How annoying. Jasnah didn't even care about his very intellectual comment on the merits of doodling during class. Why even try? (He's still gonna keep trying.)
"It's an authentic representation of life in Urithiru from a direct source," he says, smugly pleased with himself for coming up with such a fancy-pants argument. "I'm surprised you of all people are advocating for the sanitization of history."
"I'm not advocating for anything more than efficient, useful note-taking."
Jasnah stares at him — but there's a glimmer of something in her expression. Concession, maybe. Like she knows that on some level he's right. Even if she'd argue that her present needs are more pressing than someone else's future passion. It's all a bit meaningless if they can't manage to survive the next few months.
"However," she hedges, "your argument is a good one. I'll keep it in mind when I do speak with her. At least she's come a long way from simply scribbling And then Dalinar said something everyone agreed with — progress over perfection."
With an idle flip through the notebook — perhaps more interested in reminding herself about an earlier point — she doesn't look back up as she says: "There's a carafe of pink in the foyer. I imagine you passed it on your way in. Pour a cup, please."
"I'm flattered to be your afterthought," Verso quips, although there's no bite to it, and he does in fact backtrack to the foyer to fetch her a cup of pink. He pours himself one, too, although it's a very small amount. He'd learned last time that all wine is not made equal, especially on Roshar; for someone who considers himself quite the vinophile, there's little more disappointing than subpar wine.
So, when he returns and drops her cup off on her desk, he sniffs the pink and takes a careful sip. It tastes— not bad, but definitely not like wine.
By the time he returns, she's shifted her posture — one hand on the council table, the other loose at her side. There's a map nearby, and a packet of papers fastened with a blue ribbon. But it's still the notes that absorb her. She likely should head back to her own study, but given the distance and the likelihood that she'll need to back here within the hour...
Well. She makes do. She'll work wherever she finds herself.
Without looking up, she reaches for the cup and — and, yes, she hesitates. It's hard not to. The habit to soulcast anything handed to her runs deep. She's done it for years. But with a steadying breath, she takes a mouthful of pink wine and swallows without even tasting it.
Her little moment of agita overcome, Jasnah tunes back into the conversation once he mentions...something? Something about wine? Her echoic memory kicks in and she straightens to take the bait.
"There's likely a pitcher of blue out there, too, if you'd prefer."
Erroneously assuming that real wine (in this case) simply means actually alcoholic.
"That's not real wine," he corrects like the snob he is, leaning his hip against the desk as he swirls the very-much-not-wine in his cup. Then, a little less annoyingly, he adds, "I should clarify: Lumièran wine. A 40-year-old Bordeaux—" Gesturing with the cup: "That's real wine."
Ah. This again. Like how he'd talked about the wine at the stormshelter bar. It feels like a lifetime ago. Idly — easing into her next, more relaxed sip — she wonders whether she could (theoretically) soulcast this 40-year-old Bordeaux into existence, provided he gave her an ample and detailed description. Like not. Organics were always harder when you'd never tasted them yourself. Like that strawberry jam Kabsal had brought her and Shallan...
He misses playfighting with Monoco like unruly puppies and being called an idiot with complete affection. He misses Esquie's preternatural ability to tell when he was upset and offer a hug. He misses being Alicia's only and therefore favorite brother.
After a moment: "Coq au vin. The opera house. My model train set."
"Yeah," he says, brightening at just the thought of it. How he'd loved his model trains. Still does, even if they're beyond his reach now. He sets the cup down on the desk so that he can gesture properly, approximating the size of one of the model trains between his hands.
"Replicas of trains. I had this one— an O-gauge hand-painted tinplate live steam locomotive—"
Usually — usually — when Jasnah asks a question, she can follow the answer she's given. She's smart! Brilliant, even. When the topic is outside of her expertise, she finds a great deal of comprehension can still be cobbled together on context clues alone. Her brain is big and mighty enough to do so even in a handful of languages outside of Alethi.
But, storms, she has no idea what he just said. O-gauge? Tin? Seam locomotive? She understands hand-painted. Is this an artsy thing? All she knows for certain is that she likes the look in his eyes when he dives into the topic. It's...endearing. He's endearing as he rushes into a loose, gestured demonstration.
Jasnah sets down her cup. She pushes her work aside. Verso has her unbridled attention.
