Hatred.
The girl . . . me? ‘Dealt with’ how?
King Ahven reached out, dropping something onto the table. A small blue stone.
Minrel scrambled to her feet, suddenly frightened, though she wasn’t even sure why. “My lord . . . your majesty . . . I won’t say—”
The Shin man was fast—so amazingly fast. Minrel tried to stumble backward, but he caught her, hand going to her throat and holding it just tight enough to choke off her words. He stood that way for a moment, eyes turned toward the king.
Ahven said nothing. Minrel looked toward him, pleading, tears forming at the pain in her throat. This was the Almighty’s chosen, the Awakened king, he wouldn’t . . .
“Please?” Minrel whispered in voiceless terror as the darkness closed.
“I hate you,” Jek whispered, carefully lowering the servant’s corpse to the ground. She was just a girl, a child really. A child in a land of children. Did that make the sin twice as bad?
He looked down at her horrified, dead eyes, and doubted such a sin could get any worse.
He looked up. Ahven Vedenar sat calmly.
“You didn’t need to make her stay,” Jek accused.
“Then I would have had to wait for her to return when I wanted more tea,” Ahven replied.
So young . . . Oh Shanalakada, must you treat them so? And must I be your hand? Again the words of his banishment returned to him, words spoken by the sacred Holetatinal on the day of his shaming. This is your curse, to be the tool of those who know not Truth, to share in their blasphemy but have no will to do otherwise. You are Truthless. He represented not only his own desecrated honor, but that of his people as well.
“I have no Truth,” Jek whispered. “And yet it binds me.”
“There is no truth, assassin,” Ahven said.
Jek stood, looking over at Ahven. There was a . . . hunger in the man’s eyes. It was almost as if he wanted Jek to break down and abandon his vows, to admit that Ahven was right—that there was no honor, or truth, and that people were as the birds of Ahven’s cages. Things to be snapped and discarded.
Yet what perversity would make the man wish for such a thing? If Jek broke his Truthless bindings of honor, then Ahven would lose his most efficient servant.
Ahven met his eyes, then waved him out of the room.
chapter 44
Merin 10
Merin squinted, shading his face from the afternoon sun. His anxious eyes devised enemies where there were probably none. Were those dark spots in the distance riders, or simply another shadow thrown up by a formation in the rock? There were specks on a closer hillside—simple rockbuds, or scouts searching for runaway noblelings?
The lait valley cut a great gouge across the land, its green sides twisting into the near distance until it vanished, the slope of the land hiding the depression from view. Merin and Renarin hadn’t dared travel within its soft beauty—too many people lived along the lait’s riverbanks. Even wearing dull shennah cloaks and simple trousers—Merin’s Blade and Plate carefully wrapped and stowed on the pack horse—he and Renarin were still distinctive. Riders themselves were rare even along the lait, and Renarin warned that anyone with an eye for horseflesh would recognize their mounts’ fine breeding.
So,they cut a path parallel to the lait, trying to stay out of sight. Two riders were not enough to leave much of a trackable trail on the hard Rosharan stone, and so their greatest danger came from the eyes of the peasants and travelers they passed.
“We shouldn’t have done this,” Renarin said morosely. The boy had a penchant for repetition.
“Well, we did,” Merin said. “Our only hope now is to return with a living Aredor to prove we didn’t break our oaths by fighting for either side. Do you see anything?”
Renarin shook his head. “But I’m not exactly experienced at this.”
Merin grimaced. It’s a wonder we haven’t been caught already. “It would help if we knew where we were going,” he noted.
Renarin shook his head, looking down at the black sphere in his hand. He carried it with him everywhere, its smooth surface never far from his caressing fingertips. “I know,” he mumbled. “I just . . . we haven’t had enough time to stop and think. But he has to have come this way, Merin. Father’s riders didn’t catch him.”
“And if he went south?” Merin asked.
“Toward Ral Eram?” Renarin said. “Seat of the king? No, he would run afoul of Elhokar’s messengers and reinforcement lines. Aredor’s party was too large—it would have been spotted by enemy scouts. He came north.”
