The Broken Eye
Page 65
The young luxiat looked up. His eye twitched guiltily, like he was reading something he shouldn’t be. It was in some language Kip didn’t know, though, so he had no idea what it was. The young luxiat scowled and said, “You walked past it. Where that huge Blackguard is.”
Huge Blackguard? Commander Ironfist was legitimately famous. People on Big Jasper stopped and stared when they saw him, and not just because he was huge and handsome.
But the Chromeria was an enormous community, and to some, the famous people here were scholars or luxiats—people Kip had barely even seen. This young man would probably be as stunned that Kip couldn’t identify the six High Luxiats as Kip was that this luxiat didn’t know Ironfist. It was a little dose of humility.
Usually I need those more directly.
Anyway, much as Kip wanted to see the genealogies and family histories—how much time and blood had he spent getting access to those? It had been his original purpose in joining the Blackguard—he couldn’t go and sit down by Ironfist, not now. “Black cards,” he found himself saying. It just slipped out.
The young luxiat just looked at him. He looked somehow familiar, but it was probably just that everyone looked the same in those goofy robes.
“The heresy decks,” Kip said. Digging deeper, Kip.
“You young ones. You get access earlier than everyone else, and you still push it.” The young luxiat shook his head. “Those books are in the restricted library.”
“This is the restricted library,” Kip said. “Isn’t it?”
“You think there’s only one?”
“I did until just now.”
“Smarter than you look.”
“Huh?”
“But not by much, apparently.” The luxiat closed his book. He still looked tense. “Sorry. Look, you’re a Blackguard inductee, I can see that. That doesn’t give you access to everything. Heretical materials and forbidden magics are off-limits to everyone except the Colors and those they’ve given special permission. The black cards are black because they’re heretical, ergo…”
“Ergo, books about them are in the heresy section.”
“In the restricted libraries, but close enough.”
Kip saw that this wasn’t going anywhere. More permissions? He’d just been talking to the White. He could have asked her. She would understand his interest in the black cards, at least, but that was no guarantee that she would think he should have access to them. And what was he doing here anyway? Trying to find scandals to destroy Klytos Blue? Who knew if his father even needed that done anymore? Too late, Kip. Again.
Gavin was being held on a pirate ship. Doubtless the pirates would be treating him well—he was the Prism, after all—though Kip figured they’d have to be keeping him blindfolded or something to keep him from ripping them all to pieces with his power. Still, who knew when he would be back?
“What’s your name?” Kip asked.
“Quentin. Sorry. Quentin Naheed.” Nervous type, Quentin was. Seemed to have a hard time looking Kip in the eye. Oh well, scholars.
“Nice to meet you, Quentin. How do I show that I have permission?” Kip asked.
“You’re just going to go get permission?” Quentin asked, smiling as if he thought it was kind of cute that Kip thought it would be so easy.
Kip didn’t answer. Didn’t much like grinning condescension.
Quentin shook his head, giving up. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to one of the librarians’ desks and rummaged through a drawer, making small talk with the woman there. He came back and handed Kip a small square of red parchment.
Kip quickly filled in the relevant blanks, and as Quentin watched him, perplexed, he walked over to Commander Ironfist. “Can you sign this for me, sir?” He handed him the quill, already dipped in ink.
“Breaker, do you know how many ways I could disable you with this quill?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Only if that knowledge is academic rather than experiential, sir.”
The corner of Ironfist’s mouth twitched, but it might have been Kip’s imagination.
“This will make you go away,” Ironfist said. It wasn’t a question.
“Instantly, sir.”
Ironfist signed it, barely glancing at it. “Breaker, fortune favors the bold … but don’t be bold with me again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kip went back to grab his things and ask for directions to the forbidden libraries. Quentin answered, seeming stunned that it had been so easy for him. “Hey, uhm, Quentin, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
“My, uh, my—I can’t believe you just—”
“I know, it’s not fair. Try not to hate me. My family is kind of a bunch of … Well, we’ve got it better than we deserve. Hey, what do you study? Can I grab a book for you while I’m in there that might help you? I couldn’t let you leave the library with it, of course, so I’d have to be here while you used it, but if I can help…”
“That sounds really danger—fantastic! I’d really appreciate that. I, I study all sorts of things. I’m, I’m a polymath.” He blushed. His eyes flicked up to Kip’s, then away, and he spoke in a rush. “Sorry, I’ve been working on getting over false humility, but it’s really—anyway, I’ve studied first-century saints; I’ve memorized everything on Alban and Strang, and their commentaries. Transitional rituals from the time of Karris Shadowblinder. A little on alternate histories. Your eyes are glazing. The memorization of all those commentaries usually gets some res—it’s five volumes—no? Doesn’t matter.”
