“What am I?” Shallan whispered. “Truthfully?” It was a day for confrontation. She felt strangely strong, steady. Time to speak it. “I’m a murderer. I killed my father.”
And the alcove vanished.
Shallan fell, dropping into that sea of dark glass beads. She struggled, trying to stay at the surface. She managed it for a moment. Then something tugged on her leg, pulling her down. She screamed, slipping beneath the surface, tiny beads of glass filling her mouth. She panicked. She was going to-
The beads above her parted. Those beneath her surged, bearing her upward, out to where someone stood, hand outstretched. Jasnah, back to the black sky, face lit by nearby hovering flames. Jasnah grasped Shallan’s hand, pulling her upward, onto something. A raft.
“Idiot girl,” Jasnah said, waving. The oceanlike beads to the left split, and the raft lurched, bearing them sideways toward a few flames of light. Jasnah shoved Shallan into one of the small flames, and she fell backward off the raft.
And hit the floor of the alcove. Jasnah sat where she had been, eyes closed. A moment later, she opened them, giving Shallan an angry look.
“Idiot girl!” Jasnah repeated. “You have no
Shallan coughed, feeling as if she still had beads in her throat. She stumbled to her feet, meeting Jasnah’s gaze. The other woman still looked angry, but said nothing.
What would it mean? She had strange powers. Did that make Jasnah some kind of Voidbringer? What would people say? No wonder she’d created the decoy.
“I want to be part of it,” Shallan found herself saying.
“Excuse me?”
“Whatever you’re doing. Whatever it is you’re researching. I want to be part of it.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying.”
“I know,” Shallan said. “I’m ignorant. There’s a simple cure for that.” She stepped forward. “I want to
“You stole from me.”
“I know,” Shallan said. “And I’m sorry.”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow.
“I won’t excuse myself,” Shallan said. “But Jasnah, I came here intending to steal from you. I was planning it from the beginning.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“I planned to steal from Jasnah the bitter heretic,” Shallan said. “I didn’t realize I’d come to regret the need for that theft. Not just because of you, but because it meant leaving
“A large one. Insurmountable.”
“Don’t make a larger one by sending me away. I can be someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who knows.”
Jasnah sat back.
“I stole the fabrial on the night you killed those men, Jasnah,” Shallan said. “I’d decided I couldn’t do it, but you convinced me that truth was not as simple as I thought it. You’ve opened a box full of storms in me. I made a mistake. I’ll make more. I need you.”
Jasnah took a deep breath. “Sit down.”
Shallan sat.
“You will never lie to me again,” Jasnah said, raising a finger. “And you will never steal from me, or anyone, again.”
“I promise.”
Jasnah sat for a moment, then sighed. “Scoot over here,” she said, pulling open a book.
Shallan obeyed as Jasnah took out several sheets filled with notes. “What is this?” Shallan asked.
“You wanted to be part of what I’m doing? Well, you’ll need to read this.” Jasnah looked down at the notes. “It’s about the Voidbringers.”
71
Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, walked with bowed back, carrying a sack of grain down off the ship and onto the docks of Kharbranth. The City of Bells smelled of a fresh ocean morning, peaceful yet excited, fishermen calling to friends as they prepared their nets.
Szeth joined the other porters, carrying his sack through the twisting streets. Perhaps another merchant might have used a chull cart, but Kharbranth was infamous for its crowds and its steep walkways. A line of porters was an efficient option.
Szeth kept his eyes down. Partially to imitate the look of a worker. Partially to lower his gaze from the blazing sun above, the god of gods, who watched him and saw his shame. Szeth should not have been out during the day. He should have hidden his terrible face.
He felt his every step should leave a bloody footprint. The massacres he’d committed these months, working for his hidden master… He could hear the dead scream every time he closed his eyes. They grated against his soul, rubbing it to nothing, haunting him, consuming him.
So many dead. So very many dead.
Was he losing his mind? Each time he went on an assassination, he found himself blaming the victims. He cursed them for not being strong enough to fight back and kill him.
During each of his slaughters, he wore white, just as he had been commanded.
He had reached the last name on the list: Taravangian, the king of Kharbranth. A beloved monarch, known for building and maintaining hospitals in his city. It was known as far away as Azir that if you were sick, Taravangian would take you in. Come to Kharbranth and be healed. The king loved all.
And Szeth was going to kill him.
At the top of the steep city, Szeth lugged his sack with the other porters around to the back of the palace structure, entering a dim stone corridor. Taravangian was a simpleminded man. That should have made Szeth feel more guilty, but he found himself consumed by loathing. Taravangian would not be smart enough to prepare for Szeth. Fool. Idiot. Would Szeth never face a foe strong enough to kill him?
Szeth had come to the city early and taken the job as a porter. He had needed to research and study, for the instructions commanded him-for once-not to kill anyone else in performing this assassination. Taravangian’s murder was to be done quietly.
Why the difference? The instructions stated that he was to deliver a message. “The others are dead. I’ve come to finish the job.” The instructions were explicit: Make certain Taravangian heard and acknowledged the
