The Broken Eye
Page 84
And so it went. Squad Kheth was assigned to shadow a diplomat visiting his mistress on the other side of the city. They were to work in rotations so they weren’t seen, and be ware of the man’s bodyguards, who were mercenaries from the Cloven Shield Company. Squad Zayin was to watch an alley in the slums, and only if a Blackguard inductee came running through the alley were they to do anything—at that point, they were to take whatever it was he or she had and take it to a house in the slums. They didn’t get to know what the item was. Squad Vav was to pick one merchant from one of the prosperous markets. Every member of the squad was to steal something from his stall or store. If they were even noticed—not just caught—they were all to pay him back double, out of their own wages. If they were not caught, they were show their loot to a full Blackguard who would be in the market. Squad He was then to put it all back, again without the merchant noticing.
Squad Daleth was to find the leader of one of the criminal gangs gaining strength among the refugees, and beat up him and his top two lieutenants—and get out without losing anyone to injuries. After they left, Squad Gimel was assigned to take up a position where they could watch. They were to act as reinforcements if it looked like Daleth was in serious trouble. No killing, but anything short of that they would be allowed. If everyone in Squad Daleth swore they hadn’t needed help, those squads would swap rankings.
Squad Beth was set on a fetch-the-item run. Those were the worst. Sometimes they were utterly straightforward, and other times the squad would be attacked by almost anything. It was, of course, a pretty good test for young Blackguards, who never knew when an assassination might be attempted, and had to learn to deal with boredom without losing their edge.
And that left Kip’s squad.
Trainer Fisk grimaced at them. They fully expected to get the hardest assignment. They were the best, after all. “You’ve got a new squaddie. Boy, form up!”
The squad looked at each other as a young mountain Parian came forward. He wasn’t tall, and he had some baby fat, where his people were famed for their lean height. But they all recognized him. It was Winsen. He’d been part of their class, until he failed out, losing to Kip in the final testing—losing, only Kip had known, on purpose to spite his master.
“We get the bump-outs now?” Big Leo asked.
“How come he gets in?” Ferkudi asked. “He came in twentieth. Why not let fifteen through nineteen first? Even those washouts would be better than him, right?”
Kip didn’t point out that he was number fifteen, thanks.
“Breaker was fifteen,” Daelos said.
Thanks.
“Maybe the others were already gone? Recruited elsewhere or shipped home?” Big Leo asked.
“You don’t think the Lightguard recruited ’em, do you?” Ferkudi asked.
“Lightguard,” Big Leo scoffed. “That’s a rumor.”
Cruxer stepped in. “What’s the word, Winsen?”
Winsen shot a look at Kip. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Are you ladies done with your kopi and chat time?” Trainer Fisk demanded.
“Ladies?” Teia complained. “I was the only one not—”
“Are you interrupting me, nunk?!” Trainer Fisk shouted at her. He walked over and got right in her face. She swallowed and shook her head.
“Good! There’s a man spouting heresy on a street corner, calls himself Lord Arias. Ain’t no lord I ever heard of. He’s one block south of Verrosh. Find him, and beat the hell out of him. Not in your Blackguard garb. Regular clothes.”
It was one thing to go beat up the leaders of a gang who were terrorizing the poor and frightened. Some crazy preacher? That was different.
“How many guards does he have?” Cruxer asked.
“None we know of.”
“So why are—I mean, why should it take all of us to beat him up?” Teia asked. Kip could tell she only narrowly avoided asking what she really wanted to ask: why are we beating up someone just for talking?
“It’s an order,” Trainer Fisk said. “You have a problem following orders?”
Chapter 42
“Soul poison,” Orholam said. “You never told me about the soul poison. Why didn’t you tell me about the soul poison?”
“Stop it,” Gavin said. “Stop saying that.”
“Had you not been told it is death and evil and murder? It is eating you, destroying you!” Orholam said, eyes bright with fervor.
The Bitter Cob had made it to the edge of Rath Harbor last night before having to anchor. Once the sun rose, the portmaster would be out to assess taxes and to direct them to a berth. Gavin’s options for escape were rapidly dwindling.
