The Broken Eye (64 page)

“I’m right,” he said. “Last time I was worrying about when Gavin would show up and save the day, I turned around and he was standing right there. Scared a stain right into my pants.”

“Kip! Ew!”

“I was wondering,” Kip said to distract her. “Why do you always call me Kip?”

“Because I’m not a Blackguard anymore?” she asked. She did this sometimes, making him dig deeper.

“It’s not that. Some of the others use Breaker for me, too.”

“Breaker’s your warrior name.”

“You teach me how to fight as much as anyone. Even my book learning with you is focused on fighting strategy and histories of battles.”

Karris went to a weapons bucket, carefully freeing a long, narrow, flexible staff with crescent-shaped blades on each end. She balanced it across her shoulder and stooped, digging through another barrel of nubs and guards. She found what she was looking for and fastened a hard wooden guard with a sponge projecting on each end. Pensive, she said, “We put on a face when we go into battle. You can forget Kip for a time and become Breaker when musket balls are whistling past your ears and your throat burns with the black smoke, and the luxin rage and battle rage join in you. But you’re still Kip. Inside, somewhere, even in that moment, you’re still you. Some warriors want to throw away the other man trembling within them and become only a warrior. It can be done for a time.

“But the other man always comes back, and if he’s been shut in a closet somewhere, unable to grow and learn and come to accept what the warrior does and what the warrior loves, then both of them will be cripples in peace and in war. If you despise your own frailty, rather than come to peace with it, you’ll not only hate yourself, you’ll hate everyone who’s frail. A good commander knows the strength of his men and pushes them to the edge of it, but not over. A good man knows his own strength and does the same.” She smiled. “Of course, at your age, you like to think your limits are both a lot greater and a lot narrower than they actually are.”

“And at yours, you like to think the converse?” Kip said. He wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but it seemed witty.

Instead, Karris’s mouth tightened, her eyes narrowed, and her voice went chilly. “You’re calling me old?”

Kip gaped. “I—I…”

She grinned.

“Ah hell. Got me again.”

“Watch your mouth, young man, or I’ll wash it out with soap.”

“That was only my second!” Kip complained. She said he could say hell twice a day, no more. Blackguards guard their tongues, and all that.

“I distinctly counted three,” Karris said.

Kip glowered. Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said sternly. “And quit it.”

Hell, hell, hell. Kip smiled.

“I heard that, too. You always smile when you’re being secretly defiant.”

I do? I do not!

“Yes, you do,” she said.

“Now you’re just guessing,” Kip said.

She shrugged. “If that makes you feel better…”

He grinned, but then got pensive. They were both skipping a ceremony. “So … this Feast of Waxing Light. What are they doing? I mean, without Gavin, what is there to do?”

It had been almost six months since the autumnal equinox that had seen a sea demon and a whale do battle for the Chromeria, or for the Cerulean Sea. Six months of war grinding its gears slowly through the winter, shipping made difficult with heavy seas and torrential downpours, and ships lost and caravans delayed and stalling actions as the Color Prince pushed into Blood Forest. But the dry season was here, and all the satrapies knew that meant more war.

“First there’s a procession in honor of your grandfather, the promachos. Some fireworks. Some martial demonstrations. Given that there’s a war to spend money on, it will be a much-diminished thing.”

“What isn’t, these days?” Kip asked.

She shook her head. “Was I a know-it-all like you when I was young? Don’t answer that.”

“Do I have to go?” Kip asked.

“You don’t want to? Even diminished, it will be a bigger party than you’ve ever seen.”

“I’d rather learn things that might save my life than eat cakes and candies.”

She gave him a dubious look.

“Depends on the cake.”

“Chocolate?”

“That would be worth dying for,” Kip said.

“Can’t get chocolate worth the name since we lost northern Atash,” she said.

“Thus me, here.”

Karris grinned. “Today, I’ll show you the
sharana ru
, the tygre striper.” She hefted the flexible spear in her hands, and spun it easily. “The sharana ru is said to be carved from sea demon bone. It doesn’t work the way other materials work. Note.” She spun the flexible shaft, and stopped it with an arm. The shaft bent around it like jelly, more flexible than a green branch. It sprang back suddenly.

