Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Warbreaker (9 page)
Vasher said nothing.
“Is that all you want?” Bebid said impatiently.
“I need to contact the factions you mentioned,” Vasher said. “The ones who are pushing for war against Idris.”
“I won’t help you enrage the—”
“Do
not
presume to tell me what to do, Bebid. Just give me the information you promised, and you can be free of all this.”
“Vasher,” Bebid said, leaning in even further. “I
can’t
help. My lady isn’t interested in these kinds of politics, and I move in the wrong circles.”
Vasher ate some more, judging the man’s sincerity. “All right. Who, then?”
Bebid relaxed, using his napkin to wipe his brow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe one of Mercystar’s priests? You could also try Bluefingers, I suppose.”
“Bluefingers? That’s an odd name for a god.”
“Bluefingers isn’t a god,” Bebid said, chuckling. “That’s just a nickname. He’s the High Place steward, head of the scribes. He pretty much keeps the court running; if anyone knows anything about this faction, it will be him. Of course, he’s so stiff and straight, you’ll have a hard time breaking him.”
“You’d be surprised,” Vasher said, shoveling the last bit of rice into his mouth. “I got you, didn’t I?”
“I suppose.”
Vasher stood. “Pay the waiter when you leave,” he said, grabbing his cloak off its peg and wandering out. He could feel a...darkness to his right. He walked down the street, then turned down an alley, where he found Nightblood—still sheathed—sticking from the chest of the thief who had stolen him. Another cutpurse lay dead on the alley floor.
Vasher pulled the sword free, then snapped the sheath closed—it had only been opened a fraction of an inch—and did up the clasp.
You lost your temper in there for a bit
, Nightblood said with a chastising tone.
I thought you were going to work on that.
Guess I’m relapsing
, Vasher thought.
Nightblood paused.
I don’t think you ever really unlapsed in the first place.
That’s not a word
, Vasher said, leaving the alley.
So?
Nightblood said.
You’re too worried about words. That priest—you spent all those words on him, then you just let him go. It’s not really how I would have handled the situation.
Yes, I know
, Vasher said.
Your way would have involved making several more corpses.
Well, I am a sword
, Nightblood said with a mental huff.
Might as well stick to what you’re good at...
~
Lightsong sat on his patio, watching his new queen’s carriage pull up to the palace. “Well, this has been a pleasant day,” he remarked to his high priest. A few cups of wine—along with some time to get past thinking about children deprived of their Breath—and he was beginning to feel more like his usual self.
“You’re that happy to have a queen?” Llarimar asked.
“I’m that happy to have avoided petitions for the day thanks to her arrival. What do we know about her?”
“Not much, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, standing beside Lightsong’s chair and looking toward the God King’s palace. “The Idrians surprised us by not sending the eldest daughter as planned. They sent the youngest in her stead.”
“Interesting,” Lightsong said, accepting another cup of wine from one of his servants.
“She’s only seventeen years old,” Llarimar said. “I can’t imagine being married to the God King at her age.”
“I can’t imagine you being married to the God King at
any
age, Scoot,” Lightsong said. Then he pointedly cringed. “Actually, yes I can imagine it, and the dress looks painfully inelegant on you. Make a note to have my imagination flogged for its insolence in showing me that particular sight.”
“I’ll put it in line right behind your sense of decorum, Your Grace,” Llarimar said dryly. “Don’t be silly,” Lightsong said, taking a sip of wine. “I haven’t had one of
those
in years.”
He leaned back, trying to decide what the Idrians were signaling by sending the wrong princess. Two potted palms waved in the wind, and Lightsong was distracted by the scent of salt on the incoming sea breeze.
I wonder if I sailed that sea once
, he thought.
A man of the ocean? Is that how I died? Is that why I dreamed of a ship?
He could only vaguely remember that dream now. A red sea...
Fire. Death, killing, and battle. He was shocked as he suddenly remembered his dream in starker, more vivid detail. The sea had been red as it reflected the magnificent city of T’Telir, engulfed in flames. He could almost hear people crying out in pain, he could nearly hear...what? Soldiers marching and fighting in the streets?
