Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(18)

Bebid paled and didn’t touch his meal. Vasher eyed his spoon with annoyance, then bent it back, calming himself. He shoveled in a spoonful of rice, mouth burning from the spices. He’d didn’t believe in letting food sit around uneaten—you never knew when you’d have to leave in a hurry.

“There have been . . . rumors,” Bebid finally said. “This goes beyond simple court politics, Vasher—beyond games played between gods. This is something very real, and very quiet. Quiet enough that even observant priests only hear hints of it.”

Vasher continued to eat.

“There is a faction of the court pushing to attack Idris,” Bebid said. “Though I can’t fathom why.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Vasher said, wishing he had more tea to wash down the rice. “We both know Hallandren has sound reasons to slaughter every person up in those highlands.”

“Royals,” Bebid said.

Vasher nodded. They were called rebels, but those “rebels” were the true Hallandren royal family. Mortal men though they might be, their bloodline was a challenge to the Court of Gods. Any good monarch knew that the first thing you did to stabilize your throne was execute anyone who had a better claim to it than you did. After that, it was usually a good idea to execute everyone who thought they might have claim.

“So,” Vasher said. “You fight, Hallandren wins. What’s the problem?”

“It’s a bad idea, that’s the problem,” Bebid said. “A terrible idea. Kalad’s Phantoms, man! Idris won’t go easily, no matter what people in the court say. This won’t be like squashing that fool Vahr. The Idrians have allies from across the mountains and the sympathies of dozens of kingdoms. What some are calling a ‘simple quelling of rebel factions’ could easily spin into another Manywar. Do you want that? Thousands upon thousands dead? Kingdoms falling to never rise again? All so we can grab a little bit of frozen land nobody really wants.”

“The trade passes are valuable,” Vasher noted.

Bebid snorted. “The Idrians aren’t foolish enough to raise their tariffs too high. This isn’t about money. It’s about fear. People in the court talk about what might happen if the Idrians cut off the passes or what may happen if the Idrians let enemies slip through and besiege T’Telir. If this were about money, we’d never go to war. Hallandren thrives on its dye and textiles trade. You think that business would boom in war? We’d be lucky not to suffer a full economic collapse.”

“And you assume that I care about Hallandren’s economic well-being?” Vasher asked.

“Ah, yes,” Bebid said dryly. “I forgot who I was talking to. What do you want, then? Tell me so we can get this over with.”

“Tell me about the rebels,” Vasher said, chewing on rice.

“The Idrians? We just talked—”

“Not them,” Vasher said. “The ones in the city.”

“They’re unimportant now that Vahr is dead,” the priest said with a wave of his hand. “Nobody knows who killed him, by the way. Probably the rebels themselves. Guess they didn’t appreciate his getting himself captured, eh?”

Vasher said nothing.

“Is that all you want?” Bebid said impatiently.

“I need to contact the factions you mentioned,” Vasher said. “The ones who are pushing for war against Idris.”

“I won’t help you enrage the—”

“Do not presume to tell me what to do, Bebid. Just give me the information you promised, and you can be free of all this.”

“Vasher,” Bebid said, leaning in even further. “I can’t help. My lady isn’t interested in these kinds of politics, and I move in the wrong circles.”

Vasher ate some more, judging the man’s sincerity. “All right. Who, then?”

Bebid relaxed, using his napkin to wipe his brow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe one of Mercystar’s priests? You could also try Bluefingers, I suppose.”

“Bluefingers? That’s an odd name for a god.”

“Bluefingers isn’t a god,” Bebid said, chuckling. “That’s just a nickname. He’s the High Place steward, head of the scribes. He pretty much keeps the court running; if anyone knows anything about this faction, it will be him. Of course, he’s so stiff and straight, you’ll have a hard time breaking him.”

“You’d be surprised,” Vasher said, shoveling the last bit of rice into his mouth. “I got you, didn’t I?”

“I suppose.”

Vasher stood. “Pay the waiter when you leave,” he said, grabbing his cloak off its peg and wandering out. He could feel a . . . darkness to his right. He walked down the street, then turned down an alley, where he found Nightblood—still sheathed—sticking from the chest of the thief who had stolen him. Another cutpurse lay dead on the alley floor.

Vasher pulled the sword free, then snapped the sheath closed—it had only been opened a fraction of an inch—and did up the clasp.

You lost your temper in there for a bit, Nightblood said with a chastising tone. I thought you were going to work on that.

Guess I’m relapsing, Vasher thought.

Nightblood paused. I don’t think you ever really unlapsed in the first place.