The Broken Eye (106 page)

“Aram,” Kip said. He saw the insignia on the young man’s lapel. “Lieutenant.” Respectful, but not deferring.

And the grief was gone. There was only hatred there, but Kip was unmoved by it, even as the squad bristled at Aram’s open sneer.

Aram said, “Search them. No one may go armed with the Spectrum meeting on this level.”

A Lightguard came forward to search and disarm Kip, and Kip was suddenly tired. They were really going to play this? Again?

“Uh-uh,” he said. He pushed the Lightguard’s hand aside.

With a voice equally tired, bored, and exasperated, Kip said, “I’m a full-spectrum polychrome. This is the best squad among the Blackguard initiates. We
are
weapons. There’s no such thing as disarming us. And we, for our part, are compelled as Blackguards not to let ourselves be disarmed within the Chromeria itself. It goes to the very heart of who we are. We are those who are trusted with weapons here. We make ourselves slaves to earn that trust. So what you’re asking is both pointless for you and impossible for us.” Kip said the words to the man who was approaching him, but they were for Aram, and more than that, for Grinwoody.

“Grinwoody,” Kip said, still bored, not turning his head to look at the slave, and still deliberately using his name in order to offend. “Use that unctuous voice of yours and the authority my grandfather has so mysteriously granted you, and clear this rabble.”

The sour look on Grinwoody’s face was worth a thousand nights in hell. He waved the Lightguards away, and together, the squad walked past.

But then Grinwoody stopped before they got to the council chambers. He put a hand on Kip’s arm. “A moment, young master,” he said.

Kip stopped, suspicious.

“Let me tell you how this is going to go,” Grinwoody said. He didn’t wait for Kip to acquiesce. He kept talking. “Your grandfather will berate you and accuse you of something. You will protest loudly—shouting is good, but not for too long. We need a spectacle, not a fight. And then he will banish you.

“You will then have one hour until the promachos publicly changes his mind and orders you brought in for questioning. Don’t be captured. The girl and a luxiat will meet you at red dock five, where her ship is anchored. Get the wedding taken care of before you leave the island. You understand? It must be done here, publicly, or the deal’s off.”

“Breaker,” Cruxer said, worried, “what is this?”

“It’s survival.”

The squad said nothing. Kip didn’t look back. Blackguards got used to following those they thought were making mistakes or endangering themselves recklessly, and though the squad hadn’t yet taken final vows, they’d still seen the attitude modeled enough times that they could emulate it.

“We go where you go,” Cruxer said. Anyone who didn’t know Cruxer as well as Kip did would have missed the sorrow in his tone. Dear Orholam, it was going to be hard to say goodbye. Maybe it was best this way, though. One farewell at the docks rather than slowly watching the void grow between them and Kip as their duties pulled them inexorably away.

The first Blackguard at the door was Gill Greyling. He’d watched Kip’s interaction with the Lightguards, and he seemed immensely pleased. He gave Kip the kind of salute that was supposed to be reserved for senior officers, then said, “Oops,” unapologetically.

“You’re supposed to go right in,” the other Blackguard said. Kip didn’t know him well. Parian named Kalif, if he remembered right.

Kip thought they were headed for the Spectrum’s council chamber, but instead, this was the Spectrum’s audience chamber. The Blackguards opened the double doors, and Kip found himself staring at several hundred people from the side entrance, with many of them staring back.

One of the High Luxiats was speaking at the front of the room. Everyone was dressed in their best attire for Sun Day, and all the High Luxiats except Selene were in attendance, in ceremonial robes of a particular color or of many. Some high nobles were seated, too, with sons and daughters at the front, in places of honor of some kind. The doors creaked loudly as they opened, and the High Luxiat seemed thrown off his sermon.

From a seat on the dais, Andross Guile stood and hurried toward Kip. He kept his head down as if he were trying not to interrupt, but he moved fast enough that he drew every eye.

As the luxiat began speaking again, Andross reached Kip and motioned furiously for him to go back out into the hall. Kip tried to back up, but with the whole squad and the Blackguards behind him, he didn’t get all the way out into the hall before Andross began. “How dare you show your face here?!” Andross hissed. “I heard what you’ve done!”

“What are you talking about?” Kip demanded.

