by Brent Weeks
“I think my grandmother had been about to move against you, before that. But that changed her.
“She found a peace again. It was my idea, you know. Me becoming your room slave. One day, my grandmother spoke privately to your mother; Felia said you were dissatisfied with your current room slave, and she herself was unhappy because the woman was spying on you. So Orea asked your mother if she might procure a girl for her. She said she’d give you an excellent room slave as a gift to make up for past friction. I was eavesdropping, and as your mother gave her the description of what she wanted for you, I realized it fit me perfectly.”
“But to become a slave…” It was the greatest fear for every family in power. Losing a war didn’t mean becoming a tradesman: nobles were either at the top, or reduced to death or the most onerous servitude possible.
“I’d lost everything, Gavin. My family. Our fortune, which wasn’t large to begin with. The Pullawrs’ power had dwindled since Ulbear Rathcore died. My grandmother refused to use the power of her office to help us unfairly. Her integrity was the slow ruin of us. Your father had some grudge against Ulbear, and I think he orchestrated much of our downfall. The Seaborns had bled to seize our lands, so there was no way they were going to simply give them back to anyone, certainly not to an eighteen-year-old girl with no army or fortune.”
“The Seaborns?!”
“Yes. And yes, Brádach Seaborn did recognize me. He shouldn’t have. We’d never met. But he’d known my sister, and the resemblance was strong. Strong enough, apparently. I don’t know if he killed her himself, or if he merely allowed her murder. But I goaded him into hitting me. I knew your vengeance would be swift and terrible. I thought you loved me. It was the first and last time I manipulated you. I’m sorry. It was the only way I could see to get vengeance for my family. I had no idea how far things would go.”
Gavin had killed Brádach Seaborn for beating Marissia and put his head on a pike. The Seaborns had eventually sided with pirates to get vengeance on the Guiles for that. Almost all of them had ended up hanged, and their lands seized.
All from one slave’s lie.
Having known Marissia always as his own property, Gavin had trusted her to act in good faith, which to him had meant in his interests. After she’d passed his trials of her faithfulness against the White, Marissia had become, in Gavin’s view, an extension of his own will.
Instead her own secrets had led to lies, and lies to death.
It wasn’t as if she were the only one. He’d made his own choices, and the Seaborns had, too. What did it matter now?
“But Marissia, a slave?” He couldn’t get past that.
“My grandmother couldn’t intervene for me in the satrapies’ politics. Or wouldn’t. The White is supposed to be above politics, and things were so tenuous here. My prospects were limited. I’d been trained to run a large household, to manage slaves and servants, to see the proper protocols were observed, to check the books but not to keep them myself, to see that animals were properly tended but not to do the tending, to check that the cooks were performing well but not to cook myself: I knew a little of everything, but was master of nothing. I was useful as a chatelaine, but useless for all else.
“Of course, I was a fool for thinking that. One who can learn so much by eighteen can easily learn more. But I knew I would never have my dream. I would never be that high lady with six or eight children embracing her, which had been all I ever wanted. So I volunteered.
“I knew I had been saved for some great purpose, and what could be higher than serving the greatest Prism of all time, Gavin Guile? They told me that if you accepted me, I would be with you for years. Maybe many years, if I did well. It was almost a marriage, to a desperate foolish heart like mine.”
Indeed, anyone who married a Prism would know her marriage would likely last only seven years. Gavin had been with Marissia for more than ten.
“My grandmother was desperate, and I solved so many problems for her. But she never forgave herself for letting the blacksmith clip my ears. Because the moment he cut, our course was set.”
Here Gavin thought he’d tried the most insane gambit possible to save himself in the fallout of the civil war. He felt numb. Marissia. A Pullawr.
“It wasn’t a bad life,” she said.
“What?”
“I served the Seven Satrapies. I got to see my grandmother, whom I had always loved dearly, almost daily. I wouldn’t have seen her ever if I’d had my old dream. She would have been here, and I would have been off somewhere, paired with some fool or other who wasn’t half my equal. That’s what grandmother said, when she was trying to look on the light side. And I got to be with you. And you loved me after your way, didn’t you? Not quite in the way I thought you did early on, but you cared for me.”
There was something plaintive in how she said it, as if she couldn’t bear to make it a question, but wanted to know the answer more than anything.
Not stupid, Marissia. Of course she’d seen through that lie, eventually. She, who was closer to him than anyone, had eventually realized what being a slave meant.
He wanted to break down in horror for what he’d done, for who he’d become, but if he did, the orange in him knew she would come comfort him. He, who had hurt her, would take from her even comfort.
Gavin had once thought his father a fool because the old man had been so close to Gavin and had never seen him for what he was. He himself had been closer still to Marissia and had never seen her at all. It was a bitter mirror to hold.
“Marissia, I did—”
But his pause, the very pause he’d taken because he had been trying to be fair to her, was too long. She took it as a negative. She swallowed, and interrupted, “My lord, it was an honor to serve you. But not one I would repeat, given the choice.”
He squeezed his eyes tight shut—and pain lanced through his left eye. “Marissia, please…”
“Don’t lie to me now, my lord.”
