Adolin chuckled uncomfortably. “Well, that’s been a topic of some discussion lately…”
Wit raised an eyebrow.
Adolin sighed. Wit would find out eventually anyway – it was virtually impossible to keep anything from the man. “I made a lunch appointment with one woman yesterday, but I was… well, I was courting another. And she’s the jealous type. So now neither will speak with me.”
“It’s a constant source of amazement that you get yourself into such messes, Adolin. Each one is more exciting than the previous!”
“Er, yes. Exciting. That’s exactly how it feels.”
Wit laughed again, though he maintained a sense of dignity in his posture. The King’s Wit was not a silly court fool such as one might find in other kingdoms. He was a sword, a tool maintained by the king. Insulting others was beneath the dignity of the king, so just as one used gloves when forced to handle something vile, the king retained a Wit so he didn’t have to debase himself to the level of rudeness or offensiveness.
This new Wit had been with them for some months, and there was something… different about him. He seemed to know things that he shouldn’t, important things. Useful things.
Wit nodded to Dalinar. “Your Lordship.”
“Wit,” Dalinar said stiffly.
“And young Prince Renarin!”
Renarin kept his eyes down.
“No greeting for me, Renarin?” Wit said, amused.
Renarin said nothing.
“He thinks you’ll mock him if he speaks to you, Wit,” Adolin said. “Earlier this morning, he told me he’d determined not to say anything around you.”
“Wonderful!” Wit exclaimed. “Then I can say whatever I wish, and he’ll not object?”
Renarin hesitated.
Wit leaned in to Adolin. “Have I told you about the night Prince Renarin and I had two days back, walking the streets of the warcamp? We came across these two sisters, you see, blue eyed and–”
“That’s a lie!” Renarin said, blushing.
“Very well,” Wit said without missing a beat, “I’ll confess there were actually three sisters, but Prince Renarin quite unfairly ended up with two of them, and I didn’t wish to diminish my reputation by–”
“Wit.” Dalinar was stern as he cut in.
The black-clad man looked to him.
“Perhaps you should restrict your mockery to those who deserve it.”
“Brightlord Dalinar. I believe that was what I was doing.”
Dalinar’s frown deepened. He never had liked Wit, and picking on Renarin was a sure way to raise his ire. Adolin could understand that, but Wit was almost always good-natured with Renarin.
Wit moved to leave, passing Dalinar as he did. Adolin could barely overhear what was said as Wit leaned over to whisper something. “Those who ‘deserve’ my mockery are those who can benefit from it, Brightlord Dalinar. That one is less fragile than you think him.” He winked, then turned his horse to move on over the bridge.
“Stormwinds, but I like that man,” Adolin said. “Best Wit we’ve had in ages!”
“I find him unnerving,” Renarin said softly.
“That’s half the fun!”
Dalinar said nothing. The three of them crossed the bridge, passing Wit, who had stopped to torment a group of officers – lighteyes of low enough rank that they needed to serve in the army and earn a wage. Several of them laughed while Wit poked fun at another.
The three of them joined the king, and were immediately approached by the day’s huntmaster. Bashin was a short man with a sizable paunch; he wore rugged clothing with a leather overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. He was a darkeyes of the first nahn, the highest and most prestigious rank a darkeyes could have, worthy even of marrying into a lighteyed family.
Bashin bowed to the king. “Your Majesty! Wonderful timing! We’ve just tossed down the bait.”
“Excellent,” Elhokar said, climbing from the saddle. Adolin and Dalinar did likewise, Shardplate clinking softly, Dalinar untying his helm from the saddle. “How long will it take?”
“Two or three hours is likely,” Bashin said, taking the reins of the king’s horse. Grooms took the two Ryshadium. “We’ve set up over there.”
Bashin pointed toward the hunting plateau, the smaller plateau where the actual fighting would take place away from the attendants and the bulk of the soldiers. A group of hunters led a lumbering chull around its perimeter, towing a rope draped over the side of the cliff. That rope would be dragging the bait.
“We’re using hog carcasses,” Bashin explained. “And we poured hog’s blood over the sides. The chasmfiend has been spotted by patrols here a good dozen times. He’s got his nest nearby, for certain – he’s not here to pupate. He’s too big for that, and he’s remained in the area too long. So it should be a fine hunt! Once he arrives, we’ll loose a group of wild hogs as distractions, and you can begin weakening him with arrows.”
They had brought grandbows: large steel bows with thick strings and such a high draw weight that only a Shardbearer could use them, to fire shafts as thick as three fingers. They were recent creations, devised by Alethi engineers through the use of fabrial science, and each required a small infused gemstone to maintain the strength of its pull without warping the metal. Adolin’s aunt Navani – the widow of King Gavilar, mother of Elhokar and his sister Jasnah – had led the research to develop the bows.
It would be nice if she hadn’t left, Adolin thought idly. Navani was an interesting woman. Things were never boring around her.
Some had started calling the bows Shardbows, but Adolin didn’t like the term. Shardblades and Shardplate were something special. Relics from another time, a time when the Radiants had walked Roshar. No amount of fabrial science had even approached re-creating them.
Bashin led the king and his highprinces toward a pavilion at the center of the viewing plateau. Adolin joined his father, intending to give a report on the crossing. About half of the soldiers were in place, but many of the attendants were still making their way across the large, permanent bridge onto the viewing plateau. The king’s banner flapped above the pavilion, and a small refreshment station had been erected. A soldier at the back was setting up the rack of four grandbows. They were sleek and dangerous-looking, with thick black shafts in four quivers beside them.
“I think you’ll have a fine day for the hunt,” Bashin said to Dalinar. “Judging by reports, the beast is a big one. Larger than you’ve ever slain before, Brightlord.”
“Gavilar always wanted to slay one of these,” Dalinar said wistfully. “He loved greatshell hunts, though he never got a chasmfiend. Odd that I’ve now killed so many.”
The chull pulling the bait bleated in the distance.
“You need to go for the legs on this one, Brightlords,” Bashin said. Pre-hunt advice was one of Bashin’s responsibilities, and he took those seriously. “Chasmfiends, well, you’re used to attacking them in their chrysalises. Don’t forget how mean they are when they’re not pupating. With one this big, use a distraction and come in from…” He trailed off, then groaned, cursing softly. “Storms take that animal. I swear, the man who trained it must have been daft.”
He was looking across at the next plateau. Adolin followed his glance. The crablike chull that had been towing the bait was lumbering away from the chasm with a slow, yet determined gait. Its handlers were yelling, running after it.
“I’m sorry, Brightlord,” Bashin said. “It’s been doing this all day.”
The chull bleated in a gravelly voice. Something seemed wrong to Adolin.
“We can send for another one,” Elhokar said. “It shouldn’t take too long to–”
“Bashin?” Dalinar said, his voice suddenly alarmed. “Shouldn’t there be bait on the end of that beast’s rope?”
The huntmaster froze. The rope the chull was towing was frayed at the end.