“But sir,” Kaladin said, “it’s just so convoluted. If they have access to the king’s private chambers, then why not hide an assassin inside? Or use poison?”
“Poison is as unlikely to work as this was,” Dalinar said, waving toward the railing. “The king’s food and drink is tasted. As for a hidden assassin, one might run into guards.” He stood up. “But I agree that such methods would probably have had a greater chance at success. The fact that they didn’t try it that way tells us something. Assuming these are the same people who planted those flawed gemstones in the king’s armor, they prefer nonconfrontational methods. It’s not that they’re idiots, they’re…”
“They’re cowards,” Kaladin realized. “They want to make the assassination look like an accident. They’re timid. They may have waited this long so that suspicion would die down.”
“Yes,” Dalinar said, rising, looking troubled.
“This time, though, they made a big mistake.”
“How?”
Kaladin walked to the cut section he had inspected earlier and knelt down to rub the smooth section. “What cuts iron so cleanly?”
Dalinar leaned down, inspecting the cut, then took out a sphere for more light. He grunted. “It’s supposed to look like the joint came apart, I’d guess.”
“And does it?” Kaladin asked.
“No. That was a Shardblade.”
“Narrows down our suspects a tad, I’d think.”
Dalinar nodded. “Don’t tell anyone else. We’ll hide that we noticed the Shardblade cut, maybe gain an edge. It’s too late to pretend that we think this was an accident, but we don’t have to reveal everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The king is insisting that I put you in charge of guarding him,” Dalinar said. “We might have to move up our timetable for that.”
“I’m not ready,” Kaladin said. “My men are stretched thin with the duties they already have.”
“I know,” Dalinar said softly. He seemed hesitant. “This was done by someone on the inside, you realize.”
Kaladin felt cold.
“The king’s own chambers? That means a servant. Or one of his guards. Men in the King’s Guard might have had access to his armor, too.” Dalinar looked at Kaladin, face lit by the sphere in his hand. A strong face, with a nose that had once been broken. Blunt. Real. “I don’t know whom I can trust these days. Can I trust you, Kaladin Stormblessed?”
“Yes. I swear it.”
Dalinar nodded. “I’m going to relieve Idrin of this post and assign him to a command in my army. It will sate the king, but I’ll make certain Idrin knows he isn’t being punished. I suspect he’ll enjoy the new command more anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll ask him for his best men,” Dalinar said, “and those will be under your command for now. Use them as little as possible. I eventually want the king being guarded only by men from the bridge crews—men you trust, men who have no part in warcamp politics. Choose carefully. I don’t want to replace potential traitors with former thieves who can be easily bought.”
“Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, feeling a large weight settle on his shoulders.
Dalinar stood up. “I don’t know what else to do. A man needs to be able to trust his own guards.” He walked back toward the door into the room. The tone of his voice sounded deeply troubled.
“Sir?” Kaladin asked. “This wasn’t the assassination attempt you were expecting, was it?”
“No,” Dalinar said, hand on the doorknob. “I agree with your assessment. This wasn’t the work of someone who knows what they’re doing. Considering how contrived it was, I’m actually surprised at how close it came to working.” He leveled his gaze at Kaladin. “If Sadeas decides to strike—or, worse, the assassin who claimed my brother’s life—it will not go so well for us. The storm is yet to come.”
He pulled open the door, letting out the complaints of the king, which had been muffled behind it. Elhokar was ranting that nobody took his safety seriously, that nobody listened, that they should be looking for the things he saw over his shoulder in the mirror, whatever that meant. The tirade sounded like the whining of a spoiled child.
Kaladin looked at the twisted rail, imagining the king dangling from it. He had good reason to be out of sorts. But then, wasn’t a king supposed to be better than that? Didn’t his Calling demand that he be able to keep his composure under pressure? Kaladin found it difficult to imagine Dalinar reacting with such ranting, regardless of the situation.
Your job isn’t to judge, he told himself, waving to Syl and walking away from the balcony. Your job is to protect these people.
Somehow.
24. Tyn
Decayform destroys the souls of dreams.
A form of gods to avoid, it seems.
Seek not its touch, nor beckon its screams, deny it.
Watch where you walk, your toes to tread,
O’er hill or rocky riverbed
Hold dear the fears that fill your head, defy it.
From the Listener Song of Secrets, 27th stanza
“Well, you see,” Gaz said as he sanded the wood on Shallan’s wagon. She sat nearby, listening as she worked. “Most of us, we joined the fight at the Shattered Plains for revenge, you know? Those marbles killed the king. It was gonna be this grand thing and such. A fight for vengeance, a way to show the world that the Alethi don’t stand for betrayal.”
“Yeah,” Red agreed. The lanky, bearded soldier pulled free a bar from her wagon. With this one removed, it left only three at each corner to hold up the roof. He dropped the bar with satisfaction, then dusted off his work gloves. This would help transform the vehicle from a rolling cage into a conveyance more suitable for a lighteyed lady.
“I remember it,” Red continued, sitting down on the wagon’s bed, legs dangling. “The call to arms came to us from Highprince Vamah himself, and it moved through Farcoast like a bad stench. Every second man of age joined the cause. People wondered if you were a coward if you went to the pub for a drink but didn’t wear a recruit’s patch. I joined up with five of my buddies. They’re all dead now, rotting in those storm-cursed chasms.”
“So you just… got tired of fighting?” Shallan asked. She had a desk now. Well, a table—a small piece of travel furniture that could be taken apart easily. They’d moved it out of the wagon, and she was using it to review some of Jasnah’s notes.
The caravan was making camp as the day waned; they’d traveled well today, but Shallan wasn’t pushing them hard, after what they’d all been through. After four days of travel, they were approaching the section of the corridor where bandit strikes were much less likely. They were getting close to the Shattered Plains, and the safety they offered.
“Tired of fighting?” Gaz said, chuckling as he took a hinge and began nailing it in place. Occasionally, he would glance to the side, a kind of nervous tic. “Damnation, no. It wasn’t us, it was the storming lighteyes! No offense intended, Brightness. But storm them, and storm them good!”