The Broken Eye
Page 4
The good you do is what kills you.
“Come on up, little Guile,” Captain Gunner said. “I’m running out of reasons to keep you alive.”
Chapter 3
Kip’s palms bled vibrant crimson around the slick oar in his hands. His palms had blistered. The blisters had filled with colorless plasma. The tender skin beneath had torn. Blood had swirled into the plasma like red luxin. Chafed ceaselessly against the oar, the blisters broke, bled. He shifted his grip. New blisters formed, colorless. Filled with crimson. Burst.
He didn’t see the color, though. Couldn’t see anything. He could only imagine the colors waiting for him as soon as he shed the blindfold Zymun had put on him to keep him from drafting. Zymun, the polychrome who’d followed the Color Prince. Zymun, who’d tried to kill Kip in Rekton, and tried to assassinate Gavin at Garriston. Zymun, who held a pistol pointed at Kip’s head even now. Zymun, his half brother.
Zymun, whom he would kill.
“What are you smiling about?” Zymun asked.
The rowboat bobbed and lurched on the waves as it had for the last two days. Without the use of his eyes, Kip couldn’t thread his way through the chaos of the waves, rowing at the right time, pausing when appropriate. From time to time, he’d pull on one oar and feel it slip free of the water. He’d flounder until Zymun barked a direction. Two days they’d been doing this. Two agonizing days.
The blindfold was overkill the first day: Kip’s eyes had swollen shut. During the battle he’d accidentally hit himself, and then Zymun had punched him in the face. He had a dozen small cuts on the left side of his face and down his left arm from when the merlon of the green bane had been hit by a cannonball and exploded into shrapnel. Andross Guile had stabbed him in the shoulder and gashed him along his ribs.
If it hadn’t been for his Blackguard training for the last months and the fact he had a gun leveled at his head, Kip wouldn’t have been able to move. As it was, the unfamiliar exercise reduced his muscles to quivering clumsiness. His back was agony. The fronts of his legs, kept constantly flexed as he tried to keep his balance in the bobbing boat, were murder. His arms and shoulders were somehow worse. And his hands! Dear Orholam, it was like he’d dipped them in misery. His burned left hand that had been slowly healing was now a claw. It hurt to tighten, it hurt to loosen, it hurt to leave it alone.
Kip was fat and frightened and finished.
“More to port,” Zymun said, bored. He didn’t think enough of Kip to pursue why Kip had smiled. He was too canny to come close at a slight provocation, and the waves were too heavy today for him to risk putting himself off balance for a momentary pleasure.
He’d never offered to take a turn at the oars.
The only thing that kept Kip going was fear. It was exhausting to be afraid for two days straight, and it was starting to make Kip a bit furious.
But what can I do? I’m blind and reduced to such weakness I couldn’t win a fight with a kitten, muscles sure to clamp or collapse at any move I make. Zymun has set the field. He has the cards: six colors and a gun.
But as soon as Kip saw it as a game of Nine Kings, his terror eased. He imagined analyzing the game with the patience of a blue. Could Zymun be nearly as frightening an opponent as Andross Guile? No. But if you have a terrible hand you can still lose to a bad opponent.
Zymun could kill Kip at any moment, easily and without fear of justice or repercussions, because no one would ever know.
Yes, yes, we’ve established that, but so what?
Kip’s best card was Zymun’s laziness. Zymun knew they needed to row or they could fall prey to pirates and be enslaved. Zymun didn’t want to row himself, so Kip was safe until he irritated Zymun enough to overcome his laziness, or until Zymun didn’t need him any longer.
Zymun had great cards, but a great card that you never play is a worthless card.
Zymun had a ludicrously inflated opinion of himself—he’d already spoken at length about all the things he would do once he reached the Chromeria. Kip didn’t appear in those stories, which told Kip all he needed to know about his own future. But Zymun’s inflated opinion of himself meant he had a proportionally deflated opinion of others. Kip acted beaten, and Zymun believed it. Of course he was superior. Of course Kip would be devastated by that fact and realize that he was helpless.
“I really expected the sharks to get you at Garriston,” Kip said, threading a grudging admiration through his tone.
Zymun wasn’t an idiot, despite his arrogance. Once the sun went down, he lost his luxin advantage. Then he only had three cards: the pistol, Kip’s injuries, and that his own muscles weren’t devastated from a dozen hours of grueling labor. Anytime Kip had turned over last night in his sleep as he lay in the front of their little boat, under the bench, Zymun had woken instantly, the flintlock already cocked and pointed at him.
Kip’s odds of getting accidentally shot if Zymun twitched in his sleep were depressingly high.
