“Nah, it’s more like they have pebbles in their mouths. But they talk really slow, with overemphasized sounds. Like this. ‘Oi looked over the paintings that ya gave me, and they’re roit nice. Roit nice indeed. Ain’t never had a cloth for my backside that was so pleasant.’”
“You’re exaggerating that!” Shallan said, though she couldn’t help laughing.
“A tad,” Tyn said, leaning back and sweeping her long, chull-guiding reed in front of her like a Shardblade.
“I don’t see why knowing a Bav accent would be useful,” Shallan said. “They’re not a very important people.”
“Kid, that’s why they’re important.”
“They’re important because they’re unimportant,” Shallan said. “All right, I know I’m bad at logic sometimes, but something about that statement seems off.”
Tyn smiled. She was so relaxed, so . . . free. Not at all what Shallan had expected after their first encounter.
But then the woman had been playing a part. Leader of the guard. This woman Shallan was talking to now, this seemed real.
“Look,” Tyn said, “if you’re going to fool people, you’ll need to learn how to act beneath them as well as above them. You’re getting the whole ‘important lighteyes’ thing down. I assume you’ve had good examples.”
“You could say that,” Shallan replied, thinking of Jasnah.
“Thing is, in a lot of situations, being an important lighteyes is useless.”
“Being unimportant is important. Being important is useless. Got it.”
Tyn eyed her, chewing on some jerky. Her sword belt hung from a peg on the side of the seat, swaying to the rhythm of the chull’s gait. “You know, kid, you get kind of mouthy when you let your mask down.”
Shallan blushed.
“I like it. I prefer people who can laugh at life.”
“I can guess what you’re trying to teach me,” Shallan said. “You’re saying that a person with a Bav accent, someone who looks lowly and simple, can go places a lighteyes never could.”
“And can hear or do things a lighteyes never could. Accent is important. Elocute with distinction, and it often won’t matter how little money you have. Wipe your nose on your arm and speak like a Bav, and sometimes people won’t even glance to see if you’re wearing a sword.”
“But my eyes are light blue,” Shallan said. “I’ll never pass for lowly, no matter what my voice sounds like!”
Tyn fished in her trouser pocket. She had slung her coat over another peg, and so wore only the pale tan trousers—tight, with high boots—and a buttoned shirt. Almost a worker’s shirt, though of nicer material.
“Here,” Tyn said, tossing something to her.
Shallan barely caught it. She blushed at her clumsiness, then held it up toward the sun: a small vial with some dark liquid inside.
“Eyedrops,” Tyn said. “They’ll darken your eyes for a few hours.”
“Really?”
“Not hard to find, if you have the right connections. Useful stuff.”
Shallan lowered the vial, suddenly feeling a chill. “Is there—”
“The reverse?” Tyn cut in. “Something to turn a darkeyes into a lighteyes? Not that I know of. Unless you believe the stories about Shardblades.”
“Makes sense,” Shallan said, relaxing. “You can darken glass by painting it, but I don’t think you can lighten it without melting down the whole thing.”
“Anyway,” Tyn said, “you’ll need a good backwater accent or two. Herdazian, Bavlander, something like that.”
“I probably have a rural Veden accent,” Shallan admitted.
“That won’t work out here. Jah Keved is a cultured country, and your internal accents are too similar to one another for outsiders to recognize. Alethi won’t hear rural from you, like a fellow Veden would. They’ll just hear exotic.”
“You’ve been to a lot of places, haven’t you?” Shallan asked.
“I go wherever the winds take me. It’s a good life, so long as you’re not attached to stuff.”
“Stuff?” Shallan asked. “But you’re—pardon—you’re a thief. That’s all about getting more stuff!”
“I take what I can get, but that just proves how transient stuff is. You’ll take some things, but then you’ll lose them. Just like the job I pulled down south. My team never returned from their mission; I’m half convinced they ran off without seeing me paid.” She shrugged. “It happens. No need to get worked up.”
