Would he see Laral here? He was embarrassed by how infrequently he thought about her these days.
The mansion’s front grounds had a low stone wall covered with all kinds of exotic plants. Rockbuds lined the top, their vines draping down the outside. Clusters of a bulbous variety of shalebark grew along the inside, bursting with a variety of bright colors. Oranges, reds, yellows, and blues. Some outcroppings looked like heaps of clothing, with folds spread like fans. Others grew out like horns. Most had tendrils like threads that waved in the wind. Brightlord Roshone paid much more attention to his grounds than Wistiow had.
They walked up past the whitewashed pillars and entered between the thick wooden stormdoors. The vestibule inside had a low ceiling and was decorated with ceramics; zircon spheres gave them a pale blue cast.
A tall servant in a long black coat and a bright purple cravat greeted them. He was Natir, the steward now that Miliv had died. He’d been brought in from Dalilak, a large coastal city to the north.
Natir led them to a dining room where Roshone sat at a long darkwood table. He’d gained weight, though not enough to be called fat. He still had that grey-flecked beard, and his hair was greased back down to his collar. He wore white trousers and a tight red vest over a white shirt.
He’d already begun his meal, and the spicy scents made Kal’s stomach rumble. How long had it been since he’d had pork? There were five different dipping sauces on the table, and Roshone’s wine was a deep, crystalline orange. He ate alone, no sign of Laral or his son.
The servant gestured toward a side table set up in a room next to the dining hall. Kal’s father took one look at it, then walked to Roshone’s table and sat down. Roshone paused, skewer halfway to his lips, spicy brown sauce dripping to the table before him.
“I’m of the second nahn,” Lirin said, “and I have a personal invitation to dine with you. Surely you follow the precepts of rank closely enough to give me a place at your table.”
Roshone clenched his teeth, but did not object. Taking a deep breath, Kal sat down beside his father. Before he left to join the war on the Shattered Plains, he had to know. Was his father a coward or a man of courage?
By the light of spheres at home, Lirin had always seemed weak. He worked in his surgery room, ignoring what the townspeople said about him. He told his son he couldn’t practice with the spear and forbade him to think of going to war. Weren’t those the actions of a coward? But five months ago, Kal had seen courage in him that he’d never expected.
And in the calm blue light of Roshone’s palace, Lirin met the eyes of a man far above him in rank, wealth, and power. And did not flinch. How did he do it? Kal’s heart thumped uncontrollably. He had to put his hands in his lap to keep them from betraying his nervousness.
Roshone waved to a serving man, and within a short time, new places had been set. The periphery of the room was dark. Roshone’s table was an illuminated island amid a vast black expanse.
There were bowls of water for dipping one’s fingers and stiff white cloth napkins beside them. A lighteyes’ meal. Kal had rarely eaten such fine food; he tried not to make a fool of himself as he hesitantly took a skewer and imitated Roshone, using his knife to slide down the bottommost chunk of meat, then raising it and biting. The meat was savory and tender, though the spices were much hotter than he was accustomed to.
Lirin did not eat. He rested his elbows on the table, watching the Brightlord dine.
“I wished to offer you the chance to eat in peace,” Roshone said eventually, “before we talked of serious matters. But you don’t seem inclined to partake of my generosity.”
“No.”
“Very well,” Roshone said, taking a piece of flatbread from the basket and wrapping it around his skewer, pulling off several vegetable chunks at once and eating them with the bread. “Then tell me. How long do you think you can defy me? Your family is destitute.”
“We do just fine,” Kal cut in.
Lirin glanced at him, but did not chastise him for speaking. “My son is correct. We can live. And if that doesn’t work, we can leave. I will not bend to your will, Roshone.”
“If you left,” Roshone said, holding up a finger, “I would contact your new citylord and tell him of the spheres stolen from me.”
“I would win an inquest over that. Besides, as a surgeon, I am immune to most demands you could make.” It was true; men and their apprentices who served an essential function in towns were afforded special protection, even from lighteyes. The Vorin legal code of citizenship was complex enough that Kaladin still had difficulty understanding it.
“Yes, you would win an inquest,” Roshone said. “You were so meticulous, preparing the exact right documents. You were the only one with Wistiow when he stamped them. Odd, that none of his clerks were there.”
“Those clerks read him the documents.”
“And then left the room.”
“Because they were ordered to leave by Brightlord Wistiow. They have admitted this, I believe.”
Roshone shrugged. “I don’t need to prove that you stole the spheres, surgeon. I simply have to continue doing as I have been. I know that your family eats scraps. How long will you continue to make them suffer for your pride?”
“They won’t be intimidated. And neither will I.”
“I’m not asking if you’re intimidated. I’m asking if you’re starving.”
