The Blinding Knife
Page 65
The Office had sent luxors after paryl drafters? “So it does work. You’re admitting it,” Teia said, despite her tight throat.
“I’m admitting nothing. I’ve never seen solid paryl, and I can’t make it. I don’t believe it can be done. There were some of us, hundreds of years ago, who worked for the Order of the Broken Eye. Assassins. I think they probably killed with poisons, but by claiming that they could kill invisibly and without leaving any trace, they got many more contracts. But then, when people did die, it got out of control. That’s why there aren’t any paryl drafters anymore, you fool girl. Not because it doesn’t work, but because everyone fears it might work better than it actually does. That’s why we’re still perilously close to being called heretics, why the libraries have been scrubbed of references to us, and why the present White has had to fight so hard to rein in the Office of Doctrine. She believes all light is Orholam’s gift, but there are the superstitious people in every age. They call it darklight, oralam—hidden light. They say it is a gift from the lord of darkness. A darkness that can only be driven away with fire. Do you understand? A darkness that can only be driven away with fire.”
“Burnings,” Teia said quietly.
Magister Martaens seemed abruptly calm. “I met her once, you know. The White. She apologized. Said that drafters treat paryl drafters like the benighted treat all drafters. Said she was working to overcome it, but that it would be a labor of several generations. A good woman. Don’t you dare overturn all her work with foolish rumors. We may never have such a friend in the Chromeria again. This is bigger than you and me. This is for generations yet to come. Your mistress has already asked me all sorts of questions and I’ve had to lie a thousand ways to convince her you were delusional. When next you meet her, you tell her that just before you came to see her, you saw the paryl again. Describe it as a streak, but that there was no one there. That it originated from thin air. Be confused, and if she asks, tell her you haven’t asked me about this yet, but you will. That you never said anything to me about the dead woman. I’ve told her that paryl drafters tend to see streaks at times, that it’s a side effect of our drafting. You’re to make her believe that what you saw was a coincidence. Because if you don’t, our kind will be purged again.”
“Yes, Magister.”
“Then let’s get to work. I want to see how far away you can place a beacon, and how tight a beam you can use to see through clothing,” Magister Martaens said.
“Magister,” Teia said, “how does it work? I mean, how does it supposedly work? I’ll never speak of it again, I promise, but, please.”
The older woman sucked on her thin lips. She looked around again. “In the stories, if she had the knowledge and tremendous will, a drafter could sharpen paryl not only to a solid, but into a needle so fine a person wouldn’t feel it poke them. The drafter would then make a tiny stone inside their target’s blood and release it. Supposedly, that eventually causes apoplexy—a stroke, the chirurgeons call it now. But there’s no reason paryl should hurt anyone. I’ve cut myself and touched paryl to my blood; it isn’t poisonous.”
“But you’re describing exactly what happened!” Teia said. At the woman’s glower, she lowered her voice. “Sorry.”
“And I’m telling you that you must have read the same story I did and forgotten it. Hallucinations are not uncommon among exhausted drafters. We who work with light sometimes have our eyes do strange things.”
Teia couldn’t believe the woman’s willful blindness. She struggled to maintain a respectful tone. “Magister, does my mistress think it can be done? Does she believe you, or me? Does she want me to do that to someone?”
Magister Martaens looked like she’d swallowed vinegary wine. “I know two things about your mistress. She’s more interested in who she can take to her bed than she is in dusty old tomes in forbidden libraries she’d have to pay a fortune to gain access to. Dangerous knowledge is often hidden under ponderous grammar and obscurantist vocabulary. She hasn’t the patience to sift through mysteries. Everyone’s heard silly stories about dark drafters and night weavers. No one knows anymore that those stories are about us. Which is why it behooves us not to remind them. Which is why I’d like you to wear darkened spectacles whenever you draft paryl publicly, or to always draft quickly so that no one sees your eyes.”
“And the second thing?” Teia asked.
“There are those who can savor a silent victory. Your mistress is not one of them. She’s not looking for quiet ways to kill the Guiles. But when she figures out whether helping the Prism’s bastard or hurting him will hurt the Guiles more, you can expect to be used. No matter what it costs you, or her. She’s insane with hatred. So don’t get too close to that boy Kip. You’ll probably have to betray him.”
