Shallan remained there, frozen, straining her ears but hearing only the thud of her heart. Finally, she whispered, “Pattern. Are you here?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Go and see if the woman is outside somewhere near.”

He made no sound as he left and then returned. “She is gone.”

Shallan let out the breath she’d been holding. Then, bracing herself, she stepped through the wall. A glow, like that of Stormlight, filled her vision. Then she was out, standing in the alleyway. The illusion behind her swirled briefly like disturbed smoke, then quickly re-formed.

The imitation was actually pretty good. Examined closely, the joints between her stones didn’t align perfectly with the real ones, but that was hard to see at night. Only a few moments later, though, the illusion shattered back to swirling Stormlight and evaporated. She had no Light left to sustain it.

“Your disguise is gone,” Pattern noted.

Red hair. Shallan gasped, then immediately shoved her safehand into her pocket. The darkeyed con woman that Tyn had trained could go about half-clothed, but not Shallan herself. It just wasn’t right.

It was also stupid, and she knew that, but she couldn’t change her feelings. She hesitated briefly, then took off the coat. With that and the hat removed, and with her hair and face changed, she was a different person. She left out the opposite end of the alley from where she assumed the masked woman had gone.

Shallan hesitated, getting her bearings. Where was the mansion? She tried retracing her route mentally, but had trouble fixing her position. She needed something she could see. She took out her wrinkled paper and drew a quick map of the path she’d taken so far.

“I can lead you back to the mansion,” Pattern said.

“I can manage.” Shallan held up the map and nodded.

“Mmm. It is a pattern. You can see this one?”

“Yes.”

“But not the pattern of letters with the spanreed?”

How could she explain? “Those were words,” Shallan said. “The warcamp is a place, something I can draw.” The picture of the path back was clear to her.

“Ah…” Pattern said.

She returned to the mansion without incident, but she couldn’t be certain she’d cleanly slipped the tail, nor whether someone from Sebarial’s staff had seen her crossing the grounds and climbing into the window. That was the problem with sneaking about. If nothing seemed to have gone wrong, you rarely knew if it was because you were safe, or if someone had spotted you and just hadn’t done anything. Yet.

After pulling her shutters closed and snapping the drapes into place, Shallan threw herself back onto the plush bed, breathing deeply and trembling.

That was, she thought, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.

And yet she found herself excited, flushed with the thrill of it. Storms! She’d enjoyed that. The tension, the sweat, the talking her way out of being killed, even the chase at the end. What was wrong with her? When she’d tried to steal from Jasnah, every part of the experience had made her sick.

I’m not that girl anymore, Shallan thought, smiling and staring at the ceiling. I haven’t been for weeks now.

She would find a way to investigate this Brightlord Amaram, and she would earn the trust of Mraize so she could find out what he knew. I still need an alliance with the Kholin family, she thought. And the path to that is Prince Adolin. She’d have to find a way to interact with him again as soon as possible, but somehow that didn’t make her look desperate.

The part involving him seemed likely to be the most pleasant of her tasks. Still smiling, she threw herself off the bed and went to see if any food remained on that tray she’d been left.

44. One Form of Justice

But as for the Bondsmiths, they had members only three, which number was not uncommon for them; nor did they seek to increase this by great bounds, for during the times of Madasa, only one of their order was in continual accompaniment of Urithiru and its thrones. Their spren was understood to be specific, and to persuade them to grow to the magnitude of the other orders was seen as seditious.

From Words of Radiance, chapter 16, page 14

Kaladin never felt more uncomfortably conspicuous than when visiting Dalinar’s lighteyed training grounds, where all of the other soldiers were highborn.

Dalinar mandated that his soldiers wear uniforms during duty hours, and these men obeyed. In his own blue uniform, Kaladin shouldn’t have felt set off from them, but he did. Theirs were more lavish, with bright buttons up the sides of the fine coats and gemstones set into the buttons. Others ornamented their uniforms with embroidery. Colorful scarves were growing popular.

The lighteyed looked over Kaladin and his men as they entered. As much as the regular soldiers treated his men like heroes—as much as even these officers respected Dalinar and his decisions—their postures were hostile toward him and his.

You are not wanted here, those stares said. Everyone has a place. You’re out of yours. Like a chull in a dining hall.

“May I be relieved from duty for today’s training, sir?” Renarin asked Kaladin. The youth wore a Bridge Four uniform.

Kaladin nodded. His departure made the other bridgemen relax. Kaladin pointed toward three watch positions, and three of his men ran off to stand guard. Moash, Teft, and Yake stayed with him.

Kaladin marched them up to Zahel, who stood at the back of the sand-covered courtyard. Though the other ardents all busied themselves carrying water, towels, or sparring weapons to dueling lighteyes, Zahel had drawn a circle in the sand and was throwing little colored rocks into it.

“I’m taking you up on your offer,” Kaladin said, stepping up to him. “I brought three of my men to learn with me.”

“Didn’t offer to train four of you,” Zahel said.

“I know.”

Zahel grunted. “Do forty laps around the outside of this building at a jog, then report back. You have until I get tired of my game to return.”

Kaladin gestured sharply, and all four of them took off at a run.

“Wait,” Zahel called.

Kaladin stopped, boots crunching sand.

“I was just testing how willing you were to obey me,” Zahel said, throwing a rock into his circle. He grunted, as if pleased with himself. Finally, he turned to look at them. “I suppose I don’t need to toughen you up. But boy, you’ve got red on your ears like I’ve never seen.”

“I— Red on my ears?” Kaladin asked.

“Damnation language. I mean that you feel you’ve got something to prove, that you are spoiling for a fight. It means you’re angry at everything and everyone.”

“Can you blame us?” Moash asked.

“I suppose I can’t. But if I’m going to train you lads, I can’t have your red ears getting in the way. You’re going to listen, and you’re going to do what I say.”

“Yes, Master Zahel,” Kaladin said.

“Don’t call me master,” Zahel said. He thumbed over his shoulder toward Renarin, who was putting on his Shardplate with the assistance of some ardents. “I’m his master. For you lads, I’m just an interested party who wants to help you keep my friends alive. Wait here until I get back.”