The Broken Eye
Page 55
Kip stepped into the aisle, and without waiting to see how the magister would react, walked out of the classroom. He walked directly to the lift and headed to the top floor. He got off and checked in with the Blackguards. He recognized them: Baya Niel, who had helped kill the green god with Kip, and a curvy woman who he thought was named Essel. Teia had liked her a lot. “I’d like to speak with the White, if she has any time today,” Kip said. “Please.”
Baya Niel said, “We can ask her between her other meetings to squeeze you in. It may be a few hours, though. If you’re late to Blackguard training this afternoon, you’ll bear the consequences.”
Kip shrugged. Consequences.
He waited an hour before Baya Niel gestured to him, letting him through. Kip headed to the White’s room, past the Blackguards at the checkpoint and more outside her door. There had been an assassination attempt while Kip had been gone, foiled by the Prism himself, they said. That meant more guards, and more attentive ones. Kip was frisked twice.
When he got into the White’s office, he was surprised by how healthy she looked. She bade him come to stand in front of her desk, and for a long moment she studied him. She had secretaries and messenger slaves attending her while she saw to her daily business overseeing the Chromeria. Kip stood silent; he knew not to speak until spoken to.
“Do you know, I expected you to look more like Gavin. You look more like your grandfather and great-grandfather. Do you know you are exactly what so many of the great families were hoping for, treating their sons and daughters like stallions and mares to be bred for this trait or that? The Blood Wars made people who should have known better act like animals themselves, I’m afraid.”
“High Mistress?”
“Your eyes blue to gather light efficiently, your skin dark to hide when you draft, a muscular frame for war, and of course, above all, always and forever, your ability to draft seven colors. It’s not so simple, of course, to breed humans. And while some traits can be guessed with a fair degree of accuracy, we know not nearly the complexity of ourselves. I’ve never seen a child with blue eyes who didn’t have at least two parents or grandparents with the same, but I’ve seen a girl darker than you who sprang from parents lighter than me. It almost got her mother killed by the father, jealous fool, who still suspected her patrimony until the girl was old enough he could see she had his nose and eyes both. The world is more marvelous than we know, Kip. But you’re here for a reason. What would you have of me?”
“A favor,” Kip said. “Actually, two.”
“I gathered. It’s rare that people come simply for my excellent company.”
“I’m sorry, have I done something to offend? I don’t know the protocol here,” Kip said. He still had a weight on his soul.
She shook her head. “Please, go on.”
“There’s a magister named Kadah. I think she’s requested transfers to other duties. Probably multiple times. Maybe long ago, and she has since given up. I think her transfers were blocked by some enemy of hers. Would you grant her application?”
The White looked pensive. She lifted a hand and gave some rapid set of signals that a secretary understood. A slave quietly hurried out the door. “An odd way to get rid of a magister you don’t like,” the White said.
“It’s not for me. It’s for her. She’s miserable, and she’s bad at her work because of it.”
“I’ll know the truth of it in an hour. I’ll decide then. And the second thing?” the White asked.
I want you to tell me about the Lightbringer, Kip wanted to say. I want you to tell me about the Blinder’s Knife.
“I need a tutor,” he said instead. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I have so much to learn. I’m a full-spectrum polychrome, and I can’t sit in a class where I’m only hearing things that I already know. Much less waste my time butting heads with a jealous magister.”
“You think I can find you a magister who isn’t jealous of a full-spectrum polychrome son of a Prism who’s being given preferential treatment?”
“I was hoping you would do it,” Kip said.
She laughed, truly surprised. “Oh, Kip. I’d forgotten how audacious the young can be.”
“I’m … important,” Kip said.
She liked that less. Her smile faded, died.
“In a very narrow sense, is all I mean,” he continued. He struggled to find words. “My importance isn’t—I shouldn’t be given preference because of who I am. I’m important in that I have a vital function to perform.”
“And that is?” she asked, wary, perturbed.
