The Way of Kings (Page 63)

“Gaz, wait!” Kaladin said, holding out his hand. “I have an offer for you.”

The bridge sergeant froze. Beside Gaz, Bridge Three’s leader shot Kaladin a scowl. The way the other bridgemen had been treating him suddenly made sense. They were perturbed to see Bridge Four come out of a battle in such good shape. Bridge Four was supposed to be unlucky. Everyone needed someone else to look down on—and the other bridge crews could be consoled by the small mercy that they weren’t in Bridge Four. Kaladin had upset that.

The dark-bearded bridgeleader retreated, leaving Kaladin and Rock alone with Gaz.

“What are you offering this time?” Gaz said. “More dun spheres?”

“No,” Kaladin said, thinking quickly. This would have to be handled very carefully. “I’m out of spheres. But we can’t continue like this, you avoiding me, the other bridge crews hating me.”

“Don’t see what we can do about it.”

“I tell you what,” Kaladin said, as if suddenly having a thought. “Is anyone on stone-gathering detail today?”

“Yeah,” Gaz said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Bridge Three. Bussik there was just trying to convince me that his team is too weak to go. Storms blast me, but I believe him. Lost two-thirds of his men yesterday, and I’ll be the one who gets chewed out when they don’t gather enough stones to meet quota.”

Kaladin nodded sympathetically. Stone gathering was one of the least desirable work details; it involved traveling outside of the camp and filling wagons with large rocks. Soulcasters fed the army by turning rocks into grain, and it was easier for them—for reasons only they knew—if they had distinct, separate stones. So men gathered rocks. It was menial, sweaty, tiring, mindless work. Perfect for bridgemen.

“Why don’t you send a different bridge team?” Kaladin asked.

“Bah,” Gaz said. “You know the kind of trouble that makes. If I’m seen playing favorites, I never hear an end of the complaining.”

“Nobody will complain if you make Bridge Four do it.”

Gaz glanced at him, single eye narrowed. “I didn’t think you’d react well to being treated differently.”

“I’ll do it,” Kaladin said, grimacing. “Just this once. Look, Gaz, I don’t want to spend the rest of my time here fighting against you.”

Gaz hesitated. “Your men are going to be angry. I won’t let them think it was me who did this to them.”

“I’ll tell them that it was my idea.”

“All right, then. Third bell, meet at the western checkpoint. Bridge Three can clean pots.” He walked away quickly, as if to escape before Kaladin changed his mind.

Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, watching Gaz. “The little man is right, you know. The men will hate you for this thing. They were looking forward to easy day.”

“They’ll get over it.”

“But why change for harder work? Is true—you are crazy, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. But that craziness will get us outside of the warcamp.”

“What good is that?”

“It means everything,” Kaladin said, glancing back at the barrack. “It means life and death. But we’re going to need more help.”

“Another bridge crew?”

“No, I mean that we—you and I—will need help. One more man, at least.” He scanned the lumberyard, and noted someone sitting in the shadow of Bridge Four’s barrack. Teft. The grizzled bridgeman hadn’t been among the group that had laughed at Kaladin earlier, but he had been quick to help yesterday, going with Rock to carry Leyten.

Kaladin took a deep breath and strode out across the grounds, Rock trailing behind. Syl left his shoulder and zipped into the air, dancing on a sudden gust of wind. Teft looked up as Kaladin and Rock approached. The older man had fetched breakfast, and he was eating alone, a piece of flatbread peeking out beneath his bowl.

His beard was stained by the curry, and he regarded Kaladin with wary eyes before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I like my food, son,” he said. “Hardly think they feed me enough for one man. Let alone two.”

Kaladin squatted in front of him. Rock leaned up against the wall and folded his arms, watching quietly.

“I need you, Teft,” Kaladin said.

“I said—”

“Not your food. You. Your loyalty. Your allegiance.”

The older man continued to eat. He didn’t have a slave brand, and neither did Rock. Kaladin didn’t know their stories. All he knew was that these two had helped when others hadn’t. They weren’t completely beaten down.

“Teft—” Kaladin began.

“I’ve given my loyalty before,” the man said. “Too many times now. Always works out the same.”

“Your trust gets betrayed?” Kaladin asked softly.

Teft snorted. “Storms, no. I betray it. You can’t depend on me, son. I belong here, as a bridgeman.”

“I depended on you yesterday, and you impressed me.”

“Fluke.”

“I’ll judge that,” Kaladin said. “Teft, we’re all broken, in one way or another. Otherwise we wouldn’t be bridgemen. I’ve failed. My own brother died because of me.”

“So why keep caring?”

“It’s either that or give up and die.”

“And if death is better?”

It came back to this problem. This was why the bridgemen didn’t care if he helped the wounded or not.

