Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
It was still busy out, reminding her of Kharbranth, with its midnight markets. That made sense. Neither sun nor moon could penetrate to these halls; it was easy to lose track of time. Beyond that, while most people had been put immediately to work, many of the soldiers had free time without plateau runs to do any longer.
Shallan asked around, and managed to get pointed toward All’s Alley. “The Stormlight made me sober,” she said to Pattern, who had crawled up her coat and now dimpled her collar, folded over the top.
“Healed you of poison.”
“That will be useful.”
“Mmmm. I thought you’d be angry. You drank the poison on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but the point wasn’t to get drunk.”
He buzzed in confusion. “Then why drink it?”
“It’s complicated,” Shallan said. She sighed. “I didn’t do a very good job in there.”
“Of getting drunk? Mmm. You gave it a good effort.”
“As soon as I got drunk, as soon as I lost control, Veil slipped away from me.”
“Veil is just a face.”
No. Veil was a woman who didn’t giggle when she got drunk, or whine, fanning her mouth when the drink was too hard for her. She never acted like a silly teenager. Veil hadn’t been sheltered, practically locked away, until she went crazy and murdered her own family.
Shallan stopped in place, suddenly frantic. “My brothers. Pattern, I didn’t kill them, right?”
“What?” he said.
“I talked to Balat over spanreed,” Shallan said, hand to her forehead. “But … I had Lightweaving then … even if I didn’t fully know it. I could have fabricated that. Every message from him. My own memories…”
“Shallan,” Pattern said, sounding concerned. “No. They live. Your brothers live. Mraize said he rescued them. They are on their way here. This isn’t the lie.” His voice grew smaller. “Can’t you tell?”
She adopted Veil again, her pain fading. “Yes. Of course I can tell.” She started forward again.
“Shallan,” Pattern said. “This is … mmm … there is something wrong with these lies you place upon yourself. I don’t understand it.”
“I just need to go deeper,” she whispered. “I can’t be Veil only on the surface.”
Pattern buzzed with a soft, anxious vibration—fast paced, high pitched. Veil hushed him as she reached All’s Alley. A strange name for a tavern, but she had seen stranger. It wasn’t an alley at all, but a big set of five tents sewn together, each a different color. It glowed dimly from within.
A bouncer stood out front, short and squat, with a scar running up his cheek, across his forehead, and onto his scalp. He gave Veil a critical looking-over, but didn’t stop her as she sauntered—full of confidence—into the tent. It smelled worse than the other pub, with all these drunken people crammed together. The tents had been sewn to create partitioned-off areas, darkened nooks—and a few had tables and chairs instead of boxes. The people who sat at them didn’t wear the simple clothing of workers, but instead leathers, rags, or unbuttoned military coats.
Both richer than the other tavern, Veil thought, and lower at the same time.
She rambled through the room, which—despite oil lamps on some tables—was quite dim. The “bar” was a plank set across some boxes, but they’d draped a cloth over the middle. A few people waited for drinks; Veil ignored them. “What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?” she asked the barkeep, a fat man in a takama. She thought he might be lighteyed. It was too dim to tell for certain.
He looked her over. “Veden saph, single barrel.”
“Right,” Veil said dryly. “If I wanted water, I’d go to the well. Surely you’ve got something stronger.”
The barkeep grunted, then reached behind himself and took out a jug of something clear, with no label. “Horneater white,” he said, thumping it down on the table. “I have no idea what they ferment to make the stuff, but it takes paint off real nicely.”
“Perfect,” Veil said, clacking a few spheres onto the improvised counter. The others in line had been shooting her glares for ignoring the line, but at this their expressions turned to amusement.
The barkeep poured Veil a very small cup of the stuff and set it before her. She downed it in one gulp. Shallan trembled inside at the burning that followed—the immediate warmth to her cheeks and almost instant sense of nausea, accompanied by a tremor through her muscles as she tried to resist throwing up.
Veil was expecting all this. She held her breath to stifle the nausea, and relished the sensations. No worse than the pains already inside, she thought, warmth radiating through her.
“Great,” she said. “Leave the jug.”
Those idiots beside the bar continued to gawk as she poured another cup of the Horneater white and downed it, feeling its warmth. She turned to inspect the tent’s occupants. Who to approach first? Aladar’s scribes had checked watch records for anyone else killed the same way as Sadeas, and they’d come up empty—but a killing in an alleyway might not get reported. She hoped that the people here would know of it regardless.
She poured some more of that Horneater drink. Though it was even fouler-tasting than the Veden saph, she found something strangely appealing about it. She downed the third cup, but drew in a tiny bit of Stormlight from a sphere in her pouch—just a smidge that instantly burned away and didn’t make her glow—to heal herself.
“What are you looking at?” she said, eyeing the people in line at the bar.
They turned away as the bartender moved to put a stopper on the jug. Veil put her hand on top of it. “I’m not done with that yet.”
“You are,” the bartender said, brushing her hand away. “One of two things is going to happen if you continue like that. You’ll either puke all over my bar, or you’ll drop dead. You’re not a Horneater; this will kill you.”
“That’s my problem.”
