“Winds are changing,” Wit whispered.
Dalinar glanced at him.
Wit’s eyes narrowed, and he scanned the night sky. “It’s been happening for months now. A whirlwind. Shifting and churning, blowing us round and around. Like a world spinning, but we can’t see it because we’re too much a part of it.”
“World spinning. What foolishness is this?”
“The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar,” Wit said. “And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first—but also exploit the first—while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second.”
“Wit,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “I haven’t the mind for this tonight. I’m sorry if I’m missing your intent, but I have no idea what you mean.”
“I know,” Wit said, then looked directly at him. “Adonalsium.”
Dalinar frowned more deeply. “What?”
Wit searched his face. “Have you ever heard the term, Dalinar?”
“Ado…what?”
“Nothing,” Wit said. He seemed preoccupied, unlike his usual self. “Nonsense. Balderdash. Figgldygrak. Isn’t it odd that gibberish words are often the sounds of other words, cut up and dismembered, then stitched into something like them—yet wholly unlike them at the same time?”
Dalinar frowned.
“I wonder if you could do that to a man. Pull him apart, emotion by emotion, bit by bit, bloody chunk by bloody chunk. Then combine them back together into something else, like a Dysian Aimian. If you do put a man together like that, Dalinar, be sure to name him Gibberish, after me. Or perhaps Gibletish.”
“Is that your name, then? Your real name?”
“No, my friend,” Wit said, standing up. “I’ve abandoned my real name. But when next we meet, I’ll think of a clever one for you to call me. Until then, Wit will suffice—or if you must, you may call me Hoid. Watch yourself; Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Farewell. I’m sorry I didn’t insult you more.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“I must. I hope to return. I’ll do so if I’m not killed. Probably will anyway. Apologize to your nephew for me.”
“He won’t be happy,” Dalinar said. “He’s fond of you.”
“Yes, it’s one of his more admirable traits,” Wit said. “Alongside that of paying me, letting me eat his expensive food, and giving me opportunity to make sport of his friends. The cosmere, unfortunately, takes precedence over free food. Watch yourself, Dalinar. Life becomes dangerous, and you’re at the center of it.”
Wit nodded once, then ducked into the night. He put his hood up, and soon Dalinar couldn’t separate him from the darkness.
Dalinar turned back to his meal. Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Wit was rarely wrong—though he was almost always odd. Was he really leaving, or would he still be in camp the next morning, laughing at the prank he had played on Dalinar?
No, Dalinar thought. That wasn’t a prank. He waved over a master-servant in black and white. “Fetch my elder son for me.”
The servant bowed and withdrew. Dalinar ate the rest of his food in silence, glancing occasionally at Sadeas and Elhokar. They weren’t at the dining table any longer, and so Sadeas’s wife had joined them. Ialai was a curvaceous woman who reportedly dyed her hair. That indicated foreign blood in her family’s past—Alethi hair always bred true, proportionate to how much Alethi blood you had. Foreign blood would mean stray hairs of another color. Ironically, mixed blood was far more common in lighteyes than darkeyes. Darkeyes rarely married foreigners, but the Alethi houses often needed alliances or money from outside.
Food finished, Dalinar stepped down from the king’s table onto the island proper. The woman was still playing her melancholy song. She was quite good. A few moments later, Adolin strode onto the king’s island. He hurried over to Dalinar. “Father? You sent for me?”
“Stay close. Wit told me that Sadeas plans to make a storm of something tonight.”
Adolin’s expression darkened. “Time to go, then.”
“No. We need to let this play out.”
“Father—”
“But you may prepare,” Dalinar said softly. “Just in case. You invited officers of our guard to the feast tonight?”
“Yes,” Adolin said. “Six of them.”
“They have my further invitation to the king’s island. Pass the word. What of the King’s Guard?”
“I’ve made sure that some of the ones guarding the island tonight are among those most loyal to you.” Adolin nodded toward a space in the darkness to the side of the feasting basin. “I think we should position them over there. It’ll make a good line of retreat in case the king tries to have you arrested.”
“I still don’t think it will come to that.”
“You can’t be sure. Elhokar allowed this investigation in the first place, after all. He’s growing more and more paranoid.”
Dalinar glanced over at the king. The younger man almost always wore his Shardplate these days, though he didn’t have it on now. He seemed continually on edge, glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting from side to side.
“Let me know when the men are in position,” Dalinar said.
Adolin nodded, walking away quickly.
The situation gave Dalinar little stomach for mingling. Still, standing alone and looking awkward was no better, so he made his way to where Highprince Hatham was speaking with a small group of lighteyes beside the main firepit. They nodded to Dalinar as he joined them; regardless of the way they were treating him in general, they would never turn him away at a feast like this. That simply wasn’t done to one of his rank.
“Ah, Brightlord Dalinar,” Hatham said in his smooth, overly polite way. The long-necked, slender man wore a ruffled green shirt underneath a robelike coat, with a darker green silk scarf around the neck. A faintly glowing ruby sat on each of his fingers; they’d each had some of their Stormlight drained away by a fabrial made for the purpose.
Of Hatham’s four companions, two were lesser lighteyes and one was a short white-robed ardent Dalinar didn’t know. The last was a red-gloved Natan man with bluish skin and stark white hair, two locks dyed a deep red and braided down to hang alongside his cheeks. He was a visiting dignitary; Dalinar had seen him at the feasts. What was his name again?
“Tell me, Brightlord Dalinar,” Hatham said. “Have you been paying much attention to the conflict between the Tukari and the Emuli?”
“It’s a religious conflict, isn’t it?” Dalinar asked. Both were Makabaki kingdoms, on the southern coast where trade was plentiful and profitable.
“Religious?” the Natan man said. “No, I wouldn’t say that. All conflicts are essentially economic in nature.”
Au-nak, Dalinar recalled. That’s his name. He spoke with an airy accent, overextending all of his “ah” and “oh” sounds.
“Money is behind every war,” Au-nak continued. “Religion is but an excuse. Or perhaps a justification.”