Rysn hesitantly stepped down from the caravan's lead wagon. Her feet fell on soft, uneven ground that sank down a little beneath her.
That made her shiver, particularly since the too-thick grass didn't move away as it should. Rysn tapped her foot a few times. The grass didn't so much as quiver.
"It's not going to move," Vstim said. "Grass here doesn't behave the way it does elsewhere. Surely you've heard that." The older man sat beneath the bright yellow canopy of the lead wagon. He rested one arm on the side rail, holding a set of ledgers with the other hand. One of his long white eyebrows was tucked behind his ear and he let the other trail down beside his face. He preferred stiffly starched robes-blue and red-and a flat-topped conical hat. It was classic Thaylen merchant's clothing: several decades out of date, yet still distinguished.
"I've heard of the grass," Rysn said to him. "But it's just so odd." She stepped again, walking in a circle around the lead wagon. Yes, she'd heard of the grass here in Shinovar, but she'd assumed that it would just be lethargic. That people said it didn't disappear because it moved too slowly.
But no, that wasn't it. It didn't move at all. How did it survive? Shouldn't it have all been eaten away by animals? She shook her head in wonder, looking up across the plain. The grass completely covered it. The blades were all crowded together, and you couldn't see the ground. What a mess it was.
"The ground is springy," she said, rounding back to her original side of the wagon. "Not just because of the grass."
"Hmm," Vstim said, still working on his ledgers. "Yes. It's called soil."
"It makes me feel like I'm going to sink down to my knees. How can the Shin stand living here?"
"They're an interesting people. Shouldn't you be setting up the device?"
Rysn sighed, but walked to the rear of the wagon. The other wagons in the caravan-six in all-were pulling up and forming a loose circle. She took down the tailgate of the lead wagon and heaved, pulling out a wooden tripod nearly as tall as she was. She carried it over one shoulder, marching to the center of the grassy circle.
She was more fashionable than her babsk; she wore the most modern of clothing for a young woman her age: a deep blue patterned silk vest over a light green long-sleeved shirt with stiff cuffs. Her ankle-length skirt-also green-was stiff and businesslike, utilitarian in cut but embroidered for fashion.
She wore a green glove on her left hand. Covering the safehand was a silly tradition, just a result of Vorin cultural dominance. But it was best to keep up appearances. Many of the more traditional Thaylen people-including, unfortunately, her babsk-still found it scandalous for a woman to go about with her safehand uncovered.
She set up the tripod. It had been five months since Vstim become her babsk and she his apprentice. He'd been good to her. Not all babsk were; by tradition, he was more than just her master. He was her father, legally, until he pronounced her ready to become a merchant on her own.
She did wish he wouldn't spend so much time traveling to such odd places. He was known as a great merchant, and she'd assumed that great merchants would be the ones visiting exotic cities and ports. Not ones who traveled to empty meadows in backward countries.
Tripod set up, she returned to the wagon to fetch the fabrial. The wagon back formed an enclosure with thick sides and top to offer protection against highstorms-even the weaker ones in the West could be dangerous, at least until one got through the passes and into Shinovar.
She hurried back to the tripod with the fabrial's box. She slid off the wooden top and removed the large heliodor inside. The pale yellow gemstone, at least two inches in diameter, was fixed inside a metal framework. It glowed gently, not as bright as one might expect of such a sizable gem.
She set it in the tripod, then spun a few of the dials underneath, setting the fabrial to the people in the caravan. Then she pulled a stool from the wagon and sat down to watch. She'd been astonished at what Vstim had paid for the device-one of the new, recently invented types that would give warning if people approached. Was it really so important?
She sat back, looking up at the gemstone, watching to see if it grew brighter. The odd grass of the Shin lands waved in the wind, stubbornly refusing to withdraw, even at the strongest of gusts. In the distance rose the white peaks of the Misted Mountains, sheltering Shinovar. Those mountains caused the highstorms to break and fade, making Shinovar one of the only places in all of Roshar where highstorms did not reign.
The plain around her was dotted with strange, straight-trunked trees with stiff, skeletal branches full of leaves that didn't withdraw in the wind. The entire landscape had an eerie feel to it, as if it were dead. Nothing moved. With a start, Rysn realized she couldn't see any spren. Not a one. No windspren, no lifespren, nothing.
It was as if the entire land were slow of wit. Like a man who was born without all his brains, one who didn't know when to protect himself, but instead just stared at the wall drooling. She dug into the ground with a finger, then brought it up to inspect the "soil," as Vstim had called it. It was dirty stuff. Why, a strong gust could uproot this entire field of grass and blow it away. Good thing the highstorms couldn't reach these lands.
Near the wagons, the servants and guards unloaded crates and set up camp. Suddenly, the heliodor began to pulse with a brighter yellow light. "Master!" she called, standing. "Someone's nearby."
Vstim-who had been going through crates-looked up sharply. He waved to Kylrm, head of the guards, and his six men got out their bows.
"There," one said, pointing.
In the distance, a group of horsemen was approaching. They didn't ride very quickly, and they led several large animals-like thick, squat horses-pulling wagons. The gemstone in the fabrial pulsed more brightly as the newcomers got closer.
"Yes," Vstim said, looking at the fabrial. "That is going to be very handy. Good range on it."
"But we knew they were coming," Rysn said, rising from her stool and walking over to him.
"This time," he said. "But if it warns us of bandits in the dark, it'll repay its cost a dozen times over. Kylrm, lower your bows. You know how they feel about those things."
The guards did as they were told, and the group of Thaylens waited. Rysn found herself tucking her eyebrows back nervously, though she didn't know why she bothered. The newcomers were just Shin. Of course, Vstim insisted that she shouldn't think of them as savages. He seemed to have great respect for them.
As they approached, she was surprised by the variety in their appearance. Other Shin she'd seen had worn basic brown robes or other worker's clothing. At the front of this group, however, was a man in what must be Shin finery: a bright, multicolored cloak that completely enveloped him, tied closed at the front. It trailed down on either side of his horse, drooping almost to the ground. Only his head was exposed.
Four men rode on horses around him, and they wore more subdued clothing. Still bright, just not as bright. They wore shirts, trousers, and colorful capes.
At least three dozen other men walked alongside them, wearing brown tunics. More drove the three large wagons.
"Wow," Rysn said. "He brought a lot of servants."
"Servants?" Vstim said.
"The fellows in brown."
Her babsk smiled. "Those are his guards, child."
"What? They look so dull."
"Shin are a curious folk," he said. "Here, warriors are the lowliest of men-kind of like slaves. Men trade and sell them between houses by way of little stones that signify ownership, and any man who picks up a weapon must join them and be treated the same. The fellow in the fancy robe? He's a farmer."
"A landowner, you mean?"
"No. As far as I can tell, he goes out every day-well, the days when he's not overseeing a negotiation like this-and works the fields. They treat all farmers like that, lavish them with attention and respect."
Rysn gaped. "But most villages are filled with farmers!"
"Indeed," Vstim said. "Holy places, here. Foreigners aren't allowed near fields or farming villages."
How strange, she thought. Perhaps living in this place has affected their minds.
Kylrm and his guards didn't look terribly pleased at being so heavily outnumbered, but Vstim didn't seem bothered. Once the Shin grew close, he walked out from his wagons without a hint of trepidation. Rysn hurried after him, her skirt brushing the grass below.
Bother, she thought. Another problem with its not retracting. If she had to buy a new hem because of this dull grass, it was going to make her very cross.
Vstim met up with the Shin, then bowed in a distinctive way, hands toward the ground. "Tan balo ken tala," he said. She didn't know what it meant.
The man in the cloak-the farmer-nodded respectfully, and one of the other riders dismounted and walked forward. "Winds of Fortune guide you, my friend." He spoke Thaylen very well. "He who adds is happy for your safe arrival."
"Thank you, Thresh-son-Esan," Vstim said. "And my thanks to he who adds."
"What have you brought for us from your strange lands, friend?" Thresh said. "More metal, I hope?"
Vstim waved and some of the guards brought over a heavy crate. They set it down and pried off the top, revealing its peculiar contents. Pieces of scrap metal, mostly shaped like bits of shell, though some were formed like pieces of wood. It looked to Rysn like garbage that had-for some inexplicable reason-been Soulcast into metal.
"Ah," Thresh said, squatting down to inspect the box. "Wonderful!"
"Not a bit of it was mined," Vstim said. "No rocks were broken or smelted to get this metal, Thresh. It was Soulcast from shells, bark, or branches. I have a document sealed by five separate Thaylen notaries attesting to it."
"You needn't have done such a thing as this," Thresh said. "You have once earned our trust in this matter long ago."
"I'd rather be proper about it," Vstim said. "A merchant who is careless with contracts is one who finds himself with enemies instead of friends."
Thresh stood up, clapping three times. The men in brown with the downcast eyes lowered the back of a wagon, revealing crates.
"The others who visit us," Thresh noted, walking to the wagon. "All they seem to care about are horses. Everyone wishes to buy horses. But never you, my friend. Why is that?"
"Too hard to care for," Vstim said, walking with Thresh. "And there's too often a poor return on the investment, valuable as they are."
"But not with these?" Thresh said, picking up one of the light crates. There was something alive inside.
"Not at all," Vstim said. "Chickens fetch a good price, and they're easy to care for, assuming you have feed."
"We brought you plenty," Thresh said. "I cannot believe you buy these from us. They are not worth nearly so much as you outsiders think. And you give us metal for them! Metal that bears no stain of broken rock. A miracle."
Vstim shrugged. "Those scraps are practically worthless where I come from. They're made by ardents practicing with Soulcasters. They can't make food, because if you get it wrong, it's poisonous. So they turn garbage into metal and throw it away."
"But it can be forged!"
"Why forge the metal," Vstim said, "when you can carve an object from wood in the precise shape you want, then Soulcast it?"
Thresh just shook his head, bemused. Rysn watched with her own share of confusion. This was the craziest trade exchange she'd ever seen. Normally, Vstim argued and haggled like a crushkiller. But here, he freely revealed that his wares were worthless!
In fact, as conversation proceeded, the two both took pains to explain how worthless their goods were. Eventually, they came to an agreement-though Rysn couldn't grasp how-and shook hands on the deal. Some of Thresh's soldiers began to unload their boxes of chickens, cloth, and exotic dried meats. Others began carting away boxes of scrap metal.
"You couldn't trade me a soldier, could you?" Vstim asked as they waited.
"They cannot be sold to an outsider, I am afraid."
"But there was that one you traded me…"
"It's been nearly seven years!" Thresh said with a laugh. "And still you ask!"
"You don't know what I got for him," Vstim said. "And you gave him to me for practically nothing!"
"He was Truthless," Thresh said, shrugging. "He wasn't worth anything at all. You forced me to take something in trade, though to confess, I had to throw your payment into a river. I could not take money for a Truthless."
"Well, I suppose I can't take offense at that," Vstim said, rubbing his chin. "But if you ever have another, let me know. Best servant I ever had. I still regret that I traded him."
"I will remember, friend," Thresh said. "But I do not think it likely we will have another like him." He seemed to grow distracted. "Indeed, I should hope that we never do…"
Once the goods were exchanged, they shook hands again, then Vstim bowed to the farmer. Rysn tried to mimic what he did, and earned a smile from Thresh and several of his companions, who chattered in their whispering Shin language.
