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.
He had been hoping she'd put both of her hands on his shoulders, and then he'd be able to hook his hands under her arms to heft her up. That's not the case, though, and so he recalibrates his strategy.
An arm around her waist, then, so that he can hoist her up and they can stand side-by-side while she hobbles. With his hand firm and steady, it's a clinical and nonindulgent position, even though it has every possibility of being otherwise. Aside from the fact that it would be wrong to use her injury for his own gain, his ego can't take the hit of touching a woman in a way that she would be anything less than enthusiastic about.
On three, he lifts her, wobbling a little from their uneven stance before he manages to stabilize himself. As he takes his first step—their combined first step—back to the divan, he asks, "Why did you need to go to the kitchen in the first place?"
Jasnah screws her eyes shut as they rise. She draws a careful, measured breath and there is a brief pause before she allows her weight to settle fully against him — before she permits herself to accept the help being offered.
Her fingers curl into the sleeve of his new shirt, gathering the fabric in a controlled, anchoring grip. Not clawing, this time. Just firm enough to steady herself — and, with a faint flicker of practical thought, not so tight that she'll be obliged to compensate him once again for torn seams later.
The first step is clumsy. A fraction out of sync. The second is better. Not graceful, but workable. At his question, she exhales through her nose.
"My glove," she admits. No embellishment. He has eyes; he can draw his own conclusions if he cares to spend half a minute doing so.
The truth is that he finds that an unsatisfactory answer. Propriety is not worth risking her wound reopening for. Besides, it's just him and Jochi here, and both of them have seen her bare left hand already. He can't speak for Jochi, but he, at least, wasn't scandalized by it.
"Sorry," he says all the same, "I should have given it back." He can admit that he'd made a mistake there. It just hadn't seemed particularly relevant, and since she hadn't asked after it, it had slipped his mind.
Another few steps. "—But," he adds, "you could have told me about it before I left. You know, when you were emphatically telling me to go."
They likely make a laughable pair. She is a little taller, half-draped against him; he is tucked sturdily beneath her arm, a reliable anchor. She is lucid enough now to notice that this must have been how they looked fleeing through the city streets. And his proximity has begun to feel unremarkable. Familiar. The sort of familiarity that slips in without permission.
"I could have." She concedes it plainly. "But I didn't."
Why not? The question stirs something unsettled beneath her ribs, a pressure system forming where certainty ought to be. Two steps forward, one step back. She had let herself grow unbothered and the pendulum swings self-consciously in the opposite direction. A regression. If she of all people, the notorious heretic, struggles to unfasten herself from these inherited strictures, how much harder will it be for others?
Verso chews on that for a moment, silently moving them along until he can deposit Jasnah safely on the divan. He steps back and gives her another once over; her wound looks no more gushing than before, although he's pretty sure there's still some scant bleeding ongoing. It worries him that she would try moving unassisted so soon, but he's also acutely aware that she'll buck against any chiding so hard that it might as well be encouragement.
So instead, he focuses on the glove. "I'm a good listener," he says, "and I love complicated things."
She is returned once more to her plush, soft prison. Well. Prison is dramatic. Still, she resents the sameness of it: the same angle of viewing, the same angle of sitting, the same angle-of-everything. It has been barely more than a day and already she is restless. Not bored, that isn't it. Frustrated. Irritated. Faintly panicked. Convalescence has always unsettled her. It reduces her world too much. It makes her feel small.
"I know it's...illogical," she says, fingers of her left hand folded neatly in her lap, deliberately ignored. "I've read the primary sources that informed the earliest texts which even hinted that feminine arts must be one-handed. I can tell you the first recorded instance where a light-eyed woman of high dahn was praised for the length of her sleeve."
Hmm.
"And yet," she continues, quieter, "without at least a glove, I feel naked." Her nose wrinkles. "Not having it began to feel a little like if you — or anyone — stripped off all your clothing. If you think about it, trousers are just as arbitrary."
