regularly again, those barges will be well-stocked and ready to ship their goods downriver for distribution. I would think that they find the cycle
refreshing—it gives them a few months every year to stop and think.”
Something I haven’t been able to do lately, his tone implied.
As they approached the city, they dismounted and led their horses, hoping
that walking instead of riding would make them look less intimidating—or
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 401
memorable. Renarin was right; despite the lack of river traffic, the city
markets were busy. Packmen loaded with reed baskets hiked in careful
lines toward the docks—apparently, the massive storehouses were used to
keep the grain during the Searing. Merchants and lesser noblemen haggled
beside stalls and tents, and young boys cried out their masters’ prices and deals for all to hear.
“I’ve never seen this side of it,” Merin said. “The inavah. I always kind of wondered what happened to it after we grew it.”
“The world has to eat,” Renarin said. “And with Prallah in ruin, Alethkar
has grown rich by its plenty.”
Merin shuffled uncomfortably. “Prallah was that important a food
producer?”
Renarin nodded. “The part of the country you saw, the highlands, was
where the Traitor chose to fight—but that was only to keep us away from
the farmland below. Prallah has always been the most productive grower
in Roshar. Over the last decade its various kingdoms have been Alethkar’s
greatest competition for lucrative sales to Thalenah and Vedenar, who mine more but grow less.”
Very convenient that Prallah should come under Aleth control, Merin thought.
The more he discovered about the war on the Third Peninsula, the less
persuaded he became of Alethkar’s moral edge.
They stood for a few moments, looking around at the marketgoers.
“Well, now what?” Merin finally asked.
Renarin shrugged. “I don’t know. We could always try a tavern, I suppose.”
“That hasn’t worked too well so far,” Merin said with a grimace. So far,
tavern occupants hadn’t been very comfortable around the two. Merin
wasn’t certain what they were doing wrong—shopkeepers distrusted them
immediately, and streetgoers were polite, but rarely gave them much heed.
Merin could probably demand more attention if he revealed his Shardblade,
but that would ruin any chance of anonymity.
“There are some beggars over there,” Merin said with a nod. “The stories
always say beggars are great sources of information. When Sadees Sun-
maker was alone, separated from his armies after the Battle of Surerock, he hid among the city beggars and they contacted his men for him.”
Renarin frowned, eyeing the bundles of cloth and bone. “I don’t know.
I doubt they’re concerned about more than their next meal.”
“They probably just look that way,” Merin said. “Beggars are always part
of the organized criminal underground in big cities. They’re the eyes of the local Thief Lord, and keep watch over his interests.”
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Renarin turned his skeptical look from the beggars to Merin. “You
know,” he said, “you have some very strange ideas, Merin.”
Being called ‘strange’ by Renarin was a discomforting experience. “You’ll
see,” Merin insisted, leaving Renarin with their horses and approaching
the three beggars. All were older men, though their weathered faces and
unkempt beards might have exaggerated their age somewhat. One appeared
to be missing his left leg at the knee, but Merin knew from the stories that it was probably just contorted to look that way.
“Greetings, friends,” Merin said in a low voice, squatting down before
them. “I have need of your . . . specialized services.”
All three men perked up, their gnarled hands shooting out in hope of
alms. Merin reached into his pouch, picking out a sparkling sliver of ruby set in a drop of glass. The hands reached for it, but he pulled it back out of their reach.
“Not yet,” he said. “First I need information.”
“What information, master?” one of the old men said in an eager, lisping
voice.
“Have you seen riders come through this market recently?” Merin asked.
“Yes, many,” another beggar said, trying to reach past his companion’s
hand.
“This would be a special group,” Merin explained. “Thirty in number,
with an air of nobility. One of . . . particular nobility.” He gave the last words special emphasis, eyeing the beggars knowingly.
“Old Juke saw them,” the third man said. “Yes, I saw them. Riders.”
“When?” Merin asked eagerly.
The old man paused. “Today?” he said hesitantly.
“Today?” Merin asked. Surely Merin and Renarin couldn’t have gained
that much time on Aredor. He regarded the beggars through narrowed
eyes as the other two began to assert that they too had seen the riders come through ‘today.’ All three clutched eagerly for the ruby chip.
“You are playing with me,” Merin said with dissatisfaction.
“No, not playing,” the third man promised. “Please, my lord. The chip.
A chip for Old Juke?”
Ah, I see, Merin thought. Not enough, eh? He reached into his pouch pulling out a ten ishmark chip. The three men’s eyes widened, and one
even started drooling.
“Now,” Merin said. “I want specifics. Did Lord Aredor come through
here or not? What do you know of his travels?”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 403
The three men were too focused on the chip to say much. Merin moved
as if to put it away, and they wailed as one. “Yes, we saw him. Lord Aredor.
He came. With riders. Yes. Can we have the coin now?”