Such a long, boring ride for such a short exchange. But Vstim was right; those chickens would be worth good spheres in the East.
"What did you learn?" Vstim said to her as they walked back toward the lead wagon.
"That Shin are odd."
"No," Vstim said, though he wasn't stern. He never seemed to be stern. "They are simply different, child. Odd people are those who act erratically. Thresh and his kind, they are anything but erratic. They may be a little too stable. The world is changing outside, but the Shin seem determined to remain the same. I've tried to offer them fabrials, but they find them worthless. Or unholy. Or too holy to use."
"Those are rather different things, master."
"Yes," he said. "But with the Shin, it's often hard to distinguish among them. Regardless, what did you really learn?"
"That they treat being humble like the Herdazians treat boasting," she said. "You both went out of your way to show how worthless your wares were. I found it strange, but I think it might just be how they haggle."
He smiled widely. "And already you are wiser than half the men I've brought here. Listen. Here is your lesson. Never try to cheat the Shin. Be forthright, tell them the truth, and-if anything-undervalue your goods. They will love you for it. And they'll pay you for it too."
She nodded. They reached the wagon, and he got out a strange little pot. "Here," he said. "Use a knife and go cut out some of that grass. Be sure to cut down far and get plenty of the soil. The plants can't live without it."
"Why am I doing this?" she asked, wrinkling her nose and taking the pot.
"Because," he said. "You're going to learn to care for that plant. I want you to keep it with you until you stop thinking of it as odd."
"But why?"
"Because it will make you a better merchant," he said.
She frowned. Must he be so strange so much of the time? Perhaps that was why he was one of the only Thaylens who could get a good deal out of the Shin. He was as odd as they were.
She walked off to do as she was told. No use complaining. She did get out a rugged pair of gloves first, though, and roll up her sleeves. She was not going to ruin a good dress for a pot of drooling, wall-staring, imbecile grass. And that was that. Axies the Collector groaned, lying on his back, skull pounding with a headache. He opened his eyes and looked down the length of his body. He was naked.
Blight it all, he thought.
Well, best to check and see if he was hurt too badly. His toes pointed at the sky. The nails were a deep blue color, not uncommon for an Aimian man like himself. He tried to wiggle them and, pleasingly, they actually moved.
"Well, that's something," he said, dropping his head back to the ground. It made a squishing sound as it touched something soft, likely a bit of rotting garbage.
Yes, that was what it was. He could smell it now, pungent and rank. He focused on his nose, sculpting his body so that he could no longer smell. Ah, he thought. Much better.
Now if he could only banish the pounding in his head. Really, did the sun have to be so garish overhead? He closed his eyes.
"You're still in my alley," a gruff voice said from behind him. That voice had awakened him in the first place.
"I shall vacate it presently," Axies promised.
"You owe me rent. One night's sleep."
"In an alleyway?"
"Finest alleyway in Kasitor."
"Ah. Is that where I am, then? Excellent."
A few heartbeats of mental focus finally banished the headache. He opened his eyes, and this time found the sunlight quite pleasant. Brick walls rose toward the sky on either side of him, overgrown with a crusty red lichen. Small heaps of rotting tubers were scattered around him.
No. Not scattered. They looked to be arranged carefully. Odd, that. They were likely the source of the scents he'd noticed earlier. Best to leave his sense of smell inhibited.
He sat up, stretching, checking his muscles. All seemed to be in working order, though he had quite a few bruises. He'd deal with those in a bit. "Now," he said, turning, "you wouldn't happen to have a spare pair of pants, would you?"
The own er of the voice turned out to be a scraggly-bearded man sitting on a box at the end of the alleyway. Axies didn't recognize him, nor did he recognize the location. That wasn't surprising, considering that he'd been beaten, robbed, and left for dead. Again.
The things I do in the name of scholarship, he thought with a sigh.
His memory was returning. Kasitor was a large Iriali city, second in size only to Rall Elorim. He'd come here by design. He'd also gotten himself drunk by design. Perhaps he should have picked his drinking companions more carefully.
"I'm going to guess that you don't have a spare pair of pants," Axies said, standing and inspecting the tattoos on his arm. "And if you did, I'd suggest that you wear them yourself. Is that a lavis sack you have on?"
"You owe me rent," the man grumbled. "And payment for destroying the temple of the northern god."
"Odd," Axies said, looking over his shoulder toward the alleyway's opening. There was a busy street beyond. The good people of Kasitor would likely not take well to his nudity. "I don't recall destroying any temples. Normally I'm quite cognizant of that sort of thing."
"You took out half of Hapron Street," the beggar said. "Number of homes as well. I'll let that slide."
"Mighty kind of you."
"They've been wicked lately."
Axies frowned, looking back at the beggar. He followed the man's gaze, looking down at the ground. The heaps of rotting vegetables had been placed in a very particular arrangement. Like a city.
"Ah," Axies said, moving his foot, which had been planted on a small square of vegetable.
"That was a bakery," the beggar said.
"Terribly sorry."
"The family was away."
"That's a relief."
"They were worshipping at the temple."
"The one I…"
"Smashed with your head? Yes."
"I'm certain you'll be kind to their souls."
The beggar narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm still trying to decide how you fit into things. Are you a Voidbringer or a Herald?"
"Voidbringer, I'm afraid," Axies said. "I mean, I did destroy a temple."
The beggar's eyes grew more suspicious.
"Only the sacred cloth can banish me," Axies continued. "And since you don't…I say, what is that you're holding?"
The beggar looked down at his hand, which was touching one of the ratty blankets draped over one of his equally ratty boxes. He perched atop them, like…well, like a god looking down over his people.
Poor fool, Axies thought. It was really time to be moving on. Wouldn't want to bring any bad luck down upon the addled fellow.
The beggar held up the blanket. Axies shied back, raising his hands. That made the beggar smile a grin that could have used a few more teeth. He hopped off his box, holding the blanket up wardingly. Axies shied away.
The beggar cackled and threw the blanket at him. Axies snatched it from the air and shook a fist at the beggar. Then he retreated from the alleyway while wrapping the blanket around his waist.
"And lo," the beggar said from behind, "the foul beast was banished!"
"And lo," Axies said, fixing the blanket in place, "the foul beast avoided imprisonment for public indecency." Iriali were very particular about their chastity laws. They were very particular about a lot of things. Of course, that could be said for most peoples-the only difference were the things they were particular about.
Axies the Collector drew his share of stares. Not because of his unconventional clothing-Iri was on the northwestern rim of Roshar, and its weather therefore tended to be much warmer than that of places like Alethkar or even Azir. A fair number of the golden-haired Iriali men went about wearing only waist wraps, their skin painted various colors and patterns. Even Axies's tattoos weren't that noteworthy here.
Perhaps he drew stares because of his blue nails and crystalline deep blue eyes. Aimians-even Siah Aimians-were rare. Or perhaps it was because he cast a shadow the wrong way. Toward light, instead of away from it. It was a small thing, and the shadows weren't long, with the sun so high. But those who noticed muttered or jumped out of the way. Likely they'd heard of his kind. It hadn't been that long since the scouring of his homeland. Just long ago enough for stories and legends to have crept into the general knowledge of most peoples.
Perhaps someone important would take exception to him and have him brought before a local magistrate. Wouldn't be the first time. He'd learned long ago not to worry. When the Curse of Kind followed you, you learned to take what happened as it happened.
He began to whistle softly to himself, inspecting his tattoos and ignoring those observant enough to gawk. I remember writing something somewhere… he thought, looking over his wrist, then twisting his arm over and trying to see if there were any new tattoos on the back. Like all Aimians, he could change the color and markings of his skin at will. That was convenient, as when you were very regularly robbed of everything you owned, it was blighted difficult to keep a proper notebook. And so, he kept his notes on his skin, at least until he could return to a safe location and transcribe them.
Hopefully, he hadn't gotten so drunk that he'd written his observations someplace inconvenient. He'd done that once, and reading the mess had required two mirrors and a very confused bathing attendant.
Ah, he thought, discovering a new entry near the inside of his left elbow. He read it awkwardly, shuffling down the incline.
Test successful. Have noted spren who appear only when one is severely intoxicated. Appear as small brown bubbles clinging to objects nearby. Further testing may be needed to prove they were more than a drunken hallucination.
"Very nice," he said out loud. "Very nice indeed. I wonder what I should call them." The stories he'd heard called them sudspren, but that seemed silly. Intoxicationspren? No, too unwieldy. Alespren? He felt a surge of excitement. He'd been hunting this particular type of spren for years. If they proved real, it would be quite a victory.
Why did they appear only in Iri? And why so infrequently? He'd gotten himself stupidly drunk a dozen times, and had only found them once. If, indeed, he had ever really found them.
Spren, however, could be very elusive. Sometimes, even the most common types-flamespren, for instance-would refuse to appear. That made it particularly frustrating for a man who had made it his life's work to observe, catalogue, and study every single type of spren in Roshar.
He continued whistling as he made his way through the town to the dockside. Around him flowed large numbers of the golden-haired Iriali. The hair bred true, like black Alethi hair-the purer your blood was, the more locks of gold you had. And it wasn't merely blond, it was truly gold, lustrous in the sun.
He had a fondness for the Iriali. They weren't nearly as prudish as the Vorin peoples to the east, and were rarely inclined to bickering or fighting. That made it easier to hunt spren. Of course, there were also spren you could find only during war.
A group of people had gathered at the docks. Ah, he thought, excellent. I'm not too late. Most were crowding onto a purpose-built viewing platform. Axies found himself a place to stand, adjusted his holy blanket, and leaned back against the railing to wait.
It wasn't long. At precisely seven forty-six in the morning-the locals could use it to set their timepieces-an enormous, sea-blue spren surged from the waters of the bay. It was translucent, and though it appeared to throw out waves as it rose, that was illusory. The actual surface of the bay wasn't disturbed.
It takes the shape of a large jet of water, Axies thought, creating a tattoo along an open portion of his leg, scribing the words. The center is of the deepest blue, like the ocean depths, though the outer edges are a lighter shade. Judging by the masts of the nearby ships, I'd say that the spren has grown to a height of at least a hundred feet. One of the largest I've ever seen.
The column sprouted four long arms that came down around the bay, forming fingers and thumbs. They landed on golden pedestals that had been placed there by the people of the city. The spren came at the same time every day, without fail.
They called it by name, Cusicesh, the Protector. Some worshipped it as a god. Most simply accepted it as part of the city. It was unique. One of the few types of spren he knew of that seemed to have only a single member.
But what kind of spren is it? Axies wrote, fascinated. It has formed a face, looking eastward. Directly toward the Origin. That face is shifting, bewilderingly quick. Different human faces appear on the end of its stumplike neck, one after another in blurred succession.
The display lasted a full ten minutes. Did any of the faces repeat? They changed so quickly, he couldn't tell. Some seemed male, others female. Once the display was finished, Cusicesh retreated down into the bay, sending up phantom waves again.
Axies felt drained, as if something had been leeched from him. That was reported to be a common reaction. Was he imagining it because it was expected? Or was it real?
As he considered, a street urchin scrambled past and grabbed his wrap, yanking it free and laughing to himself. He tossed it to some friends and they scrambled away.