Give or take some practical considerations: warmth, protection, comfort. But that is not really her point. Shame does not become less potent simply because it is invented. And to draw attention to her bare hand that morning, to ask him to retrieve the glove before he left, would have felt like pressing too hard, too fast, against something she is only just beginning to unlearn. She stepped too far; she stumbled back.
"Not just as arbitrary," he points out. "I'd look very silly without them." Donald Ducking before Donald Duck ever came on the scene! Horrific.
But he does kick off one boot and pull his sock off, too, standing there with uneven legs due to the heel of his boot. He looks dumb, and he knows he looks dumb, but— that's never deterred him from trying to make someone feel better before. He's done worse.
"I didn't want to say anything, but where I come from, a man's uncovered left foot is very scandalous." He wiggles his toes. It's obvious he's lying; this time, at least, he's not trying to hide it. "So, now we're even."
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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.
no subject
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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An arm around her waist, then, so that he can hoist her up and they can stand side-by-side while she hobbles. With his hand firm and steady, it's a clinical and nonindulgent position, even though it has every possibility of being otherwise. Aside from the fact that it would be wrong to use her injury for his own gain, his ego can't take the hit of touching a woman in a way that she would be anything less than enthusiastic about.
On three, he lifts her, wobbling a little from their uneven stance before he manages to stabilize himself. As he takes his first step—their combined first step—back to the divan, he asks, "Why did you need to go to the kitchen in the first place?"
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Her fingers curl into the sleeve of his new shirt, gathering the fabric in a controlled, anchoring grip. Not clawing, this time. Just firm enough to steady herself — and, with a faint flicker of practical thought, not so tight that she'll be obliged to compensate him once again for torn seams later.
The first step is clumsy. A fraction out of sync. The second is better. Not graceful, but workable. At his question, she exhales through her nose.
"My glove," she admits. No embellishment. He has eyes; he can draw his own conclusions if he cares to spend half a minute doing so.
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The truth is that he finds that an unsatisfactory answer. Propriety is not worth risking her wound reopening for. Besides, it's just him and Jochi here, and both of them have seen her bare left hand already. He can't speak for Jochi, but he, at least, wasn't scandalized by it.
"Sorry," he says all the same, "I should have given it back." He can admit that he'd made a mistake there. It just hadn't seemed particularly relevant, and since she hadn't asked after it, it had slipped his mind.
Another few steps. "—But," he adds, "you could have told me about it before I left. You know, when you were emphatically telling me to go."
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"I could have." She concedes it plainly. "But I didn't."
Why not? The question stirs something unsettled beneath her ribs, a pressure system forming where certainty ought to be. Two steps forward, one step back. She had let herself grow unbothered and the pendulum swings self-consciously in the opposite direction. A regression. If she of all people, the notorious heretic, struggles to unfasten herself from these inherited strictures, how much harder will it be for others?
"It's...complicated."
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So instead, he focuses on the glove. "I'm a good listener," he says, "and I love complicated things."
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"I know it's...illogical," she says, fingers of her left hand folded neatly in her lap, deliberately ignored. "I've read the primary sources that informed the earliest texts which even hinted that feminine arts must be one-handed. I can tell you the first recorded instance where a light-eyed woman of high dahn was praised for the length of her sleeve."
Hmm.
"And yet," she continues, quieter, "without at least a glove, I feel naked." Her nose wrinkles. "Not having it began to feel a little like if you — or anyone — stripped off all your clothing. If you think about it, trousers are just as arbitrary."
Give or take some practical considerations: warmth, protection, comfort. But that is not really her point. Shame does not become less potent simply because it is invented. And to draw attention to her bare hand that morning, to ask him to retrieve the glove before he left, would have felt like pressing too hard, too fast, against something she is only just beginning to unlearn. She stepped too far; she stumbled back.
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But he does kick off one boot and pull his sock off, too, standing there with uneven legs due to the heel of his boot. He looks dumb, and he knows he looks dumb, but— that's never deterred him from trying to make someone feel better before. He's done worse.
"I didn't want to say anything, but where I come from, a man's uncovered left foot is very scandalous." He wiggles his toes. It's obvious he's lying; this time, at least, he's not trying to hide it. "So, now we're even."
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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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