Not with panic this time, nor with the sharp, disorienting lurch of pain she half-expects. Instead, it's the dull, pervasive ache of a body that has finally been allowed to notice what it endured. The soreness is deep, muscular, the sort that settles into the bones themselves. Healing has begun in earnest, which is to say: everything hurts.
She keeps her eyes closed at first. Not pretending now. Simply gathering herself. Cataloguing sensations. The faint pull at her abdomen when she breathes too deeply. The stiffness in her shoulders. The smell of bread and sow's cheese drifting close enough to be distracting.
Footsteps. Pages turning. Ah. He's reading.
Eventually, one eye cracks open. The ceiling swims, then resolves. She turns her head a fraction, enough to spot him at the table, propped over that book.
She lets the silence stretch as she watches him. Then, hoarsely, she asks: "Have they fallen into the chasms together yet?"
It's good-natured, though. Playful. Whatever foul mood had befallen him last night, it's either been vanquished or swept under the rug. There's no material difference, when it comes to Verso.
"No—currently, Sterling is watching Wema with Brightlord Vadam and burning with masculine jealousy."
And Jasnah will simply run with the face value of his 'improved' mood. Why shouldn't she? It's not her vocation nor her strength to sit and sift through the illusions a man might put on. Leave that to the Lightweavers.
She yawns — aborting a small stretch the moment it pulls too hard on her wound. Slowly, softly, she crumples back on herself. Tucked on the divan.
"Hm. That could be any or every second chapter."
Clearly, she's not one of those readers who finds jealousy appealing.
"Jealousy," he says, "is a tried and true narrative device."
So what! Maybe Verso enjoys reading about a little jealousy! Maybe, as a deeply jealous man, he finds it relatable and-or desirable. Isn't there something appealing behind the fact that someone wants you, specifically, that badly? That there isn't anyone else in the world that could fill that slot? Being unique and irreplaceable is his greatest fantasy.
A tricky topic! Jasnah can only answer what she knows, because she doesn't realize it yet but she is prone to jealousy. Possessiveness, certainly. Just without any catalyst for expressing it. At least not romantically. So when Verso posits his theory — that she finds it lacking — she thinks of it only in the context of being the object of someone else's jealousy.
And yes, she finds it lacking. Among other adjectives. In fact, Jasnah would quite prefer not to be the object of anyone else's anything. Except, perhaps, their regard and respect.
Maybe someday she'll have a chance to investigate the other side of the equation. But, until then:
"...I suppose the jealousy plot does fit with the overall theme of tension between two lighteyed men of different dahn."
If you can't say anything nice, say something else.
"—Hey," he suddenly says, discussions of jealousy-as-a-narrative-device set aside for the moment. Verso sets the book down, pages to the table and cover to the ceiling, and turns bodily toward her. "What's all of this lighteyed stuff about, anyway?"
A flicker of confusion. It simply feels so normal — grotesquely so, actually — that it hadn't occurred to her that he might require this explanation. But. Of course. Not even every nation on Roshar stratified their society by eye colour. Only stands to reason that whole other planets wouldn't, either.
With a held breath and some effort, she sits up on the divan. The blanket pools at her waist, and she shrugs around the odd, loose, off-the-shoulder style of the Thaylen blouse. Once situated, she takes two fingers and gestures sharply to her own eyes. Light, bright violet. Then, inversing their direction, she points at Verso. His eyes, also light.
"In kingdoms like Alethkar, Jah Keved, and Kharbranth — the noble classes are lighteyed exclusively."
It's different in Azir. Storms, it's different here in Thaylenah, too, even though they're technically a Vorin nation. But they never had enough lighteyes in the population to usefully leverage that legacy.
"It's an absurd distinction. A holdover, I think, from the days of the old Radiants."
Well. At least he's got light eyes, too, so he doesn't have to worry about any weird discrimination on that front. The whole explanation is absurd, though—eye color is perhaps the most arbitrary fucking thing he can think of to make a caste system on. There's no caste system in Lumière at all (save for the absurdly wealthy, like the Dessendres, and the not-absurdly-wealthy, like everyone else) but even if there were, surely it wouldn't be based on something so...
Stupid. Honestly.
"You're serious," he says flatly. "What if you had been born with brown eyes? What then?"
"Me?" she asks — almost incredulous. Not because she lends any legitimacy to eye colour, but because it is such a bluntly heritable trait. Had her own eyes been dark purple rather than light — truly dark— there would have been whispers. Accusations. A quiet, vicious certainty that her mother must have been unfaithful to the king.
