The Broken Eye
Page 124
He stared at the mess and knew that he wouldn’t even have to clean it up himself. There were slaves whose services he could borrow from the Chromeria. If this was meant to be a kick in the nuts, old man, you’ve missed. This is barely a kick in the thigh.
In fact, more than anything else this does, it tells me about you. If you did it to irritate me, it’s because you imagined it would work. You imagined it would work because it would work on you. So this is the worst you can imagine happening to you? Can’t bear to be disrespected, can you? Interesting. I’ll remember that.
Kip’s first urge was to go somewhere else, anywhere else. But passive defiance was the old Kip. Passive defiance was indistinguishable from cowardice. He told himself it wasn’t that he cared if Andross thought he was a coward; it was what he thought of himself. He was afraid of the old man. He could accept that fear. It was perfectly rational. But to let himself be controlled by his fear …
Funny how I’m echoing things I’ve heard in Blackguard training as if they’re my own thoughts.
Enough thinking. Kip stepped into the hallway. He spied a slave approaching. “Calun!” he called. “Who’s your master?”
“I serve at the pleasure of Gariban Navid,” the man said, obviously not appreciating being singled out.
“He’s a discipulus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s been a crime here. Report it to the Black’s desk downstairs. You’re allowed to cut to the front of the line. And ask that they send slaves to clean up the mess once the Black’s men are finished investigating.”
Slaves not serving Colors could be compelled by any free man or woman in an emergency or to report a crime. Of course, it was a privilege that the wise exercised with caution. No one liked a stranger commandeering his property.
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
“Hold,” Kip said. He dug into his purse. One didn’t tip slaves, and Kip only had three danars left, but hell with that. He gave the slave two of them. “Thank you,” he said.
The slave sneered, like Kip didn’t know what he was doing, like Kip was an uncouth mixed breed.
He began walking toward the lifts, and realized that the slave’s presence was terribly convenient. He turned.
“Oh, and if it was you—drink more water,” Kip said.
“Sir?”
“Kidney stones. I hear it’s like having the tip of your penis pounded with a hammer.”
The slave’s face iced over. He looked like he wanted to spit in Kip’s face. “I’ve been cut, sir.”
“Oh. So there’s a bright side to gelding. Never would have thought. Carry on, then.”
Kip knew that he should be taking advantage of his walk to form a plan, an approach to the most masterful manipulator in the Chromeria, but his thoughts kept going in circles. He nodded to the Blackguards, waving the letter in their direction, and opened the door to Andross Guile’s rooms without knocking. It wasn’t locked. That was sort of funny. Andross was so certain that his reputation would scare the hell out of people that he didn’t even have his slave lock his door or command the Blackguards to maintain his privacy. Unless, of course, Grinwoody had simply forgotten to do it. The man was getting older.
A small, mean part of Kip delighted in the hope that Grinwoody was growing senile. He would weep when Andross cast off the old wrinkled sack of excrement. Tears of joy.
Kip moved through the antechamber and saw Grinwoody dozing on his feet, just leaning against the wall next to the door to the inner room. But Grinwoody woke before Kip took three steps.
He was bleary, though, trying to hide that he’d been asleep. Kip handed the old slave the ink-stained note as if it were an invitation and strode right past him.
Andross wasn’t in the main room. Startled, Grinwoody hustled to get back in front of Kip. “You can wait in the—High Lord Guile is—”
“You can kiss the bald spot where my fat thighs rub together,” Kip said. He threw open the bedroom door.
His grandfather was in bed, and he wasn’t alone. Worse, Kip had seen the woman lying next to him before. It was Tisis Malargos, heart-shaped face and pale skin. Lots of pale skin. Just like when she’d tried to kill Kip during the Threshing. Tisis Malargos, who had been a Color for the space of only moments before Gavin had unseated her.
Kip was rooted in place. Tisis’s hair was piled in delicate blonde curls held in a web of emeralds. And her hand was under the sheets, moving up and—oh, dear Orholam!
She didn’t see Kip immediately—or at least he hoped that was why her hand hadn’t stopped moving—but Andross Guile did. He looked up at Kip, and Kip could see the sudden war of Andross Guile’s natures: the calculating spider, already figuring how to turn this surprise back to his own benefit, versus the Red who’d drafted passion and fire and all things hot and burning for decades.
