Warbreaker

9

Vive

People jostled their way through the streets, draped flagrantly in colors, yelling, and talking, and moving, and stinking, and coughing, and bumping. Her hair lightened to grey, she pulled her shawl close as she maintained her imitation—such that it was—of an elderly woman. She had feared that she might stand out. She needn’t have worried. Who could ever stand out in this confusion?

Nevertheless, it was best to be safe. She had come—arriving in T’Telir just hours ago—to rescue her sister, not to get herself kidnapped.

It was a bold plan. Vive

She knew that she was inexperienced. She hoped that her awareness of that would keep her from being too foolhardy, but she had the best education and political tutelage her kingdom could provide, and much of her training had focused on life in Hallandren. As a devout daughter of Austre, she’d practiced all of her life to avoid standing out. She could hide in a vast, disorganized city like T’Telir.

And vast it was. She’d memorized maps, but they hadn’t prepared her for the sight, sound, scent, and colors of the city on market day. Even the livestock wore bright ribbons. Vive

Poor Siri, she thought. Caught up in all of this, locked in the Court of Gods, probably so overwhelmed that she can barely think. Vive

Vive

There was nothing to do but wait. She glanced up at the statue beside her; it was one of the famous D’Denir Celabrin. Most of the statues depicted warriors. They stood in every imaginable pose all across the entire city, armed with weapons and often dressed in colorful clothing. According to her lessons, the people of T’Telir found dressing the statues to be an amusing pastime. Lore had it that the first ones had been commissioned by Peacegiver the Blessed, the Returned who had taken command of Hallandren at the end of the Manywar. The number of statues had increased each year as new ones were paid for by the Returned—whose money, of course, came from the people themselves.

Excess and waste, Vive

Finally, she noticed Parlin coming back down the street. She frowned as she saw that he was wearing some ridiculous frippery on his head—it looked a little like a sock, though much larger. The bright green hat flopped down one side of his square face, and looked very out of place against his dull brown Idris travel clothing. Tall but not lanky, Parlin was only a few years Vive

“Parlin?” she said as he approached, carefully keeping the a

“A hat,” he said, characteristically terse. It wasn’t that Parlin was rude; it just seemed he rarely felt he had much to say.

“I can see that it’s a hat, Parlin. Where did you get it?”

“The man in the market said they’re very popular.”

Vive

“The hat is ridiculous, Parlin,” Vive

Parlin removed the hat, tucking it in his pocket. He said nothing further, but did turn, watching the crowds of people pass. They seemed to make him as nervous as they did Vive

To Parlin’s mind, nothing showed affection like a hunk of something dead and bleeding on the table.

“This place is strange,” Parlin said. “People here move like herds.” His eyes followed a pretty Hallandren girl as she walked by. The hussy was—like most of the women in T’Telir—wearing practically nothing. Blouses that were open well below the neck, skirts well above the knees—some women even wore trousers, just like men.

“What did you discover in the market?” she asked, drawing his attention back.

“There are a lot of Idrians here,” he said.

“What?” Vive

“Idrians,” Parlin said. “In the market. Some were trading goods; many looked like common laborers. I watched them.”

Vive

He nodded. “Looks clean. Feels strange to me that people eat food made by strangers.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious there?”

“What would be ‘suspicious’ in this city?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who insisted on scouting ahead.”

“It’s always a good idea when hunting. Less likely to scare away the animals.”

“Unfortunately, Parlin,” Vive

“I am aware of that,” Parlin said. “Animals make sense.”

Vive

Reluctantly, she closed her eyes and—using the shawl to hide the transformation—changed her hair from gray to brown. If there were other Idrians in town, it was unlikely that she would stand out. Trying to act like an old woman would be more suspicious.

It still felt wrong to be exposed. In Bevalis, she’d have been recognized instantly. Of course, Bevalis had only a few thousand people in it. The vastly greater scale of T’Telir would require a conscious adjustment.

She gestured to Parlin and—gritting her teeth—joined the crowd and began making her way toward the marketplace.

The inland sea made all the difference. T’Telir was a prime port, and the dyes it sold—made from the Tears of Edgli, a local flower—made it a center of trade. She could see the evidence all around her. Exotic silks and clothing. Brown-ski