“I begged you to quit. I knew my wounds were temporary, but I was afraid you would die. You said, ‘I don’t know quit.’ ”
“I’ve learned,” Ironfist said bitterly.
Hanishu flashed an exasperated smile, exactly as he had done in life, except that Ironfist could see the wall through his form. “This doesn’t happen, you know,” Tremblefist said. “We peaceful departed, we don’t return. And I am at peace, brother. But he told me that uncommon loyalty deserves uncommon rewards. You took a wrong turn, associating with the Order to avenge mother and protect Haruru. But you’re no traitor, brother.”
After Teia had killed Haruru, making himself king of Paria had been the only way Ironfist could get back to Little Jasper safely, and become too important to be killed or simply sent away by the Order’s people or Andross Guile’s. Becoming king had been the only way to muster an army and bring it here.
It had been the only way he could hope to get vengeance on his uncle.
The plan had been to relent at the last moment before the execution and say, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Instead of a Guile, I’ll let myself be contented with the blood of one of those most useful to them. That slave, Grinwoody. He’s your right hand. I’ll take him. Now.’
Andross Guile would take the deal in a moment, and the Old Man of the Desert would never see it coming. Even if he had Blackguards in his employ, even if they were in the room, they didn’t know Grinwoody was the Old Man, so they wouldn’t know to try to save him.
That was the trouble with keeping your identity secret from your own people.
It had been a good plan. Devious. Very orange. It might have even worked, if not for Cruxer.
But it was all too late now. All for nothing.
At least they wouldn’t go ahead with the execution without him. Would they?
What if they did? Would there be more blood on his tally?
“I failed, brother,” he said, and the tears were hot and bitter.
We all fail. It’s why we don’t walk alone.
And for the first time in a long time, Ironfist didn’t feel alone.
He felt himself lifted in strong arms.
No one had lifted Ironfist since he was a young child.
He clung to his brother like the lost, and wept, and he wept as a man weeps: weak and unashamed.
At some point they had emerged into starlight and moonlight and night and the lapping waves. A figure approached. Voices spoke, Tremblefist’s rumbling through his chest, as Ironfist drifted between consciousness and not.
And then he was handed off. His brother Hanishu took Harrdun’s face in his big hands one last time, and kissed his forehead in blessing, and then was gone.
Ironfist must have been delirious, because he felt like the man now holding him was not nearly large enough to hold him, but the little round Parian managed not only Ironfist but also his own bags and jugs, and was also carrying him very quickly. They passed people, and everyone they passed seemed to be turning their backs or suddenly inattentive, yawning or rubbing their eyes.
And then the man set him down on his feet inside the lift that could take him to the level of the audience chamber, where there would be many Blackguards. Ironfist tottered, eyes bleary. His side had been bandaged; he couldn’t remember when.
“Do I know you?” Ironfist asked. The man smelled of . . . kopi?
The man smiled, and his face shone. “Come now, she’s almost here. ”
“Who?”
“The one who’s gonna save your life.” The round little man squinted. “Probably.” Then he seemed to flit out of and then back into the space he was standing, his jugs and cups clinking. Ironfist must have blinked or something. “Hmm. Well, if anyone can save you, she’s the one.”
Chapter 93
Don’t hit him in the face, Kip. That is not how adults solve problems.
“We need to go ahead with this,” Zymun said. “I mean, I don’t want to any more than any of us. But I don’t think we can afford to wait.”
But if he were going to hit him in the face, Kip had a coin stick in his left pocket that fit in his burn-scarred left fist perfectly. No sense breaking your hand on the eve of battle.
The most important people in the Seven Satrapies had gathered in the audience chamber tonight: the High Magisterium, the Colors, nobles, the Prism-elect, the promachos, the White, Kip, at least twenty Blackguards, a veritable army of scribes who served them all, and one chubby little Parian ambassador, who looked like his heart was going to fail him.
Carver Black said, “We all agreed we need to give the signal by midnight or the soldiers won’t have time to deploy before dawn.”
“Midnight is the deadline the king has decreed,” the ambassador said timorously, then swallowed and sank back into himself.
“We know what he said, traitor,” Caelia Green snapped. “And believe me, we’re going to interpret whatever amnesty comes along with this deal for Ironfist as narrowly as possible. It may not cover you, for instance.”
“Midnight’s in four minutes,” Zymun said, as if he were just a clock, uncaring of the outcome, merely reminding everyone.
Uppercut, right in the jaw. Maybe I’d break some teeth that way. I could be spared the sound of his insufferable voice for a while.
“I’m ready,” Karris said, coming back from the side, where she’d been talking one more time with the luxiats; praying, Kip guessed. She’d already said her goodbyes to all the Blackguards earlier. “I don’t feel the need to scrounge about desperately for a few more minutes.”
She was radiant, not just with her normal beauty and resolve, but there was an inner light, a deeper strength to her. There was nothing grim about her determination. She was, suddenly, a rock. All these events swirled around her, the stream diverting, but the rock unmoved.
Only Kip stole a glance away toward Zymun, to see if even this could affect him. But Zymun flashed a wink at Kip instead, and then while pretending to blow his nose, he poked himself in each eye.
The hell was that about?
“I’m ready, too,” Zymun said. He moved forward, blinking, mistyeyed, his face lacquered with sorrow.
The little piece of shit.
“You can’t possibly be serious,” Kip said. “Ironfist isn’t even here yet. You’re not going to wait to see if he’s changed his mind?!”
“He gave us the ultimatum,” Zymun said. “Time is of the essence. If we wait, we endanger everyone. You heard the scouts! The White King’s ships are within a league now, and not stopping for the night. By dawn they’ll be setting up the siege. If we don’t get those soldiers—”
“Enough!” Karris said. “I said I’m ready. I don’t want to see hatred in my old friend’s eyes again anyway. There is no yielding in him once he’s set his course. Maybe it’s better this way.”
Zymun grinned at Kip, and Kip saw that a few others caught the expression and bristled at it. “Very well, then, daughter. To your place.”
“One of her beloved Blackguard kin has agreed to be the one who—” Andross began.
“I’m the Prism,” Zymun said firmly. “It has to be me. This is my duty and should rest on my soul. Mine is the protection of this empire, and mine is the shepherding of this flock. Even in this. Right, mother? You wouldn’t deny us this last, holy moment together, would you?”