Moash thought for a moment they were actually going to leave him there, but finally two others grabbed him—one arm each—and hauled him into the air.
We are indeed intrigued, for we thought it well hidden. Insignificant among our many realms.
Veil lounged in a tavern tent with her men. Her boots up on a table, chair tipped back, she listened to the life bubbling around her. People drinking and chatting, others strolling the path outside, shouting and joking. She enjoyed the warm, enveloping buzz of fellow humans who had turned this tomb of rock into something alive again.
It still daunted her to contemplate the size of the tower. How had anyone built a place this big? It could gobble up most cities Veil had seen without having to loosen its belt.
Well, best not to think about that. You needed to sneak low, beneath all the questions that distracted scribes and scholars. That was the only way to get anything useful done.
Instead she focused on the people. Their voices blended together, and collectively they became a faceless crowd. But the grand thing about people was that you could also choose to focus on particular faces, really see them, and find a wealth of stories. So many people with so many lives, each a separate little mystery. Infinite detail, like Pattern. Look close at his fractal lines, and you’d realize each little ridge had an entire architecture of its own. Look close at a given person, and you’d see their uniqueness—see that they didn’t quite match whatever broad category you’d first put them in.
“So…” Red said, talking to Ishnah. Veil had brought three of her men today, with the spy woman to train them. So Veil could listen, learn, and try to judge if this woman was trustworthy—or if she was some kind of plant.
“This is great,” Red continued, “but when do we learn the stuff with the knives? Not that I’m eager to kill anyone. Just … you know…”
“I know what?” Ishnah asked.
“Knives are deevy,” Red said.
“Deevy?” Veil asked, opening her eyes.
Red nodded. “Deevy. You know. Incredible, or neat, but in a smooooth way.”
“Everyone knows that knives are deevy,” Gaz added.
Ishnah rolled her eyes. The short woman wore her havah with hand covered, and her dress had a light touch of embroidery. Her poise and dress indicated she was a darkeyed woman of relatively high social standing.
Veil drew more attention, and not just because of her white jacket and hat. It was the attention of men assessing whether they wanted to approach her, which they didn’t do with Ishnah. The way she carried herself, the prim havah, kept them back.
Veil sipped her drink, enjoying the wine.
“You’ve heard lurid stories, I’m sure,” Ishnah said. “But espionage is not about knives in alleys. I’d barely know what to do with myself if I had to stab someone.”
The three men deflated.
“Espionage,” Ishnah continued, “is about the careful gathering of information. Your task is to observe, but to not be observed. You must be likable enough that people talk to you, but not so interesting that they remember you.”
“Well, Gaz is out,” Red said.
“Yeah,” Gaz said, “it’s a curse to be so storming interesting.”
“Would you two shut up?” Vathah said. The lanky soldier had leaned in, cup of cheap wine left untouched. “How?” he asked. “I’m tall. Gaz has one eye. We’ll be remembered.”
“You need to learn to channel attention toward superficial traits you can change, and away from traits you cannot. Red, if you wore an eye patch, that detail would stick in their minds. Vathah, I can teach you how to slouch so your height isn’t noticeable—and if you add an unusual accent, people will describe you by that. Gaz, I could put you in a tavern and have you lie on the table in a feigned drunken stupor. Nobody will notice the eye patch; they’ll ignore you as a drunkard.
“That is beside the point. We must begin with observation. If you are to be useful, you need to be able to make quick assessments of a location, memorize details, and be able to report back. Now, close your eyes.”
They reluctantly did so, Veil joining them.
“Now,” Ishnah said. “Can any of you describe the tavern’s occupants? Without looking, mind you.”
“Uh…” Gaz scratched at his eye patch. “There’s a cute one at the bar. She might be Thaylen.”
“What color is her blouse?”
“Hm. Well, it’s low cut, and she’s grown some nice rockbuds … uh…”
“There’s this really ugly guy with an eye patch,” Red said. “Short, annoying type. Drinks your wine when you aren’t looking.”