“Wasn’t a pleasant swim,” Zymun said. After a silence, he said, “I expected that waterfall to get you back at Rekton.”
Peeved, Kip the Lip almost brought up their next meeting—in the rebel camp, when Zymun hadn’t recognized him. But taunting a man with a dozen sure ways to kill you wasn’t the height of good sense.
“Guess we’ve something else in common then,” Kip said. “Hard to kill.” He shouldn’t have bothered trying to draw them together with some illusory common bonds. Zymun was pure reptile. Kip thought the boy must try to hide it most of the time. With Kip, he didn’t. Another sign of how Kip’s time was limited.
“We’re the blood of Guile,” Zymun said. “But you’ll forever be a bastard. I’ll prove myself to grandfather, and be an heir. The heir.”
Kip rowed. “You’re sure?” he asked. “About Karris being your mother? I never heard so much as a whisper.” He hated being blindfolded, having to sift Zymun’s tones of voice rather than look for the momentary grimaces or twitches that might betray the truth.
“She was betrothed to the Prism when they conceived me. That makes me legitimate, to most people. When he broke their betrothal, she went and stayed with relations.”
“In Tyrea?” Kip asked. That was where he’d first seen Zymun, defying his master, throwing fireballs at Kip, and forcing Kip to jump off the waterfall.
“Blood Forest. Little town called Apple Grove. I went to Tyrea later. It was the only place to go to learn drafting that wasn’t the Chromeria.”
“Grandfather’s idea?” Kip asked. It sounded like Andross Guile. Have the boy educated, trained, and kept off the table. A perfect hidden card. While being honed into the perfect weapon, Zymun would also be kept from developing his own allies at the Chromeria. He would be perfect for Andross’s use against Gavin or the Spectrum, but he wouldn’t be a threat to Andross himself. The boy didn’t even realize how cynically Andross was using him.
Guess I’ve become a little cynical myself, to see it so clearly. Or maybe I’m only cynical where Andross Guile is concerned.
Regardless, Zymun didn’t answer. Or perhaps he answered by nodding.
In two days, Zymun had never asked about Karris. He seemed to think her position on the Blackguard made her acceptable to have as a mother, but not intrinsically powerful, and therefore not interesting. He saved his questions to arm himself for his meeting with Andross Guile. Kip wished he could be there to see that.
“Come on up, little Guile,” Captain Gunner said. “I’m running out of reasons to keep you alive.”
Chapter 3
Kip’s palms bled vibrant crimson around the slick oar in his hands. His palms had blistered. The blisters had filled with colorless plasma. The tender skin beneath had torn. Blood had swirled into the plasma like red luxin. Chafed ceaselessly against the oar, the blisters broke, bled. He shifted his grip. New blisters formed, colorless. Filled with crimson. Burst.
He didn’t see the color, though. Couldn’t see anything. He could only imagine the colors waiting for him as soon as he shed the blindfold Zymun had put on him to keep him from drafting. Zymun, the polychrome who’d followed the Color Prince. Zymun, who’d tried to kill Kip in Rekton, and tried to assassinate Gavin at Garriston. Zymun, who held a pistol pointed at Kip’s head even now. Zymun, his half brother.
Zymun, whom he would kill.
“What are you smiling about?” Zymun asked.
The rowboat bobbed and lurched on the waves as it had for the last two days. Without the use of his eyes, Kip couldn’t thread his way through the chaos of the waves, rowing at the right time, pausing when appropriate. From time to time, he’d pull on one oar and feel it slip free of the water. He’d flounder until Zymun barked a direction. Two days they’d been doing this. Two agonizing days.
The blindfold was overkill the first day: Kip’s eyes had swollen shut. During the battle he’d accidentally hit himself, and then Zymun had punched him in the face. He had a dozen small cuts on the left side of his face and down his left arm from when the merlon of the green bane had been hit by a cannonball and exploded into shrapnel. Andross Guile had stabbed him in the shoulder and gashed him along his ribs.
If it hadn’t been for his Blackguard training for the last months and the fact he had a gun leveled at his head, Kip wouldn’t have been able to move. As it was, the unfamiliar exercise reduced his muscles to quivering clumsiness. His back was agony. The fronts of his legs, kept constantly flexed as he tried to keep his balance in the bobbing boat, were murder. His arms and shoulders were somehow worse. And his hands! Dear Orholam, it was like he’d dipped them in misery. His burned left hand that had been slowly healing was now a claw. It hurt to tighten, it hurt to loosen, it hurt to leave it alone.
Kip was fat and frightened and finished.
