The Way of Kings (Page 64)

Around him, the favored invitees took advantage of their king’s hospitality. Soulcast food was inherently bland, but the king’s lavish feasts always served imported spices and exotic meats. Dalinar could smell roasting pork on the air, and even chickens. It had been a long time since he’d been served meat from one of the strange Shin flying creatures.

A darkeyed servant passed, wearing a gauzy red robe and carrying a tray of orange crab legs. Dalinar continued across the island, weaving around groups of revelers. Most drank violet wine, the most intoxicating and flavorful of the colors. Almost no one was in battle attire. A few men wore tight, waist-length jackets, but many had dropped all pretense, choosing instead loose silk shirts with ruffled cuffs worn with matching slippers. The rich material glistened in the lamplight.

These creatures of fashion shot glances at Dalinar, appraising him, weighing him. He could remember a time when he would have been swarmed by friends, acquaintances—and yes, even sycophants—at a feast like this. Now, none approached him, though they gave way before him. Elhokar might think his uncle was growing weak, but his reputation quelled most lesser lighteyes.

He soon approached the bridge to the final island—the king’s island. Pole-mounted gem lamps ringed it, glowing with blue Stormlight, and a firepit dominated the center of the platform. Deep red coals simmered in its bowels, radiating warmth. Elhokar sat at his table just behind the firepit, and several highprinces ate with him. Tables along the sides of the platform were occupied by male or female diners—never both at the same.

Wit sat on a raised stool at the end of the bridge leading onto the island. Wit actually dressed as a lighteyes should—he wore a stiff black uniform, silver sword at his waist. Dalinar shook his head at the irony.

Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. “Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you’d warned us you were going to attend; I’d have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face reminds me of someone dear to me.”

“Really?” wizened Cadilar said, hesitating.

“Yes,” Wit said, waving him on, “my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today—did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don’t speak—it’s much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar.” Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. “Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you.”

Dalinar hesitated beside Wit’s chair as Taselin waddled by with a huff. “Wit,” Dalinar said, “do you have to?”

“Two what, Dalinar?” Wit said, eyes twinkling. “Eyes, hands, or spheres? I’d lend you one of the first, but—by definition—a man can only have one I, and if it is given away, who would be Wit then? I’d lend you one of the second, but I fear my simple hands have been digging in the muck far too often to suit one such as you. And if I gave you one of my spheres, what would I spend the remaining one on? I’m quite attached to both of my spheres, you see.” He hesitated. “Or, well, you can’t see. Would you like to?” He stood up off his chair and reached for his belt.

“Wit,” Dalinar said dryly.

Wit laughed, clapping Dalinar on the arm. “I’m sorry. This lot brings out the basest humor in me. Perhaps it’s that muck I spoke of earlier. I do try so hard to be elevated in my loathing of them, but they make it difficult.”

“Care for yourself, Wit,” Dalinar said. “This lot won’t suffer you forever. I wouldn’t see you dead by their knives; I see a fine man within you.”

“Yes,” Wit said, scanning the platform. “He tasted quite delicious. Dalinar, I fear I’m not the one who needs that warning. Speak your fears at a mirror a few times when you get home tonight. There are rumors about.”

“Rumors?”

“Yes. Terrible things. Grow on men like warts.”

“Tumors?”

“Both. Look, there is talk about you.”

“There is always talk about me.”

“This is worse than most,” Wit said, meeting his eyes. “Did you really speak of abandoning the Vengeance Pact?”

Dalinar took a deep breath. “That was between me and the king.”

“Well, he must have spoken of it to others. This lot are cowards—and no doubt that makes them feel like experts on the subject, for they’ve certainly been calling you that a great deal lately.”

“Stormfather!”

“No, I’m Wit. But I understand how easy a mistake that is to make.”

“Because you blow so much air,” Dalinar growled, “or because you make so much noise?”

A wide smile split Wit’s face. “Why, Dalinar! I’m impressed! Maybe I should make you Wit! Then I could be a highprince instead.” He stopped. “No, that would be bad. I’d go mad after a mere second of listening to them, then would likely slaughter the lot. Perhaps appoint cremlings in their places. The kingdom would undoubtedly fare better.”

Dalinar turned to go. “Thank you for the warning.”

Wit sat back down on his stool as Dalinar walked away. “You’re welcome. Ah, Brightlord Habatab! How thoughtful of you to wear a red shirt with a sunburn like that! If you continue to make my job this easy, I fear my mind shall become as dull as Brightlord Tumul’s! Oh, Brightlord Tumul! How unexpected it is to see you standing there! I didn’t mean to insult your stupidity. Really, it’s quite spectacular and worthy of much praise. Lord Yonatan and Lady Meirav, I’ll forgo an insult for you this once on account of your recent wedding, though I do find your hat quite impressive, Yonatan. I trust it is convenient to wear on your head something that doubles as a tent at night. Ah, and is that Lady Navani behind you? How long have you been back at the Plains and how did I not notice the smell?”

