Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(84)

“Then why agree to join with me?”

He stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the blossoms. “Because,” he said. “I intend to see that you don’t crush her. Or the rest of us.”

“My dear Lightsong,” Blushweaver said, pursing bright red lips. “I assure you that I’m harmless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

“Now, now,” she said, “you should never point out a lady’s departure from strict truth. Anyway, I’m glad you came. We have work to do.”

“Work?” he said. “That sounds like . . . work.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, walking away. Gardeners immediately ran forward, pulling aside the small trees to clear a path for them. The master gardener himself stood by directing the evolving composition like the conductor of a botanical orchestra.

Lightsong hurried and caught up. “Work,” he said. “Do you know what my philosophy on that word is?”

“I have somehow gotten the subtle impression that you do not approve of it,” Blushweaver said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Work, my dear Blushweaver, is like fertilizer.”

“It smells?”

He smiled. “No, I was thinking that work is like fertilizer in that I’m glad it exists; I just don’t ever want to get stuck in it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Blushweaver said. “Because you just agreed to do so.”

He sighed. “I thought I smelled something.”

“Don’t be tedious,” she said, smiling to some workers as they lined her path with vases of flowers. “This is going to be fun.” She turned back to him, eyes twinkling. “Mercystar got attacked last night.”
* * *

“OH, MY DEAR BLUSHWEAVER. It was positively tragic.”

Lightsong raised an eyebrow. Mercystar was a gorgeously voluptuous woman who offered a striking contrast with Blushweaver. Both were, of course, perfect examples of feminine beauty. Blushweaver was simply the slim—yet busty—type while Mercystar was the curvaceous—yet busty—type. Mercystar lounged back on a plush couch, being fanned with large palm leaves by several of her serving men.

She didn’t have Blushweaver’s subtle sense of style. There was a skill to choosing bright clothing that didn’t edge into garishness. Lightsong himself didn’t have it—but he had servants who did. Mercystar, apparently, didn’t even know such a skill existed.

Though admittedly, he thought, orange and gold aren’t exactly the easiest colors to wear with dignity.

“Mercystar, dear,” Blushweaver said warmly. One of the servants provided a cushioned stool, sliding it beneath Blushweaver just as she sat at Mercystar’s elbow. “I can understand how you must feel.”

“Can you?” Mercystar asked. “Can you possibly? This is terrible. Some . . . some miscreant snuck into my palace, accosting my servants! The very home of a goddess! Who would do such a thing?”

“Indeed, he must have been deranged,” Blushweaver said soothingly. Lightsong stood beside her, smiling sympathetically, hands clasped behind his back. A cool afternoon breeze blew across the courtyard and through the pavilion. Some of Blushweaver’s gardeners had brought over flowers and trees, surrounding the pavilion’s canopy, filling the air with their mingled perfumes.

“I can’t understand it,” Mercystar said. “The guards at the gates are supposed to prevent these kinds of things! Why do we have walls if people can just walk in and violate our homes? I just don’t feel safe anymore.”

“I’m certain the guards will be more diligent in the future,” Blushweaver said.

Lightsong frowned, glancing toward Mercystar’s palace, where servants buzzed about like bees around a disturbed hive. “What was the intruder after, do you suppose?” he said, almost to himself. “Works of art, perhaps? Surely there are merchants who would be much easier to rob.”

“We may not know what they want,” Blushweaver said smoothly, “but we at least know something about them.”

“We do?” Mercystar said, perking up.

“Yes, dear,” Blushweaver said. “Only someone with no respect for tradition, propriety, or religion would dare trespass in the home of a god. Someone base. Disrespectful. Unbelieving . . .”

“An Idrian?” Mercystar asked.

“Did you ever wonder, dear,” Blushweaver said, “why they sent their youngest daughter to the God King instead of their eldest?”

Mercystar frowned. “They did?”

“Yes, dear,” Blushweaver said.

“That is rather suspicious, now, isn’t it?”

“Something is going on in the Court of Gods, Mercystar,” Blushweaver said, leaning over. “These could be dangerous times for the Crown.”

“Blushweaver,” Lightsong said. “A word, if you please?”

She eyed him in annoyance. He met her gaze steadily, which eventually caused her to sigh. She patted Mercystar’s hand and then retreated from the pavilion with Lightsong, their servants and priests trailing behind.

“What are you doing?” Lightsong said as soon as they were out of Mercystar’s hearing.

“Recruiting,” Blushweaver said, a glint in her eye. “We’re going to need her Lifeless Commands.”