Lightbringer 03 - The Broken Eye

by Brent Weeks

  “At some level, though, there’s a kind of equality,” Kip said. “Or at least … the differences don’t matter. A Teia has such gifts you’d be a fool not to bring her onto the Blackguard, even if she couldn’t fight at all. You told me that. Ben-hadad can’t command like Cruxer, but he’s so smart, he brings us other things. Big Leo might lose eight bouts of ten to Cruxer, but his very size means there’s times we don’t have to fight at all. At some point, a person has enough gifts that even if he isn’t the best at all things, he’s too valuable to give up.”

  The squads looked at Kip like he’d said something smart.

  “I agree,” Commander Ironfist said. “That’s why I’m lecturing three squads here, and not just Aleph. Now, what lessons did you learn, Gimel?”

  “That practice can get you killed in battle. That you have to always keep the limits of the training you’ve done in mind,” a singularly ugly young man named Cracks said.

  “A truism from the very first days of our training,” Commander Ironfist said. “How’d you see it, exactly?”

  “In the first sparring, you made a single mistake, and it led to a touch, instantly. Maybe that’s because Tremblefist has fought you so many times that he knows exactly what your skills are, but I think it was instead because in being totally aggressive, he only risked losing a single point. He could fling himself at you with abandon, trying to grab that mistake. Would he have been so fast to attack if he were risking his life rather than a point? I’d say no.”

  Commander Ironfist nodded. “Great tourney fencers often kill many and die quickly in battle. Well done, Squad Gimel. You’re dismissed. Squad Beth, tell me something that good or better.”

  After they left, a compact young woman named Tensit said, “You set up Tremblefist, didn’t you?”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve been training Teia with the rope spear. It’s an odd weapon, and she hasn’t practiced in the open. He assumed you’d be out of practice. But what I don’t understand is how you got Teia to choose.”

  “I got that,” Cruxer said. “Inductees who use unusual weapons will always choose to see their own weapon demonstrated by a master. So you knew Big Leo would choose heavy chain; you could reject that, and Teia was standing right next to him. You’ve been working with her long enough to know that she’d jump on the chance. So you did set up Tremblefist.”

  A sly grin crept onto Ironfist’s broad face. “So sayeth the Tactician, ‘He who knoweth himself and his enemy dreadeth nought.’ Squad Beth, well done, you’re dismissed.”

  They bowed low and left.

  “Being the best has its perks, Squad Aleph,” Ironfist said. “But it also means you work longer than anyone else. Prove that you’re the best in mind, and not just in arms.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve seen Tremblefist smile,” Teia said, musing aloud.

  A cloud passed over Ironfist’s face. “True, but what’s the tactical significance of that? Is there any?”

  “I don’t … I’m sorry.”

  No one else said a word.

  Ironfist blew out a breath. “You may know that my brother’s birth name is Hanishu. Mine is Harrdun. I was given my Blackguard name when I punched through a door and subdued a raider holding a hostage on the other side of it.”

  “Subdued?” Ferkudi whispered. “I heard he nearly ripped the man’s head off.”

  “But Hanishu picked his own name,” Ironfist said, pretending not to hear.

  For one moment, Kip was struck by how different this was than learning under Magister Kadah. Where she mocked and belittled and ruled through fear, with Ironfist—a man whom the squad actually should fear—learning was like being yoked together with him. Everyone had to push as hard as they could to keep up with him, but one always felt that he was working, too. In comparison, Magister Kadah put the yoke on you alone, and then criticized how unevenly you pulled it by yourself.

  Kip looked at the faces of his squadmates. They were intent, utterly focused, fearful of letting the commander down, but not fearful. He had them heart and soul and strength, not because he gave them a respect they didn’t deserve, but because he expected them to deliver the best they were able to deliver, always, and he thought their best was better than they thought it was.

  This was a great man in action. It was a quiet greatness, but Kip wanted to emulate it.

  The commander paused, as if he didn’t want to ask the question, but felt he owed it to the squad. “Do you know why Hanishu chose—”

  “Better to be called Tremblefist than the Butcher,” Kip said.

