Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [39]
Galladon walked over and looked through the hole with a critical eye. Shaor’s men gathered around the fallen steps below, their feral intensity dulled a bit by realization.
Galladon raised an eyebrow. “Now what, genius?”
Raoden walked over to the newcomer, who had collapsed after stumbling up the stairs. Raoden carefully removed each of the man’s food offerings and, after tucking a certain one into his belt, he dumped the rest to the houndlike men waiting below. The sounds of battle came from below as they fought over the food.
Raoden stepped back from the hole. “Let’s just hope they realize that they’re not going to get anything more out of us, and decide to leave.”
“And if they don’t?” Galladon asked pointedly.
Raoden shrugged. “We can live forever without food or water, right?”
“Yes, but I’d rather not spend the rest of eternity on the top of this building.” Then, shooting a look at the new man, Galladon pulled Raoden to the side and demanded in a low voice, “Sule, what was the point of that? You could have just thrown them the food back in the courtyard. In fact, why ‘save’ him? For all we know, Shaor’s men might not have even hurt him.”
“We don’t know that. Besides, this way he thinks he owes me his life.”
Galladon snorted. “So now you have another follower—at the cheap price of the hatred of an entire third of Elantris’s criminal element.”
“And this is only the beginning,” Raoden said with a smile. However, despite the brave words, he wasn’t quite so certain of himself. He was still amazed at how much his toe hurt, and he had scraped his hands while pushing the bricks. While not as painful as the toe, the scrapes also continued to hurt, threatening to draw his attention away from his plans.
I have to keep moving, Raoden repeated to himself. Keep working. Don’t let the pain take control.
“I’m a jeweler,” the man explained. “Mareshe is my name.”
“A jeweler,” Raoden said with dissatisfaction, his arms folded as he regarded Mareshe. “That won’t be of much use. What else can you do?”
Mareshe looked at him indignantly, as if having forgotten that he had, just a few moments ago, been cowering in fear. “Jewelry making is an extremely useful skill, sir.”
“Not in Elantris, sule,” Galladon said, peeking through the hole to see if the thugs had decided to leave. Apparently they hadn’t, for he gave Raoden a withering look.
Pointedly ignoring the Dula, Raoden turned back to Mareshe. “What else can you do?”
“Anything.”
“That’s quite broad, friend,” Raoden said. “Could you be a bit more specific?”
Mareshe brought his hand up beside his head with a dramatic gesture. “I … am a craftsman. An artisan. I can make anything, for Domi himself has granted me the soul of an artist.”
Galladon snorted from his seat beside the stairwell.
“How about shoes?” Raoden asked.
“Shoes?” Mareshe replied with a slightly offended tone.
“Yes, shoes.”
“I suppose I could,” Mareshe said, “though such hardly demands the skill of a man who is a full artisan.”
“And a full id—” Galladon began before Raoden hushed him.
“Artisan Mareshe,” Raoden continued in his most diplomatic of tones. “Elantrians are cast into the city wearing only an Arelish burial shroud. A man who could make shoes would be very valuable indeed.”
“What kind of shoes?” Mareshe asked.
“Leather ones,” Raoden said. “It won’t be an easy calling, Mareshe. You see, Elantrians don’t have the luxury of trial and error—if the first pair of shoes do not fit, then they will cause blisters. Blisters that will never leave.”
“What do you mean, never leave?” Mareshe asked uncomfortably.
“We are Elantrians now, Mareshe,