"Likely shuffled off somewhere unobtrusive," Jasnah continues coolly. "The ardentia, perhaps."
Oh. And she has, without comment, begun to pick at the corner of the pastry Verso left for her. Testing its texture. Its structure. After a thoughtful bite, she resumes as if the detour were part of the lecture. Because, yes, it's all a history lecture to her.
"It's all moot now. Spren don't care about eye color. And if you spend enough time bonded to one, your eyes begin to lighten. Darkeyes are becoming lighter-eyed every day."
There is a particular, unmistakable satisfaction in the way she says it. So many of the reforms she has fought for require delicately argued legal shifts, inching progress forward through resistance and precedent. But this? This is happening regardless of anyone's permission. Faster than anticipated. Inevitable.
"That's what I meant when I said it's a holdover from the old days," she adds. "From the last era when Radiants were common among the peoples of Roshar. After the Recreance, when the bonds were abandoned, some residual reverence must have lingered. It was...clumsily projected onto something as simple as eye color."
Not unlike how the hunger for the remaining dead shardblades led rulers to enforce the fiction that feminine arts required only one hand — neatly halving the field of competition for those coveted, powerful swords.
"There have even been cases of heterochromia," Jasnah finishes, almost idly. "One light eye. One dark. Usually the result of mixed parentage. I don't envy the lives of those children, however."
Wow. This is all... very different. Of course, he'd known that Roshar is hierarchical in some very stupid ways, but eye color takes the cake. He doesn't want to be judgmental, but, well—
"Seems like Rosharans would discriminate based on how much earwax you have if they could," he can't help but quip. Then, a moment later: "Sorry. Just a joke." Even if Jasnah doesn't outwardly support these castes, it's still her culture.
Ah, well. Can't change the world in a day. Can't even change it in a hundred years, so he's learned.
"Now that you're awake, I was thinking of heading out and getting some new clothes." But there is one small snag in that plan. "Could I interest you in a loan?"
She nearly corrects him. Vorin nations, not all of Roshar. And only the more hardline among them. The Azish care far more about education, though that opens an entirely different question of who is permitted access to one.. The Rirans and the Iriali diverge again, in their own peculiar ways. The familiar impulse to be precise, to offer a tidy political clarification, rises and then ebbs. The moment passes. The lesson goes untaught. Instead, he asks for money.
Jasnah continues breaking her fast, though her gaze drifts to the bag on the floor that contains all their worldly goods. This is...complicated. It isn't that she objects to his request for fresh clothing. It's that every sphere spent is a sphere she cannot immediately drain of stormlight, should the need arise. Should something happen. Should she finally regain...
Ivory.
She swallows, steadying herself. There are still spheres sewn into what remains of her havah. There are Jochi's, left to light the rooms. There is no immediate scarcity. No rational need to hoard.
"No need to borrow. I will gladly pay to replace what's been ruined by my blood," she says at last, flat and unequivocal.
Not a loan. An obligation. Responsibility, neatly assumed.
She doesn't add thank you for waiting until I'm awake to leave. But she does think it.
Hmm. It was ruined by her blood only because he wasn't quick enough to prevent the bleeding in the first place, but he doesn't argue. Well, not exactly. As he gets up and crouches to go through her bag, he says, "We'll just consider it an advance payment."
You know, for the employment that he... may or may not have. Surely he's proven himself worthy of the job by now, trial run or not.
Something does occur to him, though. "Unless—" He turns his gaze onto Jasnah. "Being your jester is a paid position, non?" They didn't actually talk details. "Or is it more of a 'paid in exposure' situation?"
...Really, it's more of a kept man arrangement. Not in the lurid sense. Simply that the Queen's Wit does not want for rooms, for meals, for elegantly piped uniforms. The office is provisioned, so to speak. Still, Jasnah has only ever known her Wit, and he arrived with his own inscrutable resources, his own wealth, his own refusal to explain where any of it came from.
Which leaves her with very little precedent. Fortunately, she is the authority. Whatever she decides becomes standard practice.
"It's paid," she says, measured. Jasnah has no idea what the correct figure ought to be, but she can commit to that much without hesitation. An unpaid Wit is merely another form of bondage, and that sits poorly — politically, ethically, personally — with everything she is trying to build.
"I'll consult the ledgers," she adds, after a beat. "Once we return. To determine the amount."
A loose almost-truth. Accurate in wording, if not in motivation.
