The Blinding Knife (75 page)

Today was everything.

As Kip and the others walked toward the ring they were each handed a token.

Trainer Fisk said, “If you make it into the Blackguard, you will keep the token you win this week. Whichever token you have at final vows, you will keep with you for life.” Trainer Fisk pulled out a necklace he wore and showed them an old gold token with a four inscribed on it. “Those with the highest numbers will be your lieutenants, initially. Now get in line.”

Kip got in line, an older trainee checking each name against the order list, and giving the top fourteen fighters gold tokens, those below that bronze. On the front of each coin was a number in Parian script with a verse of some ancient text Kip couldn’t read. On the obverse was a fighter, each coin bearing a different etching. But Kip’s coin was bronze, with an etching of a woman with a spinning staff on it and a Parian eighteen on the back.

Raising his voice, Kip said, “Sir, I’m fifteenth place, not eighteenth.”

The entire circle got quiet. Not only the scrubs, but all the other Blackguards and Blackguard trainees. You didn’t contradict a trainer. And indeed, Trainer Fisk’s face darkened.

“You didn’t check the list? Your cadre didn’t finish yesterday. All of you are bumped down three spots.”

“That’s bullshit!” Kip said. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Blackguards guard their tongues.

“You just lost a color for that, son,” Trainer Fisk said. “If you have anything else to say, you’ll forfeit. You want to do that?”

Kip swallowed. Shook his head.

“You’re counting our fight yesterday as a loss?” This time, the voice was Cruxer’s. He came forward. “Did you see how Breaker fought? We made it through everything because of him. We
won
. There were only good neighborhoods left between where we were and where that bastard murdered Lucia. I’m sorry, sir, but Breaker’s right. That is bullshit. You’re making it nearly impossible—”

“Cruxer! You’re still a scrub, and if you don’t remember your place, so help me, I will bounce your ass out of here right this second,” Trainer Fisk said. “The mission was to bring the money back to the Chromeria. You didn’t do it. No excuses. You failed.”

Kip had never seen Cruxer angry, much less furious, but the boy was now. For a second, Kip thought Cruxer was going to punch Trainer Fisk. A tremor flew through the crowd like a plucked chord on a psantria. Every Blackguard here had been trained to anticipate violence, and every one of them saw the same thing. But Kip stepped forward and put a hand on Cruxer’s arm. “Orholam won’t let injustice long stand, right?” Kip said.

Cruxer was religious. Kip thought using a luxiat’s platitudes might redirect his classmate.

“A fact we all would do well to remember,” Cruxer said. His tone was level, but his eyes didn’t leave Trainer Fisk’s. Then Cruxer turned.

“So, who’s first?” Kip asked quickly. Oil on the waters, Kip, oil smoothing troubled waters.

Trainer Fisk glowered at him, then barked, “Winsen! You’re up! Who do you challenge?”

Winsen was twentieth among the scrubs. Mountain Parian, but without their usual tall, thin build. He had a fair amount of baby fat and was one of the younger scrubs. He was an odd one—sometimes brilliant, sometimes terribly stupid. Teia thought that next year he’d be formidable. This year, though, his odds of making it were terrible. Not someone to be scared of. Kip scowled suddenly, realizing he was describing himself, too.

“Breaker,” the boy said as they walked together toward the hellstone, “I’m going to stand still and try to draft. I’ll fail. Just shoot me hard with one of those green balls of yours, would you? Knock the wind out of me. Get the submission.”

“What?” Kip asked, incredulous.

“Try to make it look good, would you?”

Then Trainer Fisk was there. “Colors?” he asked.

“What?” Kip asked. He felt like he didn’t understand anything.

Trainer Fisk said, “It’s the final fight. Scrubs get access to all their colors; well, minus one for you. It’s important that scrubs learn to deal with good luck and bad in the previous testings, but we want this to be a fair test of your real fighting skill. I know you drafted red that once, but you’ve never declared it.”

