The Broken Eye
Page 48

Li-Lit Ohwarea. A red/orange/yellow. Had secretly tried to go wight. Admitted she couldn’t figure out the problems.
Mylitta Ali. A red. A warrior who had been captured, her tongue ripped out by a squad of the Blue-Eyed Demons who had served Dazen. She was illiterate, so Gavin had to use sign language and yes-and-no questions to shrive her. She seemed relieved. None of the luxiats she’d visited before had thought of it or had time when she’d attempted to confess to them. Assholes.
Ghila the Mason. A sub-red. Quiet woman. Attacked Gavin when she thought his guard was down.
Please let me wake.
Elpida Bowyer. A yellow. Confessed that she loved her children more than she loved Orholam. And meant it. She thought it a real sin. She had to encourage Gavin to kill her.
Nukimmut Rose. A blue. Said nothing. Eyes full of hatred, watched Gavin all the way. He expected her to attack, but she never did.
Zenana Zenamus. A red. Proudly filled every second of her time with him recounting her sins. There was cruelty, shocking things with animals, torture, cannibalism, numerous murders, blasphemies, defamation of altars with luxiats she’d seduced, anything to sow chaos and horror. “And now,” she said, “since I go to my death shrived, I’ll join Orholam in paradise.” She laughed.
Tahirith. A yellow. Had merely killed her husband who habitually beat her. It was a relief, after Zenana.
Kyriaka Kyraeus. A blue from a noble family. Had joined Dazen’s rebels, and when they lost had bribed slavers to take all of her servants if only they would spare her. Had been looking for her slaves since to redeem them, but ran out of time.
Loida. A red. Had participated in a small massacre in some Atashian village during the war. Didn’t, on the other hand, feel guilty for spraying red luxin into Garriston.
Tsul. A sub-red. She confessed a thousand small cruelties, which she realized sprang from a life of hatred. She’d hated and envied multitudes, and though it had never reached any pinnacle of expression in violence or sabotage, she’d wasted all her years and talents. Said she’d sinned most against Orholam, for wasting the gift he’d given her, life.
Sar-Rat Bibiana. A sub-red. She’d tried to go wight, and had been so heavily sedated that she couldn’t confess.
Shala Smith. A red. Drunk and high on poppy. Couldn’t confess.
Tasmituv. An orange. Lies, she confessed. Always lying and manipulating. Long ago, she’d confessed to a luxiat for cheating on her husband, but still felt guilt for that, too.
Edna. A blue. Said she couldn’t speak her sins, they were so black. Not even to the Prism. No prodding would move her.
Illi Patel. A yellow. Attacked Gavin. Had hidden how much she’d gone wight.
Lemta. A red. Wight. Was bound to the kneeler when Gavin got there. Couldn’t speak.
Meghighda. A blue. Wight. Was bound. Spoke, but couldn’t be understood.
Tamayyurt. A superviolet. Too wounded from the war to speak, burn scars and seeping sores covering her body, but smiled at Gavin, fully aware, refusing the poppy, ready for release. Gavin had taken a full minute after that one, unable to go into the next room.
Parvin. A red. A thief.
Tamazzalt. A blue. Another with a litany of sins, but so outlandish Gavin suspected she was lying, ill in the head.
Dulceana Havid. A young sub-red, and an Atashian-born Ruthgari noble. She’d cheated on her husband with a young noblewoman named Eirene Malargos. Information to be remembered, and the first time of the night Gavin had used his position for selfish ends.
Tamment Tailor. A blue. Simply said, “Envy, lust, hatred, greed, sloth. You’ve got lots to do tonight, so let’s be efficient about this, shall we?”
Tazêllayt. Blue. And Gavin discovered the real reason they’d anointed his body with oil: it made it easier to wipe your skin clean when someone coughed blood all over you. A quick rub at the washbasin that stood between each room, and a quick change of ceremonial clothes that the luxiats kept on hand, and he was on to the next room as if nothing had happened.
Tinsin Khan …
Tinsin Khan he could never remember. He’d even looked her up, afterward. Tinsin Khan, green, of the Floating City, Blood Forest, in service to the satrap’s steward. No memory of her. Something had broken in him when the luxiats had washed the blood from his face and put him in new garments, as if it were commonplace. Had broken his very memory, of which he was so proud.
And now, though he could call up their colors and stories and sins and attitudes if he tried, he saw each one of the drafters differently; he pushed them back, away. They became only a name and a sin to be shrived.
Illi Alexander. Gossip.
Loida Moss. Poisoner.
Tinsin. Rebellious.
Tahlia. Envy.
Bell Sparrow. Seductress.
Li-Li Solaens. Wight.
Xenia Delaen. Wight.
Myla Loros. Wight.
Pelagia Breeze. Spy.
Meghida Talor. Hatred.
Tahirith Khan. Greed.
Edna Wood. Sloth.
Tasmituv. Lust. Was it possible for a woman dying a virgin to have lust be her principal sin? Yes, Gavin learned.
But he soon settled back into the torpor. Jaleh Smith. Incitement to murder.
Nairi Many Waters. Lust.
Lemta. Hatred.
But then even the sins were starting to sound the same. ‘My husband never understood me,’ ‘If only I’d had as much as my neighbor,’ ‘It wasn’t fair that…’ Gavin could paint on a face of full attention, empathy, the same stock phrases, the same words in the same prayers. He could sound so sincere, but he heard his own voice as from down a tunnel. Even with his excellent memory, the penitents became only a name and a single detail. As if it weren’t worth the space to hold a sin for each, unless it was a really good one.
Titrit. A fatty.
A part of him was horrified at himself. A fatty? No, she’d been … a blue. A pious and earnest woman. Fearful but resolute. Quavering voice that made her fat little jowls shake, and utterly … utterly boring.
Alé Aribar. Tried to seduce him to escape. Wasn’t even close to attractive enough to make it tempting.
Dianthe Knoll. Perfect golden hair.
Titaia Cox. Odd warts, all over. Washed his hands twice afterwards.
Hêbê Ali. Claimed a hundred affairs. Ugly as sin.
Melite Melaens. Big hands. Big, big hands.
Agata Mason. How did she get any work done with breasts that big?
Leilah Tree. The grimacer.
Nurit Hex. Birthmark on her face.
Beulah Blue. No eyebrows.
Livnah Smith. Buck teeth.
Naamiy. Kept clearing her throat. Orholam’s balls, would she never stop clearing her throat?
Ora Orestes. Seemed nice. Gray hair. Looked like a grandmother.
Penina Duraens. A coward.
Minu. A drunk.
Ercilia. Wight.
Gilberta Gonzala. Cursed more than any soldier or sailor he’d ever known.
Neva. So skinny she must have some eating illness.
Xenia. Ugly.
Sar-Ra Hesh. Deserter.
Bili Oak. Stumpy.
Khordad Ali. Gorgeous, with a flat affect. Smelled of shit constantly due to what had been done to her when she’d been captured in the war.
Titaia Brown. Farmer.
Elpida. Smelled of fresh sex.
Dianthe … something. Weeper.
Hagnes. Weeper.
Hêbê Brown. Chatterer.
Podarge. Odd name.
Parvin Nyssani. Gavin twisted his wrist when the knife hit a rib.