Axies shook his head. "What a bother," he said as people around him began to gasp and mutter. "There are guards nearby, I assume? Ah yes. Four of them. Wonderful." The four were already stalking toward him, golden hair falling around their shoulders, expressions stern.
"Well," he said to himself, making a final notation as one of the guards grabbed him on the shoulder. "It appears I'll have another chance to search for captivityspren." Odd, how those had eluded him all these years, despite his numerous incarcerations. He was beginning to consider them mythological.
The guards towed him off toward the city dungeons, but he didn't mind. Two new spren in as many days! At this rate, it might only take a few more centuries to complete his research.
Grand indeed. He resumed whistling to himself. Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, crouched on a high stone ledge at the side of the gambling den. The ledge was meant for holding a lantern; both his legs and the shelf were hidden by his long, enveloping cloak, making him seem to be hanging from the wall.
There were few lights nearby. Makkek liked Szeth to remain cloaked in shadow. He wore a formfitting black costume beneath the cloak, the lower part of his face covered by a cloth mask; both were of Makkek's design. The cloak was too big and the clothing too tight. It was a terrible outfit for an assassin, but Makkek demanded drama, and Szeth did as his master commanded. Always.
Perhaps there was something useful to the drama. With only his eyes and bald head showing, he unnerved the people who passed by. Shin eyes, too round, slightly too large. The people here thought them similar to the eyes of a child. Why did that disturb them so?
Nearby, a group of men in brown cloaks sat chatting and rubbing their thumbs and forefingers together. Wisps of smoke rose between their fingers, accompanied by a faint crackling sound. Rubbing firemoss was said to make a man's mind more receptive to thoughts and ideas. The one time Szeth had tried it, it had given him a headache and two blistered fingers. But once you grew the calluses, it could apparently be euphoric.
The circular den had a bar at the center, serving a wide variety of drinks at a wider variety of prices. The barmaids were dressed in violet robes that had plunging necklines and were open at the sides. Their safehands were exposed, something that the Bavlanders-who were Vorin by descent-seemed to find extremely provocative. So odd. It was just a hand.
Around the perimeter of the den, various games were in progress. None of them were overt games of chance-no dice throws, no bets on card flips. There were games of breakneck, shallowcrab fights, and-oddly-guessing games. That was another oddity about Vorin peoples; they avoided overtly guessing the future. A game like breakneck would have throws and tosses, but they wouldn't bet on the outcome. Instead, they'd bet on the hand they held after the throws and the draws.
It seemed a meaningless distinction to Szeth, but it was deeply steeped in the culture. Even here, in one of the vilest pits in the city-where women walked with their hands exposed and men spoke openly of crimes-nobody risked offending the Heralds by seeking to know the future. Even predicting the highstorms made many uncomfortable. And yet they thought nothing of walking on stone or using Stormlight for everyday illumination. They ignored the spirits of things that lived around them, and they ate whatever they wanted on any day they wanted.
Strange. So strange. And yet this was his life. Recently, Szeth had begun to question some of the prohibitions he had once followed so strictly. How could these Easterners not walk on stone? There was no soil in their lands. How could they get about without treading on stone?
Dangerous thoughts. His way of life was all that remained to him. If he questioned Stone Shamanism, would he then question his nature as Truthless? Dangerous, dangerous. Though his murders and sins would damn him, at least his soul would be given to the stones upon his death. He would continue to exist. Punished, in agony, but not exiled to nothingness.
Better to exist in agony than to vanish entirely.
Makkek himself strode the floor of the gambling den, a woman on each arm. His scrawny leanness was gone, his face having slowly gained a juicy plumpness, like a fruit ripening after the drowning's waters. Also gone were his ragged footpad's garments, replaced with luxurious silks.
Makkek's companions-the ones with him when they'd killed Took-were all dead, murdered by Szeth at Makkek's orders. All to hide the secret of the Oathstone. Why were these Easterners always so ashamed of the way they controlled Szeth? Was it because they feared another would steal the Oathstone from them? Were they terrified that the weapon they employed so callously would be turned against them?
Perhaps he feared that if it were known how easily Szeth was controlled, it would spoil their reputation. Szeth had overheard more than one conversation centered around the mystery of Makkek's terribly effective bodyguard. If a creature like Szeth served Makkek, then the master himself must be even more dangerous.
Makkek passed the place where Szeth lurked, one of the women on his arms laughing with tinkling sound. Makkek glanced at Szeth, then gestured curtly. Szeth bowed his masked head in acknowledgment. He slid from his place, dropping to the ground, oversized cloak fluttering.
Games stilled. Men both drunken and sober turned to watch Szeth, and as he passed the three men with the firemoss, their fingers went limp. Most in the room knew what Szeth was about this night. A man had moved into Bornwater and opened his own gambling den to challenge Makkek. Likely this newcomer didn't believe the reputation of Makkek's phantom assassin. Well, he had reason to be skeptical. Szeth's reputation was inaccurate.
He was far, far more dangerous than it suggested.
He ducked out of the gambling den, passing up the steps through the darkened storefront and then out into the yard. He tossed the cloak and face mask into a wagon as he passed. The cloak would only make noise, and why cover his face? He was the only Shin in town. If someone saw his eyes, they'd know who he was. He retained the tight black clothing; changing would take too much time.
Bornwater was the largest town in the area; it hadn't taken Makkek long to outgrow Staplind. Now he was talking of moving up to Kneespike, the city where the local landlord had his mansion. If that happened, Szeth would spend months wading in blood as he systematically tracked down and killed each and every thief, cutthroat, and gambling master who refused Makkek's rule.
That was months off. For now, there was Bornwater's interloper, a man named Gavashaw. Szeth prowled through the streets, eschewing Stormlight or Shardblade, counting on his natural grace and care to keep him unseen. He enjoyed his brief freedom. These moments-when he wasn't trapped in one of Makkek's smoke-filled dens-were too few lately.
Slipping between buildings-moving swiftly in the darkness, with the wet, cold air on his skin-he could almost think himself back in Shinovar. The buildings around him were not of blasphemous stone, but earthen ones, built with clay and soil. Those low sounds were not muffled cheers from within another of Makkek's gambling dens, but the thunder and whinnies of wild horses on the plains.
But no. In Shinovar he'd never smelled refuse like that-pungency compounded by weeks spent marinating. He was not home. There was no place for him in the Valley of Truth.
Szeth entered one of the richer sections of town, where buildings had more space between homes. Bornwater was in a lait, protected by a towering cliffside to the east. Gavashaw had arrogantly made his home in a large mansion on the eastern side of town. It belonged to the provincial landlord; Gavashaw had his favor. The landlord had heard of Makkek and his quick rise to prominence in the underground, and supporting a rival was a good way to create an early check on Makkek's power.
The citylord's local mansion was three stories tall, with a stone wall surrounding the compact, neatly gardened grounds. Szeth approached in a low crouch. Here on the outskirts of town, the ground was spotted with bulbous rockbuds. As he passed, the plants rustled, pulling back their vines and lethargically closing their shells.
He reached the wall and pressed himself against it. It was the time between the first two moons, the darkest period of night. The hateful hour, his people called it, for it was one of the only times when the gods did not watch men. Soldiers walked the wall above, feet scraping the stones. Gavashaw probably thought himself safe in this building, which was secure enough for a powerful lighteyes.
Szeth breathed in, infusing himself with Stormlight from the spheres in his pouch. He began to glow, luminescent vapors rising from his skin. In the darkness, it was quite noticeable. These powers had never been intended for assassination; Surgebinders had fought during the light of day, battling the night but not embracing it.
That was not Szeth's place. He would simply have to take extra care not to be seen.
Ten heartbeats after the passing of the guards, Szeth Lashed himself to the wall. That direction became down for him, and he was able to run up the side of the stone fortification. As he reached the top, he leaped forward, then briefly Lashed himself backward. He spun over the top of the wall in a tucked flip, then Lashed himself back to the wall again. He came down with feet planted on the stones, facing the ground. He ran and Lashed himself downward again, dropping the last few feet.
The grounds were laced with shalebark mounds, cultivated to form small terraces. Szeth ducked low, picking his way through the mazelike garden. There were guards at the building's doorways, watching by the light of spheres. How easy it would be to dash up, consume the Stormlight, and plunge the men into darkness before cutting them down.
But Makkek had not expressly commanded him to be so destructive. Gavashaw was to be assassinated, but the method was up to Szeth. He picked one that would not require killing the guards. That was what he always did, when given the chance. It was the only way to preserve what little humanity he had left.
He reached the western wall of the mansion and Lashed himself to it, then ran up it onto the roof. It was long and flat, sloped gently eastward-an unnecessary feature in a lait, but Easterners saw the world by the light of the highstorms. Szeth quickly crossed to the rear of the building, to where a small rock dome covered a lower portion of the mansion. He dropped down onto the dome, Stormlight streaming from his body. Translucent, luminescent, pristine. Like the ghost of a fire burning from him, consuming his soul.
He summoned his Shardblade in the stillness and dark, then used it to slice a hole in the dome, angling his Blade so that the chunk of rock did not fall down inside. He reached down with his free hand and infused the stone circle with Light, Lashing it toward the northwest section of the sky. Lashing something to a distant point like that was possible, but imprecise. It was like trying to shoot an arrow a great distance.
He stepped back as the stone circle lurched free and fell up into the air, streaming Stormlight as it soared toward the splattered paint drops of stars above. Szeth leapt into the hole, then immediately Lashed himself to the ceiling. He twisted in the air, landing with his feet planted on the underside of the dome beside the lip of the hole he'd cut. From his perspective, he was now standing at the bottom of a gigantic stone bowl, the hole cut in the very bottom, looking out on the stars beneath.
He walked up the side of the bowl, Lashing himself to the right. In seconds he was on the floor, reoriented so that the dome rose above him. Distantly, he heard a faint crashing: The chunk of stone, Stormlight exhausted, had fallen back to the ground. He had aimed it out of the town. Hopefully, it had not caused any accidental deaths.
The guards would now be distracted, searching for the source of the distant crash. Szeth breathed in deeply, draining his second pouch of gemstones. The light streaming from him became brighter, letting him see the room around him.
As he'd suspected, it was empty. This was a rarely used feasting hall, with cold firepits, tables, and benches. The air was still, silent, and musty. Like that of a tomb. Szeth hurried to the door, slid his Shardblade between it and the frame, and sliced through the deadbolt. He eased the door open. The Stormlight rising from his body illuminated the dark hallway outside.
Early during his time with Makkek, Szeth had been careful not to use the Shardblade. As his tasks had grown more difficult, however, he'd been forced to resort to it to avoid unnecessary killing. Now the rumors about him were populated with tales of holes cut through stone and dead men with burned eyes.
Makkek had begun to believe those rumors. He hadn't yet demanded that Szeth relinquish the Blade-if he did so, he would discover the second of Szeth's two forbidden actions. He was required to carry the Blade until his death, after which Shin Stone Shamans would recover it from whomever had killed him.
He moved through the hallways. He wasn't worried about Makkek taking the Blade, but he was worried about how bold the thief lord was growing. The more successful Szeth was, the more audacious Makkek became. How long before he stopped using Szeth to kill minor rivals, instead sending him to kill Shardbearers or powerful lighteyes? How long before someone made the connection? A Shin assassin with a Shardblade, capable of mysterious feats and extreme stealth? Could this be the now-infamous Assassin in White? Makkek could draw the Alethi king and highprinces away from their war on the Shattered Plains and bring them crashing down upon Jah Keved. Thousands would die. Blood would fall like the rain of a highstorm-thick, pervasive, destructive.
