Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
Veil and Vathah had entered a small library lit by a few spheres in a goblet on the table. Vathah eyed them, but didn’t move—this infiltration was about far more than a few chips. Veil set down her pack and rummaged until she got out a notebook and charcoal pencil.
Veil took a deep breath, then let Shallan bleed back into existence. She quickly sketched Nananav from the glimpse earlier.
“I’m still amazed you were both of them, all along,” Vathah said. “You don’t act anything like one another.”
“That’s rather the point, Vathah.”
“I wish I’d picked it out myself.” He grunted, scratching the side of his head. “I like Veil.”
“Not me?”
“You’re my boss. I’m not supposed to like you.”
Straightforward, if rude. At least you always knew where you stood with him. He listened at the door, then cracked it open, tracking the guards. “All right. We go up the stairs, then come back along the second-floor walkway. We grab the goods, stuff them in the dumbwaiter, and make for the exit. Storms. I wish we could do this when nobody was awake.”
“What would be the fun of that?” Shallan finished her drawing with a flourish, then stood, poking Vathah in the side. “Admit it. You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m as nervous as a new recruit on his first day at war,” Vathah said. “My hands shake, and I swear every noise means someone spotted us. I feel sick.”
“See?” Shallan said. “Fun.” She pushed beside him and glanced out through the cracked door. Storming guards. They’d set up in the atrium nearby. They could undoubtedly hear the real Nananav’s voice from there, so if Shallan strolled out wearing the woman’s face, that would certainly cause alarm.
Time to get creative. Pattern buzzed as she considered. Make the waterfalls flow again? Illusions of strange spren? No … no, nothing so theatrical. Shallan was letting her sense of the dramatic run away with her.
Stay simple, as she’d done before. Veil’s way. She closed her eyes and breathed out, pressing the Light into Pattern, Lightweaving only sound—that of Nananav calling the guards into the room where she was lecturing Ishnah. Why come up with a new trick when the old ones worked fine? Veil didn’t feel the need to improvise merely to be different.
Pattern carried the illusion away, and the sound lured the guards off down the hall. Shallan led Vathah out of the library, then around the corner and up the steps. She breathed out Stormlight, which washed over her, and became Veil fully. Then Veil became the woman who was not quite Veil, with the dimples. And then, layered on top of that, she became Nananav.
Arrogant. Talkative. Certain that everyone around her was just looking for a reason not to do things properly. As they stepped onto the next floor, she adopted a calm, measured gait, eyeing the banister. When had that last been polished?
“I don’t find this fun,” Vathah said, walking beside her. “But I do like it.”
“Then it’s fun.”
“Fun is winning at cards. This is something else.”
He’d taken to his role earnestly, but she really should look at getting more refined servants. Vathah was like a hog in human clothing, always grunting and mulling about.
Why shouldn’t she be served by the best? She was a Knight Radiant. She shouldn’t have to put up with barely human deserters who looked like something Shallan would draw after a hard night drinking, and maybe while holding the pencil with her teeth.
The role is getting to you, a part of her whispered. Careful. She glanced about for Pattern, but he was still below.
They stopped at a second-floor room, locked tightly. The plan was for Pattern to open it, but she didn’t have the patience to wait. Besides, a master-servant was walking along.
He gave a bow when he saw Nananav.
“That is your bow?” Nananav said. “That quick bob? Where did they teach you that?”
“My apologies, Brightness,” the man said, bowing more deeply.
“I could cut your legs off at the knees,” Nananav said. “Then maybe you’d at least appear properly penitent.” She rapped on the door. “Open this.”
“Why—” He broke off, perhaps realizing she was not in a mood for complaints. He hurried forward and undid the combination lock on the door, then pulled it open for her, letting out air that smelled of spice.
“You may go do penance for your insult to me,” Nananav said. “Climb to the roof and sit there for exactly one hour.”
“Brightness, if I have offended—”
“If?” She pointed. “Go!”
