The Broken Eye(30)

It seemed the more Kip learned about magic, the more impressed he was with those who used it artfully.

Then again, he’d gone green golem once, purely on instinct.

You got potential, Kip.

And you know what potential means? he replied.

“Ain’t done nothing yet.”

It was actually kind of comforting to hear the sound of his own voice.

He kept walking. Whether under oar or sail, galleys could travel twelve to fifteen leagues a day. Most galleys only had a range of four days before they needed fresh provisions. As galleys became less prevalent—being replaced by ships with longer ranges—many of the coastal towns that lived on the galley traffic were struggling. They would die in another generation or two, but they weren’t gone yet. So at the maximum, there had to be a town within sixty leagues.

Assuming he hadn’t been dropped precisely in between two towns, Kip would obviously find one closer if he walked the right direction. But he’d been blindfolded. The nearest town could only be a league or two south, while he was heading north.

Of course, there should be little towns in between, too, like that little fishing town so close to Ruic Head where the whales had gone crazy, and the people, too.

That was, if all the towns hadn’t been abandoned by people fearful of the advancing army of color wights, in which case, he could walk until he died and—

Not helping, Kip.

He was hungry. No, don’t think about that. Anything else.

At worst, if Kip could walk eight leagues a day, he should make it to a town in seven days. At worst. He could do that. All he needed was water. He could live on his fat for plenty long enough, theoretically, though he would walk slower as he became weaker. He found himself moving imaginary abacus beads as he did the figures. Funny, that helped.

That is, it helped him with the arithmetic. A smarter person would probably shut off his brain and walk. Kip had always been about as good at shutting off his brain as he was at shutting off his mouth.

Straight pipe between the two, mother used to say.

He was assuming he could walk eight leagues a day. Here, on the clear beaches, that seemed entirely plausible, but Kip knew there were other areas of the coastline that were rocky, where cliffs bordered the sea, or jungles abutted the waves almost directly. Points protruded full leagues out into the sea. If Kip followed the coastline exactly, he would have to travel much more than the sixty leagues a ship would travel between towns. If he didn’t follow the coastline exactly, he’d risk getting lost in an unfamiliar jungle or forest.

For a few minutes, he had to concentrate on breathing, his throat constricted, his chest tight, trying to throttle him.

But he didn’t stop walking. His mind clamped down on that refusal like a bulldog’s jaw locking. He was the turtle-bear, and the turtle-bear can’t be stopped. What was the worst that could happen? He could fail? He’d failed before, plenty. He could die? He’d almost died plenty of times now. Sometimes it was scary, sometimes it was terrifying, sometimes it was exhilarating, often it was uncontrollable no matter what you did, right or wrong. You don’t stop and make death a sure thing just because going on might result in death. Kip was a fat miserable disappointment, but he wasn’t a quitter.

He grinned suddenly. A fat miserable disappointment—who had, albeit with lots of qualifiers, killed a king, saved the Prism, and killed a god. Not bad for a fatty. Hell, he’d even outsmarted Andross Guile once.

Odd that he thought of outsmarting Andross Guile as more impressive than killing a god.

The god thing felt like luck, though, or like Orholam had surveyed the field for a suitable tool to keep his Prism alive, and finding none suitable, had picked up Kip because he was closest.

Kip paused.

I treat myself pretty shitty, he thought. I’d never let anyone treat a friend of mine this way.

An hour later, he found a stream. He drank, hoping the water was good. Truth was, he didn’t have much choice. He slowly drank more, waiting to make sure it didn’t make him throw up, and then sipping more. He stood, wishing he had a waterskin.

He caught sight of his green luxin boots. Golly, if only I had some way to make a waterskin!

With a sigh, he drafted a green bag. Magic first, magic always, Kip. He scooped up a great volume of water, then bent the green until it fit comfortably across his back. Drafted straps that fit his shoulders, drafted a belt.

Magic. So useful, it’s like … magic.

“Talking to this madman is making me crazy!” Kip said.

Funny. You’ll know you’re almost finished when you forget it’s supposed to be ironic.

He decided while he was walking, he could catch up on all the practica he’d missed. Unfortunately, at his level, the Blackguard training had consisted almost purely of hand-to-hand combat, the idea being that such was the foundation for all their future training. On the ships traveling to Ruic Head, they’d been taught proper grips and basic handling of swords and how to reload muskets. The other new Blackguard inductees already knew it all. Some of them had been training with weapons for years. Some were proficient with bows and other weapons that Kip had barely even picked up. He was way, way behind.