Warbreaker Chapter Five

Chapter Five

This will complicate things, Vasher thought, standing in the shadows atop the wall that enclosed the Court of the Gods.

What's wrong? Nightblood asked. So the rebels actually sent a princess. Doesn't change your plans.

Vasher waited, watching, as the new queen's carriage crept up the incline and disappeared into the palace's maw.

What? Nightblood demanded. Even still, after all of these years, the sword reacted like a child in many ways.

She'll be used, Vasher thought. I doubt we'll be able to get through this without dealing with her. He hadn't believed that the Idris would actually send royal blood back to T'Telir. They'd given up a pawn of terrible value.

Vasher turned away from the Court, wrapping his sandaled foot around one of the banners that ran down the outside of the wall. Then he released his Breath.

"Lower me," he Commanded.

The large tapestry—crafted from wool threads—sucked hundreds of Breath from him. It hadn't the form of a man, and it was massive in size. Vasher now had enough Breath to spend in such ways.

The tapestry twisted, a thing alive, and formed a hand, which picked Vasher up. Like always, the Awakening tried to imitate the form of a human—looking closely at the twistings and undulations of the fabric, Vasher could see outlines of muscles and even veins. There was no reason for them; the Breath animated the fabric, and no muscles were necessary for it to move.

The tapestry carefully lowered Vasher down, pinching him by one shoulder, placing his feet on the street. "Your Breath to Mine," Vasher Commanded. The large banner-tapestry lost its form immediately, life vanishing, and it fluttered back against the wall.

Some few people paused in the street. Yet, they were interested, not awed. This was T'Telir, home of the gods themselves. Men with upwards of a thousand Breaths were uncommon, but not unheard of. The people gawked—like peasants in other kingdoms might pause to watch the carriage of a passing lord—but then they moved on with their daily activities.

The attention was unavoidable. Though Vasher still dressed in his standard outfit—ragged trousers, well-worn cloak despite the heat, a rope wrapped several times around his waist for a belt—he now caused colors to brighten dramatically when he was near. The change would be noticeable to normal people and blatantly obvious to those of at least the First Heightening.

His days of being able to hide and skulk were gone. He'd have to grow accustomed to being noticed again. That was one of the reasons he was glad to be in T'Telir. The city was large enough and filled with enough oddities—from Lifeless soldiers, to Awakened objects serving everyday functions—that he probably wouldn't stand out too much.

Of course, that didn't take Nightblood into account. Vasher moved through the crowds, carrying the overly-heavy sword in one hand, sheathed point nearly dragging on the ground behind him. The weapon drew its own reactions. Some people would shy away from it immediately. Others would watch it, eyes lingering far too long. Perhaps it was time to stuff Nightblood back in the pack.

Oh, no you don't, Nightblood said. Don't even start thinking about that. I've been locked away for too long.

What does it matter to you? Vasher thought.

I need fresh air, Nightblood said. And sunlight.

You're a sword, Vasher thought, not a palm tree.

Nightblood fell silent. He was smart enough to realize that he was not a person, but he didn't like being confronted with that fact. It tended to put him in a sullen mood. That suited Vasher just fine.

He made his way to a restaurant a few streets down from the Court of Gods. This was one thing he had missed about T'Telir: restaurants. In most cities, there were few dining options. If you intended to stay for a while, you hired a local woman to give you meals at her table. If you stayed a short time, you ate what your innkeeper gave you.

In T'Telir, however, the population was large enough—and rich enough—to support dedicated food providers. Restaurants still hadn't caught on in the rest of the world, but in T'Telir, they were commonplace. Vasher already had a booth reserved, and the waiter nodded him to the spot. Vasher settled himself, resting Nightblood up beside the wall.

The sword was stolen within a minute of his letting go of it.

