The Blinding Knife
Page 40

It was an easy spot to pickpocket from. She crossed the street. At the last moment, to make it convincing that her running into the target was accidental, she glanced back.
Mistake. She saw one of the men by the fountain—slight, plain, a fringe of red hair around a bald spot, tradesman’s clothes—bring his hands together in front of him. A needle of paryl luxin leapt from his hands and stuck into the side of the neck of the woman he was watching, twenty paces away. It was an amazing shot through the press of massed bodies and passing carts. It hung in the air, anchored on one side to his hands and on the other to her neck. He was bent forward in concentration.
A passing pedestrian walked through the spidersilk thread and snapped it, but the man was unperturbed. He released the paryl and walked away without a second glance.
Teia caught a glimpse of the woman, frowning and rubbing her neck for a moment, then going back to looking at a melon in the cart before her.
Then someone collided with Teia. She would have gone sprawling, but a strong hand snatched her arm.
“Watch yourself there, sweetcheeks,” her target said. He cupped her butt and gave it a squeeze as he helped her regain her balance.
“Oh—I—” Teia didn’t have to feign her confusion. It took a little more effort to regain her balance with her tall shoes, and a little more effort than that to regain her mental balance.
“I’ll be at the Red Six Inn later, if you’re looking for some entertainment, gorgeous,” the man said. His hand was still on her butt.
She swatted his hand away. “No, thank you, my lord. Excuse me.”
He laughed and didn’t try again. “Think about it,” he said. “I’ll show you a better night than your husband ever could.”
She ducked her head shyly and walked away, feeling violated. She swore she could still feel his hand on her. She wanted to punch him in his grinning face for groping her.
Instead, she contented herself with dropping the snuff box into her bag. He’d caught her off guard, but Teia had recovered quickly.
She turned as he walked on and, drafting, snatched the beacon off his head. If she was smart, she should get the hell out of here, but she couldn’t help trying to peer deeper into the market to catch sight of the woman.
It wasn’t hard to spot her. She still had her beacon glowing on her head, though it was already dissipating, and her skin was pale enough that it evinced the slight tea green tint of a longtime drafter. She crossed the main street of the market, carrying the melon. One of her arms fell and she dropped the melon. She smiled, as if surprised and confused, but only half of her face moved. She staggered and suddenly fell.
A couple of people grinned and chuckled. But the woman didn’t get up. She started having a seizure. Apoplexy. A stroke.
The smiles disappeared, and people began running toward her.
“Someone, help! Chirurgeons!” a bystander shouted.
Dread shot through Teia. Orholam have mercy, what had she just seen?
Chapter 33
The great hall of the Chromeria was converted every week into a place of worship. Every student, drafter or not, was required to attend. Kip shuffled into his place in the pew between Ben-hadad and Teia. Ben-hadad was flicking down the colored lenses of his odd spectacles, staring from the white marble of the arches to the many-colored stained glass panels of the clerestory.
Kip was too absorbed in what was happening on the floor to even begin to parse the scenes depicted above them in the stained glass. “So what do we do?” he asked.
“Mmm?” Ben-hadad asked.
“We listen,” Teia said. Her tone was short, withdrawn, unusual for her. “It’s the second week of the cycle, so I think the Blue himself will be speaking.”
“Oh no,” Ben-hadad said. “He’s the worst. I heard from one of the glims that last year Gavin Guile preached on the Blue day and that he was amazing. But what’s-his-name is awful.”
“Klytos Blue,” Kip said. He felt a weight of dread. His target.
“He tries to be scholarly because he thinks that’s how blues are supposed to be, but I’ve heard the real scholars mocking him.”
Kip didn’t care, though he hoped he could dislike the man he had sworn to destroy. It would be his first chance to see Klytos Blue in person. He found that his heart was pounding.
The great hall slowly filled, with a big rush of people coming in at the last minute before noon. Even as the people were still entering, a low choral chant rose from a pit hidden near the front. “What’s that?” Kip whispered.
“The sub-reds’ men’s choir,” Ben-hadad said, still staring up at the light pouring in through the clerestory.
“Shh,” Teia said, intent on the music. Cranky.
“Why don’t the blues do their own music?” Kip asked Ben-hadad.
“Don’t know. It’s just a special thing they do.” Ben-hadad grinned suddenly and pulled his eyes down from the ceiling. “Sub-reds are always passionate, of course, but the men are almost always sterile. Both of which make them quite popular with the ladies.”
“Musically talented doesn’t hurt either,” Teia said wistfully.
“What?” Kip asked Ben-hadad. “Why?”
Ben-hadad’s eyebrows shot up.
“Why Kip, hasn’t your father explained the Seventy Ways of a Man with a Maid to you?” Teia asked.
“That wasn’t what I meant. I was—?” Oh, she knew that. She was grinning as he blushed.
Seventy?
She relented and, speaking low, said, “No one knows why they’re sterile. It’s just part of their burden and their sacrifice to Orholam.”
“Shh!” a girl in the row in front of them said, turning around, irritated.
The choir began a new song, and this time many of the congregation joined in. Kip had no idea what they were saying. He could only guess that it was archaic Parian. It was beautiful, though, and he was glad that he didn’t understand it. He could soak in pure music.
Two great skylights lit up suddenly with more than the noonday sun. Kip guessed that two of the great mirrors on top of the other towers had been turned toward the great hall, which of course had an entire tower above it, so it couldn’t let in light from straight above. So the mirrors stood in to let Orholam’s light shine upon his people.
There was more singing, and then a procession of blue-robed men and women, some swinging censers full of smoking incense. Kip watched as Klytos Blue, dressed in a blue silk robe with a high starched collar and wearing a strange blue hat, walked within several paces of him. The man looked uncomfortable, barely enduring this.
Kip didn’t like him.
Orholam, Seventy Ways? Kip could only really imagine two.
Who could you ask about that sort of thing? They’d laugh at him like he was a bumpkin.
There was kneeling and prayers and readings and responses from five thousand throats. Kip moved his mouth and pretended to know what was going on. His mother had never had time for luxiats. She’d feared Orholam’s judgment, mostly saying that if you kept your head down, you might escape the wrath you deserved.
Then Klytos Blue came to the lectern and began speaking so softly that even the people in the front row probably couldn’t have heard a word. He was so awkwardly shy that Kip felt a stab of cruel compassion for the man. One of the luxiats approached him quietly and whispered to him.