by Brent Weeks
‘That son you thought was secret? Andross knows all about it, and he’s bringing him here. And your son may be more loyal to Andross than anyone. Oh, and he lacks all human decency and emotion except ambition.’ Any way Kip played the conversation, it went downhill fast. And that was before Andross avenged himself.
I’m Kip the Lip, and in this, I’m not able to blurt out the truth.
Andross had looked at him during one of their games and paused. Kip had been plying him for news of the war. The last he’d heard, the Chromeria had lost at Ruic Neck but had won—despite Teia’s scoffing—at Sitara’s Wells and a small town called Amitton. Andross naturally had all the most accurate and timely information available. Andross said, “This is not for sharing, you understand?”
“Of course.”
“We’re losing. We’ll continue to lose for months. The winter storms could sink any ships with reinforcements or matériel we’d send. We’re gathering what we can, and fighting delaying actions, slowing them. It will be after Sun Day before we can bring our full might to bear. We will lose all of Atash, and perhaps a third of Blood Forest, depending.”
“It’s that bad?” Kip asked. Some people were still talking like they expected a quick victory now that the satrapies were united against the threat.
“Worse.” Then Andross had said nothing for a long time.
“What is a man’s oath, Kip?”
He wasn’t looking for an answer.
“What is a man’s oath but his will put into words? If a man puts his words false, and sets will against word, are not both weakened?”
Kip’s skepticism—not about the sentiment, but on the source of it—must have shown, because Andross said, “You will notice, grandson, that though I often misdirect and manipulate—”
“Lie.”
“Yes, lie,” he said as if the difference were a trifle. “But I almost never give an oath. When I do, I uphold it. Utterly. Every people from the moment Orholam gave man the light of reason has known and allowed the petty lies that are as natural as breathing, the words to which no will is attached. And every people has distinguished those from oaths. Vows. The moment of creation itself was a perfect word perfectly wedded to a perfect will.”
“You believe that?” Kip asked. “I thought you were an atheist.”
The instant intensity came back to Andross’s multicolored eyes. “A word I hope you use not of me publicly, idly or otherwise.”
“Never,” Kip said.
He seemed placated. “I have more … nuanced beliefs than most. Orholam is a lawgiver in a distant land. He is king of a thousand worlds. Such is enough for his majesty, and the actions of men are either mostly or entirely beneath his notice, their loves and hatreds, their triumphs and tragedies—”
“But not their lies?” Kip asked, pushing it by interrupting once again.
“Does the stone need to notice when you release it from your hand in order to fall? Orholam is lawgiver. When young lovers fornicate and sire a bastard, they aren’t being punished. It’s a natural consequence of the laws governing the system. Are you as dull as the luxiats that you cannot see the difference between this and atheism?”
“Orholam is a caring lord,” Kip said. Not so much because he believed it, but to see what Andross would say.
“Caring enough to give us rational and consistent laws, which is great care indeed. Laws that apply to the faithful, to apostates, to pagans, and to those in vast reaches beyond unknown oceans who have never even heard the word ‘Orholam.’ I find that infinitely more caring than some bearded giant who embraces some and smites others without reason.”
Kip had an intuition. What do you do with a fog of deceptions and misdirection? Drag that sonuvabitch into the light.
“I’ve really enjoyed training with Karris,” Kip said. It was a non sequitur if his grandfather weren’t doing what Kip thought he was.
But Andross Guile clapped his hands once with real delight. “Well played, boy!”
“All that about Orholam and laws, just to remind me to keep my oath about not telling her about Zymun?” Kip asked.
“Swords are dulled with constant use, wits, sharpened,” Andross said. But it was a stall. He played his Nine Kings card, and Kip had now played enough games that he realized Andross was almost certainly going to win in a few turns. Kip drew, needing Day of Darkness. He didn’t get it.
Andross seemed to decide to expand. “You want to break your oath, and you’re looking for excuses to do so. But no. That’s not all I’m doing. I’m teaching you how to be a man, Kip. One has duties to one’s family. This, too, is Law. It was a task to which your mother was unequal, and now that you’re an orphan, there is no one else.”
