The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  She nodded to Yalb and they climbed up the steep stone street to the shop. Yalb didn’t enter with her; she’d noticed that many men were uncomfortable around books and reading, even those who weren’t Vorin.

  She pushed through the door-stout wood set with two crystal panels-and stepped into a warm room, uncertain what to expect. She’d never gone into a store to purchase anything; she’d either sent servants, or the merchants had come to her.

  The room inside looked very inviting, with large, comfortable easy chairs beside a hearth. Flamespren danced on burning logs there, and the floor was wood. Seamless wood; it had probably been Soulcast that way directly from the stone beneath. Lavish indeed.

  A woman stood behind a counter at the back of the room. She wore an embroidered skirt and blouse, rather than the sleek, silk, one-piece havah that Shallan wore. She was darkeyed, but she was obviously affluent. In Vorin kingdoms, she’d likely be of the first or second nahn. Thaylens had their own system of ranks. At least they weren’t completely pagan-they respected eye color, and the woman wore a glove on her safehand.

  There weren’t many books in the place. A few on the counter, one on a stand beside the chairs. A clock ticked on the wall, its underside hung with a dozen shimmering silver bells. This looked more like a person’s home than a shop.

  The woman slid a marker into her book, smiling at Shallan. It was a smooth, eager smile. Almost predatory. “Please, Brightness, sit,” she said, waving toward the chairs. The woman had curled her long, white Thaylen eyebrows so they hung down the sides of her face like locks from her bangs.

  Shallan sat hesitantly as the woman rang a bell on the underside of the counter. Soon, a portly man waddled into the room wearing a vest that seemed ready to burst from the stress of holding in his girth. His hair was greying, and he kept his eyebrows combed back, over his ears.

  “Ah,” he said, clapping ample hands, “dear young woman. Are you in the market for a nice novel? Some leisure reading to pass the cruel hours while you are separated from a lost love? Or perhaps a book on geography, with details of exotic locations?” He had a slightly condescending tone and spoke in her native Veden.

  “I-No, thank you. I need an extensive set of books on history and three on philosophy.” She thought back, trying to recall the names Jasnah had used. “Something by Placini, Gabrathin, Yustara, Manaline, or Shauka-daughter-Hasweth.”

  “Heavy reading for one so young,” the man said, nodding to the woman, who was probably his wife. She ducked into the back room. He’d use her for reading; even if he could read himself, he wouldn’t want to off end customers by doing so in their presence. He would handle the money; commerce was a masculine art in most situations.

  “Now, why is a young flower like yourself bothering herself with such topics?” the merchant said, easing himself down into the chair across from her. “Can’t I interest you in a nice romantic novel? They are my specialty, you see. Young women from across the city come to me, and I always carry the best.”

  His tone set her on edge. It was galling enough to know she was a sheltered child. Was it really necessary to remind her of it? “A romantic novel,” she said, holding her satchel close to her chest. “Yes, perhaps that would be nice. Do you by chance have a copy of Nearer the Flame?”

  The merchant blinked. Nearer the Flame was written from the viewpoint of a man who slowly descended into madness after watching his children starve.

  “Are you certain you want something so, er, ambitious?” the man asked.

  “Is ambition such an unseemly attribute in a young woman?”

  “Well, no, I suppose not.” He smiled again-the thick, toothy smile of a merchant trying to put someone at ease. “I can see you are a woman of discriminating taste.”

  “I am,” Shallan said, voice firm though her heart fluttered. Was she destined to get into an argument with everyone she met? “I do like my meals prepared very carefully, as my palate is quite delicate.”

  “Pardon. I meant that you have discriminating taste in books.”

  “I’ve never eaten one, actually.”

  “Brightness, I believe you are having sport with me.”

  “Not yet I’m not. I haven’t even really begun.”

  “I-”

  “Now,” she said, “you were right to compare the mind and the stomach.”

  “But-”

  “Too many of us,” she said, “take great pains with what we ingest through our mouths, and far less with what we partake of through our ears and eyes. Wouldn’t you say?”

