“It means,” Tyn said, turning around, “that you can tell me who you really are.”

Stormfather! What did that mean? “I’m Shallan Davar, as I have said.”

“Yes,” Tyn said, walking over and sitting down at the table. “Please,” she said, gesturing.

Shallan seated herself carefully, using a ladylike posture, with legs bent to the side.

Tyn sat cross-legged after flipping her coat out behind her. She dug into her meal, dipping flatbread in a curry that seemed too dark—and smelled too peppery—to be feminine.

“Men’s food?” Shallan asked.

“I’ve always hated those definitions,” Tyn said. “I was raised in Tu Bayla by parents who worked as interpreters. I didn’t realize certain foods were supposed to be for women or men until I visited my parents’ homeland for the first time. Still seems stupid to me. I’ll eat what I want, thank you very much.”

Shallan’s own meal was more proper, smelling sweet rather than savory. She ate, only now realizing how hungry she was.

“I have a spanreed,” Tyn said.

Shallan looked up, tip of her bread in her dipping bowl.

“It’s connected to one over in Tashikk,” Tyn continued, “at one of their new information houses. You hire an intermediary there, and they can perform services for you. Research, make inquiries—even relay messages for you via spanreed to any major city in the world. Quite spectacular.”

“That sounds useful,” Shallan said carefully.

“Indeed. You can find out all kinds of things. For example, I had my contact find what they could on House Davar. It’s apparently a small, out-of-the-way house with large debts and an erratic house leader who may or may not still be alive. He has a daughter, Shallan, whom nobody seems to have met.”

“I am that daughter,” Shallan said. “So I’d say that ‘nobody’ is a stretch.”

“And why,” Tyn said, “would an unknown scion of a minor Veden family be traveling the Frostlands with a group of slavers? All the while claiming she’s expected at the Shattered Plains, and that her rescue will be celebrated? That she has powerful connections, enough to pay the salaries of a full mercenary troop?”

“Truth is sometimes more surprising than a lie.”

Tyn smiled, then leaned forward. “It’s all right; you don’t need to keep up the front with me. You’re actually doing a good job here. I’ve discarded my annoyance with you and have decided to be impressed instead. You’re new to this, but talented.”

“This?” Shallan asked.

“The art of the con, of course,” Tyn said. “The grand act of pretending to be someone you aren’t, then running off with the goods. I like what you pulled with those deserters. It was a big gamble, and it paid off.

“But now you’re in a predicament. You’re pretending to be someone several steps above your station, and are promising a grand payoff. I’ve run that scam before, and the trickiest part is the end. If you don’t handle this well, these ‘heroes’ you’ve recruited will have no qualms stringing you up by the neck. I’ve noticed that you’re dragging your feet moving us toward the Plains. You’re uncertain, aren’t you? In over your head?”

“Most definitely,” Shallan said softly.

“Well,” Tyn said, digging into her food, “I’m here to help.”

“At what cost?” This woman certainly did like to talk. Shallan was inclined to let her continue.

“I want in on whatever you’re planning,” Tyn said, stabbing her bread down into the bowl like a sword into a greatshell. “You came all the way here to the Frostlands for something. Your plot is likely no small con, but I can’t help but assume you don’t have the experience to pull it off.”

Shallan tapped her finger against the table. Who would she be for this woman? Who did she need to be?

She seems like a master con artist, Shallan thought, sweating. I can’t fool someone like this.

Except that she already had. Accidentally.

“How did you end up here?” Shallan asked. “Leading guards on a caravan? Is that part of a con?”

Tyn laughed. “This? No, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. I may have exaggerated my experience in talking to the caravan leaders, but I needed to get to the Shattered Plains and didn’t have the resources to do it on my own. Not safely.”

“How does a woman like you end up without resources, though?” Shallan asked, frowning. “I’d think you would never be without.”

“I’m not,” Tyn said, gesturing. “As you can plainly see. You’re going to have to get used to rebuilding, if you want to join the profession. It comes, it goes. I got stuck down south without any spheres, and am finding my way to more civilized countries.”

“To the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said. “You have a job there of some sort as well? A . . . con you’re intending to pull?”

Tyn smiled. “This isn’t about me, kid. It’s about you, and what I can do for you. I know people in the warcamps. It’s practically the new capital of Alethkar; everything interesting in the country is happening there. Money is flowing like rivers after a storm, but everyone considers it a frontier, and so laws are lax. A woman can get ahead if she knows the right people.”

Tyn leaned forward, and her expression darkened. “But if she doesn’t, she can make enemies really quickly. Trust me, you want to know who I know, and you want to work with them. Without their approval, nothing big happens at the Shattered Plains. So I ask you again. What are you hoping to accomplish there?”