A cold rage settled over Kip like the sheets of ice covering the Karsos Mountains’ peaks, ice that lived through the hottest summer, frozen purity in the embrace of rock. The bluntness of brute certainty hit his faith like an iron hammer hitting ice, shattering and scattering it. Kip had to believe Gavin was alive, because without his protection, his possible vengeance against any who hurt Kip, Kip was naked and vulnerable and surrounded by enemies. He believed because he wanted to believe.
What do you do with a fog of self-deception?
Though the game wasn’t finished, Kip silently gathered his cards, never looking his grandfather in the eye, and left.
Andross Guile didn’t say anything until Kip reached the door. “I should have known you weren’t ready. I misjudged you. A boy you are, still.”
But Kip had kept his oath, which perhaps meant that Andross had gotten exactly what he wanted.
It was enough to keep him up late at night, wondering what he should have done or said instead—which made the training a welcome relief. It was a few hours of total absorption. The language of hand-to-hand combat was direct and simple, the deceptions revealed within seconds, and in Kip’s case, spoken with a very limited vocabulary.
“Form up!” Trainer Fisk barked. “Squads today. We’re doing Specials.”
An appreciative mumble went through the inductees. Specials was the term for the quirky, dangerous assignments Trainer Fisk and Commander Ironfist came up with to challenge the inductees to think creatively. It was a change to the old way of doing things, but Commander Ironfist was fearless. He needed Blackguards immediately, so the old system of graduating in cohorts was out, too.
Now, he’d told them, as soon as they’d learned all the skills they needed and had proven that they had the character needed as well, they could be promoted. For some of them, that might be soon, he said.
Everyone assumed he meant Cruxer and a couple other boys from cohorts ahead of theirs, but everyone hoped it applied to them, too.
There was some grumbling among the senior cohorts, of course, but much of that was alleviated when Ironfist immediately took half of them for final vows. There were new scrubs, too, comprised of young men and women who gazed with awe at even the inductees. That felt odd.
By the Feast of the Longest Night, they’d gone on Specials a dozen times, and seen twenty inductees sworn in as full Blackguards.
But not all the changes had been instituted by Commander Ironfist. As promachos, Andross Guile had immediately set most of the full Blackguards to training the small army the Chromeria kept. In addition, every drafter on the Jaspers, whether enrolled at the school, or doing research there, or even civilians who had long ago left the school, was now required to attend combat classes led by Blackguards.
All of it had been done by Kip’s suggestion to Andross—and he kept that a complete secret. The Blackguards would lynch him for it, though he was still convinced it was the right thing to do.
Though many of the squads experienced turnover, Kip’s squad crystallized with Cruxer, Teia, Big Leo, goofy Ferkudi, mechanical-spectacled Ben-hadad, little Daelos, and Gross Goss, who was currently picking a scab.
“If you put that in your mouth, so help me,” Daelos said.
“I wasn’t gonna,” Goss complained.
“I don’t see what’s so terrible about it.”
“Form up, nunks,” Cruxer said. He was the undisputed leader of the squad, though challenges could be made every week. Cruxer was the toughest and the best leader. The squad left well enough alone.
“Squad Aleph!” Trainer Fisk barked. “Swear to Orholam, you keep lagging, I’ll bump you down to Yod next week. Asses to your lines. Now!”
Kip’s squad, despite having him in it, was the best squad: they were Aleph—the first letter in the Old Parian alphabet. Kip had asked. Of course, the good squads kept getting members promoted into full Blackguards, so the chaos weakened their teamwork. Cruxer had been offered promotion, which would have made him one of the youngest full Blackguards ever, but he’d turned it down.
Ten squads of six, seven, and eight each lined up. The Specials were different every time, but they were always meant to reinforce some lesson about the Blackguards’ life. Sometimes the special task was simply watching a street corner—where nothing happened. The squads that got those tasks always complained bitterly, of course, because the other tasks were usually a lot more fun.