She leans forward, resting an elbow on the end table, and studies him with quiet intent. Will he know what the amounts mean? Likely not. But she waits to see what he takes before correcting him. The bag has a variety of glass spheres, each with a different sized and coloured gems in the middle. Some are mere chips, some are larger stones, some are full-sized broams. The diamonds are the least valuable; the emeralds the most.
It doesn't occur to her to tell him that the job is well and truly already his.
Unfortunately not the kind of bondage he wishes she'd do with him.
Anyway, Verso goes through the little bag, sorting through the various spheres. He assumes the teeny, tiny chips are too low in value to be worth taking, and the larger gems too great a value; the last thing he wants to do is have to figure out change. So, he searches for something in the middle, small but respectably sized. That's enough to buy him a clean shirt and pants, he hopes.
"In Lumière," he says, idly, just because he thinks she'll find it interesting, "the form of currency was the Franc."
Or at least it was last he was there. Things are always changing. He sets a sphere containing a modest red gem aside; he isn't certain if the color matters, so he begins searching for a similarly-sized one in another shade.
He picks a garnet mark. And Jasnah, unable to help herself, nods in silent approval. How awkward it would have been had he selected a broam and she had to tell him he was carrying a small fortune just to buy some clothing. Of course, it's really Jasnah's fault for having broams in the first place. Royals, eh.
"You're likely right," she concedes. A base-ten system does hold more appeal. Of course it does — for the most part, Roshar does everything in tens. And she also imagines Francs don't have to be left out in a highstorm to be reinfused with stormlight after they inevitably leak it all out and go dun. Dun spheres are still good for currency, of course, but they're also easier to counterfeit. Most merchants require infused ones. Luckily, these are.
"The worth of a sphere is judged on two axes. First, the size of the gem inside." Self-explanatory. "Second, the kind of gem. Because each gem powers a different kind of soulcasting. Emeralds can create grain, and are therefore the most precious. Diamonds, like that clearmark you've got in your hand, are least valuable as they're used in the creation of crystal."
"That seems a little backwards," he says with a wrinkle of his nose, although he does set the diamond back in the pouch. If emeralds are the best, then he'd best not choose that one. A blue one, maybe. Will two spheres be enough? Although he has some idea of how they compare to each other, he doesn't fully understand the purchasing power.
Instead of asking, he just sets the two spheres he's chosen to the side, waiting for Jasnah to look approving or disapproving.
"Isn't crystal more valuable than grain?" Also, how the fuck do emeralds create grain.
"An army marches on its stomach," Jasnah offers. "And you can't feed your soldiers glass."
In most of Roshar, arable farm land is at a premium. Growing any kind of food is laborious. And that's without even factoring in the highstorms. So a great deal of food must be soulcast. That is, an ardent with a soulcasting fabrial — a small device worn on the hand and set with gems — uses that fabrial to change one material into another. The cost is high: gems break over time and, alarmingly, there are terrible side-effects for the soulcaster themselves.
Ah, soulcasting! That word might seem familiar. It is indeed similar-but-not-quite what Jasnah herself can do with access to stormlight. Before the return of the Radiants, soulcasters were the only means to feed large groups of people. Ergo, emeralds are most precious.
"Take a sapphire mark, too," she suggests. Mostly because she would hate for him to be caught short just because she's being stingy with her spheres. What does she know about the going rate of clothing.
Take a sapphire mark he does, sliding all of the spheres into his pocket. Inside, they clack against each other in a way he finds very strange. Then he stands, looking Jasnah over. She looks no more energetic than the day before, but no more fatigued, either. A good sign, he hopes. As long as her condition doesn't worsen, nothing truly bad can happen.
All the same, he asks, "Will you be all right alone?" It'll only be for a little while. He plans on making no detours, even though he'd really quite enjoy taking in the culture. Gesturing to the door with a thumb: "Do you want me to fetch Jochi—?"
The words come out in a jumbled rush. Too quick, almost defensive. As though there is something unexpectedly sensitive about finally spending time face-to-face with her old pen pal, something she was never foolish enough to imagine would happen like this: Jasnah Kholin propped upright by sheer will, fatigued by the simple act of sitting, dark crescents beneath her eyes and not a breath of stormlight left to disguise them.
If she were inclined to overanalyze it — and of course she is — it likely means she has already accepted a degree of vulnerability with Verso that she is not prepared to extend to Jochi. Or anyone else, really.
"I'll be fine," Jasnah adds, more carefully. "What trouble could I possibly get into? Just — leave that book within reach." A small nod indicates the volume on Vorin determinism.