“Is it that you’re guilty of so many things, you want me to tell you which one I found out about?” Andross said, voice rising. He kept his back carefully to the audience chamber, to maintain the illusion that he didn’t know everyone could overhear them.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Kip said, matching his grandfather in volume. “I haven’t done—”

“You and your squad killed a man! We found him. We found witnesses!”

“What man?” Kip asked.

“In the Six Corners district.”

Kip put a hand to his mouth. Suddenly this wasn’t a game. That was where Teia killed the man who’d been tracking them. He’d thought Andross was going to make something up out of a whole cloth, not convict them of something they really had done.

“There was no evidence that the man was a spy. None!” Andross shouted now. The luxiat in the room behind him had stopped even trying to preach. “Orholam help you, Kip. At best you’re a vigilante, at worst, a murderer.”

“I—”

“What did you think? That I’d shield you because you’re my grandson? No. And I’ve heard what you’ve done with this squad of yours. I don’t know how you turned the best of the Blackguard recruits, but I won’t tolerate anyone making a private army on my watch. What is it you call yourselves? The Mighty?”

Of course they called themselves no such thing. Kip’s head was spinning.

“I didn’t … I wasn’t…” he started to protest.

“Hold!” a voice shouted from the door at the back of the audience chamber. It was Commander Ironfist. It was like watching the axle rattle loose on a carriage. There was nothing Kip could do to stop it. There was no way the commander knew this was prearranged.

The commander was sweating freely, his chest heaving as if he’d run leagues to get here. “Kip was under my authority at all times. High Lord Promachos, there was no—”

“Yes!” Andross Guile interjected, cutting him off. A hint of a grin curled the side of his mouth but disappeared before he turned back toward the chamber, and Kip’s heart sank.

He’d seen that look before. That look was the look Andross gave when Kip had made a mistake playing Nine Kings. It was the look of a child being given an unexpected gift, as if the world stunned him at times with its sheer stupidity. Andross hadn’t planned that Commander Ironfist be here, but he knew what to do now that he was.

“Yes, Ironfist, he was under your command. And your negligence grieves me. You have served long and hard, and I am loath to hold your failures against you, Commander, but you have done your term of service honorably, if poorly in this last year. Commander Ironfist, you are hereby relieved of your command and your commission. You will retire with full honors and stipend, effective immediately.”

Kip felt like he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. One part of him saw the art in the lies, the questions spawned by Andross’s words. People were suddenly wondering, in what ways had Commander Ironfist failed? Many of them knew that Ironfist and Andross Guile hadn’t gotten along, but Andross’s apparent grief at having to relieve Ironfist of command, and the way he seemingly honored the man even as he kicked him out—his very grace in victory made it seem obvious that whatever the conflict had been, it had been Ironfist’s fault.

Ironfist looked gutted. He seemed like he didn’t even know where to look, glancing from Andross Guile to Kip, even at Grinwoody.

Kip wanted to throw up. He wanted to kill Andross Guile.

“And you, Kip,” Andross said. He turned, as if suddenly aware of how public this had become. “Everyone, I’m terribly sorry you had to see this. Kip, I will not shield you because you are family. The evidence, though far from certain, is quite suggestive. Kip, you’re expelled from the Chromeria, expelled from the Blackguard, and exiled from the Jaspers. Effective immediately. If any of your
Mighty
go with you, they, too, are expelled and exiled. Begone, grandson.”

“I—”

“Begone! Before I change my mind! Out!” he roared.

Kip trembled with rage. Not for himself, but that he’d let Ironfist get caught up in this. And suddenly, Gill Greyling and Kalif were very close behind him.

To protect Andross Guile against
him
.

No, no. Not like this.

In a daze, Kip went out. The squad and even Commander Ironfist went out with him. The double doors closed, but before anyone could say anything, they opened once more, and Andross poked his head out. “Commander,” he said quietly. “I know how your Blackguards love you. If you lead a rebellion, I bet half would join you. So it’s your decision: is that what you want for either half of the Blackguard? Afterward, I’ll disband them. You’ll have
ended
your precious Blackguard.”

Then Andross disappeared back into the room. The doors closed after him.

Kip looked at Ironfist’s face, and was afraid. The huge warrior trembled with rage, his fists clenched hard at his sides. Kip never precisely forgot that Ironfist was huge and tall and perhaps the best fighter he would ever meet, but being reminded of it like this was something else altogether. He heard Ironfist breathing: in on a four count, hold for a four count, out for a four count, empty for a four count. It was the very calming technique he’d taught them to moderate the battle juice or to steady rage.