“Death isn’t better,” Kaladin said, looking Teft in the eyes. “Oh, it’s easy to say that now. But when you stand on the ledge and look down into that dark, endless pit, you change your mind. Just like Hobber did. Just like I’ve done.” He hesitated, seeing something in the older man’s eyes. “I think you’ve seen it too.”

“Aye,” Teft said softly. “Aye, I have.”

“So, are you with us in this thing?” Rock said, squatting down.

Us? Kaladin thought, smiling faintly.

Teft looked back and forth between the two of them. “I get to keep my food?”

“Yes,” Kaladin said.

Teft shrugged. “All right then, I guess. Can’t be any harder than sitting here and having a staring contest with mortality.”

Kaladin held out a hand. Teft hesitated, then took it.

Rock held out a hand. “Rock.”

Teft looked at him, finished shaking Kaladin’s hand, then took Rock’s. “I’m Teft.”

Stormfather, Kaladin thought. I’d forgotten that most of them don’t even bother to learn each other’s names.

“What kind of name is Rock?” Teft asked, releasing the hand.

“Is a stupid one,” Rock said with an even face. “But at least it has meaning. Does your name mean anything?”

“I guess not,” Teft said, rubbing his bearded chin.

“Rock, this is not my real name,” the Horneater admitted. “Is just what lowlanders can pronounce.”

“What’s your real name, then?” Teft asked.

“You won’t be able to say it.”

Teft raised an eyebrow.

“Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor,” Rock said.

Teft hesitated, then smiled. “Well, I guess in that case, Rock will do just fine.”

Rock laughed, settling down. “Our bridgeleader has a plan. Something glorious and daring. Has something to do with spending our afternoon moving stones in the heat.”

Kaladin smiled, leaning forward. “We need to gather a certain kind of plant. A reed that grows in small patches outside the camp….”

In case you have turned a blind eye to that disaster, know that Aona and Skai are both dead, and that which they held has been Splintered. Presumably to prevent anyone from rising up to challenge Rayse.

Two days after the incident with the highstorm, Dalinar walked with his sons, crossing the rocky ground toward the king’s feasting basin.

Dalinar’s stormwardens projected another few weeks of spring, followed by a return to summer. Hopefully it wouldn’t turn to winter instead.

“I’ve been to three more leatherworkers,” Adolin said softly. “They have different opinions. It seems that even before the strap was cut—if it was cut—it was worn, so that’s interfering with things. The best consensus has been that the strap was sliced, but not necessarily by a knife. It could have just been natural wear-and-tear.”

Dalinar nodded. “That’s the only evidence that even hints there might be something odd about the girth breaking.”

“So we admit that this was just a result of the king’s paranoia.”

“I’ll talk to Elhokar,” Dalinar decided. “Let him know we’ve run into a wall and see if there are any other avenues he’d like us to pursue.”

“That’ll do.” Adolin seemed to grow hesitant about something. “Father. Do you want to talk about what happened during the storm?”

“It was nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

“But—”

“Enjoy the evening, Adolin,” Dalinar said firmly. “I’m all right. Perhaps it’s good for the men to see what is happening. Hiding it has only inspired rumors, some of them even worse than the truth.”

Adolin sighed, but nodded.

The king’s feasts were always outdoors, at the foot of Elhokar’s palace hill. If the stormwardens warned of a highstorm—or if more mundane weather turned bad—then the feast was canceled. Dalinar was glad for the outdoor location. Even with ornamentation, Soulcast buildings felt like caverns.

The feast basin had been flooded, turning it into a shallow artificial lake. Circular dining platforms rose like small stone islands in the water. The elaborate miniature landscape had been fabricated by the king’s Soulcasters, who had diverted the water from a nearby stream. It reminds me of Sela Tales, Dalinar thought as he crossed the first bridge. He’d visited that western region of Roshar during his youth. And the Purelake.

There were five islands, and the railings of the bridges connecting them were done in scrollwork so fine that after each feast, the railings had to be stowed away lest a highstorm ruin them. Tonight, flowers floated in the slow current. Periodically, a miniature boat—only a handspan wide—sailed past, bearing an infused gemstone.

Dalinar, Renarin, and Adolin stepped onto the first dining platform. “One cup of blue,” Dalinar said to his sons. “After that, keep to the orange.”

Adolin sighed audibly. “Couldn’t we, just this once—”

“So long as you are of my house, you follow the Codes. My will is firm, Adolin.”

“Fine,” Adolin said. “Come on, Renarin.” The two broke off from Dalinar to remain on the first platform, where the younger lighteyes congregated.

Dalinar crossed to the next island. This middle one was for the lesser lighteyes. To its left and right lay the segregated dining islands—men’s island on the right, women’s island on the left. On the three central ones, however, the genders mingled.