The Blinding Knife
Page 91

The Fixer. The Shadow. Tala. Flamehands. Aheyyad Brightwater. Samila Sayeh. Halo Breaker. The Fallen Prophet. The Black Seer. Mirrorman. Mirror Armor. The Technologist. The Novist. The Color Prince.
This wasn’t a deck. There weren’t multiple copies of the cards, such as one would use when playing so as to maximize your chances of that card coming up. This was an entire new set. Kip was looking for his father’s card. Where was it? What would it tell him?
Zymun the Dancer. Kors Angier. Enervate. Incarnidine. Black Luxin. Hellstone Dagger. Multicolored Spectacles. The Angari Serpent. Andross the Red.
Kip felt ice in his veins. It was a young Andross Guile, handsome, strong, a warrior, a white dagger in his hand, tattered cloak billowing around him, three young boys behind him, one to his right, the other to his left, one barely visible in the distance.
Orholam, he looks like a hero.
Putting the card aside, Kip kept going. The Color Prince’s Rifle. Rifle? Kip didn’t even know what the word meant. Not that that was terribly uncommon. Incarnidine? If he had time, he could probably figure some of them out from the pictures, but time felt compressed. Like someone was going to come along any moment and take the cards from him, and they’d be lost forever.
Skimmer. Condor. Incendiary Musket. Gan Guvair. Helane Troas. Viv Grayskin. Yras the Caster. Iron Elm. Pleiad Poros. The Butcher of Aghbalu. Flashbomb.
Again Kip stopped, went back. The Butcher of Aghbalu. The man was splattered with gore, a fiery scimitar in one hand, stylized blue fire around the other, no armor, just a torn, bloodied tunic, revealing massive ebony arms and shoulders. The bodies of the dead lay all around him, in a palace. The man was young, wearing no ghotra, his kinky hair worn in a braided style Kip had never seen before, but it was undeniably Commander Ironfist. Kip had thought Janus Borig was working on his card, a one-eyed man—and it hadn’t looked like this, but this was Commander Ironfist. Younger, but definitely him. Kip’s heart seized.
The Butcher?
Kip looked at the weapons rack on the wall. The scimitar from the card was there, at the top. Spine blackened, blade shining. Garnets and scrimshaw, turquoise and abalone.
Part of him wanted to draft and jump into that memory instantly, but he didn’t. He needed to go through all the cards before someone interrupted him. Surely someone was looking for him, surely he couldn’t be allowed to know everything; it was somehow too easy.
He tucked that card away with the others he wanted to examine later and shuffled through the rest quickly. The Butcher of Ru was the next card, the art paired with Ironfist’s card. Kip’s stomach turned. He knew about General Gad Delmarta’s massacre. On that card, the grinning man on the front was swinging a man’s head by its braided Atashian beard in one hand, and a woman’s head by her long black hair in the other. Kip thought about what would happen to his mind if he jumped into that card. If he became General Delmarta, what would he see? What if getting into that mind wasn’t terribly difficult?
This was living history. He could learn things from these cards that no one else knew, that no one else had any way of knowing. And even if Kip wasn’t a real polychrome and couldn’t draft his extra colors consistently, he could see them, which meant he could know the whole story of every one of them—as only a few other people in the world possibly could. Whoever controlled these cards would control the truth. This wasn’t just a treasure with a titanic monetary value, it was insight; it was a stripping bare of lies.
Anyone in power would want it for what it could tell them about their enemies. Anyone with a secret would want to destroy it lest their enemies find it.
Anyone with a secret. Like being the Butcher of Aghbalu?
A black cloud demon of smoky despair ripped Kip’s mouth open and crawled into his throat. Commander Ironfist had been the one man Kip thought he could trust. And now Kip was in his room, with treasures, vulnerable.
“It’s not me,” a deep voice said behind Kip.
Kip jumped, so startled he flung priceless cards both left and right.
“My apologies,” Ironfist said. “Thought you might have fallen asleep waiting for me. Didn’t want to wake you.” He knelt to help Kip pick up the scattered cards.
He scowled at the very first one he picked up. Looked over at Kip. “These are… real?”
“Yes, sir.” Kip finally got up and started helping the commander gather up the cards.
They stood, and Commander Ironfist handed Kip a stack of the cards. He kept one in his hand. “I’ve never seen originals before. Does it work? Like they say?”
“Yes, sir. If you draft while you touch it, you experience what they did. The more colors you can draft, the more you see.”
Ironfist looked at the card in his hand. “This card. This is my brother, you know him?”
Kip nodded. Tremblefist.
“When my mother was assassinated—it’s complicated. She’d been keeping me away from the Chromeria, and with her death the reasons for keeping me away died, too. Our father was gone, and we had a dey to rule. Both my brother and I were gifted, my sister was too young, so one of us had to stay home to rule. My brother was younger, but I was more gifted, and we had good advisers who would actually do most of the ruling for him. We thought that if I could become a full drafter, in the future I would have more pull with the Chromeria. After I came home, my brother would then take his turn at the Chromeria. So my brother stayed home. To stabilize his rule, we decided he should marry. The Tiru had the best claim, and we should have appeased them. Our advisers told us as much. But we were young men, and though the Tiru’s candidate was not ugly, she was not a beauty to make the heart race either. We were young fools, and I cared what my brother thought. We chose the Tlaglanu princess Tazerwalt because she was prettier than any of the other candidates by far. Her tribe was hated, and though she fell madly in love with Hanishu—pardon, that was my brother’s name, before—even though she loved him and respected him, she was haughty before everyone else. Despised them. It made them hate her more, and made them hate him, too. The competing Tiru had crippled her father during a raid when he was still young, and she was no peacemaker. She took every opportunity to snub and shame them.”
He sighed, but continued, “I had just finished my training when the False Prism’s War began. There was no question that we would support Gavin. Dazen made some abortive overtures to Paria, but we were too deeply indebted to Andross Guile and his father Draccos Guile to take those overtures seriously. You wouldn’t know it from Gavin’s coloring, but no small amount of Parian blood flows in the Guile veins. Anyway, we sent our entire army, and still Andross demanded more. Most of the palace guards went. They ended up barely making it in time, but that’s another story.
“Seeing this weakness, the Tiru tribesmen came from the mountains and infiltrated the capital city of our dey, Aghbalu, as civilians, and then one day when my brother went out hunting with fifty of the few remaining soldiers with him, the Tiru attacked.
“Hanishu and his fifty were alerted by some refugees, and they came back to the city as fast as they could. The Tiru had already set up camp in the palace, feasting around the still-unburied bodies of those they’d massacred. My brother and his soldiers arrived in the middle of the night. The Tiru were scattered, sleeping, or drunk, and my brother fell on them like a lion. He was eighteen years old, and he already had two daughters and a son. He found his wife’s and children’s bodies. The Tiru had done… unspeakable things to them. My brother went mad. A warrior in his prime and a wild drafter.