  He nodded, perhaps not trusting her to let him speak without interrupting. Shallan knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was letting herself go too far-that she was tense and frustrated after her interactions with Jasnah.

  She didn’t care at the moment. “Discriminating,” she said, testing the world. “I’m not certain I agree with your choice of words. To discriminate is to maintain prejudice against. To be exclusive. Can a person afford to be exclusive with what they ingest? Whether we speak of food or of thoughts?”

  “I think they must be,” the merchant said. “Isn’t that what you just said?”

  “I said we should take thought for what we read or eat. Not that we should be exclusive. Tell me, what do you think would happen to a person who ate only sweets?”

  “I know well,” the man said. “I have a sister-in-law who periodically upsets her stomach by doing that.”

  “See, she was too discriminating. The body needs many different foods to remain healthy. And the mind needs many different ideas to remain sharp. Wouldn’t you agree? And so if I were to read only these silly romances you presume that my ambition can handle, my mind would grow sick as surely as your sister-in-law’s stomach. Yes, I should think that the metaphor is a solid one. You are quite clever, Master Artmyrn.”

  His smile returned.

  “Of course,” she noted, not smiling back, “being talked down to upsets both the mind and the stomach. So nice of you to give a poignant object lesson to accompany your brilliant metaphor. Do you treat all of your customers this way?”

  “Brightness…I believe you stray into sarcasm.”

  “Funny. I thought I’d run straight into it, screaming at the top of my lungs.”

  He blushed and stood. “I’ll go help my wife.” He hurriedly withdrew.

  She sat back, and realized she was annoyed at herself for letting her frustration boil out. It was just what her nurses had warned her about. A young woman had to mind her words. Her father’s intemperate tongue had earned their house a regrettable reputation; would she add to it?

  She calmed herself, enjoying the warmth and watching the dancing flamespren until the merchant and his wife returned, bearing several stacks of books. The merchant took his seat again, and his wife pulled over a stool, setting the tomes on the floor and then showing them one at a time as her husband spoke.

  “For history, we have two choices,” the merchant said, condescension-and friendliness-gone. “Times and Passage, by Rencalt, is a single volume survey of Rosharan history since the Hierocracy.” His wife held up a red, cloth-bound volume. “I told my wife that you would likely be insulted by such a shallow option, but she insisted.”

  “Thank you,” Shallan said. “I am not insulted, but I do require something more detailed.”

  “Then perhaps Eternathis will serve you,” he said as his wife held up a blue-grey set of four volumes. “It is a philosophical work which examines the same time period by focusing only on the interactions of the five Vorin kingdoms. As you can see, the treatment is exhaustive.”

  The four volumes were thick. The five Vorin kingdoms? She’d thought there were four. Jah Keved, Alethkar, Kharbranth, and Natanatan. United by religion, they had been strong allies during the years following the Recreance. What was the fifth kingdom?

  The volumes intrigued her. “I will take them.”

  “Excellent,” the merchant said, a bit of the gleam returning to his eye. “Of the philosophica
l works you listed, we didn’t have anything by Yustara. We have one each of works by Placini and Manaline; both are collections of excerpts from their most famous writings. I’ve had the Placini book read to me; it’s quite good.”

  Shallan nodded.

  “As for Gabrathin,” he said, “we have four different volumes. My, but he was a prolific one! Oh, and we have a single book by Shauka-daughter-Hasweth.” The wife held up a thin green volume. “I have to admit, I’ve never had any of her work read to me. I didn’t realize that there were any Shin philosophers of note.”

  Shallan looked at the four books by Gabrathin. She had no idea which one she should take, so she avoided the question, pointing at the two collections he had mentioned first and the single volume by Shauka-daughter-Hasweth. A philosopher from distant Shin, where people lived in mud and worshipped rocks? The man who had killed Jasnah’s father nearly six years before-prompting the war against the Parshendi in Natanatan-had been Shin. The Assassin in White, they called him.

  “I will take those three,” Shallan said, “along with the histories.”

