He was dimly aware that after he finished each tattoo each card flew off into the library, and at least once he saw Abaddon sweep the cloak out like a net, trying to catch a card before it disappeared, but each card seemed to fly right through it, barely slowed. It was one too many things to worry about. Kip went into card after card, sands running out.

Every time, when he felt for whatever reason that he’d seen enough, he removed his hand. He barely had any awareness of himself, none, perhaps, until the moment came to take his hand away. Nor was there any processing of the memories. He had no idea who the majority of these people and things were; he didn’t even connect Vox from the Shimmercloak card and from Janus Borig’s home until his hand was descending onto the next tattoo.

The integration of Kip to card was complete, but the disintegration that followed was ever incomplete: it wasn’t merely a melding of mind to mind, it was union. Spiritual. Emotional. And definitely physical. When he came back from a man who’d lost an arm, he felt the pain, not just after that card to be blotted out by the next card, but after that next card, too. The list of injuries piled up, and even without them, he was seeing men and women at the pivotal crises of their lives: terror was the norm, physical battle common, hatred and cowardice and heroism all piled together.

At first, he regathered his wits each time, reminded himself who he was, wiped away what blood he could from his bleeding nose, took a breath, then tapped the next. Then he merely took a breath, glaring at Abaddon, feeling wetness trickling from his ears. He died a hero’s death. He betrayed his closest friends. He took his own life, screaming a spray of teeth as he fired the blunderbuss pointed at his chin.

He found himself on his knees, weeping, blood and tears covering his wrist. But he didn’t stop. He wiped his forehead with an arm, giving himself a single breath. His forearm came away bloody. He was sweating blood. That couldn’t be good.

“No,” Abaddon said, dismayed.

Hand down. The Technologist. What the hell? This was Ben-hadad. He was some kind of genius. Never would have guessed.

“I—”

Hand down. The Commander. It was Cruxer, and not just Cruxer now, but Cruxer as he would be, facing—but as soon as Kip lifted his hand, he lost the future parts.

“—won’t—”

Hand down. Incipient Wight. And Kip lived the conversion, saw the how, and the why, and what worked, and what the wight thought worked, but some still part of Kip saw it was a delusion.

“—allow—”

Hand down. High Luxiat. The man was only beneath the Prism in the future. But first, as a young man, Quentin was taking an order from—from Brother Tawleb. Raising a pistol in a familiar alley. Missing. Blood squirting from a young woman’s neck as she stepped into the line of fire. Soul horror at the mistake.

Something about that—Lucia?—no, no time.

“—this.”

Three cards left. Kip was going to make it.

Beneath the blood and tears and mud obscuring his wrist, Kip saw the next card slide into place: the Butcher of Aghbalu. Orholam, no. That was Tremblefist’s card. No, no, no.

He couldn’t let himself think.

Hand down.

The perfect joy of battle rage, the heady potency of matching skill to skill and overmatching each, of tearing what every man valued most from his arms and proving, time and again, to be the best, to be untouchable, to be godlike in his power, in his slaying grace, to be so feared that bowels loosened and hearts literally stopped as the shadow of this avenging god fell upon them. The agony sang inside him and found company in the agony he left—lopping off hands and feet and leaving men to bleed, gut-wounding others, slashing off jaws, eviscerating, crushing faces, and killing, killing, killing. His palace became his charnel house. He returned to the maimed and sometimes found their women comforting them, and he killed their women before them, that their agony might pitch higher before they knew the release of death.

And it was not enough. The rage ran hot, the rage ran cold, the rage ran out, and still he was killing when the sun rose. And the sun showed that he had not only killed enemies. His own slaves lay dead among their new masters, the Tiru. He had no recollection of killing them, aside from some half-remembered screams, but the wounds matched the wounds he’d left in five hundred others.

He staggers back to the upper court where his wife lies dead, almost unrecognizable from the beatings, raped to death by the invaders. He goes there to end it.

He drops the double swords from gory hands. Pulls her into his arms as the sun rises. Smears the blood away from her broken, battered face. Rearranges her bloody torn dress into some pathetic semblance of decency. Holds her in his arms, draws his dagger.

This woman has a mole on her neck.

This woman isn’t Tazerwalt. This isn’t his wife. This is her handmaid, Hada, dressed in her lady’s garments.

He stands, trembling, an image flashing through his head, a slave girl rushing him. A horrid intuition. A sickness unto death. A stone in his gullet.

He finds the room. Tazerwalt. His wife, disguised as a slave. She’d been alive, unharmed by the Tiru attackers, hidden, until he’d come. A slave girl had rushed him. A slave girl, loyal to the Tiru, surely. Thinking it an attack, he’d slashed her neck as she threw herself at him, and he’d moved on, heedless.

Her eyes are open, questioning, and dead. So very dead.

He falls to his knees, screaming. Mind tearing, separating from himself. He sees a man, caked in blood, screaming. His screams sound no different than any of a hundred others he’s heard all night. His throat is tearing, unable to contain the force of his suffering.

Kip lifted his hand, convulsing. For some reason, his whole body was in pain, as if all his muscles had cramped at once. He fell over, blinded, unable to breathe. The wave passed, leaving him gasping. He blinked his suddenly clouded eyes clear. Wiped at them. Looked at red fingers. Touched his forehead. No, no wounds to his scalp or forehead. He was bleeding from his eyes.

That, Ferkudi would say, was a real flesh protuberance.

“You’re too late. You’re dying,” Abaddon said, sweeping the cloak back up onto his shoulders. “All this suffering for nothing.”

A sound escaped Kip’s lips, and for all the times he’d hated his body for its petty betrayals and awkwardness, this time, it did him proud: the sound was far more growl than moan. Emboldened by his own flimsy façade of defiance, Kip rolled to his knees.

“You’re wrong,” he said, voice raspy, breath short. “See, I have a gift.”

“A few.”

“No, just the one.”

“Pray tell.”

“I’m fat. So I’m out of breath. Maybe dying. Hell, I’ve felt worse climbing a flight of stairs.” I’m fat, he didn’t have the breath to say, but when everything’s hard for you, something being hard isn’t much deterrent to doing it anyway. I’m fat, and there’s only one person in this room who gets to make jokes about me.

But Abaddon was grinning. “You’ve already lost, Lard Guile. This wasn’t me visiting you in the Great Library. This was a raid. Your coming here broke open a gap in our enemies’ defenses. You’re so predictable. By stalling you, I made you hurry. I could never have found all the new cards myself. You brought them to me.” He spread the cloak open, and on the white inside, Kip saw images, like tattoos, of every single card. They hadn’t escaped Abaddon—he’d somehow copied them all.