He continued down the hallway in a swift low run, Shardblade carried in a reverse grip, extending out behind him. Tonight, at least, he assassinated a man who deserved his fate. Were the hallways too quiet? Szeth hadn't seen a soul since leaving the rooftop. Could Gavashaw have been foolish enough to place all of his guards outside, leaving his bedchamber undefended?
Ahead, the doors into the master's rooms lay unwatched and dark at the end of a short hallway. Suspicious.
Szeth crept up to the doors, listening. Nothing. He hesitated, glancing to the side. A grand stairway led up to the second floor. He hustled over and used his Blade to shear free a wooden knob from the newel post. It was about the size of a small melon. A few hacks with the Blade cut a cloak-sized section of drapery free from a window. Szeth hurried back to the doors and infused the wooden sphere with Stormlight, giving it a Basic Lashing that pointed it westward, directly ahead of him.
He cut through the latch between the doors and eased one open. The room beyond was dark. Was Gavashaw gone for the evening? Where would he go? This city was not safe for him yet.
Szeth placed the wooden ball in the middle of the drape, then held it up and dropped it. It fell forward, toward the far wall. Wrapped in the fabric, the ball looked vaguely like a person in a cloak running through the room in a crouch.
No concealed guards struck at it. The decoy bounced off a latched window, then came to rest hanging against the wall. It continued to leak Stormlight.
That light illuminated a small table with an object atop it. Szeth squinted, trying to make out what it was. He edged forward, slinking into the room, closer and closer to the table.
Yes. The object on the table was a head. One with Gavashaw's features. Shadows thrown by Stormlight gave the grisly face an even more haunted cast. Someone had beaten Szeth to the assassination.
"Szeth-son-Neturo," a voice said.
Szeth turned, spinning his Shardblade around and falling into a defensive stance. A figure stood on the far side of the room, shrouded in the darkness. "Who are you?" Szeth demanded, his Stormlight aura growing brighter once he stopped holding his breath.
"Are you satisfied with this, Szeth-son-Neturo?" the voice asked. It was male and deep. What was that accent? The man wasn't Veden. Alethi, perhaps? "Are you satisfied with trivial crimes? Killing over meaningless turf in backwater mining villages?"
Szeth didn't reply. He scanned the room, looking for motion in the other shadows. None seemed to be hiding anyone.
"I've watched you," the voice said. "You've been sent to intimidate shopkeepers. You've killed footpads so unimportant even the authorities ignore them. You've been shown off to impress whores, as if they were high lighteyed ladies. What a waste."
"I do as my master demands."
"You are squandered," the voice said. "You are not meant for petty extortions and murders. Using you like this, it's like hitching a Ryshadium stallion to a run-down market wagon. It's like using a Shardblade to slice vegetables, or like using the finest parchment as kindling for a washwater fire. It is a crime. You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo, a god. And each day Makkek throws dung at you."
"Who are you?" Szeth repeated.
"An admirer of the arts."
"Do not call me by my father's name," Szeth said. "He should not be sullied by association with me."
The sphere on the wall finally ran out of Stormlight, dropping to the floor, the drapery muffling its fall. "Very well," the figure said. "But do you not rebel against this frivolous use of your skills? Were you not meant for greatness?"
"There is no greatness in killing," Szeth said. "You speak like a kukori. Great men create food and clothing. He who adds is to be revered. I am he who takes away. At least in the killing of men such as these I can pretend to be doing a service."
"This from the man who nearly toppled one of the greatest kingdoms in Roshar?"
"This from the man who committed one of the most heinous slaughters in Roshar," Szeth corrected.
The figure snorted. "What you did was a mere breeze compared to the storm of slaughter Shardbearers wreak on a battlefield each day. And those are breezes compared to the tempests you are capable of."
Szeth began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" the figure asked.
"Gavashaw is dead. I must return to my master."
Something hit the floor. Szeth spun, Shardblade down. The figure had dropped something round and heavy. It rolled across the floor toward Szeth.
Another head. It came to rest on its side. Szeth froze as he made out the features. The pudgy cheeks were stained with blood, the dead eyes wide with shock: Makkek.
"How?" Szeth demanded.
"We took him seconds after you left the gambling den."
"We?"
"Servants of your new master."
"My Oathstone?"
The figure opened his hand, revealing a gemstone suspended in his palm by a chain wrapped around his fingers. Sitting beside it, now illuminated, was Szeth's Oathstone. The figure's face was dark; he wore a mask.
Szeth dismissed his Shardblade and went down on one knee. "What are your orders?"
"There is a list on the table," the figure said, closing his hand and hiding the Oathstone. "It details our master's wishes."
Szeth rose and walked over. Beside the head, which rested on a plate to contain the blood, was a sheet of paper. He took it, and his Stormlight illuminated some two dozen names written in the warrior's script of his homeland. Some had a note beside them with instructions on how they were to be killed.
Glories within, Szeth thought. "These are some of the most powerful people in the world! Six highprinces? A Selay gerontarch? The king of Jah Keved?"
"It is time you stopped wasting your talent," the figure said, walking to the far wall, resting his hand upon it.
"This will cause chaos," Szeth whispered. "Infighting. War. Confusion and pain such as the world has rarely known."
The chained gemstone on the man's palm flashed. The wall vanished, turned to smoke. A Soulcaster.
The dark figure glanced at Szeth. "Indeed. Our master directs that you are to use tactics similar to those you employed so well in Alethkar years ago. When you are done, you will receive further instructions."
He then exited through the opening, leaving Szeth horrified. This was his nightmare. To be in the hands of those who understood his capabilities and who had the ambition to use them properly. He stood for a time, silent, long past when his Stormlight ran out.
Then, reverently, he folded the list. He was surprised that his hands were so steady. He should be trembling.
For soon the world itself would shake.
"The ones of ash and fire, who killed like a swarm, relentless before the Heralds." -Noted in Masly, page 337. Corroborated by Coldwin and Hasavah. It sounds like you're getting into Jasnah's good graces quickly, the spanreed wrote out. How long before you can make the switch?
Shallan grimaced, turning the gemstone on the reed. I don't know, she wrote back. Jasnah keeps a close watch on the Soulcaster, as you'd expect. She wears it all day. At night, she locks it away in her safe and wears the key around her neck.
She turned the gemstone, then waited for a reply. She was in her chamber, a small, stone-carved room inside Jasnah's quarters. Her accommodations were austere: A small bed, a nightstand, and the writing table were her only furniture. Her clothing remained in the trunk she had brought. No rug adorned the floor, and there were no windows, as the rooms were in the Kharbranthian Conclave, which was underground.
That does make it troubling, the reed wrote. Eylita-Nan Balat's betrothed-was the one doing the writing, but all three of Shallan's surviving brothers would be in the room back in Jah Keved, contributing to the conversation.
I'm guessing she takes it off while bathing, Shallan wrote. Once she trusts me more, she may begin using me as a bathing attendant. That may present an opportunity.
That is a good plan, the spanreed wrote. Nan Balat wants me to point out that we are very sorry to make you do this. It must be difficult for you to be away so long.
Difficult? Shallan picked up the spanreed and hesitated.
Yes, it was difficult. Difficult not to fall in love with the freedom, difficult not to get too absorbed in her studies. It had been only two months since she'd convinced Jasnah to take her as a ward, but already she felt half as timid and twice as confident.
The most difficult thing of all was knowing that it would soon end. Coming to study in Kharbranth was, without doubt, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.
I will manage, she wrote. You are the ones living the difficult life, maintaining our family's interests at home. How are you doing?
It took time for them to reply. Poorly, Eylita finally sent. Your father's debts are coming due, and Wikim can barely keep the creditors distracted. The highprince ails, and everyone wants to know where our house stands on the question of succession. The last of the quarries is running out. If it becomes known that we no longer have resources, it will go badly for us.
Shallan grimaced. How long do I have?
A few more months, at best, Nan Balat sent back via his betrothed. It depends on how long the highprince lasts and whether or not anyone realizes why Asha Jushu is selling our possessions. Jushu was the youngest of the brothers, just older than Shallan. His old gambling habit was actually coming in handy. For years, he'd been stealing things from their father and selling them to cover his losses. He pretended he was still doing that, but he brought the money back to help. He was a good man, despite his habit. And, all things considered, he really couldn't be blamed for much of what he'd done. None of them could.
Wikim thinks that he can keep everyone at bay for a while longer. But we are getting desperate. The sooner you return with the Soulcaster, the better.
Shallan hesitated, then wrote, Are we certain this is the best way? Perhaps we should simply ask Jasnah for help.
You think she would respond to that? they wrote back. She would help an unknown and disliked Veden house? She would keep our secrets?
Probably not. Though Shallan was increasingly certain that Jasnah's reputation was exaggerated, the woman did have a ruthless side to her. She would not leave her important studies to go help Shallan's family.
She reached for the reed to reply, but it started scribbling again. Shallan, it said. This is Nan Balat; I have sent the others away. It is only Eylita and me writing you now. There is something you need to know. Luesh is dead.
Shallan blinked in surprise. Luesh, her father's steward, had been the one who had known how to use the Soulcaster. He was one of the few people she and her brothers had determined they could trust.
What happened? she wrote after switching to a new sheet of paper.
He died in his sleep, and there's no reason to suspect he was killed. But Shallan, a few weeks after his passing, some men visited here claiming to be friends of our father. In private with me, they implied they knew of Father's Soulcaster and suggested strongly that I was to return it to them.
Shallan frowned. She still carried her father's broken Soulcaster in the safepouch of her sleeve. Return it? she wrote.
We never did figure out where Father got it, Nan Balat sent. Shallan, he was involved in something. Those maps, the things Luesh said, and now this. We continue to pretend that Father is alive, and occasionally he gets letters from other lighteyes that speak of vague "plans." I think he was going to make a play to become highprince. And he was supported by some very powerful forces.
These men who came, they were dangerous, Shallan. The type of men you do not cross. And they want their Soulcaster back. Whoever they are, I suspect they gave it to Father so he could create wealth and make a bid for the succession. They know he's dead.
I believe that if we don't return a working Soulcaster to them, we could all be in serious danger. You need to bring Jasnah's fabrial to us. We'll quickly use it to create new quarries of valuable stone, and then we can give it up to these men. Shallan, you must succeed. I was hesitant about this plan when you suggested it, but other avenues are quickly vanishing.
Shallan felt a chill. She read over the paragraphs a few times, then wrote, If Luesh is dead, then we don't know how to use the Soulcaster. That is problematic.
I know, Nan Balat sent. See if you can figure that out. This is dangerous, Shallan. I know it is. I'm sorry.
She took a deep breath. It must be done, she wrote.
Here, Nan Balat sent. I wanted to show you something. Have you ever seen this symbol? The sketch that followed was crude. Eylita wasn't much of an artist. Fortunately, it was a simple picture-three diamond shapes in a curious pattern.
I've never seen it, Shallan wrote. Why?
Luesh wore a pendant with this symbol on it, Nan Balat sent. We found it on his body. And one of the men who came searching for the Soulcaster had the same pattern tattooed on his hand, just below his thumb.
