slipped it free and folded it, flattening the wrinkles.
“I was wrong,” she whispered. “You were a fine way to restart my collection, Bluth. Fight well for the Almighty in your sleep, bold one.”
She rose and looked over the camp. Several of the caravan’s parshmen pulled corpses to the fires for burning. Shallan’s intervention had rescued the merchants, but not without heavy losses. She hadn’t counted, but the toll looked high. Dozens dead, including most of the caravan’s guards—among them the Iriali man from earlier in the night.
In her fatigue, Shallan wanted to crawl into her wagon and curl up for sleep. Instead, she went looking for the caravan leaders.
The haggard, bloodstained scout from before stood beside a travel table, where she was talking to an older, bearded man in a felt cap. His eyes were blue, and he moved his fingers through his beard as he looked over a list the woman had brought him.
Both looked up as Shallan approached. The woman rested a hand on her sword; the man continued to stroke his beard. Nearby, caravan workers sorted through the contents of a wagon that had toppled over, spilling bales of cloth.
“And here is our savior,” the older man said. “Brightness, the winds themselves cannot speak of your majesty or the wonder of your timely arrival.”
Shallan didn’t feel majestic. She felt tired, sore, and grungy. Her bare feet—hidden by the bottom of her skirts—had started to ache again, and her ability to Lightweave was expended. Her dress looked almost as bad as a pauper’s, and her hair—though braided—was an absolute mess.
“You are the caravan owner?” Shallan asked.
“Macob is my name,” he said. She couldn’t place his accent. Not Thaylen or Alethi. “You have met my associate Tyn.” He nodded toward the woman. “She is head of our guards. Both her soldiers and my goods have . . . dwindled from tonight’s encounters.”
Tyn folded her arms. She still wore her tan coat, and in the light of Macob’s spheres, Shallan could see that it was of fine leather. What to make of a woman who dressed like a soldier and wore a sword at her waist?
“I’ve been telling Macob of your offer,” Tyn said. “Earlier, on the hill.”
Macob chuckled, an incongruous sound considering their surroundings. “Offer, she calls it. My associate is under the impression that it was really a threat! These mercenaries obviously work for you. We are wondering what your intention is for this caravan.”
“The mercenaries didn’t work for me before,” Shallan said, “but they do now. It took a little persuasion.”
Tyn raised an eyebrow. “That must have been some mighty fine persuasion, Brightness . . .”
“Shallan Davar. All I ask of you is what I said to Tyn before. Accompany me to the Shattered Plains.”
“Surely your soldiers can do that,” Macob said. “You don’t need our assistance.”
I want you here to remind the “soldiers” what they’ve done, Shallan thought. Her instincts said that the more reminders of civilization the deserters had, the better off she would be.
“They are soldiers,” Shallan said. “They have no idea how to properly convey a lighteyed woman in comfort. You, however, have nice wagons and goods aplenty. If you can’t tell from my humble aspect, I am in dreadful need of a little luxury. I’d rather not arrive at the Shattered Plains looking like a vagabond.”
“We could use her soldiers,” Tyn said. “My own force is reduced to a handful.” She inspected Shallan again, this time with curiosity. It wasn’t an unfriendly look.
“Then we shall make an accord,” Macob said, smiling broadly and reaching across the table toward Shallan. “In my gratitude for my life, I shall see you cared for with new apparel and fine foodstuffs for the duration of our travels together. You and your men will ensure our safety the rest of the way, and then we will part, nothing more owed to one another.”
“Agreed,” Shallan said, taking his hand. “I shall allow you to join me, your caravan unto mine.”
He hesitated. “Your caravan.”
“Yes.”
“And your authority, then, I assume?”
“You expected otherwise?”
He sighed, but shook on the deal. “No, I suppose not. I suppose not.” He released her hand, then waved toward a pair of people off at the side of the wagons. Tvlakv and Tag. “And what of those?”
“They are mine,” Shallan said. “I will deal with them.”
“Just keep them at the back of the caravan, if you will,” Macob said, wrinkling his nose. “Grimy business. I’d rather not our caravan stink of those wares. Either way, you’d best