The Blinding Knife (39 page)

“I can give them to you,” Janus Borig said.

There had to be some catch, of course. No one was going to give Kip something he needed so desperately. The black cards had to be priceless.

“But it’s going to cost me something,” Kip said. She closed the door behind him, threw many latches and bolts home.

“No,” she said. “Free gift. Which, come to think of it, is redundant, isn’t it?”

“But…” he led.

She poked his chest with the stem of her long pipe. “But do you know what it’s like to carry around an item of total wealth in your pocket? Walking down a back alley and knowing that you could buy every single house and shop on the block with what’s in your pocket? It’s terrifying. One of these cards is worth that, Kip. If I give you a deck, you’ll be carrying more than you may make in your entire life. And the wealth isn’t simply monetary. You’d be carrying history. History you could drop in a puddle and utterly ruin, or that could be quite literally stolen and gone forever. Do you have any idea how frightening that is?”

Kip was thinking of the dagger that might or might not still be in the chest in the barracks. He swallowed. “That’s something that’s been bothering me,” he said. “Your home here. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice and all, but… it’s
here
. It’s not where I’d expect to find fortunes.” Which, he realized, might be the point.

“My husband and I built this house. Nigh unto fifty years ago now. I like it here.” She shrugged. “I know it doesn’t seem like a safe place to keep what I have here, but it’s more secure than you know. I spend a fortune to make it secure. The Prism and the whole Spectrum couldn’t come take something that I didn’t want to give them.” She grinned. “Now. Now. Now. Where were—Ah. The black cards. The question is, do you want the black cards because they’re forbidden, or do you simply want to beat Andross Guile?”

Kip scowled. It felt like the wrong answer, but he said, “I just want to beat Andross Guile.”

“In that case, you don’t need a full deck of black cards.” She groped on the counter for a jar with more tobacco while talking.

“I don’t?”

“The cards weren’t outlawed because they made good game cards, Kip. They were outlawed because they told stories that the Chromeria no longer wanted told. Just as when I release the new cards—the first new cards in many, many years—they will not be popular among those they depict.”

“Can I use the new cards?” That would be one way to truly foil Andross Guile.

“No. Absolutely not. They’re not finished, and when they are, my life will be in greater peril than usual. I’ll accept that risk when the time comes, but not yet.”

“Someone would kill you, over cards that are true, that
must
be true?”

“
Especially
over such things, Kip. If I could just make up whatever I wanted, then, well, who am I?” She tamped some tobacco into her pipe. It seemed awfully dark. “Some old woman. No one. Truth gives power. Light reveals—”

A sparkling, crackling whoosh of fire from the tip of her pipe interrupted her. It leapt up to the ceiling. She cried out a curse and dropped the pipe she’d loaded with black powder. She stamped on the scattered flames trying to set the garbage alight, but soon the gunpowder burned itself out.

“Dammit, second one this week.”

Kip was round-eyed. “Are you—are you in danger?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” she said. “But I’m very hard to find. And I’m very well protected.”

“I found you no problem.”

“That’s because I meant you to find me, little Guile. Besides, haven’t you seen my men?”

“Um…” Kip had thought he’d been watched.

“Black clothes, silver shield sigil? Hmm, say that six times fast. Well, good, then perhaps they’re almost worth what I’m paying them.” Janus grabbed another pipe off the wall and tamped it full of tobacco. “Now where were—Oh, never mind, come upstairs.” Kip followed her as she kept speaking. “Here’s the catch.”

I knew it!

“I won’t let you take a card until you’ve lived it.”

“Lived it?”

“Lived the memory in the card. Like before. In case you lose it, I don’t want those memories lost.”

“How about, um, instead of taking your worth-a-fortune original cards, how about I take copies? You know, like people usually play with? Normal people, I mean.”

Janus Borig scratched the side of her nose with her new pipe’s stem. “That is… that is the most sensible idea I’ve heard in a long time. It would also allow me to put the blind man’s marks on the cards, which would make Lord Guile far more likely to allow you to use them. Kip, you’re brilliant.”