Chapter 49
Kip followed Grinwoody sullenly. Everything about the room was the same as always. Door, curtain, darkness. Andross Guile was already seated at the table.
As Grinwoody brought out the superviolet lantern, Kip took a seat across from the old man.
“Can I use your deck this time?” Kip asked.
“No,” Andross Guile said. “You play the hand given you. You’re a bastard. You get the bad deck.”
“Oh, I’m a bastard now? So you don’t doubt who my father is?” Kip swallowed. He shouldn’t have said it.
But Andross Guile said nothing. He picked up his deck and began shuffling. “That my son sired you has never been in question, you fool. Even your voice sounds like his. The question was whether your mother was a concubine or simply a whore. If he’s claimed she was a concubine merely to vex me, I shan’t let it stand. I know for a fact there was no marriage, and I bet you know it, too.”
“I didn’t exist yet, so actually, no.” Snotty. Dangerous, Kip.
“You still have that bandage on your hand?” Andross asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
His eyebrows lifted above the dark glasses for a moment: Oh, it’s “my lord” now?
Kip didn’t know if he hated himself more for his earlier recklessness, or for his later deference to the old buzzard.
“Take off the bandage.”
Untying the knot near his wrist took his fingers and his teeth, but soon Kip had unwrapped the linen. The burns were healing, but the skin was pink where it wasn’t white with scars, and his fingers were bent permanently. He could tighten them into a fist, but it hurt to even try to straighten them. The chirurgeon and Ironfist both urged him to try, but it was agony.
“Put your hand out, bastard, I’m blind.”
Kip put his hand on the table. The old man put his hand on top of Kip’s. “Please,” Kip said. “It’s very painful.”
Andross Guile hmmphed. He traced his bony, pale, long, loose-skinned fingers over Kip’s hand, heedless of the oily unguent. It stung, but Kip held still.
“You’ll lose the use of this hand quickly if you don’t stretch your fingers,” Andross said.
“Yes, my lord. I know.”
Andross Guile turned Kip’s hand over, palm down. “You know. So you’ve chosen to become a cripple? Why?”
“I’m admitting nothing. I’ve never seen solid paryl, and I can’t make it. I don’t believe it can be done. There were some of us, hundreds of years ago, who worked for the Order of the Broken Eye. Assassins. I think they probably killed with poisons, but by claiming that they could kill invisibly and without leaving any trace, they got many more contracts. But then, when people did die, it got out of control. That’s why there aren’t any paryl drafters anymore, you fool girl. Not because it doesn’t work, but because everyone fears it might work better than it actually does. That’s why we’re still perilously close to being called heretics, why the libraries have been scrubbed of references to us, and why the present White has had to fight so hard to rein in the Office of Doctrine. She believes all light is Orholam’s gift, but there are the superstitious people in every age. They call it darklight, oralam—hidden light. They say it is a gift from the lord of darkness. A darkness that can only be driven away with fire. Do you understand? A darkness that can only be driven away with fire.”
“Burnings,” Teia said quietly.
Magister Martaens seemed abruptly calm. “I met her once, you know. The White. She apologized. Said that drafters treat paryl drafters like the benighted treat all drafters. Said she was working to overcome it, but that it would be a labor of several generations. A good woman. Don’t you dare overturn all her work with foolish rumors. We may never have such a friend in the Chromeria again. This is bigger than you and me. This is for generations yet to come. Your mistress has already asked me all sorts of questions and I’ve had to lie a thousand ways to convince her you were delusional. When next you meet her, you tell her that just before you came to see her, you saw the paryl again. Describe it as a streak, but that there was no one there. That it originated from thin air. Be confused, and if she asks, tell her you haven’t asked me about this yet, but you will. That you never said anything to me about the dead woman. I’ve told her that paryl drafters tend to see streaks at times, that it’s a side effect of our drafting. You’re to make her believe that what you saw was a coincidence. Because if you don’t, our kind will be purged again.”
“Yes, Magister.”
“Then let’s get to work. I want to see how far away you can place a beacon, and how tight a beam you can use to see through clothing,” Magister Martaens said.
