Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
Veil strolled through the corridor, carrying a small hand lamp for light, as a sphere would make her stand out. She passed evening crowds that kept the corridors of Sebarial’s quarter as busy as his warcamp had been. Things never seemed to slow down here as much as they did in Dalinar’s quarter.
The strangely mesmerizing strata of the corridors guided her out of Sebarial’s quarter. The number of people in the hallways slackened. Just Veil and those lonely, endless tunnels. She felt as if she could sense the weight of the other levels of the tower, empty and unexplored, bearing down on her. A mountain of unknown stone.
She hurried on her way, Pattern humming to himself from her coat.
“I like him,” Pattern said.
“Who?” Veil said.
“The swordsman,” Pattern said. “Mmm. The one you can’t mate with yet.”
“Can we please stop talking about him that way?”
“Very well,” Pattern said. “But I like him.”
“You hate his sword.”
“I have come to understand,” Pattern said, growing excited. “Humans … humans don’t care about the dead. You build chairs and doors out of corpses! You eat corpses! You make clothing from the skins of corpses. Corpses are things to you.”
“Well, I guess that’s true.” He seemed unnaturally excited by the revelation.
“It is grotesque,” he continued, “but you all must kill and destroy to live. It is the way of the Physical Realm. So I should not hate Adolin Kholin for wielding a corpse!”
“You just like him,” Veil said, “because he tells Radiant to respect the sword.”
“Mmm. Yes, very, very nice man. Wonderfully smart too.”
“Why don’t you marry him, then?”
Pattern buzzed. “Is that—”
“No that’s not an option.”
“Oh.” He settled down into a contented buzz on her coat, where he appeared as a strange kind of embroidery.
After a short time walking, Shallan found she needed to say something more. “Pattern. Do you remember what you said to me the other night, the first time … we became Radiant?”
“About dying?” Pattern asked. “It may be the only way, Shallan. Mmm … You must speak truths to progress, but you will hate me for making it happen. So I can die, and once done you can—”
“No. No, please don’t leave me.”
“But you hate me.”
“I hate myself too,” she whispered. “Just … please. Don’t go. Don’t die.”
Pattern seemed pleased by this, as his humming increased—though his sounds of pleasure and his sounds of agitation could be similar. For the moment, Veil let herself be distracted by the night’s quest. Adolin continued his efforts to find the murderer, but hadn’t gotten far. Aladar was Highprince of Information, and his policing force and scribes were a resource—but Adolin wanted badly to do as his father asked.
Veil thought that perhaps both were looking in the wrong places. She finally saw lights ahead and quickened her pace, eventually stepping out onto a walkway around a large cavernous room that stretched up several stories. She had reached the Breakaway: a vast collection of tents lit by many flickering candles, torches, or lanterns.
The market had sprung up shockingly fast, in defiance of Navani’s carefully outlined plans. Her idea had been for a grand thoroughfare with shops along the sides. No alleyways, no shanties or tents. Easily patrolled and carefully regulated.
The merchants had rebelled, complaining about lack of storage space, or the need to be closer to a well for fresh water. In reality, they wanted a larger market that was much harder to regulate. Sebarial, as Highprince of Commerce, had agreed. And despite having made a mess of his ledgers, he was sharp when it came to trade.
The chaos and variety of it excited Veil. Hundreds of people, despite the hour, attracting spren of a dozen varieties. Dozens upon dozens of tents of varied colors and designs. In fact, some weren’t tents at all, but were better described as stands—roped-off sections of ground guarded by a few burly men with cudgels. Others were actual buildings. Small stone sheds that had been built inside this cavern, here since the days of the Radiants.
Merchants from all ten original warcamps mixed at the Breakaway. She passed three different cobblers in a row; Veil had never understood why merchants selling the same things congregated. Wouldn’t it be better to set up where you wouldn’t have competition literally next door?
She packed away her hand lamp, as there was plenty of light here from the merchant tents and shops, and sauntered along. Veil felt more comfortable than she had in those empty, twisted corridors; here, life had gained a foothold. The market grew like the snarl of wildlife and plants on the leeward side of a ridge.
She made her way to the cavern’s central well: a large, round enigma that rippled with crem-free water. She’d never seen an actual well before—everyone normally used cisterns that refilled with the storms. The many wells in Urithiru, however, never ran out. The water level didn’t even drop, despite people constantly drawing from them.
Scribes talked about the possibility of a hidden aquifer in the mountains, but where would the water come from? Snows at the tops of the peaks nearby didn’t seem to melt, and rain fell very rarely.
Veil sat on the well’s side, one leg up, watching the people who came and went. She listened to the women chatter about the Voidbringers, about family back in Alethkar, and about the strange new storm. She listened to the men worry about being pressed into the military, or about their darkeyed nahn being lowered, now that there weren’t parshmen to do common work. Some lighteyed workers complained about supplies trapped back in Narak, waiting for Stormlight before they could be transferred here.
Veil eventually ambled off toward a particular row of taverns. I can’t interrogate too hard to get my answers, she thought. If I ask the wrong kind of questions, everyone will figure me for some kind of spy for Aladar’s policing force.
