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[recreatable]

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[elsecall]

It's okay, Verso! The average Rosharan doesn't understand this stuff either. It's simply your supreme bad luck to be stuck with one of the few people on this planet who possesses a rudimentary grasp of Realmatic Theory. Sorry, not sorry.

"Then we pay a visit to the Royal Palace and see what the Thaylen queen could do for us."

We, us. It's subtle — but they're a unit, now.

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Verso tries not to get too excited about the sound of that us. He half-convinces himself she's referring to herself and Ivory instead, that he's just the annoying tagalong she got unfortunately stuck with through all of this. After all, she can't even bring herself to call him a friend.

As he returns to the sitting room, he drops one of the glasses on the end table. The other goes on the real table across the room, where he's been sitting and entertaining himself much of the time. "What's the relationship like between Alethkar and Thaylenah?"

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"Fledgling, but positive." Jasnah sighs, wondering how much of her own hestitation boils down to misplaced, bone-deep Alethi pride. "Thaylenah was never the target of any of Alethekar's past conquests. But they witnessed more than enough of what happened in other kingdoms to be rightfully wary."

Depending on where he reached in the weighty history tome assigned by Jasnah once-upon-a-time, Verso may already be aware of what she's implying. The Sunmaker's rule, some six hundred centuries ago, where it's said one in every ten Azish people died under Alethi tyranny following the conquering of Azimir.

Dalinar, to his credit, had done well re-establishing diplomatic ties with all the nations that would eventually form the Coalition than she might ever have anticipated. Better than Jasnah would ever have anticipated. Initially, Queen Fen had assumed the overture a ruse in some new Alethi campaign. But, over time, they'd won her over.

"Alethkar has had an unsavoury reputation for most of its existence," she acknowledges. "Which makes diplomacy challenging."

Jasnah leans forward, wincing slightly, and picks up the water in one hand. She doesn't immediately drink.

"Fen and I have corresponded regularly, however. And I trust she would help us. It's the rest of the Thaylen government that gives me pause."

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Verso turns his chair slightly toward Jasnah, leaning back in an attempt to find some comfort and relaxation in the wooden back of it. Living an ascetic lifestyle is not new to him, but he'd been able to make the best of it on the Continent; he'd at least had a soft bedroll to place atop the floorboards, and a squishy Esquie if he really needed relaxation. He wonders, briefly, if Jasnah would tell on him if he went to lie on Jochi's mattress for a bit.

"Gives you pause how?" he asks, attention piqued. Given enough scenarios where everything has gone wrong, you tend to become security conscious—not for himself (obviously; he's been eaten so many times) but for others. If the Thaylen government is going to cause undue issues, maybe they should try to figure this out on their own instead.

"Could anyone there be dangerous to you?"

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Tap, tap, tap go her nails against the rim of the water glass. She could prevaricate — explain how Queen Fen's Merchant Council holds the true balance of power in the city, how the merchant class harbours the deepest reservations about Alethi interference. But he didn't ask who was dangerous to Alethkar. He asked who was dangerous to her.

"If this latest attempt was orchestrated by who I think it was..." she begins, picking her way through information she has clearly resisted sharing. It would almost be easier if he believed her worry was diffuse and general and habitual. Unspecific. "That would suggest a renewed interest in removing me from the board. One I thought had burned itself out a year ago."

She turns the glass slowly in her hand. Wills herself to drink. Reminds herself that it's safe. If she can trust him with this much truth, she can trust the water he handed her. What an absurdly long con it would otherwise be — to keep her alive this long only to poison her now. Still, the very thought of the Ghostbloods makes something tighten in her chest.

"Fen's council isn't the issue," she continues. "It's who else might have slipped into it. There's a shadowy group operating on Roshar — one that likes to get its fingers into every crevice. It isn't far-fetched to think they've placed an agent in ever Coalition government."

And, before she sounds too paranoid, she adds, "The last time I was in Kharbranth, an ardent approached me and my ward. He...got close to her. Flattered her. Made her think—" A tense exhale. "I won't presume to know what he made her think. He was there on behalf of his employer. He tried to reach me through my ward. That time, it was poison. Not a knife."

