One of the others handed her Graves’s Shardblade. She held it up, inspecting it by the firelight. Then she rose into the air. “You may choose,” she said to him. “Die here, or accept defeat and give up your weapons.”
Moash clung to the spear in the shadow of that figure, her clothing rippling in the air. Did they think he’d actually trust them?
But then … did he really think he could stand against three of them?
With a shrug, he tossed aside the spear. He summoned his Blade. After all those years dreaming of one of these, he’d finally received one. Kaladin had given it to him. And what good had come of it? He obviously couldn’t be trusted with such a weapon.
Setting his jaw, Moash pressed his hand to the gemstone, and willed the bond to break. The gemstone at its pommel flashed, and he felt an icy coolness wash through him. Back to being a darkeyes.
He tossed the Blade to the ground. One of the Voidbringers took it. Another flew off, and Moash was confused as to what was happening. A short time later, that one returned with six more. Three attached ropes to the Shardplate bundles, then flew off, hauling the heavy armor into the air after them. Why not Lash it?
Moash thought for a moment they were actually going to leave him there, but finally two others grabbed him—one arm each—and hauled him into the air.
We are indeed intrigued, for we thought it well hidden. Insignificant among our many realms.
Veil lounged in a tavern tent with her men. Her boots up on a table, chair tipped back, she listened to the life bubbling around her. People drinking and chatting, others strolling the path outside, shouting and joking. She enjoyed the warm, enveloping buzz of fellow humans who had turned this tomb of rock into something alive again.
It still daunted her to contemplate the size of the tower. How had anyone built a place this big? It could gobble up most cities Veil had seen without having to loosen its belt.
Well, best not to think about that. You needed to sneak low, beneath all the questions that distracted scribes and scholars. That was the only way to get anything useful done.
Instead she focused on the people. Their voices blended together, and collectively they became a faceless crowd. But the grand thing about people was that you could also choose to focus on particular faces, really see them, and find a wealth of stories. So many people with so many lives, each a separate little mystery. Infinite detail, like Pattern. Look close at his fractal lines, and you’d realize each little ridge had an entire architecture of its own. Look close at a given person, and you’d see their uniqueness—see that they didn’t quite match whatever broad category you’d first put them in.
“So…” Red said, talking to Ishnah. Veil had brought three of her men today, with the spy woman to train them. So Veil could listen, learn, and try to judge if this woman was trustworthy—or if she was some kind of plant.
“This is great,” Red continued, “but when do we learn the stuff with the knives? Not that I’m eager to kill anyone. Just … you know…”
“I know what?” Ishnah asked.
“Knives are deevy,” Red said.
“Deevy?” Veil asked, opening her eyes.
Red nodded. “Deevy. You know. Incredible, or neat, but in a smooooth way.”
“Everyone knows that knives are deevy,” Gaz added.
Ishnah rolled her eyes. The short woman wore her havah with hand covered, and her dress had a light touch of embroidery. Her poise and dress indicated she was a darkeyed woman of relatively high social standing.
Veil drew more attention, and not just because of her white jacket and hat. It was the attention of men assessing whether they wanted to approach her, which they didn’t do with Ishnah. The way she carried herself, the prim havah, kept them back.
Veil sipped her drink, enjoying the wine.
“You’ve heard lurid stories, I’m sure,” Ishnah said. “But espionage is not about knives in alleys. I’d barely know what to do with myself if I had to stab someone.”
The three men deflated.
“Espionage,” Ishnah continued, “is about the careful gathering of information. Your task is to observe, but to not be observed. You must be likable enough that people talk to you, but not so interesting that they remember you.”
“Well, Gaz is out,” Red said.
“Yeah,” Gaz said, “it’s a curse to be so storming interesting.”
“Would you two shut up?” Vathah said. The lanky soldier had leaned in, cup of cheap wine left untouched. “How?” he asked. “I’m tall. Gaz has one eye. We’ll be remembered.”
“You need to learn to channel attention toward superficial traits you can change, and away from traits you cannot. Red, if you wore an eye patch, that detail would stick in their minds. Vathah, I can teach you how to slouch so your height isn’t noticeable—and if you add an unusual accent, people will describe you by that. Gaz, I could put you in a tavern and have you lie on the table in a feigned drunken stupor. Nobody will notice the eye patch; they’ll ignore you as a drunkard.
“That is beside the point. We must begin with observation. If you are to be useful, you need to be able to make quick assessments of a location, memorize details, and be able to report back. Now, close your eyes.”
They reluctantly did so, Veil joining them.
“Now,” Ishnah said. “Can any of you describe the tavern’s occupants? Without looking, mind you.”
“Uh…” Gaz scratched at his eye patch. “There’s a cute one at the bar. She might be Thaylen.”
“What color is her blouse?”
“Hm. Well, it’s low cut, and she’s grown some nice rockbuds … uh…”
“There’s this really ugly guy with an eye patch,” Red said. “Short, annoying type. Drinks your wine when you aren’t looking.”
“Vathah?” Ishnah asked. “What about you?”
“I think there were some guys at the bar,” he said. “They were in … Sebarial uniforms? And maybe half the tables were occupied. I couldn’t say by who.”
“Better,” Ishnah said. “I didn’t expect you to be able to do this. It’s human nature to ignore these things. I’ll train you though, so that—”
“Wait,” Vathah said. “What about Veil? What does she remember?”
“Three men at the bar,” Veil said absently. “Older man with whitening hair, and two soldiers, probably related, judging by those hooked noses. The younger one is drinking wine; the older one is trying to pick up the woman Gaz noticed. She’s not Thaylen, but she’s wearing Thaylen dress with a deep violet blouse and a forest-green skirt. I don’t like the pairing, but she seems to. She’s confident, used to playing with the attention of men. But I think she came here looking for someone, because she’s ignoring the soldier and keeps glancing over her shoulder.
“The barkeep is an older man, short enough that he stands on boxes when he fills orders. I bet he hasn’t been a barkeep long. He hesitates when someone orders, and he has to glance over the bottles, reading their glyphs before he finds the right one. There are three barmaids—one is on break—and fourteen customers other than us.” She opened her eyes. “I can tell you about them.”