The Blinding Knife Read Free Page A

didn’t help.
    The secret was rubbing Karris like a burr under the cinch strap. She bound hair black as her mood back in a ponytail as usual. She’d spent the last five days putting pieces together: Gavin “falling ill” after the last battle of the war against his brother Dazen; Gavin breaking their betrothal; Gavin being astonished at learning about his bastard son Kip; Gavin being
different
.
    Then she’d wasted time wondering how she’d been so dense. She—and everyone else—had attributed the changes to the trauma of war, the trauma of killing his own brother. His prismatic eyes had been proof,
proof
that Gavin was Gavin. Gavin was brilliant and quite the liar, but he shouldn’t have been able to fool her. She knew him too well. More to the point, she knew
Dazen
too well.
    That was finished. She made her way to the forecastle as she had every morning and began stretching. She went crazy if she didn’t do some calisthenics every day. Her superior, Commander Ironfist, had thoughtfully brought her two sets of blacks to wear, and both tunic and pants were cotton infused with luxin—snug in spots, flexible everywhere, made for movement foremost and secondly to show off the Blackguards’ hardened physiques. But though grunting and sweating were part and parcel of her life, that didn’t mean she wanted to share it with every cretin on deck.
    “May I?” Ironfist asked, coming onto the deck. The commander ofthe Blackguard was a huge man. A good leader. Smart, tough, and intimidating as hell. When Karris nodded, he removed his headscarf and folded it neatly. It was a Parian religious custom, the men covering their heads in respect to Orholam. But there were exceptions, and like many Parians, Ironfist believed the injunction only applied once the sun had risen fully above the horizon.
    Ironfist had once plaited his wiry black hair, but after the Battle of Garriston and the death of so many of his Blackguards, he’d shaved his head completely bald in mourning. Another Parian custom. The headscarf that had once covered his glory would now cover his grief.
    Orholam. All the dead Blackguards, many of them killed at the same time by one exploding shell, a lucky shot that cared nothing for their elite skills in drafting and fighting. Her colleagues. Her friends. It was a yawning pit, devouring everything but her tears.
    Coming to stand parallel to Karris, Ironfist brought his hands together, then separated them to a low-high guard. It was the beginning of the Marsh ka. A suitable beginning, when muscles weren’t warm, and the ka didn’t range far, so their moves could fit within the small confines of the forecastle. Sweep low, turn, back kick, roundhouse, land on the other foot, balance—not as easy a task as usual on the bobbing deck.
    Ironfist led, and Karris was glad to let him do so. The sailors assigned to the third watch stole glances at them, but Karris and Ironfist weren’t much visible in the predawn gray, and the gazes were unobtrusive. The motions were second nature. Karris focused on her body, the aches of sleeping on a wooden deck quickly worked out, the older aches more stubborn—the training injury that always made her hip ache, the stiffness in her left ankle from when she’d sprained it fighting a green wight with Gavin.
    Not Gavin. Dazen. Orholam curse him.
    Ironfist moved to Korick’s ka, ramping up the intensity quickly, again, a good choice for this tight of a space. And soon Karris was focusing on getting just a little more length on her spinning roundhouse kick, getting full extension and height on the back kick. She wasn’t nearly as tall as Ironfist, but he could flick his long limbs out into kicks and spear hands with unbelievable speed. She had to work hard to keep up with the pace he set.
    The sun rose and they stopped only when it had almost cleared thehorizon. Apparently Ironfist had wanted some hard work, too. As she breathed and gasped, leaning over with her hands propped on her