He’d studied all sorts of things? That sounded potentially useful. “Anything modern? Or is that too danger-fantastic?” Kip smirked, though, to show he was teasing.
“By modern you mean contemporary?” It was a real question, though, and Quentin seemed to forget his awkwardness as their conversation moved to his territory.
“I didn’t realize there was a—”
“Sorry, pedantic. Structures of persistent tribal hierarchies in Abornea? Um, modern martyrs? Kind of thought my own path might take a missional turn for a while there, not to mention martyrical. Temple construction techniques?”
“I don’t suppose you know anything on modern genealogies? Noble families from now and during the False Prism’s War?”
“No.”
“Mm.” It had been too much to hope, Kip figured. Like Orholam would simply send him exactly the one scholar who knew everything he wanted to know. He was more surprised how easily he’d called it the False Prism’s War. Growing up in Tyrea, they’d called it the Prisms’ War. Kip hadn’t chosen to call it the False Prism’s War to fit in; it hadn’t even been a choice. This place was changing him. “You seem familiar. Have we met?” he asked.
Quentin shook his head, blinked, froze, suddenly shy again. What a strange boy. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Please don’t take offense, but I don’t really pay attention to Blackguards.”
That was fair. Kip didn’t think he’d really looked a luxiat in the face in all the time he’d been at the Chromeria. He had a thought. Quentin had said that he’d memorized impressive amounts, and he’d clearly been given permission to study whatever he pleased. That had to be unusual, so he must be highly favored. Perhaps not so unlike Kip—though Quentin had earned what privilege he had. “Tell me, Quentin, you’re probably famous in your circles, right?”
Huge Blackguard? Commander Ironfist was legitimately famous. People on Big Jasper stopped and stared when they saw him, and not just because he was huge and handsome.
But the Chromeria was an enormous community, and to some, the famous people here were scholars or luxiats—people Kip had barely even seen. This young man would probably be as stunned that Kip couldn’t identify the six High Luxiats as Kip was that this luxiat didn’t know Ironfist. It was a little dose of humility.
Usually I need those more directly.
Anyway, much as Kip wanted to see the genealogies and family histories—how much time and blood had he spent getting access to those? It had been his original purpose in joining the Blackguard—he couldn’t go and sit down by Ironfist, not now. “Black cards,” he found himself saying. It just slipped out.
The young luxiat just looked at him. He looked somehow familiar, but it was probably just that everyone looked the same in those goofy robes.
“The heresy decks,” Kip said. Digging deeper, Kip.
“You young ones. You get access earlier than everyone else, and you still push it.” The young luxiat shook his head. “Those books are in the restricted library.”
“This is the restricted library,” Kip said. “Isn’t it?”
“You think there’s only one?”
“I did until just now.”
“Smarter than you look.”
“Huh?”
“But not by much, apparently.” The luxiat closed his book. He still looked tense. “Sorry. Look, you’re a Blackguard inductee, I can see that. That doesn’t give you access to everything. Heretical materials and forbidden magics are off-limits to everyone except the Colors and those they’ve given special permission. The black cards are black because they’re heretical, ergo…”
“Ergo, books about them are in the heresy section.”
“In the restricted libraries, but close enough.”
Kip saw that this wasn’t going anywhere. More permissions? He’d just been talking to the White. He could have asked her. She would understand his interest in the black cards, at least, but that was no guarantee that she would think he should have access to them. And what was he doing here anyway? Trying to find scandals to destroy Klytos Blue? Who knew if his father even needed that done anymore? Too late, Kip. Again.