Lightsong shook his head, trying to dispel the phantom memories. The ship he’d seen in his dream had been burning too, he now remembered. It didn’t have to mean anything; everyone had nightmares. But it made him uncomfortable to know that
his
nightmares were seen as prophetic omens.
Llarimar was still standing beside Lightsong’s chair, watching the God King’s palace.
“Oh, sit down and stop looming over me,” Lightsong said. “You’re making the buzzards jealous.”
Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “And which buzzards would that be, Your Grace?”
“The ones who keep pushing for us to go to war,” Lightsong said waving a hand.
The priest sat down on one of the patio’s wooden recliners and relaxed as he sat, removing the bulky miter from his head. Underneath, Llarimar’s dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He ran his hand through it. During the first few years, Llarimar had remained stiff and formal at all times. Eventually, however, Lightsong had worn him down. After all, Lightsong was the god. In his opinion, if he could lounge on the job, then so could his priests.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said slowly, rubbing his chin. “I don’t like this.”
“The queen’s arrival?” Lightsong asked.
Llarimar nodded. “We haven’t had a queen in the court for some thirty years. I don’t know how the factions will deal with her.”
Lightsong rubbed his forehead. “Politics, Llarimar? You know I frown on such things.”
Llarimar eyed him. “Your Grace, you are—by default—a politician.”
“Don’t remind me, please. I should very well like to extract myself from the situation. Do you think, perhaps, I could bribe one of the other gods to take control of my Lifeless Commands?”
“I doubt that would be wise,” Llarimar said.
“It’s all part of my master plan to ensure that I become totally and redundantly useless to this city by the time I die. Again.”
Llarimar cocked his head. “Redundantly useless?”
“Of course. Regular uselessness wouldn’t be enough—I am, after all, a god.” He took a handful of grapes from a servant’s tray, still trying to dismiss his dream’s disturbing images. They didn’t mean anything. Just dreams.
Even so, he decided he would tell Llarimar about them the next morning. Perhaps Llarimar could use the dreams to help push for peace with Idris. Since old Dedelin hadn’t sent his firstborn daughter, it would mean more debates in the court. More talk of war. This princess’s arrival should have settled it, but he knew that the war hawks among the gods would not let the issue die.
“Still,” Llarimar said, as if talking to himself. “They did send
someone
. That is a good sign, surely. An outright refusal would have meant war for certain.”
“And whoever Certain is, I doubt we should have a war for him,” Lightsong said idly, inspecting a grape. “War is, in my divine opinion, even worse than politics.”
“Some say the two are the same, Your Grace.”
“Nonsense. War is far worse. At least where politics is going on, there are usually nice hors d’oeuvres.”
As usual, Llarimar ignored Lightsong’s witty remarks. Lightsong would have been offended if he hadn’t known there were three separate lesser priests standing at the back of the patio, recording his words, searching for wisdom and meaning within them.
“What will the Idrian rebels do now, do you think?” Llarimar asked.
“Here’s the thing, Scoot,” Lightsong said, leaning back, closing his eyes and feeling the sun on his face. “The Idrians don’t consider themselves to be rebels. They’re not sitting up in their hills, waiting for the day when they can return in triumph to Hallandren. This isn’t their home anymore.”
“Those peaks are hardly a kingdom.”
“They’re enough of a kingdom to control the area’s best mineral deposits, four vital passes to the north, and the original royal line of the original Hallandren dynasty. They don’t need us, my friend.”
“And the talk of Idrian dissidents in the city, ones rousing the people against the Court of Gods?”
“Rumors only,” Lightsong said. “Though, when I’m proven wrong and the underprivileged masses storm my palace and burn me at the stake, I’ll be sure to inform them that you were right all along. You’ll get the last laugh. Or...well, the last scream, since you’ll probably be tied up beside me.”
Llarimar sighed, and Lightsong opened his eyes to find the priest regarding him with a contemplative expression. The priest didn’t chastise Lightsong for his levity. Llarimar just reached down, putting his headdress back on. He was the priest; Lightsong was the god. There would be no questioning of motives, no rebukes. If Lightsong gave an order, they would all do exactly as he said.
