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“Do you have a chit of admittance?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then you’ll have to rent the space if you wish to use it regularly. Two skymarks.”
Wincing at the price, Shallan dug out the proper spheres and paid. Her money pouches were looking depressingly flat. She let the parshman porters haul her up to the appropriate level, then she quietly walked to her alcove. There, she used all her remaining spheres to fill the oversized goblet lamp. To get enough light, she was forced to use spheres of all nine colors and all three sizes, so the illumination was patchy and varied.
Shallan peeked over the side of her alcove, out at the next balcony over. Jasnah sat studying, heedless of the hour, her goblet filled to the brim with pure diamond broams. They were best for light, but less useful in Soulcasting, so weren’t as valuable.
Shallan ducked back around. There was a place at the very edge of the alcove’s table where she could sit, hidden by the wall from Jasnah, so she sat there. Perhaps she should have chosen an alcove on another level, but she wanted to keep an eye on the woman. Hopefully Jasnah would spend weeks here studying. Enough time for Shallan to dedicate herself to some fierce cramming. Her ability to memorize pictures and scenes didn’t work as well on text, but she could learn lists and facts at a rate that her tutors had found remarkable.
She settled herself in the chair, pulling out the books and arranging them. She rubbed her eyes. It was really quite late, but there wasn’t time to waste. Jasnah had said that Shallan could make another petition when the gaps in her knowledge were filled. Well, Shallan intended to fill those gaps in record time, then present herself again. She’d do it when Jasnah was ready to leave Kharbranth.
It was a last, desperate hope, so frail that a strong gust of circumstance seemed likely to topple it. Taking a deep breath, Shallan opened the first of the history books.
“I’m never going to be rid of you, am I?” a soft, feminine voice asked.
Shallan jumped up, nearly knocking over her books as she spun toward the doorway. Jasnah Kholin stood there, deep blue dress embroidered in silver, its silken sheen reflecting the light of Shallan’s spheres. The Soulcaster was covered by a fingerless black glove to block the bright gemstones.
“Brightness,” Shallan said, rising and curtsying in an awkward rush. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I—”
Jasnah quieted her with a wave of the hand. She stepped aside as a parshman entered Shallan’s alcove, carrying a chair. He placed it beside Shallan’s desk, and Jasnah glided over and sat.
Shallan tried to judge Jasnah’s mood, but the older woman’s emotions were impossible to read. “I honestly didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I bribed the servants to tell me if you returned to the Veil,” Jasnah said idly, picking up one of Shallan’s tomes, reading the title. “I didn’t want to be interrupted again.”
“I—” Shallan looked down, blushing furiously.
“Don’t bother apologizing,” Jasnah said. She looked tired; more tired than Shallan felt. Jasnah picked through the books. “A fine selection. You chose well.”
“It wasn’t really much of a choice,” Shallan said. “It was just about all the merchant had.”
“You intended to study their contents quickly, I assume?” Jasnah said musingly. “Try to impress me one last time before I left Kharbranth?”
Shallan hesitated, then nodded.
“A clever ploy. I should have put a time restriction on your reapplication.” She looked at Shallan, glancing her over. “You are very determined. That is good. And I know why you wish so desperately to be my ward.”
Shallan started. She knew?
“Your house has many enemies,” Jasnah continued, “and your father is reclusive. It will be difficult for you to marry well without a tactically sound alliance.”
Shallan relaxed, though she tried to keep it from showing.
“Let me see your satchel,” Jasnah said.
Shallan frowned, resisting the urge to pull it close. “Brightness?”
Jasnah held out her hand. “You recall what I said about repeating myself?”
Reluctantly, Shallan handed it over. Jasnah carefully removed its contents, neatly lining up the brushes, pencils, pens, jar of lacquer, ink, and solvent. She placed the stacks of paper, the notebooks, and the finished pictures in a line. Then she got out Shallan’s money pouches, noting their emptiness. She glanced at the goblet lamp, counting its contents. She raised an eyebrow.
Next, she began to look through Shallan’s pictures. First the loose-leaf ones, where she lingered on Shallan’s picture of Jasnah herself. Shallan watched the woman’s face. Was she pleased? Surprised? Displeased at how much time Shallan spent sketching sailors and serving women?
Finally, Jasnah moved on to the sketchbook filled with drawings of plants and animals Shallan had observed during her trip. Jasnah spent the longest on this, reading through each notation. “Why have you made these sketches?” Jasnah asked at the end.
“Why, Brightness? Well, because I wanted to.” She grimaced. Should she have said something profound instead?
Jasnah nodded slowly. Then she rose. “I have rooms in the Conclave, granted to me by the king. Gather your things and go there. You look exhausted.”
“Brightness?” Shallan asked, rising, a thrill of excitement running through her.
Jasnah hesitated at the doorway. “At first meeting, I took you for a rural opportunist, seeking only to ride my name to greater wealth.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“No,” Jasnah said, “there is undoubtedly some of that in you. But we are each many different people, and you can tell much about a person by what they carry with them. If that notebook is any indication, you pursue scholarship in your free time for its own sake. That is encouraging. It is, perhaps, the best argument you could make on your own behalf.
“If I cannot be rid of you, then I might as well make use of you. Go and sleep. Tomorrow we will begin early, and you will divide your time between your education and helping me with my studies.”
With that, Jasnah withdrew.
Shallan sat, bemused, blinking tired eyes. She got out a sheet of paper and wrote a quick prayer of thanks, which she’d burn later. Then she hurriedly gathered up her books and went looking for a servant to send to the Wind’s Pleasure for her trunk.
It had been a very, very long day. But she’d won. The first step had been completed.
Now her real task began.
“Ten people, with Shardblades alight, standing before a wall of black and white and red.”
—Collected: Jesachev, 1173, 12 seconds pre-death. Subject: one of our own ardents, overheard during his last moments.
Kaladin had not been assigned to Bridge Four by chance. Out of all the bridge crews, Bridge Four had the highest casualty rate. That was particularly notable, considering that average bridge crews often lost one-third to one-half of their number on a single run.
Kaladin sat outside, back to the barrack wall, a sprinkle of rain falling on him. It wasn’t a highstorm. Just an ordinary spring rain. Soft. A timid cousin to the great storms.
Syl sat on Kaladin’s shoulder. Or hovered on it. Whatever. She didn’t seem to have any weight. Kaladin sat slumped, chin against his chest, staring at a dip in the stone, which was slowly collecting rainwater.
