“What?” Bashin said. “What’s wrong? Makh isn’t going to fight?”
“Pardon,” the master-servant repeated. “But his opponent has stomach problems. The match must be canceled.”
Apparently, news was spreading through the room. The crowd manifested their disapproval with boos and curses, shouts, and spilled drinks. A tall, bald man stood at the side of the ring, bare-chested. He argued with several of the lighteyed organizers, pointing at the ring, angerspren boiling on the floor around him.
To Dalinar, this racket sounded like the calls of battle. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, finding a euphoria far superior to the firemoss. Storms. He should have gotten drunker. He was going to slip.
Might as well be quick about it then. He tossed aside the firemoss and stood, then pulled off his shirt.
“Dalinar!” Havar said. “What are you doing?”
“Gavilar says I need to have more concern for our people’s sorrows,” Dalinar said, stepping up onto the table. “Seems like we’ve got a room full of sorrow here.”
Havar gaped, jaw dropping.
“Bet on me,” Dalinar said. “For old times’ sake.” He leaped off the table on the other side, then shoved through the crowd. “Someone tell that man he has a challenger!”
Silence spread from him like a bad smell. Dalinar found himself at the edge of the ring in a completely quiet room, packed with once-rowdy men both lighteyed and dark. The wrestler—Makh—stepped back, his dark green eyes wide, angerspren vanishing. He had a powerful build, arms that bulged like they were overstuffed. Word was, he’d never been defeated.
“Well?” Dalinar said. “You wanted a fight and I need a workout.”
“Brightlord,” the man said. “This was to be a freeform bout, all hits and holds allowed.”
“Excellent,” Dalinar said. “What? You worried about injuring your highprince? I promise you clemency for anything done to me.”
“Hurting you?” the man said. “Storms, that’s not what I’m afraid of.” He shivered visibly, and a Thaylen woman—perhaps his manager—smacked him on the arm. She thought he’d been rude. The wrestler only bowed and backed away.
Dalinar turned about the room, confronted by a sea of faces that suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. He’d broken some kind of rule here.
The gathering dissolved, parshmen retrieving spheres from the ground. It seemed Dalinar had been too hasty to judge rank unimportant here. They’d suffered him as an observer, but he was not to participate.
Damnation. He growled softly as he stalked to his bench, those angerspren following him on the floor. He took his shirt from Bashin with a swipe of the hand. Back with his elites, any man—from the lowest spearman to the highest captains—would have sparred or wrestled with him. Storms, he’d faced the cook several times, much to the amusement of everyone involved.
He sat down and pulled on his shirt, stewing. He’d ripped the buttons free in removing it so quickly. The room fell silent as people continued to leave, and Dalinar just sat there, tense—his body still expecting the fight that would never come. No Thrill. Nothing to fill him.
Soon, he and his friends were alone in the room, surveying empty tables, abandoned cups, and spilled drinks. The place somehow smelled even worse now than it had when crowded with men.
“Probably for the best, Brightlord,” Havar said.
“I want to be among soldiers again, Havar,” Dalinar whispered. “I want to be marching again. Best sleep a man can get is after a long march. And, Damnation, I want to fight. I want to face someone who won’t pull their punches because I’m a highprince.”
“Then let’s find such a fight, Dalinar!” Havar said. “Surely the king will let us go. If not to the Rift, then to Herdaz or one of the isles. We can bring him land, glory, honor!”
“That wrestler,” Dalinar said, “there was … something to his words. He was certain I would hurt him.” Dalinar drummed his fingers on the table. “Was he scared off because of my reputation in general, or is there something more specific?”
Bashin and Havar shared a look.
“When?” Dalinar asked.
“Tavern fight,” Havar said. “Two weeks back? Do you remember it?”
Dalinar remembered a haze of monotony broken by light, a burst of color in his life. Emotion. He breathed out. “You told me everyone was fine.”
“They lived,” Havar said.
“One … of the brawlers you fought will never walk,” Bashin admitted. “Another had to have his arm removed. A third babbles like a child. His brain doesn’t work anymore.”
“That’s far from fine,” Dalinar snapped.
“Pardon, Dalinar,” Havar said. “But when facing the Blackthorn, that’s as good as one can expect.”
Dalinar crossed his arms on the table, grinding his teeth. The firemoss wasn’t working. Yes, it gave him a quick rush of euphoria, but that only made him want the greater headiness of the Thrill. Even now he felt on edge—he had the urge to smash this table and everything in the room. He’d been so ready for the fight; he’d surrendered to the temptation, and then had the pleasure stolen from him.
He felt all the shame of losing control, but none of the satisfaction of actually getting to fight.
Dalinar seized his mug, but it was empty. Stormfather! He threw it and stood up, wanting to scream.
He was fortunately distracted by the back door to the wrestling den inching open, revealing a familiar pale face. Toh wore Alethi clothing now, one of the new suits that Gavilar preferred, but it fit him poorly. He was too spindly. No man would ever mistake Toh—with that overcautious gait and wide-eyed innocence—for a soldier.
“Dalinar?” he asked, looking over the spilled drinks and the locked sphere lamps on the walls. “The guards said I could find you here. Um … was this a party?”
“Ah, Toh,” Havar said, lounging back in his seat. “How could it have been a party without you?”
Toh’s eyes flicked toward the chunk of firemoss on the ground nearby. “I’ll never understand what you see in these places, Dalinar.”
“He’s just getting to know the common people, Brightlord,” Bashin said, pocketing the firemoss. “You know us darkeyed types, always wallowing in depravity. We need good role models to—”
He cut off as Dalinar raised his hand. He didn’t need underlings to cover for him. “What is it, Toh?”
“Oh!” the Riran man said. “They were going to send a messenger, but I wanted to deliver the news. My sister, you see. It’s a little early, but the midwives aren’t surprised. They say it’s natural when—”
Dalinar gasped, like he’d been punched in the stomach. Early. Midwives. Sister.
He charged for the door, and didn’t hear the rest of what Toh said.
Evi looked like she’d fought in a battle.
He’d seen that expression on the faces of soldiers many times: that sweaty brow, that half-dazed, drowsy look. Exhaustionspren, like jets in the air. These were the mark of a person pushed past the limits of what they thought they could do.
She bore a smile of quiet satisfaction. A look of victory. Dalinar pushed past doting surgeons and midwives, stepping up to Evi’s bed. She held out a limp hand. Her left hand, which was wrapped only in a thin envelope that ended at the wrist. It would have been a sign of intimacy, to an Alethi. But Evi still preferred that hand.
“The baby?” he whispered, taking the hand.
“A son. Healthy and strong.”
“A son. I … I have a son?” Dalinar dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Where is he?”