He gave another bow—barely sufficient—and ran off.
“You might be overdoing that, Brightness,” Vathah said, rubbing his chin. “She has a reputation for being difficult, not insane.”
“Shut up,” Nananav said, striding into the room.
The mansion’s larder.
Racks of dried sausages covered one wall. Sacks of grain were stacked in the back, and boxes filled with longroots and other tubers covered the floor. Bags of spices. Small jugs of oil.
Vathah pulled the door closed, then hurriedly began stuffing sausages in a sack. Nananav wasn’t so hasty. This was a good place to keep it all, nice and locked up. Taking it elsewhere seemed … well, a crime.
Maybe she could move into Rockfall, act the part. And the former lady of the house? Well, she was an inferior version, obviously. Just deal with her, take her place. It would feel right, wouldn’t it?
With a chill, Veil let one layer of illusion drop. Storms … Storms. What had that been?
“Not to give offense, Brightness,” Vathah said, putting his sack of sausages in the dumbwaiter, “but you can stand there and supervise. Or you can storming help, and get twice as much food along with half as much ego.”
“Sorry,” Veil said, grabbing a sack of grain. “That woman’s head is a frightening place.”
“Well, I did say that Nananav is notoriously difficult.”
Yeah, Veil thought. But I was talking about Shallan.
They worked quickly, filling the large dumbwaiter—which was needed to take in large shipments from the delivery room below. They got all of the sausages, most of the longroots, and a few sacks of grain. Once the dumbwaiter was full, the two of them lowered the thing to the ground floor. They waited by the door, and fortunately Red started whistling. The ground floor was clear again. Not trusting herself with Nananav’s face, she stayed Veil as the two hurried out. Pattern waited outside, and he hummed, climbing her trousers.
On their way down, they passed a waterfall made of pure marble. Shallan would have loved to linger and marvel at the artful Soulcasting. Fortunately, Veil was running this operation. Shallan … Shallan got lost in things. She’d get focused on details, or stick her head in the clouds and dream about the big picture. That comfortable middle, that safe place of moderation, was unfamiliar ground to her.
They descended the steps, then joined Red at the damaged room and helped him carry a rolled-up carpet to the loading bay. She had Pattern quietly open the lock to the dumbwaiter down here, then sent him away to decoy a few servants who had been bringing wood into the bay. They pursued an image of a feral mink with a key in its mouth.
Together, Veil, Red, and Vathah unrolled the rug, filled it with sacks of food from the dumbwaiter, then rolled it back up and heaved it into their waiting wagon. The guards at the gate shouldn’t notice a few extra-bulgy carpets.
They fetched a second carpet, repeated the process, then started back. Veil, however, paused in the loading bay, right by the door. What was that on the ceiling? She cocked her head at the strange sight of pools of liquid, dripping down.
Angerspren, she realized. Collecting there and then boiling through the floor. The larder was directly above them.
“Run!” Veil said, spinning and bolting back toward the wagon. A second later, someone upstairs started shouting.
Veil scrambled into the wagon’s seat, then slapped the chull with the steering reed. Her team, joined by Ishnah, charged
Veil … Shallan slapped the large crab on the shell, urging it forward. But chulls went at chull speed. The wagon eased out into the courtyard, and ahead the gates were already closing.
“Storms!” Vathah said. He looked over his shoulder. “Is this part of the ‘fun’?”
Behind them, Nananav burst out of the building, her hair wobbling. “Stop them! Thieves!”
“Shallan?” Vathah asked. “Veil? Whoever you are? Storms, they have crossbows!”
Shallan breathed out.
The gates clanged shut ahead of them. Armed guards entered the small courtyard, weapons ready.
“Shallan!” Vathah cried.
She stood on the wagon, Stormlight swirling around her. The chull pulled to a stop, and she confronted the guards. The men stumbled to a halt, jaws dropping.
Behind, Nananav broke the silence. “What are you idiots doing? Why…”
She trailed off, then pulled up short as Shallan turned to look at her. Wearing the woman’s face.