  An awkward silence reigned. But Commander Ironfist finally said, “Training makes us. War breaks us. Hanishu had something terrible happen to him, and he did terrible things in retribution. He’s never trusted himself since then. Has never wanted to lead. This is a personal matter, and I won’t discuss it further. But that it does happen is not a personal matter. As leaders and as friends, you need to watch each other, and help, and never, never, never give up on each other.

  “Now,” he said, putting that aside, “what else did you learn today?”

  No one said anything.

  Kip moved to speak, but stopped.

  Cruxer nodded to him. Go ahead.

  “He’s better than you,” Kip said.

  Commander Ironfist cocked an eyebrow.

  “Breaker,” Big Leo said. “We just saw the commander win. As he won when they fought before.”

  “With a trick,” Teia shot back.

  “Tricks count,” Ben-hadad said.

  “I’m not talking about today,” Kip said. “I’m talking about when you had your big public exhibition. Years ago. That didn’t involve strange weapons; it was straightforward, and Tremblefist was better than you, but you won. You won because he let you.”

  “Breaker,” Cruxer said, “there were hundreds of trained fighters at that exhibition. No way someone could throw a match in front of all of them and not be noticed.” Ah, Cruxer, the idealist.

  “At this level? What’s a couple points?” Kip asked.

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Ironfist asked, low, dangerous.

  “For the same reason he chose Tremblefist as his name. He didn’t want to lead, didn’t trust himself, but he trusted you. By taking a name that automatically made people think of you, any excellence he showed would make people think even more of you. ‘If Tremblefist is this good, how good must Ironfist be?’ He killed his own prospects for advancement to help yours. When you fought in that exhibition, it had to be close. It had to be incredible. But in the end, you had to win. He smiled because today, he could try to win. Because today, the match wouldn’t matter. Anyone can get lucky, and now it wouldn’t hurt your reputation.”

  “Very good, Aleph Squad,” Ironfist said, his voice raspy. “Dismissed. Now.”

  The squad moved out quickly. Kip went with them, but when they reached the elevator, he finally stumbled upon the obvious.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He walked quickly back down the hall and opened the door, but the words dried on his lips. Commander Ironfist was on his knees, face buried in his hands, weeping.

  Ironfist hadn’t known. All these years, he had thought his brother had merely had an off day when they fought that exhibition. All these years, he thought his brother had chosen to be called Tremblefist because of his own brokenness. All these years, and he hadn’t known what his brother had sacrificed for him, how Tremblefist loved him.

  Kip stepped out silently—and found himself face-to-face with Tremblefist. Kip swallowed, looking up at the giant, but the big man merely put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it briefly, and went inside. Kip closed the door behind him.

  They never heard what was said between the brothers, but after that day, Tremblefist seemed to emerge from the shadows. He took over the training of Squad Aleph, and from time to time, he smiled.

  Chapter 52

  It took all of Karris’s courage to open the do
or to her own room. There was no escape from this. If Marissia weren’t waiting in the room now, she’d be there later, at some time when Karris wasn’t ready. In fact, the more she’d thought about it, the more certain she’d become that Marissia knew that she knew: of course a new handler in charge of gathering information would immediately ask who the old handler had been.

  Thus, in surrendering Teia to be handled by Karris, Marissia had knowingly surrendered herself.

  Karris opened the door. Marissia was seated at her desk off to the side of the room, her quill scratching quietly. She looked up, and put the quill in its stand. She was perfectly calm. A perfect lady, despite her clipped ears. Irritatingly beautiful. A winter storm was raging outside, sheets of rain cascading past the windows, thunder rattling the tower.

  Walking straight toward her desk, Karris felt like a young Blackguard, coming to report to her watch captain rather than as the lady of her household, coming to confront a slave. A slave! But Karris’s knees felt weak.

  “The White told me long ago,” Marissia said, “‘She who controls the information controls everything.’”

  Karris was curiously numb. She walked over to Marissia’s desk, pulled a chair over, and sat across from her. Marissia studied her quietly, an expression that Karris couldn’t quite read fluttering around the edges of her face like a moth trying to escape from a tent.