Merin sighed. But as he had said to Renarin, their time of decision had already passed. They had come north. They had to either press on or turn back and beg forgiveness—and Merin had no intention of returning to Kholinar without Aredor. Unfortunately, none of the towns they had visited bore rumors of Lord Aredor’s passing. That could mean that Renarin was wrong, or it could simply mean that Aredor had stayed to the lait rim as well.
Merin felt blind. He was riding in darkness, trying to feel his way—only, he didn’t even really know where he wanted to go. Meanwhile, while Merin stumbled about, Aredor was in danger.
You don’t really know that, Merin told himself. Yes, he’s probably in danger, but Renarin’s premonition is . . . well, unsubstantial. You don’t know Aredor is going to die.
Still, the youngest Kholin’s attitude made an eerily convincing argument. Merin turned, glancing at Renarin as the two walked down the short hill that had been their vantage point. Renarin’s normally unsettling air had adopted a slightly frantic cast—a remnant from his episode in the Elinrah temple. The boy fidgeted now, always glancing about with a nervousness that bespoke more than a simple fear of pursuit. When they stopped for the night, Renarin would take up charcoal and scrawl on the stones around them, mumbling to himself.
And this is the man I’m trusting to guide me to Aredor, Merin thought. Blessed winds—I must be even more disturbed than he.
“That’s Pebble’s Perch up ahead,” Renarin said as they remounted, nodding toward the lait ahead of them. “It’s a sixth city, not tributing but independent. It’s the largest town for another two days—we should stop there and look for information.”
Merin nodded. Visiting the village would mean exposing themselves to whoever might follow, but what else could they do? Renarin seemed certain that Aredor had taken the river somehow, though that seemed incredibly unlikely. As they crested the valley wall and began their way down a switchbacking path, Merin was able to see the river in its entirety. The banks on either side bespoke a water flow that was normally twice as wide, and what did trickle past was hardly navigable. It was several tenset feet wide, but its flow was slow, and the many protruding rocks and sandbanks proved how shallow it must be.
“He sailed on that?” Merin asked pointedly.
Renarin looked up. Then he just shrugged. “It would have been a little higher when Aredor passed this way, and the river melds with mountain streams to the north. I don’t know, Merin. I can only tell you what I saw.”
“Saw how?” Merin pressed. “In a vision?”
“No,” Renarin said. “In the patterns of numbers.”
“What does that even mean?” Merin protested.
Renarin just shook his head.
Merin sighed again, letting the matter drop. Pebble’s Perch was indeed a large city, though it looked to be in something of a lull. Intricate docks housed a variety of barges and riverboats that were mostly grounded. Those that did lie in the water didn’t float so much as sit in the mud, sand, and crom, waiting for the return of the fall rains. Large embankments stood on either side of the docks to protect the vessels from sudden highstorm floods, and most of the ships looked to be under some manner of summer repair.
The city obviously drew its living from the river. Large dockhouses made up the bulk of the structures, and they gave the city a far less refined look than Kholinar. The streets were arranged in a haphazard, unplanned way, and
the buildings lacked general ornamentation.
“The city must suffer during the summers,” Merin said.
Renarin shrugged. “The spring harvest is in, and the villages have to be given time to bring their grain to the city. By the time the storms come regularly again, those barges will be well-stocked and ready to ship their goods downriver for distribution. I would think that they find the cycle refreshing—it gives them a few months every year to stop and think.” Something I haven’t been able to do lately, his tone implied.
As they approached the city, they dismounted and led their horses, hoping that walking instead of riding would make them look less intimidating—or memorable. Renarin was right; despite the lack of river traffic, the city markets were busy. Packmen loaded with reed baskets hiked in careful lines toward the docks—apparently, the massive storehouses were used to keep the grain during the Searing. Merchants and lesser noblemen haggled beside stalls and tents, and young boys cried out their masters’ prices and deals for all to hear.
