“Mm…” Pattern said softly. “Shardblades are no wonder…”
Shallan found the reference she was searching for. It wasn’t the quote she found curious, but Jasnah’s annotation of it. Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales.
Instantaneous travel. Oathgates.
“That’s what she was coming here for,” Shallan whispered. “She thought she could find a passageway here, on the Plains. But they’re barren stormlands, just stone, crem, and greatshells.” She looked up at Pattern. “We really need to get out there, onto the Shattered Plains.”
Her announcement was accompanied by an ominous chime from the clock. Ominous in that it meant the hour was far later than she’d assumed. Storms! She needed to meet Adolin by noon. She had to leave in a half hour if she was going to meet him on time.
Shallan yelped and ran for the washroom. She turned the spigot for water to fill the tub. After a moment of it spitting out dirty cremwater, clean, warm water began to flow, and she put in the stopper. She put her hand underneath it, marveling yet again. Flowing warm water. Sebarial said that artifabrians had visited recently, arranging to set up a fabrial that would keep the water in the cistern above perpetually warm, like the ones in Kharbranth.
“I,” she said, shucking off her dressing gown, “am going to allow myself to grow very, very accustomed to this.”
She climbed into the tub as Pattern moved along the wall above her. She had decided not to be bashful around him. True, he had a male voice, but he wasn’t really a man. Besides, there were spren everywhere. The tub probably had one in it, as did the walls. She’d seen for herself that everything had a soul, or a spren, or whatever. Did she care if the walls watched her? No. So why should she care about Pattern?
She did have to repeat this line of reasoning every time he saw her undress. It would help if he weren’t so blasted curious about everything.
“The anatomical differences between genders are so slight,” Pattern said, humming to himself. “Yet so profound. And you augment them. Long hair. Blush on the cheeks. I went and watched Sebarial bathe last night and—”
“Please tell me you didn’t,” Shallan said, blushing as she grabbed some pasty soap from the jar beside the iron tub.
“But… I just told you that I did… Anyway, I wasn’t seen. I would not need to do this if you’d be more accommodating.”
“I am not doing nude sketches for you.”
She had made the mistake of mentioning that many of the great artists had trained themselves this way. After much pleading back home, she’d gotten several of the maids to pose for her, so long as she promised to destroy the sketches. Which she had. She’d never sketched men that way. Storms, that would be embarrassing!
She didn’t let herself linger in the bath. A quarter hour later—by the clock—she stood dressed and combing her damp hair before the mirror.
How would she ever go back to Jah Keved and a placid, rural life again? The answer was simple. She probably would never return. Once, that thought would have horrified her. Now it thrilled her—though she was determined to bring her brothers to the Shattered Plains. They would be far safer here than at her father’s estates, and what would they be leaving behind? Barely anything at all. She’d begun to think it was a far better solution than anything else, and let them dodge the issue of the missing Soulcaster, to an extent.
She’d gone to one of the information stations connected to Tashikk—there was one in every warcamp—and paid to have a letter, along with a spanreed, sent by messenger from Valath to her brothers. It would take weeks to arrive, unfortunately. If it even did. The merchant she’d talked to at the information station had warned her that moving through Jah Keved was difficult these days, with the succession war. To be careful, she’d sent a second letter from Northgrip, which was as far from the battlefields as one could get. Hopefully at least one of the two would arrive safely.
When she established contact again, she’d make a single argument to her brothers. Abandon the Davar estates. Take the money Jasnah had sent and flee to the Shattered Plains. For now, she’d done what she could.
She rushed through the room, hopping on one foot as she pulled on a slipper, and passed the maps. I’ll deal with you later.
It was time to go woo her betrothed. Somehow. The novels she’d read made it seem easy. A batting of eyelashes, blushes at appropriate times. Well, she had that last one down in good measure. Except maybe the appropriate part. She buttoned up the sleeve over her safehand, then paused at the door as she looked back and saw her sketchbook and pencil lying on the table.
She didn’t want to leave without those ever again. She tucked both in her satchel and rushed out. On the way through the white-marbled house, she passed Palona and Sebarial in a room with enormous glass windows, facing leeward over the gardens. Palona lay facedown, getting a massage—completely bare-backed—while Sebarial reclined and ate sweets. A young woman stood at a lectern in the corner, reciting poetry to them.
Shallan had a difficult time judging those two. Sebarial. Was he a clever civil planner or an indolent glutton? Both? Palona certainly did like the luxuries of wealth, but she didn’t seem the least bit arrogant. Shallan had spent the last three days poring over Sebarial’s house ledgers, and had found them an absolute mess. He seemed so smart in some areas. How could he have let his ledgers get so overgrown?
Shallan wasn’t especially good with numbers, not compared to her art, but she did enjoy math on occasion and was determined to tackle those ledgers.
Gaz and Vathah waited for her outside the doors. They followed her toward Sebarial’s coach, which waited for her to use, along with one of her slaves to act as footman. En said he’d done the job before, and he smiled at her as she stepped up. That was good to see. She couldn’t remember any of the five smiling on their trip out, even when she’d released them from the cage.
“You are being treated well, En?” she asked as he opened the coach door for her.
“Yes, mistress.”
“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Er, yes, mistress.”
“And you, Vathah?” she asked, turning to him. “How are you finding your accommodations?”
He grunted.
“I assume that means they’re accommodating?” she asked.
Gaz chuckled. The short man had an ear for wordplay.
“You’ve kept your bargain,” Vathah said. “I’ll give you that. The men are happy.”
“And you?”
“Bored. All we do every day is sit around, collect what you pay us, and go drinking.”
“Most men would consider that an ideal profession.” She smiled at En, then climbed into the coach.
Vathah shut the door for her, then looked in the window. “Most men are idiots.”
“Nonsense,” Shallan said, smiling. “By the law of averages, only half of them are.”
He grunted. She was learning to interpret those, which was essential to speaking Vathahese. This one roughly meant, “I’m not going to acknowledge that joke because it would spoil my reputation as a complete and utter dunnard.”