of the coloring. Not her father, so neither was Shallan.
“You are coming to an age where you must act more like a lady,” Father said. The darkeyes gave them plenty of room, bowing as her father passed. Two of Father’s ardents trailed after them, hands behind their backs, contemplative. “You will need to stop gawking so often. It will not be long before we will want to find a husband for you.”
“Yes, Father,” she said.
“I may need to stop bringing you to events like these,” he said. “All you do is run around and act like a child. You need a new tutor, at the very least.”
He’d scared off the last tutor. The woman had been an expert in languages, and Shallan had been picking up Azish quite well—but she’d left soon after one of Father’s . . . episodes. Shallan’s stepmother had appeared the next day with bruises on her face. Brightness Hasheh, the tutor, had packed her things and fled without giving notice.
Shallan nodded to her father’s words, but secretly hoped that she’d be able to sneak away and find her brothers. Today she had work to do. She and her father approached the “dueling arena,” which was a grandiose term for a section of roped-off ground where parshmen had dumped half a beach’s worth of sand. Canopied tables had been erected for the lighteyes to sit at, dine, and converse.
Shallan’s stepmother, Malise, was a young woman less than ten years older than Shallan herself. Short of stature with buttonlike features, she sat straight-backed, her black hair brightened by a few streaks of blond. Father settled in beside her in their box; he was one of four men of his rank, fourth dahn, who would be attending the fair. The duelists would be the lesser lighteyes from the surrounding region. Many of them would be landless, and duels would be one of their only ways to gain notoriety.
Shallan sat in the seat reserved for her, and a servant handed her chilled water in a glass. She had barely taken a single sip before someone approached the box.
Brightlord Revilar might have been handsome, if his nose hadn’t been removed in a youthful duel. He wore a wooden replacement, painted black—a strange mixture of covering up the blemish and drawing attention to it at the same time. Silver-haired, well-dressed in a suit of a modern design, he had the distracted look of someone who had left his hearth burning untended back at home. His lands bordered Father’s; they were two of the ten men of similar rank who served under the highprince.
Revilar approached with not one, but two master-servants at his side. Their black-and-white uniforms were a distinction that ordinary servants were denied, and Father eyed them hungrily. He’d tried to hire master-servants. Each had cited his “reputation” and had refused.
“Brightlord Davar,” Revilar said. He did not wait for permission before climbing up the steps into the box. Father and he were the same rank, but everyone knew the allegations against Father—and that the highprince saw them as credible.
“Revilar,” Father said, eyes forward.
“May I sit?” He took a seat beside Father—the one that Helaran, as heir, would have used if he’d been there. Revilar’s two servants took up places behind him. They somehow managed to convey a sense of disapproval of Father without saying anything.
“Is your son going to duel today?” Father asked.
“Actually, yes.”
“Hopefully he can keep all of his parts. We wouldn’t want your experience to become a tradition.”
“Now, now, Lin,” Revilar said. “That is no way to speak to a business associate.”
“Business associate? We have dealings of which I am not aware?”
One of Revilar’s servants, the woman, set a small sheaf of pages on the table before Father. Shallan’s stepmother took them hesitantly, then began to read them out loud. The terms were for an exchange of goods, Father trading some of his breechtree cotton and raw shum to Revilar in exchange for a small payment. Revilar would then take the goods to market for sale.
Father stopped the reading three-quarters of the way through. “Are you delusional? One clearmark a bag? A tenth of what that shum is worth! Considering patrols of roadways and maintenance fees paid back to the villages where the materials are harvested, I would lose spheres on this deal.”
“Oh, it is not so bad,” Revilar said. “I think you will find the arrangement quite agreeable.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m popular.”
Father frowned, growing red-faced. Shallan could remember a time when she’d rarely, if ever, seen him angry. Those