Warbreaker Part 66

Old Chaps, they called him. Those who called him anything, that was.

He sat in his little boat, almost more of a canoe, moving across the dark water of the bay. Night fis.h.i.+ng. During the day, one had to pay a tariff to fish in T'Telir waters. Well, technically, during the night you were supposed to pay too.

But the thing about night was, n.o.body could see you. Old Chaps chuckled to himself, lowering his net over the side of the boat. The waters made their characteristic lap, lap, lap against the side of the boat. Dark. He liked it dark. Lap, lap, lap.

Occasionally, he was given better work. Taking bodies for one of the city's slum lords, weighting them down with bits of rock tied in a sack to the foot, then tossing them into the bay. There were probably hundreds of them down there, floating in the current. Like a party of skeletons, having a dance. Dance, dance, dance.

No bodies tonight, though. Too bad. That meant fish. Free fish, he didn't have to pay tariffs on. And free fish were good fish.

No... a voice said to him. A little bit more to your right.

The sea talked to him sometimes. Coaxed him this way or that. He happily made his way in the direction indicated. He was out on the waters almost every night. They should know him pretty well by now.

Good. Drop the net.

He did so. It wasn't too deep in this part of the bay. He could drag the net behind his boat, pull the weighted bits along the bottom, catching the smaller fish that came up into the shallows to feed. Not the best fish, but the night was looking too dangerous to be out far from the sh.o.r.e.

His net struck something. He grumbled, yanking it. Sometimes, it got caught on debris or coral. It was heavy. Too heavy. He pulled the net over the side, then undid the s.h.i.+eld on his lantern, risking a bit of light.

A sword lay in the bottom of his boat. Silvery, with a black handle.

Lap, lap, lap.

Ah, very nice, the voice said, much louder now. I hate the water. So wet and icky down there.

Transfixed, Old Chaps reached out, picking up the weapon. It felt heavy in his hand.

I don't suppose you'd want to go destroy some evil, would you? the voice said. I'm not really sure what that means, to be honest. I'll just trust you to decide.

Old Chaps smiled.

Oh, all right, the sword said. You can admire me a little bit longer, if you must. After that, though, we really need to get back to sh.o.r.e.

Vasher awoke groggily.

He was tied by his wrists to a hook in the ceiling of a stone room. The rope that had been used to tie him, he noticed, was the same one he'd used to tie up the maid. It had been drained completely of color.

In fact, everything around him was a uniform grey. He had been stripped save for a grey pair of undershorts. He groaned, his arms feeling numb from the awkward angle of being hung by his wrists.

He wasn't gagged, but he had no Breath remaining-he'd used the last of it in the fight, to Awaken the cloak of the fallen man. He groaned.

A lantern burned in corner. A figure stood next to it. "And so we both return," Denth said quietly.

Vasher didn't reply.

"I still owe you for Arsteel's death too," Denth said quietly. "I want to know how you killed him."

"In a duel," Vasher said with a croaking voice.

"You didn't beat him in a duel, Vasher," Denth said, stepping forward. "I know it."

"Then maybe I snuck up and stabbed him from behind," Vasher said. "It's what he deserved."

Denth backhanded him across the face, causing him to swing in bonds. "Arsteel was a good man!"

"Once," Vasher said, tasting blood. "Once, we were all good men, Denth. Once."

Denth was quiet. "You think your little quest here will undo what you've done?"

"Better than becoming a mercenary," Vasher said. "Working for whomever will pay."

"I am what you made of me," Denth said quietly.

"That girl trusted you. Vivenna."

Denth turned, eyes darkened, the lanternlight not quite reaching his face. "She was supposed to."

"She liked you. Then you killed her friend."

"Things got a little out of hand."

"They always do, with you," Vasher said.

Denth raised an eyebrow, face growing amused in the wan light. "I get out of hand, Vasher? Me? When's the last time I started a war? Slaughtered tens of thousands? Killed my best friend's sister?"