“I . . . know something about Dalinar Kholin.”

“Old Blackthorn himself?” Tyn said, surprised. “He’s been living a boring life lately, all superior, like he’s some hero from the legends.”

“Yes, well, what I know is going to be very important to him. Very.”

“Well, what is this secret?”

Shallan didn’t answer.

“Not willing to divulge the goods yet,” Tyn said. “Well, that’s understandable. Blackmail is a tricky one. You’ll be glad you brought me on. You are bringing me on, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Shallan said. “I do believe I could learn some things from you.”

Smokeform for hiding and slipping between men.

A form of power, like human Surges.

Bring it ’round again.

Though crafted of gods,

It was by Unmade hand.

Leaves its force to be but one of foe or friend.

—From the Listener Song of Histories, 127th stanza

Kaladin figured that it took a lot to put him in a situation he’d never before seen. He’d been a slave and a surgeon, served on a battlefield and in a lighteyes’ dining room. He’d seen a lot for his twenty years. Too much, it felt at times. He had many memories he’d rather be without.

Regardless, he had not expected this day to present him with something so utterly and disconcertingly unfamiliar. “Sir?” he asked, taking a step backward. “You want me to do what?”

“Get on that horse,” Dalinar Kholin said, pointing toward an animal grazing nearby. The beast would stand perfectly still, waiting for grass to creep up out of its holes. Then it would pounce, taking a quick bite, which would cause the grass to shoot back down into its burrows. It got a mouthful each time, often pulling the grass out by its roots.

It was one of many such animals dawdling and prancing through the area. It never ceased to stun Kaladin just how rich people like Dalinar were; each horse was worth spheres in profusion. And Dalinar wanted him to climb on one of them.

“Soldier,” Dalinar said, “you need to know how to ride. The time might come when you need to guard my sons on the battlefield. Besides, how long did it take you to reach the palace the other night, when coming to hear about the king’s accident?”

“Almost three-quarters of an hour,” Kaladin admitted. It had been four days since that night, and Kaladin had frequently found himself on edge since then.

“I have stables near the barracks,” Dalinar said. “You could have made that trip in a fraction of the time if you could ride. Perhaps you won’t spend much of your time in the saddle, but this is going to be an important skill for you and your men to know.”

Kaladin looked back at the other members of Bridge Four. Shrugs all around—a few timid ones—except for Moash, who nodded eagerly. “I suppose,” Kaladin said, looking back at Dalinar. “If you think it’s important, sir, we’ll give it a try.”

“Good man,” Dalinar said. “I’ll send over Jenet, the stablemaster.”

“We’ll await him with eagerness, sir,” Kaladin said, trying to sound like he meant it.

Two of Kaladin’s men escorted Dalinar as he walked toward the stables, a set of large, sturdy stone buildings. From what Kaladin saw, when the horses weren’t inside, they were allowed to roam freely inside this open area west of the warcamp. A low stone wall enclosed it, but surely the horses could jump that at will.

They didn’t. The brutes wandered about, stalking grass or lying down, snorting and whinnying. The entire place smelled strange to Kaladin. Not of dung, just . . . of horse. Kaladin eyed one eating nearby, just inside the wall. He didn’t trust it; there was something too smart about horses. Proper beasts of burden like chulls were slow and docile. He’d ride a chull. A creature like this, though . . . who knew what it was thinking?

Moash stepped up beside him, watching Dalinar go. “You like him, don’t you?” he asked softly.

“He’s a good commander,” Kaladin said, as he instinctively sought out Adolin and Renarin, who were riding their horses nearby. Apparently, the things needed to be exercised periodically to keep them functioning properly. Devilish creatures.

“Don’t get too close to him, Kal,” Moash said, still watching Dalinar. “And don’t trust him too far. He’s lighteyed, remember.”

“I’m not likely to forget,” Kaladin said dryly. “Besides, you’re the one who looked like you’d faint from joy the moment he offered to let us ride these monsters.”

“Have you ever faced a lighteyes riding one of these things?” Moash asked. “On the battlefield, I mean?”

Kaladin remembered thundering hooves, a man in silvery armor. Dead friends. “Yes.”

“Then you know the advantage it offers,” Moash said. “I’ll take Dalinar’s offer gladly.”

The stablemaster turned out to be a she. Kaladin raised an eyebrow as the pretty, young lighteyed woman walked up to them, a pair of grooms in tow. She wore a traditional Vorin gown, though it wasn’t silk but something coarser, and was slit up the front and back, ankle to thigh. Underneath, she wore a feminine pair of trousers.