“The mess is mine,” the barkeep said, yanking the jug back. “I’ve seen your type, with that haunted look. You’ll get yourself drunk, then pick a fight. I don’t care what it is you want to forget; go find some other place to do it.”
Veil cocked an eyebrow. Getting kicked out of the most disreputable bar in the market? Well, at least her reputation wouldn’t suffer here.
She caught the barkeep’s arm as he pulled it back. “I’m not here to tear your bar down, friend,” she said softly. “I’m here about a murder. Someone who was killed here a few days back.”
The barkeep froze. “Who are you? You with the guard?”
“Damnation, no!” Veil said. Story. I need a cover story. “I’m hunting the man who killed my little sister.”
“And that has to do with my bar how?”
“I’ve heard rumors of a body found near here.”
“A grown woman,” the barkeep said. “So not your sister.”
“My sister didn’t die here,” Veil said. “She died back in the warcamps; I’m just hunting the one who did it.” She hung on as the barkeep tried to pull away again. “Listen. I’m not going to make trouble. I just need information. I hear there were … unusual circumstances about this death. This rumored death. The man who killed my sister, he has something strange about him. He kills in the same way every time. Please.”
The barkeep met her eyes. Let him see, Veil thought. Let him see a woman with a hard edge, but wounds inside. A story reflected in her eyes—a narrative she needed this man to believe.
“The one who did it,” the barkeep said softly, “has already been dealt with.”
“I need to know if your murderer is the same one I’ve been hunting,” Veil said. “I need details of the killing, however gruesome they may be.”
“I can’t say anything,” the barkeep whispered, but he nodded toward one of the alcoves made from the stitched-together tents, where shadows indicated some people were drinking. “They might.”
“Who are they?”
“Just your everyday, ordinary thugs,” the barkeep sai
Veil nodded in thanks, but didn’t let go of his arm. She tapped her cup and cocked her head hopefully. The barkeep sighed and gave her one more hit of the Horneater white, which she paid for, then sipped as she walked away.
The alcove he’d indicated held a single table full of a variety of ruffians. The men wore the clothing of the Alethi upper crust: jackets and stiff uniform-style trousers, belts and buttoned shirts. Here, their jackets were undone, their shirts loose. Two of the women even wore the havah, though another was in trousers and a jacket, not too different from what Veil wore. The whole group reminded her of Tyn in the way they lounged in an almost deliberate way. It took effort to look so indifferent.
There was an unoccupied seat, so Veil strolled right in and took it. The lighteyed woman across from her hushed a jabbering man by touching his lips. She wore the havah, but without a safehand sleeve—instead, she wore a glove with the fingers brazenly cut off at the knuckles.
“That’s Ur’s seat,” the woman said to Veil. “When he gets back from the pisser, you’d best have moved on.”
“Then I’ll be quick,” Veil said, downing the rest of her drink, savoring the warmth. “A woman was found dead here. I think the murderer might have also killed someone dear to me. I’ve been told the murderer was ‘dealt with,’ but I need to know for myself.”
“Hey,” said a foppish man wearing a blue jacket, with slits in the outer layer to show yellow underneath. “You’re the one that was drinking the Horneater white. Old Sullik only keeps that jug as a joke.”
The woman in the havah laced her fingers before herself, inspecting Veil.
“Look,” Veil said, “just tell me what the information will cost me.”
“One can’t buy,” the woman said, “what isn’t for sale.”
“Everything is for sale,” Veil said, “if you ask the right way.”
“Which you’re not doing.”
“Look,” Veil said, trying to catch the woman’s eyes. “Listen. My kid sister, she—”
A hand fell on Shallan’s shoulder, and she looked up to find an enormous Horneater man standing behind her. Storms, he had to be nearly seven feet tall.
“This,” he said, drawing out the i sound to an e instead, “is my spot.”
He pulled Veil off the chair, tossing her backward to roll on the ground, her cup tumbling away, her satchel twisting and getting wound up in her arms. She came to a rest, blinking as the large man sat on the chair. She felt she could hear its soul groaning in protest.
Veil growled, then stood up. She yanked off her satchel and dropped it, then removed a handkerchief and the knife from inside. This knife was narrow and pointed, long but thinner than the one on her belt.
She picked up her hat and dusted it off before replacing it and strolling back up to the table. Shallan disliked confrontation, but Veil loved it.
“Well, well,” she said, resting her safehand on the top of the large Horneater’s left hand, which was lying flat on the tabletop. She leaned down beside him. “You say it’s your place, but I don’t see it marked with your name.”
The Horneater stared at her, confused by the strangely intimate gesture of putting her safehand on his hand.
“Let me show you,” she said, removing her knife and placing the point onto the back of her hand, which was pressed against his.
“What is this?” he asked, sounding amused. “You put on an act, being tough? I have seen men pretend—”
Veil rammed the knife down through her hand, through his, and into the tabletop. The Horneater screamed, whipping his hand upward, making Veil pull the knife out of both hands. The man toppled out of his chair as he scrambled away from her.
Veil settled down in it again. She took the cloth from her pocket and wrapped it around her bleeding hand. That would obscure the cut when she healed it.
