The Blinding Knife

Chapter 17

At dinner, Kip took his food and sat at the end of a long table by himself. You can’t get rejected if you don’t try to fit in.

Adrasteia came over and sat across from him. “I’m supposed to spy on you,” she said.

“Um, good sausage?” Kip said.

“It’s not bad. You should see what the full Blackguards get.”

“Good?” Kip asked.

“Fantastic,” she said. She picked at her food. “I’m serious.”

“You really love food, huh?” Kip asked.

“I meant about the spying, sheep-for-brains.”

“I know.” Sheep for brains? After the time he’d just spent with sailors and soldiers, it was insufferably cute to hear someone swear with euphemisms.

“Oh.” She flushed. Looked down at her food.

“Why does anyone want to spy on me?” Kip asked.

“You’re a Guile.” She shrugged as if that explained everything. Kip supposed it did.

“Who are you spying for?” Kip asked.

“My sponsor, of course.”

“Well, I sort of figured.” Kip had had no idea. “But who’s your sponsor?”

“That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?” she said.

“You’re spying on me, but I don’t get to ask slightly personal questions?” Kip asked, incredulous.

She laughed. “It’s not really a personal question, Kip. I was just testing you.”

Oh, and I failed.

“So does that mean you’re going to tell me?” he asked, bullish.

“Tell you what?” Playing dumb.

“You are really impossible, aren’t you?” Kip asked.

She grinned. “Lady Lucretia Verangheti of the Smussato Veranghetis is my sponsor.”

“You’re from Ilyta? You don’t look Ilytian. Plus, I thought the Ilytians don’t like drafting. Heretics and all.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You just say the first thing that pops into your head, don’t you?”

“I’m getting better,” Kip said. What had he done?

“ This is the better?”

Maybe I’ll just shut my fat face for the rest of my life. Kip slowly cut off another piece of sausage. His fingers were healing, so gripping wasn’t very painful. Stretching, however, was murder. Of course, using his hands to fight with hadn’t made anything better. “Tell you what,” he said. “How about you tell me about you- and that way I can spend a few seconds not getting myself into trouble?”

“What’s there to tell?” Adrasteia said. She hadn’t eaten a bite of her dinner yet. “Father’s a merchant sailor. Does the spice/silk circuit when he can. Gone more often than not. Mother’s a brewer in Odess. She wanted me to take over the stills. Instead, here I am.”

“Isn’t Odess in Abornea?” Kip asked. His mother hadn’t taught him much about geography, but he did know that Abornea and Ilyta were different satrapies.

“Head of the Narrows, one of the biggest cities in the world.”

“So how come your sponsor is Ilytian?”

“Because she’s the one who bought me last.”

Bought? Kip tried not to let his surprise show.

She tapped the top of her ear. It was snipped vertically and cauterized. “You not see this?” she said.

“Oh!” he said. She was a slave-and he was stupid.

But she didn’t mock him. She said, “They like to say that among the Chromeria’s pupils, there is no slave and no free. They like to say all sorts of things, of course, but if you can make it into the Blackguard, it’s actually true.” She didn’t say it bitterly, though. She shrugged. Who you were mattered here, and there was no getting around it.

“So that’s why you’re trying to get into the Blackguard?”

“You’re joking, right?” she asked.

Kip’s look must have been enough. She sighed.

“Do you know why almost everyone in our training group is older than you, Kip?”

“Do you see this blank look on my face? Assume it applies for everything,” Kip said.

She grinned for a moment. “Getting a spot in the Blackguard is the most coveted appointment most of us can dream of. In our training group alone, there are four legacies: children of Blackguards. Cruxer, Rig, Aram, and Tana. I can guarantee you that all of them have been training in martial arts since they could walk. If you’re a slave and you test in, you’re freed-though you do have to swear your service to the Blackguard. If you’re the owner of that slave, the Chromeria pays you a fortune for the transfer of your property. The Veranghetis have placed dozens of Blackguards over the years. It’s one of their more lucrative businesses. I came in a little sideways. The family that owned me had a daughter who was my age. They wanted her to be able to defend herself. I was trained with her, so she’d have a sparring partner. When they realized I might be able to draft, they sold me to Lady Verangheti. She had me train for the last year, all day, every day, with a variety of top masters, so that I might make it in.”