Vasher ignored the thievery, sitting quietly as the waiter brought him a warm cup of citrus tea. Vasher sipped at the sweetened liquid, sucking on the bit of a rind, wondering why in the world a people who lived in a tropical lowland preferred heated teas. After a few minutes, his life sense warned him that he was being watched. Eventually, that same sense alerted him that someone was approaching. Vasher slipped his dagger from his belt with his free hand as he sipped his tea.

The priest sat down opposite Vasher in the booth. He wore street clothing, rather than religious robes. However—perhaps unconsciously—he had still chosen to wear the white and green of his deity. Vasher slipped his dagger back into its sheath, masking the sound by taking a loud sip.

The priest, Bebid, looked about nervously. He had enough of a Breath Aura to indicate that he'd reached the First Heightening. It was where most people—those who could afford to buy Breath—stopped. That much Breath would extend their lifespan by a good decade or so and give them an increased life sense. It would also let them see Breath Auras and distinguish other Awakeners, and—in a pinch—let them to a little Awakening themselves. A decent trade for spending enough money to feed a peasant family for some fifty years.

"Well?" Vasher asked.

Bebid actually jumped at the sound. Vasher sighed, closing his eyes. The priest was not accustomed to these kinds of clandestine meetings. He wouldn't have come at all, had Vasher not exerted certain. . .pressures on him.

Vasher opened his eyes, staring at the priest as the waiter arrived with two plates of spiced rice. Textees food was the restaurant's specialty—the Hallandren liked foreign spices as much as they liked odd colors. Vasher had placed the order earlier, along with a payment that would keep the surrounding booths empty.

"Well?" Vasher repeated.

"I. . ." Bebid said. "I don't know. Haven't been able to find out much."

Vasher regarded the man with a flat stare.

"You have to give me more time."

"Remember your daughter, friend," Vasher said, drinking the last of his tea, feeling a twinge of annoyance. Do we have to go through this again?

Bebid was quiet for a time. "You don't know what you're asking, Vasher," he said, leaning in. "I'm a priest of Brightvison the True. I can't betray my oaths!"

"Good thing I'm not asking you to."

"We're not supposed to release information about Court politics."

"Bah," Vasher snapped. "Those Returned can't so much as look at one another without half of the city learning about it within the hour."

"Surely you're not implying—" Bebid said.

Vasher gritted his teeth, bending his spoon with his finger in annoyance. "Enough, Bebid! We both know that your oaths are all just part of the game." He leaned in. "And I really hate games."

Bebid paled and didn't touch his meal. Vasher eyed his spoon with annoyance, then bent it back, calming himself. He shoveled in a spoonful of rice, mouth burning from the spices. He'd didn't believe in letting food sit around uneaten—you never knew when you'd have to leave in a hurry.

"There have been. . .rumors," Bebid finally said. "This goes beyond simple Court politics, Vasher—beyond games played between gods. This is something very real, and very quiet. Quiet enough that even observant priests only hear hints of it."

Vasher continued to eat.

"There is a faction of the Court who is pushing to attack Idris," Bebid said. "Though I can't fathom why."

"Don't be an idiot," Vasher said, wishing he had more tea to wash down the rice. "We both know why Hallandren has sound reasons to slaughter every person up in those highlands."

"Royals," Bebid said.

Vasher nodded. They were called rebels, but those 'rebels' were the true Hallandren royal family. Mortal men though they may be, their bloodline was a challenge to the Court of Gods. Any good monarch knew that the first thing you did to stabilize your throne was execute anyone who had a better claim to it than you did. After that, it was usually a good idea to execute everyone who thought they might have any claim.

"So," Vasher said. "You fight, Hallandren wins. What's the problem?"

"It's a bad idea, that's the problem," Bebid said. "A terrible idea. Colors, man! Idris won't go easily, no matter what people in the court say. They have allies from across the mountains and sympathies in dozens of kingdoms. What some are calling a 'simple quelling of rebel factions' could easily spin into another Manywar. Do you want that? Thousands upon thousands dead? Kingdoms falling to never rise again? All so we can grab a little bit of frozen land nobody really wants."

