“So?” the man asked. “I killed my brother when he tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t let relations cloud your eyes.”
“I love him,” Shallan whispered.
The man looking over the daggers slid them both back in their sheaths. “They are masterworks,” he admitted. “I’d value them at twenty emerald broams.”
“The necklace?” Shallan asked.
“Simple, but of aluminum, which can only be made by Soulcasting,” the man said to his boss. “Ten emerald.”
“Together half what your brother owes,” said the man in the carriage.
Shallan’s heart sank. “But… what would you do with him? Selling him as a slave cannot redeem so great a debt.”
“I’m often in the mood to remind myself that lighteyes bleed the same as darkeyes,” the man said. “And sometimes it is useful to have a deterrent for others, a way to remind them not to take loans they cannot repay. He may save me more than he cost, if I display him prudently.”
Shallan felt small. She clasped her hands, one covered, one not. Had she lost, then? The women from Father’s books, the women she was coming to admire, would not have made pleas to win this man’s heart. They would have tried logic.
She wasn’t good at that. She didn’t have the training for it, and she certainly didn’t currently have the temperament. But as the tears began again, she forced out the first thing that came to mind.
“He may save you money that way,” Shallan said. “But he may not. It is a gamble, and you do not strike me as the kind of man who gambles.”
The man laughed. “What makes you say that? Gambling is what brought me here!”
“No,” she said, blushing at her tears. “You are the type of man who profits from the gambling of others. You know that it usually leads to loss. I give you items of real value. Take them. Please?”
The man considered. He held out his hands for the daggers, and his man passed them over. He unsheathed one of the daggers and inspected it. “Name for me one reason I should show this man pity. In my house, he was an arrogant glutton, acting without thought for the difficulty he would cause you, his family.”
“Our mother was murdered,” Shallan said. “That night, as I cried, Jushu held me.” It was all she had.
The man considered. Shallan felt her heart pounding. Finally, he tossed the necklace back to her. “Keep that.” He nodded to his man. “Cut the little cremling free. Child, if you are wise, you will teach your brother to be more… conservative.” He pulled the door closed.
Shallan stepped back as the servant cut Jushu free. The man then climbed onto the back of the vehicle and knocked. It pulled away.
Shallan knelt beside Jushu. He blinked one eye—the other was bruised and beginning to swell shut—as she untied his bloodied hands. It had not been a quarter hour since Father had declared that the men could have him, but they had obviously taken that time to show Jushu what they thought of not being paid.
“Shallan?” he asked, lips bloodied. “What happened?”
“You weren’t listening?”
“My ears ring,” he said. “Everything is spinning. I… am I free?”
“Balat and Wikim traded their knives for you.”
“Mill took so little in trade?”
“Obviously, he did not know your true worth.”
Jushu smiled a toothy smile. “Always quick with your tongue, aren’t you?” He climbed to his feet with Shallan’s help and began to limp back toward the house.
Halfway there, Balat joined them, taking Jushu under his arm. “Thank you,” Jushu whispered. “She says you saved me. Thank you, Brother.” He started weeping.
“I…” Balat looked to Shallan, then back to Jushu. “You’re my brother. Let’s get you back and cleaned up.”
Content that Jushu would be cared for, Shallan left them and entered the manor house. She climbed the stairs, passed Father’s glowing room, and entered her chambers. She sat down on the bed.
There, she waited for the highstorm.
Shouts rose from below. Shallan squeezed her eyes shut.
Finally, the door to her rooms opened.
She opened her eyes. Father stood outside. Shallan could make out a crumpled form beyond him, lying on the floor of the hallway. Minara, the serving maid. Her body didn’t lie right, one arm bent at the wrong angle. Her figure stirred, whimpering, leaving blood on the wall as she tried to crawl away.
Father entered Shallan’s room and shut the door behind him. “You know I would never hurt you, Shallan,” he said softly.
She nodded, tears leaking from her eyes.
“I’ve found a way to control myself,” her father said. “I just have to let the anger out. I can’t blame myself for that anger. Others create it when they disobey me.”
Her objection—that he hadn’t told her to go immediately to her room, only that she shouldn’t leave it once she was there—died on her lips. A foolish excuse. They both knew she’d intentionally disobeyed.
“I would not want to have to punish anyone else because of you, Shallan,” Father said.
This cold monster, was this really her father?
“It is time.” Father nodded. “No more indulgences. If we are to be important in Jah Keved, we cannot be seen as weak. Do you understand?”
She nodded, unable to stop the tears.
“Good,” he said, resting his hand on her head, then running his fingers through her hair. “Thank you.”
He left her, shutting the door.
Folio: Azish Public Servant Designs
49. Watching the World Transform
These Lightweavers, by no coincidence, included many who pursued the arts; namely: writers, artists, musicians, painters, sculptors. Considering the order’s general temperament, the tales of their strange and varied mnemonic abilities may have been embellished.
From Words of Radiance, chapter 21, page 10
After leaving her carriage at a stable in the Outer Market, Shallan was led to a stairwell carved into the stone of a hillside. She climbed this, then stepped hesitantly out onto a terrace that had been cut from the side of the hill here. Lighteyes wearing stylish clothing chatted over cups of wine at the patio’s numerous ironwork tables.
They were high enough here to look out over the warcamps. The perspective was eastward, toward the Origin. What an unnatural arrangement; it made her feel exposed. Shallan was accustomed to balconies, gardens, and patios all facing away from the storms. True, nobody was likely to be out here when a highstorm was expected, but it just felt off to her.
A master-servant in black and white arrived and bowed, calling her Brightness Davar without need of an introduction. She’d have to get used to that; in Alethkar she was a novelty, and an easily recognizable one. She let the servant lead her among the tables, sending her guards for the day off toward a larger room cut farther into the stone to the right. This one had a proper roof and walls, so it could be completely closed off, and a group of other guards waited here upon the whims of their masters.
Shallan drew the eyes of the other patrons. Well, good. She had come here to upset their world. The more people spoke of her, the better her chances of persuading them, when the time came, to listen to her regarding the parshmen. Those were everywhere in camp, even here in this luxurious winehouse. She spotted three in the corner, moving wine bottles from wall-mounted racks to crates. They moved at a plodding yet implacable pace.