Veil. Veil didn’t hurt. She was comfortable, confident. She’d meet people’s eyes. She’d lift her chin in challenge to anyone who seemed to be sizing her up. Power was an illusion of perception.
Veil had her own kind of power, that of a lifetime spent on the streets knowing she could take care of herself. She had the stubbornness of a chull, and while she was cocky, that confidence was a power of its own. She got what she wanted and wasn’t embarrassed by success.
The first bar she chose was inside a large battle tent. It smelled of spilled lavis beer and sweaty bodies. Men and women laughed, using overturned crates as tables and chairs. Most wore simple darkeyed clothing: laced shirts—no money or time for buttons—and trousers or skirts. A few men dressed after an older fashion, with a wrap and a loose filmy vest that left the chest exposed.
This was a low-end tavern, and likely wouldn’t work for her needs. She’d need a place that was lower, yet somehow richer. More disreputable, but with access to the powerful members of the warcamp undergrounds.
Still, this seemed a good place to practice. The bar was made of stacked boxes and had some actual chairs beside it. Veil leaned against the “bar” in what she hoped was a smooth way, and nearly knocked the boxes over. She stumbled, catching them, then smiled sheepishly at the bartender—an old darkeyed woman with grey hair.
“What do you want?” the woman asked.
“Wine,” Veil said. “Sapphire.” The second most intoxicating. Let them see that Veil could handle the hard stuff.
“We got Vari, kimik, and a nice barrel of Veden. That one will cost you though.”
“Uh…” Adolin would have known the differences. “Give me the Veden.” Seemed appropriate.
The woman made her pay first, with dun spheres, but the cost didn’t seem outrageous. Sebarial wanted the liquor flowing—his suggested way to make sure tensions didn’t get too high in the tower—and had subsidized the prices with low taxes, for now.
While the woman worked behind her improvised bar, Veil suffered beneath the gaze of one of the
The barkeep plunked a cup in front of Veil—a tiny cup, with a clear liquid in it.
Veil scowled, holding it up. “You got mine wrong, barkeep; I ordered sapphire. What is this, water?”
The bouncer nearest Veil snickered, and the barkeep stopped in place, then looked her over. Apparently Shallan had already made one of those mistakes she’d been worried about.
“Kid,” the barkeep said, somehow leaning on the boxes near her and not knocking any over. “That’s the same stuff, just without the fancy infusions the lighteyes put in theirs.”
Infusions?
“You some kind of house servant?” the woman asked softly. “Out for your first night on your own?”
“Of course not,” Veil said. “I’ve done this a hundred times.”
“Sure, sure,” the woman replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It popped right back up. “You certain you want that? I might have some wines back here done with lighteyed colors, for you. In fact, I know I’ve got a nice orange.” She reached to reclaim the cup.
Veil seized it and knocked the entire thing back in a single gulp. That proved to be one of the worst mistakes of her life. The liquid burned, like it was on fire! She felt her eyes go wide, and she started coughing and almost threw up right there on the bar.
That was wine? Tasted more like lye. What was wrong with these people? There was no sweetness to it at all, not even a hint of flavor. Just that burning sensation, like someone was scraping her throat with a scouring brush! Her face immediately grew warm. It hit her so fast!
The bouncer was holding his face, trying—and failing—not to laugh out loud. The barkeep patted Shallan on the back as she kept coughing. “Here,” the woman said, “let me get you something to chase that—”
“No,” Shallan croaked. “I’m just happy to be able to drink this … again after so long. Another. Please.”
The barkeep seemed skeptical, though the bouncer was all for it—he’d settled down on the stool to watch Shallan, grinning. Shallan placed a sphere on the bar, defiant, and the barkeep reluctantly filled her cup again.
By now, three or four other people from nearby seats had turned to watch. Lovely. Shallan braced herself, then drank the wine in a long, extended gulp.
It wasn’t any better the second time. She held for a moment, eyes watering, then let out an explosion of coughing. She ended up hunched over, shaking, eyes squeezed closed. She was pretty sure she let out a long squeak as well.
Several people in the tent clapped. Shallan looked back at the amused barkeep, her eyes watering. “That was awful,” she said, then coughed. “You really drink this dreadful liquid?”
“Oh, hon,” the woman said. “That’s not nearly as bad as they get.”
Shallan groaned. “Well, get me another.”
“You sure—”
“Yes,” Shallan said with a sigh. She probably wasn’t going to be establishing a reputation for herself tonight—at least not the type she wanted. But she could try to accustom herself to drinking this cleaning fluid.
Storms. She was already feeling lighter. Her stomach did not like what she was doing to it, and she shoved down a bout of nausea.
Still chuckling, the bouncer moved a seat closer to her. He was a younger man, with hair cut so short it stood up on end. He was as Alethi as they came, with a deep tan skin and a dusting of black scrub on his chin.
“You should try sipping it,” he said to her. “Goes down easier in sips.”
“Great. That way I can savor the terrible flavor. So bitter! Wine is supposed to be sweet.”
