The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,220

carried in a reverse grip, extending out behind him. Tonight, at least, he assassinated a man who deserved his fate. Were the hallways too quiet? Szeth hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the rooftop. Could Gavashaw have been foolish enough to place all of his guards outside, leaving his bedchamber undefended?

Ahead, the doors into the master’s rooms lay unwatched and dark at the end of a short hallway. Suspicious.

Szeth crept up to the doors, listening. Nothing. He hesitated, glancing to the side. A grand stairway led up to the second floor. He hustled over and used his Blade to shear free a wooden knob from the newel post. It was about the size of a small melon. A few hacks with the Blade cut a cloak-sized section of drapery free from a window. Szeth hurried back to the doors and infused the wooden sphere with Stormlight, giving it a Basic Lashing that pointed it westward, directly ahead of him.

He cut through the latch between the doors and eased one open. The room beyond was dark. Was Gavashaw gone for the evening? Where would he go? This city was not safe for him yet.

Szeth placed the wooden ball in the middle of the drape, then held it up and dropped it. It fell forward, toward the far wall. Wrapped in the fabric, the ball looked vaguely like a person in a cloak running through the room in a crouch.

No concealed guards struck at it. The decoy bounced off a latched window, then came to rest hanging against the wall. It continued to leak Stormlight.

That light illuminated a small table with an object atop it. Szeth squinted, trying to make out what it was. He edged forward, slinking into the room, closer and closer to the table.

Yes. The object on the table was a head. One with Gavashaw’s features. Shadows thrown by Stormlight gave the grisly face an even more haunted cast. Someone had beaten Szeth to the assassination.

“Szeth-son-Neturo,” a voice said.

Szeth turned, spinning his Shardblade around and falling into a defensive stance. A figure stood on the far side of the room, shrouded in the darkness. “Who are you?” Szeth demanded, his Stormlight aura growing brighter once he stopped holding his breath.

“Are you satisfied with this, Szeth-son-Neturo?” the voice asked. It was male and deep. What was that accent? The man wasn’t Veden. Alethi, perhaps? “Are you satisfied with trivial crimes? Killing over meaningless turf in backwater mining villages?”

Szeth didn’t reply. He scanned the room, looking for motion in the other shadows. None seemed to be hiding anyone.

“I’ve watched you,” the voice said. “You’ve been sent to intimidate shopkeepers. You’ve killed footpads so unimportant even the authorities ignore them. You’ve been shown off to impress whores, as if they were high lighteyed ladies. What a waste.”

“I do as my master demands.”

“You are squandered,” the voice said. “You are not meant for petty extortions and murders. Using you like this, it’s like hitching a Ryshadium stallion to a run-down market wagon. It’s like using a Shardblade to slice vegetables, or like using the finest parchment as kindling for a washwater fire. It is a crime. You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo, a god. And each day Makkek throws dung at you.”

“Who are you?” Szeth repeated.

“An admirer of the arts.”

“Do not call me by my father’s name,” Szeth said. “He should not be sullied by association with me.”

The sphere on the wall finally ran out of Stormlight, dropping to the floor, the drapery muffling its fall. “Very well,” the figure said. “But do you not rebel against this frivolous use of your skills? Were you not meant for greatness?”

“There is no greatness in killing,” Szeth said. “You speak like a kukori. Great men create food and clothing. He who adds is to be revered. I am he who takes away. At least in the killing of men such as these I can pretend to be doing a service.”

“This from the man who nearly toppled one of the greatest kingdoms in Roshar?”

“This from the man who committed one of the most heinous slaughters in Roshar,” Szeth corrected.

The figure snorted. “What you did was a mere breeze compared to the storm of slaughter Shardbearers wreak on a battlefield each day. And those are breezes compared to the tempests you are capable of.”

Szeth began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” the figure asked.

“Gavashaw is dead. I must return to my master.”

Something hit the floor. Szeth spun, Shardblade down. The figure had dropped something round and