The Blinding Knife

Chapter 27

The Blackguard training went about how Kip expected: a lot of running (not very fast), a lot of jumping (not very high), a lot of punching in time (not very timely), a lot of push-ups and sit-ups (not a lot). The vomiting, however, was a surprise. Not a pleasant one.

He stood, bent over, by one of the chalk lines, his whole body hot and cold and flushed. He felt like he was going to die.

“The good news is that this is as bad as it gets,” a familiar voice said.

Kip could barely lift his eyes from Ironfist’s shoes. He was purely focused on breathing. In, out.

“If you want it to stop, Kip, it can.”

Kip spat, trying to clear the acrid sludge from his mouth. It didn’t work. It seemed to cling to every crack and crevice. “What?”

“If you hate this. If you think it’s pointless, you can quit. In fact, I’ve been asked to cut you.”

“Cut me?” Kip’s brain wasn’t working very well.

“The Red is demanding that you be cut from the Blackguard. He cast aspersions on whether you would have been selected if you weren’t… if the Prism hadn’t requested it.”

Which was, of course, true.

So Commander Ironfist was caught between what the Prism had asked him to do and what the Red was demanding now-but Andross Guile was here, and Gavin Guile wasn’t.

“I guess my meeting with him went even worse than I thought, huh?” Kip said.

“You’re a couple years before you can play those games with these people, Kip. Don’t worry why they’re doing what they’re doing. It probably has nothing to do with you anyway. What you need to do is figure out you. Do you want to quit, or do you want to stay?”

Kip straightened up. Teia handed him a cup of water. She’d heard everything, but her eyes were a cipher. Kip’s arm felt wobbly even as he lifted the water to his lips. He swished. Spat it aside.

He was the worst person in the class. Of forty-nine people, he did the fewest push-ups. He ran the slowest. He finished last. He couldn’t do a single pull-up. If he stayed, he would probably vomit every day. Every week, he would get his ass kicked more times than he could count. Every month, he’d get beat up in the testing, probably many times.

It wasn’t even a fair contest: his left hand was still injured, raw, tight, painful to fully open, agony to put pressure on.

His father had put him in this position, against the express wishes of Ironfist, expecting Kip not to be good enough to make the cut on his own. Expecting him to fail. And now his grandfather wanted to destroy him.

“Am I even going to be able to stay at the Chromeria?” Kip asked. “If I’m not a Guile, I don’t have a sponsor, do I?”

A brief, satisfied smile flickered over Ironfist’s face. “The funds had already been transferred to your account. Your tuition is fully paid. And believe me, once the money goes in, the abacus jockeys over there don’t let it go out.”

The funds had already been transferred. Past tense. So Kip’s grandfather had tried to go after them, but had been foiled. And the quick smile meant Ironfist had done that-and was pleased to have stymied Andross Guile in this one small thing.

“But the situation is worse than that,” Ironfist said. “From here on out, it’s all you. You understand?”

Kip understood. Ironfist was being delicate because Teia was standing right there. He wouldn’t help Kip. Couldn’t stack the odds for him. If Kip got in to the Blackguard, he’d have to get in on his own. It was impossible.

And yet freeing. If Kip did this, he’d do it on his own. Not because of his father, but on his own merit.

So, it comes to this: an easy life as a student who doesn’t even need a sponsor, or a terrifically hard life as the worst of the scrubs, and a slim chance to actually make it into the Blackguard on my own and be something.

“Fuck ’em,” Kip said. “I’m staying.”

“Good,” Ironfist said. A fierce pleasure filled his eyes. He took a deep breath that expanded his giant chest and brought his massive shoulders proudly back. “Good. Now, five laps. Blackguards guard their tongues, too.” Suddenly he was back in command, sharp and stern and all professionalism.

“F-five?”

The commander said, “Don’t make me repeat myself. Adrasteia, you, too. Partner runs, you run.”