The Blinding Knife

Chapter 90

“Blackguards die. Death is our companion,” Commander Ironfist said, addressing the scrubs in one of their little training buildings. “Yesterday, one of our own was killed. Lucia.”

The remaining twenty scrubs had been given the night off after Lucia’s death, but they had been told to be here in formation, first thing in the morning, or be kicked out. All had come.

“Lucia had little chance of making it into our company.” The commander paused, letting that sink in. “That’s right. In the harsh light of death, other people lie. Other people lie because they fear death, and fear that when they die, others will speak the truth about them. Our challenge is to live in such a way that the truth is no embarrassment. Lucia wasn’t a great fighter, but she was brave and she was honorable and she didn’t deserve to be murdered by some coward with a musket. We’ll find him. We’re out looking for him now. And when we find him, we’ll kill him. In the meantime, we have work to do. We’re the Blackguard. We always have work to do. Trainer?”

Trainer Fisk came before the class, but Kip looked over to Cruxer. The boy’s face was like iron.

“War will be your teacher,” Trainer Fisk said. “We’re going to war. As some of you may know, the Spectrum has decided to send us to defend Ru. We’ve seen it coming. Now it’s here. We’d planned to have two more weeks of training before we selected the trainees out of your class. Especially after Lucia was killed. But Blackguards don’t stand still. Better we don’t, anyway. The final round of testing is today. I know that some of you might be beat up from fighting yesterday. Sorry. Tough. Your class is down to twenty. Fourteen will become Blackguard trainees.” He paused.

“Those of you who get cut, you can try again next season. And I hope you will. Despite that we’re taking twice as many initiates as we usually do, this has been an unexpectedly fine class. Your odds to pass next time are very good. You’ll be seeded at the top of that class, above the legacies.” He scowled. “Now, all of you, to the grounds, double-time!”

When they arrived, jogging smartly in line, Kip saw that there were perhaps two thousand spectators ready to watch them. Of those, maybe only a third were full Blackguards or Blackguard trainees in the years ahead of Kip’s class. Kip realized that he wasn’t winded from the jog. He was a long way from the physical condition the best students were in, but he was getting stronger. Slowly.

He was also glad that Teia had told him today would probably be the final test. Kip had been able to hide the dagger in the Prism’s training room, so he didn’t have to wear it on his ankle. And no one could get in there.

As always, they took their places, and Trainer Fisk stood before them to give them the rules. “You pick your colors. No spectacles. No weapons. As before, you can challenge three places above you. You win their token, you can challenge again. Those at the bottom get to challenge first. Mercy or unconsciousness, as judged by me. We know you want to win, and that everything is riding on these fights for some of you, but anyone who maims an opponent during testing will be kicked out. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the scrubs said in unison. There was a current in the air, like before a lightning storm. This test separated scrubs from Blackguards. Even if they washed out or got injured before final vows, if they made it through today, they would forever have that rare badge of honor: Blackguard. Those who were slaves who made it through today’s test would have their contracts put in escrow by the Chromeria itself. Nothing would be allowed to interfere with their training until they washed out or stood to take their final vows and had their price paid by the Chromeria itself. The price they commanded would make their masters wealthy, but the sale itself wasn’t voluntary. They would be instantly in a different class. They would, of course, still owe their obedience to the Blackguard, and would serve until retirement. But even a Blackguard slave was a Blackguard. Internally, there was no difference in duties or in privileges: a woman from a hundred generations of nobles like Karris White Oak served on exactly the same schedule as Pan Harl, whose ancestors had been slaves for eight of the last ten generations.

Today was everything.

As Kip and the others walked toward the ring they were each handed a token.

Trainer Fisk said, “If you make it into the Blackguard, you will keep the token you win this week. Whichever token you have at final vows, you will keep with you for life.” Trainer Fisk pulled out a necklace he wore and showed them an old gold token with a four inscribed on it. “Those with the highest numbers will be your lieutenants, initially. Now get in line.”

Kip got in line, an older trainee checking each name against the order list, and giving the top fourteen fighters gold tokens, those below that bronze. On the front of each coin was a number in Parian script with a verse of some ancient text Kip couldn’t read. On the obverse was a fighter, each coin bearing a different etching. But Kip’s coin was bronze, with an etching of a woman with a spinning staff on it and a Parian eighteen on the back.

