Brent Weeks - The Blinding Knife

Karris came up to their brazier. She sat beside Gavin and put her hand on his thigh. She smiled over at Kip. “Hey there, Godslayer,” she said. She was teasing, but she meant it in a good way. Somehow, when she said it, it seemed nice. Kip mumbled evasions below his breath.

“I really need to teach you to knife fight, though,” she said. “Sloppy technique, sloppy.” Again, kidding. But Kip grinned. It was the kind of ribbing that told him she wanted to spend more time with him in the future. It was about the nicest thing he could ask for.

“I’m exhausted,” she said to Gavin. “I’m going to go below. You going to be an hour or so?”

“Andross asked to speak with me, and the generals always have business. We have to see if we can keep these bane from recurring,” Gavin said glumly. “At least an hour.”

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “For this.”

Gavin seemed to know what she was talking about, but Kip didn’t. For sitting at a brazier with Kip?

“Someone told me something about love once,” Gavin said. “Still sounds silly to me, but I’m giving it a shot.” He was teasing.

Karris’s smile lit the deck. “I love you,” she said, her voice warmer and softer than Kip had ever heard it. She had it bad.

“Is there an action wedded to that choice?” Gavin asked.

“I’m going to go below and sleep for a while,” she said. “But, uh, wake me.” She didn’t try very hard to hide her wink, and Kip blushed.

“Mmm,” Gavin said appreciatively as she got up and left. He watched her go. “Kip,” he said. “If you ever find a woman like that… don’t be an idiot like your father.”

“Yes, sir.” Kip grinned. “So… what happens now?”

“You mean with the satrapies?”

Kip nodded.

“We’ve lost two satrapies. Tyrea didn’t matter to the other satrapies, but Atash?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid we were so eager to avoid war, we’ve made it all but certain.”

He said “we.” Even though Kip knew his father had fought for all he was worth to get the Chromeria to move before it was too late, he still shared responsibility for the failure. His father, he decided again, was a great man.

Kip hadn’t had much time to think today, but he’d had enough. The dagger was important, as in Important. It had sucked the luxin right out of that giant. Kip should have told his father about the knife immediately. But volunteering to have his father mad at him seemed impossible.

Every time, just when things are going well, you open your big mouth, Kip.

But at least usually it was an accident. This time he had to do it on purpose.

He was within a breath-or maybe a minute or two-of speaking when a greasy voice said, “Sirs?” Grinwoody. “Luxlord Guile awaits your pleasure. He heard you were topside and climbed up, with considerable effort to his person.”

“Then where is he?” Kip asked. Oops. Kip the Lip. Maybe it was all this Kip the Godslayer talk. Or maybe it was the mulled wine warming him.

“On the stern castle, sirs. He only demanded the Lord Prism’s presence, however.”

“You can come if you want to, Kip. But it won’t be pleasant,” Gavin said. “Father and I have some hard words to exchange.”

Grinwoody’s mouth thinned to a tight line, but he said nothing.

“I’d rather stay with you, sir,” Kip said.

Gavin and Kip climbed down, Kip having to take extra care on the steps. Apparently he’d had more wine than he’d thought. They crossed the ship’s waist and climbed up the steps to the stern castle.

Something about the scene tickled Kip’s memory. Andross Guile was turned away from them. There were only dim slivers of light from the moon, penetrating the scattered clouds. Andross was wearing a cowl and dark-lensed spectacles. It hit Kip like a millstone. He’d seen something like this in the Nine Kings card Janus Borig had given him. The figure who’d been writing had been wearing that cowl.

“I see you managed to botch our entire operation and get our fleet wiped out,” Andross Guile said. “But I am so happy you’ve come back safe. With your bastard no less. And I hear we’ve a wedding to celebrate. To a woman I forbade you to marry.”

It’s treason, but only if I’m caught, he’d thought, his mind a whirl of passions. The “-os” he’d been writing to could only be Koios White Oak, the Color Prince, addressed by his first name. As one would address a friend. Conspiring about Dagnu. The Red, conspiring about being made the red god. Andross Guile had made common cause with their enemy. And there was more.

“You’re a red wight,” Kip said quietly, almost to himself.

“Gavin,” Andross said, either not noticing or not caring to notice what Kip had said. “You’ve disobeyed me for the last time. I’ve started the process to strip you of your office. You should know I have the votes. You’ve bullied the Spectrum for the last time.”

“You’re a red wight,” Kip said again.

“Kip,” Gavin said. “I think you’ve had too much wine. Why don’t you-”

“You traitor!” Kip shouted at Andross. “You monster!”

“Grinwoody, get the young drunkard out of here,” Andross said. “Now!”

He was a red wight. How couldn’t everyone see it? So maybe reds usually went insane in more conspicuous ways, but how could it have gotten past them? Did they just not dare to ask? Were they all too afraid, hoping someone else would take the risk first? Surely there should be ways to deal with old drafters who hid themselves away.

But the rules didn’t apply to Andross Guile. The rules never had. He was the man whose mansion that he never even visited was taller than mansions were allowed to be. He was the man who’d raised two sons who had become Prisms, who’d held on to a seat on the Spectrum without even bothering to go to the meetings. But he was no man; he was a monster.

Grinwoody seized Kip by the front of his tunic and hauled him away. Kip didn’t know what came over him. He broke Grinwoody’s hold, just as he’d learned in his training, and stabbed his fingers for the man’s eyes. Grinwoody brought his hands up, palms forward. Kip snagged two of the man’s fingers with each hand and yanked down in a fingerlock.

The wiry old man dropped to his knees, surprised, and Kip kicked him in the chest, sending him flying, tumbling down the steep stairs to the ship’s waist.

Kip charged Andross Guile to tear off his hood and spectacles, to show Gavin what Kip was certain of. He was almost on top of the old man when he saw the knife Andross drew.

It was too late to stop. The old man jabbed the small blade straight at Kip’s stomach. Kip swept it aside and crunched into the old man and into Gavin, who’d stepped in to intervene.

Kip tore the old man’s hood back and felt the knife cut along his ribs. Andross Guile was spitting fury, deep in the grip of red, attacking as fast as he could, determined to kill. He grabbed Kip’s tunic with one hand.

It was a tangle of limbs. Gavin was trying to knock Andross Guile’s attacks aside so he didn’t skewer Kip. Kip landed a punch on Andross’s face, then couldn’t reach him as Gavin wedged his shoulder in front of Kip’s right arm. Another stab got through, piercing Kip’s left arm.

Andross Guile’s spectacles, knocked askew by Kip’s punch, now fell off as the fury raged through him. He attacked like a madman. Gavin drove him back until all three hit the railing.

A whistle was screeching, sailors were screaming, the muffled percussion of Blackguards’ boots coming up steps from the cabins belowdecks. They’d never make it in time. Kip only saw Andross Guile’s eyes-the halos broken, red throughout. A red wight.

Kip didn’t even remember drawing his own knife. Didn’t know how it had gotten into his hand. Letting Gavin get between himself and Andross Guile, he swung his right hand out behind and around his father and stabbed the old bastard. He caught him in the meat of the shoulder.