Dazen studied his handiwork. Woven of his own hair as tight as he could manage with calm cool blue flowing through his body, he wasn’t even sure how long he’d spent on it. Weeks, maybe. It made almost a skullcap, a small bowl. He studied the shiny interior. Finding, perhaps, a flaw, he took a long but perfectly round fingernail and scraped it around his nose, over his forehead in methodical strokes. Harvesting the accumulated skin and, more importantly, the precious oil with another fingernail, Dazen smeared the oil carefully onto the flaw.
He was only going to get one chance. After years and years, he wasn’t going to mess it up.
With a steady hand and skin filled with blue, he gathered more oil and smeared it on the wall directly over the dead man’s face.
“This doesn’t change anything, Gavin,” the dead man said.
“No, not yet,” he said.
He stood and drafted a blade. He cut off a hank of his greasy hair. He spat on it and scrubbed it against his dirty skin, getting it as foul as possible.
“You don’t need to do this,” the dead man said. “It’s madness.”
“It’s victory,” Dazen said. He drew the blue luxin blade smoothly across his chest.
“If you’re going to kill yourself, the wrist or the neck would work better,” the dead man said.
Dazen ignored him. With dirty fingers, he pulled the cut open and tucked the putrid mass of hair and dirt under the flap of skin. Blood cascaded down his chest, the red almost tempting him to try drafting directly, but it wasn’t enough, he knew that from experience. He put a hand to his chest and pressed on the wound, holding it closed, slowing the bleeding.
In a few sleeps, the cell would be cleansed with Dazen’s weekly bath. Soon thereafter, depending on how well he had planned and guessed, he would either escape or be dead.
As long as he held the blue, he found he didn’t care much one way or the other.
Chapter 55
Liv cleared her throat awkwardly as she stuffed clothing into a bag. “I, um, came back here this morning to apologize,” she said.
“Huh?” Kip said. The clothes in her hand were some lacy undergarments. Distracting.
“You know, when you were busy trying to get killed.”
“Oh, um, apology accepted?” Kip asked. What was she apologizing for? He shifted the weight on the pack that Commander Ironfist had given him before disappearing. Apparently it had taken Ironfist almost no time to gather some spare clothing, a waterskin, tools, and even a short sword for Kip. Kip still hadn’t figured out how to get the pack to sit comfortably on his shoulders, though. He’d come to Liv’s room to help her pack, but she wasn’t making things any easier. He glanced at the short pants again.
“They’re just underclothes, Kip.” Ack, caught!
“They’re see-through,” Kip said. How could such a small bit of cloth actually fit a person inside it?
Liv looked down and colored a little, but played it off. She tossed the short pants to Kip, who caught them instinctively, and instantly felt awkward. “Would you check if those are clean?” she asked.
Kip’s eyebrows shot off his face and stuck somewhere three floors up.
“I’m teasing. I just moved and they gave me all new clothes. Everything here is new.”
“Except my gullibility, apparently,” Kip said. That was twice in as many days she’d fooled him.
She laughed. “You’re great, Kip. It’s like torturing the little brother I never had.”
Oh, the little brother comparison. Just what every man wants to hear from a beautiful woman. I’ve just been castrated. “So would I feel more or less awkward holding my sister’s underclothes?”
Liv laughed again. “Would these be better or worse?” She held up some black lace that looked like little more than two strings tied together artistically.
Kip gaped.
Then she held them up to her hips and cocked a saucy eyebrow at him. Kip coughed.
“I think I need to sit down,” he said. She laughed like he hoped she would, but he wasn’t completely kidding. He backed up toward a chair—and instantly bumped into someone.
“Watch it,” Commander Ironfist said. “You don’t want to run into someone with that little sword sticking out.”
Kip was too mortified for words. Little? Liv saw the look on his face and burst out laughing so hard she fell on the bed. She laughed so hard she snorted, a decidedly unladylike sound, and then that made her laugh harder.
Turning around, Kip felt Ironfist’s firm hand guiding his pack away from him so he didn’t stab him with the scabbarded short sword on top of it.
Oh, that little sword. Relief flooded Kip, until he saw Ironfist glance down at the sheer short pants in his hands.
“You need me to find some in your size?” Ironfist asked drily.
Liv snorted again, giggling so hard she was gasping for breath.
“Aliviana,” Ironfist said. “You’re done packing? Because we’re leaving in five minutes.”
Liv’s laughter stopped instantly. She popped off the bed and began rummaging through her things at great speed. Ironfist let a small, satisfied smirk steal over his face briefly, then he dropped another pack next to Kip’s and walked out. Before Kip could ask him about it, Ironfist said, “Move it, boy genius. If you haven’t figured out the straps on your pack before I get back…”
He didn’t complete the threat. He didn’t need to.
Soon they were striding onto the docks together. Despite his threats, Ironfist had helped them with some settling of the packs. Mostly, that meant moving things from Liv’s pack to Kip’s. When Kip asked the silent question—why are you making me carry her stuff?—Ironfist had said, “It’s more complicated to be a girl. You got a problem?” Kip shook his head quickly.
As they walked down the docks, past fishermen unloading catches, apprentices of various trades running back and forth, loiterers, merchant women arguing with captains about prices for goods or transit—basically, all the normal business of the day—many people stopped whatever they were doing for a few moments. It wasn’t to watch Kip, of course. It was to watch Commander Ironfist. The man was big, and imposing, and handsome, and he strode with a total self-awareness, but it wasn’t his sheer physical presence that got him so much attention. He was, Kip realized, famous.
As Kip turned to see the faces looking at Commander Ironfist, he could see Gavin walking onto the docks. And if for Commander Ironfist, business slowed, for the Prism, it stopped entirely. Gavin walked through smiling and nodding to people automatically, but they treated him like he was nearly a god. No one tried to touch Gavin himself, but not a few brushed his cloak as it floated past.
What am I doing with these people?
A week ago, Kip had been cleaning puke off his mother’s face and hair while she lay passed out from another binge. In their hovel. With a dirt floor. No one in their backwater town had paid him the least mind. The addict’s boy, that’s all he was. Maybe the fat boy. I don’t belong here.
I’ve never belonged anywhere. Mother told me I ruined her life, and now I’m ruining Gavin’s.
Kip couldn’t help but think of his mother’s last words, and the promise he made as she was dying. He’d sworn to avenge her, and he’d hardly done anything to keep that oath.