The Broken Eye (12 page)

The key turned easily in the lock, and Teia opened the door and stepped inside quickly.

“Hello, little dove,” a man said from the darkness. “Turn around.”

Teia froze up for a moment, then turned, keeping a hand on the latch. “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Two … excellent … questions,” the man said. He had fair skin, freckles, a fringe of orange hair brushed over in a vain attempt to conceal a knobby bald pate. He wore a rich trader’s garb with a thin black cloak, and held a velvet-brimmed petasos in one hand, but most striking were his eyes. They were amber-colored. Not from drafting yellow or orange luxin, but naturally amber. He smiled, showing stark white teeth. “When we’re in public, you shall call me Master Sharp.”

Which prompted the obvious question, “But in pri—”

“Murder.”

“Excuse me?” Teia asked. Fear shot through her, and she hated it.

“Murder. More of a title. Murder Sharp. Had a real name, once. Gave it up.”

Which prompted more obvious questions. But to hell with him. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“Recruiting.”

“You fail. Now get out.” Recruiting?

He made no move to leave. “You made a good decision back there at the docks, though it made my life more difficult. Bright girl, aren’t you? Seeing the paryl but ignoring it? You saw an enemy with unknown abilities asking you to meet on ground of their choosing—and you chose not to come into that fight. That was … wiser than your years. It makes me want you more. I have a job for you. And if you do it, I will give you your papers.”

“What papers?” Teia asked, playing stupid.

“Indeed?” he asked archly. “After I’ve complimented your intelligence? You are a child, aren’t you? An uncut gem, though. If you perform my task today, I will give you your papers, I swear by my very soul and my hope of illumination. If you do not, I will give them to Andross Guile, for whom I have worked in the past. A little reminder to him of who and what you are will be sufficient to make your life difficult, don’t you think? Do you think these manumission papers will ever see the light of day if I take them to High Luxlord Guile?”

The answer was obvious. “How do I know you’ll give them to me?”

“I hold oaths holy. If, however, you attempt to circumvent my plans again by going to some other authority—”

Teia attacked him, jabbing a fist at his throat.

And promptly fell, nerveless, into his arms. He lifted her easily and laid her on Kip’s bed as gently as a lover. She couldn’t feel anything. Her body was simply gone, a blank in her senses. She smelled the odd man named Murder. He smelled of orange peel and ginger and mint, invigorating, appealing even. She hated him for that.

He smiled toothily with the whitest, most perfect teeth she’d ever seen, and arranged her limbs for her. He put two fingers against her upper lip, not shushing her but instead feeling her breath, and withdrew when he did, seeming content. “Can you speak?” he asked.

She opened her mouth, but there was no control of her air to scream, she couldn’t even whisper. Something was very, very wrong. Confusion threatened to break into panic.

“The body is such a mystery, don’t you agree? The sheer number of things that must go right from moment to moment to keep this meat operating.” He picked up her limp arm and dropped it. It fell, lifeless. “Let me tell you the most interesting thing: the more you know, the greater you realize the mystery is. The wisest chirurgeons in the satrapies still believe blood sits static in our limbs, that it ebbs and flows like tides, perhaps even tied to the moon. My people, on the other hand, have known for centuries that blood circles the body, that the heart is a pump. We know because we can see it. And yet even to us, we who see plainly what a hundred generations of chirurgeons have not yet discovered, there are mysteries. We are not so much greater than they are, after all. Different in degree, but not in kind. I know that a pinch here or a crystal there will, if I’m lucky, produce this and this. You moved so fast. So fast. Do you feel any tingling in your feet yet? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Teia felt nothing. Nothing. She was a prisoner, trapped in her own unresponsive flesh. She felt tears forming. Then, tingling, one foot and then the other. She blinked, almost involuntarily.

“Good. Tingling should begin in your fingers any moment.”

He was right. For all his supposed ignorance, he was exactly right. That didn’t make it less terrifying, just differently so.

Murder said, “Stop thinking about your fear. Your feeling will all come back. I’m very good at what I do. By the time you’re able to speak, I want you to guess how I did it.”