"I know what models are," she redirects his explanation. "But you'll have to explain what a train is."
"Oh, right," Verso says after a moment. He'd been so caught up in the euphoria of getting to talk about trains that for a moment he lived in a world where trains actually still exist. "I guess Roshar doesn't have any."
How to explain in a way that makes sense? He's silent for just a second, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip in thought. Then he inhales, preparing for the explanation: "They're a series of cars on a railroad— uh, vehicles you can ride on that drive down tracks laid into the ground—"
He grimaces. It's hard to explain.
Holding out a hand: "Can I borrow a pen? I'll show you."
Her attention doesn't waver. Not for a second. Even as he stands — silent — thinking through one explanation. And, when that explanation weaves him into a corner, he tries another. Jasnah does follow (loosely) but does wonder about how one lays tracks in the ground. Rosharan ground is so, well, hard.
For a moment, she worries he'll give up and wave his explanation off with something watered-down and unsatisfying. After all, it's his signature move. I don't know and I couldn't say and something like that. But, to her gratified surprise, he offers to show her.
This time, her smile stays longer than a flicker. Although her body language stays reserved as she reaches for the pen, sitting abandoned to her side, and then tips it into his hand. And if that didn't betray her eagerness, then perhaps it shows up instead in how readily she slides a scrap of paper over — flipped onto its back, so he doesn't have to share his canvas with some scratched-down arithmetic.
"Okay—" Verso takes a knee beside her so that he can draw without leaning over and irritating his already tense shoulder muscles, then sketches out a quick set of railroad tracks. Beside them, he draws a few blades of grass to indicate that they're laid into the ground.
"This is a railroad. Tracks of steel rails across the earth. And this—" He sketches out a locomotive, or at least the best approximation of one that he can do in a short time. "Is a locomotive. They burn coal to heat water, and the steam turns the wheels." His pen circles a few times around the locomotive wheels, as if showing how they turn.
Adding a couple basic cars: "The locomotive hauls the cars down the tracks. It could take you across the entire Continent in a day."
Bold of him to assume she associates grass with ground. Luckily, she's read enough travelogues — and absorbed enough secondhand accounts of Shinovar — to bridge the gap without comment. She understands what the sketch is gesturing toward well enough. In any case, how the track is laid in the ground isn't the true fulcrum of his explanation.
No, it's the locomotive that holds her fascination.
Something massive and mechanical constrained to a single, deliberate path. Her gaze tracks the line he's drawn, following the rails with quiet intensity. Like Urithiru's lifts, she thinks, writ large and horizontal. Trading freedom for momentum.
She leans in, chin settling into her palm, attention wholly his now. And remarkably not interrogative. Instead, she's absorbed.
"Remarkable."
And already her mind is racing ahead. Extrapolating. His world's Fracture would have rendered such infrastructure untenable, right? The way Roshar's Desolations would wipe out whole swathes of progress at a time. She looks back up at him. Eyes filled with a hunger reserved for good ideas.
"And these 'cars,' did they carry passengers? Goods? Military supplies?"
Her eyes are steady on him, and Verso feels his entire body fill with giddy warmth. It feels wonderful to be the sole recipient of her attention, even if it's only as a conduit for what's really holding her attention: trains. It's rare that Jasnah doesn't seem like she has five hundred other things on her mind, plans and concepts and ideas rattling around in her brain at all times. Even when she seems interested in what he has to say, he usually still has to share her mindspace, and as previously noted, he doesn't enjoy sharing. To be the only occupant of it, even for this little while, is thrilling.
He would do anything to keep it going. So, the words tumble out of his mouth as he attempts to keep her interest: "We didn't really have a military," he explains; war had never been a thought in Lumièrans' minds until the war on the Paintress. "But passengers or freight, yes. Back then, there were people living all over the Continent. More places to go."
It ought to raise alarm bells: we didn't really have a military. And, to be fair, it sorta does. Jasnah's expression crinkles and contracts with brief disbelief. What place doesn't have a military? Conflict is one of the few constants that can be relied upon in this (and any) world. Surely. Even if there were no near neighbours to war with (or to keep from warring with) then at least Lumière required some form of internal armed force. Did it not?