“Excellent,” Kip said. With his slowly growing knowledge of weapons, he guessed that the sharana ru would be a difficult weapon to master, but would then be terribly effective because it would move with surprising speed when used properly. Still, an odd weapon. How fragile was it to get that springiness? Could it parry a sword?

“You haven’t seen the half of it,” Karris said.

“And what’s the half of it?” Kip asked.

She looked like she’d been about to tell him, until his big mouth said that.

“Let’s let you find out the hard way,” she said.

“Oh, goodie,” he said. He scowled, though he deserved it for acting wise with her.

“Fencing,” she said. “Let’s see that yellow. Five, four…”

Kip drew in a bit of superviolet and then shot it across the room at the control panel. Yellow light bathed the room. He sucked it in hungrily, the rush of clarity giving him the hard edge he would need to draft the perfect yellow he’d practiced so much. He flicked out his hand, and with it, yellow liquid that he furiously worked to solidify and narrow as it streamed from him.

“Three, two…” she counted.

“Too fast, too fast!”

She lofted the sharana ru and began swinging the dual blades in loose circles, swishing the air. She set herself in position just as she reached the end of her smooth count. “One, and—” She lashed out with one end.

Kip brought his yellow luxin sword, trying to finish the temper even as his body went to the correct block instinctively. Excess yellow luxin coating the blade burst into light with the energy of the collision between blunt yellow blade and blunt wooden guard.

He didn’t make it, and instead the yellow luxin burst apart.

But both of them had narrowed their eyes against the blast of light, used to this. A slash cut across Kip’s front shin, a smear of ink from the sponge on the sharana ru’s guard: a bruise for Kip and a point for Karris.

She let him form the sword correctly. It took more than ten seconds. And they went again. Their bout was fast, ridiculously fast, and finished in less than two seconds.

He cursed inwardly, and settled into his stance again.

Again, a loss. And again, and again, and again. Aptly named, the tygre striper left Kip with streaks—mercifully of ink, rather than blood—across stomach, arms, forehead, shin, and hands.

On the tenth round, he scored a point, just before Karris did. She nodded. In a real fight, they’d both be dead. The Blackguard didn’t want dead Blackguards who’d also killed their opponents; they wanted unscratched Blackguards who’d killed their opponents. Still, from the humble acorn …

Again, a loss. And again, and again, and again. But Kip was starting to figure out how the sharana ru worked, how it sprang back when Karris would snap one side against her own leg as she attempted a short sweep—a feint—at Kip’s face to set up the speedier long sweep. The flexibility itself gave a small measure of predictability, for what bent must become straight.

Even with the guard and the sponge, Karris’s weapon
hurt
. Every time they sparred, Kip’s body was covered with bruises for days. His favorite was when she used a rapier and his bruises looked like freckles. Bruise-freckles on the turtle-bear. Not that Karris cared if he complained about it. And her fighting—learned the hard way with Blackguards—wasn’t the speedy, light dance the court duelists used. It was full-contact, brutal action. Hip throws and leverage, forearm strikes and elbows and grabbing your opponent’s blade with a gloved hand—or grabbing your own and pressing it to his neck. Kicks and throws and foot sweeps and clothing pulls and eye gouging and knee strikes to the kidneys—everything, everything dirty and fast and effective and lethal.

Kip’s weight and burgeoning strength should have been a significant advantage. Maybe it would have, if they’d been wielding battle axes or war hammers. Karris was fast and a small target, and she was an expert at using leverage to compensate for what she lacked in strength compared to her beefier Blackguard brothers. Sixteen years of constant practice against the best opponents in the world had made her surprisingly deadly for her diminutive figure.