“Squad Yod! There’s a jeweler off the embassies called Master Athanossos. He has received a ruby worth twenty thousand danars. Bring it here. Go! On the double!”
When they were out of earshot, already jogging up the ramp, he said, “Squad Teth! Steal that ruby from Squad Yod before they get back. If they’re not successful lifting it in the first place, I expect you to do it. No one injured. Use your wits. Go!”
And so it went. Squad Kheth was assigned to shadow a diplomat visiting his mistress on the other side of the city. They were to work in rotations so they weren’t seen, and be ware of the man’s bodyguards, who were mercenaries from the Cloven Shield Company. Squad Zayin was to watch an alley in the slums, and only if a Blackguard inductee came running through the alley were they to do anything—at that point, they were to take whatever it was he or she had and take it to a house in the slums. They didn’t get to know what the item was. Squad Vav was to pick one merchant from one of the prosperous markets. Every member of the squad was to steal something from his stall or store. If they were even noticed—not just caught—they were all to pay him back double, out of their own wages. If they were not caught, they were show their loot to a full Blackguard who would be in the market. Squad He was then to put it all back, again without the merchant noticing.
Squad Daleth was to find the leader of one of the criminal gangs gaining strength among the refugees, and beat up him and his top two lieutenants—and get out without losing anyone to injuries. After they left, Squad Gimel was assigned to take up a position where they could watch. They were to act as reinforcements if it looked like Daleth was in serious trouble. No killing, but anything short of that they would be allowed. If everyone in Squad Daleth swore they hadn’t needed help, those squads would swap rankings.
Squad Beth was set on a fetch-the-item run. Those were the worst. Sometimes they were utterly straightforward, and other times the squad would be attacked by almost anything. It was, of course, a pretty good test for young Blackguards, who never knew when an assassination might be attempted, and had to learn to deal with boredom without losing their edge.
And that left Kip’s squad.
Trainer Fisk grimaced at them. They fully expected to get the hardest assignment. They were the best, after all. “You’ve got a new squaddie. Boy, form up!”
The squad looked at each other as a young mountain Parian came forward. He wasn’t tall, and he had some baby fat, where his people were famed for their lean height. But they all recognized him. It was Winsen. He’d been part of their class, until he failed out, losing to Kip in the final testing—losing, only Kip had known, on purpose to spite his master.
“We get the bump-outs now?” Big Leo asked.
“How come he gets in?” Ferkudi asked. “He came in twentieth. Why not let fifteen through nineteen first? Even those washouts would be better than him, right?”
Kip didn’t point out that he was number fifteen, thanks.
“Breaker was fifteen,” Daelos said.
Thanks.
“Maybe the others were already gone? Recruited elsewhere or shipped home?” Big Leo asked.
“You don’t think the Lightguard recruited ’em, do you?” Ferkudi asked.
“Lightguard,” Big Leo scoffed. “That’s a rumor.”
Cruxer stepped in. “What’s the word, Winsen?”
Winsen shot a look at Kip. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Are you ladies done with your kopi and chat time?” Trainer Fisk demanded.
“Ladies?” Teia complained. “I was the only one not—”
“Are you interrupting me, nunk?!” Trainer Fisk shouted at her. He walked over and got right in her face. She swallowed and shook her head.
“Good! There’s a man spouting heresy on a street corner, calls himself Lord Arias. Ain’t no lord I ever heard of. He’s one block south of Verrosh. Find him, and beat the hell out of him. Not in your Blackguard garb. Regular clothes.”
It was one thing to go beat up the leaders of a gang who were terrorizing the poor and frightened. Some crazy preacher? That was different.
“How many guards does he have?” Cruxer asked.
“None we know of.”
“So why are—I mean, why should it take all of us to beat him up?” Teia asked. Kip could tell she only narrowly avoided asking what she really wanted to ask: why are we beating up someone just for talking?