No, that wasn’t true. There had never been many options. Once the portmaster came, Gavin had to go with the man or resign himself to Malargos custody. He would, doubtless, be their “guest.” Without drafting, he would be helpless.
Well, overawing one portmaster. How hard could that be?
Gavin left Orholam and jumped up on the gunwale. He could swim. Sharks and crocodiles swarmed to the carrion that inevitably washed into the waters of a great city—not least of which was the dead people who were disposed of in that old favorite way: tossing them in the river. Fishermen armed with harpoons hunted the sharks and crocodiles in turn, harvesting fins and skin and teeth. It was a rather smaller circle of nature than Gavin was comfortable with. Set against the perennial battle of nature versus man, swimming in a harbor like this was a big bet on the men.
Even if he made it to shore, dripping wet, dirty, emerging from the shoreline muck, he would then have to escape. Without coin sticks, without friends, without drafting. Gavin had been naked before and felt less naked than he felt now. He looked at the tranquil, trashy water below him and realized for the first time that he could drown in that.
Vulnerability sat hand in hand with Mortality. They beckoned Gavin to come.
“Tell me about the black luxin,” Orholam said, quiet, tense. Gavin hadn’t noticed his approach.
Losing my edge, to be startled like that.
“It’s a myth to scare young drafters.”
“You wish to be unflinchingly honest with yourself. Yet here you fail. It must have scared you terribly. Terrified you. Made you piss yourself. Made you run. But there was nowhere to run, was there? Of a sudden, the world was not as you’d believed. Did you see them?”
“Them? I have no—”
“You were a better liar when first Gunner pulled you out of the sea. Or is it especially hard to lie to me?”
“One would hope that it would be especially hard to lie to Orholam, don’t you think?” Gavin said lightly.
“Man’s first recorded words to Orholam were a lie, so no. Men lie to Orholam as readily as they lie to their wives. Show me your hands.”
Gavin got down off the gunwale. The sky was lightening, but there were still few sailors awake. They had privacy. Not that he wanted it. He showed the man his hands.
“Remarkable,” Orholam said. “As our mouths utter both blessings and curses, clean water and foul from the same well, so too your hands. You’ve drafted white luxin, too.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gavin said.
“Hoo-hoo! A puzzle you are indeed! You remember drafting the black, but not the white?!”
Squad Daleth was to find the leader of one of the criminal gangs gaining strength among the refugees, and beat up him and his top two lieutenants—and get out without losing anyone to injuries. After they left, Squad Gimel was assigned to take up a position where they could watch. They were to act as reinforcements if it looked like Daleth was in serious trouble. No killing, but anything short of that they would be allowed. If everyone in Squad Daleth swore they hadn’t needed help, those squads would swap rankings.
Squad Beth was set on a fetch-the-item run. Those were the worst. Sometimes they were utterly straightforward, and other times the squad would be attacked by almost anything. It was, of course, a pretty good test for young Blackguards, who never knew when an assassination might be attempted, and had to learn to deal with boredom without losing their edge.
And that left Kip’s squad.
Trainer Fisk grimaced at them. They fully expected to get the hardest assignment. They were the best, after all. “You’ve got a new squaddie. Boy, form up!”
The squad looked at each other as a young mountain Parian came forward. He wasn’t tall, and he had some baby fat, where his people were famed for their lean height. But they all recognized him. It was Winsen. He’d been part of their class, until he failed out, losing to Kip in the final testing—losing, only Kip had known, on purpose to spite his master.
“We get the bump-outs now?” Big Leo asked.
“How come he gets in?” Ferkudi asked. “He came in twentieth. Why not let fifteen through nineteen first? Even those washouts would be better than him, right?”
Kip didn’t point out that he was number fifteen, thanks.
“Breaker was fifteen,” Daelos said.
Thanks.
“Maybe the others were already gone? Recruited elsewhere or shipped home?” Big Leo asked.
