The Way of Kings

“Yes, you would win an inquest,” Roshone said. “You were so meticulous, preparing the exact right documents. You were the only one with Wistiow when he stamped them. Odd, that none of his clerks were there.”

“Those clerks read him the documents.”

“And then left the room.”

“Because they were ordered to leave by Brightlord Wistiow. They have admitted this, I believe.”

Roshone shrugged. “I don’t need to prove that you stole the spheres, surgeon. I simply have to continue doing as I have been. I know that your family eats scraps. How long will you continue to make them suffer for your pride?”

“They won’t be intimidated. And neither will I.”

“I’m not asking if you’re intimidated. I’m asking if you’re starving.”

“Not by any means,” Lirin said, voice growing dry. “If we lack for something to eat, we can feast upon the attention you lavish upon us, Brightlord. We feel your eyes watching, hear your whispers to the townspeople. Judging from the degree of your concern with us, it would seem that you are the one who is intimidated.”

Roshone fell still, skewer held limply in his hand, brilliant green eyes narrowed, lips pursed tight. In the dark, those eyes almost seemed to glow. Kal had to stop himself from cringing under the weight of that disapproving gaze. There was an air of command about lighteyes like Roshone.

He’s not a real lighteyes! He’s a reject. I’ll see real ones eventually. Men of honor.

Lirin held the gaze evenly. “Every month we resist is a blow to your authority. You can’t have me arrested, since I would win an inquest. You’ve tried to turn the other people against me, but they know – deep down – that they need me.”

Roshone leaned forward. “I do not like your little town.”

Lirin frowned at the odd response.

“I do not like being treated like an exile,” Roshone continued. “I do not like living so far from anything – everything – important. And most of all, I do not like darkeyes who think themselves above their stations.”

“I have trouble feeling sympathy for you.”

Roshone sneered. He looked down at his meal, as if it had lost any flavor. “Very well. Let us make an… accommodation. I will take nine-tenths of the spheres. You can have the rest.”

Kal stood up indignantly. “My father will never–”

“Kal,” Lirin cut in. “I can speak for myself.”

“Surely you won’t make a deal, though.”

Lirin didn’t reply immediately. Finally, he said, “Go to the kitchens, Kal. Ask them if they have some food more to your tastes.”

“Father, no–”

“Go, son.” Lirin’s voice was firm.

Was it true? After all of this, would his father simply capitulate? Kal felt his face grow red, and he fled the dining room. He knew the way to the kitchens. During his childhood, he’d often dined there with Laral.

He left not because he was told to, but because he didn’t want his father or Roshone to see his emotions: chagrin at having stood to denounce Roshone when his father planned to make a deal, humiliation that his father would consider a deal, frustration at being banished. Kal was mortified to find himself crying. He passed a couple of Roshone’s house soldiers standing at the doorway, lit only by a very low-trimmed oil lamp on the wall. Their rough features were highlighted in amber hues.

Kal hastened past them, turning a corner before pausing beside a plant stand, struggling with his emotions. The stand displayed an indoor vinebud, one bred to remain open; a few conelike flowers climbed up from its vestigial shell. The lamp on the wall above it burned with a tiny, strangled light. These were the back rooms of the mansion, near the servant quarters, and spheres were not used for light here.

Kal leaned back, breathing in and out. He felt like one of the ten fools – specifically Cabine, who acted like a child though he was adult. But what was he to think of Lirin’s actions?

He wiped his eyes, then pushed his way through the swinging doors into the kitchens. Roshone still employed Wistiow’s chef. Barm was a tall, slender man with dark hair that he wore braided. He walked down the line of his kitchen counter, giving instructions to his various subchefs as a couple of parshmen walked in and out through the mansion’s back doors, carrying in crates of food. Barm carried a long metal spoon, which banged on a pot or pan hanging from the ceiling each time he gave an order.

He barely spared Kal a brown-eyed glance, then told one of his servants to go fetch some flatbread and fruited tallew rice. A child’s meal. Kal felt even more embarrassed that Barm had known instantly why he had been sent to the kitchens.

Kal walked to the dining nook to wait for the food. It was a whitewashed alcove with a slate-topped table. He sat down, elbows on the stone, head on his hands.