"The trade passes are valuable," Vasher noted.

Bebid snorted. "The Idrians aren't dumb enough to tax us too heavily on them. This isn't a money issue. It's a fear issue. People in the court talk about what might happen if the Idrians cut off the passes or what may happen if the Idrians let enemies slip through and stage a siege against T'Telir. If this were about money, we'd never go to war. Hallandren thrives on its dye and textiles trade. You think that business would boom in war? We'd be lucky not to suffer a full economic collapse."

"And you assume that I care about Hallandren's economic well being?" Vasher asked.

"Ah, yes," Bebid said dryly. "I forgot who I was talking to. What do you want, then? Tell me so we can get this over with."

"Tell me about the rebels," Vasher said, chewing on rice.

"The Idrians? We just talked—"

"Not them," Vasher said. "The ones in the city."

"They're unimportant now that Vahr is dead," the priest said with a wave of his hand. "Nobody knows who killed him, by the way. The rebels managed to get an agent into the prison, somehow. Guess they didn't appreciate his getting himself captured, eh?"

Vasher said nothing.

"Is that it?" Bebid said impatiently.

"I need to contact the factions you mentioned," Vasher said. "The ones who are pushing for war against Idris."

"I won't help you enrage the—"

"Do not presume to tell me what to do, Bebid. Just give me the information you promised, and you can be free of this all."

"Vasher," Bebid said, leaning in even further. "I can't help. My lady isn't interested in these kinds of politics, and I move in the wrong circles."

Vasher ate some more, judging the man's sincerity. "All right," he finally said. "Who, then?"

Bebid relaxed, using his napkin to wipe his brow. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe one of Mercystar's priests? You could also try Bluefingers, I suppose."

"Bluefingers? That's an odd name for a god."

"Bluefingers isn't a god," Bebid said, chuckling. "That's just a nickname. He's the High Place steward, head of the scribes. He pretty much keeps the Court running; if anyone knows anything about this faction, it will be him. Of course, he's so stiff and straight, you'll have a hard time breaking him."

"You'd be surprised," Vasher said, shoveling the last bit of rice into his mouth. "I got you, didn't I?"

"I guess."

Vasher stood. "Pay the waiter when you leave," he said, grabbing his cloak off its peg and wandering out. He could feel a. . .darkness to his right. He walked down the street, then turned down an alley, where he found Nightblood—still sheathed—sticking from the chest of the thief who had stolen him. Another cutpurse lay dead on the alley floor.

Vasher pulled the sword free, then snapped the sheath closed—it had only been opened a fraction of an inch—and did up the snap.

You lost your temper in there for a bit, Nightblood said with a chastising voice. I thought you were going to work on that.

Guess I'm relapsing, Vasher thought.

Nightblood paused. I don't think you ever really unlapsed in the first place.

That's not a word, Vasher said, leaving the alley.

So? Nightblood said. You're too worried about words. That priest—you spent all those words on him, then you just let him go. It's not really how I would have handled the situation.

Yes, I know, Vasher said. Your way would have involved making several more corpses.

Well, I am a sword, Nightblood said with a mental huff. Might as well stick to what you're good at. . . .

#

Lightsong watched his new queen's carriage pull up to the palace. "Well, this has been a pleasant day," he noted, sitting on his patio. A few cups of wine—along with some time to avoid thinking about children without Breath—and he was beginning to feel more like his regular self.

"You're that happy to have a queen?" Llarimar asked.

"I'm that happy to have avoided Petitions for the day. Sit down and stop looming. You're giving me a headache."

Llarimar raised an eyebrow. It was impossible for a god to feel most normal ailments, headaches included. However, the priest did sit on one of the patio's wooden lounging chairs. Two potted palms waved in the wind, and Lightsong smelled salt on the incoming sea breeze.

I wonder if I sailed the sea once, he thought. A man of the ocean? Is that how I died? Is that why I dreamed of a ship?

