The Way of Kings, Part 1 (The Stormlight Archive #1.1)

Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, crouched on a high stone ledge at the side of the gambling den. The ledge was meant for holding a lantern; both his legs and the shelf were hidden by his long, enveloping cloak, making him seem to be hanging from the wall.

There were few lights nearby. Makkek liked Szeth to remain cloaked in shadow. He wore a formfitting black costume beneath the cloak, the lower part of his face covered by a cloth mask; both were of Makkek’s design. The cloak was too big and the clothing too tight. It was a terrible outfit for an assassin, but Makkek demanded drama, and Szeth did as his master commanded. Always.

Perhaps there was something useful to the drama. With only his eyes and bald head showing, he unnerved the people who passed by. Shin eyes, too round, slightly too large. The people here thought them similar to the eyes of a child. Why did that disturb them so?

Nearby, a group of men in brown cloaks sat chatting and rubbing their thumbs and forefingers together. Wisps of smoke rose between their fingers, accompanied by a faint crackling sound. Rubbing firemoss was said to make a man’s mind more receptive to thoughts and ideas. The one time Szeth had tried it, it had given him a headache and two blistered fingers. But once you grew the calluses, it could apparently be euphoric.

The circular den had a bar at the center, serving a wide variety of drinks at a wider variety of prices. The barmaids were dressed in violet robes that had plunging necklines and were open at the sides. Their safehands were exposed, something that the Bavlanders—who were Vorin by descent—seemed to find extremely provocative. So odd. It was just a hand.

Around the perimeter of the den, various games were in progress. None of them were overt games of chance—no dice throws, no bets on card flips. There were games of breakneck, shallowcrab fights, and—oddly—guessing games. That was another oddity about Vorin peoples; they avoided overtly guessing the future. A game like breakneck would have throws and tosses, but they wouldn’t bet on the outcome. Instead, they’d bet on the hand they held after the throws and the draws.

It seemed a meaningless distinction to Szeth, but it was deeply steeped in the culture. Even here, in one of the vilest pits in the city—where women walked with their hands exposed and men spoke openly of crimes—nobody risked offending the Heralds by seeking to know the future. Even predicting the highstorms made many uncomfortable. And yet they thought nothing of walking on stone or using Stormlight for everyday illumination. They ignored the spirits of things that lived around them, and they ate whatever they wanted on any day they wanted.

Strange. So strange. And yet this was his life. Recently, Szeth had begun to question some of the prohibitions he had once followed so strictly. How could these Easterners not walk on stone? There was no soil in their lands. How could they get about without treading on stone?

Dangerous thoughts. His way of life was all that remained to him. If he questioned Stone Shamanism, would he then question his nature as Truthless? Dangerous, dangerous. Though his murders and sins would damn him, at least his soul would be given to the stones upon his death. He would continue to exist. Punished, in agony, but not exiled to nothingness.

Better to exist in agony than to vanish entirely.

Makkek himself strode the floor of the gambling den, a woman on each arm. His scrawny leanness was gone, his face having slowly gained a juicy plumpness, like a fruit ripening after the drowning’s waters. Also gone were his ragged footpad’s garments, replaced with luxurious silks.

Makkek’s companions—the ones with him when they’d killed Took—were all dead, murdered by Szeth at Makkek’s orders. All to hide the secret of the Oathstone. Why were these Easterners always so ashamed of the way they controlled Szeth? Was it because they feared another would steal the Oathstone from them? Were they terrified that the weapon they employed so callously would be turned against them?

Perhaps he feared that if it were known how easily Szeth was controlled, it would spoil their reputation. Szeth had overheard more than one conversation centered around the mystery of Makkek’s terribly effective bodyguard. If a creature like Szeth served Makkek, then the master himself must be even more dangerous.

Makkek passed the place where Szeth lurked, one of the women on his arms laughing with tinkling sound. Makkek glanced at Szeth, then gestured curtly. Szeth bowed his masked head in acknowledgment. He slid from his place, dropping to the ground, oversized cloak fluttering.

Games stilled. Men both drunken and sober turned to watch Szeth, and as he passed the three men with the firemoss, their fingers went limp. Most in the room knew what Szeth was about this night. A man had moved into Bornwater and opened his own gambling den to challenge Makkek. Likely this newcomer didn’t believe the reputation of Makkek’s phantom assassin. Well, he had reason to be skeptical. Szeth’s reputation was inaccurate.

He was far, far more dangerous than it suggested.

He ducked out of the gambling den, passing up the steps through the darkened storefront and then out into the yard. He tossed the cloak and face mask into a wagon as he passed. The cloak would only make noise, and why cover his face? He was the only Shin in town. If someone saw his eyes, they’d know who he was. He retained the tight black clothing; changing would take too much time.

Bornwater was the largest town in the area; it hadn’t taken Makkek long to outgrow Staplind. Now he was talking of moving up to Kneespike, the city where the local landlord had his mansion. If that happened, Szeth would spend months wading in blood as he systematically tracked down and killed each and every thief, cutthroat, and gambling master who refused Makkek’s rule.

That was months off. For now, there was Bornwater’s interloper, a man named Gavashaw. Szeth prowled through the streets, eschewing Stormlight or Shardblade, counting on his natural grace and care to keep him unseen. He enjoyed his brief freedom. These moments—when he wasn’t trapped in one of Makkek’s smoke-filled dens—were too few lately.

Slipping between buildings—moving swiftly in the darkness, with the wet, cold air on his skin—he could almost think himself back in Shinovar. The buildings around him were not of blasphemous stone, but earthen ones, built with clay and soil. Those low sounds were not muffled cheers from within another of Makkek’s gambling dens, but the thunder and whinnies of wild horses on the plains.