Vasher didn't reply. What argument could he make? That Shashara had needed to die? When she'd revealed the cheaper Commands to make Lifeless, that had been bad enough. What if the way of making Awakened steel, like Nightblood, had entered the Manywar? Undead monsters slaughtering people with Awakened swords crying for blood.

None of that mattered to a brother who had seen his sister murdered by Vasher's hand.

"I was going to let Tonk Fah have you," Denth said, turning away again. "He likes hurting things. It's a weakness he has. We all have weaknesses. With my direction, he's been able to keep it only to animals."

Denth turned to him, holding up a knife. "I've always wondered what he finds so enjoyable about causing pain."

Dawn was approaching. Vivenna threw off her blanket, unable to sleep. She dressed, frustrated, but not sure why. Vasher was probably just fine. He was likely out carousing somewhere.

Of course, she thought wryly, carousing. That sounds just like him.

He'd never stayed out an entire night before. Something had happened. And the only person in the city who knew enough of his movements to realize the danger was Vivenna. She slowed as she pulled on her belt, glancing over at Vasher's pack and the change of clothing he had inside of it.

Every single thing I've tried since I left Idris has failed miserably, she thought, continuing to dress. I failed as a revolutionary, I failed as a beggar, and I failed as a sister. What am I supposed to do? Go find him? I don't even know where to start.

She looked away from the pack. Failure. It wasn't something she'd been accustomed to, back in Idris. Everything she'd tried there had turned out well.

Maybe that is what this is all about, she thought, sitting. My hatred of Hallandren. My insistence on saving Siri, on taking her place. When her father had chosen Siri over her, it had been the first time in her life that she could remember feeling that she wasn't good enough. So she'd come to T'Telir, determined to prove that the problem hadn't been with her. It'd had been with someone else. Anyone else. As long as Vivenna wasn't flawed.

Hallandren had repeatedly proved that she was. And now that she'd tried so many things and failed, she found it hard to act. There was a chance that by acting she might fail-and that was so daunting that doing nothing seemed preferable.

It seemed the crowning arrogance in Vivenna's life. She bowed her head. One last bit of feathered hypocrisy to adorn her hair.

You want to be competent? she thought. You want to learn to be in control of what goes on around you, rather than just be pushed around? Then you'll have learn to deal with failure.

It was frightening, but she knew it was true. She stood up, walking to Vasher's duffle-like pack. She pulled out a wrinkled overs.h.i.+rt and a pair of leggings. Both had ties hanging from the cuffs.

Vivenna put them on. Vasher's spare cloak followed. It smelled like him, and was cut-like his other one-into the vague shape of a man. She understood, now, one of the reasons his clothing looked so tattered.

She pulled out a couple of colorful handkerchiefs. "Protect me," she Commanded the cloak, imagining it grabbing people who tried to attack her. She placed a hand on the sleeve of the s.h.i.+rt. **

"Upon call," she Commanded, "become my fingers and grip that which I must." She'd only heard Vasher give the Command a couple of times, and she still wasn't quite sure how to visualize what she wanted the s.h.i.+rt to do. She imagined the ta.s.sels closing around her hands like she had seen them do for Vasher.

She Awakened the leggings, commanding them to strengthen her legs. The leg ta.s.sels began to twist, and she raised each foot in turn, letting the ta.s.sels wrap around the bottoms. Her stance felt more firm, the leggings pulled tight against her skin. She smiled, nodding.

Finally, she tied on the sword Vasher had given her. She still didn't know how to use it, though she could hold it properly. It felt right to bring it.

Then she left.

Lightsong had rarely seen a G.o.ddess cry.

"It wasn't supposed to go this way," Blushweaver said, heedless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I had things under control."

The dungeons beneath the G.o.d King's palace were in a small, cramped room. Cages-like one might use for animals-lined both walls. They were large enough to hold a G.o.d. Lightsong couldn't decide if that were coincidence or not.

Blushweaver sniffled. "I thought I had the G.o.d King's priesthood on my side. We were working together."