Sometimes, that terrified him.
But not this day. He was, instead, annoyed. The queen’s arrival had somehow gotten him talking about politics—and the day had been going so well until then.
“More wine,” Lightsong said, raising his cup.
“You can’t get drunk, Your Grace,” Llarimar noted. “Your body is immune to all toxins.”
“I know,” Lightsong said as a lesser servant filled his cup. “But trust me—I’m
quite
good at pretending.”
Six
Siri stepped from the carriage. Immediately, dozens of servants in blue and silver swarmed around her, pulling her away. Siri turned, alarmed, looking back toward her soldiers. The men stepped forward, but Treledees held up his hand.
“The Vessel will go alone,” the priest declared.
Siri felt a stab of fear. This was the time. “Return to Idris,” she said to the men.
“But, my lady—” the lead soldier said.
“No,” Siri said. “You can do nothing more for me here. Please, return and tell my father that I arrived safely.”
The lead soldier glanced back at his men, uncertain. Siri didn’t get to see if they obeyed or not, for the servants shuffled her around a corner into a long, black hallway. Siri tried not to show her fear. She’d come to the palace to be wed, and was determined to make a favorable impression on the God King. But she really was just terrified. Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she wiggled out of this somehow? Why couldn’t they have all just let her be?
There was no escape now. As the serving women led her down a corridor into the deep black palace, the last remnants of her former life disappeared behind her.
She was now alone.
Lamps with colored glass lined the walls. Siri was led through several twists and turns in the dark passages. She tried to remember her way back, but was soon hopelessly lost. The servants surrounded her like an honor guard; though all were female, they were of different ages. Each wore a blue cap, hair loose out the back, and they kept their eyes downcast. Their shimmering blue clothing was loose-fitting, even through the bust. Siri blushed at the low-cut fronts. In Idris, women kept even their necks covered.
The black corridor eventually opened into a much larger room. Siri hesitated in the doorway. While the stone walls of this room were black, they had been draped in silks of a deep maroon. In fact,
everything
in the room was maroon, from the carpeting, to the furniture, to the tubs—surrounded by tile—in the center of the room.
The servants began to pick at her clothing, undressing her. Siri jumped, swatting at a few hands, causing them to pause in surprise. Then they attacked with renewed vigor, and Siri realized that she didn’t have a choice except to grit her teeth and bear the treatment. She raised her arms, letting the servants pull off her dress and underclothing, and felt her hair grow red as she blushed. At least the room was warm.
She shivered anyway. She was forced to stand, naked, as other servants approached, bearing measuring tapes. They poked and prodded, getting various measurements, including ones around Siri’s waist, bust, shoulders, and hips. When that was finished, the women backed away, and the room fell still. The bath continued to steam in the center of the chamber. Several of the serving women gestured toward it.
Guess I’m allowed to wash myself
, Siri thought with relief, walking up the tile steps. She stepped carefully into the massive tub, and was pleased at how warm the water was. She lowered herself into the water, letting herself relax just a fraction.
Soft splashes sounded behind her, and she spun. Several other serving women—these wearing brown—were climbing into the tub, fully clothed, holding washcloths and soap. Siri sighed, yielding herself to their care as they began to scrub vigorously at her body and hair. She closed her eyes, enduring the treatment with as much dignity as she could manage.
That left her time to think, which was not good. It only allowed her to consider just what was happening to her. Her anxiety immediately returned.
The Lifeless weren’t as bad as the stories
, she thought, trying to reassure herself.
And the city colors are far more pleasant than I expected. Maybe...maybe the God King isn’t as terrible as everyone says.
“Ah, good,” a voice said. “We’re right on schedule. Perfect.”
Siri froze. That was a
man’s
voice. She snapped her eyes open to find an older man in brown robes standing beside the tub, writing something on a ledger. He was balding and had a round, pleasant face. A young boy stood next to him, bearing extra sheets of paper and a small jar of ink for the man to use in dipping his quill.
