The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,345

a fine bust.

Av snorted. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Baxil said. “Seems like something to do with myself. I’ve never sought it, you know, and they say every man gets one chance. Ask a boon of the Nightwatcher. Have you used yours?”

“Nah,” Av said. “Don’t fancy making the trip all the way to the Valley. Besides, my brother went. Came back with two numb hands. Never could feel anything with them again.”

“What was his boon?” Baxil asked as the mistress wrapped up a vase with a cloth, then quietly shattered it on the floor and crushed the pieces.

“Don’t know,” Av said. “He never said. Seemed embarrassed. Probably asked for something silly, like a good haircut.” Av smirked.

“I was thinking I’d make myself more useful,” Baxil said. “Ask for courage, you know?”

“If you want,” Av replied. “I figure there are better ways than the Old Magic. You never know what kind of curse you’ll end up with.”

“I could phrase my request perfectly,” Baxil said.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Av said. “It’s not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn’t trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not.”

“And you’re an expert?” Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. “I thought you said you never went.”

“I didn’t,” Av said. “On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago.”

“What was his curse?” Baxil said.

“Saw the world upside down from then on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Av said. “Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn’t really think it a curse by the time he died.”

Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren’t such a coward, would he–maybe–be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired muscle?

If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you.

The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. “Padded mallet, Baxil. There’s a full statue back there.”

He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her.

“Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade,” she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. “But that might make this too easy.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it were too easy, mistress,” Baxil noted.

She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. “Someone’s going to hear that.”

“Yeah,” Av said. “Probably why she waited to do it last.”

At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything.

“Why does she do this, Av?” Baxil found himself asking.

“Don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.”

“I thought you said I should never do that!”

“Depends,” Av said. “How attached to your limbs are you?”

“Rather attached.”

“Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up.”

Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it.

Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn’t be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress’s direction.

“I’m thinking of changing my Calling,” Ashir said from behind.

Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he’d caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate.

“I’m tired of cooking,” Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk–and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice.

“I don’t have passion for it as I once did,” he continued. “Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?”

“Heralds need food,”