Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(17)
Some few people paused in the street, yet they were interested, not awed. This was T’Telir, home of the gods themselves. Men with upward of a thousand Breaths were uncommon, but not unheard of. The people gawked—as peasants in other kingdoms might pause to watch the carriage of a passing lord—but then they moved on with their daily activities.
The attention was unavoidable. Though Vasher still dressed in his usual outfit—ragged trousers, well-worn cloak despite the heat, a rope wrapped several times around his waist for a belt—he now caused colors to brighten dramatically when he was near. The change would be noticeable to normal people and blatantly obvious to those of the First Heightening.
His days of being able to hide and skulk were gone. He’d have to grow accustomed to being noticed again. That was one of the reasons he was glad to be in T’Telir. The city was large enough and filled with enough oddities—from Lifeless soldiers to Awakened objects serving everyday functions—that he probably wouldn’t stand out too much.
Of course, that didn’t take Nightblood into account. Vasher moved through the crowds, carrying the overly heavy sword in one hand, sheathed point nearly dragging on the ground behind him. Some people shied away from the sword immediately. Others watched it, eyes lingering far too long. Perhaps it was time to stuff Nightblood back in the pack.
Oh, no you don’t, Nightblood said. Don’t even start thinking about that. I’ve been locked away for too long.
What does it matter to you? Vasher thought.
I need fresh air, Nightblood said. And sunlight.
You’re a sword, Vasher thought, not a palm tree.
Nightblood fell silent. He was smart enough to realize that he was not a person, but he didn’t like being confronted with that fact. It tended to put him in a sullen mood. That suited Vasher just fine.
He made his way to a restaurant a few streets down from the Court of Gods. This was one thing he had missed about T’Telir: restaurants. In most cities, there were few dining options. If you intended to stay for a while, you hired a local woman to give you meals at her table. If you stayed a short time, you ate what your innkeeper gave you.
In T’Telir, however, the population was large enough—and rich enough—to support dedicated food providers. Restaurants still hadn’t caught on in the rest of the world, but in T’Telir, they were commonplace. Vasher already had a booth reserved, and the waiter nodded him to the spot. Vasher settled himself, leaving Nightblood up against the wall.
The sword was stolen within a minute of his letting go of it.
Vasher ignored the thievery, thoughtful as the waiter brought him a warm cup of citrus tea. Vasher sipped at the sweetened liquid, sucking on the bit of rind, wondering why in the world a people who lived in a tropical lowland preferred heated teas. After a few minutes, his life sense warned him that he was being watched. Eventually, that same sense alerted him that someone was approaching. Vasher slipped his dagger from his belt with his free hand as he sipped.
The priest sat down opposite Vasher in the booth. He wore street clothing, rather than religious robes. However—perhaps unconsciously—he had still chosen to wear the white and green of his deity. Vasher slipped his dagger back into its sheath, masking the sound by taking a loud sip.
The priest, Bebid, looked about nervously. He had enough of a Breath aura to indicate that he’d reached the First Heightening. It was where most people—those who could afford to buy Breath—stopped. That much Breath would extend their lifespan by a good decade or so and give them an increased life sense. It would also let them see Breath auras and distinguish other Awakeners, and—in a pinch—let them do a little Awakening themselves. A decent trade for spending enough money to feed a peasant family for fifty years.
“Well?” Vasher asked.
Bebid actually jumped at the sound. Vasher sighed, closing his eyes. The priest was not accustomed to these kinds of clandestine meetings. He wouldn’t have come at all, had Vasher not exerted certain . . . pressures on him.
Vasher opened his eyes, staring at the priest as the waiter arrived with two plates of spiced rice. Tektees food was the restaurant’s specialty—the Hallandren liked foreign spices as much as they liked odd colors. Vasher had placed the order earlier, along with a payment that would keep the surrounding booths empty.
“Well?” Vasher repeated.
“I . . .” Bebid said. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find out much.”
Vasher regarded the man with a stern stare.
“You have to give me more time.”
“Remember your indiscretions, friend,” Vasher said, drinking the last of his tea, feeling a twinge of annoyance. “Wouldn’t want news of those getting out, would we?” Do we have to go through this again?
Bebid was quiet for a time. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Vasher,” he said, leaning in. “I’m a priest of Brightvison the True. I can’t betray my oaths!”
“Good thing I’m not asking you to.”
“We’re not supposed to release information about court politics.”
“Bah,” Vasher snapped. “Those Returned can’t so much as look at one another without half of the city learning about it within the hour.”
“Surely you’re not implying—” Bebid said.
Vasher gritted his teeth, bending his spoon with his finger in annoyance. “Enough, Bebid! We both know that your oaths are all just part of the game.” He leaned in. “And I really hate games.”