“I loved you as a master loves his best slave. I was well pleased, but I took it as my due. I never saw you, Marissia.” And that says nothing about you, and everything about me.
She took it like a slap in the face, but after a moment, she breathed. “Truth, from Gavin Guile. I should thank you for that.”
He was not exactly Gavin Guile, either. But that was a confession too far afield.
“Marissia… Marissia. You did more for me than anyone. I owe you more than I can ever repay. But I have nothing to give you for all you’ve sacrificed for me.”
“Then see me now.”
He looked at her, unsure what she meant.
“Talk to me. Talk to me like I’m a free woman. Like I’m your friend. Like I’m here.”
And so they talked. They talked of people they had known. They talked of Marissia’s childhood, and her family, and of her grandmother. Marissia shared stories Gavin had never heard of the old woman, and not just of her. Marissia told him of intrigues in the Chromeria he had never even guessed at. She told him about times he’d almost caught her spying for her grandmother.
Something tight in Gavin’s chest loosened.
Despite their situation, they laughed.
For once, Gavin imitated his mother rather than his father, and asked questions rather than giving commands. As Marissia spoke, and Gavin listened, she became more animated than he had seen her in years. She glowed beautifully, unmissable. Yet Gavin had missed her.
He saw her now.
And though time had no meaning down here, and the gray light never varied, they spoke what must have been long into the night. Finally she stood and stripped off her slave’s dress, leaving only her shift. She crawled up onto his narrow convalescent’s palanquin. He had a bad feeling, but she merely draped her dress over the two of them as a makeshift blanket. There was no way he could deny her the comfort of his arms, and he needed the warmth. She snuggled against him, and soon fell asleep.
His left arm was around her, with its two lopped-off fingers. H
is left eye was toward her, blind and seeping. He was a cripple, in the prison he himself had constructed, and he was holding the wrong woman.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to this woman who had lived and would die for him. “I’m so, so sorry.” But for this cold night, he cuddled close to her and thought of his wife.
Karris, will I ever see you again?
Chapter 9
This wasn’t shit creek. This wasn’t no paddle. This was shit ocean. This was I can’t even see land.
In the three days since Sun Day, Teia hadn’t had a single moment when she could go see Karris. Every waking hour had been filled. Double shifts with the Blackguard, guarding Carver Black and other members of the Spectrum as they’d investigated what exactly had happened in the city, sometimes being debriefed herself about what she knew, and then clearing rubble and scraping floors with the other nunks on the top floor of the Prism’s Tower. The nunks weren’t even excused from lectures, so Teia had only had a few hours’ sleep each night—and no time at all to sneak away and meet Karris, even if the woman had left a response to Teia’s signal that they needed to meet.
Teia had wanted to report to Karris before she’d talked to the Old Man. Now it was absolutely necessary—and utterly impossible. Teia was being followed. If she met with Karris and was seen, it would mean the death of both of them.
But Teia had a superpower that no one had counted on: she was completely paranoid. She had thought she was being followed a hundred times since she’d started working for the Order, so she’d figured out a thing or two.
One, she was a paranoid mess.
Two, she was pretty good at it.
She knew all the places where she could lose a tail. Whether in the Chromeria itself or on Big Jasper, she knew some good tricks, and she was always adding to her list.
So. No time to sit here gulping like a beached fish. Find the tail, lose the tail, and then report. She could worry about everything else after that.
She started walking, quickly, heading back to the barracks and the master cloak. The first thing to do was to figure out how many people were following her, and who they were.
If you were being followed by a team of professionals, it was well nigh impossible to tell. The front-follows, the handoffs, the disguise switches—if a squad had three or four people of medium height and build in any area with decent traffic, there was no way you could figure it out.
But Teia didn’t think she was being followed by a team. Whoever was following her had to be able to see paryl.
Of course, if the Old Man really had paryl-viewing spectacles, he could simply lend them to anyone.
But would he let such a priceless treasure out of his own hands? No. If the Old Man was half as paranoid as Teia was, he wouldn’t dare let his only defense against the shimmercloaks out of his sight.
There weren’t many paryl drafters in the entire world, so the odds that Teia was being followed by a team of them was low—though of course, the Old Man would be the one person in the world who would have access to an entire team of paryl drafters—
Agh! That way madness lies.
Teia had to make her guesses and jump. So: she was most likely being followed by a single paryl drafter. That might be wrong, but there was no sitting still in this war of shadows until she could find out for sure. She had a day to pick someone who would die, and everyone she could actually think of who might deserve it had been forbidden her. If she didn’t mark someone, she would undermine her own pretense of being a peevish, vindictive woman eager to inflict her rage upon the world. Losing her disguise among the Order wouldn’t be dangerous, it would be fatal.
Put simply, if she didn’t pick someone else to die, she would.
It wasn’t a call she wanted to make herself. Teia was no assassin.
I’m not a killer. I’m a soldier. A secret soldier, but a soldier under authority, a rightful and good authority, Karris. Karris would know what to do.
It’s different from being a slave, when you choose it.
