“A god like Syl?” Kaladin asked. “Or maybe a riverspren?” Those were somewhat rare, but supposedly able to speak at times in simple ways, like windspren.

“No,” Rock said. He leaned in, as if saying something conspiratorial. “I saw Lunu’anaki.”

“Uh, great,” Moash said. “Wonderful.”

“Lunu’anaki,” Rock said, “is god of travel and mischief. Very powerful god. He came from depths of peak ocean, from realm of gods.”

“What did he look like?” Lopen asked, eyes wide.

“Like person,” Rock said. “Maybe Alethi, though skin was lighter. Very angular face. Handsome, perhaps. With white hair.”

Sigzil looked up sharply. “White hair?”

“Yes,” Rock said. “Not grey, like old man, but white—yet he is young man. He spoke with me on shore. Ha! Made mockery of my beard. Asked what year it was, by Horneater calendar. Thought my name was funny. Very powerful god.”

“Were you scared?” Lopen asked.

“No, of course not. Lunu’anaki cannot hurt man. Is forbidden by other gods. Everyone knows this.” Rock downed the rest of his second mug and raised it to the air, grinning and wagging it toward Ka again as she passed.

Lopen hurriedly drank the rest of his first mug. Sigzil looked troubled, and had only touched half of his drink. He stared at it, though when Moash asked him what was wrong, Sigzil made an excuse about being tired.

Kaladin finally took a sip of his own drink. Lavis ale, sudsy, faintly sweet. It reminded him of home, though he’d only started drinking it once in the army.

The others moved on to a conversation about plateau runs. Sadeas had apparently been disobeying orders to go on plateau runs in teams. He’d gone on one a bit back on his own, seizing the gemheart before anyone got there, then tossing it away as if it was unimportant. Just a few days back, though, Sadeas and Highprince Ruthar had gone on another run together—one they weren’t supposed to go on. They claimed to have failed to get the gemheart, but it was open knowledge they’d won and hidden the winnings.

These overt slaps in Dalinar’s face were the buzz of the warcamps. More so because Sadeas seemed outraged that he wasn’t being allowed to put investigators into Dalinar’s warcamp to search for “important facts” he said related to the safety of the king. It was all a game to him.

Someone needs to put Sadeas down, Kaladin thought, sipping his drink, swishing the cool liquid in his mouth. He’s as bad as Amaram—tried to get me and mine killed repeatedly. Don’t I have reason, even right, to return the favor?

Kaladin was learning how to do what the assassin did—how to run up walls, maybe reach windows that were thought inaccessible. He could visit Sadeas’s camp in the night. Glowing, violent . . .

Kaladin could bring justice to this world.

His gut told him that there was something wrong with that reasoning, but he had trouble producing it logically. He drank a little more, and looked around the room, noticing again how relaxed everyone seemed. This was their life. Work, then play. That was enough for them.

Not for him. He needed something more. He got out a glowing sphere—just a diamond chip—and began to idly roll it on the table.

After about an hour of conversation, Kaladin taking part only sporadically, Moash nudged him in the side. “You ready?” he whispered.

“Ready?” Kaladin frowned.

“Yeah. Meeting is in the back room. I saw them come in a bit ago. They’ll be waiting.”

“Who . . .” He trailed off, realizing what Moash intended. Kaladin had said he’d meet with Moash’s friends, the men who had tried to kill the king. Kaladin’s skin went cold, the air suddenly seeming chill. “That’s why you wanted me to come tonight?”

“Yeah,” Moash said. “I thought you’d figured it out. Come on.”

Kaladin looked down into his mug of yellow-brown liquid. Finally, he downed the rest and stood up. He needed to know who these men were. His duty demanded it.

Moash excused them, saying he’d noticed an old friend he wanted to introduce to Kaladin. Rock, looking not the least bit drunk, laughed and waved them on. He was on his . . . sixth drink? Seventh? Lopen was already tipsy after his third. Sigzil had only barely finished his second, and didn’t seem inclined to continue.

So much for the contest, Kaladin thought, letting Moash lead him. The place was still busy, though not quite as packed as it had been earlier. Tucked away in the back of the tavern was a hallway with private dining rooms, the type used by wealthy merchants who didn’t want to be subjected to the crudeness of the common room. A swarthy man lounged outside of one. He might have been part Azish, or maybe just a very tan Alethi. He carried very long knives at his belt, but didn’t say anything as Moash pushed open the door.

“Kaladin . . .” Syl’s voice. Where was she? Vanished, apparently, from even his eyes. Had she done that before? “Be careful.”

He stepped into the room with Moash. Three men and a woman drank wine at a table inside. Another guard stood at the back, wrapped in a cloak, a sword at his waist and his head down, as if he were barely paying attention.

Two of the seated people, including the woman, were lighteyes. Kaladin should have expected this, considering the fact that a Shardblade was involved, but it still gave him pause.

