The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks

your spot, but you only have to fight three times. So if you choose spot ten, you might have to fight ten, eleven, and twelve. It’s only a starting point, though; it’s easy to move up in the coming weeks, and easier to move down. I can do this much for yourfather: you get to choose last. Don’t choose too high or you’ll pay for it in blood, but don’t go too low. We cut the bottom seven each month.”
    Ironfist moved purposefully, unfazed by the subterranean splendor. Kip followed, tense. He was squeezing his burned hand. He consciously straightened it, grimaced against the pain. Soon he found himself standing with Ironfist in front of forty-nine young men and women. They were all dressed in loose tan shirts and pants. Everyone wore at least one armband with the color he drafted on his right or left arm. Though Kip knew that women outnumbered men in the Chromeria substantially, this class of potential Blackguards had only ten women.
    Everyone was older than Kip, but still young. Kip would guess most were sixteen to eighteen years old. They each had a symbol affixed to their left breast in an old Parian script that Kip could mostly guess at. Numbers, he thought. It looked like they were lined up according to that number, seven lines of seven.
    Among all the new things to look at, the thing that stuck out to Kip was the look in his new classmates’ eyes. They barely even noticed him; they were too busy watching Ironfist like he was a god. The class’s teacher hardly looked less impressed than the rest of them. He was a muscle-bound, short man, shaved bald and wearing a sleeveless black uniform that showed off massive biceps.
    Ironfist gestured and the class melted, re-forming into a large circle in moments. It wasn’t flawless, as a few jostled to move from one place to another, but it was pretty impressive for what Kip knew had to be a fairly new class.
    “Kip.” Ironfist gestured that Kip was to step into the circle.
    Oh no.
    Kip stepped in.
    “This is Kip Guile. He’s joining the class. As you know, that means one of you scrubs will be leaving. The Blackguard is elite. We’ve no room for deadwood. So, Kip, choose. Fights are five minutes or until one combatant cries mercy or is knocked out. As at all testings, inflicting permanent damage on your opponent will result in your expulsion from this class.”
    Kip knew he was going to lose. He barely understood the rules. The only fighting he’d done in his life had mostly been confined to flailing against Ramir, back in their village. And losing, always losing. His greatest skill was taking punishment.
    “Do you have any questions, or are you ready to choose your place?” Ironfist asked.
    “So if you lose, do you swap places with the person who beat you, or do you just move down one spot?”
    “It’s not an arithmetic problem, Kip.”
    But that was precisely what it was.
    Ironfist grimaced. “You move down one,” he said.
    Kip put on a misty look and gazed into the distance. “I see pain in my future.” He jauntily pointed his forefingers like pistols at the tall, slim young Parian who bore a number one on his chest. No one laughed. Maybe they’d laugh when Kip got his ass beat.
    The young man stepped into the circle looking concerned—for Kip. “Match rules, Commander?” he asked.
    “No spectacles,” Ironfist said.
    Kip and Number One handed over their spectacles. The young man was a green/blue bichrome.
    Ironfist cleared his throat. “I mean that both ways, Cruxer.”
    Cruxer? His name was
Cruxer
?
    “Of course, sir,” Cruxer said. “Sir, his bandaged hand? Can I block it?”
    “Don’t target it. But if it gets hurt, it gets hurt.”
    The taller youth nodded quickly and moved opposite of Kip. Kip saw flashes of incredulity on the other students’ faces as they looked at him. He supposed he didn’t cut much of a figure. No one believed he could win. Hell,
he
didn’t believe he could win. Lose with dignity, Kip. Lose in a way that will make