Those questions are quickly banished by his continued explanation. And she asks a few more pointed questions about how the trains work. How the routes were planned. But she does inevitably circle back to the initial spark:
"And you had — models. Of these trains." She taps the current drawing. "Is this one the...O-gauge?"
Don't worry about it, Jasnah. There is simply no conflict in Lumière! :-)
"O-gauge, yes," he says, brightening a second time now that he gets to talk about not only trains, but model trains. (Some might call them 'toy trains'. They'd be wrong. It's a very mature, adult collection.) "That's the scale. 1:48, I think."
He taps the drawing, too, with his pen. Draws a little puff of steam coming out the top of the locomotive. "'Live steam' means that it was actually powered by steam, just like a real locomotive. Most of them are wind-up, spring-powered—they call it 'clockwork'. But this one was more fancy, expensive."
Renarin had kept models. Less sophisticated, perhaps, than the sort Verso is describing — her cousin's collection had mostly been wooden carvings of creatures and knights. Painstakingly painted. On more than one occasion, she'd taken credit for the painting — if only to spare Renarin from anyone else's disappointment.
Turning away that thought, she returns to Verso's explanation.
"From whom?"
She thinks this might be a less annoying question than what's Christmas.
There's no point in monopolizing her desk space (and pen) like this anymore, but Verso stays kneeling, eyes on his quick train sketch. Focusing on adding little details that she doesn't need and will likely not even look at. The rods across the wheels. The steam chest. The smoke stack. Nice little distractions from having to think too much about the way things used to be.
"My mother," is of course the answer. He realizes now that she must have Painted it herself so that he could have the best, most advanced model.
"It's a winter holiday where you give gifts to your family and friends," he adds, knowing that's the real question on her mind.
Incredulous. You see, Roshar lacks an axial tilt. This makes their seasons short and unpredictable. Honestly, a two-weel cold snap after a highstorm is a winter. Winter can jump straight into summer, no particular order required. So, yes, she's surprised to hear about a holiday where you give gifts every storming winter. Sounds emotionally exhausting.
On second thought, thinking about Verso a moment longer, maybe it's not that surprising.
She sounds mildly horrified, but Verso isn't certain if it's because the thought of annual gift-giving repulses her—very possible—or if it's because the seasons on Roshar are different. He hedges his bets by saying, "Once a year, at the end of the year."
He adds some cross-hatching to the sketch, then says, "Technically, the gifts are from Père Noël."
Already knowing what she'll ask: "He's an old man who breaks into your house and leaves presents for all the good boys and girls."
Twice in a row, he's anticipated her follow-up questions. Jasnah chews it over and decides — silently — that it's rather nice. Oh, not the part where he's presuming to know what claws deepest at her curiosity (although he's been correct thus far) but more the effort made. Like knowing when to fill a cup or hold a door.
She thinks about how uncomfortable his current posture must be — but also feels disinclined to prod him out of it. Content to watch him continue detailing the train; content to let him keep talking about Christmas and holidays and presents. Maybe, Jasnah theorizes, it's something like Lightday. She'd never been one for celebrating Lightday.
"That sounds..." She pauses. An old man breaking into your house? "Horrible. Who decides whether the boys and girls are good? Him, the trespasser?"
Horrible. —He laughs. It does sound sort of horrible, he supposes. It's just one of those things he'd never thought to question. Like how come nobody ever visits from other countries and why don't we have a military, actually? An old man keeps track of his good and bad deeds all year, then shimmies down the chimney and leaves him presents or punishment. Sure. Why not?
"Père Noël," he corrects, and begins to add a jolly old man riding atop the train, bag of presents slung over his shoulder. Teasing: "Keep disrespecting him like that, and you might only receive coal."
...
"Before you ask, I'm not certain which ethical framework he uses to make his determinations." Still teasing. "But I've been informed that 'fighting with your sister' is a grave offense in his eyes."
A roll of her eyes. Okay, yes, it's all just a story to keep children in line. Like warning them about how Voidbringers will come and eat them up if they don't wash behind their ears. Except the Voidbringers turned out to be real. Not just real, but...
Jasnah takes issue with this sort of moralizing. Like telling someone they'll never be allowed into the Tranquiline Halls. Jokes on them — Jasnah had been correct all along, and there's no such thing. Not how the Vorin Church imagined them, at any rate.
Rising to his tease, she taps a fingertip just outside Père Noël's bag of presents.