Curious, Shallan wrote. So Luesh…
Yes, Nan Balat sent. Despite what he said, I think he must have been the one who brought the Soulcaster to Father. Luesh was involved in this, perhaps as liaison between Father and the people backing him. I tried to suggest that they could back me instead, but the men just laughed. They did not stay long or give a specific time by which the Soulcaster must be returned. I doubt they'd be satisfied to receive a broken one.
Shallan pursed her lips. Balat, have you thought that we might be risking a war? If it becomes known that we've stolen an Alethi Soulcaster…
No, there wouldn't be a war, Nan Balat wrote back. King Hanavanar would just turn us over to the Alethi. They'd execute us for the theft.
Wonderfully comforting, Balat, she wrote. Thank you so much.
You're welcome. We're going to have to hope that Jasnah doesn't realize that you took the Soulcaster. It seems likely she'll assume that hers broke for some reason.
Shallan sighed. Perhaps, she wrote.
Take care, Nan Balat sent her.
You too.
And that was it. She set the spanreed aside, then read over the entire conversation, memorizing it. Then she crumpled up the sheets and walked into the sitting room of Jasnah's quarters. She wasn't there-Jasnah rarely broke from her studies-so Shallan burned the conversation in the hearth.
She stood for a long moment, watching the fire. She was worried. Nan Balat was capable, but they all bore scars from the lives they'd led. Eylita was the only scribe they could trust, and she…well, she was incredibly nice but not very clever.
With a sigh, Shallan left the room to return to her studies. Not only would they help get her mind off her troubles, but Jasnah would grow testy if she dallied too long. Five hours later, Shallan wondered why it was she'd been so eager.
She did enjoy her chances at scholarship. But recently, Jasnah had set her to study the history of the Alethi monarchy. It wasn't the most interesting subject around. Her boredom was compounded by her being forced to read a number of books that expressed opinions she found ridiculous.
She sat in Jasnah's alcove at the Veil. The enormous wall of lights, alcoves, and mysterious researchers no longer awed her. The place was becoming comfortable and familiar. She was alone at the moment.
Shallan rubbed her eyes with her freehand, then slid her book closed. "I," she muttered, "am really coming to hate the Alethi monarchy."
"Is that so?" a calm voice said from behind. Jasnah walked past, wearing a sleek violet dress, followed by a parshman porter with a stack of books. "I'll try not to take it personally."
Shallan winced, then blushed furiously. "I didn't mean individually, Brightness Jasnah. I meant categorically."
Jasnah lithely took her seat in the alcove. She raised an eyebrow at Shallan, then gestured for the parshman to set down his burden.
Shallan still found Jasnah an enigma. At times, she seemed a stern scholar annoyed by Shallan's interruptions. At other times, there seemed to be a hint of wry humor hiding behind the stern facade. Either way, Shallan was finding that she felt remarkably comfortable around the woman. Jasnah encouraged her to speak her mind, something Shallan had taken to gladly.
"I assume from your outburst that this topic is wearing on you," Jasnah said, sorting through her volumes as the parshman withdrew. "You expressed interest in being a scholar. Well, you must learn that this is scholarship."
"Reading argument after argument from people who refuse to see any other point of view?"
"They're confident."
"I'm not an expert on confidence, Brightness," Shallan said, holding up a book and inspecting it critically. "But I'd like to think that I could recognize it if it were before me. I don't think that's the right word for books like this one from Mederia. They feel more arrogant than confident to me." She sighed, setting the book aside. "To be honest, 'arrogant' doesn't feel like quite the right word. It's not specific enough."
"And what would be the right word, then?"
"I don't know. 'Errorgant,' perhaps."
Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant," Shallan said, "while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts."
Her words drew a hint of a smile from Jasnah. "What you are reacting against is known as the Assuredness Movement, Shallan. This errorgance is a literary device. The scholars are intentionally overstating their case."
"The Assuredness Movement?" Shallan asked, holding up one of her books. "I guess I could get behind that."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Much easier to stab it in the back from that position."
That got only an eyebrow raise. So, more seriously, Shallan continued. "I suppose I can understand the device, Brightness, but these books you've given me on King Gavilar's death are more and more irrational in defending their points. What began as a rhetorical conceit seems to have descended into name-calling and squabbling."
"They are trying to provoke discussion. Would you rather that the scholars hide from the truth, like so many? You would have men prefer ignorance?"
"When reading these books, scholarship and ignorance feel much alike to me," Shallan said. "Ignorance may reside in a man hiding from intelligence, but scholarship can seem ignorance hidden behind intelligence."
"And what of intelligence without ignorance? Finding truth while not dismissing the possibility of being wrong?"
"A mythological treasure, Brightness, much like the Dawnshards or the Honorblades. Certainly worth seeking, but only with great caution."
"Caution?" Jasnah said, frowning.
"It would make you famous, but actually finding it would destroy us all. Proof that one can be both intelligent and accept the intelligence of those who disagree with you? Why, I should think it would undermine the scholarly world in its entirety."
Jasnah sniffed. "You go too far, child. If you took half the energy you devote to being witty and channeled it into your work, I daresay you could be one of the greatest scholars of our age."
"I'm sorry, Brightness," Shallan said. "I…well, I'm confused. Considering the gaps in my education, I assumed you would have me studying things deeper in the past than a few years ago."
Jasnah opened one of her books. "I have found that youths like you have a relative lack of appreciation for the distant past. Therefore, I selected an area of study that is both more recent and sensational, to ease you into true scholarship. Is the murder of a king not of interest to you?"
"Yes, Brightness," Shallan said. "We children love things that are shiny and loud."
"You have quite the mouth on you at times."
"At times? You mean it's not there at others? I'll have to…" Shallan trailed off, then bit her lip, realizing she'd gone too far. "Sorry."
"Never apologize for being clever, Shallan. It sets a bad precedent. However, one must apply one's wit with care. You often seem to say the first passably clever thing that enters your mind."
"I know," Shallan said. "It's long been a foible of mine, Brightness. One my nurses and tutors tried very hard to discourage."
"Likely through strict punishments."
"Yes. Making me sit in the corner holding books over my head was the preferred method."
"Which, in turn," Jasnah said with a sigh, "only trained you to make your quips more quickly, for you knew you had to get them out before you could reconsider and suppress them."
Shallan cocked her head.
"The punishments were incompetent," Jasnah said. "Used upon one such as yourself, they were actually encouragement. A game. How much would you have to say to earn a punishment? Could you say something so clever that your tutors missed the joke? Sitting in the corner just gave you more time to compose retorts."
"But it's unseemly for a young woman to speak as I so often do."
"The only 'unseemly' thing is to not channel your intelligence usefully. Consider. You have trained yourself to do something very similar to what annoys you in the scholars: cleverness without thought behind it-intelligence, one might say, without a foundation of proper consideration." Jasnah turned a page. "Errorgant, wouldn't you say?"
Shallan blushed.
"I prefer my wards to be clever," Jasnah said. "It gives me more to work with. I should bring you to court with me. I suspect that Wit, at least, would find you amusing-if only because your apparent natural timidity and your clever tongue make such an intriguing combination."
"Yes, Brightness."
"Please, just remember that a woman's mind is her most precious weapon. It must not be employed clumsily or prematurely. Much like the aforementioned knife to the back, a clever gibe is most effective when it is unanticipated."
"I'm sorry, Brightness."
"It wasn't an admonition," Jasnah said, turning a page. "Simply an observation. I make them on occasion: Those books are musty. The sky is blue today. My ward is a smart-lipped reprobate."
Shallan smiled.
"Now, tell me what you've discovered."
Shallan grimaced. "Not much, Brightness. Or should I say too much? Each writer has her own theories on why the Parshendi killed your father. Some claim he must have insulted them at the feast that night. Others say that the entire treaty was a ruse, intended to get the Parshendi close to him. But that makes little sense, as they had much better opportunities earlier."
"And the Assassin in White?" Jasnah asked.
"A true anomaly," Shallan said. "The undertexts are filled with commentary about him. Why would the Parshendi hire an outside assassin? Did they fear they could not accomplish the job themselves? Or perhaps they didn't hire him, and were framed. Many think that is unlikely, considering that the Parshendi took credit for the murder."
"And your thoughts?"
"I feel inadequate to draw conclusions, Brightness."
"What is the point of research if not to draw conclusions?"
"My tutors told me that supposition was only for the very experienced," Shallan explained.
Jasnah sniffed. "Your tutors were idiots. Youthful immaturity is one of the cosmere's great catalysts for change, Shallan. Do you realize that the Sunmaker was only seventeen when he began his conquest? Gavarah hadn't reached her twentieth Weeping when she proposed the theory of the three realms."
"But for every Sunmaker or Gavarah, are there not a hundred Gregorhs?" He had been a youthful king notorious for beginning a pointless war with kingdoms that had been his father's allies.
"There was only one Gregorh," Jasnah said with a grimace, "thankfully. Your point is a valid one. Hence the purpose of education. To be young is about action. To be a scholar is about informed action."
"Or about sitting in an alcove reading about a five-year-old murder."
"I would not have you studying this if there were no point to it," Jasnah said, opening up another of her own books. "Too many scholars think of research as purely a cerebral pursuit. If we do nothing with the knowledge we gain, then we have wasted our study. Books can store information better than we can-what we do that books cannot is interpret. So if one is not going to draw conclusions, then one might as well just leave the information in the texts."
Shallan sat back, thoughtful. Presented that way, it somehow made her want to dig back into the studies. What was it that Jasnah wanted her to do with the information? Once again, she felt a stab of guilt. Jasnah was taking great pains to instruct her in scholarship, and she was going to reward the woman by stealing her most valuable possession and leaving a broken replacement. It made Shallan feel sick.
She had expected study beneath Jasnah to involve meaningless memorization and busywork, accompanied by chastisement for not being smart enough. That was how her tutors had approached her instruction. Jasnah was different. She gave Shallan a topic and the freedom to pursue it as she wished. Jasnah offered encouragement and speculation, but nearly all of their conversations turned to topics like the true nature of scholarship, the purpose of studying, the beauty of knowledge and its application.
Jasnah Kholin truly loved learning, and she wanted others to as well. Behind the stern gaze, intense eyes, and rarely smiling lips, Jasnah Kholin truly believed in what she was doing. Whatever that was.
Shallan raised one of her books, but covertly eyed the spines of Jasnah's latest stack of tomes. More histories about the Heraldic Epochs. Mythologies, commentaries, books by scholars known to be wild speculators. Jasnah's current volume was called Shadows Remembered. Shallan memorized the title. She would try to find a copy and look through it.
What was Jasnah pursuing? What secrets was she hoping to pry from these volumes, most of them centuries-old copies of copies? Though Shallan had discovered some secrets regarding the Soulcaster, the nature of Jasnah's quest-the reason the princess had come to Kharbranth-remained elusive. Maddeningly, yet tantalizingly, so. Jasnah liked to speak of the great women of the past, ones who had not just recorded history, but shaped it. Whatever it was she studied, she felt that it was important. World-changing.
You mustn't be drawn in, Shallan told herself, settling back with book and notes. Your goal is not to change the world. Your goal is to protect your brothers and your house.
Still, she needed to make a good show of her wardship. And that gave her a reason to immerse herself for two hours until footsteps in the hallway interrupted. Likely the servants bringing the midday meal. Jasnah and Shallan often ate on their balcony.