Same hair. Same features. Same clothing. Mimicked right down to the attitude, with nose in the air. Shallan/Nananav raised her hands to the side, and spren burst from the ground around the wagon. Pools of blood, shimmering the wrong color, and boiling far too violently. Pieces of glass that rained down. Anticipationspren, like thin tentacles.
Shallan/Nananav let her image distort, features sliding off her face, dripping down like paint running down a wall. Ordinary Nananav screamed and fled back toward the building. One of the guards loosed his crossbow, and the bolt took Shallan/Nananav right in the head.
Bother.
Her vision went dark for a moment, and she had a flash of panic remembering her stabbing in the palace. But why should she care if actual painspren joined the illusory ones around her? She righted herself and looked back toward the soldiers, her face melting, the crossbow bolt sticking from her temple.
The guards ran.
“Vathah,” she said, “plesh open sha gate.” Her mouth didn’t work right. How odd.
Vathah didn’t move, so she glared at him.
“Gah!” he shouted, scrambling back and stumbling across one of the rugs in the bed of the wagon. He fell down beside Red, who was surrounded by fearspren, like globs of goo. Even Ishnah looked as if she’d seen a Voidbringer.
Shallan let the illusions go, all of them, right down to Veil. Just normal, everyday Veil. “Itsh all right,” Veil said. “Jush illushionsh. Go, open sha gatesh.”
Vathah heaved himself out of the wagon and ran for the gates.
“Um, Veil?” Red said. “That crossbow bolt … the blood is staining your outfit.”
“I wash going to shrow it away regardlesh,” she said, settling back down, growing more comfortable as Pattern rejoined the wagon and scuttled across the seat to her. “I’ve got a new outfit almosht ready.”
At this rate, she’d have to buy them in bulk.
They maneuvered the wagon out the gates, then picked up Vathah. No guards gave pursuit, and Veil’s mind … drifted as they pulled away.
That … that crossbow bolt was getting annoying. She couldn’t feel her safehand. Bother. She poked at the bolt; it seemed that her Stormlight had healed her head around the wound. She gritted her teeth and tried to pull it out, but the thing was jammed in there. Her vision blurred again.
“I’m going to need shome help, boysh,” she said, pointing at it and drawing in more Stormlight.
She blacked out entirely when Vathah pulled it free. She came to a short time later, slumped in the front seat of the wagon. When she brushed the side of her head with her fingers, she found no hole.
“You worry me sometimes,” Vathah said, steering the chull with a reed.
“I do what needs to be done,” Veil said, relaxing back and setting her feet up on the front of the wagon. Was it only her imagination, or did the people lining the streets today look hungrier than they had previous days? Hungerspren buzzed about the heads of the people, like black specks, or little flies of the type you could find sometimes on rotting plants. Children cried in the laps of exhausted mothers.
Veil turned away, ashamed, thinking of the food she had hidden in the wagon. How much good could she do with all of that? How many tears could she dry, how many of the hungry cries of children could she silence?
Steady …
Infiltrating the Cult of Moments was a greater good than feeding a few mouths now. She needed this food to buy her way in. To investigate … the Heart of the Revel, as Wit had called it.
Veil didn’t know much of the Unmade. She’d never paid attention to the ardents on important matters, let alone when they spoke of old folktales and stories of Voidbringers. Shallan knew little more, and wanted to find a book about the subject, of course.
Last night, Veil had returned to the inn where Shallan had met with the King’s Wit, and while he hadn’t been there, he’d left a message for her.
I’m still trying to get you a contact among the cult’s highers. Everyone I talk to merely says, “Do something to get their attention.” I would, but I’m certain that violating the city’s indecency laws would be unwise, even considering the lack of a proper watch.
Do something to get their attention. They seemed to have their fingers in everything, in this city. Kind of like the Ghostbloods. Watching secretly.