She regrets the assertion almost as soon as it leaves her mouth. Being left alone to convalesce has a sour edge to it, sharper than she expected. The room is bright. The door is unlocked. No restraints. It is nothing like those childhood stints but still, a thin loneliness creeps in at the thought of him leaving, even briefly. Uncharacteristic. Irritating. Enough to tighten the back of her throat.
"Go," she insists, firmer now. Before she can reconsider. Before she can ask him to stay. Let the man have his retail therapy, Jasnah.
"That eager to get rid of me?" he teases, although he knows the truth must be that she feels awful for needing another person around at all. It'll be quick, he reminds himself, as he slides the book nearer to her.
And it is quick; he's a worrywart at heart, and he finds himself worrying the whole time he's out. What if she was right? What if the assassin comes back, right up through the patisserie and into the apartment upstairs? Jochi won't recognize him, but Verso could. He'd remember the set of those shoulders. The boutiquier even points out his dark expression, but he shakes it off and offers him a smile.
Thaylen clothing is a bit— carefree, comparatively. More informal than Lumièran fashion. Verso's far from strait-laced when it comes to these things—he wears his shirts half-unbuttoned so as to look rakish and handsome—but it's an adjustment, to be sure, to pick through vests and knee-length pants to find something a little more familiar to him. He does, eventually, walk out with a shirt and pair of trousers on that are a lot more silky and unstructured than he's used to, but it's worth it to be able to trash that bloodstained shirt.
"The merchant told me I was short a few marks, but he was kind enough to give me a discount," he says as the steps through the door. In reality, the merchant saw an idiot who didn't understand how much money anything was worth and charged him twice the price for everything.
Fifteen minutes of silence. Of enforced stillness. Of the frankly absurd contortions of Vorin determinism. With a sharp, petulant exhale, she abandons the book, letting it fall aside. Her gaze drops to her hands. Both bare. She turns them palm-up, then palm-down. Studies them as if they might offer advice.
They do not. So she does something ill-advised. She stands.
Well. Stands is generous. What she actually does is seize the edge of the endtable and lever herself upright a fraction at a time, hissing softly through her teeth as discomfort blooms along her abdomen. It is slow. Excruciatingly slow. She pauses to breathe, then shuffles forward, trading the table for the back of the divan, the divan for the wall, until momentum (and stubbornness) carry her into the kitchenette.
That is where Verso will find her when he returns. Seated on the floor, back braced against the lower cabinets, knees drawn just enough to be comfortable. She is fine. No fresh blood. No slipped bandages. No dramatic consequences. She has simply run out of steam before making the return journey.
She has, at least, reclaimed her glove. Her left hand is once again properly concealed. Modesty restored. Dignity patched, even if she wore another hole in it in the process.
From the kitchenette, before she can even see him, her voice carries:
"Short a few marks? Storms. Did they import the shirts from Azir?"
"Maybe—" Verso says, because he didn't ask, and then... pauses. No Jasnah on the divan. Huh.
"...Jasnah?"
It at least only takes a moment to locate her, given the nearness of the kitchenette and the direction her voice is coming from. There's two thoughts in his mind upon seeing her: one, this is ridiculous, which he doesn't voice. Two, which he does voice—
"Are you all right?" He crouches down beside her, frowning as he glances down at her abdomen, looking for new blood. She really shouldn't be moving around. That wound is already barely patched up; too much exertion and he fears it'll start gushing again. After he determines that she isn't about to bleed out on the floor, he glances back up at her face. "Did you fall?"
Jasnah refuses to let that fact gain traction. She tracks his entrance into her line of sight with deliberate composure, even as he lowers himself, comes closer, performs that careful visual inventory: checking for blood, for strain, for evidence that her ill-advised walkabout ended in catastrophe. She dislikes the attention. It sharpens the memory of her own decision-making into something uncomfortably precise. Rightly critical.
"No," she says at once, crisp and final. No, she did not fall. Not no, I'm not alright.
She offers no further explanation. Instead, she tilts her head back just enough to assess him in turn. Once. Efficiently.
His new clothes are unmistakably Thaylen and not Azish at all. Like hers, looser through the shoulders, cut for movement most of all. Practical layers. Something about it reads faintly roguish, even adventurous, as though he might step out onto a deck or into a back alley with equal ease. It suits him more than she expects, despite the recent cursed nature of both of those environs. Yes, the silhouette is a little unstructured for her tastes — she agrees with him on that point — but he looks better tidy, she thinks. And no longer covered in her blood.