Raising his voice, Kip said, “Sir, I’m fifteenth place, not eighteenth.”

The entire circle got quiet. Not only the scrubs, but all the other Blackguards and Blackguard trainees. You didn’t contradict a trainer. And indeed, Trainer Fisk’s face darkened.

“You didn’t check the list? Your cadre didn’t finish yesterday. All of you are bumped down three spots.”

“That’s bullshit!” Kip said. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Blackguards guard their tongues.

“You just lost a color for that, son,” Trainer Fisk said. “If you have anything else to say, you’ll forfeit. You want to do that?”

Kip swallowed. Shook his head.

“You’re counting our fight yesterday as a loss?” This time, the voice was Cruxer’s. He came forward. “Did you see how Breaker fought? We made it through everything because of him. We won. There were only good neighborhoods left between where we were and where that bastard murdered Lucia. I’m sorry, sir, but Breaker’s right. That is bullshit. You’re making it nearly impossible-”

“Cruxer! You’re still a scrub, and if you don’t remember your place, so help me, I will bounce your ass out of here right this second,” Trainer Fisk said. “The mission was to bring the money back to the Chromeria. You didn’t do it. No excuses. You failed.”

Kip had never seen Cruxer angry, much less furious, but the boy was now. For a second, Kip thought Cruxer was going to punch Trainer Fisk. A tremor flew through the crowd like a plucked chord on a psantria. Every Blackguard here had been trained to anticipate violence, and every one of them saw the same thing. But Kip stepped forward and put a hand on Cruxer’s arm. “Orholam won’t let injustice long stand, right?” Kip said.

Cruxer was religious. Kip thought using a luxiat’s platitudes might redirect his classmate.

“A fact we all would do well to remember,” Cruxer said. His tone was level, but his eyes didn’t leave Trainer Fisk’s. Then Cruxer turned.

“So, who’s first?” Kip asked quickly. Oil on the waters, Kip, oil smoothing troubled waters.

Trainer Fisk glowered at him, then barked, “Winsen! You’re up! Who do you challenge?”

Winsen was twentieth among the scrubs. Mountain Parian, but without their usual tall, thin build. He had a fair amount of baby fat and was one of the younger scrubs. He was an odd one-sometimes brilliant, sometimes terribly stupid. Teia thought that next year he’d be formidable. This year, though, his odds of making it were terrible. Not someone to be scared of. Kip scowled suddenly, realizing he was describing himself, too.

“Breaker,” the boy said as they walked together toward the hellstone, “I’m going to stand still and try to draft. I’ll fail. Just shoot me hard with one of those green balls of yours, would you? Knock the wind out of me. Get the submission.”

“What?” Kip asked, incredulous.

“Try to make it look good, would you?”

Then Trainer Fisk was there. “Colors?” he asked.

“What?” Kip asked. He felt like he didn’t understand anything.

Trainer Fisk said, “It’s the final fight. Scrubs get access to all their colors; well, minus one for you. It’s important that scrubs learn to deal with good luck and bad in the previous testings, but we want this to be a fair test of your real fighting skill. I know you drafted red that once, but you’ve never declared it.”

“Oh, right!” Kip said. In his talks with Teia, they’d agreed that Kip should keep his polychromacy a secret as long as possible. Of course, if he kept it secret too long, he’d simply lose a fight that he could have won. Ante up and play. “Um, blue and green will be fine. So if I lose one… I’ll keep green.” It was possible that not everyone remembered him using red weeks ago in his fight with Ferkudi, or thought it a fluke, and if Kip kept fighting without other colors, he might confirm that speculation and give himself an edge later.

Winsen and Kip took their places in the dark. They pressed their fingers to the hellstone pillar to make sure they were drained of luxin, though Trainer Fisk didn’t press their fingers down very hard. Then they stepped back, and a few moments later the shutters dropped from the colored crystals overhead and the circle was lit in blue and green spotlights.