Then — boldly, deliberately — she meets Verso's eyes and takes a long first drink of water. Her throat bobs; her pulse stutters. She swallows it down, steady and composed, trusting him in a way he may never fully realize.

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"If I were a secret assassin," he points out, because that seems to be what she's getting at with the drink of water. She's willingly consuming something that he's brought from her, ostensibly showing trust; as he's about to mention, though, it's really just common sense. "I would have let you bleed out in the alley instead of ruining my shirt."

He's proven his loyalty, or at least his lack of desire to watch her die. Rationality is on his side more than trust.

"—But," he adds, "if you're worried about the Thaylen government knowing that you're here, we don't have to tell them."

Sure, having the assistance of a queen would certainly help, but surely there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people who travel without the help of the Oathgates. They made it to Thaylenah without one, although admittedly they'd put themselves in the hands of someone willing to sell out her location. Still, it can't be impossible to make it to Urithiru by other means, too.

"We could catch another ship. I think I've got my sea legs now."

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Now that she's had a gulp of water, she recognizes her thirst. Instead of answering — indeed, instead of shooting back at his (yes, of course) obvious points — she downs half her glass in one greedy go. Then, with a stifled stretch, she eases her spine back against the divan. Slaked, but tired, but also leaping from thought-to-thought as he speaks.

He'd endure another sea voyage? Hmm. New sea legs or not, he'd been so green for so much of the last.

"There is one ship I'd engage — provided it's not somewhere else already at sea. We wouldn't have to lie to its shipmaster or captain."

She turns her half-empty glass in her hand, watching the water. Wondering whether Rysn and the Wandersail are currently at port. Wondering whether she could dispatch Verso to inquire.

"But the alternative is to try again — harder — to contact Urithiru." Yet again, she doesn't specify Navani or mother or anything like that. "They'd spare us a couple of Windrunners. I dislike being carted about in the air like cargo; however, it would be faster."

They have some luxury of time, now, given the agreement. Staying put until she's healed enough.

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Once again, he thinks of Jochi's explanation that Jasnah expected her mother to intercept her communications. Once again, he thinks of the rumors Jochi shared. He wants to ask, but he knows he shouldn't; Jasnah has only just loosened slightly around him, and pushing her with things he isn't supposed to know will only make her clam up again.

So: "Windrunners?" he asks instead. "Airships?"

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— It's fascinating how close he comes to the truth, even by accident. Even if it's still entirely utterly wrong.

"Storms, no. The only functional airship we have is the Fourth Bridge, and extracting us from Thaylen City isn't worth pulling it off the Herdazian border."

The Fourth Bridge is very impressive. She'd like to show it to Verso, some day, when it's not engaged in skirmishes with Odium's forces. As if she has some pique of pride. Some desire to say look, look, Alethkar can be more than blood and conquest. That desire is (of course) somewhat diluted by the reality of...well, war.

"Of all the Radiant orders, Windrunners are the most numerous." And, if you ask Jasnah, most frustrating. "They fly. And have some minor control over the force and pressure of wind currents. Enough to move small groups of people. So, on occasion, they do."

The slight crinkle of her nose is enough to suggest she'd really rather not go that route.

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!!!

Sorry, Jasnah, but Verso's attention perks up at that. "So you're saying they could make us fly."

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Oh, damnation.

Hedging around her casual, easy claim of flight: "It's a lot closer to manipulating gravitational forces. But — yes, a sufficiently accomplished Windrunner could perhaps carry both of us back using the Surge of Gravitation. Or two Windrunners of the Second Ideal, maybe."

Her words are slow and careful, carrying the burden of someone who doesn't want to make the Windrunners sound too cool but who also refuses to lie about the efficacy of their Surges.

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All right. He admits it: it would be amazing to fly. Of course, he's ridden on Esquie, but it isn't the same as being weightless, soaring through the air. The closest comparison he has is in the memories imbued in his chroma: a little boy with the impossible talent to make the Canvas bend to his will, flying through the air beside his most beloved friend. He's never actually experienced it himself, but he can almost feel the wind on his face regardless.