“I don’t believe you,” Merin said. “I want to speak with . . . Him.”
The three men paused. “Him?” one asked.
“You know,” Merin said conspiringly. “Him. The one who commands
you. Your lord of this city.”
“Our Lord . . . um, my lord?” one asked.
“You?” another said, cocking his head in confusion. “Yes, you’re a good
lord. A chip? A chip, please, for Old Juke?”
Merin sighed, dropping the chip before them. “Just tell him what I
asked,” Merin said as the three men lurched forward, fighting for the
money. Merin retreated back to Renarin, who stood with his onyx sphere
held before his eyes, staring at it with absorption.
“Put that thing down,” Merin said with annoyance. “You look daft.”
“I’m not the one trying to reason with beggars,” Renarin said, lowering
the sphere.
Merin glanced back at the three men, whose struggles were drawing
attention from the marketgoers. “They’re staying quiet for some reason,”
he said. “Crafty ones, they are.”
Renarin looked skeptical.
“Fine,” Merin said. “What do you want to do?”
“Ask the shopkeepers,” Renarin said. “Perhaps my brother stopped for
supplies.”
Merin nodded, and Renarin led the way. The sky soon began darkening
in the west, the approaching highstorm a foreboding sign of their failed
progress. None of the shopkeepers seemed to know anything—though,
again, they were hesitant to discuss anything but busine
ss. As soon as they determined that Merin and Renarin weren’t likely to purchase anything
or negotiate for the sale of grain, the shopkeepers turned their attentions to more promising prospects.
The two left another futile conference, walking back onto the street.
Renarin looked west, frowning. “Highstorm coming soon,” he noted. “Last
one before the Searing. We’ll have to remember to buy some more water
before we leave.”
Merin nodded with resignation. Pebble’s Perch was another failure. “The
lait turns east here,” Merin said, nodding toward the valley bend ahead.
“Do we continue to follow it, or keep going north?”
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“We stay with the lait,” Renarin said. “He went by river.”
Merin was too tired to begin another argument. “Let’s find an inn,” he
said. “We can—”
“Lord Renarin?” a man called from behind them.
Renarin jumped visibly, and Merin felt a dread certainty that they had
been located. When they turned, however, they didn’t find Lord Dalenar’s
soldiers bearing down on them, but instead a short, portly man with a red
face and an excited expression.
“Lord Renarin!” the man exclaimed. “It is you! Why, I’d all but decided
you weren’t coming. Hurry, hurry. The highstorm is nearly here! We haven’t much time.”
Merin and Renarin stared at the newcomer for a moment. He was
sweating freely, but didn’t seem to mind. His movements matched his
words, however, as he motioned eagerly for them to follow him.
“Wait,” Merin said. “How do you know who we . . . ?” he trailed off, then
looked up with a broad smile. “The beggars!” he said. “You must be their
lord!”
The short man frowned. “No, I’m no lord—First Citizen, though my
father hardly thinks I’m worth the title, I’ll say that. Come, lords. We really haven’t much time. Lord Aredor said that you’d—”
“Lord Aredor?” Renarin said, stepping forward. “You know my brother?”
“Yes, yes. He said you might follow him. He told me that if you did
arrive, I was to bring you down the river, but really— we haven’t any time! ”
Renarin looked to Merin, then started after the excitable man. Merin fol-
lowed more suspiciously. “You say Aredor told you we were coming?” he asked.
“He said you might come, my lord,” the man said. “He didn’t know. He
thought you might follow—especially you, Lord Merin. He told us to
watch for either of you, indeed he did. I am Selsen, a man well-trusted by Lord Aredor, if I might say. Now, to the docks!”
Merin and Renarin followed curiously, leaving behind the market for
the equally-busy—yet far less cacophonous—dockside. Their round-bellied
guide moved with surprising speed as he wove through the crowd toward
a particularly run-down riverhouse.
“What do you make of this?” Merin said, catching up to Renarin.
The younger Kholin simply shrugged. “It sounds like Aredor to try
and take care of us, even when he’s not around. He was right to suspect
that we might follow him.”
“But, that man,” Merin said, pointing as their guide ducked into the
building, his voice echoing inside. “You trust him?”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 405
“I’m not sure,” Renarin said. “You might want to . . .” he nodded toward
the horses.
“Right,” Merin said, reaching back and pulling his Shardblade free from
their packs. It created an immediate disturbance as dockworkers paused
in their loading, staring at the massive blade. “So much for anonymity,”
Merin whispered, resting the Blade on his shoulder and walking toward
the dockhouse.
Selsen popped back out before they could step inside. “Hurry!” he said.
“Follow!” And he was off again.