Wondering if Winsen was setting him up somehow, Kip nonetheless drafted his trusty green bouncy ball of doom. He really needed to figure out more drafting techniques. He was supposed to be some kind of polychrome, and though the little bit he was doing with Teia and Ironfist had hardly taught him anything new, it was making him better at what he already knew, but he wasn’t sure that would be enough. Strange how in becoming a drafter, it seemed like the last thing he had time to do was Across from him, Winsen had a blue staff forming in his hands. It was almost finished when he lost it. The luxin shimmered and broke apart, leaving Winsen stunned for one second.

The green ball was ready; Kip shot it straight into Winsen’s gut.

The boy was struggling to draft again and Kip’s ball blew through his hands, making him lose whatever he’d been drafting. He woofed and fell down, gasping, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

Kip ran to the boy and put a foot on his neck. A whistle shrieked and a scattering of polite applause greeted Kip’s victory.

Kip helped Winsen stand. The boy hung his head. “Thanks,” he said, though, no sorrow in his tone.

“What the-What was that?” Kip asked.

“Don’t say anything to the trainer,” the boy said quickly. “I’m a slave, Breaker. My owner needs the money he’d get from me making it in. He needs it bad.”

“And?” Kip said. So you throw the match?

“And fuck him.”

The boy might not get another chance to get into the Blackguard.

“Do me a favor, would you?” Winsen said. “Get in. If I lost to a guy who eventually got in, it’s not so bad.”

“Do my best,” Kip promised. “Hey, Winsen? How good are you?”

Winsen grinned. “On a good day? Top five. Light to you, Breaker.”

They parted, Winsen heading toward an aghast, weeping noble. Kip would have felt sorry for the owner if he didn’t know that for some reason Winsen hated the man enough to jeopardize his own future. And Winsen seemed like a good person.

It was a good reminder. Kip thought he was at the center of everything. Everything was about Kip-and there were tragedies and comedies passing right before his eyes that he didn’t even see.

Nineteen was up next, and given that she was directly below Kip, he figured he’d get a rest. Nineteen was a girl named Tufayyur, and she was ranked appropriately, so far as Kip and Teia could guess. So she’d try for sixteen and then thirteen. Getting lucky twice was a lot more likely than getting lucky three or four times.

Kip took his place in the numbered line, starting to plot his own line of challenges. He wished that he had gotten to stand next to Teia, so he could talk it over with her. She understood this all better than he did. But then Tufayyur came to stand in front of him. “I challenge Kip,” she said.

What? Kip looked at her in disbelief and she shrugged. He followed her eyes to who was above him-Barrel and Balder. A flash of understanding illuminated the outlines of something bigger going on, but Kip lost it.

He was the sensible challenge, he supposed. Again. He’d been planning on skipping Barrel and Balder himself. Neither of them should have been placed so low. He thought they should both be in the top fourteen.

But he had to go out to the middle of the ring again. If he lost once, he was out. Just like that.

The crowd didn’t even fall silent for these early fights. Kip couldn’t blame them, watching the worst fighters who won’t even make it in isn’t terribly interesting.

They went to the hellstone, and then took their place. The spotlights came on, blue and green, but Tufayyur wasn’t interested in drafting. She charged. She aimed a kick at the side of Kip’s head and he saw an opening to go for the knee of her other leg with a sharp low kick of his own-but that was a crippling blow. He hesitated. He absorbed her kick instead, his hesitation earning him ringing ears.

She used the opening to punch him in the face twice, light and fast, but enough to stun him.

Kip staggered backward. She hit him in the stomach, kicked for his groin-he barely deflected the latter with a knee but still took the shot in his thigh. She punched for his face again, but he ducked into the blow and her fist smashed against his forehead.

She yelped, but didn’t stop. As he hunched, she threw flurries of blows at him. Then she snagged his arm and went for a submission hold.

Kip rushed into her and they both fell, as graceful as mating turtles.

Tufayyur went for a scissor submission with her legs, but her legs weren’t long enough to get around Kip’s girth and lock easily. Kip rolled on top of her, angling the whole of his body weight onto her torso. He grabbed one of her arms with both of his and then simply lay across her face.