“What kind of job was it?” Shallan asked, blinking pointedly to take a Memory of Tyn lounging there, sweeping her reed as if conducting musicians, not a care in the world. They’d nearly died a couple of weeks back, but Tyn took it in stride.
“It was a big job,” Tyn said. “Important, for the kinds of people who make things change in the world. I still haven’t heard back from the ones who hired us. Maybe my men didn’t run off; maybe they just failed. I don’t know for certain.” Here, Shallan caught tension in Tyn’s face. A tightening of the skin around the eyes, a distance to her gaze. She was worried about what her employers might do to her. Then it was gone, smoothed away. “Have a look,” Tyn said, nodding up ahead.
Shallan followed the gesture and noticed moving figures a few hills over. The landscape had slowly changed as they approached the Plains. The hills grew steeper, but the air a little warmer, and plant life was more prevalent. Stands of trees clustered in some of the valleys, where waters would flow after highstorms. The trees were squat, different from the flowing majesty of the ones she’d known in Jah Keved, but it was still nice to see something other than scrub.
The grass here was fuller. It pulled smartly away from the wagons, sinking into its burrows. The rockbuds here grew large, and shalebark cropped up in patches, often with lifespren bouncing about like tiny green motes. During their days traveling they’d passed other caravans, more plentiful now that they were closer to the Shattered Plains. So Shallan wasn’t surprised to see someone up ahead. The figures, however, rode horses. Who could afford animals like that? And why didn’t they have an escort? There seemed to be only four of them.
The caravan rolled to a stop as Macob yelled an order from the first wagon. Shallan had learned, through awful experience, just how dangerous any encounter out here could be. None were taken lightly by caravan masters. She was the authority here, but she allowed those with more experience to call stops and choose their path.
“Come on,” Tyn said, stopping the chull with a whack of the stick, then hopping down from the wagon and grabbing her coat and sword off their pegs.
Shallan scrambled down, putting on her Jasnah face. She let herself be herself with Tyn. With the others, she needed to be a leader. Stiff, stern, but hopefully inspiring. To that end, she was pleased with the blue dress that Macob had given her. Embroidered with silver, made of the finest silk, it was a wonderful upgrade from her tattered one.
They walked past where Vathah and his men marched just behind the lead wagon. The leader of the deserters shot Tyn a glare. His dislike of the woman was only more reason to respect her, despite her criminal proclivities.
“Brightness Davar and I will handle this,” Tyn said to Macob as they passed.
“Brightness?” Macob said, standing and looking toward Shallan. “What if they are bandits?”
“There are only four of them, Master Macob,” Shallan said lightly. “The day I can’t handle four bandits on my own is a day I deserve to be robbed.”
They passed the wagon, Tyn tying on her belt.
“What if they are bandits?” Shallan hissed once they were out of earshot.
“I thought you said you could handle four.”
“I was just going along with your attitude!”
“That’s dangerous, kid,” Tyn said with a grin. “Look, bandits wouldn’t let us see them, and they certainly wouldn’t just sit there.”
The group of four men waited on the top of the hill. As Shallan drew closer, she could see that they were wearing crisp blue uniforms that looked qu
ite genuine. At the bottom of the ravine between hills, Shallan stubbed her toe on a rockbud. She grimaced—Macob had given her lighteyed shoes to match her dress. They were luxurious, and probably worth a fortune, but they were little more than slippers.
“We’ll wait here,” Shallan said. “They can come to us.”
“Sounds good to me,” Tyn said. Indeed, up above, the men started moving down the hillside when they noticed Shallan and Tyn were waiting for them. Two more came and followed after them on foot, men not in uniforms, but workers’ clothing. Grooms?
“Who are you going to be?” Tyn asked softly.
“. . . Myself?” Shallan replied.
“What’s the fun in that?” Tyn said. “How’s your Horneater?”
“Horneater! I—”
“Too late,” Tyn said as the men rode up.
Shallan found horses intimidating. The large brutish things weren’t docile like chulls. Horses were always stomping about, snorting.