Wryly: "Coal is acceptable. Given what you've told me about the trainlines, it sounds like a smart investment."
Oh!! Verso very much enjoys when Jasnah plays along with something rather than dismissing it as foolish or juvenile. He would have expected something along the lines of I don't care what some trespassing old man thinks, but this is better. A grin spreads across his face, lopsided.
"You're exactly right. That's why I was always extra bad every year, so that I could swindle him out of all of that coal."
Obviously, he's bullshitting. Getting on the naughty list would have made him cry.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"It's an authentic representation of life in Urithiru from a direct source," he says, smugly pleased with himself for coming up with such a fancy-pants argument. "I'm surprised you of all people are advocating for the sanitization of history."
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Jasnah stares at him — but there's a glimmer of something in her expression. Concession, maybe. Like she knows that on some level he's right. Even if she'd argue that her present needs are more pressing than someone else's future passion. It's all a bit meaningless if they can't manage to survive the next few months.
"However," she hedges, "your argument is a good one. I'll keep it in mind when I do speak with her. At least she's come a long way from simply scribbling And then Dalinar said something everyone agreed with — progress over perfection."
With an idle flip through the notebook — perhaps more interested in reminding herself about an earlier point — she doesn't look back up as she says: "There's a carafe of pink in the foyer. I imagine you passed it on your way in. Pour a cup, please."
A flipped page. A thoughtful hum.
"And one for yourself. If you want."
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So, when he returns and drops her cup off on her desk, he sniffs the pink and takes a careful sip. It tastes— not bad, but definitely not like wine.
With a sigh: "I miss real wine."
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Well. She makes do. She'll work wherever she finds herself.
Without looking up, she reaches for the cup and — and, yes, she hesitates. It's hard not to. The habit to soulcast anything handed to her runs deep. She's done it for years. But with a steadying breath, she takes a mouthful of pink wine and swallows without even tasting it.
Her little moment of agita overcome, Jasnah tunes back into the conversation once he mentions...something? Something about wine? Her echoic memory kicks in and she straightens to take the bait.
"There's likely a pitcher of blue out there, too, if you'd prefer."
Erroneously assuming that real wine (in this case) simply means actually alcoholic.
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(Yes, there are strawberries on Roshar. I guess.)
"...What else do you miss?"
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He misses playfighting with Monoco like unruly puppies and being called an idiot with complete affection. He misses Esquie's preternatural ability to tell when he was upset and offer a hug. He misses being Alicia's only and therefore favorite brother.
After a moment: "Coq au vin. The opera house. My model train set."
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"You — model train set?"
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"Replicas of trains. I had this one— an O-gauge hand-painted tinplate live steam locomotive—"
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But, storms, she has no idea what he just said. O-gauge? Tin? Seam locomotive? She understands hand-painted. Is this an artsy thing? All she knows for certain is that she likes the look in his eyes when he dives into the topic. It's...endearing. He's endearing as he rushes into a loose, gestured demonstration.
Jasnah sets down her cup. She pushes her work aside. Verso has her unbridled attention.
"I know what models are," she redirects his explanation. "But you'll have to explain what a train is."
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How to explain in a way that makes sense? He's silent for just a second, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip in thought. Then he inhales, preparing for the explanation: "They're a series of cars on a railroad— uh, vehicles you can ride on that drive down tracks laid into the ground—"
He grimaces. It's hard to explain.
Holding out a hand: "Can I borrow a pen? I'll show you."
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For a moment, she worries he'll give up and wave his explanation off with something watered-down and unsatisfying. After all, it's his signature move. I don't know and I couldn't say and something like that. But, to her gratified surprise, he offers to show her.
This time, her smile stays longer than a flicker. Although her body language stays reserved as she reaches for the pen, sitting abandoned to her side, and then tips it into his hand. And if that didn't betray her eagerness, then perhaps it shows up instead in how readily she slides a scrap of paper over — flipped onto its back, so he doesn't have to share his canvas with some scratched-down arithmetic.
"Please do."
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"This is a railroad. Tracks of steel rails across the earth. And this—" He sketches out a locomotive, or at least the best approximation of one that he can do in a short time. "Is a locomotive. They burn coal to heat water, and the steam turns the wheels." His pen circles a few times around the locomotive wheels, as if showing how they turn.