“Oh, right!” Kip said. In his talks with Teia, they’d agreed that Kip should keep his polychromacy a secret as long as possible. Of course, if he kept it secret too long, he’d simply lose a fight that he could have won. Ante up and play. “Um, blue and green will be fine. So if I lose
one… I’ll keep green.” It was possible that not everyone remembered him using red weeks ago in his fight with Ferkudi, or thought it a fluke, and if Kip kept fighting without other colors, he might confirm that speculation and give himself an edge later.

Winsen and Kip took their places in the dark. They pressed their fingers to the hellstone pillar to make sure they were drained of luxin, though Trainer Fisk didn’t press their fingers down very hard. Then they stepped back, and a few moments later the shutters dropped from the colored crystals overhead and the circle was lit in blue and green spotlights.

Wondering if Winsen was setting him up somehow, Kip nonetheless drafted his trusty green bouncy ball of doom. He really needed to figure out more drafting techniques. He was supposed to be some kind of polychrome, and though the little bit he was doing with Teia and Ironfist had hardly taught him anything new, it
was
making him better at what he already knew, but he wasn’t sure that would be enough. Strange how in becoming a drafter, it seemed like the last thing he had time to do was—

Across from him, Winsen had a blue staff forming in his hands. It was almost finished when he lost it. The luxin shimmered and broke apart, leaving Winsen stunned for one second.

The green ball was ready; Kip shot it straight into Winsen’s gut.

The boy was struggling to draft again and Kip’s ball blew through his hands, making him lose whatever he’d been drafting. He woofed and fell down, gasping, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

Kip ran to the boy and put a foot on his neck. A whistle shrieked and a scattering of polite applause greeted Kip’s victory.

Kip helped Winsen stand. The boy hung his head. “Thanks,” he said, though, no sorrow in his tone.

“What the—What was that?” Kip asked.

“Don’t say anything to the trainer,” the boy said quickly. “I’m a slave, Breaker. My owner needs the money he’d get from me making it in. He needs it bad.”

“And?” Kip said. So you throw the match?

“And fuck him.”

The boy might not get another chance to get into the Blackguard.

“Do me a favor, would you?” Winsen said. “Get in. If I lost to a guy who eventually got in, it’s not so bad.”

“Do my best,” Kip promised. “Hey, Winsen? How good are you?”

Winsen grinned. “On a good day? Top five. Light to you, Breaker.”

They parted, Winsen heading toward an aghast, weeping noble. Kip would have felt sorry for the owner if he didn’t know that for some reason Winsen hated the man enough to jeopardize his own future. And Winsen seemed like a good person.

It was a good reminder. Kip thought he was at the center of everything. Everything was about Kip—and there were tragedies and comedies passing right before his eyes that he didn’t even see.

Nineteen was up next, and given that she was directly below Kip, he figured he’d get a rest. Nineteen was a girl named Tufayyur, and she was ranked appropriately, so far as Kip and Teia could guess. So she’d try for sixteen and then thirteen. Getting lucky twice was a lot more likely than getting lucky three or four times.

Kip took his place in the numbered line, starting to plot his own line of challenges. He wished that he had gotten to stand next to Teia, so he could talk it over with her. She understood this all better than he did. But then Tufayyur came to stand in front of him. “I challenge Kip,” she said.

What? Kip looked at her in disbelief and she shrugged. He followed her eyes to who was above him—Barrel and Balder. A flash of understanding illuminated the outlines of something bigger going on, but Kip lost it.

He was the sensible challenge, he supposed. Again. He’d been planning on skipping Barrel and Balder himself. Neither of them should have been placed so low. He thought they should both be in the top fourteen.

But he had to go out to the middle of the ring again. If he lost once, he was out. Just like that.

The crowd didn’t even fall silent for these early fights. Kip couldn’t blame them, watching the worst fighters who won’t even make it in isn’t terribly interesting.

They went to the hellstone, and then took their place. The spotlights came on, blue and green, but Tufayyur wasn’t interested in drafting. She charged. She aimed a kick at the side of Kip’s head and he saw an opening to go for the knee of her other leg with a sharp low kick of his own—but that was a crippling blow. He hesitated. He absorbed her kick instead, his hesitation earning him ringing ears.