He plays it cool, though. It's practical. Reasonable. Nothing but rational. "That sounds like a safer option than braving potential spies and assassins," he says, getting up to go through their things again. This time, it's the spanreed he's looking for.

"Let's go ahead and try to reach out to Urithiru now." Um. Not because he's impatient. "It, uh, might take a while to reach someone, so."

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Damnation and storms and — you know what? Merde, just for good measure.

Jasnah pulls herself back into a more prim, more composed posture. It's a small difference, just a few angles, but it involves peeling her shoulders and spine away from the divan and engaging just enough core musculature to make her mouth twitch. Not pain, just — awareness.

She doesn't argue that the shipmaster and ship she has in mind — Rysn, on the Wandersail — should also avoid spies and assassins. She doesn't argue that they'd need to find a different spanreed to use, since the one he's digging out clearly isn't monitored. She doesn't even argue that Windrunners are self-righteous or that being buoyed along by them is undignified.

Instead, teetering a little before leaning forward and placing an elbow on the end table in accommodation, she asks: "You want to return via Windrunner, don't you?"

Because she's watching him. Intently. And his flurry of activity is being noted.

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Caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. The back of his neck heats with embarrassment at how obvious he must have been for her to notice it. In his defense, it's been a very long time since he's felt that sort of childlike excitement for something. Before the Fracture, certainly. Maybe even before he was ever himself; perhaps all of those memories of joy and wonder belong solely to someone else, and he's only borrowing them.

Regardless of that existential crisis— Verso clears his throat, withdrawing his hand from the bag and shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, a nonverbal whatever.

"Seems practical." And has nothing to do with his selfish desire to fly, obviously. "Isn't that what you were suggesting we do?"

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"It is practical," Jasnah admits, not even trying to deny it. By some metrics, there's perhaps nowhere safer than being under a Windrunner's care. Given the ideals they swear to protect others (even those they dislike, provided it's right) and given the strictness with which their spren enforce those ideals...? Certainly nowhere safer.

Still, she hems and haws. After all, it requires handing one's autonomy over almost entirely to someone else. Trusting them to keep you aloft.

"And I was laying out all of our options. We have a handful available to us. More, still, if Ivory recovers and I can use stormlight again."

Ugh. She watches him carefully, trying to game out how this conversation goes. Is she going to corner herself into a good plan that she simply finds distasteful?

"Sit. Let's talk it through."

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Hmm. Verso watches Jasnah with the same carefulness with which she regards him—although there's a curiosity to it, too. One dark eyebrow lifts underneath the curtain of his hair, silently inquiring. "You don't want to travel that way," he lands on.

What reason could someone have for not wanting to soar home? After all, she'd been so eager to get back only moments before, willing to forgo the latter part of her convalescence if it meant returning to familiar ground.

—Ah. He nods in realization. "Alicia doesn't like heights, either." Funny, considering the workshop-in-the-sky Renoir has her in. "Vertigo."

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He doesn't sit. No, instead he slips a sharp-and-accurate deduction into the conversation. Accurate enough to furrow her expression. It's more than a little annoying to have her own irrationality underlined for her.

Insistent, she reaches out and taps the divan cushion beside her. Sit, she insists again. Silently this time. If only to stop his manic quest for the spanreed. Ground some of that excited energy.

"I don't dislike heights," she counters. Although Jasnah wouldn't say she loves them, either.

"But I do prefer something under my feet. It's...eerie. Being carried by a Surge. No matter how safe."

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It feels a bit like being called to heel, but Verso tries not to take too much offense by it; he stops his search for the spanreed and settles down on the divan as requested, hands folded in his lap as he peers at her. Eerie. It sounds like she's saying that it scares her, although he can't see her easily admitting that.

"What's eerie about it?"

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Better. She settles into the corner of the couch, angled just enough to keep him in view. At this distance — and with him blessedly stationary — she can actually watch his expressions.

"Hanging in the air," she says, dry as ever. "No deck. No rail. Just some Windrunner's cocky assurance that they've got you, while they invisibly sculpt air and gravity into something approximating flight."

It isn't the height that unsettles her. Nor the danger, nor even the Surges themselves. Those, at least, she understands. It's the reliance. The absolute, unilateral trust required. Being held aloft by nothing she can see or influence, dependent entirely on someone else's focus and goodwill.

