The Blinding Knife
Page 89
The first man he saw was a skinny Ilytian with a burn scar across one cheek, sitting on his bed, reading. A few other men were dicing a ways back in a common area, others were sharing rumors about assassinations in Abornea from comfortable chairs. “This area is for Blackguards only, boy,” the man said.
“I need to see Ironfist,” Kip said. “I’m Kip, Gavin’s bastard. It’s an emergency. I may be in danger. And it’s secret.”
Blackguards didn’t get to be Blackguards by being indecisive. The man stood. “No one will harm you here. I’ll take you to the commander’s quarters. He’s out on rounds right now—he always works longer than any of us—but he’s usually back by an hour after midnight.”
An hour after midnight? Of course. Kip hadn’t realized that his own midnight training sessions with Ironfist were actually part of the man’s normal workday—he worked from dawn until an hour after midnight. Every day.
The Blackguard walked Kip past the others, who looked askance but didn’t object, and took Kip to a small room. He opened the door, which wasn’t locked.
“No one except the commander will get in while any of us live.” He hesitated, then said, “Do please note that if you steal anything from this room, the consequences will be dire.”
“Yes, yes, thank you. Of course,” Kip said.
He felt a huge wave of relief, quickly replaced by exhaustion and then discomfort as he looked around Ironfist’s room.
For some reason, it felt oddly intimate to be here. Kip had never really imagined the huge Blackguard commander as a person who had a room. Ridiculous thought, of course. Where’d you figure he sleeps, Kip?
The room fit the man: tidy, not large despite his exalted position, finely carved lean black oak chairs with no cushions, the narrow bed covered with a green-and-black-checkered blanket, a rack of many fine weapons on one wall and one gorgeous painting opposite the bed. It was of a young woman, hair knotted and piled atop her head, dark eyes glimmering with orange halos, beautiful, chin lifted, hint of a playful twist to her lips. Kip didn’t know anything about painting, but it was clear even to his untrained eye that this was exquisite.
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He opened it. The solemn Blackguard handed him a towel. “He lets guests sit in that chair,” the man said, pointing. “You can pull it by the fire. Is it the kind of emergency where we need to send runners for him, or can you wait?”
“Wait. Waiting is fine,” Kip said. “Thank you.”
The door closed with a click, and Kip’s heart went out of him. He wanted to be a Blackguard so much he thought he’d die if he didn’t make it. Quiet and calm in the face of an emergency, decisive in the face of uncertainty, dangerous, masterful, confident.
He toweled off as well as he could, then stretched the two cloaks out to dry and sat in the chair by the fire.
Standing there in the warmth of the fire, Kip was struck by a thought. He drafted sub-red directly from the fire and pulled it through his skin. He was warm instantly. He could, in fact, dry his clothes—though not too quickly or he’d burn himself. Hell, if he weren’t such a moron, he could have gone back into the building when it was on fire. He could have drafted the heat away from himself—and then what? Recovered a few treasures and still been inside the building when it exploded? Maybe he could have drafted shields around the kegs of black powder. If he’d been thinking.
He hadn’t even thought to draft himself an umbrella on his way back to the Chromeria to stay dry. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. He just wasn’t mentally fast enough for this. A failure, stupid, his mother would say.
But then, he’d been not a drafter for his whole life, and only a drafter for a couple months. Nothing was instinctive yet. He pushed the thought, the worries, his mother’s lies, away.
The card box smelled of cherry cavendish, tobacco like fruit leather. Janus Borig had hidden her most valuable cards in her tobacco. And it had worked. Funny old coot.
Kip had liked her.
His quick grin faded. Orholam. She was dead. Murdered.
By Andross Guile. A soul-deep loathing settled in him. He stood. Go right to the gut, Kip. See if the man only has the balls to hire murderers. Kip put the card box on the table. Don’t stop moving, Kip. Weakness and fear beckoned. He tossed his knife on the bed. It was safer here than anywhere.
He went out the door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he told the skinny Ilytian standing guard by his door. He wanted to tell the man to guard that room with his life, but anything Kip said like that would sound melodramatic, hysterical. Besides, who was going to break into the commander of the Blackguard’s room?