A whole life, spent as property, spent training for this? “So you’re telling me I shouldn’t feel bad for getting beat up by a girl.”

“Watch it, chunky.”

He grinned a moment late, not realizing right away that she was teasing.

Her face fell. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t-I didn’t realize you were sensit-I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

There was a sticky silence.

“I heard you almost passed the Threshing,” she said.

“Almost.” Kip Almost. Another reminder of failure. But she’d clearly meant well. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve got one special talent.”

“What’s that?”

Kip lowered his voice. “It’s a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Highly valuable.”

“All right,” she said, leaning close.

He looked left and right, as if nervous. “Plate cleaning,” he whispered.

Pure puzzlement. He could see her thinking, Did I hear him right? He gestured to his empty plate.

She laughed. “That one is going right to my sponsor!”

She was cute. Damn she was cute. Her smile punched right through Kip’s chest and stirred that same stupid, awful, ridiculous place that Liv had. Kip sighed. “I know you’re just being nice to me because you’ve been ordered to, but I like you.”

Something died in her eyes. She looked away. He saw a wave of suppressed emotion crest in her lips, which went through about four expressions in a second. She blinked rapidly. Stood up and left without a word.

So, Kip, sweetie, how was your first day?

I made my teacher hate me; I got slapped by an old man and beat up by a little girl; I told my class that you were a whore; I destroyed someone’s dream of joining the Blackguard; and I made a nice girl cry. Other than that, great!

And my hand hurts. He pushed it against the tabletop, trying to straighten it like he was supposed to be doing all the time. It took his breath away. He stopped immediately. Breathed. Had to concentrate so tears didn’t leak out.

Kip got up and walked out of the hall. His Blackguard followed him. The man was tall and skinny, his irises haloed in red behind square-lensed red spectacles, pistol tucked behind his back, ataghan on one hip, katar on the other. He wasn’t one of the Blackguards who’d been to Tyrea.

It wasn’t even dark when Kip got to the barracks. He didn’t care. He crashed into his bed, not even pulling the blanket over himself. He was finished.

But the day wasn’t finished with him.

Something jabbed him. “What are you doing in my bed?” a voice demanded.

Really?

Kip didn’t even open his eyes. “I’m farting in it to warm it up for you.”

“Get out.” This time whoever it was punched Kip in the shoulder. It didn’t hurt much. Kip was looking through slit eyes and saw the movement toward himself and had braced for it. “I want to sleep in this bed tonight.”

“It’s a bit small, but I guess we can cuddle,” Kip said, sitting up.

The bully was big but doughy-looking. One of those boys who gets his height and weight early, and doesn’t really notice when everyone else catches up with him.

“Out of my bed, fatty,” the bully said.

Kip rubbed his eyes. The other boys in the barracks were watching, pretending to be readying their bunks, stripping off their tunics. “Problem with being a bully,” Kip said. “You never know how tough the new boy is. Bet it scares you a little, doesn’t it?”

“What? Get out, fatty!”

Kip stood up wearily. The bully had short-cropped brown hair, a heavy jaw, big nose, chubby, but a big frame. “You think I’ve never seen a bully before? That I’ve never been bullied? We both know how this goes: I’m going to draw a line-like, ‘Don’t hit me.’ And then, because you’re a bully, you’re going to have to hit me. And then…”

Or I can sidestep all that nonsense.

Kip punched the bully in the nose as hard as he could-and actually connected. A most satisfying pop. The bully went down hard, stunned. Blood gave him the mustache and beard that age hadn’t yet.

“What’s your name?” Kip asked the boy at his feet.

“Erio,” the boy said, plugging his nose, still stunned. He got up on all fours, or all threes actually, since one hand was occupied.

“Elio?”

Elio started to stand. “I am going to kill you, you little-” Fighting manners dictated that Kip let him stand before they fought.

Kip slugged the boy in the face, knocking him sprawling. He jumped on top of Elio, squashing the breath out of him and trapping his arm in a wristlock. He sat on the boy.

Abruptly, Kip was cold, in control.