The lead rider reined in his horse with some obvious annoyance. He didn’t seem in complete control of the beast. “Brightness,” he said, nodding to her as he saw her eyes. Shockingly, he was darkeyed, a tall man with black Alethi hair he wore down to his shoulders. He looked over Tyn, noting the sword and the soldier’s uniform, but let slip no reaction. A hard man, this one.
“Her Highness,” Tyn announced in a loud voice, gesturing toward Shallan, “Princess Unulukuak’kina’autu’atai! You are in the presence of royalty, darkeyes!”
“A Horneater?” the man said, leaning down, inspecting Shallan’s red hair. “Wearing a Vorin dress. Rock would have a fit.”
Tyn looked to Shallan and raised an eyebrow.
I’m going to strangle you, woman, Shallan thought, then took a deep breath. “This thing,” Shallan said, gesturing at her dress. “He is not what you have a princess wear? He is good for me. You will be respect!” Fortunately, her red face would fit for a Horneater. They were a passionate people.
Tyn nodded to her, looking appreciative.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, though he didn’t seem very apologetic. What was a darkeyes doing riding an animal of such value? One of the man’s companions was inspecting the caravan through a spyglass. He was darkeyed too, but looked more comfortable on his mount.
“Seven wagons, Kal,” the man said. “Well guarded.”
The man, Kal, nodded. “I’ve been sent out to look for signs of bandits,” he said to Tyn. “Has all been well with your caravan?”
“We ran into some bandits three weeks ago,” Tyn said, thumbing over her shoulder. “Why do you care?”
“We represent the king,” the man said. “And are from the personal guard of Dalinar Kholin.”
Oh, storms. Well, that was going to be inconvenient.
“Brightlord Kholin,” Kal continued, “is investigating the possibility of a wider range of control around the Shattered Plains. If you really were attacked, I would like to know the details.”
“If we were attacked?” Shallan asked. “You doubt our word?”
“No—”
“I am offend!” Shallan declared, folding her arms.
“You’d better watch yourself,” Tyn told the men. “Her Highness does not like to be offended.”
“How surprising,” Kal said. “Where did the attack take place? You fought it off? How many bandits were there?”
Tyn filled him in on the details, which gave Shallan a chance to think. Dalinar Kholin was her future father-in-law, if the causal matured into a marriage. Hopefully, she wouldn’t run into these particular soldiers again.
I really am going to strangle you, Tyn. . . .
Their leader listened to the details of the attack with a stoic air. He didn’t seem like a very pleasant man.
“I am sorry to hear of your losses,” Kal said. “But you’re only a day and a half by caravan from the Shattered Plains now. You should be safe the rest of the way.”
“I am curiosity,” Shallan said. “These animals, they are horses? Yet you are darkeyed. This . . . Kholin trusts you well.”
“I do my duty,” Kal said, studying her. “Where are the rest of your people? That caravan looks as if it’s all Vorin. Also, you look a little spindly for a Horneater.”
“Did you just insult the princess’s weight?” Tyn asked, aghast.
Storms! She was good. She actually managed to produce angerspren with the remark.
Well, nothing to do but soldier on.
“I am offend!” Shallan yelled.
“You have offended Her Highness again!”
“Very offend!”
“You’d better apologize.”
“No apologize!” Shallan declared. “Boots!”
Kal leaned back, looking between the two of them, trying to parse what had just been said. “Boots?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shallan said. “I am liking your boots. You will apology with boots.”
“You . . . want my boots?”
“Did you not hear Her Highness?” Tyn asked, arms folded. “Are soldiers of this Dalinar Kholin’s army so disrespectful?”
“I’m not disrespectful,” Kal said. “But I’m not giving her my boots.”
“You insult!” Shallan declared, stepping forward, pointing at him. Stormfather, those horses were enormous! “I will tell all who are to listen! When arriving, I will say, ‘Kholin is stealer of boots and taker of women’s virtue!’”
Kal sputtered. “Virtue!”
“Yes,” Shallan said; then she glanced over to Tyn. “Virtue? No, wrong word. Virture . . . No . . . Vesture. Vesture! Taker of woman’s vesture! That is word I wanted.”
