Free Warbreaker by Brandon Sanderson

about fear. People in the court talk about what
might
happen if the Idrians cut off the passes or what
may
happen if the Idrians let enemies slip through and besiege T’Telir. If this were about money, we’d never go to war. Hallandren thrives on its dye and textiles trade. You think that business would boom in war? We’d be lucky not to suffer a full economic collapse.”
    “And you assume that I care about Hallandren’s economic well-being?” Vasher asked. “Ah, yes,” Bebid said dryly. “I forgot who I was talking to. What do you want, then? Tell me so we can get this over with.”
    “Tell me about the rebels,” Vasher said, chewing on rice.
    “The Idrians? We just talked—”
    “Not them,” Vasher said. “The ones in the city.”
    “They’re unimportant now that Vahr is dead,” the priest said with a wave of his hand. “Nobody knows who killed him, by the way. Probably the rebels themselves. Guess they didn’t appreciate his getting himself captured, eh?”
    Vasher said nothing.
    “Is that all you want?” Bebid said impatiently.
    “I need to contact the factions you mentioned,” Vasher said. “The ones who are pushing for war against Idris.”
    “I won’t help you enrage the—”
    “Do
not
presume to tell me what to do, Bebid. Just give me the information you promised, and you can be free of all this.”
    “Vasher,” Bebid said, leaning in even further. “I
can’t
help. My lady isn’t interested in these kinds of politics, and I move in the wrong circles.”
    Vasher ate some more, judging the man’s sincerity. “All right. Who, then?”
    Bebid relaxed, using his napkin to wipe his brow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe one of Mercystar’s priests? You could also try Bluefingers, I suppose.”
    “Bluefingers? That’s an odd name for a god.”
    “Bluefingers isn’t a god,” Bebid said, chuckling. “That’s just a nickname. He’s the High Place steward, head of the scribes. He pretty much keeps the court running; if anyone knows anything about this faction, it will be him. Of course, he’s so stiff and straight, you’ll have a hard time breaking him.”
    “You’d be surprised,” Vasher said, shoveling the last bit of rice into his mouth. “I got you, didn’t I?”
    “I suppose.”
    Vasher stood. “Pay the waiter when you leave,” he said, grabbing his cloak off its peg and wandering out. He could feel a...darkness to his right. He walked down the street, then turned down an alley, where he found Nightblood—still sheathed—sticking from the chest of the thief who had stolen him. Another cutpurse lay dead on the alley floor.
    Vasher pulled the sword free, then snapped the sheath closed—it had only been opened a fraction of an inch—and did up the clasp.
    You lost your temper in there for a bit
, Nightblood said with a chastising tone.
I thought you were going to work on that.
    Guess I’m relapsing
, Vasher thought.
    Nightblood paused.
I don’t think you ever really unlapsed in the first place.
    That’s not a word
, Vasher said, leaving the alley.
    So?
Nightblood said.
You’re too worried about words. That priest—you spent all those words on him, then you just let him go. It’s not really how I would have handled the situation.
    Yes, I know
, Vasher said.
Your way would have involved making several more corpses.
    Well, I am a sword
, Nightblood said with a mental huff.
Might as well stick to what you’re good at...
    ~
    Lightsong sat on his patio, watching his new queen’s carriage pull up to the palace. “Well, this has been a pleasant day,” he remarked to his high priest. A few cups of wine—along with some time to get past thinking about children deprived of their Breath—and he was beginning to feel more like his usual self.
    “You’re that happy to have a queen?” Llarimar asked.
    “I’m that happy to have avoided petitions for the day thanks to her arrival. What do we know about her?”
    “Not much, Your Grace,” Llarimar said,