Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(71)
Protect a man. Live with the destruction he creates.
Although it was dark, Vasher’s life sense was strong. He could just faintly feel the grass growing below and knew how far away it was. With more Breath, he might even have been able to sense the lichen growing on the palace stones. He knelt down, laying one hand on his trouser leg and one on the stone of the palace.
“Strengthen me,” he Commanded, Breathing. His trouser legs stiffened, and a patch of color bled from the black stone beside him. Black was a color. He’d never considered that before he’d become an Awakener. Tassels hanging at his cuffs stiffened, wrapping around his ankle. With him kneeling as he was, they could also twist around the bottoms of his feet.
Vasher placed a hand on the shoulder of his shirt, touching another patch of marble as he formed an image in his mind. “Upon call, become my fingers and grip,” he Commanded. The shirt quivered and a group of tassels curled up around his hand. Five of them, like fingers.
It was a difficult Command. It required far more Breath to Awaken than he would have liked—his remaining Breath barely allowed him the Second Heightening—and the visualization of the Command had taken practice to perfect. The finger tassels were worth it; they had proven very useful, and he was loath to engage in the night’s activities without them.
He stood up straight, noting the scar of grey marble on the otherwise perfectly black palace surface. He smiled to think of the indignation the priests would feel when they discovered it.
He tested the strength in his legs, gripping Nightblood, then took a careful step off the side of the palace. He fell some ten feet; the palace was constructed from massive stone blocks in a steep pyramidal shape. He landed hard on the next block, but his Awakened clothing absorbed some of the shock, acting like a second, external set of bones. He stood up, nodding to himself, then jumped down the other pyramid steps.
Eventually, he landed on the soft grass north of the palace, close to the wall that surrounded the entire plateau. He crouched, watching quietly.
Sneaking, Vasher? Nightblood said. You’re terrible at sneaking.
Vasher didn’t respond.
You should attack, Nightblood said. You’re good at that.
You just want to prove how strong you are, Vasher thought.
Well, yes, the sword replied. But you do have to admit that you’re bad at sneaking.
Vasher ignored the sword. A lone man in ragged clothing carrying a sword across the grounds would be conspicuous. So he surveyed. He had picked a night when the gods hadn’t planned any grand celebrations out in the courtyard, but there were still small groups of priests, minstrels, or servants moving between palaces.
How sure are you about this information of yours? Nightblood said. Because, honestly, I don’t trust priests.
He isn’t a priest, Vasher thought. He moved carefully, creeping through the dark starlit shadow of the wall’s overhang. His contact had warned him to stay away from the palaces of influential gods like Blushweaver and Stillmark. But he had also said that the palace of a lesser god—like Giftbeacon or Peaceyearning—wouldn’t work for Vasher’s purpose. Instead, Vasher sought out the home of Mercystar, a Returned known for her involvement in politics, yet who wasn’t all that influential.
Her palace looked relatively dark this evening, but there would still be guards. Hallandren Returned all had servants to spare. Sure enough, Vasher located two men watching the door he wanted. They wore the extravagant costumes of court servants, colored yellow and gold after the pattern of their mistress.
The men weren’t armed. Who would attack the home of a Returned? They were simply there to keep anyone from wandering in and bothering their lady while she slept. They stood by their lanterns, alert and attentive, but more for the sake of appearances than anything else.
Vasher obscured Nightblood beneath his cloak, then walked out of the darkness, looking from side to side anxiously, mumbling to himself. He hunched his body to help hide the oversized hidden sword.
Oh, please, Nightblood said flatly. The crazy disguise? You’re cleverer than that.
It’ll work, Vasher thought. This is the Court of Gods. Nothing attracts the unbalanced more than the prospect of meeting deities.
The two guards looked up when they saw him approaching, but they didn’t seem surprised. They had probably dealt with marginally insane people every day of their professional careers. Vasher had seen the types who ended up in the lines for Returned petitions.
“Here now,” one of the men said as Vasher approached. “How’d you get in here?”
Vasher stepped up to them, mumbling to himself about talking to the goddess. The second man put a hand on Vasher’s shoulder. “Come on, friend. Let’s get you back to the gates and see if there’s a shelter that’s still taking people in for the night.”
Vasher hesitated. Kindness. He hadn’t expected that, for some reason. The emotion made him feel a tad guilty for what he had to do next.
He snapped his arm to the side, twitching his thumb twice to make the long finger tassels on his shirt sleeve begin mimicking the motions of his real fingers. He formed a fist. The tassels snapped forward, wrapping around the first guard’s neck.
The man choked out a soft gasp of surprise. Before the second guard could react, Vasher brought Nightblood up, ramming the hilt into the guard’s stomach. The man stumbled, and Vasher swept his feet out from beneath him. Vasher’s boot followed, coming down slowly but firmly on the man’s neck. He wiggled, but Vasher’s legs bore Awakened strength.