"You chose well," she adds, approvingly. And just a little like maybe she's hoping she can get away with her hubris by dangling a little praise in his path. It's a gamble.
Verso isn't stupid. He understands on some level that Jasnah is only attempting to distract him with flattery because she feels embarrassed about what she's done. His rational thought and emotions rarely mix well together, though, and he ends up smiling crookedly anyway, pleased. Too fucking easy.
Besides, it's not like he was going to scold her. Maybe give her a mildly disapproving look.
"Right. A controlled descent to the floor, then," he jokes. Gesturing to his shoulders, apparently expecting Jasnah to hold onto them, he says, "I'll help you up."
Jasnah so rarely sees anyone's smile from this close that it takes a beat to recalibrate. Proximity has a way of distorting scale; she finds her gaze drifting despite herself, cataloguing details simply because they're there. Mouth, eyes, the slight asymmetry of the expression. Disorienting. Fascinating. Yes, the flattery had been a gamble. She had not anticipated quite this level of success.
Storms, she wants to correct him. Her controlled descent to the floor had been exactly that: a deliberate decision made the moment she realized she would not make it back to the divan under her own power. A detour. A...tactical pause! The choice to sit and wait for, well...for him. Jasnah keeps all of that firmly behind her teeth. It is not information he needs.
Her attention shifts instead to the offered shoulders. Hmm.
Carefully, almost experimentally, she lifts one hand and sets it against him. Fingertips brush once, twice along the seam of his new shirt, testing fabric and steadiness alike, like tapping stone before committing weight. The hesitation stretches a fraction too long. Then she decides. Her arm follows, settling more fully across the line of his shoulders.
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Not with panic this time, nor with the sharp, disorienting lurch of pain she half-expects. Instead, it's the dull, pervasive ache of a body that has finally been allowed to notice what it endured. The soreness is deep, muscular, the sort that settles into the bones themselves. Healing has begun in earnest, which is to say: everything hurts.
She keeps her eyes closed at first. Not pretending now. Simply gathering herself. Cataloguing sensations. The faint pull at her abdomen when she breathes too deeply. The stiffness in her shoulders. The smell of bread and sow's cheese drifting close enough to be distracting.
Footsteps. Pages turning. Ah. He's reading.
Eventually, one eye cracks open. The ceiling swims, then resolves. She turns her head a fraction, enough to spot him at the table, propped over that book.
She lets the silence stretch as she watches him. Then, hoarsely, she asks: "Have they fallen into the chasms together yet?"
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It's good-natured, though. Playful. Whatever foul mood had befallen him last night, it's either been vanquished or swept under the rug. There's no material difference, when it comes to Verso.
"No—currently, Sterling is watching Wema with Brightlord Vadam and burning with masculine jealousy."
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She yawns — aborting a small stretch the moment it pulls too hard on her wound. Slowly, softly, she crumples back on herself. Tucked on the divan.
"Hm. That could be any or every second chapter."
Clearly, she's not one of those readers who finds jealousy appealing.
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So what! Maybe Verso enjoys reading about a little jealousy! Maybe, as a deeply jealous man, he finds it relatable and-or desirable. Isn't there something appealing behind the fact that someone wants you, specifically, that badly? That there isn't anyone else in the world that could fill that slot? Being unique and irreplaceable is his greatest fantasy.
"...But I'm sensing you find it lacking."
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yetbut she is prone to jealousy. Possessiveness, certainly. Just without any catalyst for expressing it. At least not romantically. So when Verso posits his theory — that she finds it lacking — she thinks of it only in the context of being the object of someone else's jealousy.And yes, she finds it lacking. Among other adjectives. In fact, Jasnah would quite prefer not to be the object of anyone else's anything. Except, perhaps, their regard and respect.
Maybe someday she'll have a chance to investigate the other side of the equation. But, until then:
"...I suppose the jealousy plot does fit with the overall theme of tension between two lighteyed men of different dahn."
If you can't say anything nice, say something else.
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With a held breath and some effort, she sits up on the divan. The blanket pools at her waist, and she shrugs around the odd, loose, off-the-shoulder style of the Thaylen blouse. Once situated, she takes two fingers and gestures sharply to her own eyes. Light, bright violet. Then, inversing their direction, she points at Verso. His eyes, also light.
"In kingdoms like Alethkar, Jah Keved, and Kharbranth — the noble classes are lighteyed exclusively."
