The Blinding Knife(20)

“Fantastic,” he said. “What’s next?”

Next was the tailors’, where Kip had to strip down for the fitting. The tailors were women. One of them was attractive, and as she knelt in front of him standing in his underwear, he could see straight down her cleavage. He spent the next half hour staring at the ceiling and praying. And just when Kip was finally leaving, thanking Orholam that his body hadn’t done anything to mortify him, the other woman cleared her throat and handed him an extra pair of clean underwear. “You can wash them once in a while,” she said conspiratorially. “And your armpits, too.”

He almost died.

They made him go sponge bathe—he angrily waved off the slave who tried to help him—and change into his new white tunic and new white pants, and new underwear, and a tower slave took his clothes to the barracks. Then they went and registered with some official who made Kip sign his name on a bunch of forms, and then Samite took him to the dining hall where he was allowed a very small and very fast lunch, and then she showed him where the toilets were on each level of the towers.

And then she took him to his first class. “I can come inside or I can wait outside. Your choice,” she said.

“Outside. Please, outside.” He was already embarrassed enough that he had a bodyguard. He looked into the lecture hall, trying to hide his nerves, while other students streamed past him. He was hungry. What wouldn’t he give for a pie right now. He asked, “Anything I should, uh, know?”

“You’re expected not to know anything.”

Ah, then I might even exceed expectations.





Chapter 12




“Every time you draft, you’re hastening your death,” Magister Kadah said. She wasn’t yet middle-aged, but she already seemed wizened, mousy, with hunched shoulders, hair that hadn’t seen a brush or a pick in weeks, green spectacles on a gold chain around her neck, and a thin switch of green luxin in her hand. “Your death doesn’t matter, but depriving your satrap of an expensive tool does. Your death doesn’t matter, but depriving your community of what it needs to survive does. We who draft are slaves. Slaves to Orholam, to light, to the Prism, the satraps, and our cities.”

Cheery sort. Kip tried to keep his expression neutral as he sat in on his first class at the Chromeria.

“Lies first, lessons later,” a boy said behind Kip.

“What?” Kip asked. He looked over his shoulder. The boy was, oddly, wearing clear spectacles with thick black mahogany frames in front of thicker black brows. The lenses made one eye look bigger than the other. But more intriguing than his Ruthgari looks—curly light brown hair, small nose, tan skin, brown eyes—were the mechanical spectacles themselves. Two colored lenses, one yellow, one blue, rested on hinges, ready to be clicked down over the clear lenses at a moment’s notice.

The boy grinned, seeing Kip’s stare. “My own design,” he said.

“It’s genius. I’ve never—”

Something struck Kip’s desk with a sound like a musket shot. Kip almost jumped out of his skin. He looked at the green luxin switch in the magister’s hand. She’d slammed it across his desk, missing his fingertips by a thumb’s width.

“Master Guile,” she said.

She let the words sit in the air, announcing to anyone in the class who hadn’t known who he was that he was indeed a Guile, and she knew it.

Next she proves she doesn’t care.

“Do you think you’re better than the rest of the class, Master Guile?”

The temptation was strong, but Kip had his orders. He was to do well in his classes. Getting kicked out of them would not help him achieve that. “No, Magister,” he said. He thought he even made it sound sincere.

She wasn’t an imposing figure, neither tall nor wide, but she loomed over Kip’s seat. He leaned as far away as his seat allowed. “Do we understand each other, young man?” she asked.

It was an odd way to put it, since she hadn’t made any explicit threat, but she didn’t have to. “Yes, Magister,” Kip said.

“Discipulae, I’m sure you’ve noticed your new classmate.” The way she said it made it unclear whether or not she was referring to Kip being fat. There were a few nervous titters. “His name is Kit Guile and—”

“Kip,” Kip interjected. “Not a woody tub for toys, a tubby wooden boy.” He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were halfway out of his mouth.

“Ah. Thank you. I’d forgotten that gutter Tyrean has its own definitions for words. Put out your hand, Kip.”

He extended his hand, not quite guessing why he needed to do so until she cracked the green switch across his knuckles.