in the head with a hammer,” Wit said happily. “A good bludgeoning would make you forget and do wonders for that face of yours.”
“Wit,” Dalinar said flatly.
“I’m only joking.”
“Good.”
“A hammer would hardly dent that thick skull of his.”
Amaram turned to Wit, a look of bafflement on his face.
“You’re very good at that expression,” Wit noted. “A great deal of practice, I assume?”
“This is the new Wit?” Amaram asked.
“I mean,” Wit said, “I wouldn’t want to call Amaram an imbecile . . .”
Dalinar nodded.
“. . . because then I’d have to explain to him what the word means, and I’m not certain any of us have the requisite time.”
Amaram sighed. “Why hasn’t anyone killed him yet?”
“Dumb luck,” Wit said. “In that I’m lucky you’re all so dumb.”
“Thank you, Wit,” Dalinar said, taking Amaram by the arm and towing him to the side.
“One more, Dalinar!” Wit said. “Just one last insult, and I leave him alone.”
They continued walking.
“Lord Amaram,” Wit called, standing to bow, his voice growing solemn. “I salute you. You are what lesser cretins like Sadeas can only aspire to be.”
“The papers?” Dalinar said to Amaram, pointedly ignoring Wit.
“They are accounts of your . . . experiences, Brightlord,” Amaram said softly. “The ones you have during the storms. Written by Brightness Navani herself.”
Dalinar took the papers. His visions. He looked up and saw groups of people collecting on the island, chatting and laughing, shooting glances at him.
“I see,” he said softly. It made sense now, the hidden snickering. “Find Brightness Navani for me, if you would.”
“As you request,” Amaram said, but stopped short, pointing. Navani stalked across the next island over, heading toward them with a tempestuous air about her.
“What do you think, Amaram?” Dalinar said. “Of the things that are being said of me?”
Amaram met his eyes. “They are obviously visions from the Almighty himself, given to us in a time of great need. I wish I had known their contents earlier. They give me great confidence in my position, and in your appointment as prophet of the Almighty.”
“A dead god can have no prophets.”
“Dead . . . No, Dalinar! You obviously misinterpret that comment from your visions. He speaks of being dead in the minds of men, that they no longer listen to his commands. God cannot die.”
Amaram seemed so earnest. Why didn’t he help your sons? Kaladin’s voice rang in Dalinar’s mind. Amaram had come to him that day, of course, professing his apologies and explaining that—with his appointment as a Radiant—he couldn’t possibly have helped one faction against another. He said he needed to be above the squabbles between highprinces, even when it pained him.
“And the supposed Herald?” Dalinar asked. “The thing I asked you about?”
“I am still investigating.”
Dalinar nodded.
“I was surprised,” Amaram noted, “that you left the slave as head of your guard.” He glanced to the side, to where Dalinar’s guards for the night stood, just off the island in their own area, waiting with the other bodyguards and attendants, including many of the wards of the highladies present.
There had been a time not too long ago when few had felt the need to bring their guards with them to a feast. Now, the place was crowded. Captain Kaladin wasn’t there; he was resting, after his imprisonment.
“He’s a good soldier,” Dalinar said softly. “He just carries a few scars that are having trouble healing.” Vedeledev knows, Dalinar thought, I have a few of those myself.
“I merely worry that he is incapable of properly protecting you,” Amaram said. “Your life is important, Dalinar. We need your visions, your leadership. Still, if you trust the slave, then so be it—though I certainly wouldn’t mind hearing an apology from him. Not for my own ego, but to know that he’s put aside this misconception of his.”
Dalinar gave no reply as Navani strode across the short bridge onto their island. Wit started to proclaim an insult, but she swatted him in the face with a stack of papers, giving him barely a glance as she continued on toward Dalinar. Wit watched after, rubbing his cheek, and grinned.
She noted the papers in his hand as she joined the two of them, who seemed to stand among a sea of amused eyes and hushed laughter.
“They added words,” Navani hissed.
“What?” Dalinar demanded.
She shook the papers. “These! You’ve heard what they contain?”
He nodded.
“They aren’t as I wrote them,” Navani said. “They’ve changed the tone, some of my words, to imply a ridiculousness to the entire experience—and to make it sound as if