Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(97)

The priest seemed to relax slightly.

So he knows about the trapdoor, Lightsong thought. And . . . perhaps the intruder did as well?

Lightsong crawled some more, discomforting the servants until the men he had requested were assembled. He stood—letting a couple of his servants dust off his robes—then walked over to the newcomers. The hallway was growing quite crowded, so he shooed them back out into the sunlight.

Outside, he regarded the group of six men. “Identify yourselves. You on the left, who are you?”

“My name is Gagaril,” the man said.

“I’m sorry,” Lightsong said.

The man flushed. “I was named after my father, Your Grace.”

“After he what? Spent an unusual amount of time at the local tavern? Anyway, how are you involved in this mess?”

“I was one of the guards at the door when the intruder broke in.”

“Were you alone?” Lightsong asked.

“No,” said another of the men. “I was with him.”

“Good,” Lightsong said. “You two, go over there somewhere.” He waved his hand at the lawn. The men looked at each other, then walked away as indicated.

“Far enough that you can’t hear us!” Lightsong called at them.

The men nodded and continued.

“All right,” Lightsong said, looking back at the others. “Who are you four?”

“We were attacked by the man in the hallway,” one of the servants said. He pointed at two of the others. “All three of us. And . . . one other. The man who was killed.”

“Terribly unfortunate, that,” Lightsong said, pointing at another section of the lawn. “Off you go. Walk until you can’t hear me anymore, then wait.”

The three men trudged off.

“And now you,” Lightsong said, hands on hips, regarding the last man—a shorter priest.

“I saw the intruder flee, Your Grace,” the priest said. “I was watching out a window.”

“Very timely of you,” Lightsong said, pointing at a third spot on the lawn, far enough from the others to be sequestered. The man walked away. Lightsong turned back to the priest who was obviously in charge.

“You said that the intruder released a Lifeless animal?” Lightsong asked.



“A squirrel, Your Grace,” the priest said. “We captured it.”

“Go and fetch it for me.”

“Your Grace, it’s quite wild and—” He stopped, recognizing the look in Lightsong’s eyes, then waved for a servant.

“No,” Lightsong said. “Not a servant. You go and get it personally.” The priest looked incredulous.

“Yes, yes,” Lightsong said, waving him away. “I know. It’s an offense to your dignity. Perhaps you should think about converting to Austrism. For now, get going.”

The priest left, grumbling.

“The rest of you,” Lightsong said, addressing his own servants and priests. “You wait here.”

They looked resigned. Perhaps they were growing accustomed to him dismissing them.

“Come on, Scoot,” Lightsong said, walking toward the first group he had sent off onto the lawn—the two guards. Llarimar scurried forward to keep up as Lightsong took long strides over to the two men. “Now,” Lightsong said to the two, out of earshot of the others, “tell me what you saw.”

“He came to us pretending to be a madman, Your Grace,” one of the guards said. “He sauntered out of the shadows, mumbling to himself. It was just an act, though, and when he got close enough, he knocked us both out.”

“How?” Lightsong asked.

“He grabbed me around the neck with tassels from his Awakened coat,” one of the men said. He nodded to his companion. “Knocked him in the stomach with the hilt of a sword.”

The second guard raised his shirt to show a large bruise on his stomach, then cocked his head to the side, showing another one on his neck.

“Choked us both,” the first guard said. “Me with those tassels, Fran with a boot on his neck. That’s the last thing we knew. By the time we awoke, he was gone.”

“He choked you,” Lightsong said, “but didn’t kill you. Just enough to knock you out?”

“That’s right, Your Grace,” the guard said.

“Please describe this man,” Lightsong said.

“He was big,” the guard said. “Had a scraggly beard. Not too long, but not trimmed either.”

“He wasn’t smelly or dirty,” the other said. “He just didn’t seem to take much care for how he looked. His hair was long—came down to his neck—and hadn’t seen a brush in a long while.”

“Wore ragged clothing,” the first said. “Patched in places, nothing bright, but not really dark either. Just kind of . . . bland. Rather un-Hallandren, now that I think on it.”

“And he was armed?” Lightsong said.

“With the sword that hit me,” the second guard said. “Big thing. Not a dueling blade, more like an Easterner sword. Straight and really long. Had it hidden under his cloak, and we would have seen it, if he hadn’t covered it up by walking so oddly.”

Lightsong nodded. “Thank you. Stay here.”