Dalinar froze. What?

“Obviously your own stench overpowered mine, Wit,” a warm feminine voice said. “Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?”

“No, no assassins yet,” Wit said, amused. “I guess I’ve already got too much ass sass of my own.”

Dalinar turned with shock. Navani, the king’s mother, was a stately woman with intricately woven black hair. And she was not supposed to be here.

“Oh really, Wit,” she said. “I thought that kind of humor was beneath you.”

“So are you, technically,” Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool.

She rolled her eyes.

“Unfortunately, Brightness,” Wit replied with a sigh, “I’ve taken to framing my insults in terms this lot will understand. If it will please you, I shall attempt to improve my diction to more elevated terms.” He paused. “I say, do you know any words that rhyme with bescumber?”

Navani just turned her head and looked at Dalinar with a pair of light violet eyes. She wore an elegant dress, its shimmering red surface unbroken by embroidery. The gems in her hair—which was streaked with a few lines of grey—were red as well. The king’s mother was known as one of the most beautiful women in Alethkar, though Dalinar had always found that description inadequate, for surely there wasn’t a woman on all of Roshar to match her beauty.

Fool, he thought, tearing his eyes away from her. Your brother’s widow. With Gavilar dead, Navani was now to be treated as Dalinar’s sister. Besides, what of his own wife? Dead these ten years, wiped by his foolishness from his mind. Even if he couldn’t remember her, he should honor her.

Why had Navani returned? As women called out greetings to her, Dalinar hurriedly made his way over to the king’s table. He sat down; a servant arrived in moments with a plate for him—they knew his preferences.

It was steaming peppered chicken, cut in medallions and laid atop fried round slices of tenem, a soft, light orange vegetable. Dalinar grabbed a piece of flatbread and slipped his dining knife from the sheath on his right calf. So long as he was eating, it would be a breach of etiquette for Navani to approach him.

The food was good. It always was at these feasts of Elhokar’s—in that, the son was like the father. Elhokar nodded to Dalinar from the end of the table, then continued his conversation with Sadeas. Highprince Roion sat a few seats down from him. Dalinar had an appointment with him in a few days, the first of the highprinces he’d approach and try to convince to work with him on a joint plateau assault.

No other highprinces came to sit near Dalinar. Only they—and people with specific invitations—could sit at the king’s table. One man lucky enough to receive such an invitation sat on Elhokar’s left, obviously uncertain if he should join in the conversation or not.

Water gurgled in the stream behind Dalinar. Before him, the festivities continued. It was a time for relaxation, but the Alethi were a reserved people, at least when compared with more passionate folk like the Horneaters or the Reshi. Still, his people seemed to have grown more opulent and self-indulgent since his childhood. Wine flowed freely and foods sizzled fragrantly. On the first island, several young men had stepped into a sparring ring for a friendly duel. Young men at a feast often found reason to remove their coats and show off their swordsmanship.

The women were more modest with their displays, but they engaged in them as well. On Dalinar’s own island, several women had set up easels where they were sketching, painting, or doing calligraphy. As always, they kept their left hands shrouded in their sleeves, delicately creating art with the right. They sat on high stools, the kind that Wit had been using—in fact, Wit had probably stolen one for his little performance. A few of them attracted creationspren, the tiny shapes rolling across the tops of their easels or tables.

Navani had gathered a group of important lighteyed women to a table. A servant passed by in front of Dalinar, bringing the women some food. It appeared to also have been made with the exotic chicken, but had been mixed with steamed methi fruit and covered in a reddish-brown sauce. As a boy, Dalinar had secretly tried women’s food out of curiosity. He’d found it distastefully sweet.

Navani placed something on her table, a device of polished brass about the size of a fist, with a large, infused ruby at its center. The red Stormlight lit the entire table, throwing shadows down the white tablecloth. Navani picked up the device, rotating it to show her dinner companions its leglike protrusions. Turned that way, it looked vaguely crustacean.

I’ve never seen a fabrial like that before. Dalinar looked up at her face, admiring the contours of her cheek. Navani was a renowned artifabrian. Perhaps this device was—

Navani glanced at him, and Dalinar froze. She flashed the briefest of smiles at him, covert and knowing, then turned away before he could react. Storming woman! he thought, pointedly turning his attention to his meal.

He was hungry, and got so involved in his food that he almost didn’t notice Adolin approaching. The blond youth saluted Elhokar, then hurried to take one of the vacant seats beside Dalinar. “Father,” Adolin said in a hushed tone, “have you heard what they’re saying?”