  “My father had a different take: she who controls the Prism controls everything,” Karris said.

  They stared at each other for a long time, and for the very first time, Karris looked at Marissia as a woman; for the first time, she ignored the clipped ears and looked at her eyes. How had she missed it? She’d known Marissia was competent, of course. Blackguards liked working with competent slaves who made sure there were no distractions from the work at hand. Marissia directed her small army of subordinate slaves perfectly, making sure everything here was done precisely right, precisely on time. Such oversight was more than enough work for any one woman, much less any one slave.

  Much less any one slave? An odd thought. Slaves came from every social stratum in every land. One poor decision or too many bad debts and no family willing pay for your foolishness, or bandits or pirates and no friends willing to pay your ransom. Whether you were at fault, or utterly innocent—it could be one tiny step away. When she was a girl, Karris had played with Taira Appleton, when they were young enough that complementary personalities had mattered more than differing stations.

  But in the False Prism’s War, the Appletons’ lord had sided with Dazen Guile. The Appleton estate had been on the border of Blood Forest and Atash, directly in the path of Gavin’s army. Lady Appleton had known they would be overrun if she answered her lord’s call to arms. She did it anyway, loyalty overcoming sense, mistaking a question of smart and stupid for one of right and wrong. Karris still wasn’t sure whether the action was more praiseworthy or blameworthy. Within a week, Lady Appleton’s estates were taken, her six sons killed, her four daughters clipped and sold.

  Marissia stared at Karris, and Karris studied her back, each silent, broken mirrors to each other, Marissia’s hair its natural red, Karris’s hair, naturally red, now dyed black.

  Where was Taira now? Where were her sisters? Even knowing how easy it was to fall into slavery, Karris had somehow kept slaves at arm’s length, made them other. It made them more bearable. One misstep and she could have sat in Marissia’s place, serving some lord.

  Come to think of it, if her own loathsome father hadn’t been careful to keep the White Oaks aligned with Gavin and Andross Guile …

  No, no, no, Orholam, please no. She’d never thought of it this way. His maneuvering had been all cowardice; it hadn’t been …

  She remembered her father’s face, during the feast, while the real Gavin Guile had mocked him and made bawdy jokes about bedding his daughter in exotic ways. Father had looked stricken. He’d looked pathetically weak. But what could he do?

  With Dazen’s burning of their estate on Big Jasper, the White Oaks had lost the bulk of their fortune and all their best people. They’d also had enormous debts to nobles who’d sided with Dazen, debts they could never pay. Debts they might not be required to pay if Gavin won the war. From her father’s perspective, the White Oaks’ only hope was in binding themselves to the real Gavin Guile and his father, Andross.

  What if father had thought, while the young, drunken Karris was being led away to be … forced … what if he thought, ‘Better she be forced once and be married to the Prism than that she be made a slave and raped by whoever wanted to, forever’?

  Weak. Disgusting. Wrong. But not selfish. Not loveless. And he’d blown out his brains when Karris hated him for it.

  She hadn’t shed one bitter tear for her father since she’d refused the abortifacient.

  She felt suddenly very, very sick, but she tried to regain focus. No weakness here, not in front of this woman.

  Marissia opened a cabinet, hesitated, choosing, and pulled out a decanter full of amber liquid. She produced a single, ornate crystal glass, and filled it with a more than generous double pour. She set the glass exactly in the middle of the small table. It was an homage to an old Blood Forest custom, born of a hospitality that defied poverty. A family might be able to afford only one nice goblet, but that one would be shared between host and guest.

  Whether families retained the tradition as they grew in wealth or quickly discarded the tradition to give each person her own glass said a lot about how that family felt about their origins.

  Marissia took the glass, inclined it to Karris, and drank.

  Chromeria tradition, though, dictated that slaves and masters or mistresses not drink together. If two social unequals dined or drank together, at least the lesser was supposed to defer to the greater.