“Vathah?” Ishnah asked. “What about you?”
“I think there were some guys at the bar,” he said. “They were in … Sebarial uniforms? And maybe half the tables were occupied. I couldn’t say by who.”
“Better,” Ishnah said. “I didn’t expect you to be able to do this. It’s human nature to ignore these things. I’ll train you though, so that—”
“Wait,” Vathah said. “What about Veil? What does she remember?”
“Three men at the bar,” Veil said absently. “Older man with whitening hair, and two soldiers, probably related, judging by those hooked noses. The younger one is drinking wine; the older one is trying to pick up the woman Gaz noticed. She’s not Thaylen, but she’s wearing Thaylen dress with a deep violet blouse and a forest-green skirt. I don’t like the pairing, but she seems to. She’s confident, used to playing with the attention of men. But I think she came here looking for someone, because she’s ignoring the soldier and keeps glancing over her shoulder.
“The barkeep is an older man, short enough that he stands on boxes when he fills orders. I bet he hasn’t been a barkeep long. He hesitates when someone orders, and he has to glance over the bottles, reading their glyphs before he finds the right one. There are three barmaids—one is on break—and fourteen customers other than us.” She opened her eyes. “I can tell you about them.”
“Won’t be necessary,” Ishnah said as Red clapped softly. “Very impressive, Veil, though I should note that there are fifteen other customers, not fourteen.”
Veil started, then glanced around the tent room again, counting—as she’d done in her head just a moment ago. Three at that table … four over there … two women standing together by the door …
And a woman she’d missed, nestled into a chair by a small table at the back of the tent. She wore simple clothing, a skirt and blouse of Alethi peasant design. Had she intentionally chosen clothing that blended in with the white of the tent and brown of the tables? And what was she doing there?
Taking notes, Veil thought with a spike of alarm. The woman had carefully hidden a little notebook in her lap. “Who is she?” Veil hunkered down. “Why is she watching us?”
“Not us specifically,” Ishnah said. “There will be dozens like her in the market, moving like rats, gathering what information they can. She might be independent, selling tidbits she finds, but likely she’s employed by one of the highprinces. That’s the job I used to do. I’d guess from the people she’s watching that she’s been told to gather a report on the mood of the troops.”
Veil nodded and listened intently as Ishnah started training the men in memory tricks. She suggested they should learn glyphs, and use some ploy—like making marks on their hands—to help them keep track of information. Veil had heard of some of these tricks, including the one Ishnah talked about, the so-called mind museum.
Most interesting were Ishnah’s tips on how to tell what was relevant to report, and how to find it. She talked about listening for the names of highprinces and for common words used as stand-ins for more important matters, and about how to listen for someone who had just the right amount of drink in them to say things they shouldn’t. Tone, she said, was key. You could sit five feet from someone sharing important secrets, but miss it because you were focused on the argument at the next table over.
The state she described was almost meditative�
�sitting and letting your ears take in everything, your mind latching on to only certain conversations. Veil found it fascinating. But after about an hour of training, Gaz complained that his head felt like he’d had four bottles already. Red was nodding, and the way his eyes were crossed made him seem completely overwhelmed.
Vathah though … he’d closed his eyes and was reeling off descriptions of everyone in the room to Ishnah. Veil grinned. For as long as she’d known the man, he’d gone about each of his duties as if he had a boulder tied to his back. Slow to move, quick to find a place to sit down and rest. Seeing this enthusiasm from him was encouraging.
In fact, Veil was so engaged, she completely missed how much time had passed. When she heard the market bells she cursed softly. “I’m a storming fool.”
“Veil?” Vathah asked.
“I’ve got to get going,” she said. “Shallan has an appointment.” Who would have thought that bearing an ancient, divine mantle of power and honor would involve so many meetings?
“And she can’t make it without you?” Vathah said.
