Before leaving tonight, she had done a series of sketches to use as new faces, if need be. Testing had proven she could draw a sketch in the morning, then use it for an image in the afternoon. If she waited longer than about a day, though, the image she created was blurred and sometimes looked melted. That made perfect sense to Shallan. The process of creation left a picture in her mind that eventually wore thin.

Her current face had been based on the messenger youths who moved in Sadeas’s camp. Though her heart thumped every time she passed a pack of soldiers, nobody gave her a second glance.

Amaram was a highlord—a man of third dahn, which made him a full rank higher than Shallan’s father had been, two ranks higher than Shallan herself. That entitled him to his own little domain within his liege’s warcamp. His manor flew his own banner, and he had his own personal military force occupying nearby buildings. Posts set into the stone and striped with his colors—burgundy and forest green—delineated his sphere of influence. She passed them without pausing.

“Hey, you!”

Shallan froze in place, feeling very small in the darkness. Not small enough. She turned slowly as a pair of patrolling guards walked up. Their uniforms were sharper than any she’d seen in this camp. Even the buttons were polished, though at the waists they wore skirtlike takama instead of trousers. Amaram was a traditionalist, and his uniforms reflected that.

The guards loomed over her, as most Alethi did. “Messenger?” one asked. “This time of night?” He was a solid fellow with a greying beard and a thick, wide nose.

“It’s not even second moon yet, sir,” Shallan said in what she hoped was a boyish voice.

He frowned at her. What had she said? Sir, she realized. He’s not an officer.

“Report at the guard posts from now on when you visit,” the man said, pointing toward a small, lit area in the distance behind them. “We’re going to start keeping a secure perimeter.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Oh, stop harassing the lad, Hav,” the other soldier said. “You can’t expect him to know rules that half the soldiers don’t even know yet.”

“On with you,” Hav said, waving Shallan through. She hastened to obey. A secure perimeter? She didn’t envy these men that task. Amaram didn’t have a wall to keep people out, just some striped posts.

Amaram’s manor was relatively small—two stories, with a handful of rooms on each floor. It might once have been a tavern, and was temporary, as he’d only just arrived at the warcamps. Stacked piles of crembrick and stone nearby indicated some far grander building was being planned. Near the piles stood other buildings that had been appropriated as barracks for Amaram’s personal guard, which included only about fifty men. Most of the soldiers he’d brought, recruited from Sadeas’s lands and sworn to him, would billet elsewhere.

Once she got close to Amaram’s home, she ducked beside an outbuilding and squatted down. She’d spent three evenings scouting this area, wearing a different face each time. Perhaps that had been overly cautious. She wasn’t certain. She’d never done anything like this before. Fingers trembling, she took off her cap—that part of the costume was real—and let her hair spill around her shoulders. Then she dug a folded picture out of her pocket and waited.

Minutes passed as she stared at the manor. Come on . . . she thought. Come on . . .

Finally, a young darkeyed woman stepped out of the manor, arm-in-arm with a tall man in trousers and a loose buttoned shirt. The woman tittered as her friend said something, then she scampered off into the night, the man calling after her and following. The maid—Shallan still hadn’t been able to learn her name—left every night at this time. Twice with this man. Once with another.

Shallan took a deep breath, drawing in Stormlight, then held up the picture she’d drawn of the girl earlier. About Shallan’s height, hair about the same length, similar enough build . . . It would have to do. She breathed out, and became someone else.

She giggles and laughs, Shallan thought, plucking off her masculine gloves and replacing the one on the safehand with a tan feminine one, and often prances about, walking on her toes. Her voice is higher than mine, and she doesn’t have an accent.

Shallan had practiced sounding right, but hopefully she wouldn’t need to find out how believable her voice was. All she had to do was go in the door, up the stairs, and slip into the appropriate room. Easy.

She stood up, holding her breath and living off the Stormlight, and strode toward the building.

* * *

Kaladin hit the bottom of the chasm in a glowing storm of Light. He took off at a jog, spear over his shoulder. It was difficult to stand still with Stormlight in his veins.

He dropped a few of the pouches of spheres to use later. The Stormlight rising from his exposed skin was enough to illuminate the chasm, and it cast shadows on the walls as he ran. Those seemed to become figures, crafted by the bones and branches stretching from the heaps on the ground. Bodies and souls. His movement made the shadows twist, as if turning to regard him.

He ran with a silent audience, then. Syl flew down as a ribbon of light and took up position beside his head, matching his speed. He leaped over obstacles and splashed through puddles, letting his muscles warm to the exercise.

Then he jumped up onto the wall.

He hit awkwardly, tripping and rolling through some frillblooms. He came to rest facedown, lying on the wall. He growled and pushed himself to his feet as Stormlight sealed a small cut on his arm.