I am to save my father, he wanted to say. It was a good purpose. Maybe it was even the purpose to which Orholam had called him. But if he said that, he would be lying. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the task is what’s important. I am merely the tool by which it will be accomplished, and I ask you to prepare me for it. My audacity is to serve Orholam without fear, believing he will walk with me through fire.” He wanted to be that certain, thought that he should be that certain, so he didn’t realize it was a lie until it was already out of his mouth.
“Kip, we are all people of will here. Every man and every woman who wrestles light has tasted godhood. We are all important, or Orholam wouldn’t have given us these tools, wouldn’t have trusted us with these powers.”
“Like he trusted the Color Prince.” The words were out of Kip’s mouth before he could stop them. “I am so sorry, High Lady.” He bowed his head.
“Don’t you see, Kip, the Color Prince’s insanity and grasping for godhood is no counter to what I said. Power is the ultimate test of a man. The more you’re given, the more opportunities for corruption. That many fail the test doesn’t mean Orholam is wrong; it means that men are free. And great souls succeed or fail spectacularly.”
“Like my father,” Kip said.
“Your father most of all.” She hesitated, then waved her secretaries back. They immediately got up and went to stand by the door. One pulled a curtain between them and Kip and the White. Only a Blackguard remained, watching.
And my grandfather, he should have said. It was a perfect segue to address what he had seen. But what did he have to tell her? Andross was a wight, and then he wasn’t? Oh, and I lied to you and the entire Spectrum about what happened on the ship. Kip was pushing his luck as it was. He was like a novice Nine Kings player. On the boat, he’d prepared one move ahead, and the lies he had prepared had worked spectacularly with the Spectrum. But now he was simply playing whatever card came into his hand. The lies made a lattice, the old moves constrained the new ones.
How does Andross do it? Does he remember what lies he’s told every player?
Of course he does. That’s what the Guile memory is for, for him. Here Kip didn’t even know who all the players were. The White liked him, but he didn’t think she would find the lies of a sixteen-year-old amusing or masterful. She was old, and old people want to see young people as refreshingly direct, simple, sweet, and innocent.
He might be holding exactly the card she needed to play against Andross—for theirs was a game going on decades—but Kip couldn’t give it to her.
Baya Niel said, “We can ask her between her other meetings to squeeze you in. It may be a few hours, though. If you’re late to Blackguard training this afternoon, you’ll bear the consequences.”
Kip shrugged. Consequences.
He waited an hour before Baya Niel gestured to him, letting him through. Kip headed to the White’s room, past the Blackguards at the checkpoint and more outside her door. There had been an assassination attempt while Kip had been gone, foiled by the Prism himself, they said. That meant more guards, and more attentive ones. Kip was frisked twice.
When he got into the White’s office, he was surprised by how healthy she looked. She bade him come to stand in front of her desk, and for a long moment she studied him. She had secretaries and messenger slaves attending her while she saw to her daily business overseeing the Chromeria. Kip stood silent; he knew not to speak until spoken to.
“Do you know, I expected you to look more like Gavin. You look more like your grandfather and great-grandfather. Do you know you are exactly what so many of the great families were hoping for, treating their sons and daughters like stallions and mares to be bred for this trait or that? The Blood Wars made people who should have known better act like animals themselves, I’m afraid.”
“High Mistress?”
“Your eyes blue to gather light efficiently, your skin dark to hide when you draft, a muscular frame for war, and of course, above all, always and forever, your ability to draft seven colors. It’s not so simple, of course, to breed humans. And while some traits can be guessed with a fair degree of accuracy, we know not nearly the complexity of ourselves. I’ve never seen a child with blue eyes who didn’t have at least two parents or grandparents with the same, but I’ve seen a girl darker than you who sprang from parents lighter than me. It almost got her mother killed by the father, jealous fool, who still suspected her patrimony until the girl was old enough he could see she had his nose and eyes both. The world is more marvelous than we know, Kip. But you’re here for a reason. What would you have of me?”