Kip hadn’t seen or heard any signal, but before he got to the lift, Samite fell in place beside him. She was still buckling her ataghan belt.
“You’re not trying to stop me?” Kip asked as they got on the lift.
“Not a Blackguard’s place to stop her charges from making mistakes.” Though her tone was light, Samite didn’t grin.
Kip set his jaw, hunkered into himself. He thought about Janus Borig. I am not going to be afraid. She deserves better. When they arrived, he knocked firmly on Andross Guile’s door. The door opened after a few moments, and Grinwoody appeared. With the open door, Kip heard harp music float out.
“I need to speak with him,” Kip said.
“The High Luxlord is occupied.”
“Now, Grinwoody.”
The Ilytian’s unpleasant expression turned angry at Kip using his real name.
“Now, Wormwood!” Kip said.
Grinwoody turned his back and closed the door. Kip stuck his foot in the crack. The man looked at him, furious.
“Try to throw me out, you simpering worm,” Kip said. “Try.”
Grinwoody looked from Kip to Samite. “The young master will keep the drapes closed,” he said. Then he disappeared into the darkness of the spider’s hole.
“You see superviolet?” Kip asked Samite.
“No.” Her tone carried a slight accusation: If you’d needed someone who could see superviolet, you could have said so, knucklehead.
“My fault. Wait out here. If they kill me, you’ll know who did it.” Drafting his own superviolet torch, Kip went inside, not waiting for permission.
He almost collided with Andross Guile.
“You are not to come here without permission!” Andross shouted. He swung a slap at Kip. Kip dodged.
“You fucking murderer!” Kip shouted back in his face.
The harpist, a young woman sitting in the chair Kip usually occupied, stopped playing, looking terrified in the darkness.
“What?” Andross demanded.
“You killed Janus Borig, you fucking coward!”
There was a swift motion behind Kip. He hadn’t even noticed Grinwoody slipping around him, and in an instant both of Kip’s arms were knocked down, twisted, and put in elbow locks. Kip lost the superviolet and was plunged into blindness. He was driven to his knees.
“Janus Borig? How do you know her?” Andross demanded.
“You killed her! I just came from her house!” Kip was suddenly jagged, powerless, a furious child. Damn me, a furious child.
“Why would I kill Janus Borig?” Andross Guile asked.
“I need to see Ironfist,” Kip said. “I’m Kip, Gavin’s bastard. It’s an emergency. I may be in danger. And it’s secret.”
Blackguards didn’t get to be Blackguards by being indecisive. The man stood. “No one will harm you here. I’ll take you to the commander’s quarters. He’s out on rounds right now—he always works longer than any of us—but he’s usually back by an hour after midnight.”
An hour after midnight? Of course. Kip hadn’t realized that his own midnight training sessions with Ironfist were actually part of the man’s normal workday—he worked from dawn until an hour after midnight. Every day.
The Blackguard walked Kip past the others, who looked askance but didn’t object, and took Kip to a small room. He opened the door, which wasn’t locked.
“No one except the commander will get in while any of us live.” He hesitated, then said, “Do please note that if you steal anything from this room, the consequences will be dire.”
“Yes, yes, thank you. Of course,” Kip said.
He felt a huge wave of relief, quickly replaced by exhaustion and then discomfort as he looked around Ironfist’s room.
For some reason, it felt oddly intimate to be here. Kip had never really imagined the huge Blackguard commander as a person who had a room. Ridiculous thought, of course. Where’d you figure he sleeps, Kip?
The room fit the man: tidy, not large despite his exalted position, finely carved lean black oak chairs with no cushions, the narrow bed covered with a green-and-black-checkered blanket, a rack of many fine weapons on one wall and one gorgeous painting opposite the bed. It was of a young woman, hair knotted and piled atop her head, dark eyes glimmering with orange halos, beautiful, chin lifted, hint of a playful twist to her lips. Kip didn’t know anything about painting, but it was clear even to his untrained eye that this was exquisite.
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He opened it. The solemn Blackguard handed him a towel. “He lets guests sit in that chair,” the man said, pointing. “You can pull it by the fire. Is it the kind of emergency where we need to send runners for him, or can you wait?”
“Wait. Waiting is fine,” Kip said. “Thank you.”