The girl bucked, kicking her feet up to try to roll Kip off of her, but she wasn’t strong enough. With her free hand, she went for Kip’s nuts, but he pressed his hip down, and she wasn’t strong enough to burrow underneath. She jerked, trying to get her hand away, failing.

Then she panicked, unable to breathe, flailing-and the whistle shrilled again.

There was a smattering of applause and laughter as Kip stood and offered her a hand, but she snarled at him and stormed away. “Way to go, fatty!” one of the older Blackguard trainees shouted.

Kip walked back to his spot, already tired, and was surprised to see Commander Ironfist himself waiting for him at the rail.

Oh, thank Orholam. Now that Gavin was back, the commander was going to march in and say, “Breaker is a special case. He’s in, regardless,” and Kip wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of getting his ass beat by fighters who weren’t even going to be in the Blackguard.

As usual, the scrubs leaned in toward him, but the commander gave flat looks to a few and they all melted back. Kip came to stand before him. The commander’s jaw was set and he looked so quietly intense that Kip swallowed.

“You think it’s different because he’s back?” the commander asked, clearly referring to Gavin, but not so much as gesturing toward the tower. Others would be watching. “It’s not. You’re still on your own,” Ironfist said. Then he left.

Kip licked his lips. “Yes, sir.”

And Kip was up next. He looked at the lineup. Some good luck, anyway, right? A tiny bit. He could skip over Barrel and Balder and take on Yugerten at fifteenth place. If anything, Yugerten should have been nineteenth or twentieth. Kip had a good chance, right? Sure.

Taking his challenge token, Kip brought it to Yugerten and set it on the rail in front of the boy, who didn’t look surprised at all.

Kip took his time getting out to the circle, trying to catch his breath. He saw Teia scowling, thinking.

“We got a lot of fights today, Breaker. Get a move on,” Trainer Fisk said.

Yugerten was tall but gangly and awkward, a monochrome blue. The boys took their spots, weighing each other. Then the lights went out-and back on, blue and green.

Kip drafted green as quickly as he could, and Yugerten seemed content to stand back and draft, too. But when Kip shot out a green ball, Yugerten dodged and straightened a moment later, having drafted a pair of t-batons. Kip had never fought with those weapons, but it was clear Yugerten had. With the handles in hand, he swung the batons in a quick circle and brought them to rest along his forearms.

Then the boy came at Kip fast, in order not to give him time to draft anything else.

Kip kicked at his leg, but Yugerten blocked, cracking a t-baton across Kip’s shin, hobbling him. He stepped and punched for Kip’s stomach. The other end of the baton extended beyond his fist, and it stabbed Kip’s stomach hard.

Heaving forward, Kip deflected the follow-up punch and it only grazed his jaw rather than tearing his head off, and Yugerten lost one of the t-batons.

He let it go and punched Kip again. Kip tried to keep his balance and failed; he fell and Yugerten was on top of him in a moment, sitting on his chest, using his remaining baton to choke him.

Kip got one hand in front of his neck, but Yugerten was using both of his hands and all his weight to press down. Kip kept hoping the blue would shatter. Blue wasn’t supposed to be good for this, but it didn’t. He punched with his free hand, caught a shoulder. Punched, glanced off Yugerten’s forehead. Punched, weaker.

The world was turning dark, stars blooming in Kip’s vision. He couldn’t breathe. He was staring into the spotlight He flooded blue luxin around the entirety of Yugerten’s t-baton. He found the seals on the baton and opened them. The baton dissolved suddenly in a small cloud of chalk and resin.

Without the thing he’d been putting all of his weight on, Yugerten pitched forward, straight into Kip’s forehead, and instantly went limp.

Kip rolled the boy off of him and stood.

When Yugerten was revived, there was applause. He’d just been knocked out, but he’d be fine. Kip walked over and grabbed the boy’s challenge token. Still bronze, fifteenth place. This one depicted a man with crossed swords sheathed behind his back, unlimbering both.

Aram was at fourteenth, and was one of the best boys in the class. Tala, a yellow/green bichrome named after the hero of the False Prism’s War, was at thirteen. She wasn’t the greatest fighter, but she was an excellent drafter. Kip hoped she made it in.