It's different in Azir. Storms, it's different here in Thaylenah, too, even though they're technically a Vorin nation. But they never had enough lighteyes in the population to usefully leverage that legacy.
"It's an absurd distinction. A holdover, I think, from the days of the old Radiants."
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Stupid. Honestly.
"You're serious," he says flatly. "What if you had been born with brown eyes? What then?"
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"Me?" she asks — almost incredulous. Not because she lends any legitimacy to eye colour, but because it is such a bluntly heritable trait. Had her own eyes been dark purple rather than light — truly dark— there would have been whispers. Accusations. A quiet, vicious certainty that her mother must have been unfaithful to the king.
"Likely shuffled off somewhere unobtrusive," Jasnah continues coolly. "The ardentia, perhaps."
Oh. And she has, without comment, begun to pick at the corner of the pastry Verso left for her. Testing its texture. Its structure. After a thoughtful bite, she resumes as if the detour were part of the lecture. Because, yes, it's all a history lecture to her.
"It's all moot now. Spren don't care about eye color. And if you spend enough time bonded to one, your eyes begin to lighten. Darkeyes are becoming lighter-eyed every day."
There is a particular, unmistakable satisfaction in the way she says it. So many of the reforms she has fought for require delicately argued legal shifts, inching progress forward through resistance and precedent. But this? This is happening regardless of anyone's permission. Faster than anticipated. Inevitable.
"That's what I meant when I said it's a holdover from the old days," she adds. "From the last era when Radiants were common among the peoples of Roshar. After the Recreance, when the bonds were abandoned, some residual reverence must have lingered. It was...clumsily projected onto something as simple as eye color."
Not unlike how the hunger for the remaining dead shardblades led rulers to enforce the fiction that feminine arts required only one hand — neatly halving the field of competition for those coveted, powerful swords.
"There have even been cases of heterochromia," Jasnah finishes, almost idly. "One light eye. One dark. Usually the result of mixed parentage. I don't envy the lives of those children, however."
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"Seems like Rosharans would discriminate based on how much earwax you have if they could," he can't help but quip. Then, a moment later: "Sorry. Just a joke." Even if Jasnah doesn't outwardly support these castes, it's still her culture.
Ah, well. Can't change the world in a day. Can't even change it in a hundred years, so he's learned.
"Now that you're awake, I was thinking of heading out and getting some new clothes." But there is one small snag in that plan. "Could I interest you in a loan?"
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Jasnah continues breaking her fast, though her gaze drifts to the bag on the floor that contains all their worldly goods. This is...complicated. It isn't that she objects to his request for fresh clothing. It's that every sphere spent is a sphere she cannot immediately drain of stormlight, should the need arise. Should something happen. Should she finally regain...
Ivory.
She swallows, steadying herself. There are still spheres sewn into what remains of her havah. There are Jochi's, left to light the rooms. There is no immediate scarcity. No rational need to hoard.
"No need to borrow. I will gladly pay to replace what's been ruined by my blood," she says at last, flat and unequivocal.
Not a loan. An obligation. Responsibility, neatly assumed.
She doesn't add thank you for waiting until I'm awake to leave. But she does think it.
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You know, for the employment that he... may or may not have. Surely he's proven himself worthy of the job by now, trial run or not.
Something does occur to him, though. "Unless—" He turns his gaze onto Jasnah. "Being your jester is a paid position, non?" They didn't actually talk details. "Or is it more of a 'paid in exposure' situation?"
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Which leaves her with very little precedent. Fortunately, she is the authority. Whatever she decides becomes standard practice.
"It's paid," she says, measured. Jasnah has no idea what the correct figure ought to be, but she can commit to that much without hesitation. An unpaid Wit is merely another form of bondage, and that sits poorly — politically, ethically, personally — with everything she is trying to build.
"I'll consult the ledgers," she adds, after a beat. "Once we return. To determine the amount."
A loose almost-truth. Accurate in wording, if not in motivation.
She leans forward, resting an elbow on the end table, and studies him with quiet intent. Will he know what the amounts mean? Likely not. But she waits to see what he takes before correcting him. The bag has a variety of glass spheres, each with a different sized and coloured gems in the middle. Some are mere chips, some are larger stones, some are full-sized broams. The diamonds are the least valuable; the emeralds the most.
It doesn't occur to her to tell him that the job is well and truly already his.
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Anyway, Verso goes through the little bag, sorting through the various spheres. He assumes the teeny, tiny chips are too low in value to be worth taking, and the larger gems too great a value; the last thing he wants to do is have to figure out change. So, he searches for something in the middle, small but respectably sized. That's enough to buy him a clean shirt and pants, he hopes.
