The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,60

didn’t take you? What’s wrong with her?”

“Chronic competence, I should guess. She’s been so successful in life that she has unrealistic expectations of others.”

Yalb frowned, guiding Shallan around a group of revelers stumbling drunkenly up the roadway. Wasn’t it a little early for that sort of thing? Yalb got a few steps ahead, turning and walking backward, looking at her. “That doesn’t make sense, young miss. What more could she want than you?”

“Much more, apparently.”

“But you’re perfect! Pardon my forwardness.”

“You’re walking backward.”

“Pardon my backwardness, then. You look good from any side, young miss, that you do.”

She found herself smiling. Tozbek’s sailors had far too high an opinion of her.

“You’d make an ideal ward,” he continued. “Genteel, pretty, refined and such. Don’t much like your opinion on gambling, but that’s to be expected. Wouldn’t be right for a proper woman not to scold a fellow for gambling. It’d be like the sun refusing to rise or the sea turning white.”

“Or Jasnah Kholin smiling.”

“Exactly! Anyway, you’re perfect.”

“It’s kind of you to say so.”

“Well, it’s true,” he said, putting hands on hips, stopping. “So that’s it? You’re going to give up?”

She gave him a perplexed stare. He stood there on the busy roadway, lit from above by a lantern burning yellow-orange, hands on his hips, white Thaylen eyebrows drooping along the sides of his face, bare-chested under his open vest. That was a posture no citizen, no matter how high ranked, had ever taken at her father’s mansion.

“I did try to persuade her,” Shallan said, blushing. “I went to her a second time, and she rejected me again.”

“Two times, eh? In cards, you always got to try a third hand. It wins the most often.”

Shallan frowned. “But that’s not really true. The laws of probability and statistics—”

“Don’t know much blustering math,” Yalb said, folding his arms. “But I do know the Passions. You win when you need it most, you see.”

The Passions. Pagan superstition. Of course, Jasnah had referred to glyphwards as superstition too, so perhaps it all came down to perspective.

Try a third time…Shallan shivered to consider Jasnah’s wrath if Shallan bothered her yet again. She’d surely withdraw the offer to come study with her in the future.

But Shallan would never get to take that offer. It was like a glass sphere with no gemstone at the center. Pretty, but worthless. Was it not better to take one last chance at getting the position she needed now?

It wouldn’t work. Jasnah had made it quite clear that Shallan was not yet educated enough.

Not yet educated enough…

An idea sparked in Shallan’s head. She raised her safehand to her breast, standing on that roadway, considering the audacity of it. She’d likely get herself thrown from the city at Jasnah’s demand.

Yet if she returned home without trying every avenue, could she face her brothers? They depended on her. For once in her life, someone needed Shallan. That responsibility excited her. And terrified her.

“I need a book merchant,” she found herself saying, voice wavering slightly.

Yalb raised an eyebrow at her.

“Third hand wins the most. Do you think you can find me a book merchant who is open at this hour?”

“Kharbranth is a major port, young miss,” he said with a laugh. “Stores stay open late. Just wait here.” He dashed off into the evening crowd, leaving her with an anxious protest on her lips.

She sighed, then seated herself in a demure posture on the stone base of a lantern pole. It should be safe. She saw other lighteyed women passing on the street, though they were often carried in palanquins or those small, hand-pulled vehicles. She even saw the occasional real carriage, though only the very wealthy could afford to keep horses.

A few minutes later, Yalb popped out of the crowd as if from nowhere and waved for her to follow. She rose and hurried to him.

“Should we get a porter?” she asked as he led her to a large side street that ran laterally across the city’s hill. She stepped carefully; her skirt was long enough that she worried about tearing the hem on the stone. The strip at the bottom was designed to be easily replaced, but Shallan could hardly afford to waste spheres on such things.

“Nah,” Yalb said. “It’s right here.” He pointed along another cross street. This one had a row of shops climbing up the steep slope, each with a sign hanging out front bearing the glyphpair for book, and those glyphs were often styled into the shape of a book. Illiterate