The Broken Eye (28 page)

He couldn’t remember what words he’d summoned. Oratory had become second nature to him. Something about a momentous year, and a heartbreaking one. Something about Orholam’s heaven becoming richer at the price of those who would miss these drafters. Something about special circumstances requiring special action. Some false humility and misdirection.

“I, who serve as your Prism, I covet the time I get with each penitent in Orholam’s presence. These are the holiest moments I know, and for my sake, I have asked Orholam that he not be too harsh a master with me. And Orholam is merciful! He has given me a special dispensation! I will meet with and shrive each penitent to be Freed for as long as necessary, even if it takes three days! The parties here will continue, at my own personal expense, until we have honored our dear drafters appropriately!”

A roar went up at that. Two minutes, to be shrived? After giving up your life for the satrapies? No one had liked it. Not even the luxiats who’d insisted on it. By claiming this special dispensation was for him and his own weakness, Gavin had come across as humble. Everyone knew, or would figure out in the next two days, that meeting for longer with each meant he’d just doubled his own burden, if not more.

But if one is going to be a fraud, one ought to do it well.

He jumped off the stage and headed back inside, past agape managers and slave overseers and luxiats who had just seen the labors required of them also double, the logistical nightmare, the long hours they would have to put in so that Gavin would look good. “Make it so,” Gavin said. “I don’t care how. Do it.”

Inside, he walked past Commander Anamar and toward the next room. He paused at the door and turned back to the frowning Blackguard. “Oh, Commander, I almost forgot.” Gavin had draped invisible superviolet in nets around the commander’s legs as he’d walked down the hall, and now he shot green luxin up and along those nets. The green luxin wrapped around the commander’s knees before he could react. Gavin clenched a fist and the green luxin crushed both of the commander’s knees.

The commander dropped to the floor, admirably without crying out.

Dear Orholam, Gavin had been brash, but it had worked. Now he would have thought through what friends the commander had, who would be offended, whether they would take vengeance—and in the time he would have taken the window for such an action would have closed. Gavin had gotten away with a lot on brute charisma.

“Have your replacement report to me by the time I finish,” he said.

But the dream didn’t end there.

He walked into the little room and shrived an Atashian green, Prayan Navayed, who confessed to cheating her employer, and to sloth in service, and to frequent defiance, and to beating the other slaves unnecessarily harshly.

Then came Jaleh Rodrez. She was a red. Lust, pride, wrath.

Tahlia Blue. Wrath, envy, sabotaging her sister’s marriage.

Khordad Cruzan. A blue/green. Pride. Hatred of most of her family, hatred of her employer, hatred of even Orholam.

Estefania Kamael. A red. Bitterness and hatred.

Nairi Patel. A green. So close to wight she couldn’t articulate anything.

Belit Beraens. A blue. Pride.

Bilit Beraens. Her twin. A blue. Pride. Even proud she’d outlasted her older twin, if only by a few minutes. Gavin didn’t point out that since Belit had been born a few minutes earlier, her dying a bit earlier meant they were really about equal.

Alondra Patel. A superviolet. So close to wight she had to be held down.

Ada Khan. Envy. Fear. She was a mess of tears. Couldn’t find her bravery no matter how Gavin tried to inspire her. The luxiats had to hold her down.

Mahnaz. A red. Already confessed.

Ameretet. A blue. Already confessed.

Pelagia Phloraens. Heresy. Since had renounced it, but still harbored it secretly.

Ihsan the Tailor. Cheating her customers, claiming she’d used magic when she rarely did.

Niga Roe. Spying on her employer, who’d been good to her.

Nin-Ki-Gal Day. Green. Already confessed.

Yiska Thews. A green/yellow. One of the only drafters of Angari descent in the group. Envy. Pride. Disbelief.

And a short break for dinner. More prayers. Gavin didn’t even hear them. Didn’t taste the food in his mouth. Went back to work.

Hagnes. A green. Had gotten roaring drunk during the ceremony, and was too incoherent to confess. Gavin tried to cover all the bases in praying for her before he killed her.

Fidelia Door. A superviolet. Claimed she had no sins. But did have a litany of destroyed relationships. Couldn’t see, even with gentle prodding, that she was the common element in all of them.

Li-Lit Ohwarea. A red/orange/yellow. Had secretly tried to go wight. Admitted she couldn’t figure out the problems.

