“Well done,” Mem said. “Hang that to dry and help me gather the rest of this.” They piled clothing in baskets, then made the short hike through the city.
Vedenar still smelled like smoke to Mem. Not the good smoke of bakeries, but rather of the enormous pyres that had burned outside on the plain. Her employer lived near the markets, in a large townhome beside some rubble—a lingering reminder of when siege weapons had rained boulders upon Vedenar.
The two washwomen passed guards at the front and headed up the steps. Mem insisted on not using the servants’ entrance. Mraize was one of the few who humored her.
“Keep close,” she said to Pom, who dallied once they were inside. They hurried down a long, unornamented corridor, then up a staircase.
People said that servants were invisible. Mem had never found that to be true, particularly around people like Mraize. Not only did the house steward notice if someone so much as moved a candlestick, Mraize’s friends were the type who kept careful track of everyone near them. Two of them stood in a doorway Mem passed, a man and woman speaking quietly. Both wore swords, and though they didn’t interrupt their conversation as the washwomen passed, they watched.
Mraize’s quarters were at the top of a staircase. He wasn’t there today—he appeared on occasion to drop off dirty clothing, then gallivanted off someplace to find new types of crem to stain his shirts. Mem and Pom went into his den first—he kept his evening jackets there.
Pom froze in the doorway.
“Stop dallying,” Mem reminded her, covering a smile. After stark, empty hallways and stairwells, this overstuffed den was a little overwhelming. She’d marveled too, her first time here. A mantel covered in curiosities, each in its own glass display. Deep rugs from Marat. Five paintings of the finest skill, each of a different Herald.
“You were right,” Pom said from behind.
“Of course I was right,” Mem said, setting down her basket in front of the corner wardrobe. “Mraize—remember, he doesn’t want to be called ‘master’—is of the finest and most refined taste. He employs only the best of—”
She was interrupted by a ripping sound.
It was a sound that inspired terror. The sound of a seam splitting, or of a delicate chemise tearing as it caught on part of a washtub. It was the sound of disaster incarnate. Mem turned to find her new assistant standing on a chair, attacking one of Mraize’s paintings with a knife.
A piece of Mem’s brain stopped working. A whine escaped from the back of her throat and her vision grew dark.
Pom was … she was destroying one of Mraize’s paintings.
“I’ve been looking for that,” Pom said, stepping back and putting hands on hips, still standing on the chair.
Two guards burst into the room, perhaps drawn by the noise. They looked at Pom and their jaws dropped. In turn, she flipped her knife about in her hand and pointed it threateningly at the men.
Then, horror of horrors, Mraize himself appeared behind the soldiers, wearing an evening jacket and slippers. “What is this ruckus?”
So refined. Yes, his face looked like it had seen the wrong side of a sword a couple of times. But he had exquisite taste in clothing and—of course—in garment-care professionals.
“Ah!” he said, noticing Pom. “Finally! The masterpiece of the Oilsworn was all it took, was it? Excellent!” Mraize shoved out the confused guards, then pulled the door shut. He didn’t even seem to notice Mem. “Ancient One, would you care for something to drink?”
Pom narrowed her eyes at him, then hopped off the chair. She walked quickly to Mraize and used one hand on his chest to push him aside. She pulled open the door.
“I know where Talenelat is,” Mraize said.
Pom froze.
“Yes … let’s have that drink, shall we?” Mraize asked. “My babsk has been eager to speak with you.” He glanced at Mem. “Is that my Azish cavalrylord’s suit?”
“Um … yes…”
“You got the aether out of it?”
“The … what?”
He strode over and pulled the red trousers out of the basket to inspect them. “Mem, you are an absolute genius. Not every hunter carries a spear, and this is proof indeed. Go to Condwish and tell him I approve a three-firemark bonus for you.”
“Th-thank you, Mraize.”
“Go collect your bonus, and leave,” Mraize said. “Note that you will need to find a new washgirl to help you, after today.”
I-9. True Labor Begins
Eshonai would have loved this, Venli thought as she flew hundreds of feet in the air. Rine and the other Fused carried her by means of linked harnesses. It made her feel like a sack of grain being hauled to market, but it gave her quite an amazing view.
Endless hills of stone. Patches of green, often in the shadows of hillsides. Thick forests snarled with undergrowth to present a unified front against the storms.
Eshonai would have been thrilled; she’d have begun drawing maps, talking about the places she could go.
Venli, on the other hand, spent most of these trips feeling sick to her stomach. Normally she didn’t have to suffer for long; towns were close together here in Alethkar. Yet today, her ancestors flew her past many occupied towns without stopping.
Eventually, what first appeared to be another ridge of stones resolved into the walls of a large city, easily twice the size of one of the domes at the Shattered Plains.
Stone buildings and reinforced towers. Marvels and wonders. It had been years since she’d seen Kholinar—only that once, when they’d executed King Gavilar. Now, smoke rose in patches throughout the city, and many of the guard towers had been shattered. The city gates lay broken. Kholinar, it seemed, had been conquered.
Rine and his companions zipped through the air, raising fists toward other Fused. They surveyed the city, then soared out beyond the wall and landed near a bunker outside the city. They waited as Venli undid her harness, then lifted into the air again just high enough that the bottoms of their long cloaks brushed the stones.
“Am I finished with my work, Ancient One?” Venli asked to Subservience. “Is that why you finally brought me here?”
“Done?” Rine said to Ridicule. “Child, you haven’t even begun. Those little villages were practice. Today, your true labor begins.”
I-10. Sheler
“You have three choices,” the Herdazian general said.
He had dark brown skin the color of a weathered stone, and there was a hint of grey in the thin mustache on his upper lip. He stepped up to Sheler, then put his hands to his sides. Remarkably, some men affixed manacles to the general’s own wrists. What on Roshar?
“Pay attention,” the general said. “This is important.”
“To the manacles?” Sheler said in Herdazian. Life on the border had forced him to learn the language. “What is going on here? Do you realize the trouble you’re in for taking me captive?” Sheler started to stand, but one of the Herdazian soldiers forced him down so hard, his knees rapped against the hard stone floor of the tent.