That meant Kip had to go for number twelve, Erato, one of Aram’s friends. Erato was actually the worst fighter out of Aram’s friends, quick but unimaginative, so it was strange that she was the highest-ranked.

Kip paled, looked at the places again. If he and Teia had ranked everyone in the class correctly in their conversations, this was all wrong.

“You going to stand there all day, or are you going to challenge someone?” Aram asked. “Please pick me.”

Fighting Aram was suicide, even if Kip did want to wipe that smirk off the boy’s face. No. Kip wasn’t seeing it. He needed a new perspective. The light in between the fights was full-spectrum-and so was Kip, right? He tightened his eyes and drafted superviolet. Superviolet was supposed to be alien, aloof, apart-and arrogant.

Oh shit. Kip forgot that the first time you draft a color, it exerts a lot more control over you. He walked up to Erato and slapped his challenge token down. “Trade you my bronze for your gold,” he said.

Erato laughed at him.

“Colors?” Trainer Fisk asked.

“Green and yellow,” Erato said.

“None,” Kip said.

“What’d you say?” the trainer asked.

“I don’t need any colors to throw out this trash.”

“Ooh-hoo!” Erato said, her eyes gleaming.

“You get a bonus if you’re the one who knocks me out?” Kip asked.

Her face went blank, stricken, for half a moment. Then she said, “What are you talking about?”

“Do you have any idea how much smarter I am than you?” Kip asked.

All emotions but hatred drained out of her face. “I’m going to enjoy this, Breaker.”

They took their places in the middle of the large circle. It was twenty paces across. Stepping out for more than five seconds would result in disqualification. Neither of them had spectacles. They would get pure light from the great colored crystals above the huge underground chamber.

Trainer Fisk examined each of them in turn to make sure they hadn’t already drafted, being more careful now that they were in the fights that mattered. “Eyes, palms.” Satisfied, he stepped back and gestured that the crystals above be covered. He put their fingers on the hellstone, but didn’t press hard enough-as he hadn’t before.

Taking a deep breath, Kip rolled his shoulders, shook his head, loosening up. He took his spot across from her in the darkness.

“And… go!” Trainer Fisk shouted.

The shutters over the crystals dropped open.

Kip charged. He didn’t try to draft the green or the yellow light streaming over him. Instead, he threw one hand forward and shot out the superviolet luxin he’d already drafted, poking Erato in both eyes.

She staggered backward, crying out, holding her eyes, plans blown.

Then Kip, sprinting, jumped straight at her, spearing her stomach with his head. She went down hard, air whooshing out of her lungs.

Landing on top of her, Kip scrambled to his feet and picked up the prostrate girl by the waist of her trousers and her collar, ran her to the edge of the circle, and heaved her out of it.

Kip heard gasps in the crowd, and a few claps. Trainer Fisk counted out the five as Erato struggled to get to her feet and failed, then called it. “Breaker wins! Take Erato to the infirmary. Breaker, you have one minute until your next fight.” He came closer and lowered his voice. “So you can use superviolet now?”

“A little, sir.”

“You know you’re not supposed to pack luxin.”

“Someone taught me to use every advantage and surprise I have.” That someone, of course, was looking at him.

“You got it past me, but it won’t happen again, Breaker. Smart not to declare your polychromacy, but you won’t always get lucky and have opponents use your colors. Hope you’ve got other tricks.”

“Always, sir,” Kip said. Inside, he thought, Me, too. He shook out the last of the superviolet. The arrogance there hadn’t cost him-but it should have. No colors? How stupid was he?

Trainer Fisk said, “Also, never do that spearing thing again. You’ll break your damn neck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Breaker, come here,” Cruxer shouted. He stood at the edge of the circle.

Kip came over.

“You’re not safe yet, you know that, right?”

“I know. I’ve got to win one more.”

“You have a plan?” Cruxer asked.

“Might not be a good one,” Kip said. “I…” He trailed off. He looked again at the placement. He was number twelve now. He had to finish the day at fourteen or better to stay in, but after he fought, everyone below him got to fight next. So if he won one more fight, he was safe, but if he lost this fight, the next fighter would be Balder. From his spot at eighteenth, he would challenge sixteenth, Yugerten, rather than take on his friend Aram at fifteenth. Yugerten had already failed out, so no problem there. Then Balder would take on Tala at fourteen. She was a great drafter, but she wasn’t that fast, not yet. He’d take her out easily, clearing the path.