Mylitta Ali. A red. A warrior who had been captured, her tongue ripped out by a squad of the Blue-Eyed Demons who had served Dazen. She was illiterate, so Gavin had to use sign language and yes-and-no questions to shrive her. She seemed relieved. None of the luxiats she’d visited before had thought of it or had time when she’d attempted to confess to them. Assholes.

Ghila the Mason. A sub-red. Quiet woman. Attacked Gavin when she thought his guard was down.

Please let me wake.

Elpida Bowyer. A yellow. Confessed that she loved her children more than she loved Orholam. And meant it. She thought it a real sin. She had to encourage Gavin to kill her.

Nukimmut Rose. A blue. Said nothing. Eyes full of hatred, watched Gavin all the way. He expected her to attack, but she never did.

Zenana Zenamus. A red. Proudly filled every second of her time with him recounting her sins. There was cruelty, shocking things with animals, torture, cannibalism, numerous murders, blasphemies, defamation of altars with luxiats she’d seduced, anything to sow chaos and horror. “And now,” she said, “since I go to my death shrived, I’ll join Orholam in paradise.” She laughed.

Tahirith. A yellow. Had merely killed her husband who habitually beat her. It was a relief, after Zenana.

Kyriaka Kyraeus. A blue from a noble family. Had joined Dazen’s rebels, and when they lost had bribed slavers to take all of her servants if only they would spare her. Had been looking for her slaves since to redeem them, but ran out of time.

Loida. A red. Had participated in a small massacre in some Atashian village during the war. Didn’t, on the other hand, feel guilty for spraying red luxin into Garriston.

Tsul. A sub-red. She confessed a thousand small cruelties, which she realized sprang from a life of hatred. She’d hated and envied multitudes, and though it had never reached any pinnacle of expression in violence or sabotage, she’d wasted all her years and talents. Said she’d sinned most against Orholam, for wasting the gift he’d given her, life.

Sar-Rat Bibiana. A sub-red. She’d tried to go wight, and had been so heavily sedated that she couldn’t confess.

Shala Smith. A red. Drunk and high on poppy. Couldn’t confess.

Tasmituv. An orange. Lies, she confessed. Always lying and manipulating. Long ago, she’d confessed to a luxiat for cheating on her husband, but still felt guilt for that, too.

Edna. A blue. Said she couldn’t speak her sins, they were so black. Not even to the Prism. No prodding would move her.

Illi Patel. A yellow. Attacked Gavin. Had hidden how much she’d gone wight.

Lemta. A red. Wight. Was bound to the kneeler when Gavin got there. Couldn’t speak.

Meghighda. A blue. Wight. Was bound. Spoke, but couldn’t be understood.

Tamayyurt. A superviolet. Too wounded from the war to speak, burn scars and seeping sores covering her body, but smiled at Gavin, fully aware, refusing the poppy, ready for release. Gavin had taken a full minute after that one, unable to go into the next room.

Parvin. A red. A thief.

Tamazzalt. A blue. Another with a litany of sins, but so outlandish Gavin suspected she was lying, ill in the head.

Dulceana Havid. A young sub-red, and an Atashian-born Ruthgari noble. She’d cheated on her husband with a young noblewoman named Eirene Malargos. Information to be remembered, and the first time of the night Gavin had used his position for selfish ends.

Tamment Tailor. A blue. Simply said, “Envy, lust, hatred, greed, sloth. You’ve got lots to do tonight, so let’s be efficient about this, shall we?”

Tazêllayt. Blue. And Gavin discovered the real reason they’d anointed his body with oil: it made it easier to wipe your skin clean when someone coughed blood all over you. A quick rub at the washbasin that stood between each room, and a quick change of ceremonial clothes that the luxiats kept on hand, and he was on to the next room as if nothing had happened.

Tinsin Khan …

Tinsin Khan he could never remember. He’d even looked her up, afterward. Tinsin Khan, green, of the Floating City, Blood Forest, in service to the satrap’s steward. No memory of her. Something had broken in him when the luxiats had washed the blood from his face and put him in new garments, as if it were commonplace. Had broken his very memory, of which he was so proud.

And now, though he could call up their colors and stories and sins and attitudes if he tried, he saw each one of the drafters differently; he pushed them back, away. They became only a name and a sin to be shrived.

Illi Alexander. Gossip.

Loida Moss. Poisoner.

Tinsin. Rebellious.

Tahlia. Envy.

Bell Sparrow. Seductress.

Li-Li Solaens. Wight.

Xenia Delaen. Wight.

Myla Loros. Wight.

Pelagia Breeze. Spy.