Elio said, “I’m going to kick your ass, you little puke. I’m going to make you regret the day you were born.” Apparently he’d recovered from his shock, then. “Let go of my arm!”

Elio jerked and jumped, trying to throw Kip off, but Kip merely ground forward until the boy cried out and stopped fighting. He knew wristlocks well, though it had always been from the other side. Back home, Ramir used to grind Kip’s face in the ground, make him cry, furious, humiliated. Made him kiss the dirt and say nasty things for his amusement before he’d let him get up.

The bully didn’t stop: “I’m going to kill you, you fat little bastard. You can’t hold me forever, and once I get out, you’re going to have to watch your back. I’ll be there. I’ll be waiting for you, and you won’t get off with a sucker punch next time.”

Kip realized suddenly that he was riding a tiger. There was no winning here. He was in a position of power, so he’d look the bad guy if he used it to his advantage. The normal course of things now was that he would give Elio an ultimatum, like Take it back! or something similarly stupid. Elio would refuse, and Kip would be stuck. If Kip let him get up, Elio would come back tomorrow-and he probably would beat the snot out of Kip. If Kip tortured Elio by grinding his arm, it wouldn’t do permanent damage, but many of the boys wouldn’t know that, and even if Elio submitted, Kip would look like a cruel bastard to everyone in the barracks. Or worse, someone would interfere before Elio submitted, and Kip would look cruel and weak.

Stalling, Kip said, “Elio, I might not look it, but I’m tougher than you, I’m meaner than you, I’m smarter than you, and I will always go further than you dare.”

“Save it, shit-eater,” Elio said, sensing weakness in Kip’s hesitation. “Oww! Start begging now, you little bitch.”

Kip was suddenly so tired of it all. What had Ironfist said: ‘The winning is just the beginning’?

“Elio, I was going to give you one more chance to take it back. But you’re not going to take anything back. You’re too damn stupid, and I’m too tired to keep playing this game. But I want you to remember something after you go to the infirmary: this is me being merciful.”

Still holding Elio’s wrist in the wristlock, Kip brought his left forearm down sharply with his weight behind it.

Elio’s arm broke with a crunch. Everyone gasped. A bit of bloody bone speared through the skin. Elio screamed. It was a high-pitched sound. Not what you would have guessed the boy would sound like at all.

Kip got off. As forty boys watched, wide-eyed, Elio crawled away, bleeding, weeping. He stood and lurched out of the barracks, cradling his broken arm. None of the boys helped him. No one in authority ever came.

As Elio careened out of the door, Kip saw that his Blackguard-the slim, tall young man-was standing in the dark corner, leaning against the wall. He’d watched everything, no doubt ready to move if Kip’s life were in danger. Other than that, he wouldn’t interfere. He just watched, eyes glittering, face blank.

With feigned nonchalance, Kip lay back down in his bed and pretended to go back to sleep instantly. Just leave me alone. He turned his back toward the boys who were whispering to each other, amazed, repeating the story that didn’t need repeating. They’d all seen it.

Kip’s sleep was a lie. Eventually the boys snuffed their candles. In the darkness, Kip relived the battle at Garriston.

The man he’d thrown into the campfire, skin tearing off his face like chicken sticking to a pan. The eyes of men, faces contorted with fury, trying to kill Kip, hefting weapons as Kip fell through the gap in the wall. Fell, fell. Feet kicking at him from a hundred sides.

The taste of gunpowder in the air.

The joy of sweeping a blade into a man, his flesh parting, the blade winning free of his flesh, liberating blood and soul.

Surrounded by soldiers, matchlocks coming up. Kip shooting their own musket balls in their faces.

An eyeball, blue as the sea, sitting on a paving stone, the head it had been blown out of nowhere to be found. Staring at Kip, staring. Accusing. Killer.

What have you done?

He remembered losing fights to Ramir, the village bully. They’d thought Ramir was going to be pressed into King Garadul’s army. Kip had killed soldiers-boys-no older than Ramir at Garriston. Boys who’d probably been pressed into service. Innocents doing guilty work.

He’d thought he wanted to kill Ramir, sometimes, back when he was a boy. Back when he didn’t know what it meant. Back when he didn’t know how easy it was.

What kind of monster have I become?