. One in the event of her natural death, one in case of her murder. But, no, Kip, I can’t go with you. If I do, whoever it is your grandfather is trying to fool won’t believe it for a second. He has a falling-out with you, and with me at the same time, and I go wherever you go and protect you? It’s too convenient.”