Meghida Talor. Hatred.

Tahirith Khan. Greed.

Edna Wood. Sloth.

Tasmituv. Lust. Was it possible for a woman dying a virgin to have lust be her principal sin? Yes, Gavin learned.

But he soon settled back into the torpor. Jaleh Smith. Incitement to murder.

Nairi Many Waters. Lust.

Lemta. Hatred.

But then even the sins were starting to sound the same. ‘My husband never understood me,’ ‘If only I’d had as much as my neighbor,’ ‘It wasn’t fair that…’ Gavin could paint on a face of full attention, empathy, the same stock phrases, the same words in the same prayers. He could sound so sincere, but he heard his own voice as from down a tunnel. Even with his excellent memory, the penitents became only a name and a single detail. As if it weren’t worth the space to hold a sin for each, unless it was a really good one.

Titrit. A fatty.

A part of him was horrified at himself. A fatty? No, she’d been … a blue. A pious and earnest woman. Fearful but resolute. Quavering voice that made her fat little jowls shake, and utterly … utterly boring.

Alé Aribar. Tried to seduce him to escape. Wasn’t even close to attractive enough to make it tempting.

Dianthe Knoll. Perfect golden hair.

Titaia Cox. Odd warts, all over. Washed his hands twice afterwards.

Hêbê Ali. Claimed a hundred affairs. Ugly as sin.

Melite Melaens. Big hands. Big, big hands.

Agata Mason. How did she get any work done with breasts that big?

Leilah Tree. The grimacer.

Nurit Hex. Birthmark on her face.

Beulah Blue. No eyebrows.

Livnah Smith. Buck teeth.

Naamiy. Kept clearing her throat. Orholam’s balls, would she never stop clearing her throat?

Ora Orestes. Seemed nice. Gray hair. Looked like a grandmother.

Penina Duraens. A coward.

Minu. A drunk.

Ercilia. Wight.

Gilberta Gonzala. Cursed more than any soldier or sailor he’d ever known.

Neva. So skinny she must have some eating illness.

Xenia. Ugly.

Sar-Ra Hesh. Deserter.

Bili Oak. Stumpy.

Khordad Ali. Gorgeous, with a flat affect. Smelled of shit constantly due to what had been done to her when she’d been captured in the war.

Titaia Brown. Farmer.

Elpida. Smelled of fresh sex.

Dianthe … something. Weeper.

Hagnes. Weeper.

Hêbê Brown. Chatterer.

Podarge. Odd name.

Parvin Nyssani. Gavin twisted his wrist when the knife hit a rib.

Ada Gil. Made a funny little ‘eep’ when he stabbed her.

Livnah Elo. Wet herself copiously as she died. Dammit, they were supposed to take them to the toilets a few minutes beforehand to avoid that.

Naamiy Patel. Vomited blood.

Ora Jon. Attacked, badly.

Yiska. Rambler.

Ameretet Ali. Amazing beauty. Tried to seduce him. Gavin actually thought about it until he realized she was simply afraid, and that she would do anything for a few more minutes of life. Even cheat on her husband as her last act, instead of going to Orholam clean.

Ihsan. Mediocre drafter, mediocre looks, mediocre sins.

Ercilia. Died proudly.

Evi Black. Nice name?

Dulcina Dulceana. He didn’t want to remember Dulcina, but he couldn’t forget her. By the time he got to her, he’d been killing for almost nine hours. The drafter in the room was standing, leaning at ease against the kneeler. She was only perhaps sixteen years old. A dark-haired beauty with halos stretched to bursting with red and orange and yellow and green. She smiled at him, a full and innocent smile, neither seductive nor afraid, simply happy to see him. He was instantly smitten.

“Greetings, daughter. May the light always shine upon you. Dulcina, if you would like to—”

“Shh,” she said, touching her lips with a finger. “I’ve already confessed.”

“Then would you like me to lead us in some prayers or songs?”

She shook her head. “My High Lord Prism, you’ve been doing Orholam’s work all day, and will do so all night and through the morrow. Let me give you a gift. The only gift I have. The gift of my five minutes. You may speak or we can be silent. You can Free me first if you prefer solitude, or at the end if you prefer company. As you will.”

He didn’t understand. There had to be some angle, some advantage. It was all she had. It was her last five minutes, whereas to him it would just be another grain in a full hourglass.

There was no angle. There was no deceit in her open eyes. He stared at her for ten seconds, thirty. And then he was furious for no reason he could understand.