Today, she didn’t lecture. Some days she did. Learning to keep some attention on other things kept you from getting war-blind, too focused on what was immediately in front of you. Last time she’d taught him about the other magic-using fighting companies in the world: the Nuqaba’s guard in Paria, the
Tafok Amagez
; the old Blue-Eyed Demons that Gavin had destroyed after the war; a few of the martial elites from the highland Parian tribal societies; the secretive Shadow Watch of Ruthgar, whom she knew did exist because Gavin had checked them out personally to see if they were a threat to the Seven Satrapies. Few individuals within any of those groups, though, also used magic with anything near the facility of the Blackguards. The
Cwn y Wawr
were archers and tree climbers and green drafters and masters of camouflage in the deep parts of Blood Forest, and some of the Shadow Watch were highly talented drafters as well—but no one group had the range of drafting abilities available to them that the Blackguard did. No other group had the critical mass of drafters to maintain a drafting tradition in each color, so instead each generation had to invent again techniques their forebears would have been able to teach them easily.

Such martial societies were born from wars and all too often extinguished in them. The Blood War had birthed a dozen. The False Prism’s War had wiped out half that many. Some faded as the reasons they’d come together had disappeared—those formed in the Blood War had either morphed into mercenary companies like the Blue Bastards or the Cloven Shield, or the men and women had simply gone home or had become soldiers or outlaws or farmers as the demand for teachers disappeared. The martial arts of drafting died especially quickly because of drafters’ short lives.

It made Kip realize that anything awe-inspiring that they discovered had doubtless been discovered before. It had simply also then been lost.

Karris said, “Now, are you ready for the other half?”

“Other what?” he asked.

She lashed out with the tygre striper. Kip blocked, and blocked, and blocked again. Then she whipped part around an arm and popped it back—but it moved twice as fast as it should have and it cut across his belly long before his block arrived.

“The hell?” Kip asked.

“Strike it. Downstroke, in the middle.”

Kip did as he was told, slashing hard between Karris’s hands. The sharana ru bent a long way and popped his yellow luxin blade back upward.

“Again, the same.”

Kip cut again—and this time nearly had the yellow blade knocked from his grip as the sharana ru didn’t bend in the least. It was suddenly like a steel bar.

“This is what’s special about the sharana ru—sea demon bone or whatever it is. It is the only known mundane material that reacts to will. You want it to be hard, and it is.”

My problem is more often that I don’t want it to be hard, but it is.

Thank Orholam, this time Kip didn’t say it.

Karris paused and looked at Kip, who stared back at her, all innocence. “Mind out of the gutter, Kip.”

They shared a grin.

“With this sharana ru, you can simply grip it hard and will what you want it to—Orholam damn it, Kip! Now all I can think about is, uh … Ahem. All of them work best if you’re bloody, though.”

Well, that killed any innuendo. “Bloody?” Kip asked. He didn’t mean his voice to come out at quite that pitch.

“Will is in the blood. It’s why Orholam forbade the drinking of blood, as of old. Some part of the soul resides in the blood, some luxiats say. Or perhaps it’s merely coincidence. Regardless, it works with the sharana ru. There was a warrior caste on the Isle of Glass, before it sank into the seas and became White Mist Reef.”

“Legend, right?” Kip said.

She tossed him the sharana ru. “You hold the stuff of legend in your hands.”

Which just begged for a ribald joke. But it was
Karris
. She was like his mother.

If I didn’t already have a mother. Who was a complete and total calamity of humanity. Or had been. “Real?” Kip asked, shaking off the memories, the stench of that closet where he’d spent two nights and three days, nearly dying.

“Blood Forest has the Floating City. We couldn’t build one today, but the engineering was obviously known, once. Of course, the legends say the Isle of Glass was a hundred times the size of the Floating City. Perhaps it was twice as big, or smaller. Perhaps it sank because of its blasphemies against Orholam. Perhaps it was merely caught in a winter storm. Or both. These things, being, of course, not exclusive.”

“Did they have other weapons?”

“What would you think?” Karris asked.

“Bows.”

“A few. It was said that it took years of training to gain proficiency—the difficulty being in figuring out how much Will you were using, and keeping it consistent, despite being tired or scared or furious. None survive.”

“Catapults?” Kip asked.

“Broke the men who tried to use them.”

“What happens to a man whose will has been broken?” Kip asked. “I willjacked Grazner once in training, but he seemed fine.”

“Depends on how much of his will is in it. You foil what someone has a whim for, he might be left dazed for a moment. A man strains to put steel into enough sharana ru to fling a stone two thousand paces and fails? He’s left an idiot. Forever.”