Adding a couple basic cars: "The locomotive hauls the cars down the tracks. It could take you across the entire Continent in a day."
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No, it's the locomotive that holds her fascination.
Something massive and mechanical constrained to a single, deliberate path. Her gaze tracks the line he's drawn, following the rails with quiet intensity. Like Urithiru's lifts, she thinks, writ large and horizontal. Trading freedom for momentum.
She leans in, chin settling into her palm, attention wholly his now. And remarkably not interrogative. Instead, she's absorbed.
"Remarkable."
And already her mind is racing ahead. Extrapolating. His world's Fracture would have rendered such infrastructure untenable, right? The way Roshar's Desolations would wipe out whole swathes of progress at a time. She looks back up at him. Eyes filled with a hunger reserved for good ideas.
"And these 'cars,' did they carry passengers? Goods? Military supplies?"
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He would do anything to keep it going. So, the words tumble out of his mouth as he attempts to keep her interest: "We didn't really have a military," he explains; war had never been a thought in Lumièrans' minds until the war on the Paintress. "But passengers or freight, yes. Back then, there were people living all over the Continent. More places to go."
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Those questions are quickly banished by his continued explanation. And she asks a few more pointed questions about how the trains work. How the routes were planned. But she does inevitably circle back to the initial spark:
"And you had — models. Of these trains." She taps the current drawing. "Is this one the...O-gauge?"
She listens! She learns.
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"O-gauge, yes," he says, brightening a second time now that he gets to talk about not only trains, but model trains. (Some might call them 'toy trains'. They'd be wrong. It's a very mature, adult collection.) "That's the scale. 1:48, I think."
He taps the drawing, too, with his pen. Draws a little puff of steam coming out the top of the locomotive. "'Live steam' means that it was actually powered by steam, just like a real locomotive. Most of them are wind-up, spring-powered—they call it 'clockwork'. But this one was more fancy, expensive."
Hm.
"It was a Christmas present."
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Turning away that thought, she returns to Verso's explanation.
"From whom?"
She thinks this might be a less annoying question than what's Christmas.
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"My mother," is of course the answer. He realizes now that she must have Painted it herself so that he could have the best, most advanced model.
"It's a winter holiday where you give gifts to your family and friends," he adds, knowing that's the real question on her mind.
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Incredulous. You see, Roshar lacks an axial tilt. This makes their seasons short and unpredictable. Honestly, a two-weel cold snap after a highstorm is a winter. Winter can jump straight into summer, no particular order required. So, yes, she's surprised to hear about a holiday where you give gifts every storming winter. Sounds emotionally exhausting.
On second thought, thinking about Verso a moment longer, maybe it's not that surprising.
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He adds some cross-hatching to the sketch, then says, "Technically, the gifts are from Père Noël."
Already knowing what she'll ask: "He's an old man who breaks into your house and leaves presents for all the good boys and girls."
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She thinks about how uncomfortable his current posture must be — but also feels disinclined to prod him out of it. Content to watch him continue detailing the train; content to let him keep talking about Christmas and holidays and presents. Maybe, Jasnah theorizes, it's something like Lightday. She'd never been one for celebrating Lightday.
"That sounds..." She pauses. An old man breaking into your house? "Horrible. Who decides whether the boys and girls are good? Him, the trespasser?"
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"Père Noël," he corrects, and begins to add a jolly old man riding atop the train, bag of presents slung over his shoulder. Teasing: "Keep disrespecting him like that, and you might only receive coal."
...
"Before you ask, I'm not certain which ethical framework he uses to make his determinations." Still teasing. "But I've been informed that 'fighting with your sister' is a grave offense in his eyes."
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Jasnah takes issue with this sort of moralizing. Like telling someone they'll never be allowed into the Tranquiline Halls. Jokes on them — Jasnah had been correct all along, and there's no such thing. Not how the Vorin Church imagined them, at any rate.
Rising to his tease, she taps a fingertip just outside Père Noël's bag of presents.
Wryly: "Coal is acceptable. Given what you've told me about the trainlines, it sounds like a smart investment."
See? She was paying attention.
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"You're exactly right. That's why I was always extra bad every year, so that I could swindle him out of all of that coal."
Obviously, he's bullshitting. Getting on the naughty list would have made him cry.
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