“A favor,” Kip said. “Actually, two.”
“I gathered. It’s rare that people come simply for my excellent company.”
“I’m sorry, have I done something to offend? I don’t know the protocol here,” Kip said. He still had a weight on his soul.
She shook her head. “Please, go on.”
“There’s a magister named Kadah. I think she’s requested transfers to other duties. Probably multiple times. Maybe long ago, and she has since given up. I think her transfers were blocked by some enemy of hers. Would you grant her application?”
The White looked pensive. She lifted a hand and gave some rapid set of signals that a secretary understood. A slave quietly hurried out the door. “An odd way to get rid of a magister you don’t like,” the White said.
“It’s not for me. It’s for her. She’s miserable, and she’s bad at her work because of it.”
“I’ll know the truth of it in an hour. I’ll decide then. And the second thing?” the White asked.
I want you to tell me about the Lightbringer, Kip wanted to say. I want you to tell me about the Blinder’s Knife.
“I need a tutor,” he said instead. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I have so much to learn. I’m a full-spectrum polychrome, and I can’t sit in a class where I’m only hearing things that I already know. Much less waste my time butting heads with a jealous magister.”
“You think I can find you a magister who isn’t jealous of a full-spectrum polychrome son of a Prism who’s being given preferential treatment?”
“I was hoping you would do it,” Kip said.
She laughed, truly surprised. “Oh, Kip. I’d forgotten how audacious the young can be.”
“I’m … important,” Kip said.
She liked that less. Her smile faded, died.
“In a very narrow sense, is all I mean,” he continued. He struggled to find words. “My importance isn’t—I shouldn’t be given preference because of who I am. I’m important in that I have a vital function to perform.”
“And that is?” she asked, wary, perturbed.
I am to save my father, he wanted to say. It was a good purpose. Maybe it was even the purpose to which Orholam had called him. But if he said that, he would be lying. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the task is what’s important. I am merely the tool by which it will be accomplished, and I ask you to prepare me for it. My audacity is to serve Orholam without fear, believing he will walk with me through fire.” He wanted to be that certain, thought that he should be that certain, so he didn’t realize it was a lie until it was already out of his mouth.
“Kip, we are all people of will here. Every man and every woman who wrestles light has tasted godhood. We are all important, or Orholam wouldn’t have given us these tools, wouldn’t have trusted us with these powers.”
“Like he trusted the Color Prince.” The words were out of Kip’s mouth before he could stop them. “I am so sorry, High Lady.” He bowed his head.
“Don’t you see, Kip, the Color Prince’s insanity and grasping for godhood is no counter to what I said. Power is the ultimate test of a man. The more you’re given, the more opportunities for corruption. That many fail the test doesn’t mean Orholam is wrong; it means that men are free. And great souls succeed or fail spectacularly.”
“Like my father,” Kip said.
“Your father most of all.” She hesitated, then waved her secretaries back. They immediately got up and went to stand by the door. One pulled a curtain between them and Kip and the White. Only a Blackguard remained, watching.
And my grandfather, he should have said. It was a perfect segue to address what he had seen. But what did he have to tell her? Andross was a wight, and then he wasn’t? Oh, and I lied to you and the entire Spectrum about what happened on the ship. Kip was pushing his luck as it was. He was like a novice Nine Kings player. On the boat, he’d prepared one move ahead, and the lies he had prepared had worked spectacularly with the Spectrum. But now he was simply playing whatever card came into his hand. The lies made a lattice, the old moves constrained the new ones.
How does Andross do it? Does he remember what lies he’s told every player?
Of course he does. That’s what the Guile memory is for, for him. Here Kip didn’t even know who all the players were. The White liked him, but he didn’t think she would find the lies of a sixteen-year-old amusing or masterful. She was old, and old people want to see young people as refreshingly direct, simple, sweet, and innocent.
He might be holding exactly the card she needed to play against Andross—for theirs was a game going on decades—but Kip couldn’t give it to her.
