The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,293

be thinking it, and I thought it would be good for him to see your face when I asked. I thought he might be too polite to ask.”

“On the matter of my wife, I wouldn’t let etiquette—or anything—get in the way of my vengeance,” Corvan said.

“I only ask,” Kip said, “since you’ve had such a good working relationship with the Order in the past.”

Again, the clouds boiled, but no thunderbolt struck.

“When one is in power, one must frequently deal with unsavory elements,” Andross said, “worse than assassins, even. Which is why sometimes one must hold one’s nose and deal even with traitors. But that doesn’t make one a traitor oneself, does it, Corvan?”

Corvan Danavis was quivering with the effort to contain himself. “A traitor? You refer to King Ironfist, I suppose?”

“He brought you here, didn’t he?”

“I’ve arrived here with an army, just in time, from what I hear. Without Ironfist’s fleet, we’d not be arriving for another two months.”

“Has your army disembarked, then?” Andross asked.

“No. I came on ahead. The White seemed eager that I should see the state of the defenses immediately—”

“And King Ironfist doubtless told you to go on ahead.”

“Yes,” Corvan said.

“Without your soldiers. Who are isolated on their own ships, perhaps? Ships disarmed, ostensibly so they have room for more soldiers?” Andross suggested.

Corvan froze as the implications dawned on him. “He . . . he wouldn’t.”

“You’ve not brought us an army, Satrap,” Andross said. “You’ve brought Ironfist ten thousand hostages. You were right, Grinwoody. All his years serving at the highest level, and Ironfist has no loyalty at all.”

“It grieves me to be right,” Grinwoody said. “He is of my own tribe, my lord.”

“Well, we’ll deal with all that presently,” Andross said. “First things first.”

“He’s disembarking himself to negotiate the surrender,” Corvan said. “Or . . . at least that’s what he told me.”

“He meant it. Only, he didn’t mean his surrender,” Andross said icily.

Corvan cursed under his breath.

“But he’s disembarking? When? Soon?” Kip asked. “Shit! We’ve got to finish this game quickly, grandfather. I’ve got to make sure my commander doesn’t find out Ironfist’s here.”

“I don’t imagine King Ironfist will have any trouble with one of your puppies,” Andross said.

“This one he might,” Kip said.

“You’re in the middle of something?” Corvan asked. “I’m sorry I interrupted with such bad news. You’re in the middle of . . . a game?” He didn’t bother to conceal a note of disbelief.

“Hardly,” Kip said, “but please stay. That is, if you don’t mind watching.”

“I’d be delighted to see the era’s greatest mind at work.”

“Thank you—” Kip and Andross said at the same time. They even sort of inclined their heads the same way. That was weird. Kip hadn’t been around this man at all growing up.

The blood is strong.

Corvan said, “Your pardon, my lords, a slip of the tongue. ‘Greatest minds.’ ”

“After I win,” Kip said, “I’d like to go over some ideas on the Jaspers’ defense with you.”

They took their seats, Grinwoody having already scuttled about on his little roach legs to provide a chair for the satrap.

Kip brushed the art on the cards with his fingertips in frustration. He had to settle for playing a Lightguard, though the sun was high enough he could have played a more powerful card if he’d had it.

Andross played the Red Bane.

Kip flopped Cannon Island onto the table. “This deck isn’t good enough. If Janus Borig had had time to complete—”

“No sniveling,” Andross said. “You had first choice of decks.”

“Here I could have been king of Blood Forest,” Kip muttered.

“I think we’ve had quite enough of kings,” Andross said. He dropped another bane, and attacked.

Kip didn’t defend, soaking up the damage like he was the damned Turtle-Bear.

“Why isn’t there a Turtle-Bear card?” Kip asked suddenly. Surely he had to be important enough to get a card, right?

“A what?” Andross asked, not that interested.

“Come on, you were looking at it earlier.” Kip put down his cards, pushing his chair back. He showed off his tattoo. Swapping spectacles of various colors, he quickly worked through the superviolet, which gave the edges their nice borders, then as he drew in blue light, zigzags of blue shot through his forearm, just above the wrist. A rounded rectangle. Kip drew green, and color suffused the outlines. Yellow, and the colors gained richness.

Corvan Danavis inhaled sharply. “What did you call that card?” he asked.

Kip ignored him until he finished, and the tattoo stood sharp and clear on his forearm. “ Turtle-Bear. I’m the Turtle-Bear,” Kip said.

“Where did