The commander turned to Kip. “So she’s dead, then?” His voice was controlled. He meant the White.

“By now. We saw her not ten minutes ago. She was passing quickly.” Kip wanted to say more, but the other Blackguards were still in the hall.

Ironfist started walking toward the lift, and they fell in behind him naturally.

“Well, who looks like whipped puppies?” Aram said as they passed the Lightguard checkpoint. He laughed noisily.

Following Ironfist’s example, Kip did nothing. Aram would expect him to attack. Kip did nothing, and Aram turned, laughing at him.

After Kip was past him, he heard the clong of helmet on stone, and the laughter abruptly stopped.

Kip glanced back, but the squad hadn’t even broken stride. Aram was tottering, eyes unfocused, his helmet pushed forward over his eyebrows. The wall behind his head was scratched, as if from a helmet striking it. He sat heavily. His Lightguard compatriots were looking at him, puzzled. Kip looked forward, so as not to draw more attention.

They got to the lift, and Ironfist, who had never turned, said, “Thank you, Big Leo.”

Kip looked up at his squadmate, but the hulking young man kept looking forward, a slight, smug grin on his face.

They had to wait for the lift to arrive, and when it did, Karris was on it with two slaves. She was dabbing her flushed face with a handkerchief as if she, too, had been running, as one of the slaves tried to wrestle her long dark hair into some order, and the other, scandalized, was still lacing up the back of Karris’s dress.

Karris and her slaves stepped off the lift. “What happened?” Karris asked. “Do they know?”

“No,” Ironfist said. “The promachos just stripped me of my commission.”

“What?!” Karris asked. “We were only apart for—”

“You need to go in there. Learn what you can,” Ironfist said. “Tell them when it’s time. It’s what the White would have wanted.”

“So she’s dead.” Karris’s face twisted with grief, rapidly pushed down.

“Don’t let it make you stupid. Go. We’ll meet later,” Ironfist said.

Karris looked around as if there was more she wanted to say, but that she thought spies would overhear. “Tell Kip,” she said. Then she looked at Kip, but didn’t seem to know what to say. She reached a hand out and touched Kip’s shoulder awkwardly, as if trying to apologize for their last encounter. But there wasn’t time. Then one of her slaves dabbed one last bit of powder on her face, and Karris was off.

She waved off her slaves and glided right through the Lightguard checkpoint. Aram was still seated, holding his head. The other Lightguards looked unnerved.

“You’re not going to touch me,” Karris announced, looking right past them, head held high, the force of her personality preceding her small figure like a wave. “You’re not even going to speak to me.”

They didn’t.

Chapter 91

Zymun was seated with his grandfather on the dais, where he belonged. For now. The crown of the Prism-elect on his forehead was a welcome weight. But he’d hoped for more. Prism-elect? Why was he not simply the Prism?

It was his grandfather’s work, of course. The old man was keeping a leash on him. Zymun would make him pay, eventually. He was already irritated that the High Luxiat was the center of attention, droning on and on. Zymun had feigned respectful deference for some interminable length of time, but the luxiat simply wouldn’t shut up. So now Zymun was looking out at the assorted nobles and deciding which women he would bed.

Women afforded such drama; he loved it. The hunt was a thing of beauty. An avalanche of words and your full attention, watching always to see what flattery worked best, feeling out the weak points, returning to them often. Unrelenting attention, pretending she was the center of your world.

Then the lovemaking. First sweet and passionate, animal desire and total focus. And then, once you had them, indifference interspersed with total focus. Apologies, little gifts, confusion, and more lovemaking, degrading now.

That was, perhaps, the sweetest part. To watch a woman fall in love and to see in her eyes that she knew she shouldn’t and yet she was.

From there, it was merely a matter of completing the destruction. Fighting, making up, slapping, apologizing, cheating, first stealthily and then getting caught on purpose, apologizing, degrading, stealing and blame shifting, then acquiring whatever blackmail you needed to make sure that when you cast her off she stayed gone. Sometimes with whole weeks of sweetness mixed in. And when they were wrung out, poor, humiliated, self-hating, and ruined, he would move on, perhaps to her friends.