Brandon Sanderson
<Bastrik> carefully reached his tweezers into the nook of the small tree's trunk and gripped. With a steady hand, he withdrew the squirming beetle and held it to the side for his daughter <Yara> to inspect. At seven she was still too young for a mask. The joy of a child was for all to see, a blessing from the Sovereign and his regent.
"It's so wiggly!" she said, hopping up and down.
With a bob of brown hair and a bright green dress, she was as if a flower herself. The grandest in his modest garden.
"This," he said, "is the hunter beetle. It is named that because it hunts little insects that eat the leaves of the <ekko> tree when it is young. See the white crossmark on the underside? That is the sign of a friendly beetle."
He carefully turned it so that she could get a look, then delicately placed the insect back in the hollow of the small trunk.
"But I thought all beetles were bad," she said, frowning
"Nothing is all bad or all good. Not animals, not plants, not people."
She pouted.
"What is wrong?"
"I told <Dallik> that we were always to squish beetles because they eat our plants. I don't want to be wrong."
He smiled behind his mask, which he wore by tradition of his mask-line—called Hunters themselves—covering the whole face. The more he'd traveled the Empire, the more surprised he'd been by the variety of masks worn by the different peoples. Everyone did them differently, which was a thing a man from a small village like this had never imagined. How could they all be so wrong? Or was he the one that did so incorrectly?
"Come, let me tell you a story," he said to his daughter as they moved along the planter to the next young tree. His yard was not enormous, but was so overstuffed with plants, flowers, and even a stream that it felt vibrant. Better to be full than to be large. Overhead the sun was comfortably hot. Each breath was humid and thick, the air full with its own invisible blood, unlike the cold lands to the north. They had their charm, he now believed that, but he did not miss traveling them.
At the next sapling he began carefully lifting leaves, looking at nooks in the trunk. "There were two neighbors once who encountered a strange weed on the border of their properties."
"Do I know these men?" <Yara> asked.
"Yes, one was your grandfather."
"Which one? Grandpa Blackmask or Grandpa Whitemask?"
"Whitemask, my father. Now, you'd like this plant they saw because it was bright red and looked dangerous. You like dangerous things."
"Especially if they're wiggly," she whispered, leaning down and looking up as he found another beetle and checked its underside.
"Just don't leave any more snakes in the kitchen. Your mother will have my mask. Now, this dangerous looking plant your grandfather thought he recognized. 'That is a simberry plant, I think,' he said. 'I've heard of one by that description, it is bitter to taste and the berries themselves are poisonous. We should search the area and pull any we find so they don't spread and threaten the animals.' Now your grandfather's neighbor, he was a man who always liked to be right. He saw the plant and said 'No. That's a ballberry plant. It's perfectly harmless, the goats like to munch on them.'"
"Doesn't everyone like to be right all the time?" <Yara> asked, pointing at a beetle for him to check, her little head twisted to the side as she stooped almost to the ground. "Yes they do. It's human nature. So, they argued. 'Is it the simberry or is it the ballberry?' Back and forth and back and forth until they almost hit one another. Isn't it a silly thing to want to hit someone over a disagreement so small?"
"I suppose…" she said. "But who was right?"
"Well the neighbor, he couldn't let the argument go. He went to the big town, you know the one. I took you there to buy a dress last year. In it, he went to the grand school with a leaf of the plant and talked to the expert there. The professor said that it was called the ballberry, a deadly plant that would kill all of the goats who tasted it. So the neighbor, he came back to your grandfather and thrust the leaf in his face and said, 'I told you I was right, it's called the ballberry!'"
<Yara> moved up with him to the next and last of the three saplings he was cultivating here. She considered. He could see her mind working.
"So they were both wrong… but they were both right."
"Indeed," he said, "but it didn't matter if the neighbor had the name right, because it was still deadly. So Grandpa Whitemask was the most right, even if he got the name wrong. This is," <Bastrik> said, "the tactic of the frightened and the unconfident. They must be right, so they will ignore the meaning of the argument in favor of the small details. Do not be that person, Beloved. It is not how right you were but how right you became that matters. It is better to find you are wrong than to continue being stupid. And always remember to focus on what is important and not what is trivial."
He held up the beetle. "What do you think of this one?"
"It has a cross on the bottom, so it is a good beetle."
"Does it?"
He turned the bottom side toward her again
"No, that's just a white line. Much more fuzzy."
"This is an imposter beetle," <Bastrik> said. "They've evolved to look like the hunter, but they are smaller and they eat leaves. They are the liars of the bug world."
He took out another pair of tweezers and squished the beetle's head, giving it a quick death.
"These we kill, but always be careful that you actually know what you think you know. If you do not learn and be smart, you could kill your garden by destroying the hunter beetles that in turn eat tiny insects that we cannot remove."
Unlike adults, she never asked him why he cared so much about the garden or grew his own when there was a public one to visit down the road. She just looked at him with wide eyes and nodded solemnly. In response, he lifted his mask to smile. Emotion projected exclusively for her. Before he could take her to check the water level on the <dorst> ferns, however, a shadow fell across him. A car, directly above, driving off the roadway. His smile faded and he slowly pulled his mask back down.
"Daddy?" <Yara> asked.
"Go and look through the bushes by the fountain, Beloved. I believe I saw a snake in there earlier."
"Oh! I won't put it in the kitchen, I promise!"
She went scampering off and he tracked the car, black with tinted windows, as it stopped near his home. He didn't have a vehicle of his own, nor did his home have a car-dock. It wasn't that uncommon out here in the countryside. The market was close enough to walk and buses were available for other travels. The car slowly lowered down out front. It was here for him.
He walked inside quietly and washed his hands while <Rara>, his wife, came to him with mask up to show her fear, wearing a white dress with red blossoms along it.
"I thought you said you were done," she hissed at him. He dried his hands without comment. "We will pretend not to be home, yes?" she said.
"If it is who I think it will be, he will not knock."
The door opened a moment later and a few figures in red-maroon under black jackets slipped in, checking for any dangers.
"Why don't you go," he said to his wife, "and play with <Yara>? She is trying to find a snake to use in scaring you."
She squeezed his arm and met his eyes. In response, he lifted his mask and kissed her softly before lowering it and nodding toward the backyard. She glanced at the men in black and red before doing as he suggested, slipping out the back.
<Bastrik> carefully got himself some juice to drink, squeezed from the fruit of his own trees, as the door opened again and a short figure stepped in. Assemblyman Dlavil wore a mask unlike any that <Bastrik> had encountered in his travels. It was of a unique style that his guards and a small, but growing, cult around him preferred. Masks you could not raise, and it seemed to have grown into the flesh itself with the mouth cut so you could eat. When he spoke there was a faint accent to his voice that <Bastrik> had never heard from anyone else.
"Are we alone?"