Warbreaker

“She’s Idrian,” Truthcall said dismissively. “Their most important city has fewer people than a small T’Telir neighborhood. They barely understand the concept of politics, I’ll warrant. They are more used to talking to sheep than humans.”



Weatherlove nodded. “Even if she’s ‘well trained’ by their standards, she’ll be easy to manipulate here. The real trick is going to be to make certain others don’t get to her first. Lightsong, what was your impression? Will she be quick to do as the gods tell her?”



“I really wouldn’t know,” he said, waving for more juice. “As you know, I’m not much interested in political games.”



Weatherlove and Truthcall shared a smirking look; like most in the court, they considered Lightsong hopeless when it came to practical matters. And by their definition, “practical” meant “taking advantage of others.”



“Lightsong,” Lifeblesser said with his tactlessly honest voice. “You really need to take more of an interest in politics. It can be very diverting. Why, if you only knew the secrets to which I’m privy!”



“My dear Lifeblesser,” Lightsong replied, “please trust me when I say that I have no desire to know any secrets which involve you and a privy.”



Lifeblesser frowned, obviously trying to work through that one.



The other two began to discuss the queen again as the priests reported the score from the last throw. Oddly, Lightsong found himself increasingly troubled. As Lifeblesser stood up to take his next toss, Lightsong found himself rising as well.



“My divine brothers,” he said, “I suddenly feel quite weary. Perhaps it was something I ingested.”



“Not something I served, I hope?” Truthcall said. It was his palace.



“Food, no,” Lightsong said. “The other things you’re serving today, perhaps. I really must be on my way.”



“But you’re in the lead!” Truthcall said. “If you leave now, we’ll have to play again next week!”



“Your threats roll off of me like water, my divine brother,” Lightsong said, nodding respectfully to each in turn. “I bid you farewell until such time as you drag me up here again to play this tragic game of yours.”



They laughed. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or insulted that they so often confused his jokes for serious statements and the other way around.



He collected his priests—Llarimar included—from the room just inside the balcony, but didn’t feel like speaking with any of them. He just made his way through the palace of deep reds and whites, still troubled. The men on the balcony were rank amateurs compared to the real political masters, like Blushweaver. They were so blunt and obvious with their plans.



But even men who were blunt and obvious could be dangerous, particularly to a woman like the queen, who obviously had little experience with such things.



I’ve already determined that I can’t help her, Lightsong thought, leaving the palace and entering the green outside. To the right, a complex network of rope squares and patterns marked the Tarachin pitch. A sphere bounced with a distant thud in the grass. Lightsong walked the other direction on the springy lawn, not even waiting for his priests to erect a canopy to shade him from the afternoon sun.



He still worried that if he tried to help, he’d just make things worse. But then there were the dreams. War and violence. Over and over again, he saw the fall of T’Telir itself, the destruction of his homeland. He couldn’t continue to ignore the dreams, even if he didn’t accept them as prophetic.



Blushweaver thought that war was important. Or, at least, that it was important to prepare for. He trusted her more than any other god or goddess, but he also worried about how aggressive she was. She had come to him, asking him to be a part of her plans. Had she done it, perhaps, because she knew he would be more temperate than she? Was she intentionally balancing herself?



He heard petitions, even though he didn’t intend to ever give up his Breath and die. He interpreted paintings, even though he didn’t think he was seeing anything prophetic in them. Couldn’t he help secure power in the court in order to be prepared when he didn’t believe that his visions meant anything? Particularly if those preparations helped protect a young woman who, undoubtedly, would have no other allies?



Llarimar had told him to do his best. That sounded like an awful lot of work. Unfortunately, doing nothing was beginning to seem like even more work. Sometimes, when you stepped in something foul, the only thing to do was to stop walking and make the effort to clean it off.



He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m probably going to regret this,” he muttered to himself.



Then he went looking for Blushweaver.

* * *



THE MAN WAS SLIGHT, almost skeletal, and each shellfish he slurped made Vivenna cringe for two reasons. Not only did she have trouble believing that anyone would enjoy such slimy, sluglike food, but the mussels were also of a very rare and expensive variety.



And she was paying.



The afternoon restaurant crowd was large—people usually ate out at midday, when it made more sense to buy food than return home for a meal. The entire concept of restaurants still seemed strange to her. Didn’t these men have wives or servants to make them meals? Didn’t they feel uncomfortable eating in such a public place? It was so . . . impersonal.



Denth and Tonk Fah sat on either side of her. And, of course, they helped themselves to the plate of mussels as well. Vivenna wasn’t certain—she’d pointedly not asked—but she thought that the shellfish were raw.



