Warbreaker Part 38

She turned back to Denth.

"Let's go," Denth said, leading her away from the crowd as the city watch finally began to order people back, frustrated by the number of gawkers.

"Who were they?" she asked quietly.

Denth stared straight ahead. "A gang of thieves. Ones we'd worked with."

"You think he might come for us?"

"I'm not sure," Denth said. "He could probably find us if he wanted. I don't know."

Tonk Fah approached across the green as they pa.s.sed through the D'Denir statues. "Jewels and Clod are on alert," Tonk Fah said. "None of us see him anywhere."

"What happened to the skin of those men?" Vivenna asked.

"It's that sword of his," Denth growled. "We have to find a way to deal with it, Tonks. We're going to end up crossing him, eventually. I can feel it."

"But what is the sword?" Vivenna asked. "And how did it drain the color from their skin?"

"We'll have to steal the thing, Denth," Tonk Fah said, rubbing his chin as Jewels and Clod filled in around them, making a protective pattern as they moved out into the human river of the street.

"Steal the sword?" Denth asked. "I'm not touching the thing. No, we have to make him use it. Draw it. He won't be able to keep it out for long. After that, we'll be able to take him easily. I'll kill him myself."

"He beat Arsteel," Jewels said quietly.

Denth froze. "He did not beat Arsteel! Not in a duel, at least."

"Vasher didn't use the sword," Jewels said. "There was no blackness around Arsteel's wounds."

"Then Vasher used a trick!" Denth said. "Ambush. Accomplices. Something. Vasher is no duelist."

Vivenna let herself get pulled along, thinking of those bodies. Denth and the others had spoken of the deaths this Vasher was causing. She'd wanted to see them. Well, now she had. And it left her feeling disturbed. Unsettled. And...

She frowned, inching slightly.

Someone with a lot of Breath was watching her.

Hey! Nightblood said. It's Varatridees! We should go talk to him. He'll be happy to see me.

Vasher stood quietly atop the building. He didn't really care who saw him. He rarely did. A flow of people pa.s.sed on the colorful street. Varatridees-Denth, as he called himself now-walked among them with his team. The woman, Jewels. Tonk Fah, as always. The clueless princess. And the abomination.

Is Shashara here? Nightblood asked, excitement in his nebulous voice. We need to go see her! She'll be worried about what happened to me.

"We killed Shashara long ago, Nightblood," Vasher said. "Just like we killed Arsteel." Just like we'll eventually kill Denth.

As usual, Nightblood refused to acknowledge Shashara's death. She made me, you know, Nightblood said. Made me to destroy things that were evil. I'm rather good at it. I think she'd be proud of me. We should go talk to her. Show her how well I do my job.

"You are good at it," Vasher whispered. "Too good."

Nightblood began to hum quietly, pleased at the perceived praise. Vasher, however, focused on the princess, walking in her obviously exotic dress, standing out like a flake of snow in the tropical heat. He would need to do something about her. Because of her, so many things were falling apart. Plans toppling like stacked boxes, creating a racket with their demise. He didn't know where Denth had found her or how he kept control of her. However, Vasher was sorely tempted to jump down and let Nightblood take her.

The deaths the night before had already drawn too much attention. Nightblood was right. Vasher wasn't good at sneaking about. Rumors regarding him were prevalent in the city. That was both good and bad.

Later, he thought, turning from the silly girl and her mercenary entourage. Later.

Chapter Thirty.

"Lightsong!" Blushweaver said, hands on hips. "What in the name of the Iridescent Tones are you doing?"

Lightsong ignored her, instead applying his hands to the clump of muddy clay in front of him. His servants and priests stood in a large ring, looking nearly as confused as Blushweaver-who had arrived at his pavilion just a few moments before.

The pottery wheel spun. He held the clay, trying to get it to stay in place. Sunlight shone in through the sides of the pavilion, and the neat, manicured gra.s.s beneath his table was flaked with mud. As the wheel sped up, the clay twirled about, flipping out bits and clumps. Lightsong's hands became soaked with grimy, slick clay, and it didn't take long for the entire mess to flip off the wheel and squish to the ground.

"Hum," he said, regarding it.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Blushweaver asked. She wore one of her customary dresses-which meant nothing on the sides, very little at the top, and only slightly more through the front and back. She had her hair up in an intricate twisting pattern of weaves, braids, and ribbon. Likely the work of a master stylist, who had been invited into the Court to perform for one of the G.o.ds.

Lightsong hopped to his feet, holding his hands out to the sides as servants rushed to wash them off. Others came and wiped the bits of clay from his fine robes. He stood thoughtfully as other servants removed the pottery wheel.

"Well?" Blushweaver asked. "What was that?"

"I just discovered that I am no good at making pottery," Lightsong said. "Actually, I am worse than 'no good.' I am pathetic. Ridiculously bad. Can't even get the blasted clay to stay on the wheel."

"Well what did you expect?".

"I'm not sure," Lightsong said, walking across the pavilion toward a long table. Blushweaver-obviously annoyed at being led along-followed. Lightsong spun, grabbing five lemons off of the table and throwing them into the air. He proceeded juggle them.

Blushweaver watched. And, for just a moment, she looked honestly concerned. "Lightsong?" she asked. "Dear. Is... everything all right?"

"I have never practiced juggling," he said, watching the lemons. "Here, grab that guava fruit."

She hesitated, then carefully picked up the guava.

"Throw it," Lightsong said.

She tossed it at him. He deftly grabbed it from the air, then threw it into the mix with the lemons. "I didn't know I could do this," he said. "Not before today. What do you make of it?"

"I..." she c.o.c.ked her head.

He laughed. "I don't know that I've ever seen you at a loss for words, my dear."

"I don't know that I've ever seen another G.o.d throwing fruit into the air."

