Shallan had to be ready. She had to know the political landscape of the Alethi court. She couldn’t afford ignorance. She had to know who among these people might be potential allies, if all else failed her.
What of this Sadeas? she thought, flipping to a page in the notebook. It listed him as conniving and dangerous, but noted that both he and his wife were sharp of wit. A man of intelligence might listen to Shallan’s arguments and understand them.
Aladar was listed as another highprince that Jasnah respected. Powerful, known for his brilliant political maneuvers. He was also fond of games of chance. Perhaps he would risk an expedition to find Urithiru, if Shallan highlighted the potential riches to be found.
Hatham was listed as a man of delicate politics and careful planning. Another potential ally. Jasnah didn’t think much of Thanadal, Bethab, or Sebarial. The first she called oily, the second a dullard, and the third outrageously rude.
She studied them and their motivations for some time. Eventually, Gaz stood up and dusted sawdust from his trousers. He nodded in respect to her and moved to get himself some food.
“A moment, Master Gaz,” she said.
“I’m no master,” he said, walking up to her. “Sixth nahn only, Brightness. Never could buy myself anything better.”
“How bad, exactly, are these debts of yours?” she asked, digging some spheres out of her safepouch to put in the goblet on her desk.
“Well, one of the fellows I owed was executed,” Gaz said, rubbing his chin. “But there is more.” He hesitated. “Eighty ruby broams, Brightness. Though they might not take them anymore. It’s my head they may want, these days.”
“Quite a debt for a man such as yourself. Are you a gambler, then?”
“Ain’t no difference,” he said. “Sure.”
“And that’s a lie,” Shallan said, cocking her head. “I would know the truth from you, Gaz.”
“Just turn me over to them,” he said, turning and walking toward the soup. “Ain’t no matter. I’d rather that than be out here, wondering when they’ll find me, anyways.”
Shallan watched him go, then shook her head, turning back to her studies. She says that Urithiru is not on the Shattered Plains, Shallan thought, turning a few pages. But how is she certain? The Plains were never fully explored, because of the chasms. Who knows what is out there?
Fortunately, Jasnah was very complete in her notes. It appeared that most of the old records spoke of Urithiru as being in the mountains. The Shattered Plains filled a basin.
Nohadon could walk there, Shallan thought, flipping to a quote from The Way of Kings. Jasnah questioned the validity of that statement, though Jasnah questioned pretty much everything. After an hour of study as the sun sank down through the sky, Shallan found herself rubbing her temples.
“Are you well?” Pattern’s voice asked softly. He liked to come out when it was darker, and she did not forbid him. She searched and found him on the table, a complex formation of ridges in the wood.
“Historians,” Shallan said, “are a bunch of liars.”
“Mmmmm,” Pattern said, sounding satisfied.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Oh.”
Shallan slammed her current book closed. “These women were supposed to be scholars! Instead of recording facts, they wrote opinions and presented them as truth. They seem to take great pains to contradict one another, and they dance around topics of import like spren around a fire—never providing heat themselves, just making a show of it.”
Pattern hummed. “Truth is individual.”
“What? No it’s not. Truth is… it’s Truth. Reality.”
“Your truth is what you see,” Pattern said, sounding confused. “What else could it be? That is the truth that you spoke to me, the truth that brings power.”
She looked at him, his ridges casting shadows in the light of her spheres. She’d renewed those in the highstorm last night, while she was cooped up in her box of a wagon. Pattern had started buzzing in the middle of the storm—a strange, angry sound. After that, he’d ranted in a language she didn’t understand, panicking Gaz and the other soldiers she’d invited into the shelter. Luckily, they took it for granted that terrible things happened during highstorms, and none had spoken of it since.
Fool, she told herself, flipping to an empty page in the notes. Start acting like a scholar. Jasnah would be disappointed. She wrote down what Pattern had said just now.
“Pattern,” she said, tapping her pencil—one she’d gotten from the merchants, along with paper. “This table has four legs. Would you not say that is a truth, independent of my perspective?”
Pattern buzzed uncertainly. “What is a leg? Only as it is defined by you. Without a perspective, there is no such thing as a leg, or a table. There is only wood.”
“You’ve told me the table perceives itself this way.”
“Because people have considered it, long enough, as being a table,” Pattern said. “It becomes truth to the table because of the truth the people create for it.”
Interesting, Shallan thought, scribbling away at her notebook. She wasn’t so interested in the nature of truth at the moment, but in how Pattern perceived it. Is this because he’s from the Cognitive Realm? The books say that the Spiritual Realm is a place of pure truth, while the Cognitive is more fluid.
“Spren,” Shallan said. “If people weren’t here, would spren have thought?”
“Not here, in this realm,” Pattern said. “I do not know about the other realm.”
“You don’t sound concerned,” Shallan said. “Your entire existence might be dependent on people.”
“It is,” Pattern said, again unconcerned. “But children are dependent upon parents.” He hesitated. “Besides, there are others who think.”
“Voidbringers,” Shallan said, cold.
“Yes. I do not think that my kind would live in a world with only them. They have their own spren.”
Shallan sat up sharply. “Their own spren?”
Pattern shrank on her table, scrunching up, his ridges growing less distinct as they mashed together.
“Well?” Shallan asked.
“We do not speak of this.”
“You might want to start,” Shallan said. “It’s important.”
Pattern buzzed. She thought he was going to insist on the point, but after a moment, he continued in a very small voice. “Spren are… power… shattered power. Power given thought by the perceptions of men. Honor, Cultivation, and… and another. Fragments broken off.”
“Another?” Shallan prodded.
Pattern’s buzz became a whine, going so high pitched she almost couldn’t hear it. “Odium.” He spoke the word as if needing to force it out.
Shallan wrote furiously. Odium. Hatred. A type of spren? Perhaps a large unique one, like Cusicesh from Iri or the Nightwatcher. Hatredspren. She’d never heard of such a thing.
As she wrote, one of her slaves approached in the darkening night. The timid man wore a simple tunic and trousers, one of the sets given to Shallan by the merchants. The gift was welcome, as the last of Shallan’s spheres were in the goblet before her, and wouldn’t be enough to buy a meal at some of the finer restaurants in Kharbranth.