The Blinding Knife(33)

Something died in her eyes. She looked away. He saw a wave of suppressed emotion crest in her lips, which went through about four expressions in a second. She blinked rapidly. Stood up and left without a word.

So, Kip, sweetie, how was your first day?

I made my teacher hate me; I got slapped by an old man and beat up by a little girl; I told my class that you were a whore; I destroyed someone’s dream of joining the Blackguard; and I made a nice girl cry. Other than that, great!

And my hand hurts. He pushed it against the tabletop, trying to straighten it like he was supposed to be doing all the time. It took his breath away. He stopped immediately. Breathed. Had to concentrate so tears didn’t leak out.

Kip got up and walked out of the hall. His Blackguard followed him. The man was tall and skinny, his irises haloed in red behind square-lensed red spectacles, pistol tucked behind his back, ataghan on one hip, katar on the other. He wasn’t one of the Blackguards who’d been to Tyrea.

It wasn’t even dark when Kip got to the barracks. He didn’t care. He crashed into his bed, not even pulling the blanket over himself. He was finished.

But the day wasn’t finished with him.

Something jabbed him. “What are you doing in my bed?” a voice demanded.

Really?

Kip didn’t even open his eyes. “I’m farting in it to warm it up for you.”

“Get out.” This time whoever it was punched Kip in the shoulder. It didn’t hurt much. Kip was looking through slit eyes and saw the movement toward himself and had braced for it. “I want to sleep in this bed tonight.”

“It’s a bit small, but I guess we can cuddle,” Kip said, sitting up.

The bully was big but doughy-looking. One of those boys who gets his height and weight early, and doesn’t really notice when everyone else catches up with him.

“Out of my bed, fatty,” the bully said.

Kip rubbed his eyes. The other boys in the barracks were watching, pretending to be readying their bunks, stripping off their tunics. “Problem with being a bully,” Kip said. “You never know how tough the new boy is. Bet it scares you a little, doesn’t it?”

“What? Get out, fatty!”

Kip stood up wearily. The bully had short-cropped brown hair, a heavy jaw, big nose, chubby, but a big frame. “You think I’ve never seen a bully before? That I’ve never been bullied? We both know how this goes: I’m going to draw a line—like, ‘Don’t hit me.’ And then, because you’re a bully, you’re going to have to hit me. And then…”

Or I can sidestep all that nonsense.

Kip punched the bully in the nose as hard as he could—and actually connected. A most satisfying pop. The bully went down hard, stunned. Blood gave him the mustache and beard that age hadn’t yet.

“What’s your name?” Kip asked the boy at his feet.

“Erio,” the boy said, plugging his nose, still stunned. He got up on all fours, or all threes actually, since one hand was occupied.

“Elio?”

Elio started to stand. “I am going to kill you, you little—” Fighting manners dictated that Kip let him stand before they fought.

Kip slugged the boy in the face, knocking him sprawling. He jumped on top of Elio, squashing the breath out of him and trapping his arm in a wristlock. He sat on the boy.

Abruptly, Kip was cold, in control.

Elio said, “I’m going to kick your ass, you little puke. I’m going to make you regret the day you were born.” Apparently he’d recovered from his shock, then. “Let go of my arm!”

Elio jerked and jumped, trying to throw Kip off, but Kip merely ground forward until the boy cried out and stopped fighting. He knew wristlocks well, though it had always been from the other side. Back home, Ramir used to grind Kip’s face in the ground, make him cry, furious, humiliated. Made him kiss the dirt and say nasty things for his amusement before he’d let him get up.

The bully didn’t stop: “I’m going to kill you, you fat little bastard. You can’t hold me forever, and once I get out, you’re going to have to watch your back. I’ll be there. I’ll be waiting for you, and you won’t get off with a sucker punch next time.”

Kip realized suddenly that he was riding a tiger. There was no winning here. He was in a position of power, so he’d look the bad guy if he used it to his advantage. The normal course of things now was that he would give Elio an ultimatum, like Take it back! or something similarly stupid. Elio would refuse, and Kip would be stuck. If Kip let him get up, Elio would come back tomorrow—and he probably would beat the snot out of Kip. If Kip tortured Elio by grinding his arm, it wouldn’t do permanent damage, but many of the boys wouldn’t know that, and even if Elio submitted, Kip would look like a cruel bastard to everyone in the barracks. Or worse, someone would interfere before Elio submitted, and Kip would look cruel and weak.