Which she didn’t do at first. It would need to be seen bleeding. Instead—a part of her surprised at how calm she remained—she retrieved her knife, which had fallen beside the table.
“You’re crazy!” the Horneater said, recovering his feet, holding his bleeding hand. “You’re ana’kai crazy.”
“Oh wait,” Veil said, tapping the table with her knife. “Look, I see your mark here, in blood. Ur’s seat. I was wrong.” She frowned. “But mine’s here too. Suppose you can sit in my lap, if you want.”
“I’ll throttle you!” Ur said, shooting a glare at the people in the main room of the tent, who had crowded around the entrance to this smaller room, whispering. “I’ll—”
“Quiet, Ur,” the woman in the havah said.
He sputtered. “But Betha!”
“You think,” the woman said to Veil, “assaulting my friends is going to make me more likely to talk?”
“Honestly, I just wanted the seat back.” Veil shrugged, scratching at the tabletop with her knife. “But if you want me to start hurting people, I suppose I could do that.”
“You really are crazy,” Betha said.
“No. I just don’t consider your little group a threat.” She continued scratching. “I’ve tried being nice, and my patience is running thin. It’s time to tell me what I want to know before this turns ugly.”
Betha frowned, then glanced at what Veil had scratched into the tabletop. Three interlocking diamonds.
The symbol of the Ghostbloods.
Veil gambled that the woman would know what it meant. They seemed the type who would—small-time thugs, yes, but ones with a presence in an important market. Veil wasn’t certain how secretive Mraize and his people were with their symbol, but the fact that they got it tattooed on their bodies indicated to her that it wasn’t supposed to be terribly secret. More a warning, like cremlings who displayed red claws to indicate they were poisonous.
Indeed, the moment Betha saw the symbol, she gasped softly. “We … we want nothing to do with your type,” Betha said. One of the men at the table stood up, trembling, and looked from side to side, as if expecting assassins to tackle him right then.
Wow, Veil thought. Even cutting the hand of one of their members hadn’t provoked this strong a reaction.
Curiously though, one of the other women at the table—a short, younger woman wearing a havah—leaned forward, interested.
“The murderer,” Veil said. “What happened to him?”
“We had Ur drop him off the plateau outside,” Betha said. “But … how could this be a man you would be interested in? It was just Ned.”
“Ned?”
“Drunk, from Sadeas’s camp,” said one of the men. “Angry drunk; always got into trouble.”
“Killed his wife,” Betha said. “Pity too, after she followed him all the way out here. Guess none of us had much choice, with that crazy storm. But still…”
“And this Ned,” Veil said, “murdered his wife with a knife through the eye?”
“What? No, he strangled her. Poor bastard.”
Strangled? “That’s it?” Veil said. “No knife wounds?”
Betha shook her head, seeming confused.
Stormfather, Veil thought. So it was a dead end? “But I heard that the murder was strange.”
“No,” the standing man said, then settled back down beside Betha, knife out. He set it on the table, in front of them. “We knew Ned would go too far at some point. Everyone did. I don’t think any of us was surprised when, after she tried to drag him away from the tavern that night, he finally went over the edge.”
Literally, Shallan thought. At least once Ur got hold of him.
“It appears,” Veil said, standing up, “that I have wasted your time. I will leave spheres with the barkeep; your tab is my debt, tonight.” She spared a glance for Ur, who hunched nearby and regarded her with a sullen ex
She hovered just inside it, contemplating her next move. Her hand throbbed, but she ignored it. Dead end. Perhaps she’d been foolish to think she could solve in a few hours what Adolin had spent weeks trying to crack.
“Oh, don’t look so sullen, Ur,” Betha said from behind, voice drifting out of the tent alcove. “At least it was just your hand. Considering who that was, it could have been a lot worse.”
“But why was she so interested in Ned?” Ur said. “Is she going to come back because I killed him?”
“She wasn’t after him,” one of the other women snapped. “Didn’t you listen? Ain’t nobody that cares Ned killed poor Rem.” She paused. “Course, it could have been about the other woman he killed.”
Veil felt a shock run through her. She spun, striding back into the alcove. Ur whimpered, hunching down and holding his wounded hand.
“There was another murder?” Veil demanded.
“I…” Betha licked her lips. “I was going to tell you, but you left so fast that—”
“Just talk.”
“We’d have let the watch take care of Ned, but he couldn’t leave it at killing just poor Rem.”
“He killed another person?”
Betha nodded. “One of the barmaids here. That we couldn’t let pass. We protect this place, you see. So Ur had to take a long walk with Ned.”
The man with the knife rubbed his chin. “Strangest thing, that he’d come back and kill a barmaid the next night. Left her body right around the corner from where he killed poor Rem.”
“He screamed the whole time we were taking him to his fall that he hadn’t killed the second one,” Ur muttered.
“He did,” Betha said. “That barmaid was strangled the exact same way as Rem, body dropped in the same position. Even had the marks of his ring scraping her chin like Rem did.” Her light brown eyes had a hollow cast to them, like she was staring at the body again, as it had been found. “Exact same marks. Uncanny.”
Another double murder, Veil thought. Storms. What does it mean?