“It’s an order,” Trainer Fisk said. “You have a problem following orders?”
Chapter 42
“Soul poison,” Orholam said. “You never told me about the soul poison. Why didn’t you tell me about the soul poison?”
“Stop it,” Gavin said. “Stop saying that.”
“Had you not been told it is death and evil and murder? It is eating you, destroying you!” Orholam said, eyes bright with fervor.
The Bitter Cob had made it to the edge of Rath Harbor last night before having to anchor. Once the sun rose, the portmaster would be out to assess taxes and to direct them to a berth. Gavin’s options for escape were rapidly dwindling.
No, that wasn’t true. There had never been many options. Once the portmaster came, Gavin had to go with the man or resign himself to Malargos custody. He would, doubtless, be their “guest.” Without drafting, he would be helpless.
Well, overawing one portmaster. How hard could that be?
Gavin left Orholam and jumped up on the gunwale. He could swim. Sharks and crocodiles swarmed to the carrion that inevitably washed into the waters of a great city—not least of which was the dead people who were disposed of in that old favorite way: tossing them in the river. Fishermen armed with harpoons hunted the sharks and crocodiles in turn, harvesting fins and skin and teeth. It was a rather smaller circle of nature than Gavin was comfortable with. Set against the perennial battle of nature versus man, swimming in a harbor like this was a big bet on the men.
Even if he made it to shore, dripping wet, dirty, emerging from the shoreline muck, he would then have to escape. Without coin sticks, without friends, without drafting. Gavin had been naked before and felt less naked than he felt now. He looked at the tranquil, trashy water below him and realized for the first time that he could drown in that.
Vulnerability sat hand in hand with Mortality. They beckoned Gavin to come.
“Tell me about the black luxin,” Orholam said, quiet, tense. Gavin hadn’t noticed his approach.
Losing my edge, to be startled like that.
“It’s a myth to scare young drafters.”
“You wish to be unflinchingly honest with yourself. Yet here you fail. It must have scared you terribly. Terrified you. Made you piss yourself. Made you run. But there was nowhere to run, was there? Of a sudden, the world was not as you’d believed. Did you see them?”
“Them? I have no—”
“You were a better
liar when first Gunner pulled you out of the sea. Or is it especially hard to lie to me?”
“One would hope that it would be especially hard to lie to Orholam, don’t you think?” Gavin said lightly.
“Man’s first recorded words to Orholam were a lie, so no. Men lie to Orholam as readily as they lie to their wives. Show me your hands.”
Gavin got down off the gunwale. The sky was lightening, but there were still few sailors awake. They had privacy. Not that he wanted it. He showed the man his hands.
“Remarkable,” Orholam said. “As our mouths utter both blessings and curses, clean water and foul from the same well, so too your hands. You’ve drafted white luxin, too.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gavin said.
“Hoo-hoo! A puzzle you are indeed! You remember drafting the black, but not the white?!”
“Quiet, dammit!”
Gavin had seen men whose hamstrings had been cut who didn’t fall so fast. The prophet simply dropped. Gavin bent over the man—
Who blinked up at him. Then stood, shaking his head. His eyes stuck on Gavin’s, and he stood, transfixed. He swallowed. Tried to speak. “You’ve come face-to-face with truth, and refused to see it. You’ve chosen cowardice when you had it in you to choose courage. You’ve chosen black instead of white. You’ve failed, Guile.”
“I’ve failed?! You sent me those dreams, didn’t you? Through some magic I don’t know, some kind of will-casting. You did this to me. You, and him.”
“Tread lightly, o Son of Am.”
“I’ll tread how I please! I didn’t fail. God failed.”
“Those two words cannot be put together in any way that makes sense.”
“God failed me.”
“Because an earnest prayer cannot be answered no?”
“Lies!” Gavin hissed.
“Then Orholam will give it to you plain: you keep up your lies, and you’ll be stricken blind.”
It was such a bizarre threat that Gavin was taken aback. “I already am blind.”