  “Excellent!” the merchant repeated. “For buying so many, I will give you a fair discount. Let us say, ten emerald broams?”

  Shallan nearly choked. An emerald broam was the largest denomination of sphere, worth a thousand diamond chips. Ten of them was more than her trip to Kharbranth had cost by several magnitudes!

  She opened her satchel, looking in at her money pouch. She had around eight emerald broams left. She’d have to take fewer of the books, obviously, but which ones?

  Suddenly, the door slammed open. Shallan jumped and was surprised to see Yalb standing there, holding his cap in his hands, nervous. He rushed to her chair, going down on one knee. She was too stunned to say anything. Why was he so worried?

  “Brightness,” he said, bowing his head. “My master bids you return. He’s reconsidered his offer. Truly, we can take the price you offered.”

  Shallan opened her mouth, but found herself stupefied.

  Yalb glanced at the merchant. “Brightness, don’t buy from this man. He’s a liar and a cheat. My master will sell you much finer books at a better price.”

  “Now, what’s this?” Artmyrn said, standing. “How dare you! Who is your master?”

  “Barmest,” Yalb said defensively.

  “That rat. He sends a boy into my shop trying to steal my customer? Outrageous!”

  “She came to our shop first!” Yalb said.

  Shallan finally recovered her wits. Stormfather! He’s quite the actor. “You had your chance,” she said to Yalb. “Run along and tell your master that I refuse to be swindled. I will visit every bookshop in the city if that is what it takes to find someone reasonable.”

  “Artmyrn isn’t reasonable,” Yalb said, spitting to the side. The merchant’s eyes opened wide with rage.

  “We shall see,” Shallan said.

  “Brightness,” Artmyrn said, red faced. “Surely you don’t believe these allegations!”

  “And how much were you going to charge her?” Yalb asked.

  “Ten emerald broams,” Shallan said. “For those seven books.”

  Yalb laughed. “And you didn’t stand up and walk right out! You practically had my master’s ears, and he offered you a better deal than that! Please, Brightness, return with me. We’re ready to-”

  “Ten was just an opening figure,” Artmyrn said. “I didn’t expect her to take them.” He looked at Shallan. “Of course, eight….”

  Yalb laughed again. “I’m sure we have those same books, Brightness. I’ll bet my master gives them to you for two.”

  Artmyrn grew even more red-faced, muttering. “Brightness, surely you wouldn’t patronize someone so crass as to send a servant into someone else’s shop to steal his customers!”

  “Perhaps I would,” Shallan said. “At least he didn’t insult my intelligence.”

  Artmyrn’s wife glared at her husband, and the man grew even more red in the face. “Two emerald, three sapphire. That is as low as I can go. If you want cheaper than that, then buy from that scoundrel Barmest. The books will probably be missing pages, though.”

  Shallan hesitated, glancing at Yalb; he was caught up in his role, bowing and scraping. She caught his eyes, and he just kind of gave a shrug.

  “I’ll do it,” she said to Artmyrn, prompting a groan from Yalb. He slunk away with a curse from Artmyrn’s wife. Shallan rose and counted out the spheres; the emerald broams she retrieved from her safepouch.

  Soon, she walked from the shop bearing a heavy canvas bag. She walked down the steep street, and found Yalb lounging beside a lamppost. She smiled as he took the bag from her. “How did you know what a fair price for a book was?” she asked.

  “Fair price?” he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “For a book? I’ve no idea. I just figured he’d be trying to take you for as much as he could. That’s why I asked around for who his biggest rival was and came back to help get him to be more reasonable.”

  “It was that obvious I’d let myself be swindled?” she asked with a blush, the two of them walking out of the side street.

  Yalb chuckled. “Just a little. Anyway, conning men like him is almost as much fun as cheating guards. You probably could have gotten him down further by actually leaving with me, then coming back later to give him another chance.”

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “Merchants is like mercenaries, my gammer always said. Only difference is that merchants will take your head off, then pretend to be your friend all the same.”

  This from a man who had just spent the evening cheating a group of guards at cards. “Well, you have my thanks, anyway.”