Shallan's stomach grumbled as she smelled the food, and she gleefully set aside her book. She usually sketched at lunch, an activity that Jasnah-despite her dislike of the visual arts-encouraged. She said that highborn men often thought drawing and painting to be "enticing" in a woman, and so Shallan should maintain her skills, if only for the purpose of attracting suitors.
Shallan didn't know whether to find that insulting or not. And what did it say about Jasnah's own intentions for marriage that she herself never bothered with the more becoming feminine arts like music or drawing?
"Your Majesty," Jasnah said, rising smoothly.
Shallan started and looked hastily over her shoulder. The elderly king of Kharbranth was standing in the doorway, wearing magnificent orange and white robes with detailed embroidery. Shallan scrambled to her feet.
"Brightness Jasnah," the king said. "Am I interrupting?"
"Your company is never an interruption, Your Majesty," Jasnah said. She had to be as surprised as Shallan was, yet didn't display a moment of discomfort or anxiety. "We were soon to take lunch, anyway."
"I know, Brightness," Taravangian said. "I hope you don't mind if I join you." A group of servants began bringing in food and a table.
"Not at all," Jasnah said.
The servants hurried to set things up, putting two different tablecloths on the round table to separate the genders during dining. They secured the half-moons of cloth-red for the king, blue for the women-with weights at the center. Covered plates filled with food followed: a clear, cold stew with sweet vegetables for the women, a spicy-smelling broth for the king. Kharbranthians preferred soups for their lunches.
Shallan was surprised to see them set a place for her. Her father had never eaten at the same table as his children-even she, his favorite, had been relegated to her own table. Once Jasnah sat, Shallan did likewise. Her stomach growled again, and the king waved for them to begin. His motions seemed ungainly compared with Jasnah's elegance.
Shallan was soon eating contentedly-with grace, as a woman should, safehand in her lap, using her freehand and a skewer to spear chunks of vegetable or fruit. The king slurped, but he wasn't as noisy as many men. Why had he deigned to visit? Wouldn't a formal dinner invitation have been more proper? Of course, she'd learned that Taravangian wasn't known for his mastery of protocol. He was a popular king, beloved by the darkeyes as a builder of hospitals. However, the lighteyes considered him less than bright.
He was not an idiot. In lighteyed politics, unfortunately, being only average was a disadvantage. As they ate, the silence drew out, becoming awkward. Several times, the king looked as if he wanted to say something, but then turned back to his soup. He seemed intimidated by Jasnah.
"And how is your granddaughter, Your Majesty?" Jasnah eventually asked. "She is recovering well?"
"Quite well, thank you," Taravangian said, as if relieved to begin conversing. "Though she now avoids the narrower corridors of the Conclave. I do want to thank you for your aid."
"It is always fulfilling to be of service, Your Majesty."
"If you will forgive my saying so, the ardents do not think much of your service," Taravangian said. "I realize it is likely a sensitive topic. Perhaps I shouldn't mention it, but-"
"No, feel free," Jasnah said, eating a small green lurnip from the end of her skewer. "I am not ashamed of my choices."
"Then you'll forgive an old man's curiosity?"
"I always forgive curiosity, Your Majesty," Jasnah said. "It strikes me as one of the most genuine of emotions."
"Then where did you find it?" Taravangian asked, nodding toward the Soulcaster, which Jasnah wore covered by a black glove. "How did you keep it from the devotaries?"
"One might find those questions dangerous, Your Majesty."
"I've already acquired some new enemies by welcoming you."
"You will be forgiven," Jasnah said. "Depending on the devotary you have chosen."
"Forgiven? Me?" The elderly man seemed to find that amusing, and for a moment, Shallan thought she saw deep regret in his expression. "Unlikely. But that is something else entirely. Please. I stand by my questions."
"And I stand by my evasiveness, Your Majesty. I'm sorry. I do forgive your curiosity, but I cannot reward it. These secrets are mine."
"Of course, of course." The king sat back, looking embarrassed. "Now you probably assume I brought this meal simply to ambush you about the fabrial."
"You had another purpose, then?"
"Well, you see, I've heard the most wonderful things about your ward's artistic skill. I thought that maybe…" He smiled at Shallan.
"Of course, Your Majesty," Shallan said. "I'd be happy to draw your likeness."
He beamed as she stood, leaving her meal half eaten and gathering her things. She glanced at Jasnah, but the older woman's face was unreadable.
"Would you prefer a simple portrait against a white background?" Shallan asked. "Or would you prefer a broader perspective, including surroundings?"
"Perhaps," Jasnah said pointedly, "you should wait until the meal is finished, Shallan?"
Shallan blushed, feeling a fool for her enthusiasm. "Of course."
"No, no," the king said. "I'm quite finished. A wider sketch would be perfect, child. How would you like me to sit?" He slid his chair back, posing and smiling in a grandfatherly way.
She blinked, fixing the image in her mind. "That is perfect, Your Majesty. You can return to your meal."
"Don't you need me to sit still? I've posed for portraits before."
"It's all right," Shallan assured him, sitting down.
"Very well," he said, pulling back to the table. "I do apologize for making you use me, of all people, as a subject for your art. This face of mine isn't the most impressive one you've depicted, I'm sure."
"Nonsense," Shallan said. "A face like yours is just what an artist needs."
"It is?"
"Yes, the-" She cut herself off. She'd been about to quip, Yes, the skin is enough like parchment to make an ideal canvas. "…that handsome nose of yours, and wise furrowed skin. It will be quite striking in the black charcoal."
"Oh, well then. Proceed. Though I still can't see how you'll work without me holding a pose."
"Brightness Shallan has some unique talents," Jasnah said. Shallan began her sketch.
"I suppose that she must!" the king said. "I've seen the drawing she did for Varas."
"Varas?" Jasnah asked.
"The Palanaeum's assistant chief of collections," the king said. "A distant cousin of mine. He says the staff is quite taken with your young ward. How did you find her?"
"Unexpectedly," Jasnah said, "and in need of an education."
The king cocked his head.
"The artistic skill, I cannot claim," Jasnah said. "It was a preexisting condition."
"Ah, a blessing of the Almighty."
"You might say that."
"But you would not, I assume?" Taravangian chuckled awkwardly.
Shallan drew quickly, establishing the shape of his head. He shuffled uncomfortably. "Is it hard for you, Jasnah? Painful, I mean?"
"Atheism is not a disease, Your Majesty," Jasnah said dryly. "It's not as if I've caught a foot rash."
"Of course not, of course not. But…er, isn't it difficult, having nothing in which to believe?"
Shallan leaned forward, still sketching, but keeping her attention on the conversation. Shallan had assumed that training under a heretic would be a little more exciting. She and Kabsal-the witty ardent whom she'd met on her first day in Kharbranth-had chatted several times now about Jasnah's faith. However, around Jasnah herself, the topic almost never came up. When it did, Jasnah usually changed it.
Today, however, she did not. Perhaps she sensed the sincerity in the king's question. "I wouldn't say that I have nothing to believe in, Your Majesty. Actually, I have much to believe in. My brother and my uncle, my own abilities. The things I was taught by my parents."
"But, what is right and wrong, you've…Well, you've discarded that."
"Just because I do not accept the teachings of the devotaries does not mean I've discarded a belief in right and wrong."
"But the Almighty determines what is right!"
"Must someone, some unseen thing, declare what is right for it to be right? I believe that my own morality-which answers only to my heart-is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution."
"But that is the soul of law," the king said, sounding confused. "If there is no punishment, there can be only chaos."
"If there were no law, some men would do as they wish, yes," Jasnah said. "But isn't it remarkable that, given the chance for personal gain at the cost of others, so many people choose what is right?"
"Because they fear the Almighty."
"No," Jasnah said. "I think something innate in us understands that seeking the good of society is usually best for the individual as well. Humankind is noble, when we give it the chance to be. That nobility is something that exists independent of any god's decree."
"I just don't see how anything could be outside God's decrees." The king shook his head, bemused. "Brightness Jasnah, I don't mean to argue, but isn't the very definition of the Almighty that all things exist because of him?"
"If you add one and one, that makes two, does it not?"
"Well, yes."
"No god needs declare it so for it to be true," Jasnah said. "So, could we not say that mathematics exists outside the Almighty, independent of him?"
"Perhaps."
"Well," Jasnah said, "I simply claim that morality and human will are independent of him too."
"If you say that," the king said, chuckling, "then you've removed all purpose for the Almighty's existence!"
"Indeed."
The balcony fell silent. Jasnah's sphere lamps cast a cool, even white light across them. For an uncomfortable moment, the only sound was the scratching of Shallan's charcoal on her drawing pad. She worked with quick, scraping motions, disturbed by the things that Jasnah had said. They made her feel hollow inside. That was partly because the king, for all his affability, was not good at arguing. He was a dear man, but no match for Jasnah in a conversation.
"Well," Taravangian said, "I must say that you make your points quite effectively. I don't accept them, though."
"My intention is not to convert, Your Majesty," Jasnah said. "I am content keeping my beliefs to myself, something most of my colleagues in the devotaries have difficulty doing. Shallan, have you finished yet?"
"Quite nearly, Brightness."
"But it's been barely a few minutes!" the king said.
"She has remarkable skill, Your Majesty," Jasnah said. "As I believe I mentioned."
Shallan sat back, inspecting her piece. She'd been so focused on the conversation, she'd just let her hands do the drawing, trusting in her instincts. The sketch depicted the king, sitting in his chair with a wise expression, the turretlike balcony walls behind him. The doorway into the balcony was to his right. Yes, it was a good likeness. Not her best work, but Shallan froze, her breath catching, her heart lurching in her chest. She had drawn something standing in the doorway behind the king. Two tall and willowy creatures with cloaks that split down the front and hung at the sides too stiffly, as if they were made of glass. Above the stiff, high collars, where the creatures' heads should be, each had a large, floating symbol of twisted design full of impossible angles and geometries.
Shallan sat, stunned. Why had she drawn those things? What had driven her to She snapped her head up. The hallway was empty. The creatures hadn't been part of the Memory she'd taken. Her hands had simply drawn them of their accord.
"Shallan?" Jasnah said.
By reflex, Shallan dropped her charcoal and grabbed the sheet in her freehand, crumpling it. "I'm sorry, Brightness. I paid too much attention to the conversation. I let myself grow sloppy."
"Well, certainly we can at least see it, child," the king said, standing.
Shallan tightened her grip. "Please, no!"
"She has an artist's temperament at times, Your Majesty." Jasnah sighed. "There will be no getting it out of her."
"I'll do you another, Your Majesty," Shallan said. "I'm so sorry."
He rubbed his wispy beard. "Yes, well, it was going to be a gift for my granddaughter…"
"By the end of the day," Shallan promised.
"That would be wonderful. You're certain you don't need me to pose?"
"No, no, that won't be necessary, Your Majesty," Shallan said. Her pulse was still racing and she couldn't shake the image of those two distorted figures from her mind, so she took another Memory of the king. She could use that to create a more suitable picture.
"Well then," the king said. "I suppose I should be going. I wish to visit one of the hospitals and the sick. You can send the drawing to my rooms, but take your time. Really, it is quite all right."
Shallan curtsied, crushed paper still held to her breast. The king withdrew with his attendants, several parshmen entering to remove the table.
