The Way of Kings

“Doesn’t work that way,” Av said. “It’s not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn’t trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not.”

“And you’re an expert?” Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. “I thought you said you never went.”

“I didn’t,” Av said. “On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago.”

“What was his curse?” Baxil said.

“Saw the world upside down from then on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Av said. “Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn’t really think it a curse by the time he died.”

Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren’t such a coward, would he – maybe – be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired muscle?

If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you.

The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. “Padded mallet, Baxil. There’s a full statue back there.”

He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her.

“Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade,” she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. “But that might make this too easy.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it were too easy, mistress,” Baxil noted.

She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. “Someone’s going to hear that.”

“Yeah,” Av said. “Probably why she waited to do it last.”

At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything.

“Why does she do this, Av?” Baxil found himself asking.

“Don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.”

“I thought you said I should never do that!”

“Depends,” Av said. “How attached to your limbs are you?”

“Rather attached.”

“Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up.”

Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it.

Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn’t be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress’s direction.

Interlude 8 Geranid

“I’m thinking of changing my Calling,” Ashir said from behind.

Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he’d caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate.

“I’m tired of cooking,” Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk – and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice.

“I don’t have passion for it as I once did,” he continued. “Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?”

“Heralds need food,” she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it.

“Do they?” Ashir asked. “I’ve never been convinced. Oh, I’ve read the speculations, but it just doesn’t seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state.”

“A state of ideals,” she replied. “So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps.”

“Hmm… What would be the fun in that? No experimentation.”

“I could do without,” she said, leaning forward to inspect the room’s hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs’ fire. “If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month.”

“Ah,” he said, sounding wistful. “That was something, wasn’t it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients.” He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. “I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I’ll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar.”

Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation.

“Here, love,” Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. “Give this a try. I think you’ll like it.”