Navani looked pained. “Oh, Dalinar,” she whispered. “This is a terrible mistake.”
“It is mine to make. And I must repeat my request. I have many things to think about, Navani, and I can’t deal with you right now.” He pointed at the doorway.
Navani rolled her eyes, but left as requested. She shut the door behind her.
That’s it, Dalinar thought, letting out a long exhalation. I’ve made the decision.
Too weary to remove his Plate unassisted, he sank down onto the floor, resting his head back against the wall. He would tell Adolin of his decision in the morning, then announce it at a feast within the week. From there, he would return to Alethkar and his lands.
It was over.
THE END OF
Part Two
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 It was classic Thaylen merchant’s clothing: several decades out of date, yet still distinguished.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?”
“Becau
se 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.
The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The) Page 54