“Storms, have you watched that girl? She’d forget her feet if they weren’t stuck on. Keep practicing! I’ll meet up with you later.” She pulled on her hat and went dashing through the Breakaway.
* * *
A short time later, Shallan Davar—now safely tucked back into a blue havah—strolled through the hallway beneath Urithiru. She was pleased with the work that Veil was doing with the men, but storms, did she have to drink so much? Shallan burned off practically an entire barrel’s worth of alcohol to clear her head.
She took a deep breath, then stepped into the former library room. Here she found not only Navani, Jasnah, and Teshav, but a host of ardents and scribes. May Aladar, Adrotagia from Kharbranth … there were even three stormwardens, the odd men with the long beards who liked to predict the weather. Shallan had heard that they would occasionally use the blowing of the winds to foretell the future, but they never offered such services openly.
Being near them made Shallan wish for a glyphward. Veil didn’t keep any handy, unfortunately. She was basically a heretic, and thought about religion as often as she did seasilk prices in Rall Elorim. At least Jasnah had the backbone to pick a side and announce it; Veil would simply shrug and make some wisecrack. It—
“Mmmm…” Pattern whispered from her skirt. “Shallan?”
Right. She’d been just standing in the doorway, hadn’t she? She walked in, unfortunately passing Janala, who was acting as Teshav’s assistant. The pretty young woman stood with her nose perpetually in the air, and was the type of person whose very enunciation made Shallan’s skin crawl.
The woman’s arrogance was what Shallan didn’t like—not, of course, that Adolin had been courting Janala soon before meeting Shallan. She had once tried to avoid Adolin’s former romantic partners, but … well, that was like trying to avoid soldiers on a battlefield. They were just kind of everywhere.
A dozen conversations buzzed through the room: talk about weights and measures, the proper placement of punctuation, and the atmospheric variations in the tower. Once she’d have given anything to be in a room like this. Now she was constantly late to the meetings. What had changed?
I know how much a fraud I am, she thought, hugging the wall, passing a pretty young ardent discussing Azish politics with one of the stormwardens. Shallan had barely perused those books that Adolin had brought her. On her other side, Navani was talking fabrials with an engineer in a bright red havah. The woman nodded eagerly. “Yes, but how to stabilize it, Brightness? With the sails underneath, it will want to spin over, won’t it?”
Shallan’s proximity to Navani had offered ample opportunity to study fabrial science. Why hadn’t she? As it enveloped her—the ideas, the questions, the logic—she suddenly felt she was drowning. Overwhelmed. Everyone in this room knew so much, and she felt insignificant compared to them.
I need someone who can handle this, she thought. A scholar. Part of me can become a scholar. Not Veil, or Brightness Radiant. But someone—
Pattern started humming on her dress again. Shallan backed to the wall. No, this … this was her, wasn’t it? Shallan had always wanted to be a scholar, hadn’t she? She didn’t need another persona to deal with this. Right?
… Right?
The moment of anxiety passed, and she breathed out, forcing herself to steady. Eventually she pulled a pad of paper and a charcoal pencil out of her satchel, then sought out Jasnah and presented herself.
Jasnah cocked an eyebrow. “Late again?”
“Sorry.”
“I intended to ask your help understanding some of the translations we’re receiving from the Dawnchant, but we haven’t time before my mother’s meeting starts.”
“Maybe I could help you—”
“I have a few items to finish up. We can speak later.”
An abrupt dismissal, but nothing more than Shallan had come to expect. She walked over to a chair beside the wall and sat down. “Surely,” she said softly, “if Jasnah had known that I’d just confronted a deep insecurity of mine, she’d have shown some empathy. Right?”
“Jasnah?” Pattern asked. “I do not think you are paying attention, Shallan. She is not very empathetic.”
Shallan sighed.
“You’re empathetic though!”
“The pathetic part, at least.” She steeled herself. “I belong here, Pattern, don’t I?”
“Mmm. Yes, of course you do. You’ll want to sketch them, right?”
