“Really? He’s been here all this time?” Cruxer said, scoffing. “Fine, then! Let’s go upstairs, tell Karris.”
“We can’t. The Old Man’s here. If he gets word—and he will!—if he even suspects what I’m planning, he’ll kill Gavin before we can move.”
“Oh, the Old Man of the Desert himself? Him, too? This gets more convoluted by the moment, doesn’t it? But then, lies do that, don’t they?”
“The Old Man’ll be at the execution. I have from now until then to save Gavin Guile, and you are burning precious time here, son.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Cruxer’s eyes.
“We need Gavin Guile or we’re doomed. He’s the Lightbringer,” Ironfist said.
“No, he’s not,” Cruxer said.
“He drafted white luxin at the siege of Garriston. I saw it. I have a piece of it. Here in my bag. I can show you!”
“Don’t you pull anything from that bag! You think I’m an idiot?”
“Cruxer, you know me. Let me explain.”
“Toss me the pistol bag.”
“I’m not tossing you my bag. Just—I will move so slowly. You have every advantage—”
“Slowly. That’s the key, isn’t it? I know something about will-casting now, Commander. Takes a few minutes to will-cast a person if you don’t want them to notice, doesn’t it? You’re doing it to me right now, aren’t you? Bet you’ve got orange seed crystal in there, huh?”
“No, no!” Will-casting?
“Then why are you stalling?”
“Because you’re right on the edge and I don’t want either of us to die for no reason!” Only then did Ironfist realize he’d just lied, sort of. But he wasn’t will-casting with the orange seed crystal. He didn’t even know if he could do that.
He did have it on him, though, barely tucked out of sight in the neckline of his tunic, and if Cruxer saw it, he was going to think Iron-fist was lying about everything else, too.
But as sweat trickled down between Ironfist’s pectorals, he saw Cruxer’s temperature drop, just a little.
“We can save him together,” Ironfist said. “We wait until the very moment of the execution, and we bring him up there with us. He might be in rough shape, but you and I can keep him safe. Against the Order, you understand? We can’t let anyone else get close. I didn’t tell anyone, because we can’t trust anyone.”
“What are the names of the other Blackguards loyal to the Order?” Cruxer demanded.
“Goddam, son. You think they tell us?”
“Yes,” Cruxer said. And the way he said it suggested a door closing, a last chance was passing. Of course he believed that, though. Ironfist had been the commander. He had to know.
“Grinwoody,” Ironfist blurted out. “Grinwoody’s the Old Man of the Desert. The head of the Broken Eye. Hiding in plain sight. As close to power as you can possibly get, but invisible. And if we give him even five minutes’ warning, he’ll spring some backup plan. He’ll escape. He’s smarter than you know. But if I can—”
Cruxer scoffed. “I ask for Blackguards and you offer up one old slave?”
There was no time to tell Cruxer the plan. He wouldn’t believe it anyway. “Son. Everything I’ve done—declaring myself king, everything! It’s all been for this. Only I can save Gavin Guile. Only I can stop the Order. Only I can pay for what I’ve done.”
But while Ironfist kept his voice contrite, level, there was rage rising in him, too.
I can’t let you stop me. This is bigger than you. It’s bigger than me. This is redemption for all my betrayals and failures. This is the future of the Seven Satrapies.
Through the orange crystal, he could feel the war raging in his young protégé, scared, angry, guilty, wanting to believe, and not daring to.
Ironfist was turned the wrong way to see if the Blackguards had already appeared at the gate behind them, but every time Cruxer raised his voice, Ironfist thought, What if one of the reinforcements is Grinwoody’s man?
Even if they weren’t, any of the Blackguards would seize him and take him inside. And if they did that, he would lose everything.
Cruxer said, “You’re listening behind you. You waiting for some of your traitor friends to join you?”
“Cruxer, let me show you. I’m gonna pull the white luxin from this bag.”
But his hand was closed around the pistol’s butt. His thumb pulled the cockjaw back almost to the place where it would click. But he couldn’t cock it. If Cruxer heard that sound, he’d attack.
If he twisted his wrist, he could drop the cockjaw without drawing the pistol from the bag. It would have a very good chance of firing half-cocked. It would be faster even than Cruxer’s sword thrust.
“Don’t you do it!” Cruxer said.
And in the strain on Cruxer’s face, Ironfist saw not the boy before him but Cruxer’s father, Holdfast. Holdfast had been too much older than Ironfist for them to really be friends, but the older man had looked out for him. And when he’d died, there’d been that same expression on his face.
“I’m stopping,” Ironfist said gently.
“You taught me everything,” Cruxer said, his features contorting. Maybe he was beyond backing down now. “You taught me to protect my ward no matter what. You taught me it was better to yell a Nine Kill wrongly than to remain silent and let my ward die. I want to believe you. But you lied before. I can’t give you another chance. I can’t let you kill Kip. He’s the Lightbringer. I’m sorry. I loved you. Now, draw. Please. I can’t kill you in cold blood. Draw!”
But against every instinct screaming in him, Ironfist slowly uncurled his tight fingers from the grip of his pistol. He took a deep breath.
Cruxer’s eyes flicked down, and Ironfist realized that something about his motion had popped the orange seed crystal out of his neckline and into view, where it burned with inner light.
He saw the look in the young man’s eyes even as the orange sent him the feeling: Cruxer felt stricken, betrayed.
Cruxer said, “I believed you. You almost—” And then he lunged with perfect form and incredible speed.
He was even faster than Ironfist remembered.
In the tales, a duel between grandmasters is a wondrous thing. Each arrives in the prime of his powers. Neither is given some unfair disadvantage of injury or being weaponless. In the tales, a duel between grandmasters is a match of intellect and strategy as much as one of pure physique.
This lunge stabbed through Ironfist’s left arm and side even as he twisted. The blade had passed through the center of a link in his great chain as he was bringing it up to block. Then, caught in that chain, the blade flexed hard—and snapped.
Cruxer tried to retreat, but he was off balance from the unexpected forces of the sword catching and then snapping. Ironfist’s shoulder collided with the younger man’s stomach. They went down together.
Ironfist drew a knife even as he was landing on the younger man’s legs.
Slashing for Cruxer’s hamstring, Ironfist cut into his calf instead. He rolled away.
There was no time to gauge wounds. Ironfist scrambled away on hands and knees toward his bag, which had fallen to one side, while Cruxer lunged away to create distance. Blue luxin flashed from Cruxer and hit him, knocking Ironfist over and on top of his bag.