Brilliant? She hadn’t even thought of using cheap cards. Janus Borig was so smart, it was a miracle she could get dressed in the morning. Him thinking of the normal thing wasn’t evidence of being smart; it was the opposite.

“Great,” she said cheerily. “Well, let’s make you a deck.”

Back into the same one. There was something important about this one. He had to find the right time. He had no idea what he was doing, but he had to learn. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Captain Burshward is a bit crabbed this morning. That might have had something to do with us killing two of his men and presently attempting to make off with his fine galley, his excellent rowers, his rich cargo, and his miserable self.

“Captain Gunner is going to ask you one more time, Cap’n Burst Wart,” I say. “I need that chain key.” I scowl. “I suppose that wasn’t a question, was it? But
that
was.”

The captain and his brother and two officers are seated, hands tied behind their backs, on the gunwale. And on this galley, it is a gunwale. Their two cannons are propped up on it. It was only twenty years ago that all ships were thus, before some genius had the idea to make gunports. In a mere two decades, the idea spread all around the Cerulean Sea—but maybe not beyond it. Guns braced on the gunwale are less accurate left to right, and of course, they can’t shoot low—ships have to stay far out, because if they get closer, they’d just be blowing away each other’s rigging. When fighting oar-driven galleys, that isn’t the best way to cripple a ship.

The captain looks furious, his brother gray despite his naturally ruddy complexion, the two sailors with them terrified.

They’re Angari folk, from beyond the Everdark Gates. Big, burly men, wear their blond hair long and braided. Matrilineal. Sons a disappointment. Odd barbarian customs and strange cloying drink made with honey, but great sailors. Worthy of respect for being able to shoot through the Everdark Gates.

It is one thing that Captain Gunner hasn’t done. Yet.

“Where is the chain key?” I ask, real nice like. A finger’s breadth from his face.

The key is for the galley slaves’ chains, belowdecks. Not to free them or some such silliness, but because the oars are locked in place. It isn’t common, or I would have prepared for it.

’Course, it is just a chain. We can get through it. We have tools; we have powder. I can make a perfect charge in probably three minutes, and most likely not even set fire to the boat or kill anyone. But a key’s faster.

And the majority of Burshward’s men are coming back to the galley right now from shore leave in the city of Ru, their rowboat ambling over the waves, men hungover and sloppy. Not five hundred paces out. There isn’t even a swivel gun on deck to take care of them. We’ve only found two muskets so far, old matchlocks that I don’t want to trust my life to. If his men make it to the galley, they’ll likely kill us all.

“Nice galley,” I say. “Triple sweeps. Faster, but more likely to get the oars crossed, eh?”

“Tenth fastest in the blue god’s fleet, which means it’s the fastest fookin’ galley in Ceres’s piss puddle by a long tom’s shot,” he says. “Best oar boys in the world. Didn’t foul the sweeps once, not even
coming through the Gates themselves.” I’ve noticed his galley slaves aren’t the usual skinny lot that stupider galley captains keep. You let your rowers waste away to nothing, and they get weak, and you get a slow boat. Burshward is smarter than that. His slaves are thick-muscled men, clean, no diseases, and big. Expensive to keep slaves in that good of shape, but worth it. Worth it double for a pirate, especially if they’re well trained. I’m taking a richer prize than I’d realized. If I can get away with it.

“Chain key,” I say. Real polite.

He says nothing. Brave man, balancing precariously on the gunwale. I can admire that.

“Rinky, sinky, dinky, or doe?” I ask.

“Rinky what?” Apparently he’s not familiar with the game.

“Rinky ’tis.”

I kick the first man in the chest. He flies overboard, lands with a yell and a splash. It isn’t easy to swim with your hands tied behind your back, but it can be done, for a while.

But not by Rinky. He panics. Thrashes. Sinkies.

“Gimme a number, Captain.”

“Wh-what?” A sudden look of fear.