"I've never known you to make a mistake in drawing," Jasnah said, sitting back down at the desk. "At least not one so horrible that you destroyed the paper."
Shallan blushed.
"Even the master of an art may err, I suppose. Go ahead and take the next hour to do His Majesty a proper portrait."
Shallan looked down at the ruined sketch. The creatures were simply her fancy, the product of letting her mind wander. That was all. Just imagination. Perhaps there was something in her subconscious that she'd needed to express. But what could the figures mean, then?
"I noticed that at one point when you were speaking to the king, you hesitated," Jasnah said. "What didn't you say?"
"Something inappropriate."
"But clever?"
"Cleverness never seems quite so impressive when regarded outside the moment, Brightness. It was just a silly thought."
"And you replaced it with an empty compliment. I think you misunderstood what I was trying to explain, child. I do not wish for you to remain silent. It is good to be clever."
"But if I'd spoken," Shallan said, "I'd have insulted the king, perhaps confused him as well, which would have caused him embarrassment. I am certain he knows what people say about his slowness of thought."
Jasnah sniffed. "Idle words. From foolish people. But perhaps it was wise not to speak, though keep in mind that channeling your capacities and stifling them are two separate things. I'd much prefer you to think of something both clever and appropriate."
"Yes, Brightness."
"Besides," Jasnah said, "I believe you might have made Taravangian laugh. He seems haunted by something lately."
"You don't find him dull, then?" Shallan asked, curious. She herself didn't think the king dull or a fool, but she'd thought someone as intelligent and learned as Jasnah might not have patience for a man like him.
"Taravangian is a wonderful man," Jasnah said, "and worth a hundred self-proclaimed experts on courtly ways. He reminds me of my uncle Dalinar. Earnest, sincere, concerned."
"The lighteyes here say he's weak," Shallan said. "Because he panders to so many other monarchs, because he fears war, because he doesn't have a Shardblade."
Jasnah didn't reply, though she looked disturbed.
"Brightness?" Shallan prodded, walking to her own seat and arranging her charcoals.
"In ancient days," Jasnah said, "a man who brought peace to his kingdom was considered to be of great worth. Now that same man would be derided as a coward." She shook her head. "It has been centuries coming, this change. It should terrify us. We could do with more men like Taravangian, and I shall require you to never call him dull again, not even in passing."
"Yes, Brightness," Shallan said, bowing her head. "Did you really believe the things you said? About the Almighty?"
Jasnah was quiet for a moment. "I do. Though perhaps I overstated my conviction."
"The Assuredness Movement of rhetorical theory?"
"Yes," Jasnah said. "I suppose that it was. I must be careful not to put my back toward you as I read today."
Shallan smiled.
"A true scholar must not close her mind close on any topic," Jasnah said, "no matter how certain she may feel. Just because I have not yet found a convincing reason to join one of the devotaries does not mean I never will. Though each time I have a discussion like the one today, my convictions grow firmer."
Shallan bit her lip. Jasnah noticed the expression. "You will need to learn to control that, Shallan. It makes your feelings obvious."
"Yes, Brightness."
"Well, out with it."
"Just that your conversation with the king was not entirely fair."
"Oh?"
"Because of his, well, you know. His limited capacity. He did quite remarkably, but didn't make the arguments that someone more versed in Vorin theology might have."
"And what arguments might such a one have made?"
"Well, I'm not very well trained in that area myself. But I do think that you ignored, or at least minimized, one vital part of the discussion."
"Which is?"
Shallan tapped at her breast. "Our hearts, Brightness. I believe because I feel something, a closeness to the Almighty, a peace that comes when I live my faith."
"The mind is capable of projecting expected emotional responses."
"But didn't you yourself argue that the way we act-the way we feel about right and wrong-was a defining attribute of our humanity? You used our innate morality to prove your point. So how can you discard my feelings?"
"Discard them? No. Regard them with skepticism? Perhaps. Your feelings, Shallan-however powerful-are your own. Not mine. And what I feel is that spending my life trying to earn the favor of an unseen, unknown, and unknowable being who watches me from the sky is an exercise in sheer futility." She pointed at Shallan with her pen. "But your rhetorical method is improving. We'll make a scholar of you yet."
Shallan smiled, feeling a surge of pleasure. Praise from Jasnah was more precious than an emerald broam.
But…I'm not going to be a scholar. I'm going to steal the Soulcaster and leave.
She didn't like to think about that. That was something else she'd have to get over; she tended to avoid thinking about things that made her uncomfortable.
"Now hurry and be about the king's sketch," Jasnah said, lifting a book. "You still have a great deal of real work to do once you are done drawing."
"Yes, Brightness," Shallan said.
For once, however, she found sketching difficult, her mind too troubled to focus. "They were suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest." -This fragment is the origin of a Thaylen proverb that was eventually reworked into a more common derivation. I believe it may reference the Voidbringers. See Ixsix's Emperor, fourth chapter. Kaladin walked from the cavernous barrack into the pure light of first morning. Bits of quartz in the ground sparkled before him, catching the light, as if the ground were sparking and burning, ready to burst from within.
A group of twenty-nine men followed him. Slaves. Thieves. Deserters. Foreigners. Even a few men whose only sin had been poverty. Those had joined the bridge crews out of desperation. The pay was good when compared with nothing, and they were promised that if they survived a hundred bridge runs, they would be promoted. Assignment to a watch post-which, in the mind of a poor man, sounded like a life of luxury. Being paid to stand and look at things all day? What kind of insanity was that? It was like being rich, almost.
They didn't understand. Nobody survived a hundred bridge runs. Kaladin had been on two dozen, and he was already one of the most experienced living bridgemen.
Bridge Four followed him. The last of the holdouts-a thin man named Bisig-had given in yesterday. Kaladin preferred to think that the laughter, the food, and the humanity had finally gotten to him. But it had probably been a few glares or under-the-breath threats from Rock and Teft.
Kaladin turned a blind eye to those. He'd eventually need the men's loyalty, but for now, he'd settle for obedience.
He guided them through the morning exercises he'd learned his very first day in the military. Stretches followed by jumping motions. Carpenters in brown work overalls and tan or green caps passed on their way to the lumberyard, shaking their heads in amusement. Soldiers on the short ridge above, where the camp proper began, looked down and laughed. Gaz watched from beside a nearby barrack, arms folded, single eye dissatisfied.
Kaladin wiped his brow. He met Gaz's eye for a long moment, then turned back to the men. There was still time to practice hauling the bridge before breakfast. Gaz had never gotten used to having just one eye. Could a man get used to that? He'd rather have lost a hand or a leg than that eye. He couldn't stop feeling that something hid in that darkness he couldn't see, but others could. What lurked there? Spren that would drain his soul from his body? The way a rat could empty an entire wineskin by chewing the corner?
His companions called him lucky. "That blow could have taken your life." Well, at least then he wouldn't have had to live with that darkness. One of his eyes was always closed. Close the other, and the darkness swallowed him.
Gaz glanced left, and the darkness scuttled to the side. Lamaril stood leaning against a post, tall and slim. He was not a massive man, but he was not weak. He was all lines. Rectangular beard. Rectangular body. Sharp. Like a knife.
Lamaril waved Gaz over, so he reluctantly approached. Then he took a sphere out of his pouch and passed it over. A topaz mark. He hated losing it. He always hated losing money.
"You owe me twice as much as this," Lamaril noted, raising the sphere up to look through it as it sparkled in the sunlight.
"Well, that's all you'll get for now. Be glad you get anything."
"Be glad I've kept my mouth shut," Lamaril said lazily, leaning back against his post. It was one that marked the edge of the lumberyard.
Gaz gritted his teeth. He hated to pay, but what else could he do? Storms take him. Raging storms take him!
"You have a problem, it seems," Lamaril said.
At first, Gaz thought he meant the half payment. The lighteyed man nodded toward Bridge Four's barracks.
Gaz eyed the bridgemen, unsettled. The youthful bridgeleader barked an order, and the bridgemen raced the span of the lumberyard in a jog. He already had them running in time with one another. That one change meant so much. It sped them up, helped them think like a team.
Could this boy actually have military training, as he'd once claimed? Why would he be wasted as a bridgeman? Of course, there was that shash brand on his forehead…
"I don't see a problem," Gaz said with a grunt. "They're fast. That's good."
"They're insubordinate."
"They follow orders."
"His orders, perhaps." Lamaril shook his head. "Bridgemen exist for one purpose, Gaz. To protect the lives of more valuable men."
"Really? And here I thought their purpose was to carry bridges."
Lamaril gave him a sharp look. He leaned forward. "Don't try me, Gaz. And don't forget your place. Would you like to join them?"
Gaz felt a spike of fear. Lamaril was a very lowly lighteyes, one of the landless. But he was Gaz's immediate superior, a liaison between bridge crews and the higher-ranked lighteyes who oversaw the lumberyard.
Gaz looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Brightlord."
"Highprince Sadeas holds an edge," Lamaril said, leaning back against his post. "He maintains it by pushing us all. Hard. Each man in his place." He nodded toward the members of Bridge Four. "Speed is not a bad thing. Initiative is not a bad thing. But men with initiative like that boy's are not often happy in their position. The bridge crews function as they are, without need for modification. Change can be unsettling."
Gaz doubted that any of the bridgemen really understood their place in Sadeas's plans. If they knew why they were worked as pitilessly as they were-and why they were forbidden shields or armor-they likely would just cast themselves into the chasm. Bait. They were bait. Draw the Parshendi attention, let the savages think they were doing some good by felling a few bridges' worth of bridgemen every assault. So long as you took plenty of men, that didn't matter. Except to those who were slaughtered.
Stormfather, Gaz thought, I hate myself for being a part of this. But he'd hated himself for a long time now. It wasn't anything new to him. "I'll do something," he promised Lamaril. "A knife in the night. Poison in the food." That twisted his insides. The boy's bribes were small, but they were all that let him keep ahead of his payments to Lamaril.
"No!" Lamaril hissed. "You want it seen that he was really a threat? The real soldiers are already talking about him." Lamaril grimaced. "The last thing we need is a martyr inspiring rebellion among the bridgemen. I don't want any hint of it; nothing our highprince's enemies could take advantage of." Lamaril glanced at Kaladin, jogging past again with his men. "That one has to fall on the field, as he deserves. Make certain it happens. And get me the rest of the money you owe, or you'll soon find yourself carrying one of those bridges yourself."
He swept away, forest-green cloak fluttering. In his time as a soldier, Gaz had learned to fear the minor lighteyes the most. They were galled by their closeness in rank to the darkeyes, yet those darkeyes were the only ones they had any authority over. That made them dangerous. Being around a man like Lamaril was like handling a hot coal with bare fingers. There was no way to avoid burning yourself. You just hoped to be quick enough to keep the burns to a minimum.
Bridge Four ran by. A month ago, Gaz wouldn't have believed this possible. A group of bridgemen, practicing? And all it seemed to have cost Kaladin was a few bribes of food and some empty promises that he would protect them.
That shouldn't have been enough. Life as a bridgeman was hopeless. Gaz couldn't join them. He just couldn't. Kaladin the lordling had to fall. But if Kaladin's spheres vanished, Gaz could just as easily end up as a bridgeman for failing to pay Lamaril. Storming Damnation! he thought. It was like trying to choose which claw of the chasmfiend would crush you.