From there, he could either challenge Kip or skip right past him and challenge eleven.

Maybe he’d even climb higher, but that didn’t matter. The only people who could climb after Balder went were the lower-ranked Aram and Barrel.

All of Barrel’s fights could be against people who’d already lost. And he, too, could skip right past Kip.

Then Aram would go, again only having to fight people who’d already lost until he got past Kip.

If Erato hadn’t bungled and lost to Kip, all four friends would still make it into the Blackguard training.

The more Kip looked at it, the more brilliant it seemed. Aram, Balder, and Barrel all belonged in the top ten. Even Erato was close. One or two of them might easily get unlucky and come to the final testing lower than they deserved, but all of them?

“Kip, you look like you just swallowed a lemon,” Cruxer said.

And all of them, despite finishing low, were in places from which they could still make it into the Blackguard-and without ever being pitted against each other, or against Kip. If they’d made a pact to keep him out and had grouped themselves thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth to make a ceiling beyond which he couldn’t rise, the collusion would have been obvious. But this, this was subtle.

Hell, they’d guaranteed that twentieth and nineteenth places would both challenge Kip, so if he’d been a good boy and lost, they wouldn’t even have had to fight him at all in order to knock him out of contention, and even if he won against nineteen and twenty, he’d be fatigued and easier to beat.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Kip said quietly. “And they don’t even have to touch me.”

“What?” Cruxer asked.

“Cruxer, can I win against nine, or eleven?” Teia was at ten; he wasn’t going to take her on.

“Anything can happen.”

“How about against Aram?” Kip asked.

“No.”

“What happened to ‘anything can happen’?”

“Not anything,” Cruxer said.

“Kip, time’s up,” the trainer said. “Who are you challenging?”

For one mad moment, the green in Kip wanted him to challenge Aram-even though Aram was two spots below him.

That was stupidity. Kip could still be wrong. Or others might lose. It didn’t have to be the way he’d foreseen.

“Kip, challenge me,” Teia said, her tone flat.

He knew instantly what she meant. She’d let him win. He’d get in. It’s who you know, not how good you are. Kip wanted to get in with his whole heart. They were going to bury him. But if he got in by cheating, it would taint everything he ever achieved. He would be no better than Aram and his friends.

And if Kip and Teia got caught cheating-which the trainers always looked for when partners sparred-both of them would get bounced. For him, it would be embarrassing. For Teia, it would be a total disaster.

Yet she’d offered. She was a friend. A real friend. Better than he deserved.

Kip stepped forward and challenged number eleven, Rig.

“Kip!” Teia said.

He ignored her, didn’t look toward her at all even after he got into the ring. He asked for superviolet and blue for his colors. Rig had red and orange, but Kip knew he was finished. Red and orange weren’t helpful in the kind of training fights the Blackguard did, because there was no safe way to light an opponent on fire. The training was naturally biased against Rig, which meant that he could only be ranked so highly because he was a great physical fighter.

It wasn’t until Kip stepped into the ring that he realized an even worse blunder than picking Rig. He should have declared all colors. He had nothing to lose now. The whole point of not declaring the colors was so he could use them on his last fight, and in his rash idiocy and false heroism, he’d blown it. Teia had been trying to tell him-and he’d thought she was going to praise him for his nobility or something.

The whistle blew, and it went just as Kip expected. Rig would dart in and disrupt Kip every time Kip tried to draft, and soon he closed and they grappled. Rig slipped behind Kip, keeping his face down and batting aside every attack Kip tried with blue luxin until Kip was empty. Then Kip did the only thing he could think of: he filled Rig’s mouth and nose with superviolet while imprisoning his hands.

But the boy didn’t panic, didn’t move: he snapped the superviolet with his tongue and teeth and choked Kip out.

And just like that, Kip’s future was out of his own hands. He was twelfth out of fourteen. Rig helped him stand up. “Nice try there, Breaker. Best of luck making it in.”

But Kip knew he’d already lost.