The lighteyed man stood up immediately. He was perhaps a little older than Adolin, and he had jet-black Alethi hair, styled crisply. He wore an open jacket and an expensive-looking black shirt underneath, embroidered with white vines running between the buttons, and a stock at his throat.

“So this is the famous Kaladin!” the man exclaimed, stepping forward and reaching out to clasp Kaladin’s hand. “Storms, but it is a pleasure to meet you. Embarrassing Sadeas while saving the Blackthorn himself? Good show, man. Good show.”

“And you are?” Kaladin asked.

“A patriot,” the man said. “Call me Graves.”

“And are you the Shardbearer?”

“Straight to the point, are you?” Graves said, gesturing for Kaladin to sit at the table.

Moash took a seat immediately, nodding to the other man at the table—he was darkeyed, with short hair and sunken eyes. Mercenary, Kaladin guessed, noting the heavy leathers he was wearing and the axe beside his seat. Graves continued to gesture, but Kaladin delayed, inspecting the young woman at the table. She sat primly and sipped her cup of wine held in two hands, one covered in her buttoned sleeve. Pretty, with pursed red lips, she wore her hair up and stuck through with sundry metal decorations.

“I recognize you,” Kaladin said. “One of Dalinar’s clerks.”

She watched him, careful, though she tried to appear relaxed.

“Danlan is a member of the highprince’s retinue,” Graves said. “Please, Kaladin. Sit. Have some wine.”

Kaladin sat down, but did not pour a drink. “You are trying to kill the king.”

“He is direct, isn’t he?” Graves asked Moash.

“Effective, too,” Moash said. “It’s why we like him.”

Graves turned to Kaladin. “We are patriots, as I said before. Patriots of Alethkar. The Alethkar that could be.”

“Patriots who wish to murder the kingdom’s ruler?”

Graves leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. A bit of the humor left him, which was fine. He’d been trying too hard anyway. “Very well, we shall be on with it. Elhokar is a supremely bad king. Surely you’ve noticed this.”

“It’s not my place to pass judgment on a king.”

“Oh please,” Graves said. “You’re telling me you haven’t seen the way he acts? Spoiled, petulant, paranoid. He squabbles instead of consulting, he makes childish demands instead of leading. He is blowing this kingdom to the ground.”

“Have you any idea the kinds of policies he put into place before Dalinar got him under control?” Danlan asked. “I spent the last three years in Kholinar helping the clerks there sort through the mess he made of the royal codes. There was a time when he’d sign practically anything into law if he was cajoled the right way.”

“He is incompetent,” said the darkeyed mercenary, whose name Kaladin didn’t know. “He gets good men killed. Lets that bastard Sadeas get away with high treason.”

“So you try to assassinate him?” Kaladin demanded.

Graves met Kaladin’s eyes. “Yes.”

“If a king is destroying his country,” the mercenary said, “is it not the right—the duty—of the people to see him removed?”

“If he were removed,” Moash said, “what would happen? Ask yourself that, Kaladin.”

“Dalinar would probably take the throne,” Kaladin said. Elhokar had a son back in Kholinar, a child, barely a few years old. Even if Dalinar only proclaimed himself regent in the name of the rightful heir, he would rule.

“The kingdom would be far better off with him at the head,” Graves said.

“He practically rules the place anyway,” Kaladin said.

“No,” Danlan said. “Dalinar holds himself back. He knows he should take the throne, but hesitates out of love for his dead brother. The other highprinces interpret this as weakness.”

“We need the Blackthorn,” Graves said, pounding the table. “This kingdom is going to fall otherwise. The death of Elhokar would spur Dalinar to action. We would get back the man we had twenty years ago, the man who unified the highprinces in the first place.”

“Even if that man didn’t fully return,” the mercenary added, “we certainly couldn’t be worse off than we are now.”

“So yes,” Graves said to Kaladin. “We’re assassins. Murderers, or would-be ones. We don’t want a coup, and we don’t want to kill innocent guards. We just want the king removed. Quietly. Preferably in an accident.”

Danlan grimaced, then took a drink of wine. “Unfortunately, we have not been particularly effective so far.”

“And that’s why I wanted to meet with you,” Graves said.

“You expect me to help you?” Kaladin asked.

Graves raised his hands. “Think about what we’ve said. That is all I ask. Think about the king’s actions, watch him. Ask yourself, ‘How much longer will the kingdom last with this man at its head?’”

“The Blackthorn must take the throne,” Danlan said softly. “It will happen eventually. We want to help him along, for his own good. Spare him the difficult decision.”

“I could turn you in,” Kaladin said, meeting Graves’s eyes. To the side, the cloaked man—who had been leaning against the wall and listening—shuffled, standing up straighter. “Inviting me here was a risk.”

“Moash says you were trained as a surgeon,” Graves said, not looking at all concerned.