"It's more than this," Lightsong said, dipping down as he nearly lost one of the lemons. "Today I have discovered that I know an irregular number of sailing terms, that I am fantastic at mathematics, and that I have a fairly good eye for sketching. On the other hand, I know nothing about the dying industry, horses, or gardening. I have no eye for sculpting, I can't speak any foreign languages, and-as you've seen-I'm terrible at pottery."

Blushweaver watched him for a second.

He looked at her, letting the lemons drop but s.n.a.t.c.hing the guava out of the air. He tossed it to a servant, who began peeling it for him. "My previous life, Blushweaver. These are skills that I-Lightsong-have no right to know. Whomever I was before I died, he could juggle. He knew about sailing. And he could sketch."

"We're not supposed to worry about the people we were before," Blushweaver said.

"I'm a G.o.d," Lightsong said, taking back a plate containing the peeled and sliced guava, then offering a piece to Blushweaver. "And, by the Colors, I'll worry about whatever I please."

She paused, then smiled and took slice. "Just when I thought I had you figured out..."

"You didn't have me figured out," he said lightly. "And neither did I. That's the point. Shall we go?"

She nodded, joining him as they began to cross the lawn, their servants bringing parasols to shade them. "You can't tell me that you've never wondered," Lightsong said.

"My dear," she replied, sucking on a guava piece, "I was boring before."

"How do you know?"

"Because I was a regular person! I would have been... ordinary. Have you seen regular women?"

"Their proportions aren't quite up to your standards, I know," he said. "But many are quite attractive."

Blushweaver shivered. "Please. Why would you want to know about your normal life? What if you were a murderer or a rapist? What if you had bad fashion sense?"

He snorted at the twinkle in her eye. "You act so shallow. But I see the curiosity. You should try some of these things, let them tell you a little of who you were."

"Hum," she said, smiling and siding up to him. He stopped as she ran her finger down the front of his chest. "Well, if you're trying new things today, maybe there's something else you ought to think about..."

"Don't try and change the subject, my dear."

"I'm not," she said. "But, how will you know who you were if you don't try? It would be an... experiment."

Lightsong laughed, pushing her hand away. "My dear, I fear you would find me less than satisfactory."

"I think you over-estimate me."

"That's impossible for one to do."

She paused, flushing slightly.

"Uh..." Lightsong said. "Hum. I didn't exactly mean..."

"Oh, bother," she said. "Now you've spoiled the moment. I was about to say something very clever, I just know it."

He smiled. "Both of us, at a loss for words in one afternoon. I do believe we're losing our touch."

"You could find my touch if you'd just let yourself."

He rolled his eyes and continued to walk. "You're hopeless."

"When all else fails, use s.e.xual innuendo," she said lightly, joining him. "It always brings the focus back to where it belongs. On me."

"Hopeless," he said again. "But, I doubt we have time for me to chastise you again. We've arrived."

Indeed, Hopefinder's palace was before them. Lavender and silver, it had a pavilion out front set with table settings and food. Blushweaver and Lightsong had, of course, arranged for the meeting ahead of time.

Hopefinder the Just, G.o.d of innocence and beauty, stood up as they approached. He looked to be about thirteen years old. By physical age, he was the youngest of the G.o.ds in the court. They weren't supposed to acknowledge such discrepancies. After all, he'd Returned when his body had been two, which put him-in G.o.d years-as Lightsong's senior by six years. In a place where most G.o.ds didn't last twenty years, and an average age was probably closer to ten, six years difference was very significant.

"Lightsong, Blushweaver," Hopefinder said, stiff and formal. "Welcome."

"Thank you, dear," Blushweaver said, smiling at him.

Hopefinder nodded then gestured toward the tables. The three small tables were separate, but sat closely enough together for the meal to remain intimate while giving each G.o.d their own s.p.a.ce.

"How have you been, Hopefinder?" Lightsong asked, sitting.

"Very well," Hopefinder said. His voice always seemed a little too... old for his body. Like a boy trying to imitate his father. "There was a particularly difficult case during Pet.i.tions this morning. A mother with her last child, dying of the fevers. She'd already lost the other three, as well as her husband. All in the s.p.a.ce of a year. Tragic."

"My dear," Blushweaver said with concern. "You're not actually considering... pa.s.sing your Breath, are you?"

Hopefinder sat. "I don't know, Blushweaver. I am old. I feel old. Perhaps it is time for me to go. I'm fifth most aged, you know."

"Yes, but with the times growing so exciting!"

"Exciting?" he asked. "Why, they're calming down. The new queen is here, and my sources in the palace say that she's pursuing her duties to produce an heir with great vigor. Stability will soon arrive."

"Stability?" Blushweaver asked as the servants bought them each a chilled soup. "Hopefinder, I find it hard to believe that you're so uninformed."

"You think the Idrians plan to use the new queen to play for the throne," Hopefinder said. "I know what you've been doing, Blushweaver. I disagree."

"And the rumors out in the city?" Blushweaver said. "The Idrian agents who are causing such a ruckus? This so called second princess out in the city?"

Lightsong paused, spoon halfway to his lips. What was that?

"The city's Idrians are always creating one crisis or another," Hopefinder said, waving his fingers dismissively. "What was that disturbance six months ago, the rebel on the outer dye plantations? He died in prison, I recall. Foreign workers rarely provide a stable societal undercla.s.s, but I don't fear them."

"They've never claimed to have a Royal agent working with them," Blushweaver said. "Things could get out of hand very quickly."

"My interests in the city are quite secure," Hopefinder said, lacing his fingers in front of him. The servants took away his soup. He'd taken only three sips. "How about yours?"

"That's what this meeting is for," Blushweaver said.

"Excuse me," Lightsong said, raising a finger. "But what in the colors are we talking about?"