“Magister,” Teia said, “how does it work? I mean, how does it supposedly work? I’ll never speak of it again, I promise, but, please.”
The older woman sucked on her thin lips. She looked around again. “In the stories, if she had the knowledge and tremendous will, a drafter could sharpen paryl not only to a solid, but into a needle so fine a person wouldn’t feel it poke them. The drafter would then make a tiny stone inside their target’s blood and release it. Supposedly, that eventually causes apoplexy—a stroke, the chirurgeons call it now. But there’s no reason paryl should hurt anyone. I’ve cut myself and touched paryl to my blood; it isn’t poisonous.”
“But you’re describing exactly what happened!” Teia said. At the woman’s glower, she lowered her voice. “Sorry.”
“And I’m telling you that you must have read the same story I did and forgotten it. Hallucinations are not uncommon among exhausted drafters. We who work with light sometimes have our eyes do strange things.”
Teia couldn’t believe the woman’s willful blindness. She struggled to maintain a respectful tone. “Magister, does my mistress think it can be done? Does she believe you, or me? Does she want me to do that to someone?”
Magister Martaens looked like she’d swallowed vinegary wine. “I know two things about your mistress. She’s more interested in who she can take to her bed than she is in dusty old tomes in forbidden libraries she’d have to pay a fortune to gain access to. Dangerous knowledge is often hidden under ponderous grammar and obscurantist vocabulary. She hasn’t the patience to sift through mysteries. Everyone’s heard silly stories about dark drafters and night weavers. No one knows anymore that those stories are about us. Which is why it behooves us not to remind them. Which is why I’d like you to wear darkened spectacles whenever you draft paryl publicly, or to always draft quickly so that no one sees your eyes.”
“And the second thing?” Teia asked.
“There are those who can savor a silent victory. Your mistress is not one of them. She’s not looking for quiet ways to kill the Guiles. But when she figures out whether helping the Prism’s bastard or hurting him will hurt the Guiles more, you can expect to be used. No matter what it costs you, or her. She’s insane with hatred. So don’t get too close to that boy Kip. You’ll probably have to betray him.”
Chapter 49
Kip followed Grinwoody sullenly. Everything about the room was the same as always. Door, curtain, darkness. Andross Guile was already seated at the table.
As Grinwoody brought out the superviolet lantern, Kip took a seat across from the old man.
“Can I use your deck this time?” Kip asked.
“No,” Andross Guile said. “You play the hand given you. You’re a bastard. You get the bad deck.”
“Oh, I’m a bastard now? So you don’t doubt who my father is?” Kip swallowed. He shouldn’t have said it.
But Andross Guile said nothing. He picked up his deck and began shuffling. “That my son sired you has never been in question, you fool. Even your voice sounds like his. The question was whether your mother was a concubine or simply a whore. If he’s claimed she was a concubine merely to vex me, I shan’t let it stand. I know for a fact there was no marriage, and I bet you know it, too.”
“I didn’t exist yet, so actually, no.” Snotty. Dangerous, Kip.
“You still have that bandage on your hand?” Andross asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
His eyebrows lifted above the dark glasses for a moment: Oh, it’s “my lord” now?
Kip didn’t know if he hated himself more for his earlier recklessness, or for his later deference to the old buzzard.
“Take off the bandage.”
Untying the knot near his wrist took his fingers and his teeth, but soon Kip had unwrapped the linen. The burns were healing, but the skin was pink where it wasn’t white with scars, and his fingers were bent permanently. He could tighten them into a fist, but it hurt to even try to straighten them. The chirurgeon and Ironfist both urged him to try, but it was agony.
“Put your hand out, bastard, I’m blind.”
Kip put his hand on the table. The old man put his hand on top of Kip’s. “Please,” Kip said. “It’s very painful.”
Andross Guile hmmphed. He traced his bony, pale, long, loose-skinned fingers over Kip’s hand, heedless of the oily unguent. It stung, but Kip held still.
“You’ll lose the use of this hand quickly if you don’t stretch your fingers,” Andross said.
“Yes, my lord. I know.”
Andross Guile turned Kip’s hand over, palm down. “You know. So you’ve chosen to become a cripple? Why?”
