The Blinding Knife

Chapter 59

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

Out of time. Out of place.

Dissolving.

As his fingers touched each point, he felt as if a scroll unfurled. Not simply the senses: the five central colors offering sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste, but more. Superviolet and blue came together through his thumb at the bottom left of the card: cities and superstructures, their outlines burning in tight, logical lines, then rising up out of the page, lines of reason, of thought, of history, causality lifting up-and still deeper he plunged.

Green through his forefinger at the top left of the card. Embodiment: the health, the shape of the body that he now knew he would inhabit, but also the bodies around him, the physical presences, the lives-the sick, the weak, the vivacious. Even the flashes of the fishes in the bay, the background light of the life in the waves, and the cool peace emanating from the grasses and the trees of this island. His body in this card was strong, a man in his prime, some aches, though. Perhaps a warrior of some sort? An old back injury, never quite healed. An ankle that he’d rolled a dozen times, always weak. And then, deeper, he felt the strength of his muscles, the grace of a fighter who’d grown up in a dance troupe, felt the dammed-up libido of a man traveling with a woman he desires.

The next finger to touch was his ring finger. Top right corner. Orange. Where green was life, the orange was the connections between the living. Those glowing blue lines of causality, of logic, now came alive. Those lines, without this, were meaningless. Some of those blue structures were the lies he’d told, the foundations he’d placed for falsehoods, false trails, deceptions that made sense to his inquisitors. And now, quite suddenly, the young man had a taste of how dangerous this man was. There was something stunted about him. He’d had a relationship with Niah, that was the woman, he now knew. His partner, a woman he can’t help but eye: admiring, desiring, and hating. He’d coaxed her to bed, once, early on.

She’d said afterward that if he ever touched her again, she’d kill him. Said he’d been too rough-or something.

She just didn’t like to admit how she liked it. Weak in that. Shy. She could fight, though. She’d asked their superiors to be reassigned after their one tryst, but she hadn’t told them why. Too embarrassed, too weak. They’d refused.

He hadn’t touched her since, though. She was good with a dagger, good with a gun, good with a grudge. Still, he couldn’t help but fantasize about tying her up again. Normally, after he’d had a woman once, he lost interest. Not Niah. Maybe this is love, then.

Oh, Orholam help him. The young man was losing himself into the card, already, and he hadn’t even touched all the His little finger, bottom right, sub-red and red at almost the exact same time his middle finger touched the top middle, the yellow.

Whatever disinterested study of the mechanics of the cards and how they connected a drafter to his subject was obliterated in the rush of Vox’s crippled passions and Vox’s single-mindedness. And Vox’s shimmercloak.

I throw my bag over my shoulder and follow Niah down the pier. I hate the rotten seaweed stench of the sea, always have. But it’s good to get off the corvette. Hate ships. If I’d stayed much longer, I would’ve opened that gangrenous captain from groin to gills. The thought puts a smile on my face, as do Niah’s swaying hips in front of me. Niah’s ass could make luxiats curse and eunuchs pop wood. Made up for her face, I suppose.

Niah shifts her own pack on her back and adjusts her belt. She extends a single finger down as she does so. A little token of her appreciation for my appreciation.

I laugh. Niah loves to flirt.

We don’t even clear the taxmen’s station out of the docks before Niah coughs. It’s the signal that she’d been passed her orders. Our superiors always have the orders passed to her. Think she’s better than me, for some reason. It keeps me attached to her, though. Keeps me from hurting her, they think. Like I’d hurt her.

She walks on ahead of me. Doesn’t tell me the message, doesn’t show it to me. It’s in code anyway, a code they haven’t taught me, and that Niah refuses to teach me. Smart woman, sometimes.

I look up at the Chromeria. It fills me with rage and loathing. They kicked me out in my first year, thirteen years old, and over what? A cat.

Who likes cats? Cats aren’t even capable of loving you back. Why had they decided that damned beast was worth more than me? I was a budding green drafter. They couldn’t have known then how special I would be, but who would throw any drafter away over a cat?

Still, that cat taught me something. Taught me to be careful. Invaluable in my occupation. It’s why I’m still alive, twenty years later. My first three partners hadn’t been as careful as I am. I barely recovered Gebalyn’s cloak last time, and wasn’t able to pull it out of the fire before it lost six precious thumb-widths off the hem. That cloak would always have to go to someone as short as Niah now. It was already hard enough to find lightsplitters-now my matron would have to find a short splitter.

Not my problem.

All I hope is that this job hurts the Chromeria. Atirat is far more accepting of my little quirks than Orholam and his Chromeria would ever be. The green goddess doesn’t chain those who love her. Atirat saved me from a life of self-loathing. She gives me freedom, acceptance. These cattle, these chattel, would never know that.

The taxmen don’t stop me, don’t search my bag. Though they have the right to do so, the volume of people who come through is simply too high to effectively stop all of them. They do spot checks instead, pulling people out of the lines and searching for ratweed, for jewels, for saffron, for any items that are small enough and precious enough that individuals could smuggle an untaxed fortune’s worth in their pockets.

Maybe I don’t look the type, though in my experience smugglers do look as bedraggled as I must. My beard needs a fresh oiling at the least. If I can find an Atashian barber, I’ll get the whole beard redone-unbraided, beads removed, combed out, face massage, dyed to cover the patchy gray, then rebraided and tied, with gold beads perhaps instead of the blue glass I have now, maybe some gold wire woven in. Gold wire, that’s how I’ll reward myself for this job, whatever it is.

I catch up with Niah an hour later, after both of us have taken rooms in an inn, separately. There are good operational reasons for doing so, but Niah didn’t mention those when I suggested we save money by sharing a room; she simply said that she’d kill me if I ever came into her room.

Sometimes I think she doesn’t like me much. Good partner, though. Capable, won’t get me killed. In the end, that’s what I care about, although I miss that look on her face when I started asphyxiating her after I tied her up. She panicked, but I knew she’d thank me as soon as she hit the peak. I couldn’t wait to see her terror turn to delirious pleasure.

But she was frigid. Man can’t help that.

I fall in beside her as she buys fruit at the market a block away from the inn. “Nice melons,” I say.

She pretends I haven’t said anything. “I translated the code. You’re not going to believe it.”

I’m much taller than she is, and I stand close, looking down the front of her blouse. “Mm, suspense.”

“You know, Vox, there’s a brothel across the street. You need to go take care of something before we can talk?” Spunky. Like that about her.

I glance back up to her eyes. “You don’t want me to look, don’t show ’em off. I’m free to look; you’re free to cover up. What’s the job?”

She looks around, making sure no one is close enough to listen in. She lowers her voice. “They want us to kill the Witch of the Winds. They want us to kill Janus Borig herself.”

My eyes go dark even as I feel dread shoot down into my stomach. Sound ceases. I’m losing feeling, losing my train of thought. I’m being shot up and out and back.

I hover, suspended between my own body and the body of a fat young man. Ugh, fat, after the glorious utility of my warrior-assassin’s frame, after the grace earned by ten thousand hours of training. I’m sitting in the What the hell?

What was He was back.