Brandon Sanderson
Baxil trod the streets of Azimir unseen. Every inch of him, save his eyes, was wrapped in tight crimson cloths, the tied-off tails of which sometimes escaped his cloak and waved in the wind of an unknown current. Hand on his katar, slid into its sheath at his side, he watched for anyone in the crowd who could notice him. Nothing so far. Good.
This was a city haphazardly prepared for war. Baxil strode through the camp, which had taken the place of the grand market. The soldiers camped in concentric rings that he was certain they thought were evenly spaced with smooth curves.
Not a soul saw him. These days, people could only see Baxil if they were looking for him, and he could only touch them if they were trying to kill him. He left the camp, and for old times' sake, whispered prayer to the Prime Kadasix. "If you could see that I could get what I deserve, I would appreciate it. Thanks."
Azimir was famed for its tea shops, which filled the same niche that winehouses did in the east. By this point, Baxil had sampled a wide variety of both, and had his favorites. Here in Azimir, one shop in particular was known for its discretion. They had instructions to watch for him, so as he entered, the bouncer by the door leapt to his feet.
"Master Crimson!" he said. "We got your note."
"As well you did," Baxil said, "or we might not be able to have this conversation. He's here?"
"He is, master," the bouncer said, ushering him in further. "And he's an odd one."
"You don't know the half of it, <Ulak>," Baxil said, tipping him a few spheres which became real as he dropped them. "See that we're not interrupted." Baxil entered the private room, separated from the rest by hanging beads, and walked through an invisible cloud of incense to approach the luxurious table, one of the most exclusive in the city. There, Axies the Collector was seated, passing the time by hitting his hand with a small hammer.
"Surely you have painspren by now," Baxil said, sliding into the booth across from the Aimian. Axies preferred to wear little in the way of clothing, in part because he kept his notes on his skin in the form of tattoos. An entire book, secure in the place where he could never lose it. Like all of his kind, he could change the color of any part of his skin at will.
"I have painspren, yes, of course," Axies said. "I've had them for millennia, Crimson Memory. But you see, we're in the builder's quarter of the city, where men frequently hammer. There's a curious report from ahundred-and-fifty-two years ago of a peculiar spren drawn to the pain of men who have hit their fingers with a hammer while aiming for a nail. If one were to search for that specific spren, this would be the place."
"And you believe this report?" Baxil asked.
"Hardly," Axies said. "It was almost certainly a joke." He then hit his hand with the hammer. He winced, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"Tell me honestly," Baxil said, leaning forward. "You enjoy the punishment, don't you?"
"What kind of deviant would enjoy this?" Axies said. Then hit his thumb square on with the hammer.
"Then why?"
"Pain is fleeting. The thrill of accomplishment is eternal." Smack. "Yes, almost certainly a joke."
"If the Prime Kadasix should allow," Baxil said, relaxing on his bench, resting one arm across the top, "I should someday like to understand you."
"At least I," Axies said, as the cups arrived, "can taste my tea." He took a sip from his, then eyed Baxil from over the rim.
Baxil sighed, but did as expected. He held his hand out over the tea, feeling the heat of the steam, and imagined. People throughout the teahouse enjoyed their drinks, especially the stark black <gerimon> tea as they provided for him. Bitter. Sharp. Like drinking the venom of something aggressive. This was tea that fought back.
Such things have a life of sorts. Not the individual cups so much as the concept of tea. With this many people thinking about it, savoring it, contemplating it, Baxil could taste it, and remember what it had been like to drink. During a time that seemed so distant, yet so familiar all at once, before his blessing, and before his curse. Today, a great number of people thinking about the same thing let him feel the bitter tea on his tongue as he sat with his hand over the cup.
"You're sure you're not a spren?" Axies asked. "I'm putting you in the appendix regardless, you understand."
Baxil smiled. "You brought my bandages?"
Axies placed them on the tabletop. Red wrapped, prepared in the most special of ways as Baxil needed. The key to his survival. In turn, he placed a gemstone on the table. He was not a spren, but they did find him fascinating.
Axies snatched it up and peered at the little spren inside. "Better to find them in the wild," he mumbled, "but this will have to do. Little friend, how elusive you've proven."
Baxil took the bandages and slid them in the pocket of his cloak, then rose from his seat.
"She's here in Azimir, by the way," Axies noted.
"'She'?"
"Your old employer. The Herald."
Shalash. He'd known her only as 'Mistress' during another life. Had been rather infatuated with her, and maybe had never stopped. "How?" he asked. "I'd thought she was at the tower city."
"No, she went with the Alethi army on campaign," Axies said, still inspecting his gemstone prize. "I think their king wanted to interview her. At least, that's the impression I got when I chatted with her. They took the other one, too, the big fellow. To the fight for Emul. They're back now though, tucked away in an Azish hospital. I believe her king has mostly forgotten about her."
Here? In the hospital? He could go see her. Baxil pulled his cloak tight. No. Not like this. "Best get out of the city, Axies," he said. "I think dark times are coming to Azimir in the days ahead."
"Yes," Axies said. "I concur." Axies would stay, of course, hunting the rare spren of enraged passions during war. Well, the Aimian had proven resilient, while Baxil himself always felt like he was one calm breeze away from dissipating. Like smoke from a dead fire.
So, one hand on his katar, he left a few spheres on the table as payment and and continued on his quest, hoping that someday, he might be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of sipping tea once again.