"In Lumière," he says, idly, just because he thinks she'll find it interesting, "the form of currency was the Franc."
Or at least it was last he was there. Things are always changing. He sets a sphere containing a modest red gem aside; he isn't certain if the color matters, so he begins searching for a similarly-sized one in another shade.
"10 centimes is a décime, and 10 décimes are a Franc." A pause, as he examines a sphere with a little diamond inside. "...A more easily understood system, I think."
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"You're likely right," she concedes. A base-ten system does hold more appeal. Of course it does — for the most part, Roshar does everything in tens. And she also imagines Francs don't have to be left out in a highstorm to be reinfused with stormlight after they inevitably leak it all out and go dun. Dun spheres are still good for currency, of course, but they're also easier to counterfeit. Most merchants require infused ones. Luckily, these are.
"The worth of a sphere is judged on two axes. First, the size of the gem inside." Self-explanatory. "Second, the kind of gem. Because each gem powers a different kind of soulcasting. Emeralds can create grain, and are therefore the most precious. Diamonds, like that clearmark you've got in your hand, are least valuable as they're used in the creation of crystal."
Clear and comprehendible, right? Right.
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Instead of asking, he just sets the two spheres he's chosen to the side, waiting for Jasnah to look approving or disapproving.
"Isn't crystal more valuable than grain?" Also, how the fuck do emeralds create grain.
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In most of Roshar, arable farm land is at a premium. Growing any kind of food is laborious. And that's without even factoring in the highstorms. So a great deal of food must be soulcast. That is, an ardent with a soulcasting fabrial — a small device worn on the hand and set with gems — uses that fabrial to change one material into another. The cost is high: gems break over time and, alarmingly, there are terrible side-effects for the soulcaster themselves.
Ah, soulcasting! That word might seem familiar. It is indeed similar-but-not-quite what Jasnah herself can do with access to stormlight. Before the return of the Radiants, soulcasters were the only means to feed large groups of people. Ergo, emeralds are most precious.
"Take a sapphire mark, too," she suggests. Mostly because she would hate for him to be caught short just because she's being stingy with her spheres. What does she know about the going rate of clothing.
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All the same, he asks, "Will you be all right alone?" It'll only be for a little while. He plans on making no detours, even though he'd really quite enjoy taking in the culture. Gesturing to the door with a thumb: "Do you want me to fetch Jochi—?"
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The words come out in a jumbled rush. Too quick, almost defensive. As though there is something unexpectedly sensitive about finally spending time face-to-face with her old pen pal, something she was never foolish enough to imagine would happen like this: Jasnah Kholin propped upright by sheer will, fatigued by the simple act of sitting, dark crescents beneath her eyes and not a breath of stormlight left to disguise them.
If she were inclined to overanalyze it — and of course she is — it likely means she has already accepted a degree of vulnerability with Verso that she is not prepared to extend to Jochi. Or anyone else, really.
"I'll be fine," Jasnah adds, more carefully. "What trouble could I possibly get into? Just — leave that book within reach." A small nod indicates the volume on Vorin determinism.
She regrets the assertion almost as soon as it leaves her mouth. Being left alone to convalesce has a sour edge to it, sharper than she expected. The room is bright. The door is unlocked. No restraints. It is nothing like those childhood stints but still, a thin loneliness creeps in at the thought of him leaving, even briefly. Uncharacteristic. Irritating. Enough to tighten the back of her throat.
"Go," she insists, firmer now. Before she can reconsider. Before she can ask him to stay. Let the man have his retail therapy, Jasnah.
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And it is quick; he's a worrywart at heart, and he finds himself worrying the whole time he's out. What if she was right? What if the assassin comes back, right up through the patisserie and into the apartment upstairs? Jochi won't recognize him, but Verso could. He'd remember the set of those shoulders. The boutiquier even points out his dark expression, but he shakes it off and offers him a smile.
Thaylen clothing is a bit— carefree, comparatively. More informal than Lumièran fashion. Verso's far from strait-laced when it comes to these things—he wears his shirts half-unbuttoned so as to look rakish and handsome—but it's an adjustment, to be sure, to pick through vests and knee-length pants to find something a little more familiar to him. He does, eventually, walk out with a shirt and pair of trousers on that are a lot more silky and unstructured than he's used to, but it's worth it to be able to trash that bloodstained shirt.