  “Wasn’t nothing. It was fun, though I can’t believe you paid what you did. It’s just a bunch of wood. I could find some driftwood and put some funny marks on it. Would you pay me pure spheres for that too?”

  “I can’t offer that,” she said, fishing in her satchel. She took out the picture she’d drawn of Yalb and the porter. “But please, take this, with my thanks.”

  Yalb took the picture and stepped up beneath a nearby lantern to get a look. He laughed, cocking his head, smiling broadly. “Stormfather! Ain’t that something? Looks like I’m seeing myself in a polished plate, it does. I can’t take this, Brightness!”

  “Please. I insist.” She did, however, blink her eyes, taking a Memory of him standing there, one hand on his chin as he studied the picture of himself. She’d redraw him later. After what he’d done for her, she dearly wanted him in her collection.

  Yalb carefully tucked the picture between the pages of a book, then hefted the bag and continued. They stepped back onto the main roadway. Nomon-the middle moon-had begun to rise, bathing the city in pale blue light. Staying up this late had been a rare privilege for her in her father’s house, but these city people around them barely seemed to notice the late hour. What a strange place this city was.

  “Back to the ship now?” Yalb asked.

  “No,” Shallan said, taking a deep breath. “Back to the Conclave.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but led her back. Once there, she bid Yalb farewell, reminding him to take his picture. He did so, wishing her luck before hastening from the Conclave, probably worried about meeting the guardsmen he’d cheated earlier.

  Shallan had a servant carry her books, and made her way down the hallway back to the Veil. Just inside the ornate iron doors, she caught the attention of a master-servant.

  “Yes, Brightness?” the man asked. Most of the alcoves were now dim, and patient servants were returning tomes to their safe place beyond the crystal walls.

  Shaking off her fatigue, Shallan counted up the rows. There was still a light in Jasnah’s alcove. “I’d like to use the alcove there,” she said, pointing to the next balcony over.

  “Do you have a chit of admittance?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then you’ll have to rent the space if you wish to use it regularly. Two skymarks.�
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  Wincing at the price, Shallan dug out the proper spheres and paid. Her money pouches were looking depressingly flat. She let the parshman porters haul her up to the appropriate level, then she quietly walked to her alcove. There, she used all her remaining spheres to fill the oversized goblet lamp. To get enough light, she was forced to use spheres of all nine colors and all three sizes, so the illumination was patchy and varied.

  Shallan peeked over the side of her alcove, out at the next balcony over. Jasnah sat studying, heedless of the hour, her goblet filled to the brim with pure diamond broams. They were best for light, but less useful in Soulcasting, so weren’t as valuable.

  Shallan ducked back around. There was a place at the very edge of the alcove’s table where she could sit, hidden by the wall from Jasnah, so she sat there. Perhaps she should have chosen an alcove on another level, but she wanted to keep an eye on the woman. Hopefully Jasnah would spend weeks here studying. Enough time for Shallan to dedicate herself to some fierce cramming. Her ability to memorize pictures and scenes didn’t work as well on text, but she could learn lists and facts at a rate that her tutors had found remarkable.

  She settled herself in the chair, pulling out the books and arranging them. She rubbed her eyes. It was really quite late, but there wasn’t time to waste. Jasnah had said that Shallan could make another petition when the gaps in her knowledge were filled. Well, Shallan intended to fill those gaps in record time, then present herself again. She’d do it when Jasnah was ready to leave Kharbranth.

  It was a last, desperate hope, so frail that a strong gust of circumstance seemed likely to topple it. Taking a deep breath, Shallan opened the first of the history books.

  “I’m never going to be rid of you, am I?” a soft, feminine voice asked.

  Shallan jumped up, nearly knocking over her books as she spun toward the doorway. Jasnah Kholin stood there, deep blue dress embroidered in silver, its silken sheen reflecting the light of Shallan’s spheres. The Soulcaster was covered by a fingerless black glove to block the bright gemstones.

  “Brightness,” Shallan said, rising and curtsying in an awkward rush. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I-”