The thin man across from her slurped down another one. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself much despite the expensive surroundings and free food. He had a sneer on his lips and while he didn’t appear nervous, she did notice that he kept an eye on the restaurant entrance.



“So,” Denth said, setting another empty shell on the table, then wiping his fingers on the tablecloth—a common practice in T’Telir. “Can you help us or not?”



The little man—he called himself Fob—shrugged. “You tell a wild tale, mercenary.”



“You know me, Fob. When have I lied to you?”



“Whenever you’ve been paid to do it,” Fob said with a snort. “I’ve just never been able to catch you.”



Tonk Fah chuckled, reaching for another mussel. It slipped free of the shell as he brought it to his lips; Vivenna had to steel herself to keep from gagging at the slimy plop it made when it hit the table.



“You don’t disagree that war is coming, though,” Denth said.



“Of course not,” Fob said. “But it’s been coming for decades now. What makes you think that it will finally happen this year?”



“Can you afford to ignore the chance that it might?” Denth asked.



Fob squirmed a bit, then began eating mussels again. Tonk Fah began stacking the shells, seeing how many he could get balanced on top of one another. Vivenna said nothing for the moment. Her minor part in the meetings didn’t bother her. She watched, she learned, and she thought.



Fob was a landowner. He cleared forests, then rented the land to growers. He often relied on Lifeless to help with his clearing—workers loaned to him through the government. There was only one stipulation upon the lending. Should war come, all of the food produced on his holdings during war time immediately became the property of the Returned.



It was a good deal. The government would probably seize his lands during a war anyway, so he didn’t really lose anything save for his right to complain.



He ate another mussel. How does he keep packing them down? she thought. Fob had managed to slurp away nearly twice as many of the disgusting little creatures as Tonk Fah.



“That harvest won’t come in, Fob,” Denth said. “You will lose quite a bit this year, should we prove right.”



“But,” Tonk Fah said, adding another shell to his stack, “harvest early, sell your stockpiles, and you stand to get ahead of your competitors.”



“And what do you gain?” Fob asked. “How do I know those same competitors haven’t hired you to convince me a war is coming?”



The table fell silent, making noticeable the other diners clattering at their own meals. Denth finally turned, eyeing Vivenna, and nodded.



She pulled up her shawl—not the matronly one she’d brought from Idris, but a silken, gossamer one that Denth had found for her. She met Fob’s eyes, then changed her hair to a deep red. With the shawl up, only those at the table and watching closely would be able to see the change.



He froze. “Do that again,” he said.



She changed it to blond.



Fob sat back, letting his mussel fall free of its shell. It splatted against the table near the one Tonk Fah had dropped. “The queen?” he asked with shock.



“No,” Vivenna said. “Her sister.”



“What’s going on here?” Fob asked.



Denth smiled. “She’s here to organize a resistance against the Returned gods and to prepare Idrian interests here in T’Telir for the coming war.”



“You don’t think that old royal up in the highlands would send his daughter for nothing?” Tonk Fah said. “War. It’s the only thing that would call for such desperation.”



“Your sister,” Fob said, eyeing Vivenna. “They sent the younger one into the court. Why?”



“The king’s plans are his own, Fob,” Denth said.



Fob looked thoughtful. Finally, he flipped the fallen mussel onto the plate of shells and reached for a fresh one. “I knew there was more behind that girl’s arrival than simple chance.”



“So you’ll harvest?” Denth asked.



“I’ll think about it,” Fob said.



Denth nodded. “Good enough, I guess.”



He nodded to Vivenna and Tonk Fah, and the three of them left Fob eating his shellfish. Vivenna settled the tab—which was even higher than she’d feared—and then they joined Parlin, Jewels, and Clod the Lifeless waiting outside. The group moved away from the restaurant, pushing through the crowd easily, if only because of the massive Lifeless that walked before them.



“Where now?” Vivenna asked.



Denth eyed her. “Not tired even a little?”



Vivenna didn’t acknowledge her sore feet or her drowsiness. “We’re working for the good of my people, Denth. A little weariness is a small price.”



Denth shot a glance toward Tonk Fah, but the overweight mercenary had split off into the crowd toward a merchant’s stand, Parlin tagging along behind. Parlin, Vivenna noticed, had gone back to wearing his ridiculous green hat despite her disapproval. What was wrong with that man? He wasn’t terribly bright, true, but he had always been levelheaded.



“Jewels,” Denth called up ahead. “Take us to the Raymar place.”



Jewels nodded, giving instructions to Clod that Vivenna couldn’t hear. The group turned in another direction through the crowd.



“It only responds to her?” Vivenna said.



Denth shrugged. “It has basic instructions to do what Tonks and I say and I’ve got a security phrase I can use if I need more control.”

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