Renarin scurried forward and used his powers as a Truthwatcher to heal Ruthar, sealing up the wound in the man’s neck before he bled out. Still, Dalinar caught the eye of Fisk, the current captain of the Cobalt Guard. He was a solid fellow, bearer of the Blade Loremaker. Fisk nodded in understanding, and covertly signaled his soldiers to create a perimeter around the tent—nobody in or out—until Dalinar was ready to let news of this incident spread.

Jasnah held Wit’s sword out to her side, and he took it, clicking his tongue. “Not willing to wipe the blood off first, Brightness? I suppose this is the sword’s first kill. Adonalsium knows, I could never give her that myself. Still.” He wiped the weapon clean with a white handkerchief, glancing at Ruthar. “I’ll be billing you for a new handkerchief.”

Both Wit and Jasnah pointedly ignored the horrified expressions of the room’s attendants. The standout exception was the Mink, who was grinning at the show. Dalinar almost expected him to begin applauding.

Dalinar felt no such mirth. Although she hadn’t gone all the way, he didn’t like Jasnah’s statement. Duels of passion were—if not common—an accepted part of Alethi culture. He himself had killed more than one man at a feast or other gathering. It was reminiscent, however, of their barbaric days as broken princedoms. Times that the Alethi tried to pretend had never happened. These days, this sort of thing was supposed to be handled in a more civilized way, with formal challenges and duels in arenas days later.

“Ruthar,” Jasnah said, standing above him. “You have insulted me thrice tonight. First, by implying a queen should not take concern for the welfare of her own armies. Second, by threatening to assault my Wit, a man who is an extension of the royal will. Third and worst of all, by judging me unfit to defend myself, despite my calling as a Knight Radiant.

“As you have died tonight, and I have bested you legally in combat, I name you forfeit of your title. It will pass to your eldest son, who has been speaking quite frankly with Wit recently. It seems he will make a far more fitting highprince.”

“That bastard!” Ruthar croaked. “That traitorous bastard!”

“Not yours then, is he?” Wit said. “That explains why I like him.”

“What you do from here is your choice,” Jasnah said. “Unfortunately, by the time you leave this tent, you will find that your princedom has quite thoroughly moved on. You’ll be barred entrance to your own camp, should you try to return. I suggest you join the military as a new recruit. Alternatively, you may take up the queen’s charity at the Beggars’ Feasts and poorhouses.”

She left him gaping on the floor and touching his healed neck—still wet with blood. Renarin awkwardly hurried after Jasnah as she moved over to the map table.

Wit dropped his bloody handkerchief before Ruthar. “How remarkable,” he said. “If you spend your life knocking people down, you eventually find they won’t stand up for you. There’s poetry in that, don’t you think, you storming personification of a cancerous anal discharge?”

Dalinar marched up beside Jasnah at the table. Szeth stayed close behind him, carefully watching Ruthar, silent but making certain Dalinar’s back was guarded. Renarin stood with his hands in his pockets and refused to meet Dalinar’s gaze. The boy likely felt guilty for keeping this little plan quiet, though Dalinar wasn’t angry at him. Denying Jasnah was next to impossible in situations like this.

“Don’t glare at me, Uncle,” Jasnah said softly. “It was a lesson I had to give. Ruthar was a mouthpiece for many other discontented grumblings.”

“I had assumed,” he said, “that you of all people would wish to teach your lessons without a sword.”

“I would much prefer it,” she said. “But you cannot tame a feral axehound with kind words. You use raw meat.”

She eyed the still-stunned people in the tent. They were all quite deliberately staying away from Ruthar. Dalinar met Fisk’s eyes, then nodded again. The lockdown could be eased. Ruthar’s closest allies were fickle, and would see his fallen state as a disease to be avoided. Jasnah had already secured the loyalty of those who could have been dangerous—his family and military advisors.

“You should know,” Dalinar said, “that I found this entire experience distasteful. And not only because you didn’t warn me it was going to happen.”

“That is why I didn’t warn you,” Jasnah said. “Here. This may calm you.” She tapped a paper she’d set onto the map table, which the Mink picked up and began reading with great interest. He looked like he hadn’t been so entertained in years.

“A draft of a new law,” the short man said. “Forbidding trial by sword. How unexciting.”

Jasnah plucked the paper from his fingers. “I will use my own unfortunate experience today as an example of why this is a terrible tradition. Ruthar’s blood will be the last such spilled. And as we leave this era of barbarism, each and every attendant at court will know that Alethkar’s first queen is a woman unafraid of doing what needs to be done. Herself.”

She was firm, so Dalinar tucked away his anger, then turned to leave. A part of him understood her move, and it was likely to be effective. Yet at the same time, it displayed that Jasnah Kholin—brilliant, determined—was not perfect. There were things about her that unnerved even the callous soldier that lived deep inside him.

As he walked away, Renarin hurried over. “Sorry,” the boy whispered. “I didn’t know she hadn’t told you.”

“It’s all right, son,” Dalinar said. “I suspect that without you, she’d have gone through with the plan anyway—then left him to bleed out on the floor.”

Renarin ducked his head. “Father. I’ve … had an episode.”

Dalinar stopped. “Anything urgent?”

“No.”

“Can I find you later today, maybe tomorrow?” Dalinar asked. “I want to help contain the fallout from this stunt.”

Renarin nodded quickly, then slipped out of the tent. Ruthar had stumbled to his feet, holding his neck, his gaudy yellow outfit now ruined. He searched around the room as if for succor, but his former friends and attendants were quietly slipping away—leaving only soldiers and the queen, who stood with her back to him. As if Ruthar were no longer worth attention.

Wit stood in his jet-black suit, one hand on the map table, leaning at a nearly impossible angle. Dalinar often found Wit with a grin on his face, but not today. Today the man looked cold, emotionless. His eyes were deep voids, their color invisible in the dim light.

They maneuvered Ruthar expertly, Dalinar thought. Forced him to make all the wrong moves. Could … I do something similar in facing Odium? Anger the god somehow, forcing him to accept a reckless agreement?

How did one intimidate a creature as powerful as Odium? What, on all of Roshar, could a god possibly fear or hate so much? He’d have to bring up the matter with Jasnah and Wit. Though … not today.

Today he’d had enough of their machinations.

This song—this tone, this rhythm—sounds so familiar, in ways I cannot explain or express.

—From Rhythm of War, page 5