The soldier glanced to his companions, looking confused. Drat, Shallan thought. Good puns are lost on men with poor vocabulary.
“Is no matter,” Shallan said, throwing up her hand. “All will know what you have done in wronging me. You have laid me bare, here in this wilderness. Stripping me! Is an insult to my house and my clan. All will know that Kholin—”
“Oh, stop, stop,” Kal said, reaching down and awkwardly pulling his boot from his foot while on horseback. His sock had a hole in the heel. “Storming woman,” he muttered. He tossed the first boot down to her, then removed the other.
“Your apology is accepted,” Tyn said, fetching the boots.
“By Damnation, it had better be,” Kal said. “I’ll pass along your story. Maybe we can get this storming place patrolled. Come on, men.” He turned and left them without another word, perhaps fearing another Horneater diatribe.
Once they were out of earshot, Shallan looked at the boots, then started laughing uncontrollably. Joyspren rose around her, like blue leaves that started at her feet then moved up in a swirl before flaring out above her as if in a blast of wind. Shallan watched them with a big smile. Those were very rare.
“Ah,” Tyn said with a smile. “No use denying. That was fun.”
“I’m still going to strangle you,” Shallan said. “He knew we were playing with him. That has to be the worst Horneater impression a woman has ever done.”
“It was actually pretty good,” Tyn said. “You overdid the words, but the accent itself was spot on. That wasn’t the point, though.” She handed back the boots.
“What was the point?” Shallan asked as they hiked back toward the caravan. “Making a fool out of me?”
“Partially,” Tyn said.
“That was sarcasm.”
“If you’re going to learn to do this,” Tyn said, “you have to be comfortable in situations like that. You can’t be embarrassed when you pose as someone else. The more outrageous the attempt, the straighter you have to play it. The only way to get better is to practice—and in front of people who very well might catch you.”
“I suppose,” Shallan said.
“Those boots are too big for you,” Tyn noted. “Though I did love the look on his face when you asked for them. ‘No apologize. Boots!’”
“I really need some boots,” Shallan said. “I’m tired of wa
lking around on rock barefoot or in slippers. A little padding, and these will fit.” She held them up. They were rather large. “Er, maybe.” She looked backward. “I hope he’ll be all right without them. What if he has to fight bandits on his way back?”
Tyn rolled her eyes. “We’re going to have to talk about that kindheartedness of yours sometime, kid.”
“It’s not a bad thing to be nice.”
“You’re training to be a con artist,” Tyn said. “For now, let’s get back to the caravan. I want to talk you through the finer points of a Horneater accent. With that red hair of yours, you’ll probably find more chances to use it than you would others.”
Artform for colors beyond our ken;
For its grand songs we yearn.
We must attract creationspren;
These songs suffice ’til we learn.
—From the Listener Song of Revision, 279th stanza
Torol Sadeas closed his eyes and rested Oathbringer on his shoulder, breathing in the sweet, moldy scent of Parshendi blood. The Thrill of battle surged within him, a blessed and beautiful strength.
His own blood pumped so loudly in his ears he almost couldn’t hear the battlefield shouts and groans of pain. For a moment, he reveled only in the delicious glow of the Thrill, the heady euphoria at having spent an hour engaged in the only thing that brought true joy anymore: contending for his life, and taking those of enemies lesser than himself.
It faded. As always, the Thrill was fleeting once battle itself ended. It had grown less and less sweet during these raids on the Parshendi, likely because he knew deep inside that this contest was pointless. It did not stretch him, did not carry him further toward his ultimate goals of conquest. Slaughtering crem-covered savages in a Heralds-forsaken land had truly lost its savor.
He sighed, lowering his Blade, opening his eyes. Amaram approached across the battlefield, stepping over corpses of men and Parshendi. His Shardplate was bloodied purple up to the elbows, and he carried a glimmering gemheart in one gauntleted hand. He kicked aside a Parshendi corpse and joined Sadeas, his own honor guard fanning out to join those of his highprince. Sadeas spared a moment of annoyance for how efficiently they moved, particularly when compared to his own men.
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