Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(145)

Blushweaver paused. So did Lightsong.

“Lightsong, dear,” she said. “What in the name of You did that mean?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “It just kind of came out. I can visualize what it means in my head, though. With numbers.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Images of warfare flashed in his mind. His best friend, a man he didn’t know, dying with a sword through the chest. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Things have been rather strange for me lately.”

She sat quietly for a moment. “You want to go back to my palace and frolic? That always makes me feel better.”

He tossed a pebble, smiling. “You, my dear, are incorrigible.”

“I’m the goddess of lust, for Your sake,” she said. “I’ve got to fill the role.”

“Last I checked,” he said, “you were goddess of honesty.”

“Honesty and honest emotions, my dear,” she said sweetly. “And let me tell you, lust is one of the most honest of all emotions. Now, what are you doing with those silly pebbles?”

“Counting,” he said.

“Counting your inanities?”

“That,” Lightsong said, tossing another pebble, “and counting the number of priests who come through the gates wearing the colors of each god or goddess.”

Blushweaver frowned. It was midday, and the gates were fairly busy with the comings and goings of servants and performers. There were only occasionally priests or priestesses, however, since they would have been required to come in early to attend their gods.

“Each time a priest of a particular god enters,” Lightsong said, “I toss a pebble into the urn representing that god.”

Blushweaver watched him toss—and miss—with another pebble. As he’d instructed, the servants picked the pebble up and put it in the proper urn. Violet and silver. To the side, one of Hopefinder’s priestesses rushed across the green toward her god’s palace.

“I’m baffled,” Blushweaver finally said.

“It’s easy,” Lightsong said. “You see someone wearing purple, you throw a pebble in the urn of the same color.”

“Yes, dear,” she said. “But why?”

“To keep track of how many priests of each god enter the court, of course,” Lightsong said. “They’ve slowed to nearly a trickle. Scoot, would you mind counting?”

Llarimar bowed then gathered several servants and scribes, ordering them to empty the urns and count the contents of each one.

“My dear Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “I do apologize if I’ve been ignoring you lately. Allmother has been rudely unresponsive to my suggestions. If my lack of attention has caused your fragile mind to snap . . .”

“My mind is quite unsnapped, thank you,” Lightsong said, sitting up, watching the servants count.

“Then, you must be so very bored,” Blushweaver continued. “Perhaps we can come up with something to entertain you.”

“I’m well entertained.” He smiled even before the counting results were in. Mercystar had one of the smallest piles.

“Lightsong?” Blushweaver asked. Nearly all of her playful attitude was gone.

“I ordered my priests in early today,” Lightsong said, glancing at her. “And to set up position here, in front of the gates, before the sun even rose. We’ve been counting priests for some six hours now.”

Llarimar walked over, handing Lightsong a list of the gods and the number of priests who had entered wearing their colors. Lightsong scanned it, nodding to himself.

“Some of the gods have had over a hundred priests report for service, yet a couple of them have had barely a dozen. Mercystar is one of those.”

“So?” Blushweaver asked.

“So,” Lightsong said. “I’m going to send my servants to watch and count at Mercystar’s palace, keeping track of the number of priests who are there. I already suspect that I know what they’ll find. Mercystar doesn’t have fewer priests than the rest of us. They’re just getting into the court by a different route.”

Blushweaver looked at him blankly, but then cocked her head. “The tunnels?”

Lightsong nodded.

Blushweaver leaned back, sighing. “Well at least you’re not insane or bored. You’re just obsessed.”

“Something’s going on with those tunnels, Blushweaver. And it relates to the servant who was murdered.”

“Lightsong, we have much bigger problems to worry about!” Blushweaver shook her head, holding her forehead as if she could have a headache. “I can’t believe that you’re still bothering with this. Honestly! The kingdom is about to go to war—for the first time, your position in the assembly is important—and you’re worrying about how priests are getting into the court?”

Lightsong didn’t respond immediately. “Here,” he finally said, “let me prove my point to you.”

He reached over to the side of his couch and picked a small box up off the ground. He held it up, showing it to Blushweaver.

“A box,” she said flatly. “What a convincing argument you make.”

He pulled the top off of the box, leaving a small grey squirrel sitting in his hand. It stood perfectly still, staring forward, fur blowing in the breeze.