The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

“You are late, traveler,” said tall, stiff Blunt. He had the build and air of a soldier, though none of the three carried weapons.

Ishikk frowned, sitting and reluctantly pulling his feet out of the water. “Isn’t it warli-day?”

“The day is right, friend,” Grump said. “But we were to meet at noon. Understand?” He generally did most of the talking.

“We’re close to that,” Ishikk said. Honestly. Who paid attention to what hour it was? Foreigners. Always so busy.

Grump just shook his head as Maib brought them some soup. Her place was the closest thing the village had to an inn. She left Ishikk a soft cloth napkin and nice cup of sweet wine, trying to balance that fish as quickly as possible.

“Very well,” Grump said. “Let us have your report, friend.”

“I’ve been by Fu Ralis, Fu Namir, Fu Albast, and Fu Moorin this month,” Ishikk said, taking a slurp of soup. “Nobody has seen this man you search for.”

“You asked right questions?” Blunt said. “You are certain?”

“Of course I’m certain,” Ishikk said. “I have been doing this for ages now.”

“Five months,” Blunt corrected. “And no results.”

Ishikk shrugged. “You wish me to make up stories? Vun Makak would like me to do that.”

“No, no stories, friend,” Grump said. “We want only the truth.”

“Well, I’ve given it to you.”

“You swear it by Nu Ralik, that god of yours?”

“Hush!” Ishikk said. “Don’t say his name. Are you idiots?”

Grump frowned. “But he is your god. Understand? Is his name holy? Not to be spoken?”

Foreigners were so stupid. Of course Nu Ralik was their god, but you always pretended that he wasn’t. Vun Makak—his younger, spiteful brother—had to be tricked into thinking you worshipped him, otherwise he’d get jealous. It was only safe to speak of these things in a holy grotto.

“I swear it by Vun Makak,” Ishikk said pointedly. “May he watch over me and curse me as he pleases. I have looked diligently. No foreigner like this one you mention—with his white hair, clever tongue, and arrowlike face—has been seen.”

“He dyes his hair sometimes,” Grump said. “And wears disguises.”

“I’ve asked, using the names you gave me,” Ishikk said. “Nobody has seen him. Now, perhaps I could find you a fish that could locate him.” Ishikk rubbed his stubbly chin. “I’ll bet a stumpy cort could do it. Might take me a while to find one, though.”

The three looked at him. “There may be something to these fish, you know,” Blunt said.

“Superstition,” Grump replied. “You always look for superstition, Vao.”

Vao wasn’t the man’s real name; Ishikk was sure they used fake names. That was why he used his own names for them. If they were going to give him fake names, he’d give them fake names back.

“And you, Temoo?” Blunt snapped. “We can’t pontificate our way to—”

“Gentlemen,” Thinker said. He nodded to Ishikk, who was still slurping his soup. All three of them switched to another language and continued their argument.

Ishikk listened with half an ear, trying to determine what language it was. He never had been good with other kinds of languages. Why did he need them? Didn’t help with fishing or selling fish.

He had searched for their man. He got around a lot, visited a lot of places around the Purelake. It was one of the reasons why he didn’t want to be caught by Maib. He’d have to settle down, and that wasn’t good for catching fish. Not the rare ones, at least.

He didn’t bother wondering why they were looking for this Hoid, whoever he was. Foreigners were always looking for things they couldn’t have. Ishikk sat back, dangling his toes in the water. That felt good. Eventually, they finished their argument. They gave him some more instructions, handed him a pouch of spheres, and stepped down into the water.

Like most foreigners, they wore thick boots that came all the way up to their knees. They splashed in the water as they walked to the entrance. Ishikk followed, waving to Maib and picking up his buckets. He’d be back later in the day for an evening meal.

Maybe I should let her catch me, he thought, stepping back out into the sunlight and sighing in relief. Nu Ralik knows I’m getting old. Might be nice to relax.

His foreigners splashed down into the Purelake. Grump was last. He seemed very dissatisfied. “Where are you, Roamer? What a fool’s quest this is.” Then, he added in his own tongue, “Alavanta kamaloo kayana.”

He splashed after his companions.

“Well, you’ve got the ‘fool’ part right,” Ishikk said with a chuckle, turning his own direction and heading off to check on his traps.

Nan Balat liked killing things.

Not people. Never people. But animals, those he could kill.

Particularly the little ones. He wasn’t sure why it made him feel better; it simply did.

He sat on the porch of his mansion, pulling the legs off a small crab one at a time. There was a satisfying rip to each one—he pulled on it lightly at first, and the animal grew stiff. Then he pulled harder, and it started to squirm. The ligament resisted, then started ripping, followed by a quick pop. The crab squirmed some more, and Nan Balat held up the leg, pinching the beast with two fingers on his other hand.

He sighed in satisfaction. Ripping a leg free soothed him, made the aches in his body retreat. He tossed the leg over his shoulder and moved on to the next one.

He didn’t like to talk about his habit. He didn’t even speak of it to Eylita. It was just something he did. You had to keep your sanity somehow.

He finished with the legs, then stood up, leaning on his cane, looking out over the Davar gardens, which were made up of stonework walls covered with different kinds of vines. They were beautiful, though Shallan had been the only one who truly appreciated them. This area of Jah Keved—to the west and south of Alethkar, of higher elevation and broken by mountains such as the Horneater Peaks—had a profusion of vines. They grew on everything, covering the mansion, growing over the steps. Out in the wilds, they hung from trees, grew over rocky expanses, as ubiquitous as grass was in other areas of Roshar.

Balat walked to the edge of the porch. Some wild songlings began to sing in the distance, scraping their ridged shells. They each played a different beat and notes, though they couldn’t really be called melodies. Melodies were things of humans, not animals. But each one was a song, and at times they seemed to sing back and forth to one another.

Balat walked down the steps one at a time, the vines shaking and pulling away before his feet fell. It had been nearly six months since Shallan’s departure. This morning, they’d had word from her via spanreed that she’d succeeded in the first part of her plan, becoming Jasnah Kholin’s ward. And so, his baby sister—who before this had never left their estates—was preparing to rob the most important woman in the world.

Walking down the steps was depressingly hard work for him. Twenty-three years old, he thought, and already a cripple. He still felt a constant, latent ache. The break had been bad, and the surgeon had nearly decided to cut off the entire leg. Perhaps he could be thankful that hadn’t proven necessary, though he would always walk with a cane.