It's not fear. It's the loss of control.

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"Putting yourself in someone else's hands can be frightening," he agrees, even though he doesn't have much trepidation when it comes to this. What's the worst that could happen? He could fall to the ground and break every bone in his body? They'll be nothing but bruises almost instantly, and even those will fade in a few minutes.

"Would it help if you had something to hold onto?"

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Slow, idle, she turns the water glass on the table. Fingers braced against its rim, gently wheeling bottom's edge in a tight circle. She finds the required tension — shoulder to elbow to wrist to fingertip — comfortable. Like maybe she needs a bit of resistance to feel calm. Like maybe sitting loose-limbed and relaxed is worse.

Jasnah asks herself: is he talking as though it's already decided? She has so many excellent points yet to make about the Wandersail's crew. Or, damnation, even reconsidering some discreet means of contacting Fen and gaining access to the Oathgate.

But rather than change the subject, she entertains his question.

"Something to hold onto. Like what?" A pause that's long enough to roll her eyes. "Some Windrunner squire's bootlace?"

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Please, Jasnah, save the rolling of your eyes for after he's completed his suggestion.

"Sure," Verso says with a shrug, because it's better than nothing, isn't it? At least then she would have something physical to ground her; it seems like floating around in space without any control is what unsettles her the most, and even a bootlace could help rectify that feeling. "If you want. We could even tie your hand to theirs, if it would make you feel better."

...Somehow, though, he imagines that being essentially handcuffed to a Windrunner isn't a calming idea to her.

"Or you could hold onto me, if you want." Not really out of practicality, but mostly so she'd have something to squeeze when she got scared—but he doesn't dare say that. "Promise I'll cushion your fall if they let you go."

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Oh. The look of horror on her face when he suggests being tied, hand-to-hand, to a Windrunner. It doesn't even matter who gets sent — although if she had to pick, the least dreadful option would be Sigzil. of course.

Maybe her pinched, doubt-filled expression ought to have carried over when Verso volunteers himself. A few weeks ago, it like would have. But now she has considerably more experience holding onto him. And, turns out, it's not so bad. He's steady. Reliable. And, to be brutally honest, she doesn't hate the idea of a regenerating human crash-pad if things go awry. It's just as well that he suggests it himself, because that's a shot less gauche than if she had made the argument.

There it is. That pregnant pause that suggests she's thinking something through — considering it, following its webbed map along the different outcomes, roadblocks, variations. The Windrunners are a frustrating order, but at least they're loyal to Urithiru. Even Kaladin Stormblessed himself would be a sure bet, no matter how much bad blood between them.

"We should at least consider the other options," she counters.

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"Okay," he agrees, leaning back in his seat. Despite his obvious bias toward the Windrunners—safe, fast, and they get to fly—she has a point that they should review all of their options. It's rational to do so. Practical.

All the same, he's not going to do it for her. He gestures expectantly. "After you, then."

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Hand before her, she abandons fidgeting with her water glass in favour of counting possibilities against her gloved palm.

Tapping one finger: "There's a merchant ship called the Wandersail that my mother has contracted with before — the controlling interest is owned by a trader named Rysn. Trustworthy and smart." Jasnah doesn't mention the slightly creepy way in which Rysn could also help them contact Urithiru if spanreeds still don't work out. She's not sure that introducing the concept of secret hivemind bug people would be helpful at this point in their collaborative scheming.

Tapping two fingers: "There's Queen Fen. I imagine there are ways we can make contact that don't involve revealing all our cards," a tight smile at the metaphor, "especially if you approach without me."

Tapping three fingers: "We wait for Ivory to recover and, provided all goes well, my abilities return and I can elsegate us into Shadesmar, where we take the long, long way home." Her fingers drum briefly in place. "Objectively, that last one is even worse than the Windrunners. But it still could be on the table. Hypothetically."

Jasnah pauses. Likely asking herself, silently, if there's any candidates she's forgotten to outline. Is she...enjoying this? Maybe. It takes all sorts. And she's a sort that happens to love a little co-conspiracy, even if the objective is just get home.