Gavin was being held on a pirate ship. Doubtless the pirates would be treating him well—he was the Prism, after all—though Kip figured they’d have to be keeping him blindfolded or something to keep him from ripping them all to pieces with his power. Still, who knew when he would be back?
“What’s your name?” Kip asked.
“Quentin. Sorry. Quentin Naheed.” Nervous type, Quentin was. Seemed to have a hard time looking Kip in the eye. Oh well, scholars.
“Nice to meet you, Quentin. How do I show that I have permission?” Kip asked.
“You’re just going to go get permission?” Quentin asked, smiling as if he thought it was kind of cute that Kip thought it would be so easy.
Kip didn’t answer. Didn’t much like grinning condescension.
Quentin shook his head, giving up. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to one of the librarians’ desks and rummaged through a drawer, making small talk with the woman there. He came back and handed Kip a small square of red parchment.
Kip quickly filled in the relevant blanks, and as Quentin watched him, perplexed, he walked over to Commander Ironfist. “Can you sign this for me, sir?” He handed him the quill, already dipped in ink.
“Breaker, do you know how many ways I could disable you with this quill?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Only if that knowledge is academic rather than experiential, sir.”
The corner of Ironfist’s mouth twitched, but it might have been Kip’s imagination.
“This will make you go away,” Ironfist said. It wasn’t a question.
“Instantly, sir.”
Ironfist signed it, barely glancing at it. “Breaker, fortune favors the bold … but don’t be bold with me again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kip went back to grab his things and ask for directions to the forbidden libraries. Quentin answered, seeming stunned that it had been so easy for him. “Hey, uhm, Quentin, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
“My, uh, my—I can’t believe you just—”
“I know, it’s not fair. Try not to hate me. My family is kind of a bunch of … Well, we’ve got it better than we deserve. Hey, what do you study? Can I grab a book for you while I’m in there that might help you? I couldn’t let you leave the library with it, of course, so I’d have to be here while you used it, but if I can help…”
“That sounds really danger—fantastic! I’d really appreciate that. I, I study all sorts of things. I’m, I’m a polymath.” He blushed. His eyes flicked up to Kip’s, then away, and he spoke in a rush. “Sorry, I’ve been working on getting over false humility, but it’s really—anyway, I’ve studied first-century saints; I’ve memorized everything on Alban and Strang, and their commentaries. Transitional rituals from the time of Karris Shadowblinder. A little on alternate histories. Your eyes are glazing. The memorization of all those commentaries usually gets some res—it’s five volumes—no? Doesn’t matter.”
He’d studied all sorts of things? That sounded potentially useful. “Anything modern? Or is that too danger-fantastic?” Kip smirked, though, to show he was teasing.
“By modern you mean contemporary?” It was a real question, though, and Quentin seemed to forget his awkwardness as their conversation moved to his territory.
“I didn’t realize there was a—”
“Sorry, pedantic. Structures of persistent tribal hierarchies in Abornea? Um, modern martyrs? Kind of thought my own path might take a missional turn for a while there, not to mention martyrical. Temple construction techniques?”
“I don’t suppose you know anything on modern genealogies? Noble families from now and during the False Prism’s War?”
“No.”
“Mm.” It had been too much to hope, Kip figured. Like Orholam would simply send him exactly the one scholar who knew everything he wanted to know. He was more surprised how easily he’d called it the False Prism’s War. Growing up in Tyrea, they’d called it the Prisms’ War. Kip hadn’t chosen to call it the False Prism’s War to fit in; it hadn’t even been a choice. This place was changing him. “You seem familiar. Have we met?” he asked.
Quentin shook his head, blinked, froze, suddenly shy again. What a strange boy. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Please don’t take offense, but I don’t really pay attention to Blackguards.”
That was fair. Kip didn’t think he’d really looked a luxiat in the face in all the time he’d been at the Chromeria. He had a thought. Quentin had said that he’d memorized impressive amounts, and he’d clearly been given permission to study whatever he pleased. That had to be unusual, so he must be highly favored. Perhaps not so unlike Kip—though Quentin had earned what privilege he had. “Tell me, Quentin, you’re probably famous in your circles, right?”
