“Those people,” he said, realizing something, “have been ordered to the fields because you lost your parshmen.”
“Our fields haven’t yet been planted,” Noura said, eyes growing distant. “It’s like they knew the very best time to cripple us by leaving. Carpenters and cobblers must be pressed into manual labor, just to prevent a famine. We might feed ourselves, but our trades and infrastructure will be devastated.”
In Alethkar, they hadn’t been as fixated on this, as reclaiming the kingdom was more pressing. In Thaylenah, the disaster had been physical, the city ravaged. Both kingdoms had been distracted from a more subversive disaster, the economic one.
“How did it happen?” Dalinar asked. “The parshmen leaving?”
“They gathered in the storm,” she said. “Leaving homes and walking right out into it. Some reports said the parshmen claimed to hear the beating of drums. Other reports—these are all very contradictory—speak of spren guiding the parshmen.
“They swarmed the city gates, threw them open in the rain, then moved out onto the plain surrounding the city. The next day, they demanded formal economic redress for improper appropriation of their labors. They claimed the subsection of the rules exempting parshmen from wages was extralegal, and put a motion through the courts. We were negotiating—a bizarre experience, I must say—before some of their leaders got them marching off instead.”
Interesting. Alethi parshmen had acted Alethi—immediately gathering for war. The Thaylen parshmen had taken to the seas. And the Azish parshmen … well, they’d done something quintessentially Azish. They had lodged a complaint with the government.
He had to be careful not to dwell on how amusing that sounded, if only because Navani had warned him not to underestimate the Azish. Alethi liked to joke about them—insult one of their soldiers, it was said, and he’d submit a form requesting an opportunity to swear at you. But that was a caricature, likely about as accurate as Noura’s own impression of his people always doing everything by the sword and spear.
Once at the palace, Dalinar tried to follow Noura and the other scribes into the main building—but soldiers instead gestured him toward a small outbuilding.
“I was hoping,” he called after Noura, “to speak with the emperor in person.”
“Unfortunately, this petition cannot be granted,” she said. The group left him and strode into the grand palace itself, a majestic bronze building with bulbous domes.
The soldiers sequestered him in a narrow chamber with a low table at the center and nice couches along the sides. They left him inside the small room alone, but took up positions outside. It wasn’t quite a prison, but he obviously wasn’t to be allowed to roam either.
He sighed and sat on a couch, dropping his lunch to the table beside some bowls of dried fruit and nuts. He took the spanreed out and sent a brief signal to Navani that meant time, the agreed sign that he was to be given another hour before anyone panicked.
He rose and began pacing. How did men suffer this? In battle, you won or lost based on strength of arms. At the end of the day, you knew where you stood.
This endless talking left him so uncertain. Would the viziers dismiss the essays? Jasnah’s reputation seemed to be powerful even here, but they’d seemed less impressed by her argument than by the way she expressed it.
You’ve always worried about this, haven’t you? the Stormfather said in his mind.
“About what?”
That the world would come to be ruled by pens and scribes, not swords and generals.
“I…” Blood of my fathers. That was true.
Was that why he insisted on negotiating himself? Why he didn’t send ambassadors? Was it because deep down, he didn’t trust their gilded words and intricate promises, all contained in documents he couldn’t read? Pieces of paper that were somehow harder than the strongest Shardplate?
“The contests of kingdoms are supposed to be a masculine art,” he said. “I should be able to do this myself.”
The Stormfather rumbled, not truly in disagreement. Just in … amusement?
Dalinar finally settled onto one of the couches. Might as well eat something … except his cloth-wrapped lunch lay open, crumbs on the table, the wooden curry box empty save for a few drips. What on Roshar?
He slowly looked up at the other couch. The slender Reshi girl perched not on the seat, but up on the backrest. She wore an oversized Azish robe and cap, and was gnawing on the sausage Navani had packed with the meal, to be cut into the curry.
“Kind of bland,” she said.
“Soldier’s rations,” Dalinar said. “I prefer them.”
“’Cuz you’re bland?”
“I prefer not to let a meal become a distraction. Were you in here all along?”
She shrugged, continuing to eat his food. “You said something earlier. About men?”
“I … was beginning to realize that I’m uncomfortable with the idea of scribes controlling the fates of nations. The things women write are stronger than my military.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Lots of boys is afraid of girls.”
“I’m not—”
“They say it changes when you grow up,” she said, leaning forward. “I wouldn’t know, because I ain’t going to grow. I figured it out. I just gotta stop eatin’. People that don’t eat, don’t get bigger. Easy.”
She said it all around mouthfuls of his food.
“Easy,” Dalinar said. “I’m sure.”
“I’m gonna start any day now,” she said. “You want that fruit, or…”
He leaned forward, pushing the two bowls of dried fruit toward her. She attacked them. Dalinar leaned back in the seat. This girl seemed so out of place. Though she was lighteyed—with pale, clear irises—that didn’t matter as much in the west. The regal clothing was too big on her, and she didn’t take care to keep her hair pulled back and tucked up under the cap.
This entire room—this entire city, really—was an exercise in ostentation. Metal leaf coated domes, the rickshaws, even large portions of the walls of this room. The Azish owned only a few Soulcasters, and famously one could make bronze.
The carpeting and couches displayed bright patterns of orange and red. The Alethi favored solid colors, perhaps some embroidery. The Azish preferred their decorations to look like the product of a painter having a sneezing fit.
In the middle of it all was this girl, who looked so simple. She swam through ostentation, but it didn’t stick to her.
“I listened to what they’re sayin’ in there, tight-butt,” the girl said. “Before comin’ here. I think they’re gonna deny you. They gots a finger.”
“I should think they have many fingers.”
“Nah, this is an extra one. Dried out, looks like it belonged to some gramma’s gramma, but it’s actually from an emperor. Emperor Snot-a-Lot or—”
“Snoxil?” Dalinar asked.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
“He was Prime when my ancestor sacked Azimir,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “It’s a relic.” The Azish could be a superstitious lot, for all their claims about logic and essays and codes of law. This relic was probably being used during their discussions as a reminder of the last time the Alethi had been in Azir.
“Yeah, well, all I know is he’s dead, so he ain’t got to worry about … about…”