Teia hated being easily biddable, but there was something intoxicating about the man. Further, he was right. She took a deep breath, and realized she could feel it in her chest when she did so. Thank Orholam.

It took a few more breaths and frustration before she could relax enough to open her eyes full to see paryl. What she saw took her breath away.

The entire room was filled with paryl. A gaseous, luminous cloud of the stuff filled every nook and cranny. More than that, the paryl appeared to suffuse both her and Murder’s bodies. It went
through
them. Murder had used that property to reach inside her body and tweak something. Her Blackguard training had only begun to delve into what kinds of wounds resulted in what kinds of damage. She knew that was something the full Blackguards studied. And her own experiences of battle, of watching the dead and the dying and the injured, were still too raw for her to take them apart and think about what kind of wound produced what. But she had seen animals slaughtered at Lady Lucigari’s estate growing up. Goats and pigs and cattle. The cook preferred a deep slash across the throat to bleed the animal, but her husband Amos had liked to use his ax.

He was one of those men who’d never been to war, but liked to talk about how great he would have been if he had. Butchering an animal was as close as he could get. Teia had seen his wood ax fall, and an ox fell lifeless and limp when the ax bit through its spine. She’d seen him make a mistake while drunk, and only crush a vertebra with a clumsy stroke, seen the cow’s back legs drop limp while the front still stood.

“You pinched my spine,” Teia said.

Murder brushed her cheek tenderly. “Smart. True, as far as it goes. But I don’t recommend you go around pinching spines randomly to figure it out. Do it wrong and you stop the heart or lungs. It took me six tries before I got it right. And then after I thought I’d mastered it, I paralyzed a boy permanently. Had to arrange it so it looked like he fell down a well. He lived for six months until someone forgot to give him water and he slipped away.”

“How many of you are there?” Teia asked.

“Few enough we’re always looking for more. Enough so we don’t take those unfit for duty. Can you move now?”

“Yes. May I?” Teia hated herself for asking, but Murder was like a wild animal. Any sudden move might set him off.

“Open your mouth,” he said. She did. “Good girl.”

With a wide finger and thumb, he pushed her lips back like she was a horse. She pulled back. “Be still!” he hissed.

She froze.

He pushed her lips up and down, manipulating them to give himself a better look in her mouth. Then he stuck a long, delicate finger in her mouth, feeling her teeth one by one, seeking out every imperfection, moving from the front of her mouth to the back. There was odd pleasure in his eyes.

Teia had the sudden, wild impulse to bite his finger off. She had no idea why his touching her like that felt like such a violation, but he made her feel dirty, his eyes wide with desire, not magic.

And then he was done. He pulled his finger out of her mouth. It was wet. He smelled it, then held it under her nose.

“Parsley,” he said. “Chew parsley, and your breath won’t be so foul.” Then he sucked his finger. “Smell.” He put his finger back under her nose.

She smelled. It smelled like spit to her. Ugh. Why had she obeyed him?

“So much better, don’t you think?” Master Sharp asked.

Teia said nothing. Her stomach was in knots, and she didn’t trust her voice. She was suddenly sure that he’d been tempting her to bite him. What would he have done if she’d given him that excuse? It was like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

He stood. “Smart. And young. You’ll be formidable, Adrasteia. If you live. If you’re not given to an owner who decides to break that spirit in that most effective way a young woman’s spirit can be broken. I know you think you’re so strong nothing can break you. It’s a comforting lie, but don’t test it.

“Believe me, no one is that strong. But I don’t ask you to live in fear, Adrasteia. I merely suggest you use that wisdom you’ve shown before. Think not just about the fallout for you if you tell someone. Consider what happens to Commander Ironfist if he takes up your cause. Perhaps it would go well if I were to give your papers to any ordinary slaveholder. But if you pit Commander Ironfist against Andross Guile? Who do you think would win in that kind of fight? Ironfist is a good man, and he’ll go to his destruction for you, if you tell him.”

Teia wanted to kill him. How dare he threaten Ironfist?

“Or perhaps you can go to Karris? You have trained with her, after all.”

