The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,77

cold. Why didn’t they just come to the Purelake?

Nu Ralik send that they don’t, he thought, walking up to Maib’s place. If everyone knew how nice the Purelake was, surely they’d all want to live here, and there wouldn’t be a place to walk without stumbling over some foreigner!

He stepped up into the building, exposing his calves to the air. The floor was low enough that a few inches of water still covered it; Purelakers liked it that way. It was natural, though if the tide dropped, sometimes buildings would drain.

Minnows shot out around his toes. Common types, not worth anything. Maib stood inside, fixing a pot of fish soup, and she nodded to him. She was a stout woman and had been chasing Ishikk for years, trying to bait him to wed her on account of her fine cooking. He just might let her catch him someday.

His foreigners were in the corner, at a table only they would choose—the one that was raised up an extra bit, with footrests so that the outsiders wouldn’t have to get their toes wet. Nu Ralik, what fools! he thought with amusement. Inside out of the sun, wearing shirts against its warmth, feet out of the tide. No wonder their thoughts are so odd.

He set his buckets down, nodding to Maib.

She eyed him. “Good fishing?”

“Terrible.”

“Ah well, your soup is free today, Ishikk. To make up for Vun Makak’s cursing.”

“Thanks much kindly,” he said, taking a steaming bowl from her. She smiled. Now he owed her. Enough bowls, and he’d be forced to wed her.

“There’s a kolgril in the bucket for you,” he noted. “Caught it early this morning.”

Her stout face grew uncertain. A kolgril was a very lucky fish. Cured aching joints for a good month after you ate it, and sometimes let you see when friends were going to visit by letting you read the shapes of the clouds. Maib had quite a fondness for them, on account of the finger aches Nu Ralik had sent her. One kolgril would be two weeks of soup, and would put her in debt to him.

“Vun Makak eye you,” she muttered in annoyance walking over to check. “That’s one all right. How am I ever going to catch you, man?”

“I’m a fisher, Maib,” he said, taking a slurp of his soup—the bowl was shaped for easy slurping. “Hard to catch a fisher. You know that.” He chuckled to himself, walking up to his foreigners as she plucked out the kolgril.

There were three of them. Two were dark-skinned Makabaki, though they were the strangest Makabaki he’d ever seen. One was thick limbed where most of his kind were small and fine-boned, and he had a completely bald head. The other was taller, with short dark hair, lean muscles, and broad shoulders. In his head, Ishikk called them Grump and Blunt, on account of their personalities.

The third man had light tan skin, like an Alethi. He didn’t seem quite right either, though. The eyes were the wrong shape, and his accent was certainly not Alethi. He spoke the Selay language worse than the other two, and usually stayed quiet. He seemed thoughtful, though. Ishikk called him Thinker.

Wonder how he earned that scar across his scalp, Ishikk thought. Life outside the Purelake was very dangerous. Lots of wars, particularly to the east.

“You are late, traveler,” said tall, stiff Blunt. He had the build and air of a soldier, though none of the three carried weapons.

Ishikk frowned, sitting and reluctantly pulling his feet out of the water. “Isn’t it warli-day?”

“The day is right, friend,” Grump said. “But we were to meet at noon. Understand?” He generally did most of the talking.

“We’re close to that,” Ishikk said. Honestly. Who paid attention to what hour it was? Foreigners. Always so busy.

Grump just shook his head as Maib brought them some soup. Her place was the closest thing the village had to an inn. She left Ishikk a soft cloth napkin and nice cup of sweet wine, trying to balance that fish as quickly as possible.

“Very well,” Grump said. “Let us have your report, friend.”

“I’ve been by Fu Ralis, Fu Namir, Fu Albast, and Fu Moorin this month,” Ishikk said, taking a slurp of soup. “Nobody has seen this man you search for.”

“You asked right questions?” Blunt said. “You are certain?”

“Of course I’m certain,” Ishikk said. “I have been doing this for ages now.”

“Five months,” Blunt corrected. “And no results.”

Ishikk shrugged. “You wish me to make up stories? Vun Makak would like