“Oh? Was he brilliant, beautiful, and always right?”
“He was loud, intolerant, and profoundly acerbic,” Kaladin said, standing up. “But yes, he was basically always right.” He faced the wall and leaned his spear against it. “Szeth called this ‘Lashing.’”
“A good term,” Syl said, nodding.
“Well, to get this down, I’m going to have to practice some fundamentals.” Just like learning a spear.
That probably meant hopping onto and off the wall a couple hundred times.
Better than dying on that assassin’s Shardblade, he thought, and got to it.
* * *
Shallan stepped into Amaram’s kitchens, trying to move with the energetic grace of the girl whose face she wore. The large room smelled strongly of the curry simmering over the hearth—the remnants of the night’s meal, waiting in case any lighteyes got peckish. The cook browsed a novel in the corner while her girls scrubbed pots. The room was well lit with spheres. Amaram apparently trusted his servants.
A long flight of steps led up to the second floor, providing quick access for servants to bring meals to Amaram. Shallan had drawn a layout of the building from guesses based on window locations. The room with the secrets had been easy to locate—Amaram had the windows shuttered, and never opened them. She’d guessed right about the stairwell in the kitchens, it seemed. She strode toward those steps, humming to herself, as the woman she imitated often did.
“Back already?” the cook said, not looking up from her novel. She was Herdazian, from the accent. “His gift tonight wasn’t nice enough? Or did the other one spot you two together?”
Shallan said nothing, trying to cover her anxiety with the humming.
“Might as well put you to use,” the cook said. “Stine wanted someone to polish mirrors for him. He’s in the study, cleaning the master’s flutes.”
Flutes? A soldier like Amaram had flutes?
What would the cook do if Shallan bolted up the stairs and ignored the order? The woman was probably high ranked for a darkeyes. An important member of the household staff.
The cook didn’t look up from her novel, but continued softly. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you sneaking off during midday, child. Just because the master is fond of you doesn’t mean you can take advantage. Go to work. Spending your free evening cleaning instead of playing might remind you that you have duties.”
Gritting her teeth, Shallan looked up those steps toward her goal. The cook slowly lowered her novel. Her frown seemed the type that one didn’t disobey.
Shallan nodded, moving away from the steps and into the corridor beyond. There would be another set of steps upward in the front hall. She’d just have to make her way in that direction and—
Shallan froze in place as a figure stepped into the hallway from a side room. Tall with a square face and angular nose, the man wore a lighteyed outfit of modern design: an open jacket over a buttoned shirt, stiff trousers, a stock tied in place at his neck.
Storms! Highlord Amaram—fashionable or otherwise—was not supposed to be in the building today. Adolin had said that Amaram was dining with Dalinar and the king tonight. Why was he here?
Amaram stood looking over a ledger in his hand, and didn’t seem to have noticed her. He turned away from her and strolled down the corridor.
Run. It was her immediate reaction. Escape out the front doors, vanish into the night. The problem was, she’d spoken to the cook. When the woman Shallan was imitating came back later, she’d be in a storm of trouble—and she’d be able to prove, with witnesses, that she hadn’t come back into the house earlier. Whatever Shallan did, there was a good chance that once she was gone, Amaram would find out that someone had been sneaking about, imitating one of his maids.
Stormfather! She’d only just stepped into the building, and already she’d messed everything up.
Stairs creaked up ahead. Amaram was going up to his room, the one Shallan was supposed to inspect.
The Ghostbloods will be mad at me for alerting Amaram, Shallan thought, but they’ll be even angrier if I do that and then return with no information.
She had to get into that room, alone. That meant she couldn’t let Amaram enter it.
Shallan scrambled after him, rushing into the entry hall and twisting around the newel post to propel herself up the stairs. Amaram reached the top landing and turned toward the hallway. Maybe he wouldn’t go in that room.
She wasn’t so lucky. As Shallan scurried up the steps, Amaram turned toward just that door and raised a key, slipping it into the lock and turning it.
“Brightlord Amaram,” Shallan said, out of breath as she reached the top landing.
He turned toward her, frowning. “Telesh? Weren’t you going out tonight?”
Well, at least she knew her name now. Did Amaram really take such an interest in his servants as to be aware of a lowly maid’s evening plans?
“I did, Brightlord,” Shallan said, “but I came back.”
Need a distraction. But not something too suspicious. Think! Was he going to notice that the voice was different?
“Telesh,” Amaram said, shaking his head. “You still can’t choose between them? I promised your good father I’d see you cared for. How can I do that if you won’t settle down?”
“It’s not that, Brightlord,” Shallan said quickly. “Hav stopped a messenger on the perimeter coming for you. He sent me back to tell you.”
“Messenger?” Amaram said, slipping the key back out of the lock. “From whom?”
“Hav didn’t say, Brightlord. He seemed to think it was important, though.”
“That man…” Amaram said with a sigh. “He’s too protective. He thinks he can keep a tight perimeter in this mess of a camp?” The highlord considered, then stuffed the key back in his pocket. “Better see what it’s about.”
Shallan gave him a bow as he passed her by and trotted down the stairs. She counted to ten once he was out of sight, then scrambled to the door. It was still locked.
“Pattern!” Shallan whispered. “Where are you?”
He came out from the folds of her skirts, moving across the floor and then up the door until he was just before her, like a raised carving on the wood.
“The lock?” Shallan asked.
“It is a pattern,” he said, then grew very small and moved into the keyhole. She’d had him try a few more times on locks back in her rooms, and he’d been able to unlock those as he had Tyn’s trunk.
The lock clicked, and she opened the door and slipped into the dark room. A sphere plucked from her dress pocket lit it for her.
The secret room. The room with shutters always closed, kept locked at all times. A room that the Ghostbloods wanted so desperately to see.
It was filled with maps.
* * *
The trick to jumping between surfaces wasn’t the landing, Kaladin discovered. It wasn’t about reflexes or timing. It wasn’t even about changing perspective.
It was about fear.
It was about that moment when, hanging in the air, his body lurched from being pulled down to being pulled sideways. His instincts weren’t equipped to deal with this shift. A primal part of him panicked every time down stopped being down.
He ran at the wall and jumped, throwing his feet to the side. He couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t flinch. It was like teaching himself to dive face-first onto a stone surface without raising his hands for protection.