Jumping onto the wall felt too unnatural; when he hit, it took time to orient himself.

He started running again, sucking in more Stormlight, accustoming himself to the change of perspective. When he reached the next gap between plateaus, to his eyes it looked as if he’d reached a deep pit. The walls of the chasm were his floor and ceiling.

He hopped off the wall, focused on the floor of the chasm, and blinked—willing that direction to become down to him again. He landed in another stumble, and this time tripped into a puddle.

He rolled over onto his back, sighing, lying in the cold water. Crem that had settled to the bottom squished between his fingers as he clenched fists.

Syl landed on his chest, taking the form of a young woman. She put hands on her hips.

“What?” he asked.

“That was pathetic.”

“Agreed.”

“Maybe you’re taking it a little too quickly,” she said. “Why not try to jump onto the wall without a running start?”

“The assassin could do it this way,” Kaladin said. “I need to be able to fight like he does.”

“I see. And I suppose he started doing all of this the moment he was born, without any practice at all.”

Kaladin exhaled softly. “You sound like Tukks used to.”

“Oh? Was he brilliant, beautiful, and always right?”

“He was loud, intolerant, and profoundly acerbic,” Kaladin said, standing up. “But yes, he was basically always right.” He faced the wall and leaned his spear against it. “Szeth called this ‘Lashing.’”

“A good term,” Syl said, nodding.

“Well, to get this down, I’m going to have to practice some fundamentals.” Just like learning a spear.

That probably meant hopping onto and off the wall a couple hundred times.

Better than dying on that assassin’s Shardblade, he thought, and got to it.

* * *

Shallan stepped into Amaram’s kitchens, trying to move with the energetic grace of the girl whose face she wore. The large room smelled strongly of the curry simmering over the hearth—the remnants of the night’s meal, waiting in case any lighteyes got peckish. The cook browsed a novel in the corner while her girls scrubbed pots. The room was well lit with spheres. Amaram apparently trusted his servants.

A long flight of steps led up to the second floor, providing quick access for servants to bring meals to Amaram. Shallan had drawn a layout of the building from guesses based on window locations. The room with the secrets had been easy to locate—Amaram had the windows shuttered, and never opened them. She’d guessed right about the stairwell in the kitchens, it seemed. She strode toward those steps, humming to herself, as the woman she imitated often did.

“Back already?” the cook said, not looking up from her novel. She was Herdazian, from the accent. “His gift tonight wasn’t nice enough? Or did the other one spot you two together?”

Shallan said nothing, trying to cover her anxiety with the humming.

“Might as well put you to use,” the cook said. “Stine wanted someone to polish mirrors for him. He’s in the study, cleaning the master’s flutes.”

Flutes? A soldier like Amaram had flutes?

What would the cook do if Shallan bolted up the stairs and ignored the order? The woman was probably high ranked for a darkeyes. An important member of the household staff.

The cook didn’t look up from her novel, but continued softly. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you sneaking off during midday, child. Just because the master is fond of you doesn’t mean you can take advantage. Go to work. Spending your free evening cleaning instead of playing might remind you that you have duties.”

Gritting her teeth, Shallan looked up those steps toward her goal. The cook slowly lowered her novel. Her frown seemed the type that one didn’t disobey.

Shallan nodded, moving away from the steps and into the corridor beyond. There would be another set of steps upward in the front hall. She’d just have to make her way in that direction and—

Shallan froze in place as a figure stepped into the hallway from a side room. Tall with a square face and angular nose, the man wore a lighteyed outfit of modern design: an open jacket over a buttoned shirt, stiff trousers, a stock tied in place at his neck.

Storms! Highlord Amaram—fashionable or otherwise—was not supposed to be in the building today. Adolin had said that Amaram was dining with Dalinar and the king tonight. Why was he here?

Amaram stood looking over a ledger in his hand, and didn’t seem to have noticed her. He turned away from her and strolled down the corridor.

Run. It was her immediate reaction. Escape out the front doors, vanish into the night. The problem was, she’d spoken to the cook. When the woman Shallan was imitating came back later, she’d be in a storm of trouble—and she’d be able to prove, with witnesses, that she hadn’t come back into the house earlier. Whatever Shallan did, there was a good chance that once she was gone, Amaram would find out that someone had been sneaking about, imitating one of his maids.

Stormfather! She’d only just stepped into the building, and already she’d messed everything up.

Stairs creaked up ahead. Amaram was going up to his room, the one Shallan was supposed to inspect.

The Ghostbloods will be mad at me for alerting Amaram, Shallan thought, but they’ll be even angrier if I do that and then return with no information.