But time was running out. Her deadline for tagging someone was tomorrow morning, and Teia couldn’t talk to Karris while she was being followed.
At the barracks, she shed her regular cloak, picking at an imaginary stain before tossing it in the laundry basket for the slaves to clean. She looked around, and her paranoia was piqued again. Was someone in this room secretly a paryl drafter, ready to follow her, or ready to report to those who already were? Which of the men and women here were traitors?
With her squad, the Mighty, she’d never needed to worry about that. Now she was so alone.
“Teia,” Watch Captain Fisk said gruffly as she headed out, the master cloak folded over her arm.
He was standing at the door to Commander Ironfist’s office.
“Teia, get in here.”
Something about seeing him there stirred fury in Teia’s soul. He didn’t belong in that office. Didn’t deserve to even set foot there. She walked up to him, but didn’t go inside.
She stood at attention. She wouldn’t have minded Trainer Fisk—it was hard not to think of him that way, even though he’d been promoted months ago to watch captain. She’d liked him, even, for his gruff competence, until they’d figured out he danced to Andross Guile’s secret tune. He’d allowed the cheats that had nearly barred Kip from the Blackguard.
And now he was her commander.
“Yes, sir?” Teia asked stiffly. She didn’t want to be in an enclosed space with him if she could help it.
“What’s this?” Fisk demanded.
He had dark circles under his eyes, and his usual rigorous military bearing was slouched with fatigue. He was not tall, but he was a hard knot of muscle on muscle with a shaved head and short beard.
“Just tired, I guess, sir.”
“By order of the promachos, I’m acting commander of the Blackguard, Teia.”
She hesitated. “Congratulations on your… swift rise, sir.”
“I don’t like it, either,” he snarled. “I’m the one who demanded it be only ‘acting commander.’ He was my commander, too, nunk. And my friend.”
“Yes, sir.” Neutral, noncommittal. The flat acquiescence of a slave had its uses still.
“Who would you have put in before me?” he demanded.
Maybe he’d been right. This wasn’t the kind of conversation they should be having out in the open barracks. “Sir, I’m just a soldier, raised from a slave. I don’t question my betters.”
“Watch Captain Blademan was found dead this morning in East Bay. Sharks took too much out of him before his body could be recovered for us to even know how he died.”
Teia swallowed hard. Would the Order have done this? But why? Andross? So he could place Fisk as commander? The Color Prince, deliberately eliminating Blackguard leadership?
“I’d have picked him to be commander before me, even with his troubles,” Fisk said.
That was true. Teia was so accustomed to seeing plots everywhere that she was discounting the simple explanations out of hand. Blademan could have been killed in a tavern brawl. He’d been a man who ricocheted between long stretches of sobriety and short bouts of violent drunkenness—and when he got drunk, he’d earned his Blackguard name Blademan a dozen times over.
Teia ducked her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I know he was a friend.”
“And I’d have picked Karris before him, before all this. But none of us can fill Ironfist’s shoes, and he shouldn’t have been relieved of command.”
“I, I wasn’t saying—” Why was Fisk telling Teia this? They’d never been close. “Sir, can we talk about this later? I’m on my way—”
“You think I’m a traitor. We need to talk,” Fisk said. He moved out of the way of the office door. “Now.”
It was a gut punch. Teia’s expression and silence must have spoken for her. Might as well admit it and see where this went.
She stepped inside, and he closed the door after her.
She swallowed hard. When you’re shor
t and light and not that strong, being penned in was the last thing you wanted if it came to a fight. “Not a traitor, sir. But compromised.”
“Why?”
In for a den, in for a danar. “You called Breaker ‘Kip the Lip.’ Only his grandfather called him that. And only privately. And then you rigged the rules.”
Fisk took a deep breath. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. “Not much rigging required.”
Teia couldn’t speak. Out of all the things she might have expected, a straight admission of guilt wasn’t on the list.
Fisk looked down. “I had… a relationship with another Blackguard. He found out.”
“He? Andross Guile?”
“Who else?”
“So Andross blackmailed you. For how long?”
“Just that one thing against Kip. Although he told me my failure at it meant I still owed him. But he didn’t threaten any further repercussions. He seemed to understand that Orholam himself must have wanted Breaker to get into the Blackguard. The promachos may be a horrible person, but he’s not irrational.”
“So is he still blackmailing you now? Is he blackmailing your lover?”
“No, and he can’t. I confessed everything to the White after…”
“After?”
“After Lytos died.”
Teia twitched. Lytos? Fisk’s relationship had been with a eunuch? How did that even work…?
Of course she knew of slaveholders forcing their eunuchs to serve them sexually, but otherwise a eunuch was assumed to be asexual. That was the point, wasn’t it? That a free eunuch might want a sexual relationship hadn’t even occurred to her—and it had to be a sexual relationship because Blackguards weren’t forbidden other relations, so they couldn’t be blackmailed with anything else. What sort of satisfaction would a eunuch get out of…
Then again, she didn’t have to understand the mechanics of the thing. She could see the emotion of it. “I’m… so sorry for your loss.”