Merin turned back to Renarin with a resigned look, and both followed
after the man. The dockhouse sides opened behind them as a group of
workers pulled back the wooden gates. This particular building was for-
tunate enough to be built close enough to the river that even the receded
waterline abutted its sides. However, Merin’s suspicions about the river’s depth were proven true as Selsen leaped into the river. He was a short man, and the water only came up to his knees.
“Hurry, lads!” Selsen yelled at the dockhouse. A group of ten young
men were pulling a small vessel out of the housing. It looked something
like a sleek barge. It was wide and flat, tapering to a point at the front. It slid slowly into the water, where the young men continued to tug on ropes, drawing the vessel farther out into the river.
“What is that?” Merin demanded of the little man.
“A ship!” Selsen said. “Jern, Reklan, get their things and stow them on
the Calmness. You two, my lords, should hurry up.”
“Into the river?” Merin asked. “You mean for us to walk out there with
you?”
“Never mind getting your feet wet,” the little man said with a chuckle.
“The rest of you will join them soon. Come on!”
The little man turned and jumped forward, following his pullers deeper
into the river. Eventually the ship began to float—barely. The waters came up to the pul ers’ chests as they neared the center of the river, out beyond the dock’s protective embankments.
“By the winds . . .” Merin whispered. “He’s a Stormrider! That’s what
the ship is!” As if to mark Merin’s words, the ship suddenly unfurled a pair of thick, rectangular sails set in stout, stumpy masts. “I’ve heard stories of them,” Merin said. “Men who try to ride the waves of a highstorm’s flood.
Some in ships, others on barges, some even in barrels.”
“Indeed,” Renarin said, then promptly stepped off the dock to begin
wading toward the ship.
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“Renarin!” Merin said, reaching out. Behind him the packmen had
unloaded their horses and were moving into the river as well.
“Hey!” Merin snapped as he saw one carrying his bundled set of
Shardplate. The men ignored him, however, in their hurry to join their
companions.
“Quickly, young lords!” the stumpy man yelled from the river’s center.
“Very little time now!”
Merin turned toward the ominous western sky. Then he turned east,
looking down the lait valley with its weak river. That river would soon be filled with a crashing wave of water. The lait was too wide for it to be of much damage to the city or docked ships, but a vessel left out when the
floodwaters came . . .
All of the Stormrider tales ended the same way: with a destroyed ship
and a set of dead occupants. Told around the hearth they had been funny
tales to a young boy who had never seen river or lait, and the storytellers had always exaggerated the folly of those foolish enough to try and survive sailing during a highstorm.
Merin closed his eyes as Selsen called for him again. I’ll probably make one boulder of a tale, he thought. The young soldier who saved the king, then got himself killed trying to Stormride!
He stepped into the water anyway, following after Renarin. “This is
stupid!” he called at his friend. “Renarin, I’ve seen the floodwaters in
Kholinar! No ship could survive that! Renarin!”
Renarin had reached the vesse
l, and Selsen stood on one side helping
him up. The air was already cooling, the winds picking up slightly, and the riverwater seemed to be moving more swiftly.
“It’ll be all right, young lord!” Selsen said. “I’ve done this twice already!”
“It’s madness!” Merin insisted.
“No, you see,” Selsen said as Merin approached, “I know the secret.
Everyone else tries to ride the wave of water that comes with the storm.
But us, we’re not going to do that. The Winds! They’re the key. They’ll push this ship forward even in three feet of water! The sails are angled; they lift us up, and we skim just on the top of the water. Have you ever skipped
rocks on the river, young lord?”
“No,” Merin said flatly.
“Oh. Well, you’ll see what I mean soon enough. Come on up.”
Merin stood in the cool water, staring at the vessel. It was so thin, so
frail. Though its well-built sails gave an illusion of strength, Merin had felt summer highstorms.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 407
Renarin was letting two of the servants lash him to a seat near the side
of the vessel. “Come on, Merin,” he said, eyes alight. “I told you he went by river, and I was right! I saw it! I was right!”
“This is madness,” Merin muttered again, but didn’t complain as two
dockhands hoisted him onto the deck. He stood dripping as one motioned
for him to lash down his Shardblade.
Selsen stood, a broad—almost maniac—smile splitting his face. “The
highstorms are like giant waves, you see,” he whispered with an eager
voice. “Massive waves of wind and water that sweep across the land. First
east to west, then back west to east again, reversing direction with each
storm. They’re like . . . like a broom being pulled across the stones. We’re just going to let ourselves be a speck of dust caught in that broom’s tines.”
He winked. “Trust me. It’s terribly fun!”
“Terrible,” Merin said sickly. Somehow he suspected this was going to
be far worse than the time Aredor had made him gallop on horseback.
Two men lashed him into place, then they began adjusting ballast, the
captain yelling at them to be quick as he watched the oncoming storm with
a mixed nervous excitement.
“Here she comes!” Selsen finally yel ed. “Back, lads! Out of the floodway!”
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 56