“The classic scholars didn’t just draw. The Oilsworn knew mathematics—he created the study of ratios in art. Galid was an inventor, and her designs are still used in astronomy today. Sailors couldn’t find longitude at sea until the arrival of her clocks. Jasnah’s a historian—and more. That’s what I want.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.” Problem was, Veil wanted to spend her days drinking and laughing with the men, practicing espionage. Radiant wanted to practice with the sword and spend time around Adolin. What did Shallan want? And did it matter?
Eventually Navani called the meeting to order, and people took seats. Scribes on one side of Navani, ardents from a variety of devotaries on the other—and far from Jasnah. As the stormwardens settled down farther around the ring of seats, Shallan noticed Renarin standing in the doorway. He shuffled, peeking in, but not entering. When several scholars turned toward him, he stepped backward, as if their stares were physically forcing him out.
“I…” Renarin said. “Father said I could come … just listen maybe.”
“You’re more than welcome, Cousin,” Jasnah said. She nodded for Shallan to get him a stool, so she did—and didn’t even protest being ordered about. She could be a scholar. She’d be the best little ward ever.
Head down, Renarin rounded the ring of scholars, keeping a white-knuckled grip on a chain hung from his pocket. As soon as he sat, he started pulling the chain between the fingers of one hand, then the other.
Shallan did her best to take notes, and not stray into sketching people instead. Fortunately, the proceedings were more interesting than usual. Navani had most of the scholars here working on trying to understand Urithiru. Inadara reported first—she was a wizened scribe who reminded Shallan of her father’s ardents—explaining that her team had been trying to ascertain the meaning of the strange shapes of the rooms and tunnels in the tower.
She went on at length, talking of defensive constructions, air filtration, and the wells. She pointed out groupings of rooms that were shaped oddly, and of the bizarre murals they’d found, depicting fanciful creatures.
When she eventually finished, Kalami reported on her team, who were convinced that certain gold and copper metalworks they’d found embedded in walls were fabrials, but they didn’t seem to do anything, even with gems attached. She passed around drawings, then moved on to explaining the efforts—failed so far—they’d taken to try to infuse the gemstone pillar. The only working fabrials were the lifts.
>
“I suggest,” interrupted Elthebar, head of the stormwardens, “that the ratio of the gears used in the lift machinery might be indicative of the nature of those who built it. It is the science of digitology, you see. You can judge much about a man by the width of his fingers.”
“And this has to do with gears … how?” Teshav asked.
“In every way!” Elthebar said. “Why, the fact that you don’t know this is a clear indication that you are a scribe. Your writing is pretty, Brightness. But you must give more heed to science.”
Pattern buzzed softly.
“I never have liked him,” Shallan whispered. “He acts nice around Dalinar, but he’s quite mean.”
“So … which attribute of his are we totaling and how many people are in the sample size?” Pattern asked.
“Do you think, maybe,” Janala said, “we are asking the wrong questions?”
Shallan narrowed her eyes, but checked herself, suppressing her jealousy. There was no need to hate someone simply because they’d been close to Adolin.
It was just that something felt … off about Janala. Like many women at court, her laughter sounded rehearsed, contained. Like they used it as a seasoning, rather than actually feeling it.
“What do you mean, child?” Adrotagia asked Janala.
“Well, Brightness, we talk about the lifts, the strange fabrial column, the twisting hallways. We try to understand these things merely from their designs. Maybe instead we should figure out the tower’s needs, and then work backward to determine how these things might have met them.”
“Hmmm,” Navani said. “Well, we know that they grew crops outside. Did some of these wall fabrials provide heat?”
Renarin mumbled something.
Everyone in the room looked at him. Not a few seemed surprised to hear him speak, and he shrank back.
“What was that, Renarin?” Navani asked.
“It’s not like that,” he said softly. “They’re not fabrials. They’re a fabrial.”
The scribes and scholars shared looks. The prince … well, he often incited such reactions. Discomforted stares.
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