Gaz continued to watch Kaladin's crew. And still that darkness waited for him. Like an itch that couldn't be scratched. Like a scream that couldn't be silenced. A tingling numbness that he could never be rid of.
It would probably follow him even into death. "Bridge up!" Kaladin bellowed, running with Bridge Four. They raised the bridge over their heads while still moving. It was harder to run this way, holding the bridge up, rather than resting it on the shoulders. He felt its enormous weight on his arms.
"Down!" he ordered.
Those at the front let go of the bridge and ran out to the sides. The others lowered the bridge in a quick motion. It hit the ground awkwardly, scraping the stone. They got into position, pretending to move it across a chasm. Kaladin helped at the side.
We'll need to practice on a real chasm, he thought as the men finished. I wonder what kind of bribe it would take for Gaz to let me do that.
The bridgemen, finished with their mock bridge run, looked toward Kaladin, exhausted but excited. He smiled at them. As a squadleader those months in Amaram's army, he'd learned that praise should be honest, but it should never be withheld.
"We need to work on that set-down," Kaladin said. "But overall, I'm impressed. Two weeks and you're already working together as well as some teams I trained for months. I'm pleased. And proud. Go get something to drink and take a break. We'll do one or two more runs before work detail."
It was stone-gathering duty again, but that was nothing to complain about. He'd convinced the men that lifting the stones would improve their strength, and had enlisted the few he trusted the most to help gather the knobweed, the means by which he continued to-just barely-keep the men supplied with extra food and build his stock of medical supplies.
Two weeks. An easy two weeks, as the lives of bridgemen went. Only two bridge runs, and on one they'd gotten to the plateau too late. The Parshendi had escaped with the gemheart before they'd even arrived. That was good for bridgemen.
The other assault hadn't been too bad, by bridgeman numbers. Two more dead: Amark and Koolf. Two more wounded: Narm and Peet. A fraction of what the other crews had lost, but still too many. Kaladin tried to keep his expression optimistic as he walked to the water barrel and took a ladle from one of the men, drinking it down.
Bridge Four would drown in its own wounded. They were only thirty strong, with five wounded who drew no pay and had to be fed out of the knobweed income. Counting those who'd died, they'd taken nearly thirty percent casualties in the weeks he'd begun trying to protect them. In Amaram's army, that rate of casualties would have been catastrophic.
Back then, Kaladin's life had been one of training and marching, punctuated by occasional frenzied bursts of battle. Here, the fighting was relentless. Every few days. That kind of thing could-would-wear an army down.
There has to be a better way, Kaladin thought, swishing the lukewarm water in his mouth, then pouring another ladle on his head. He couldn't continue to lose two men a week to death and wounds. But how could they survive when their own officers didn't care if they lived or died?
He barely kept himself from throwing the ladle into the barrel in frustration. Instead, he handed it to Skar and gave him an encouraging smile. A lie. But an important one.
Gaz watched from the shadow of one of the other bridgeman barracks. Syl's translucent figure-shaped now like floating knobweed fluff-flitted around the bridge sergeant. Eventually, she made her way over to Kaladin, landing on his shoulder, taking her female form.
"He's planning something," she said.
"He hasn't interfered," Kaladin said. "He hasn't even tried to stop us from having the nightly stew."
"He was talking to that lighteyes."
"Lamaril?"
She nodded.
"Lamaril's his superior," Kaladin said as he walked into the shade of Bridge Four's barrack. He leaned against the wall, looking over at his men by the water barrel. They talked to one another now. Joked. Laughed. They went out drinking together in the evenings. Stormfather, but he never thought he'd be glad that the men under his command went drinking.
"I didn't like their expressions," Syl said, sitting down on Kaladin's shoulder. "Dark. Like thunderclouds. I didn't hear what they were saying. I noticed them too late. But I don't like it, particularly that Lamaril."
Kaladin nodded slowly.
"You don't trust him either?" Syl asked.
"He's a lighteyes." That was enough.
"So we-"
"So we do nothing," Kaladin said. "I can't respond unless they try something. And if I spend all of my energy worrying about what they might do, I won't be able to solve the problems we're facing right now."
What he didn't add was his real worry. If Gaz or Lamaril decided to have Kaladin killed, there was little he could to do to stop them. True, bridgemen were rarely executed for anything other than failing to run their bridge. But even in an "honest" force like Amaram's, there had been rumors of trumped-up charges and fake evidence. In Sadeas's undisciplined, barely regulated camp, nobody would blink if Kaladin-a shash-branded slave-were strung up on some nebulous charge. They could leave him for the highstorm, washing their hands of his death, claiming that the Stormfather had chosen his fate.
Kaladin stood up straight and walked toward the carpentry section of the lumberyard. The craftsmen and their apprentices were hard at work cutting lengths of wood for spear hafts, bridges, posts, or furniture.
The craftsmen nodded to Kaladin as he passed. They were familiar with him now, used to his odd requests, like pieces of lumber long enough for four men to hold and run with to practice keeping cadence with one another. He found a half-finished bridge. It had eventually grown out of that one plank that Kaladin had used.
Kaladin knelt down, inspecting the wood. A group of men worked with a large saw just to his right, slicing thin rounds off a log. Those would probably become chair seats.
He ran his fingers along the smooth hardwood. All mobile bridges were made of a kind of wood called makam. It had a deep brown color, the grain almost hidden, and was both strong and light. The craftsmen had sanded this length smooth, and it smelled of sawdust and musky sap.
"Kaladin?" Syl asked, walking through the air then stepping onto the wood. "You look distant."
"It's ironic how well they craft these bridges," he said. "This army's carpenters are far more professional than its soldiers."
"That makes sense," she said. "The craftsmen want to make bridges that last. The soldiers I listen to, they just want to get to the plateau, grab the gemheart, and get away. It's like a game to them."
"That's astute. You're getting better and better at observing us."
She grimaced. "I feel more like I'm remembering things I once knew."
"Soon you'll hardly be a spren at all. You'll be a little translucent philosopher. We'll have to send you off to a monastery to spend your time in deep, important thoughts."
"Yes," she said, "like how to best get the ardents there to accidentally drink a mixture that will turn his mouth blue." She smiled mischievously.
Kaladin smiled back, but kept running his finger across the wood. He still didn't understand why they wouldn't let bridgemen carry shields. Nobody would give him a straight answer on the question. "They use makam because it's strong enough for its weight to support a heavy cavalry charge," he said. "We should be able to use this. They deny us shields, but we already carry one on our shoulders."
"But how would they react if you try that?"
Kaladin stood. "I don't know, but I also don't have any other choice."
Trying this would be a risk. A huge risk. But he'd run out of nonrisky ideas days ago. "We can hold it here," Kaladin said, pointing for Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. They stood beside a bridge turned up on its side, its underbelly exposed. The bottom was a complicated construction, with eight rows of three positions accommodating up to twenty-four men directly underneath, then sixteen sets of handles-eight on each side-for sixteen more men on the outside. Forty men, running shoulder to shoulder, if they had a full complement.
Each position underneath the bridge had an indentation for the bridgeman's head, two curved blocks of wood to rest on his shoulders, and two rods for handholds. The bridgemen wore shoulder pads, and those who were shorter wore extras to compensate. Gaz generally tried to assign new bridgemen to crews based on their height.
That didn't hold for Bridge Four, of course. Bridge Four just got the leftovers.
Kaladin pointed to several rods and struts. "We could grab here, then run straight forward, carrying the bridge on its side to our right at a slant. We put our taller men on the outside and our shorter men on the inside."
"What good would that do?" Rock asked, frowning.
Kaladin glanced at Gaz, who was watching from nearby. Uncomfortably close. Best not to speak of why he really wanted to carry the bridge on its side. Besides, he didn't want to get the men's hopes up until he knew if it would work.
"I just want to experiment," he said. "If we can shift positions occasionally, it might be easier. Work different muscles." Syl frowned as she stood on the top of the bridge. She always frowned when Kaladin obscured the truth.
"Gather the men," Kaladin said, waving to Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. He'd named the four as his subsquad commanders, something that bridgemen didn't normally have. But soldiers worked best in smaller groups of six or eight.
Soldiers, Kaladin thought. Is that how I think of them?
They didn't fight. But yes, they were soldiers. It was too easy to underestimate men when you considered them to be "just" bridgemen. Charging straight at enemy archers without shields took courage. Even when you were compelled to do it.
He glanced to the side, noticing that Moash hadn't left with the other three. The narrow-faced man had dark green eyes and brown hair flecked with black.
"Something wrong, soldier?" Kaladin asked.
Moash blinked in surprise at the use of the word, but he and the others had grown to expect all kinds of unorthodoxy from Kaladin. "Why did you make me leader of a subsquad?"
"Because you resisted my leadership longer than almost any of the others. And you were flat-out more vocal about it than any of them."
"You made me a squad leader because I refused to obey you?"
"I made you squad leader because you struck me as capable and intelligent. But beyond that, you weren't swayed too easily. You're strong-willed. I can use that."
Moash scratched his chin, with its short beard. "All right then. But unlike Teft and that Horneater, I don't think you're a gift straight from the Almighty. I don't trust you."
"Then why obey me?"
Moash met his eyes, then shrugged. "Guess I'm curious." He moved off to gather his squad. What in the raging winds… Gaz thought, dumbfounded as he watched Bridge Four charge past. What had possessed them to try carrying the bridge to the side?
It required them to clump up in an odd way, forming three rows instead of five, awkwardly clutching the underside of the bridge and holding it off to their right. It was one of the strangest things he'd ever seen. They could barely all fit, and the handholds weren't made for carrying the bridge that way.
Gaz scratched his head as he watched them pass, then held out a hand, stopping Kaladin as he jogged by. The lordling let go of the bridge and hurried up to Gaz, wiping his brow as the others continued running. "Yes?"
"What is that?" Gaz said, pointing.
"Bridge crew. Carrying what I believe is…yes, it's a bridge."
"I didn't ask for lip," Gaz snarled. "I want an explanation."
"Carrying the bridge over our heads gets tiring," Kaladin said. He was a tall man, tall enough to tower over Gaz. Storm it, I will not be intimidated! "This is a way to use different muscles. Like shifting a pack from one shoulder to the other."
Gaz glanced to the side. Had something moved in the darkness?
"Gaz?" Kaladin asked.
"Look, lordling," Gaz said, looking back to him. "Carrying it overhead may be tiring, but carrying it like that is just plain stupid. You look like you're about to stumble over one another, and the handholds are terrible. You can barely fit the men."
"Yes," Kaladin said more softly. "But a lot of the time, only half of a bridge crew will survive a bridge run. We can carry it back this way when there are fewer of us. It will let us shift positions, at least."
Gaz hesitated. Only half a bridge crew…
If they carried the bridge like that on an actual assault, they'd go slowly, expose themselves. It could be a disaster, for Bridge Four at least.
Gaz smiled. "I like it."
Kaladin looked shocked. "What?"
"Initiative. Creativity. Yes, keep practicing. I'd very much like to see you make a plateau approach carrying the bridge that way."
Kaladin narrowed his eyes. "Is that so?"
"Yes," Gaz said.
"Well then. Perhaps we will."
Gaz smiled, watching Kaladin retreat. A disaster was exactly what he needed. Now he just had to find some other way to pay Lamaril's blackmail.