Maybe she didn’t need to wait for Wit. And maybe she could solve two problems at once.
“Take us to the Ringington Market,” she said to Vathah, naming the market closest to the tailor’s shop.
“Aren’t we going to unload the food before we return the wagon to that merchant?”
“Of course we are,” she said.
He eyed her, but when she didn’t explain further, he turned the wagon as she directed. Veil took her hat and coat from the back of the wagon and pulled them on, then covered the bloodstains on her shirt with a Lightweaving.
She had Vathah pull up to a specific building in the market. When they stopped, refugees peeked into the wagon bed, but saw only rugs—and they scattered when Vathah glared at them.
“Guard the wagon,” Veil said, digging out a small sack of food. She hopped down and went sauntering toward the building. The roof had been ruined by the Everstorm, making it a perfect place for squatters. She found Grund inside the main room, as usual.
She’d returned several times during her time in the city, getting information from Grund—who was the grimy little urchin she’d bribed with food on her first day in the market. He seemed to always be hanging around here, and Veil was well aware of the value of having a local urchin to ply for information.
Today, he was alone in the room. The other beggars were out hunting food. Grund drew on a little board with charcoal, using his one good hand, the deformed one hidden in his pocket. He perked up as soon as he saw her. He’d stopped running away; it seemed that city urchins got concerned when someone was actively looking for them.
That changed when they knew you had food.
He tried to look uninterested until Veil dropped the sack in front of him. A sausage peeked out. Then, his dark eyes practically bulged out of his face.
“An entire sack?” Grund asked.
“It was a good day,” Veil said, squatting down. “Any news for me on those books?”
“Nope,” he said, poking the sausage—as if to see whether she’d suddenly snatch it back. “I ain’t heard nothing.”
“Let me know if you do. In the meantime, do you know of anyone who could use a little extra food? People who are particularly nice or deserving, but who get overlooked by the grain rationing?”
He eyed her, trying to determine her angle.
“I’ve got extra to give away,” Veil explained.
“You’re going to give them food.” He said it as if it was as rational as making cremlings fall from the sky.
“Surely I’m not the first. The palace used to give food to the poor,
“That’s a thing that kings do. Not regular people.” He looked her up and down. “But you aren’t regular people.”
“I’m not.”
“Well … Muri the seamstress has always been nice to me. She’s got lots of kids. Having trouble feedin’ them. She has a hovel over by the old bakery that burned down on that first Evernight. And the refugee kids that live in the park over on Moonlight Way. They’re just little, you know? Nobody to watch for them. And Jom, the cobbler. He broke his arm … You wanna write this down or something?”
“I’ll remember.”
He shrugged and gave her an extensive list. She thanked him, then reminded him to keep looking for the book she’d asked for. Ishnah had visited some booksellers on Shallan’s orders, and one had mentioned a title called Mythica, a newer volume that spoke of the Unmade. The bookseller had owned a copy, but his shop had been robbed during the riots. Hopefully, someone in the underground knew where his goods had gone.
Veil had a spring to her step as she walked back to the wagon. The cult wanted her to get their attention? Well, she’d get their attention. She doubted Grund’s list was unbiased, but stopping right in the middle of the market and heaving out sacks seemed likely to incite a riot. This was as good a method to give away the food as any.
Muri the seamstress proved to indeed be a woman with many children and little means of feeding them. The children in the park were right where Grund had indicated. Veil left a heap of food for them, then walked away as they scrambled up to it in amazement.
By the fourth stop, Vathah had figured it out. “You’re going to give it all away, aren’t you?”
“Not all,” Veil said, lounging in her seat as they rolled toward the next destination.
“What about paying the Cult of Moments?”
“We can always steal more. First, my contact says we have to get their attention. I figure, a crazy woman in white riding through the market throwing out sacks of food is bound to do that.”
“You’ve got the crazy part right, at least.”
Veil slipped her hand back into a rolled-up carpet, and pulled out a sausage for him. “Eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”