“More to port,” Zymun said, bored. He didn’t think enough of Kip to pursue why Kip had smiled. He was too canny to come close at a slight provocation, and the waves were too heavy today for him to risk putting himself off balance for a momentary pleasure.
He’d never offered to take a turn at the oars.
The only thing that kept Kip going was fear. It was exhausting to be afraid for two days straight, and it was starting to make Kip a bit furious.
But what can I do? I’m blind and reduced to such weakness I couldn’t win a fight with a kitten, muscles sure to clamp or collapse at any move I make. Zymun has set the field. He has the cards: six colors and a gun.
But as soon as Kip saw it as a game of Nine Kings, his terror eased. He imagined analyzing the game with the patience of a blue. Could Zymun be nearly as frightening an opponent as Andross Guile? No. But if you have a terrible hand you can still lose to a bad opponent.
Zymun could kill Kip at any moment, easily and without fear of justice or repercussions, because no one would ever know.
Yes, yes, we’ve established that, but so what?
Kip’s best card was Zymun’s laziness. Zymun knew they needed to row or they could fall prey to pirates and be enslaved. Zymun didn’t want to row himself, so Kip was safe until he irritated Zymun enough to overcome his laziness, or until Zymun didn’t need him any longer.
Zymun had great cards, but a great card that you never play is a worthless card.
Zymun had a ludicrously inflated opinion of himself—he’d already spoken at length about all the things he would do once he reached the Chromeria. Kip didn’t appear in those stories, which told Kip all he needed to know about his own future. But Zymun’s inflated opinion of himself meant he had a proportionally deflated opinion of others. Kip acted beaten, and Zymun believed it. Of course he was superior. Of course Kip would be devastated by that fact and realize that he was helpless.
“I really expected the sharks to get you at Garriston,” Kip said, threading a grudging admiration through his tone.
Zymun wasn’t an idiot, despite his arrogance. Once the sun went down, he lost his luxin advantage. Then he only had three cards: the pistol, Kip’s injuries, and that his own muscles weren’t devastated from a dozen hours of grueling labor. Anytime Kip had turned over last night in his sleep as he lay in the front of their little boat, under the bench, Zymun had woken instantly, the flintlock already cocked and pointed at him.
Kip’s odds of getting accidentally shot if Zymun twitched in his sleep were depressingly high.
“Wasn’t a pleasant swim,” Zymun said. After a silence, he said, “I expected that waterfall to get you back at Rekton.”
Peeved, Kip the Lip almost brought up their next meeting—in the rebel camp, when Zymun hadn’t recognized him. But taunting a man with a dozen sure ways to kill you wasn’t the height of good sense.
“Guess we’ve something else in common then,” Kip said. “Hard to kill.” He shouldn’t have bothered trying to draw them together with some illusory common bonds. Zymun was pure reptile. Kip thought the boy must try to hide it most of the time. With Kip, he didn’t. Another sign of how Kip’s time was limited.
“We’re the blood of Guile,” Zymun said. “But you’ll forever be a bastard. I’ll prove myself to grandfather, and be an heir. The heir.”
Kip rowed. “You’re sure?” he asked. “About Karris being your mother? I never heard so much as a whisper.” He hated being blindfolded, having to sift Zymun’s tones of voice rather than look for the momentary grimaces or twitches that might betray the truth.
“She was betrothed to the Prism when they conceived me. That makes me legitimate, to most people. When he broke their betrothal, she went and stayed with relations.”
“In Tyrea?” Kip asked. That was where he’d first seen Zymun, defying his master, throwing fireballs at Kip, and forcing Kip to jump off the waterfall.
“Blood Forest. Little town called Apple Grove. I went to Tyrea later. It was the only place to go to learn drafting that wasn’t the Chromeria.”
“Grandfather’s idea?” Kip asked. It sounded like Andross Guile. Have the boy educated, trained, and kept off the table. A perfect hidden card. While being honed into the perfect weapon, Zymun would also be kept from developing his own allies at the Chromeria. He would be perfect for Andross’s use against Gavin or the Spectrum, but he wouldn’t be a threat to Andross himself. The boy didn’t even realize how cynically Andross was using him.
Guess I’ve become a little cynical myself, to see it so clearly. Or maybe I’m only cynical where Andross Guile is concerned.
Regardless, Zymun didn’t answer. Or perhaps he answered by nodding.
In two days, Zymun had never asked about Karris. He seemed to think her position on the Blackguard made her acceptable to have as a mother, but not intrinsically powerful, and therefore not interesting. He saved his questions to arm himself for his meeting with Andross Guile. Kip wished he could be there to see that.