"The merchant told me I was short a few marks, but he was kind enough to give me a discount," he says as the steps through the door. In reality, the merchant saw an idiot who didn't understand how much money anything was worth and charged him twice the price for everything.
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Fifteen minutes of silence. Of enforced stillness. Of the frankly absurd contortions of Vorin determinism. With a sharp, petulant exhale, she abandons the book, letting it fall aside. Her gaze drops to her hands. Both bare. She turns them palm-up, then palm-down. Studies them as if they might offer advice.
They do not. So she does something ill-advised. She stands.
Well. Stands is generous. What she actually does is seize the edge of the endtable and lever herself upright a fraction at a time, hissing softly through her teeth as discomfort blooms along her abdomen. It is slow. Excruciatingly slow. She pauses to breathe, then shuffles forward, trading the table for the back of the divan, the divan for the wall, until momentum (and stubbornness) carry her into the kitchenette.
That is where Verso will find her when he returns. Seated on the floor, back braced against the lower cabinets, knees drawn just enough to be comfortable. She is fine. No fresh blood. No slipped bandages. No dramatic consequences. She has simply run out of steam before making the return journey.
She has, at least, reclaimed her glove. Her left hand is once again properly concealed. Modesty restored. Dignity patched, even if she wore another hole in it in the process.
From the kitchenette, before she can even see him, her voice carries:
"Short a few marks? Storms. Did they import the shirts from Azir?"
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"...Jasnah?"
It at least only takes a moment to locate her, given the nearness of the kitchenette and the direction her voice is coming from. There's two thoughts in his mind upon seeing her: one, this is ridiculous, which he doesn't voice. Two, which he does voice—
"Are you all right?" He crouches down beside her, frowning as he glances down at her abdomen, looking for new blood. She really shouldn't be moving around. That wound is already barely patched up; too much exertion and he fears it'll start gushing again. After he determines that she isn't about to bleed out on the floor, he glances back up at her face. "Did you fall?"
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Jasnah refuses to let that fact gain traction. She tracks his entrance into her line of sight with deliberate composure, even as he lowers himself, comes closer, performs that careful visual inventory: checking for blood, for strain, for evidence that her ill-advised walkabout ended in catastrophe. She dislikes the attention. It sharpens the memory of her own decision-making into something uncomfortably precise. Rightly critical.
"No," she says at once, crisp and final. No, she did not fall. Not no, I'm not alright.
She offers no further explanation. Instead, she tilts her head back just enough to assess him in turn. Once. Efficiently.
His new clothes are unmistakably Thaylen and not Azish at all. Like hers, looser through the shoulders, cut for movement most of all. Practical layers. Something about it reads faintly roguish, even adventurous, as though he might step out onto a deck or into a back alley with equal ease. It suits him more than she expects, despite the recent cursed nature of both of those environs. Yes, the silhouette is a little unstructured for her tastes — she agrees with him on that point — but he looks better tidy, she thinks. And no longer covered in her blood.
"You chose well," she adds, approvingly. And just a little like maybe she's hoping she can get away with her hubris by dangling a little praise in his path. It's a gamble.
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Besides, it's not like he was going to scold her. Maybe give her a mildly disapproving look.
"Right. A controlled descent to the floor, then," he jokes. Gesturing to his shoulders, apparently expecting Jasnah to hold onto them, he says, "I'll help you up."
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Jasnah so rarely sees anyone's smile from this close that it takes a beat to recalibrate. Proximity has a way of distorting scale; she finds her gaze drifting despite herself, cataloguing details simply because they're there. Mouth, eyes, the slight asymmetry of the expression. Disorienting. Fascinating. Yes, the flattery had been a gamble. She had not anticipated quite this level of success.
Storms, she wants to correct him. Her controlled descent to the floor had been exactly that: a deliberate decision made the moment she realized she would not make it back to the divan under her own power. A detour. A...tactical pause! The choice to sit and wait for, well...for him. Jasnah keeps all of that firmly behind her teeth. It is not information he needs.
Her attention shifts instead to the offered shoulders. Hmm.
Carefully, almost experimentally, she lifts one hand and sets it against him. Fingertips brush once, twice along the seam of his new shirt, testing fabric and steadiness alike, like tapping stone before committing weight. The hesitation stretches a fraction too long. Then she decides. Her arm follows, settling more fully across the line of his shoulders.
A small nod. "On three?"
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congrats on receiving my 1,000th comment in this post
throwing a party!!
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first work tag of the new year...
ditto. 🥂
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