Llarimar relaxed as he sat, and Lightsong smiled to himself as the man removed the bulky mitre from his head. Underneath, Llarimar's dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He ran his hand through it. During the first few years, Llarimar had remained stiff and formal all the time. Eventually, however, Lightsong had worn him down. After all, Lightsong was the god. In his opinion, if he could lounge on the job, then so could his priests.

"I don't know, your Excellency," Llarimar said slowly, rubbing his chin. "I don't like this."

"Why not?" Lightsong asked.

"We haven't had a queen in the Court for some thirty years. I don't know how the factions will deal with her."

"Ah," Lightsong said, rubbing his forehead. "Politics, Llarimar? You know I frown on such things."

Llarimar eyed him. "Your Excellency, you are—by default—a politician."

"Don't remind me, please. I should very well like to extract myself from the situation. Do you think, perhaps, I could pay one of the other gods to take control of my Lifeless commands? They could have twice as much power, and I could have half as many stomach aches."

"I doubt that would be wise," Llarimar said.

"It's all part of my master plan to ensure that I become totally and redundantly useless to this city by the time I die. Again."

Llarimar cocked his head. "Redundantly useless?"

"Of course. Regular uselessness wouldn't be enough—I am, after all, a god. As for the Idris princess, I find her arrival to be a quite pleasant event. Now, perhaps, people will stop moaning about the lack of true Royal blood in the Divine Monarchy, and we can go back to complaining about more important things, such as why we—being gods—can't force cherries to be in season all year."

Lightsong glanced toward the High Palace, with its black stones. He knew what Llarimar was thinking—the gossip had arrived already. Old Dedelin hadn't sent his firstborn daughter. He'd sent the youngest. A Royal, true, but not the heir to the line.

It would mean more arguments. More hesitance. And, unfortunately, more headaches. Lightsong figured he should be able to feel those, even if his head itself refused to comply.

"Still," Llarimar said, as if talking to himself. "They did send someone. That is a good sign. An outright refusal would have meant war."

"War. The only thing worse than politics."

"Some say the two are the same, your grace."

Lightsong shrugged. "At least politics doesn't make you march about on an empty stomach—unless you count the nausea I feel every time I have to deal with someone trying to pull me into their political faction."

"What will the Idrian rebels do now, you think?" Llarimar said idly, ignoring—as usual—Lightsong's witty remarks. Lightsong would have been offended if he hadn't known there were three separate lesser priests standing at the back of the building, recording his words, searching for wisdom and meaning within them.

"Here's the thing, Scoot," Lightsong said, leaning back, closing his eyes and feeling the sun on his face. "The Idris don't consider themselves to be rebels. They're not sitting up in their hills, waiting for the day when they can be accepted back into Hallandren. This isn't their homeland any more."

"Those peaks are hardly a kingdom."

"They're enough of a kingdom to control the area's best mineral deposits, four vital passes to the north, and the original royal line of Hallandren. They don't need us, my friend."

"And the talk of Idris dissidents in the city, ones rousing the people against the Court of Gods?"

"Rumors only," Lightsong said. "Though, when I'm proven wrong and the underprivileged masses storm my palace and burn me to death, I'll be sure to inform them that you were right all along. You'll get the last laugh. Or. . .well, the last scream, since you'll probably be tied up next to me."

Llarimar's sighed, and Lightsong opened his eyes to find the priest regarding him. The priest didn't chastise Lightsong for his levity. Llarimar just reached down, putting his headdress back on. He was the priest; Lightsong the God. There would be no questioning of motives, no rebukes. If Lightsong gave an order, they would all do exactly as he said.

Sometimes, that terrified him.

But not this day. He was, instead, annoyed. Llarimar had somehow gotten him talking about politics—and the day had been going so well.

"More wine," Lightsong said, raising his cup.

"You can't get drunk, your grace," Llarimar noted. "Your body is immune to all toxins."

"I know," Lightsong said as a lesser servant filled his cup. "But trust me—I'm quite good at pretending."

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