“I’ve never seen this side of it,” Merin said. “The inavah. I always kind of wondered what happened to it after we grew it.”
“The world has to eat,” Renarin said. “And with Prallah in ruin, Alethkar has grown rich by its plenty.”
Merin shuffled uncomfortably. “Prallah was that important a food producer?”
Renarin nodded. “The part of the country you saw, the highlands, was where the Traitor chose to fight—but that was only to keep us away from the farmland below. Prallah has always been the most productive grower in Roshar. Over the last decade its various kingdoms have been Alethkar’s greatest competition for lucrative sales to Thalenah and Vedenar, who mine more but grow less.”
Very convenient that Prallah should come under Aleth control, Merin thought. The more he discovered about the war on the Third Peninsula, the less persuaded he became of Alethkar’s moral edge.
They stood for a few moments, looking around at the marketgoers. “Well, now what?” Merin finally asked.
Renarin shrugged. “I don’t know. We could always try a tavern, I suppose.”
“That hasn’t worked too well so far,” Merin said with a grimace. So far, tavern occupants hadn’t been very comfortable around the two. Merin wasn’t certain what they were doing wrong—shopkeepers distrusted them immediately, and streetgoers were polite, but rarely gave them much heed. Merin could probably demand more attention if he revealed his Shardblade, but that would ruin any chance of anonymity.
“There are some beggars over there,” Merin said with a nod. “The stories always say beggars are great sources of information. When Sadees Sunmaker was alone, separated from his armies after the Battle of Surerock, he hid among the city beggars and they contacted his men for him.”
Renarin frowned, eyeing the bundles of cloth and bone. “I don’t know. I doubt they’re concerned about more than their next meal.”
“They probably just look that way,” Merin said. “Beggars are always part of the organized criminal underground in big cities. They’re the eyes of the local Thief Lord, and keep watch over his interests.”
Renarin turned his skeptical look from the beggars to Merin. “You know,” he said, “you have some very strange ideas, Merin.”
Being called ‘strange’ by Renarin was a discomforting experience. “You’ll see,” Merin insisted, leaving Renarin with their horses and approaching the three beggars. All were older men, though their weathered faces and unkempt beards might have exaggerated their age somewhat. One appeared to be missing his left leg at the knee, but Merin knew from the stories that it was probably just contorted to look that way.
“Greetings, friends,” Merin said in a low voice, squatting down before them. “I have need of your . . . specialized services.”
All three men perked up, their gnarled hands shooting out in hope of alms. Merin reached into his pouch, picking out a sparkling sliver of ruby set in a drop of glass. The hands reached for it, but he pulled it back out of their reach.
“Not yet,” he said. “First I need information.”
“What information, master?” one of the old men said in an eager, lisping voice.
“Have you seen riders come through this market recently?” Merin asked.
“Yes, many,” another beggar said, trying to reach past his companion’s hand.
“This would be a special group,” Merin explained. “Thirty in number, with an air of nobility. One of . . . particular nobility.” He gave the last words special emphasis, eyeing the beggars knowingly.
“Old Juke saw them,” the third man said. “Yes, I saw them. Riders.”
“When?” Merin asked eagerly.
The old man paused. “Today?” he said hesitantly.
“Today?” Merin asked. Surely Merin and Renarin couldn’t have gained that much time on Aredor. He regarded the beggars through narrowed eyes as the other two began to assert that they too had seen the riders come through ‘today.’ All three clutched eagerly for the ruby chip.
“You are playing with me,” Merin said with dissatisfaction.
“No, not playing,” the third man promised. “Please, my lord. The chip. A chip for Old Juke?”
Ah, I see, Merin thought. Not enough, eh? He reached into his pouch pulling out a ten ishmark chip. The three men’s eyes widened, and one even started drooling.
“Now,” Merin said. “I want specifics. Did Lord Aredor come through here or not? What do you know of his travels?”
The three men were too focused on the chip to say much. Merin moved as if to put it away, and they wailed as one. “Yes, we saw him. Lord Aredor. He came. With riders. Yes. Can we have the coin now?”
