But Teia didn’t think she was being followed by a team. Whoever was following her had to be able to see paryl.
Of course, if the Old Man really had paryl-viewing spectacles, he could simply lend them to anyone.
But would he let such a priceless treasure out of his own hands? No. If the Old Man was half as paranoid as Teia was, he wouldn’t dare let his only defense against the shimmercloaks out of his sight.
There weren’t many paryl drafters in the entire world, so the odds that Teia was being followed by a team of them was low—though of course, the Old Man would be the one person in the world who would have access to an entire team of paryl drafters—
Agh! That way madness lies.
Teia had to make her guesses and jump. So: she was most likely being followed by a single paryl drafter. That might be wrong, but there was no sitting still in this war of shadows until she could find out for sure. She had a day to pick someone who would die, and everyone she could actually think of who might deserve it had been forbidden her. If she didn’t mark someone, she would undermine her own pretense of being a peevish, vindictive woman eager to inflict her rage upon the world. Losing her disguise among the Order wouldn’t be dangerous, it would be fatal.
Put simply, if she didn’t pick someone else to die, she would.
It wasn’t a call she wanted to make herself. Teia was no assassin.
I’m not a killer. I’m a soldier. A secret soldier, but a soldier under authority, a rightful and good authority, Karris. Karris would know what to do.
It’s different from being a slave, when you choose it.
But time was running out. Her deadline for tagging someone was tomorrow morning, and Teia couldn’t talk to Karris while she was being followed.
At the barracks, she shed her regular cloak, picking at an imaginary stain before tossing it in the laundry basket for the slaves to clean. She looked around, and her paranoia was piqued again. Was someone in this room secretly a paryl drafter, ready to follow her, or ready to report to those who already were? Which of the men and women here were traitors?
With her squad, the Mighty, she’d never needed to worry about that. Now she was so alone.
“Teia,” Watch Captain Fisk said gruffly as she headed out, the master cloak folded over her arm.
He was standing at the door to Commander Ironfist’s office.
“Teia, get in here.”
Something about seeing him there stirred fury in Teia’s soul. He didn’t belong in that office. Didn’t deserve to even set foot there. She walked up to him, but didn’t go inside.
She stood at attention. She wouldn’t have minded Trainer Fisk—it was hard not to think of him that way, even though he’d been promoted months ago to watch captain. She’d liked him, even, for his gruff competence, until they’d figured out he danced to Andross Guile’s secret tune. He’d allowed the cheats that had nearly barred Kip from the Blackguard.
And now he was her commander.
“Yes, sir?” Teia asked stiffly. She didn’t want to be in an enclosed space with him if she could help it.
“What’s this?” Fisk demanded.
He had dark circles under his eyes, and his usual rigorous military bearing was slouched with fatigue. He was not tall, but he was a hard knot of muscle on muscle with a shaved head and short beard.
“Just tired, I guess, sir.”
“By order of the promachos, I’m acting commander of the Blackguard, Teia.”
She hesitated. “Congratulations on your… swift rise, sir.”
“I don’t like it, either,” he snarled. “I’m the one who demanded it be only ‘acting commander.’ He was my commander, too, nunk. And my friend.”
“Yes, sir.” Neutral, noncommittal. The flat acquiescence of a slave had its uses still.
“Who would you have put in before me?” he demanded.
Maybe he’d been right. This wasn’t the kind of conversation they should be having out in the open barracks. “Sir, I’m just a soldier, raised from a slave. I don’t question my betters.”
“Watch Captain Blademan was found dead this morning in East Bay. Sharks took too much out of him before his body could be recovered for us to even know how he died.”
Teia swallowed hard. Would the Order have done this? But why? Andross? So he could place Fisk as commander? The Color Prince, deliberately eliminating Blackguard leadership?
“I’d have picked him to be commander before me, even with his troubles,” Fisk said.
That was true. Teia was so accustomed to seeing plots everywhere that she was discounting the simple explanations out of hand. Blademan could have been killed in a tavern brawl. He’d been a man who ricocheted between long stretches of sobriety and short bouts of violent drunkenness—and when he got drunk, he’d earned his Blackguard name Blademan a dozen times over.
Teia ducked her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I know he was a friend.”
“And I’d have picked Karris before him, before all this. But none of us can fill Ironfist’s shoes, and he shouldn’t have been relieved of command.”
“I, I wasn’t saying—” Why was Fisk telling Teia this? They’d never been close. “Sir, can we talk about this later? I’m on my way—”
“You think I’m a traitor. We need to talk,” Fisk said. He moved out of the way of the office door. “Now.”
It was a gut punch. Teia’s expression and silence must have spoken for her. Might as well admit it and see where this went.
She stepped inside, and he closed the door after her.
She swallowed hard. When you’re short and light and not that strong, being penned in was the last thing you wanted if it came to a fight. “Not a traitor, sir. But compromised.”
“Why?”
In for a den, in for a danar. “You called Breaker ‘Kip the Lip.’ Only his grandfather called him that. And only privately. And then you rigged the rules.”
Fisk took a deep breath. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. “Not much rigging required.”
Teia couldn’t speak. Out of all the things she might have expected, a straight admission of guilt wasn’t on the list.
Fisk looked down. “I had… a relationship with another Blackguard. He found out.”
“He? Andross Guile?”
“Who else?”