The worst of it might have been that it was far more shocking to see his grandfather naked than Tisis.
Tisis saw that she’d lost Andross’s attention and she followed his gaze. A fraction of an instant of shame passed through her eyes, and then it turned to pure hatred.
“The funny thing is,” Kip found himself saying, “I think I’ve seen you naked more times than I’ve seen you clothed. Huh. I guess if you only have one thing going for you, you’ve got to play it to the hilt, huh? Too bad such a beautiful package has to house such ugliness.”
Tisis was out of the bed in an instant. She was still wearing a slip, though the straps had been pushed down off her shoulders, so apparently Kip had only interrupted their foreplay. Tisis picked up a vase and hurled it at Kip. Her arm tangled in her slip’s straps, and she missed by a league, splashed water over herself, and dropped roses on the floor. And smashed what was probably a priceless vase. “Get out, you—you fat worm! You detestable little, little—bastard! You—” Her pale complexion flared with rage and frustration as she tried to throw items and words and hike up her straps over her shoulders all at the same time.
Interrupting, Kip said, “I like, ‘You fat carbuncle on the ass of a great family.’ I mean, if we’re going for fat jokes. Comparisons with beached whales are routine but acceptable. Bonus points for slipping ‘oleaginous’ in. You know what’s sad? What’s sad is that you probably think what you’re doing is smart. You think you can play Andross Guile and get more out of him than he gets out of you. Pathetic.” Kip’s tongue was fully in charge now. And he didn’t care. The tongue is a flame, and Kip was throwing fire at every flammable surface he could see. Let it burn. “You know what else is pathetic? My grandfather is so vain that he’s probably convinced himself that you’re falling for his charms. Even though he’s smart enough to know you’re just prostituting yourself. Tell me, Tisis, how do you hide your disgust when you see his body? When you moan, do you worry that he can tell you’re putting him on, or do you despise him because you know he can’t tell?”
She screamed and threw a pillow at him.
A pillow.
“Grinwoody,” Kip said, not turning, but somehow aware of the presence behind him, “you oleaginous worm, if you so much as touch me, I’ll kill you. Think twice before you lay hands on a Guile, even an adipose one.” Kip took in red and yellow—there were colors everywhere in this room—and let them swirl under the skin of his face and neck, going visibly down to his hands. It was the magical equivalent of cocking a pistol.
In fact, more than anything else this does, it tells me about you. If you did it to irritate me, it’s because you imagined it would work. You imagined it would work because it would work on you. So this is the worst you can imagine happening to you? Can’t bear to be disrespected, can you? Interesting. I’ll remember that.
Kip’s first urge was to go somewhere else, anywhere else. But passive defiance was the old Kip. Passive defiance was indistinguishable from cowardice. He told himself it wasn’t that he cared if Andross thought he was a coward; it was what he thought of himself. He was afraid of the old man. He could accept that fear. It was perfectly rational. But to let himself be controlled by his fear …
Funny how I’m echoing things I’ve heard in Blackguard training as if they’re my own thoughts.
Enough thinking. Kip stepped into the hallway. He spied a slave approaching. “Calun!” he called. “Who’s your master?”
“I serve at the pleasure of Gariban Navid,” the man said, obviously not appreciating being singled out.
“He’s a discipulus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s been a crime here. Report it to the Black’s desk downstairs. You’re allowed to cut to the front of the line. And ask that they send slaves to clean up the mess once the Black’s men are finished investigating.”
Slaves not serving Colors could be compelled by any free man or woman in an emergency or to report a crime. Of course, it was a privilege that the wise exercised with caution. No one liked a stranger commandeering his property.
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
“Hold,” Kip said. He dug into his purse. One didn’t tip slaves, and Kip only had three danars left, but hell with that. He gave the slave two of them. “Thank you,” he said.
The slave sneered, like Kip didn’t know what he was doing, like Kip was an uncouth mixed breed.
He began walking toward the lifts, and realized that the slave’s presence was terribly convenient. He turned.
“Oh, and if it was you—drink more water,” Kip said.
“Sir?”
“Kidney stones. I hear it’s like having the tip of your penis pounded with a hammer.”
The slave’s face iced over. He looked like he wanted to spit in Kip’s face. “I’ve been cut, sir.”
“Oh. So there’s a bright side to gelding. Never would have thought. Carry on, then.”
