“Your young commander’s broken sword is here,” Andross said. “The blade matches Ironfist’s wound and there are grooves cut into Ironfist’s chain that match it, too. Both of their pistols had been fired.”
But Kip didn’t need the explanation. He’d known what was going to happen long before it did.
“Why a sword rather than his spear?” Kip asked. Cruxer was better with a spear.
“Easier to hide?” Winsen guessed. “Blackguards on duty last night never saw either of them. At least that’s what they say. You want to talk to them?”
“If they lied to you . . .” Kip began. They’ll lie to me, too, he meant to say, but the words were too much effort. It was the most he could do to shake his head.
Would a spear have made the difference?
Oh, Cruxer.
“This?” Winsen said. He didn’t sound moved at all. “Dying like this? For your lord? It’s what we do. It’s what we signed up for. And Cruxer loved it. He fought the best warrior in the world to a standstill. Stopped him. Saved your life. This isn’t a bad death.”
“Every death’s a bad death,” Andross said.
Kip didn’t know what to do with it, but he loved his grandfather a little bit for that. Sure, sure, dying to save someone is noble—but you’re still fucking dead. But this wasn’t Winsen’s fault, not really. He’d been born with very little feeling himself. When things were fraught, he jumped the wrong way sometimes. This was actually Winsen trying to comfort Kip.
Well, aren’t we all a bunch of fuck-ups?
“Have you told the rest of the Mighty?”
“I sent them messengers at the same time I sent yours,” Andross said.
Funny, Kip thought, Andross hadn’t used this opportunity to be an asshole. Maybe he was just biding his time, though.
But he couldn’t keep his attention away from the thing that had been his friend. He took a tremulous breath. He squatted down beside the man who’d put his life and honor on Kip more than once. He brushed some dirt off Cruxer’s cheek.
The softness of the gesture was a mistake. The corralled horses of his passions burst through the fences, he fell from his squat to his knees, and a single sob racked him before he could silence himself.
He flashed to anger. I need you now! You can’t abandon me here! You have not been relieved of duty, goddammit!
Then he breathed, just thought about his breath. In. Hold. Out slow. Hold.
“Breaker. Lord Guile. Lord Guile,” Winsen said. “There are messengers. It’s urgent, they say. Everything’s urgent today.”
Kip caught sight of his forearm. The Turtle-Bear. What could it do? What could Kip do? Suffer. Keep going. That was all that made him special.
You and me, buddy, Kip thought, looking at the tattoo. This is what we’re here to do: fight and die.
I just hoped that I’d be the first of us to go.
He stood. Cleared the tears from his eyes with calm fingers. Brushed off the wet knees of his trousers from his kneeling.
“Who do I make commander of the Mighty?” he asked Winsen, his voice level, professional.
Winsen’s mouth twisted. “They all love Ferk, but he’s too big of a goof. A commander’s gotta work with people all the time, and Ferk gets people wrong near as often as I do. Guess that cuts me out, too. Ben-hadad’s too smart, too distracted, too arrogant. Tisis could do it, but it’s an all-the-time kind of a job, and she’s got too much else to do. Can’t be any of the scrubs. That leaves Big Leo, I guess.”
“You make a good case,” Kip said. “Tell him you chose him.”
Winsen frowned. It was going to make it impossible for him to carp and complain about Big Leo’s orders all the time when the Mighty knew he was the one who’d picked him. Which was why Kip had done it. Winsen’s insubordination would be the biggest threat to a new commander . . . well, other than the encircling, overwhelming army.
So maybe it was all moot anyway.
Kip straightened his back. He looked over at Gill Greyling. “Thank you, for this. And convey my thanks to your people. Please take care of him?”
Gill nodded. He understood.
“I got shit to do,” Kip said, and he walked over toward the messengers.
Chapter 99
Teia was high as a . . . Teia was high as an eagle? Teia was high—as high! Teia was . . .
Shit. Teia was giggling.
“Mmm, yith hehl funneh,” she said around the jaw cage holding her face immobile, mouth open for Sharp to work. She laughed at her garbled words. “Harf?” Sharp. “Remimd meh to hell you humfing.”
‘Hell you,’ not ‘tell you.’ That was hilarious. She laughed again.
And then the pliers were in her mouth, and she couldn’t talk at all.
And then, as the blood gushed in her mouth, she didn’t want to. She twisted her jaw just as the tooth released and wailed into the rag he hurriedly stuffed over her face. Even laudanum couldn’t make someone tearing out your tooth enjoyable.
He loosed the bolts securing the cage to her jaws. She turned her head and spat blood.
“Sharp,” she said.
Some blood dribbled a wet line down her cheek, down her neck.
“Yes?” he asked, turning away from studying her bloody, perfect tooth. “I find last words really do only tend to be worth as much as any other words, but if it’ll really make you feel better . . .”
Her head lolled. Opium really was a tell of a thing. “I just, mm, wanted to let you know, I’m going to have to kill you for that. But! Good news! You won’t have to save my dad. I’ll do that myself. But thanks. For offering. Quite decent of you. Really feel like . . . mm . . . like we could have been friends . . .”
“Me too,” Murder Sharp said. He popped her tooth in his mouth and sucked at it to get the blood off.
“If you weren’t a sick fuck, I mean.”
“Now, that’s no way to speak to—” His face scrunched. “Why’s your tooth taste like almonds?” He spat the tooth into his hand, suddenly horrified.
There was a nice, well-defined crack in the tooth, as if it had been engineered to break that way. Teia’s one little twist as it pulled away from her jaw. A last bit of white gel leaked out into his palm from that crack. He’d sucked down the rest.
“You were always looking at that tooth like a horny teen boy stealing glances of cleavage.” Teia laughed. Not that she had cleavage.
“You—what did you do?”
“I’m actually glad you finally took it. It’s been killing me for six months,” Teia said. There was something really important she was supposed to remember. What was it again? “Six months, worrying that damn poison tooth was going to crack and leak death into my mouth.”
Murder Sharp staggered and sagged against the door. “I can’t . . . You didn’t.”
“Oh! That was it!” Teia said. “How long’s that other poison last? The light one, lacrimae sanguinis? Does it wear off?”
“You ungrateful bitch. I would’ve . . .” Murder Sharp slid down the door. His stomach cramped, but he didn’t vomit. Not yet. Cyanide was the only poison potent enough for such a job that Karris had had access to, and it gave an ugly death.