Teia hadn’t even thought of that, though now that he said it, she was sure she would have. Karris was a woman in the Blackguard, an Archer who knew their special burdens, and she was a good woman. But that Master Sharp had thought of it made her heart sink. He knew everything, and he was fast, faster than he had any right to be. Of course, he’d been preparing for this meeting, too.

There was a thought that was important behind that fact, but Teia couldn’t get to it past her fear. “What would happen to her?”

“Maybe nothing. High Luxlord Guile already hates her. Of course, now that she’s Gavin’s wife—or widow—they
are
family now. So I imagine the White will be pressing Karris to make peace with the old man. Karris might not be too eager to take up another cause that puts her in direct opposition to one of the most notorious grudge-holders in the Seven Satrapies. How well does she really like you? Or perhaps she will take up your case, and you’ll not only cost her her chance at peace, but he will win. The law is on his side, so he will win. And then what will he do to you to spite her?”

Teia licked her lips. “He might want peace, too, you know. He could give me up as a gesture of goodwill.”

“Goodwill?” He chuckled, as if it were droll. “Andross Guile is full of will, I grant, but little of it is
good
.”

The whims of the great crushed the lives of those who labored beneath them. Bringing yourself to their attention was always risky. Teia was doomed.

“Of course, you’re right,” Murder Sharp said. “Logically, that
is
a possibility. I suppose you’ll have to weigh the odds. In the meantime, I advise you to keep your head down. We’ll give you orders soon. One simple assignment, and you’re free. Pardon, let me amend that. One simple assignment, and one meeting afterward if you do well, for my masters would like to take their own roll of the die at recruiting you.” He walked to the door. “Think carefully of all the costs of acting rashly. You have so much potential, Adrasteia.” He slipped out and closed the door. Her last glimpse of him was of the sigil across the back of his cloak, the silent-winged night hunter, the owl, wings flared, claws extended, nearly invisible, stitched in gray thread on gray fabric.

Teia jumped to her feet and ran to the door, snatching up a dagger on her way from its hook on the wall. She put her hand on the latch to throw it open—stopped.

Seconds drained past. Open the door, Teia. Go after him and stick this dagger straight into his back!

She locked the door. Sat heavily on the bed. The weight of her tiny olive oil vial was like an anchor dragging her down, down. A slave again, after freedom had been this close. It was worse than death. She crawled under the covers and curled into a ball. But she didn’t cry.

Her eyes were leaking, but she didn’t cry. Damn it.

Chapter 11

Rowing. The pain had become either bearable or so familiar that it couldn’t keep his attention.

Ten days after Gunner cored the apple in Gavin’s mouth with a musket ball, the drummers rattled an odd tattoo in response to some order the slaves couldn’t hear. Gavin looked over at his oarmates. He didn’t expect anything from the man next to him, Orholam. The nickname was for his number—Seven—but Gavin had slowly realized the Angari slaves had a darker sense of humor in their naming. Seven radiated kindness, but he almost never said anything, and when he did, it was rarely helpful. That these very qualities were why he’d been named Orholam was a sentiment so profane and disrespectful that the Highest Luxiat and head of Orholam’s worship on earth had laughed for a good ten minutes when he finally understood.

He’d almost recovered from his laughter when Fukkelot had cursed at him, and he finally understood that name, too, sending him into fresh gales of laughter.

The foreman, Strap, had eventually used her own much more obvious namesake to shut him up.

Rowing. The pain could be catalogued, but even the catalogue was tedious. His fellows were more interesting than the chafing, the blisters, the cramps, the knots.

Fukkelot was more helpful than Orholam, and more verbal. Gavin had heard of sailors swearing constantly, but that was usually a figure of speech. Fukkelot wasn’t right in the head somehow, swearing a stream of curses without willing it, day and night.

Now he grinned at Gavin. “Battle,” he said. He grunted. His jaw and neck twitched repeatedly. “They let us know so we use our strength when we need to.” Then he went back to whispering curses, as if it were a relief.

“Do they unchain us?” Gavin asked, rowing, rowing. “You know, in case we sink?” He was joking. Mostly.

“Win or die,” Strap shouted.

“Row to hell!” the slaves shouted in response.

“Scratch the back of Shadow Jack!” she shouted.

“Row to hell!”