If only Gavin would come back. Gavin could protect him. Even though Kip had heard people say that Gavin was afraid of Andross Guile—that everyone was afraid of Andross Guile—it felt like Gavin could arrive and solve all of his problems in an instant. Kip could go back to being a child again.
A child tasked with destroying the Blue.
Orholam have mercy. Kip couldn’t count on anyone. He had to make the best of it. He had to go on.
It was late afternoon. The stars of this district had their light focused elsewhere. Here, the buildings were close, the shadows long. He looked over his shoulder.
Sure enough. A large, unkempt man was looming at the mouth of the alley. The man drew a knife from his belt. It was roughly the size of a sea demon.
Kip ran.
It was only twenty paces to the nearest lightwell. Kip skidded to a stop. He fumbled with his pocket, pulled out his spectacles as the big man charged after him. Put them on his face.
The big man pulled up short. Raised his hands. “Didn’t see you there, drafter, sir. Was just running, uh, home. No offense.”
Kip hadn’t even started drafting. In truth, he probably wouldn’t have had time to draft before the big man killed him.
But the man didn’t know that. He backed away, as if from a wild animal, then ran.
Just a thug. Just a thief. Nothing personal. No conspiracy. No assassination attempt.
And Kip hadn’t even thought of the fighting skills that Ironfist and Trainer Fisk had been beating into his skull. He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were chafed, fists bruised from constant use, and Kip had simply… forgotten it all. Hadn’t even occurred to him that he could fight.
He tucked his spectacles back in a pocket, and saw that the door in front of him was labeled: Janus Borig, Demiurgos.
He knocked and swore he saw dark-clad figures up several stories on either side of the alley bob out of nowhere quickly and disappear. He felt the weight of hidden eyes.
Jumpy, Kip. Jumpy.
An old woman opened the door. She was almost bald, and she was smoking a long pipe. Long nose, few teeth, a scattering of liver spots amid faded freckles. Her dress was besmirched with paint. She would have looked like a vagabond, but she wore a thick gold necklace that must have weighed a sev. She was wrinkly and ugly as afterbirth, but plainly vigorous, and there was such warmth in her features, Kip found himself grinning almost immediately.
“So. You’re the bastard,” she said. “Rea told me you’d come. Come in.”
Chapter 44
The first thing Kip noticed about Janus Borig’s home was that it was home to the largest mess Kip had seen in his life. The mess had paws in every nook, had shed fur in every cranny. Piles of clothes like coughed-up hairballs hid the floor, and stacks of books stood like trees for the mess to mark its territory. The mess seemed to have little sense of human valuation, because old gnawed-on chicken bones shared floor space with strands of pearls and either jewels or colored glass close enough to jewels to fool Kip’s eyes.
The second thing he noticed was the guns. Janus Borig liked guns. There was one attached to the door, swiveling toward the peephole, in case Janus decided to kill a visitor rather than welcome him. But others were scattered everywhere, as if the mess had gotten into them and tossed them about. Pistols, the latest flintlock muskets, matchlocks, blunderbusses—there were handy ways to kill people everywhere.
“Don’t touch anything,” Janus said.
Which was impossible, thanks.
“Half the things in here will kill you if you nudge them wrong.”
Oh. Lovely.
She spun around and put something down on a shelf. It was a tiny pistol. She took a drag on her long pipe, contorted her lips into a quasi-smile, and blew smoke out of both sides of her mouth simultaneously. “Promise me something, bastard of the greatest Prism to ever live.”
She turned over her pipe and tapped out the ashes into a small pile of the same. She picked up another pistol, cocked it, and then used the spur of the hammer to scrape out the remaining ashes from her pipe. With every scrape, the cocked—and for all Kip knew, loaded—pistol rotated from being pointed at Kip’s forehead to being pointed at his groin.
To his left and right, there were piles; he couldn’t move anywhere without touching something.
“Uh, yes?” Kip said.
“Promise me you won’t kill me or report me to those who might.”
“I promise,” Kip said.
She sucked at her lips, making a squeaking sound, then spat. She put down the pistol and grabbed at a pile of tobacco, stuffed some in her pipe, eyeing Kip closely. He swore there was a pile of black powder right next to the pile of tobacco. She snatched a fuse cord from one of the matchlocks and stuck it onto the flame of a lantern, then used the fuse to light her pipe. “Swear it,” she said from behind a curtain of smoke.