She used the opening to punch him in the face twice, light and fast, but enough to stun him.

Kip staggered backward. She hit him in the stomach, kicked for his groin—he barely deflected the latter with a knee but still took the shot in his thigh. She punched for his face again, but he ducked into the blow and her fist smashed against his forehead.

She yelped, but didn’t stop. As he hunched, she threw flurries of blows at him. Then she snagged his arm and went for a submission hold.

Kip rushed into her and they both fell, as graceful as mating turtles.

Tufayyur went for a scissor submission with her legs, but her legs weren’t long enough to get around Kip’s girth and lock easily. Kip rolled on top of her, angling the whole of his body weight onto her torso. He grabbed one of her arms with both of his and then simply lay across her face.

The girl bucked, kicking her feet up to try to roll Kip off of her, but she wasn’t strong enough. With her free hand, she went for Kip’s nuts, but he pressed his hip down, and she wasn’t strong enough to burrow underneath. She jerked, trying to get her hand away, failing.

Then she panicked, unable to breathe, flailing—and the whistle shrilled again.

There was a smattering of applause and laughter as Kip stood and offered her a hand, but she snarled at him and stormed away. “Way to go, fatty!” one of the older Blackguard trainees shouted.

Kip walked back to his spot, already tired, and was surprised to see Commander Ironfist himself waiting for him at the rail.

Oh, thank Orholam. Now that Gavin was back, the commander was going to march in and say, “Breaker is a special case. He’s in, regardless,” and Kip wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of getting his ass beat by fighters who weren’t even going to be in the Blackguard.

As usual, the scrubs leaned in toward him, but the commander gave flat looks to a few and they all melted back. Kip came to stand before him. The commander’s jaw was set and he looked so quietly intense that Kip swallowed.

“You think it’s different because he’s back?” the commander asked, clearly referring to Gavin, but not so much as gesturing toward the tower. Others would be watching. “It’s not. You’re still on your own,” Ironfist said. Then he left.

Kip licked his lips. “Yes, sir.”

And Kip was up next. He looked at the lineup. Some good luck, anyway, right? A tiny bit. He could skip over Barrel and Balder and take on Yugerten at fifteenth place. If anything, Yugerten should have been nineteenth or twentieth. Kip had a good chance, right? Sure.

Taking his challenge token, Kip brought it to Yugerten and set it on the rail in front of the boy, who didn’t look surprised at all.

Kip took his time getting out to the circle, trying to catch his breath. He saw Teia scowling, thinking.

“We got a lot of fights today, Breaker. Get a move on,” Trainer Fisk said.

Yugerten was tall but gangly and awkward, a monochrome blue. The boys took their spots, weighing each other. Then the lights went out—and back on, blue and green.

Kip drafted green as quickly as he could, and Yugerten seemed content to stand back and draft, too. But when Kip shot out a green ball, Yugerten dodged and straightened a moment later, having drafted a pair of t-batons. Kip had never fought with those weapons, but it was clear Yugerten had. With the handles in hand, he swung the batons in a quick circle and brought them to rest along his forearms.

Then the boy came at Kip fast, in order not to give him time to draft anything else.

Kip kicked at his leg, but Yugerten blocked, cracking a t-baton across Kip’s shin, hobbling him. He stepped and punched for Kip’s stomach. The other end of the baton extended beyond his fist, and it stabbed Kip’s stomach hard.

Heaving forward, Kip deflected the follow-up punch and it only grazed his jaw rather than tearing his head off, and Yugerten lost one of the t-batons.

He let it go and punched Kip again. Kip tried to keep his balance and failed; he fell and Yugerten was on top of him in a moment, sitting on his chest, using his remaining baton to choke him.

Kip got one hand in front of his neck, but Yugerten was using both of his hands and all his weight to press down. Kip kept hoping the blue would shatter. Blue wasn’t supposed to be good for this, but it didn’t. He punched with his free hand, caught a shoulder. Punched, glanced off Yugerten’s forehead. Punched, weaker.