  Marissia’s eyes danced, as if daring Karris: Am I your host who is sharing her own liquor with you, or a slave? Who am I to you? she asked.

  To hell with it. In this, Marissia was Karris’s superior. She’d been running a spy network for how long? Besides, it had always been wine or brandy shared in Blood Forest, never whisky. Maybe it was time for new traditions.

  Karris took the glass and took a gulp. It set her on fire, and pain had never felt so good. She counted it a victory that she didn’t cough. As the fire spread through her gut, she held up the glass, as if admiring the color. It was a thing aficionados seemed to do. “Barrenmoor?”

  Whiskies were a niche taste, made even more so by the vast distances the barrels had to travel from the distilleries at the edge of Blood Forest in the highlands above Green Haven and their subsequent cost. Karris hadn’t been able to afford the stuff on her Blackguard wages. She’d guessed Barrenmoor only because it was one of the two best.

  “Crag Tooth,” Marissia said, examining it in turn and taking another sip.

  “Mmm,” Karris said. The other one. Dammit.

  “Easy miss. This is the sixteen. After it’s matured sixteen years, it mellows to be easier drinking like Barrenmoor. I prefer it because it still retains its fiery character and complexity while time takes off the rough edges and impetuosity.”

  Karris looked at Marissia sharply. Sixteen years? Rough edges and impetuosity? The woman’s eyes danced again.

  Damn her, Karris was not going to like this woman.

  “And how does it do as it ages further?”

  “Crag Tooth hasn’t been a player for that long, but I’m confident that in the fullness of time it will bring Colors and satrapahs to their knees.”

  They drank together, trading sips, each thinking private thoughts. They watched the storm smash all its rage on the Chromeria, lightning striking the tops of the towers themselves, power channeled down into the earth itself, diffused, harmless. Rain sheeting the windows so thickly it was impossible to see to any distance. Wind hammering the tower so hard it swayed, but was unbroken. And whether it was the warmth of the whisky or the fire or, oddly, the company, Karris found herself enjoying the storm.


  The storm was subsiding by the time they finished their second whisky, a little light fighting through the clouds just at the horizon.

  Karris set the glass down on the table, stood, and walked to the door without a word. She opened it and, looking back, saw woman, and storm, and light. The eye can see all at once, but only focus on one at a time. The clouds were still dark, angry.

  She said, “You know, sharing a glass with you is—” one thing, but there’s no way I’m sharing my husband with a …

  But the words didn’t make it to completed thought, much less out of her mouth. There was a sudden stiffness in Marissia’s spine, a grief in her eyes at all that was denied her. As Karris had been a warrior in the Chromeria’s open battles, so had Marissia been one in its secret battles, and perhaps neither was content anymore to fight alone.

  Karris started over. “Sharing a glass with you is the best thing I’ve done in months.”

  Chapter 53

  ~Samila Sayeh~

  Today is the day we make a god. The crowds are gathering, paying obeisance to me and to the other Elect around me, and above us, to the Color Prince himself. All the people are gathering today. A special day, a special victory, but also to commemorate our people’s great victory at Ox Ford, and mourn our losses. The Color Prince wishes to tie all these together in the small folks’ minds.

  I find it terribly uninteresting, so instead I regard the mathematical precision with which I have remade my left hand with blue luxin. No, remade is too grandiose. Augmented. My hand has become superior in most ways to a human hand, but I am a mere mechanist. Perhaps I would have become a creator had not the Guiles’ War made a warrior of me.

  It is, however, a masterpiece. Blue luxin is crystalline, solid, hard, nearly unbreakable on one plane but easy to snap or shatter if pushed from the side. Supplementing the human animal with all its shifting and bending and twisting forms is well nigh impossible to do without impinging on its functionality. Sheathe your arm in a blue luxin carapace? Easy. And then you sweat, and the sweat and oil gets trapped. The skin softens and, chafed incessantly, peels. Exposed to that sweat and oil and dead skin, after a time, infection sets in. Then the body attacks itself. Unable to swell, the blood gets cut off, the infection spreads, fever comes, and throughout, incredible pain.