Kip knew that he should be taking advantage of his walk to form a plan, an approach to the most masterful manipulator in the Chromeria, but his thoughts kept going in circles. He nodded to the Blackguards, waving the letter in their direction, and opened the door to Andross Guile’s rooms without knocking. It wasn’t locked. That was sort of funny. Andross was so certain that his reputation would scare the hell out of people that he didn’t even have his slave lock his door or command the Blackguards to maintain his privacy. Unless, of course, Grinwoody had simply forgotten to do it. The man was getting older.
A small, mean part of Kip delighted in the hope that Grinwoody was growing senile. He would weep when Andross cast off the old wrinkled sack of excrement. Tears of joy.
Kip moved through the antechamber and saw Grinwoody dozing on his feet, just leaning against the wall next to the door to the inner room. But Grinwoody woke before Kip took three steps.
He was bleary, though, trying to hide that he’d been asleep. Kip handed the old slave the ink-stained note as if it were an invitation and strode right past him.
Andross wasn’t in the main room. Startled, Grinwoody hustled to get back in front of Kip. “You can wait in the—High Lord Guile is—”
“You can kiss the bald spot where my fat thighs rub together,” Kip said. He threw open the bedroom door.
His grandfather was in bed, and he wasn’t alone. Worse, Kip had seen the woman lying next to him before. It was Tisis Malargos, heart-shaped face and pale skin. Lots of pale skin. Just like when she’d tried to kill Kip during the Threshing. Tisis Malargos, who had been a Color for the space of only moments before Gavin had unseated her.
Kip was rooted in place. Tisis’s hair was piled in delicate blonde curls held in a web of emeralds. And her hand was under the sheets, moving up and—oh, dear Orholam!
She didn’t see Kip immediately—or at least he hoped that was why her hand hadn’t stopped moving—but Andross Guile did. He looked up at Kip, and Kip could see the sudden war of Andross Guile’s natures: the calculating spider, already figuring how to turn this surprise back to his own benefit, versus the Red who’d drafted passion and fire and all things hot and burning for decades.
The worst of it might have been that it was far more shocking to see his grandfather naked than Tisis.
Tisis saw that she’d lost Andross’s attention and she followed his gaze. A fraction of an instant of shame passed through her eyes, and then it turned to pure hatred.
“The funny thing is,” Kip found himself saying, “I think I’ve seen you naked more times than I’ve seen you clothed. Huh. I guess if you only have one thing going for you, you’ve got to play it to the hilt, huh? Too bad such a beautiful package has to house such ugliness.”
Tisis was out of the bed in an instant. She was still wearing a slip, though the straps had been pushed down off her shoulders, so apparently Kip had only interrupted their foreplay. Tisis picked up a vase and hurled it at Kip. Her arm tangled in her slip’s straps, and she missed by a league, splashed water over herself, and dropped roses on the floor. And smashed what was probably a priceless vase. “Get out, you—you fat worm! You detestable little, little—bastard! You—” Her pale complexion flared with rage and frustration as she tried to throw items and words and hike up her straps over her shoulders all at the same time.
Interrupting, Kip said, “I like, ‘You fat carbuncle on the ass of a great family.’ I mean, if we’re going for fat jokes. Comparisons with beached whales are routine but acceptable. Bonus points for slipping ‘oleaginous’ in. You know what’s sad? What’s sad is that you probably think what you’re doing is smart. You think you can play Andross Guile and get more out of him than he gets out of you. Pathetic.” Kip’s tongue was fully in charge now. And he didn’t care. The tongue is a flame, and Kip was throwing fire at every flammable surface he could see. Let it burn. “You know what else is pathetic? My grandfather is so vain that he’s probably convinced himself that you’re falling for his charms. Even though he’s smart enough to know you’re just prostituting yourself. Tell me, Tisis, how do you hide your disgust when you see his body? When you moan, do you worry that he can tell you’re putting him on, or do you despise him because you know he can’t tell?”
She screamed and threw a pillow at him.
A pillow.
“Grinwoody,” Kip said, not turning, but somehow aware of the presence behind him, “you oleaginous worm, if you so much as touch me, I’ll kill you. Think twice before you lay hands on a Guile, even an adipose one.” Kip took in red and yellow—there were colors everywhere in this room—and let them swirl under the skin of his face and neck, going visibly down to his hands. It was the magical equivalent of cocking a pistol.
