Chapter 48
Weeks later, they stood again in their ranks in front of Trainer Fisk. He cast a baleful eye around the great yard beneath the Chromeria. Everywhere, Blackguards were training men and women who were not Blackguards. He stared at one arc of the great circle with particular, undisguised hatred, though.
The rumored Lightguard was now a reality. The nunks joined him in his spite. Established with one stroke of the new promachos’s pen, the Lightguard was Andross Guile’s own personal army, established to defend the Jaspers, so he said, and answering only to him.
The Blackguards saw what he was doing, even if it seemed no one else in power did. The Lightguard was comprised of mercenaries, ruffians, veterans from the old war, and any others who were willing to do whatever Andross Guile wanted in return for coin and his protection from prosecution or vengeance for any crime they might have committed. They were led primarily by washed-out Blackguards and the sons of poor nobles who wanted to throw themselves on Andross Guile’s mercy.
They had been given tailed white jackets with big brass buttons and medals for trifles. Worse, they were given some of the Blackguard’s prerogatives: allowed to walk through the Chromeria armed, for one.
And they were being taught—by the promachos’s incontrovertible order—by a Blackguard. It was like being forced to gut yourself with a rusty knife.
“Today, Specials,” Trainer Fisk said, spitting in the direction of the Lightguards, but then turning away.
Almost all of their training was special assignments now, and there was little pretense that it was only training. The swearing in to full Blackguard status of the best inductees had been halted. Commander Ironfist had seen that once sworn, his people were sent to duties like training Lightguards, so he held on to them.
Other Blackguards were being sent on other missions: some of them searching for Gavin, others disappearing for days or weeks, and coming back, sworn to silence about what they’d been doing. Word got out, at least in Blackguard circles, though. They were looking for bane. They said there might be nexuses of each of the seven colors out there somewhere. Which, to Kip’s ears, sounded like more gods to fight.
Some of them reported strange sights, odd phenomena they’d encountered. One brought back a small lizard called a sand dragon from Atash. The nunks thought it was the least exciting dragon ever. It didn’t breathe fire or anything interesting, but when they killed it, they were able to set it on fire without any other fuel, and it burned for three days. Somehow the things incorporated red luxin into their bodies, much like atasifusta trees used to do. This was the first one that had been seen in many years.
In Ruthgar, there were stories of the grasslands—usually dormant and brown this late in the year—growing green in great nine-pointed stars. It might have been the work of rogue green drafters fertilizing the plains to make a statement for the Color Prince, but two of the Blackguards had seen one. They believed what they had seen was far too big to be the work of even three or four green drafters working together.
In Paria, a team had found a town where half the wells were full of orange luxin. The village elders swore that there were no orange drafters nearby. And in a week, the luxin simply disappeared.
There were wilder rumors, too, of firestorms in Tyrea, where instead of lightning, great streaks of fire splashed down with the rain and hail and snow. Sinkholes in Abornea. Boiling seas off Pericol. Animals acting strangely, and even plants seeming to act with intent. It was impossible to filter the truth from the nonsense and, quickly, impossible to get some of the books from the restricted libraries that had been sitting right under the squad’s nose. Scholars appointed by Andross himself came in, grabbed a bunch of books and scrolls, and left without a word.
And all the time, the war was being fought. The enemy was advancing. Others were fighting in their place, far away.
With them all formed up, Trainer Fisk said, “Today your assignment, every squad, is to go to the docks on East Bay. The Lists are being read. Go.”
He stopped.
“And what, sir?” an Archer named Kerea asked. “What are we to do?”
“You listen. Was there something unclear about your orders? Go!”
They went.
“What was that about?” Ferkudi asked before they even reached the Lily’s Stem.
Cruxer seemed somber. But he didn’t answer. Kip took his lead and didn’t answer either. Knowing what a lesson was beforehand didn’t mean you had to blunt its impact on those who didn’t.
“Let’s take it at a jog,” Cruxer said.
They jogged through the enclosed bridge as the sunrise shone brilliance on them. Kip had two thoughts: first, that he was no longer baffled at the wonders of magic of these islands. Running through a luxin tube suspended at the level of the waves had somehow become normal to him. The awkward bumpkin was gone. He wasn’t sure that was all good. How insular the Jasperites became, every day seeing magic the likes of which a Tyrean orchardist would never see in his life, every day rubbing shoulders with women and men who harnessed Orholam’s breath itself. All the world turned around the Jaspers, but the Jaspers were not all the world. Second, he realized there was now no sign at all of the sea demon attack that had nearly demolished this bridge. The sea demon itself hadn’t been seen since the Feast of Light and Darkness, nor the black whale. The mess had been cleared, the dead taken away—and none of them were people Kip had known, or known by people Kip knew. It was like it hadn’t happened.