“Ceres’s tits, Gillan!” the brother says. “Pick a fookin’ number!”

“Rinky, sinky, dinky, doe.” I pull out my pistol and point at each man in turn as I singsong the words. “Once was a pirate by the name of Slow. Picked a sinner as a winner, and here’s the way ’twould go—”

“Three!” the captain said.

“One…” I stick the barrel of my pistol against the captain’s forehead. Cock it. Watch him shiver, go blank. Grit his teeth in defiance an instant later.

“Two…” I release the hammer and bring up my knife with the other hand, to the brother’s throat. I draw the knife up to his chin through his thick braided blond beard. His eyes are squeezed tight shut.

“Three…” I pull the dagger back. “And this is the way it shall be.”

“No no no!” the third man yells.

I poke him hard in the forehead with one bony finger instead of stabbing him. He tries to keep his balance, but I keep pushing. He tumbles off into the water.

“Cap’n, we ain’t got much time,” one of my men tells me.

I look at him. “This is me hurrying,” I say. He swallows and shuts up.

“Gimme a number, Captain,” I say. I aim the pistol at him first. Odd numbers will land at the captain, evens at his brother. Easy to figure, if you’re figuring straight.

“That man had a family! He survived the—”

I start, “Rinky, sinky, dinky—Ah, fuck it.” I shoot his brother in the knee.

A lead ball the size of your thumb hitting a kneecap and squishing will basically tear your leg off. I have to grab the brother to keep him from tumbling off the gunwale.

I say, “I’m tired of this game. Last chance, or I kill you both and fight. I like fighting. Tell me, and you live.”

“In my cabin, above the doorframe,” the captain says.

Worst hiding spot ever. If I had more men, I’d shoot one of them for missing it.

My first mate is already running for it.

He emerges a second later and heads belowdecks with a couple of others. They’re following the plan. Should make a good crew. It’ll take perhaps half a minute. We’ll make it.

“You’re going to kill us now, aren’t you?” the captain says bitterly. His brother is barely conscious. I’ve heaved them both back onto the deck.

“Told you I wouldn’t,” I say. “And I’m the son of a whore and an apostate luxiat. My word is my bond.” I grin crazily at him.

He goes white.

I tie a narrow rope tight around his brother’s leg to stop the bleeding. “You want your brother to live a cripple, or die?” I ask.

He swallows. “Live.”

I take the captain’s sword—odd Angari thing, it’s fat down at the point, sweeping broadly so there’s no way you could put it in a scabbard. But I’ve used more awkward things to kill a man.

I slash the blade into the brother’s leg, just above the knee and below the tied rope. I’m wiry, but I’m strong, and I know how to put a lot of speed into a blade. It lops the limb clean off.

Not
clean
clean. It still bleeds, of course. Tourniquet only does so much good.

The man screams and kicks. The captain looks like he’s about to vomit. I toss the blade aside, check the progress of the rowboats. The
men in those boats realize something is wrong; they heard my pistol shot, and now they’re rowing with purpose. It’ll be a near thing.

I roll One Leg over and pour black powder on his bleeding stump. He’s whimpering, thrashing weakly. It takes three tries before I can get a spark to catch. Then it flares, filling the air with smoke and the smell of frying pork, cauterizing the stump. Odd how appetizing cooking man smells.

One Leg passes out. The captain is looking at me like he doesn’t know what the hell I am.

“Lash ’em to barrels,” I order those of my men who are just standing about. “Empty barrels, you morons!”

They do, just as fifty oars on each side rattle out. Triple sweeps. Puts more oars in the water, gives you more speed. I jump on the tiller—no wheel on this boat, sadly, just a straight tiller. Raiders can’t be choosers, I guess.

Captain Burshward is staring at me still, shaking and shivering, but now with fury. “The old gods are being reborn,” he says. “All of this is dying, pirate. The Everdark Gates will open, and we’ll descend on you like the Raptors of Kazakdoon. We won’t be exiled forever, thief. The White Mists will part for us. Our time is—”