“You don’t think the Lightguard recruited ’em, do you?” Ferkudi asked.
“Lightguard,” Big Leo scoffed. “That’s a rumor.”
Cruxer stepped in. “What’s the word, Winsen?”
Winsen shot a look at Kip. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Are you ladies done with your kopi and chat time?” Trainer Fisk demanded.
“Ladies?” Teia complained. “I was the only one not—”
“Are you interrupting me, nunk?!” Trainer Fisk shouted at her. He walked over and got right in her face. She swallowed and shook her head.
“Good! There’s a man spouting heresy on a street corner, calls himself Lord Arias. Ain’t no lord I ever heard of. He’s one block south of Verrosh. Find him, and beat the hell out of him. Not in your Blackguard garb. Regular clothes.”
It was one thing to go beat up the leaders of a gang who were terrorizing the poor and frightened. Some crazy preacher? That was different.
“How many guards does he have?” Cruxer asked.
“None we know of.”
“So why are—I mean, why should it take all of us to beat him up?” Teia asked. Kip could tell she only narrowly avoided asking what she really wanted to ask: why are we beating up someone just for talking?
“It’s an order,” Trainer Fisk said. “You have a problem following orders?”
Chapter 42
“Soul poison,” Orholam said. “You never told me about the soul poison. Why didn’t you tell me about the soul poison?”
“Stop it,” Gavin said. “Stop saying that.”
“Had you not been told it is death and evil and murder? It is eating you, destroying you!” Orholam said, eyes bright with fervor.
The Bitter Cob had made it to the edge of Rath Harbor last night before having to anchor. Once the sun rose, the portmaster would be out to assess taxes and to direct them to a berth. Gavin’s options for escape were rapidly dwindling.
No, that wasn’t true. There had never been many options. Once the portmaster came, Gavin had to go with the man or resign himself to Malargos custody. He would, doubtless, be their “guest.” Without drafting, he would be helpless.
Well, overawing one portmaster. How hard could that be?
Gavin left Orholam and jumped up on the gunwale. He could swim. Sharks and crocodiles swarmed to the carrion that inevitably washed into the waters of a great city—not least of which was the dead people who were disposed of in that old favorite way: tossing them in the river. Fishermen armed with harpoons hunted the sharks and crocodiles in turn, harvesting fins and skin and teeth. It was a rather smaller circle of nature than Gavin was comfortable with. Set against the perennial battle of nature versus man, swimming in a harbor like this was a big bet on the men.
Even if he made it to shore, dripping wet, dirty, emerging from the shoreline muck, he would then have to escape. Without coin sticks, without friends, without drafting. Gavin had been naked before and felt less naked than he felt now. He looked at the tranquil, trashy water below him and realized for the first time that he could drown in that.
Vulnerability sat hand in hand with Mortality. They beckoned Gavin to come.
“Tell me about the black luxin,” Orholam said, quiet, tense. Gavin hadn’t noticed his approach.
Losing my edge, to be startled like that.
“It’s a myth to scare young drafters.”
“You wish to be unflinchingly honest with yourself. Yet here you fail. It must have scared you terribly. Terrified you. Made you piss yourself. Made you run. But there was nowhere to run, was there? Of a sudden, the world was not as you’d believed. Did you see them?”
“Them? I have no—”
“You were a better liar when first Gunner pulled you out of the sea. Or is it especially hard to lie to me?”
“One would hope that it would be especially hard to lie to Orholam, don’t you think?” Gavin said lightly.
“Man’s first recorded words to Orholam were a lie, so no. Men lie to Orholam as readily as they lie to their wives. Show me your hands.”
Gavin got down off the gunwale. The sky was lightening, but there were still few sailors awake. They had privacy. Not that he wanted it. He showed the man his hands.
“Remarkable,” Orholam said. “As our mouths utter both blessings and curses, clean water and foul from the same well, so too your hands. You’ve drafted white luxin, too.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gavin said.
“Hoo-hoo! A puzzle you are indeed! You remember drafting the black, but not the white?!”