This is what it is to live in the cosmos that is the Jaspers. The world changes here, but here there is not one world, there are many, and we only see the others when they tread upon our toes.
They made it to the docks and slowed as they pushed through the press of bodies. Cruxer acted as a wedge, and Big Leo went second, clearing a path for the rest of them. In their inductees’ grays, no one resisted them.
There was a tall carven pedestal just wide enough for a crier to stand on, and a man was clambering up the ladder to stand there. He reached into a pouch he wore and pulled out a scroll. He cracked the seal, and the crowd quieted, then he allowed the scroll to unfurl.
Murmurs shot through the crowd as they saw the scroll unroll past his feet. But they quieted again as the man began reading, his voice a clear, cutting tenor that carried easily over the murmurs and the sounds of sailors unloading their ships, wagons creaking past on old wheels. “This is the list of those dead or missing and believed to be dead who hail from Big Jasper or the Chromeria, from the end of the skirmish at Ruic Neck until the end of the Battle of Ox Ford. This list is complete and truthful to the best of my knowledge, so swears Lord Commander of the Unified Armies of the Satrapies, Caul Azmith.”
And then he began reading names. Noblewomen first, then noblemen. Scant few though there were of either. Then female drafters, then male drafters. As slaves—despite being drafters—the Blackguards came next, barely before the commoners.
“Of the Blackguard: Elessia, Laya, Tugertent, Ahhanen, Djur, Norl Jumper, and Pan Harl.”
And then he read on, as if those were but a few names of the hundreds or thousands he had yet to read this day, as if this was simply his work. Which of course it was.
“Norl Jumber, Orholam damn you. Jumber,” Big Leo said under his breath.
It was Ben-hadad, the smart one, who said the dumbest thing. “They could just be missing, right? I mean, this doesn’t mean they’re dead. Not all of them. It’s a list of the dead and missing. Right?”
Cruxer didn’t even turn his head. “There’s a hope that empowers, and a hope that enfeebles. Don’t confuse them.”
Someone down the line choked, strangling a sob. Ferkudi? Kip wondered why he wasn’t feeling anything at all, except awkward that he wasn’t feeling what he was supposed to feel. What was wrong with him? What if someone else in the squad looked at him and could tell that while they stood and grieved, he was just standing?
He remembered Elessia. She was small, crooked grin, crooked teeth, light-skinned for a Blackguard, got duty with the White a lot. Laya: she was a red, older. Kip could remember her weeping on the barges as they came back from Garriston. Oh, that was it. She’d had to kill her partner, who’d broken the halo in the middle of the battle. Tugertent was a literal archer, and the best in the Blackguard at that. People swore they’d seen her hit targets around corners, which she’d never denied. Ahhanen Kip could only remember in that he always looked like he’d just drunk wine gone to vinegar. His partner was Djur, who had a trick of juggling two pistols and knife in dizzying patterns to amuse his comrades. Liked to gamble, and was bad at it, from what Kip had heard. Norl Jumber was small and eager, none too bright, but always infectiously happy. Pan Harl had been an inductee, like Kip and his squad. He shouldn’t even have been there.
They couldn’t just be gone. Not just like that. A name read aloud in a square, and that was it? What had happened to them? Had they died heroically, or were they merely in the wrong place and their card had been pulled?
Someone started keening, not ten paces away. She threw herself forward, as if to attack the crier, and several women grabbed her, held her back. Kip realized he’d lost some time. The crier had been reading name upon name, by satrapy and lord of allegiance. There had to be over a thousand names on his list.
A thousand names, and he was only reading the dead who hailed from the Jaspers. Someone said that the Ruthgari armies had taken the most grievous losses by far.
Orholam have mercy, how many people had died?
The squads stood at attention for fifteen minutes as the names were read. Name after name after name. As each lord’s dead was read, some would sob or shriek or collapse, while others tried not to let too much relief show. But as the list continued relentlessly, the balance shifted. The mood darkened. The brightly shining sun glistened in mockery, as if Orholam didn’t see.
In some distant corner, a fight had broken out among the bereaved. Furious, flailing against the truth, punishing the innocent. The bitter aggrieved and the guiltily relieved, fighting.
When the crier finished, there was only silence and sobs, the broken being led away by stunned friends.
Kip wanted to shout at them. You thought this was a game?! When Tyreans were dying it was exciting, but now, now it’s serious?! He hated them for a moment, but the moment passed, and he saw their sorrow and was moved.
That they have learned to weep at war is no victory. That they know loss is no gain.
Then the crier announced where the names of each satrapy’s dead would be posted around the plaza, and got down from his pedestal. There was no other word. No update.
They hadn’t announced the battle as a victory, or even as holding off the enemy. That lack, as much as the number of names read did, told Kip there had been only crushing defeat.
“This is why,” Cruxer said. The squad looked at him. “This is why we have to be the best.”