“Not by any means,” Lirin said, voice growing dry. “If we lack for something to eat, we can feast upon the attention you lavish upon us, Brightlord. We feel your eyes watching, hear your whispers to the townspeople. Judging from the degree of your concern with us, it would seem that you are the one who is intimidated.”
Roshone fell still, skewer held limply in his hand, brilliant green eyes narrowed, lips pursed tight. In the dark, those eyes almost seemed to glow. Kal had to stop himself from cringing under the weight of that disapproving gaze. There was an air of command about lighteyes like Roshone.
He’s not a real lighteyes! He’s a reject. I’ll see real ones eventually. Men of honor.
Lirin held the gaze evenly. “Every month we resist is a blow to your authority. You can’t have me arrested, since I would win an inquest. You’ve tried to turn the other people against me, but they know—deep down—that they need me.”
Roshone leaned forward. “I do not like your little town.”
Lirin frowned at the odd response.
“I do not like being treated like an exile,” Roshone continued. “I do not like living so far from anything—everything—important. And most of all, I do not like darkeyes who think themselves above their stations.”
“I have trouble feeling sympathy for you.”
Roshone sneered. He looked down at his meal, as if it had lost any flavor. “Very well. Let us make an…accommodation. I will take nine-tenths of the spheres. You can have the rest.”
Kal stood up indignantly. “My father will never—”
“Kal,” Lirin cut in. “I can speak for myself.”
“Surely you won’t make a deal, though.”
Lirin didn’t reply immediately. Finally, he said, “Go to the kitchens, Kal. Ask them if they have some food more to your tastes.”
“Father, no—”
“Go, son.” Lirin’s voice was firm.
Was it true? After all of this, would his father simply capitulate? Kal felt his face grow red, and he fled the dining room. He knew the way to the kitchens. During his childhood, he’d often dined there with Laral.
He left not because he was told to, but because he didn’t want his father or Roshone to see his emotions: chagrin at having stood to denounce Roshone when his father planned to make a deal, humiliation that his father would consider a deal, frustration at being banished. Kal was mortified to find himself crying. He passed a couple of Roshone’s house soldiers standing at the doorway, lit only by a very low-trimmed oil lamp on the wall. Their rough features were highlighted in amber hues.
Kal hastened past them, turning a corner before pausing beside a plant stand, struggling with his emotions. The stand displayed an indoor vine-bud, one bred to remain open; a few conelike flowers climbed up from its vestigial shell. The lamp on the wall above it burned with a tiny, strangled light. These were the back rooms of the mansion, near the servant quarters, and spheres were not used for light here.
Kal leaned back, breathing in and out. He felt like one of the ten fools—specifically Cabine, who acted like a child though he was adult. But what was he to think of Lirin’s actions?
He wiped his eyes, then pushed his way through the swinging doors into the kitchens. Roshone still employed Wistiow’s chef. Barm was a tall, slender man with dark hair that he wore braided. He walked down the line of his kitchen counter, giving instructions to his various subchefs as a couple of parshmen walked in and out through the mansion’s back doors, carrying in crates of food. Barm carried a long metal spoon, which banged on a pot or pan hanging from the ceiling each time he gave an order.
He barely spared Kal a brown-eyed glance, then told one of his servants to go fetch some flatbread and fruited tallew rice. A child’s meal. Kal felt even more embarrassed that Barm had known instantly why he had been sent to the kitchens.
Kal walked to the dining nook to wait for the food. It was a whitewashed alcove with a slate-topped table. He sat down, elbows on the stone, head on his hands.
Why did it make him so angry to think that his father might bargain away most of the spheres in exchange for safety? True, if that happened, there wouldn’t be enough to send Kal to Kharbranth. But he’d already decided to become a soldier. So it didn’t matter. Did it?
I am going to join the army, Kal thought. I’ll run away, I’ll…
Suddenly, that dream—that plan—seemed incredibly childish. It belonged to a boy who ought to eat fruited meals and deserved to be sent away when the men talked of important topics. For the first time, the thought of not training with the surgeons filled him with regret.
The door into the kitchens banged open. Roshone’s son, Rillir, sauntered in, chatting with the person behind him. “…don’t know why Father insists on keeping everything so dreary around here all the time. Oil lamps in the hallways? Could he be any more provincial? It would do him some real good if I could get him out on a hunt or two. We might as well get some use out of being in this remote place.”
Rillir noticed Kal sitting there, but passed over him as one might register the presence of a stool or a shelf for wine: noting it, but otherwise ignoring it.
Kal’s own eyes were on the person who followed Rillir. Laral. Wistiow’s daughter.
So much had changed. It had been so long, and seeing her brought up old emotions. Shame, excitement. Did she know that his parents had been hoping to marry him to her? Merely seeing her again almost flustered him completely. But no. His father could look Roshone in the eyes. He could do the same with her.
Kal stood up and nodded to her. She glanced at him, and blushed faintly, walking in with an old nurse in tow—a chaperone.