The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,295

The old man went wide-eyed as he saw Ironfist staring out of the card. He was uncomprehending for a long, long moment. “This is impossible,” he breathed.

“I believe my Ironfist kills off both of your bane and your Dagnu,” Kip said. “Good round for me. Shall we—”

Andross held up a finger. “Grinwoody?” he hissed without turning.

“My lord,” Grinwoody’s voice trembled. “He hasn’t touched that card since he played it. I swear. He has no sleeves. The number of cards remaining in his deck is correct. I . . .”

But Andross’s eyes tightened. He sniffed. Then he wafted the card toward his nose. The luxin scent, tiny as it was, must not have dissipated fully. “You cheated,” he said. “You’re disqualified. You lose.”

“I did nothing disallowed by the rules.”

“You substituted a card!” Andross said.

“No, I played it legally at noon. Nor did I announce it as anything other than it was,” Kip said. “Some men simply don’t look under the surface to see things as they truly are, grandfather.”

“You little fuck!” Andross jumped to his feet.

“So help me, if you hit me—” Kip started.

“What? What will you do?” Andross demanded.

“The question isn’t what I’ll do,” Kip said.

Andross’s eyes twitched tight. Then he glanced at Corvan.

Corvan hadn’t moved, but he sat with the languid grace of a killer.

“Whose play will he back, grandfather? Corvan practically raised me. How much loyalty have you inspired in him? Grinwoody was so intent on the game, did he search the satrap before he came in? Thoroughly?”

Corvan leaned to one side, and a large pocket on his cloak seemed to gape open a bit; it held something heavy.

A vein throbbed in Andross’s neck as he mastered himself. “Then let’s finish the game. I’ve got a chance yet.” He dropped a musket on one of his wights. It left each player with a sliver of life.

Kip drew a Blackguard and dropped it onto the table. With a Blackguard backing him, Ironfist was able to attack twice.

“And that’s game,” Andross said, his voice tight, his eyes unfocused. “You win, and you may have doomed us all.”

“Nice playing you, too. Let’s never do it again,” Kip said.

“Get out of my sight before I do something red,” Andross said, not looking up.

Kip and Corvan left, with Kip expecting a musket ball between his shoulder blades at every step.

Outside the door, Cruxer was nowhere to be seen. Dammit.

The satrap looked at Kip appreciatively. “Slipping an Ironfist in under your opponent’s guard.” Corvan shook his head. “That was subtler work than Gavin would’ve even attempted.”

“My father’s a colossus. I’m a flea in his shadow,” Kip said. He still couldn’t believe what had happened.

“He has no greater supporter, but I recall Gavin Guile building the mammoth Brightwater Wall in five days yet still failing to change the fate of one small city. You, on the other hand, may have changed the whole world by drafting a portrait I could cover with my thumb. That is not the work of a flea, Kip. That’s the work of a dragon.”

Chapter 84

“Quiet,” Ben-hadad said as they paced out the circle of Wrath/Mercy halfway up the Prism’s Tower.

Walking ahead of Teia, Quentin froze in place. She ran into him, losing her grip of paryl and shimmering back into visibility.

She looked around quickly, but there was no one in the halls. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“What is it?” Quentin whispered to Ben.

Ben looked at them both quizzically. “It’s . . . quiet?” Ben-hadad said. “Oh, you both thought—no, I didn’t mean for you to be quiet.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, straightening. “Yeah, I don’t like to bother anyone, so I memorized when the various lectures and special events are in session so I can encounter the fewest people possible.”

“For all the levels?” Teia asked. “Not just where your room is?”

“Well, I didn’t know when I might need to drop in someplace else, and I already had the scheduling book . . .”

“Of course,” Teia said. “Totally logical.” When your brain is the size of a watermelon.

“I thought we’d like to avoid people as well,” Quentin said. “Though with all the preparations for the defenses and for Sun Day itself tomorrow, there are more people about than usual.”

“They aren’t still having the parade, are they?” Teia asked.

“Of course they are,” Quentin said. “There’s tens of thousands of terrified pilgrims in the city. You want to take away the one thing that will give them hope? Plus, we don’t know for sure if an attack will even come tomorrow. Honoring Orholam first might seem like