“Depends on how you make it,” he said as the barkeep gave Shallan another cup. “Sapphire can sometimes be distilled tallew, no natural fruit in it—just some coloring for accent. But they don’t serve the really hard stuff at lighteyed parties, except to people who know how to ask for it.”
“You know your alcohol,” Veil said. The room shook for a moment before settling. Then she tried another drink—a sip this time.
“It comes with the job,” he said with a broad smile. “I work a lot of fancy events for the lighteyes, so I know my way around a place with tablecloths instead of boxes.”
Veil grunted. “They need bouncers at fancy lighteyed events?”
“Sure,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “You just have to know how to ‘escort’ someone out of the feast hall, instead of throwing them out. It’s actually easier.” He cocked his head. “But strangely, more dangerous at the same time.” He laughed.
Kelek, Veil realized as he scooted closer. He’s flirting with me.
She probably shouldn’t have found it so surprising. She’d come in alone, and while Shallan would never have described Veil as “cute,” she wasn’t ugly. She was kind of normal, if rugged, but she dressed well and obviously had money. Her face and hands were clean, her clothing—while not rich silks—a generous step up from worker garb.
Initially she was offended by his attention. Here she’d gone to all this trouble to make herself capable and hard as rocks, and the first thing she did was attract some guy? One who cracked his knuckles and tried to tell her how to drink her alcohol?
Just to spite him, she downed the rest of her cup in a single shot.
She immediately felt guilty for her annoyance at the man. Shouldn’t she be flattered? Granted, Adolin could have destroyed this man in any conceivable way. Adolin even cracked his knuckles louder.
“So…” the bouncer said. “Which warcamp you from?”
“Sebarial,” Veil said.
The bouncer nodded, as if he’d expected that. Sebarial’s camp had been the most eclectic. They chatted a little longer, mostly with Shallan making the odd comment while the bouncer—his name was Jor—went off on various stories with many tangents. Always smiling, often boasting.
He wasn’t too bad, though he didn’t seem to care what she actually said, so long as it prompted him to keep talking. She drank some more of the terrible liquid, but found her mind wandering.
These people … they each had lives, families, loves, dreams. Some slumped at their boxes, lonely, while others laughed with friends. Some kept their clothing, poor though it was, reasonably clean—others were stained with crem and lavis ale. Several of them reminded her of Tyn, the way they talked with confidence, the way their interactions were a subtle game of one-upping each other.
Jor paused, as if expecting something from her. What … what had he been saying? Following him was getting harder, as her mind drifted.
“Go on,” she said.
He smiled, and launched into another story.
I’m not going to be able to imitate this, she thought, leaning against her box, until I’ve lived it. No more than I could draw their lives without having walked among them.
The barkeep came back with the bottle, and Shallan nodded. That last cup hadn’t burned nearly as much as the others.
“You … sure you want more?” the bouncer asked.
Storms … she was starting to feel really sick. She’d had four cups, yes, but they were little cups. She blinked, and turned.
The room spun in a blur, and she groaned, resting her head on the table. Beside her, the bouncer sighed.
“I could have told you that you were wasting your time, Jor,” the barkeep said. “This one will be out before the hour is done. Wonder what she’s trying to forget…”
“She’s just enjoying a little free time,” Jor said.
“Sure, sure. With eyes like those? I’m sure that’s it.” The barkeep moved away.
“Hey,” Jor said, nudging Shallan. “Where are you staying? I’ll call you a palanquin to car
“It’s … not even late yet…” Shallan mumbled.
“Late enough,” Jor said. “This place can get dangerous.”
“Yeaaah?” Shallan asked, a glimmer of memory waking inside of her. “People get stabbed?”
“Unfortunately,” Jor said.
“You know of some…?”
“Never happens here in this area, at least not yet.”
“Where? So I … so I can stay away…” Shallan said.
“All’s Alley,” he said. “Keep away from there. Someone got stabbed behind one of the taverns just last night there. They found him dead.”
“Real … real strange, eh?” Shallan asked.
“Yeah. You heard?” Jor shivered.
Shallan stood up to go, but the room upended about her, and she found herself slipping down beside her stool. Jor tried to catch her, but she hit the ground with a thump, knocking her elbow against the stone floor. She immediately sucked in a little Stormlight to help with the pain.
The cloud around her mind puffed away, and her vision stopped spinning. In a striking moment, her drunkenness simply vanished.
She blinked. Wow. She stood up without Jor’s help, dusting off her coat and then pulling her hair back away from her face. “Thanks,” she said, “but that’s exactly the information I need. Barkeep, we settled?”
The woman turned, then froze, staring at Shallan, pouring liquid into a cup until it overflowed.
Shallan picked up her cup, then turned it and shook the last drop into her mouth. “That’s good stuff,” she noted. “Thanks for the conversation, Jor.” She set a sphere on the boxes as a tip, pulled on her hat, then patted Jor fondly on the cheek before striding out of the tent.
“Stormfather!” Jor said from behind her. “Did I just get played for a fool?”