Something's wrong about this, Lightsong thought, glancing at the group of priests chatting anxiously at the side of the room. Llarimar sat in his own cage-the one directly next to Lightsong-head bowed.

Lightsong glanced back at Blushweaver. "How long?" he asked. "How long were you working with them?"

"From the beginning," Blushweaver said. "I was supposed to get the Command Phrases. We came up with the plan together!"

"Why did they turn on you?"

She shook her head, glancing down. "They claimed I didn't do my part. That I was withholding things from them."

"Were you?"

She looked away, eyes tear-stained. She looked very odd, sitting in her cell. A woman of deific proportions, wearing a fine silken robe, sitting on the ground, surrounded by bars.

We have to get out of here, Lightsong thought. He crawled over to the bars separating his cage from Llarimar's. "Scoot," he hissed. "Scoot!"

Llarimar glanced up. He looked haggard.

"What does one use to pick a lock?" Lightsong asked.

Llarimar blinked. "What?"

"Pick a lock," Lightsong said, pointing. "Maybe I'll discover that I know how to do it, if I get my hands into the right position. I still haven't figured out why my swordsmans.h.i.+p skills were so poor. But surely I can do this. If I can only remember what to use."

Llarimar started at him.

"Maybe I-" Lightsong began.

"What is wrong with you?" Llarimar whispered.

Lightsong paused.

"What is wrong with you!" Llarimar bellowed, standing. "You were a scribe, Lightsong. A Colors-cursed scribe. Not a soldier. Not a detective. Not a thief. You were an accountant for a local moneylender!"

What? Lightsong thought.

"You were as much an idiot then as you are now!" Llarimar yelled. "Don't you ever think about what you're going to do before you just saunter off and do it! Why can't you just stop, occasionally, and ask yourself if you're being a complete fool or not? I'll give you a hint! The answer us usually yes!"

Lightsong stumbled back from the bars, startled. Llarimar. Llarimar was screaming.

"And every time," Llarimar said, turning away, "I get in trouble with you. Nothing has changed. You become a G.o.d, and I still end up in prison!"

The heavy priest slumped down, breathing in deep gasps, shaking his head in obvious frustration. Blushweaver was staring at them. And so were the priests.

What is it I find odd about them? Lightsong thought, trying to sort out his thoughts and emotions as the group of priests approached.

"Lightsong," one of them said, stooping down beside his cage. "We need your Command Phrases."

He snorted. "I'm sorry to say that I've forgotten them. You probably know my reputation for being weak of mind. I mean, what kind of fool would come charging in here and get himself captured so easily?"

He smiled at them.

The priest by his cage sighed, then waved a hand toward the others. They unlocked Blushweaver's cage and pulled her out. She yelled and fought, and Lightsong smiled at the trouble she gave them. Yet, there were six priests, and they finally managed to get her out.

Then one got out a knife and slit her throat.

The shock of the moment hit Lightsong like a physical force. He froze, eyes wide, watching in horror as the red blood spilled out the front of Blushweaver's throat, staining her beautiful nightgown.

Far more disturbing was the look of panicked terror in her eyes. Such beautiful eyes.

"No!" Lightsong screamed, slamming against the bars, reaching helplessly toward her. He strained his G.o.dly muscles, pressing himself against the steel as he felt his body begin to shake. It was useless. Even a perfect body couldn't push its way through steel.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" he yelled. "You colors-cursed b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" He struggled, pounding the bars with one hand as Blushweaver's eyes began to dim.

And then, her BioChroma faded. Like a blazing bonfire dimming down to a single candle. It puffed out.

"No..." Lightsong said, sliding down to his knees, numb.

The priest regarded him. "So you did care for her," he said. "I'm sorry that we had to do that." He knelt down, solemn. "However, Lightsong, I need you to know that we're serious. I do know your reputation. I know that you usually take things light-heartedly. That is a fine attribute to have in many situations. Right now, you must realize how dangerous things are."