The door closed with a click, and Kip’s heart went out of him. He wanted to be a Blackguard so much he thought he’d die if he didn’t make it. Quiet and calm in the face of an emergency, decisive in the face of uncertainty, dangerous, masterful, confident.
He toweled off as well as he could, then stretched the two cloaks out to dry and sat in the chair by the fire.
Standing there in the warmth of the fire, Kip was struck by a thought. He drafted sub-red directly from the fire and pulled it through his skin. He was warm instantly. He could, in fact, dry his clothes—though not too quickly or he’d burn himself. Hell, if he weren’t such a moron, he could have gone back into the building when it was on fire. He could have drafted the heat away from himself—and then what? Recovered a few treasures and still been inside the building when it exploded? Maybe he could have drafted shields around the kegs of black powder. If he’d been thinking.
He hadn’t even thought to draft himself an umbrella on his way back to the Chromeria to stay dry. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. He just wasn’t mentally fast enough for this. A failure, stupid, his mother would say.
But then, he’d been not a drafter for his whole life, and only a drafter for a couple months. Nothing was instinctive yet. He pushed the thought, the worries, his mother’s lies, away.
The card box smelled of cherry cavendish, tobacco like fruit leather. Janus Borig had hidden her most valuable cards in her tobacco. And it had worked. Funny old coot.
Kip had liked her.
His quick grin faded. Orholam. She was dead. Murdered.
By Andross Guile. A soul-deep loathing settled in him. He stood. Go right to the gut, Kip. See if the man only has the balls to hire murderers. Kip put the card box on the table. Don’t stop moving, Kip. Weakness and fear beckoned. He tossed his knife on the bed. It was safer here than anywhere.
He went out the door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he told the skinny Ilytian standing guard by his door. He wanted to tell the man to guard that room with his life, but anything Kip said like that would sound melodramatic, hysterical. Besides, who was going to break into the commander of the Blackguard’s room?
Kip hadn’t seen or heard any signal, but before he got to the lift, Samite fell in place beside him. She was still buckling her ataghan belt.
“You’re not trying to stop me?” Kip asked as they got on the lift.
“Not a Blackguard’s place to stop her charges from making mistakes.” Though her tone was light, Samite didn’t grin.
Kip set his jaw, hunkered into himself. He thought about Janus Borig. I am not going to be afraid. She deserves better. When they arrived, he knocked firmly on Andross Guile’s door. The door opened after a few moments, and Grinwoody appeared. With the open door, Kip heard harp music float out.
“I need to speak with him,” Kip said.
“The High Luxlord is occupied.”
“Now, Grinwoody.”
The Ilytian’s unpleasant expression turned angry at Kip using his real name.
“Now, Wormwood!” Kip said.
Grinwoody turned his back and closed the door. Kip stuck his foot in the crack. The man looked at him, furious.
“Try to throw me out, you simpering worm,” Kip said. “Try.”
Grinwoody looked from Kip to Samite. “The young master will keep the drapes closed,” he said. Then he disappeared into the darkness of the spider’s hole.
“You see superviolet?” Kip asked Samite.
“No.” Her tone carried a slight accusation: If you’d needed someone who could see superviolet, you could have said so, knucklehead.
“My fault. Wait out here. If they kill me, you’ll know who did it.” Drafting his own superviolet torch, Kip went inside, not waiting for permission.
He almost collided with Andross Guile.
“You are not to come here without permission!” Andross shouted. He swung a slap at Kip. Kip dodged.
“You fucking murderer!” Kip shouted back in his face.
The harpist, a young woman sitting in the chair Kip usually occupied, stopped playing, looking terrified in the darkness.
“What?” Andross demanded.
“You killed Janus Borig, you fucking coward!”
There was a swift motion behind Kip. He hadn’t even noticed Grinwoody slipping around him, and in an instant both of Kip’s arms were knocked down, twisted, and put in elbow locks. Kip lost the superviolet and was plunged into blindness. He was driven to his knees.
“Janus Borig? How do you know her?” Andross demanded.
“You killed her! I just came from her house!” Kip was suddenly jagged, powerless, a furious child. Damn me, a furious child.
“Why would I kill Janus Borig?” Andross Guile asked.