“I don’t believe you,” Merin said. “I want to speak with . . . Him.”
The three men paused. “Him?” one asked.
“You know,” Merin said conspiringly. “Him. The one who commands you. Your lord of this city.”
“Our Lord . . . um, my lord?” one asked.
“You?” another said, cocking his head in confusion. “Yes, you’re a good lord. A chip? A chip, please, for Old Juke?”
Merin sighed, dropping the chip before them. “Just tell him what I asked,” Merin said as the three men lurched forward, fighting for the money. Merin retreated back to Renarin, who stood with his onyx sphere held before his eyes, staring at it with absorption.
“Put that thing down,” Merin said with annoyance. “You look daft.”
“I’m not the one trying to reason with beggars,” Renarin said, lowering the sphere.
Merin glanced back at the three men, whose struggles were drawing attention from the marketgoers. “They’re staying quiet for some reason,” he said. “Crafty ones, they are.”
Renarin looked skeptical.
“Fine,” Merin said. “What do you want to do?”
“Ask the shopkeepers,” Renarin said. “Perhaps my brother stopped for supplies.”
Merin nodded, and Renarin led the way. The sky soon began darkening in the west, the approaching highstorm a foreboding sign of their failed progress. None of the shopkeepers seemed to know anything—though, again, they were hesitant to discuss anything but business. As soon as they determined that Merin and Renarin weren’t likely to purchase anything or negotiate for the sale of grain, the shopkeepers turned their attentions to more promising prospects.
The two left another futile conference, walking back onto the street. Renarin looked west, frowning. “Highstorm coming soon,” he noted. “Last one before the Searing. We’ll have to remember to buy some more water before we leave.”
Merin nodded with resignation. Pebble’s Perch was another failure. “The lait turns east here,” Merin said, nodding toward the valley bend ahead. “Do we continue to follow it, or keep going north?”
“We stay with the lait,” Renarin said. “He went by river.”
Merin was too tired to begin another argument. “Let’s find an inn,” he said. “We can—”
“Lord Renarin?” a man c
alled from behind them.
Renarin jumped visibly, and Merin felt a dread certainty that they had been located. When they turned, however, they didn’t find Lord Dalenar’s soldiers bearing down on them, but instead a short, portly man with a red face and an excited expression.
“Lord Renarin!” the man exclaimed. “It is you! Why, I’d all but decided you weren’t coming. Hurry, hurry. The highstorm is nearly here! We haven’t much time.”
Merin and Renarin stared at the newcomer for a moment. He was sweating freely, but didn’t seem to mind. His movements matched his words, however, as he motioned eagerly for them to follow him.
“Wait,” Merin said. “How do you know who we . . . ?” he trailed off, then looked up with a broad smile. “The beggars!” he said. “You must be their lord!”
The short man frowned. “No, I’m no lord—First Citizen, though my father hardly thinks I’m worth the title, I’ll say that. Come, lords. We really haven’t much time. Lord Aredor said that you’d—”
“Lord Aredor?” Renarin said, stepping forward. “You know my brother?”
“Yes, yes. He said you might follow him. He told me that if you did arrive, I was to bring you down the river, but really—we haven’t any time!”
Renarin looked to Merin, then started after the excitable man. Merin followed more suspiciously. “You say Aredor told you we were coming?” he asked.
“He said you might come, my lord,” the man said. “He didn’t know. He thought you might follow—especially you, Lord Merin. He told us to watch for either of you, indeed he did. I am Selsen, a man well-trusted by Lord Aredor, if I might say. Now, to the docks!”
Merin and Renarin followed curiously, leaving behind the market for the equally-busy—yet far less cacophonous—dockside. Their round-bellied guide moved with surprising speed as he wove through the crowd toward a particularly run-down riverhouse.
“What do you make of this?” Merin said, catching up to Renarin.
The younger Kholin simply shrugged. “It sounds like Aredor to try and take care of us, even when he’s not around. He was right to suspect that we might follow him.”
The Way of Kings Prime Page 49