“I am seventeen,” Shallan said dryly.
“Same difference.” Sebarial grunted. “I could have sworn your dress was more vibrant before, your features sharper, prettier… Must have been the light.”
“Do you always make a habit of insulting the looks of young ladies?” Shallan asked. “Or is it only after you drool in front of them?”
He grinned. “You weren’t trained in the court, obviously. I like that. But be careful—insult the wrong people in this place, and retribution can be swift.”
Through the carriage window Shallan saw that they were finally approaching a warcamp flying Sebarial’s banner. It bore the glyphs sebes and laial stylized into a skyeel, deep gold on a black field.
The soldiers at the gates saluted, and Sebarial gave orders for one to conduct Shallan’s men to his manor when they arrived. The carriage continued, and Sebarial settled back to watch her, as if anticipating something.
She couldn’t fathom what. Perhaps she was reading him wrong. She turned her attention out the window, and soon decided that this place was a warcamp in name only. The streets were straighter than you might have in a city that had grown naturally, but Shallan saw far more civilians than she did soldiers.
They passed taverns, open markets, shops, and tall buildings that surely could hold a dozen different families. People crowded many of the streets. The place wasn’t as varied and vibrant as Kharbranth had been, but the buildings were of solid wood and stone, constructed up against one another to share support.
“Rounded roofs,” Shallan said.
“My engineers say they repel the winds better,” Sebarial said proudly. “Also, buildings with rounded corners and sides.”
“So many people!”
“Almost all permanent residents. I have the most complete force of tailors, artisans, and cooks in the camps. Already, I’ve set up twelve manufactories—textiles, shoes, ceramics, several mills. I control the glassblowers as well.”
Shallan turned back toward him. That pride in his voice didn’t at all match what Jasnah had written of the man. Of course, most of her notes and knowledge of the highprinces came from infrequent visits to the Shattered Plains, and none had been recent.
“From what I’ve heard,” Shallan said, “your forces are among the least successful in the war against the Parshendi.”
Sebarial got a twinkle in his eyes. “The others hunt quick income from gemhearts, but what will they spend their money on? My textile mills will soon produce uniforms at a much cheaper price than they can be shipped in for, and my farmers will provide food far more varied than what is supplied through Soulcasting. I’m growing both lavis and tallew, not to mention my hog farms.”
“You sly eel,” Shallan said. “While the others fight a war, you’ve been building an economy.”
“I’ve had to be careful,” he confided, leaning in. “I didn’t want them to notice what I was doing at first.”
“Clever,” Shallan said. “But why are you telling me?”
“You’ll see it anyway, if you’re to act as one of my clerks. Besides, the secrecy doesn’t matter anymore. The manufactories are now producing, and my armies barely go on a single plateau run a month. I have to pay Dalinar’s fines for avoiding them and forcing him to send someone else, but it’s worth the cost. Anyway, the smarter highprinces have figured out what I’m up to. The others just think I’m a lazy fool.”
“And so you’re not a lazy fool?”
“Of course I am!” he exclaimed. “Fighting is too much work. Besides, soldiers die, and that makes me pay out to their families. It’s just useless all around.” He looked out the window. “I saw the secret three years back. Everyone was moving here, but nobody thought of the place as permanent—despite the value of those gemhearts, which ensured that Alethkar would always have a presence here…” He smiled.
The carriage eventually pulled up to a modest manor-style home amid the taller tenement buildings. The manor had grounds filled with ornamental shalebark, a flagstone drive, and even some trees. The stately home, while not enormous, had a refined classical design, with pillars along the front. It used the row of taller stone buildings behind it as a perfect windbreak.
“We probably have a room for you,” Sebarial said. “Maybe in the cellars. Never do seem to have enough space for all of the stuff I’m expected to have. Three full sets of dining furniture. Bah! As if I’m ever going to have anyone over.”
“You really don’t think highly of the others, do you?” Shallan asked.
“I hate them,” Sebarial said. “But I try to hate everyone. That way, I don’t risk leaving out anyone who is particularly deserving. Anyway, here we are. Don’t expect me to help you out of the carriage.”
She didn’t need his help, as a footman quickly arrived and assisted her as she stepped out onto the stone steps built in beside the driveway. Another footman went to Sebarial, who cursed at him, but accepted the aid.
A short woman in a fine dress stood on the manor’s steps, hands on her hips. She had curly dark hair. From northern Alethkar, then?
“Ah,” Sebarial said as he and Shallan walked up toward the woman. “The bane of my existence. Please try to hold your laughter until we separate. My frail, aging ego can no longer handle the mockery.”
Shallan gave him a confused look.
Then the woman spoke. “Please tell me you didn’t kidnap her, Turi.”
No, not Alethi at all, Shallan thought, trying to judge the woman’s accent. Herdazian. The fingernails, with a rocklike cast to them, proved that. She was darkeyed, but her fine dress indicated she was not a servant.
Of course. The mistress.
“She insisted on coming with me, Palona,” Sebarial said, climbing the steps. “I couldn’t dissuade her. We’ll have to give her a room or something.”
“And who is she?”
“Some foreigner,” Sebarial said. “When she said she wanted to come with me, it seemed to annoy old Dalinar, so I allowed it.” He hesitated. “What was your name?” he asked, turning to Shallan.
“Shallan Davar,” Shallan said, bowing to Palona. She might be darkeyed, but she was apparently head of this household.
The Herdazian woman cocked an eyebrow. “Well, she is polite, which means she probably won’t fit in here. I honestly can’t believe you brought home a random girl because you thought it would annoy one of the other highprinces.”
“Bah!” Sebarial said. “Woman, you make me the most henpecked man in all of Alethkar—”
“We aren’t in Alethkar.”
“—and I’m not even storming married!”
“I’m not marrying you, so stop asking,” Palona said, folding her arms, looking Shallan up and down speculatively. “She’s far too young for you.”
Sebarial grinned. “I used that line already. On Ruthar. It was delightful—he sputtered so much, you could have mistaken him for a storm.”
Palona smiled, then waved him inside. “There’s mulled wine in your study.”
He sauntered toward the door. “Food?”
“You ran the cook off. Remember?”