The Way of Kings

Gaz fell silent.

“Thank you for bringing me this news.”

“News?” Gaz snapped. “I was sent to give you orders, lordling. Don’t try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded; you’ll be refused.” With that, he rushed away, muttering to himself.

Kaladin made his way back to the barrack. Stormfather! Where was he going to get food enough to feed three men? He could split his own meals with them, but while bridgemen were kept fed, they weren’t given an excess. Even feeding one man beyond himself would be a stretch. Trying to split the meals four ways would leave the wounded too weak to recover and Kaladin too weak to run bridges. And he still needed antiseptic! Rotspren and disease killed far more men in war than the enemy did.

Kaladin stepped up to the men lounging by the barrack. Most were going about the usual bridgeman activities-sprawled on the ground and despondently staring into the air, sitting and despondently staring at the ground, standing and despondently staring into the distance. Bridge Four wasn’t on bridge duty at all this day, and they didn’t have work detail until third afternoon bell.

“Gaz says our wounded are to be refused food or pay until they are well,” Kaladin said to the collected men.

Some of them-Sigzil, Peet, Koolf-nodded, as if this was what they’d expected.

“Highprince Sadeas wants to make an example of us,” Kaladin said. “He wants to prove that bridgemen aren’t worth healing, and he’s going to do it by making Hobber, Leyten, and Dabbid die slow, painful deaths.” He took a deep breath. “I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for the wounded. We can keep those three alive if a few of you will split your meals with them. We’ll need about two dozen or so clearmarks to buy the right medicine and supplies. Who has something they can spare?”

The men stared at him, then Moash started laughing. Others joined him. They waved dismissive hands and broke up, walking away, leaving Kaladin with his hand out. “Next time it could be you!” he called. “What will you do if you’re the one that needs healing?”

“I’ll die,” Moash said, not even bothering to look back. “Out on the field, quickly, rather than back here over a week’s time.”

Kaladin lowered his hand. He sighed, turning, and almost ran into Rock. The beefy, towerlike Horneater stood with arms folded, like a tan-skinned statue. Kaladin looked up at him, hopeful.

“Don’t have any spheres,” Rock said with a grunt. “Is all spent already.”

Kaladin sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Two of us couldn’t afford to buy the medicine. Not alone.”

“I will give some food,” Rock grumbled.

Kaladin glanced back at him, surprised.

“But only for this man with arrow in his leg,” Rock said, arms still folded.

“Hobber?”

“Whatever,” Rock said. “He looks like he could get better. Other one, he will die. Is certain. And I have no pity for man who sits there, not doing anything. But for the other one, you may have my food. Some of it.”

Kaladin smiled, raising a hand and gripping the larger man’s arm. “Thank you.”

Rock shrugged. “You took my place. Without this thing, I would be dead.”

Kaladin smirked at that logic. “I’m not dead, Rock. You’d be fine.”

Rock shook his head. “I’d be dead. Is something strange about you. All men can see it, even if they don’t want to speak of this thing. I looked at bridge where you were. Arrows hit all around you-beside your head, next to your hands. But they weren’t hitting you.”

“Luck.”

“Is no such thing.” Rock glanced at Kaladin’s shoulder. “Besides, there is mafah’liki who always follows you.” The large Horneater bowed his head reverently to Syl, then made a strange gesture with his hand touching his shoulders and then his forehead.

Kaladin started. “You can see her?” He glanced at Syl. As a windspren, she could appear to those she wanted to-and that generally only meant Kaladin.

Syl seemed shocked. No, she hadn’t appeared to Rock specifically.

“I am alaii’iku,” Rock said, shrugging.

“Which means…”

Rock scowled. “Airsick lowlanders. Is there nothing proper you know? Anyway, you are special man. Bridge Four, it lost eight runners yesterday counting the three wounded.”

“I know,” Kaladin said. “I broke my first promise. I said I wasn’t going to lose a single one.”

Rock snorted. “We are bridgemen. We die. Is how this thing works. You might as well promise to make the moons catch each other!” The large man turned, pointing toward one of the other barracks. “Of the bridges that were fired upon, most lost many men. Five bridges fell. They lost over twenty men each and needed soldiers to help get bridges back. Bridge Two lost eleven men, and it wasn’t even a focus of firing.”

He turned back to Kaladin. “Bridge Four lost eight. Eight men, during one of the worst runs of the season. And, perhaps, you will save two of those. Bridge Four lost fewest men of any bridge that the Parshendi tried to drop. Bridge Four never loses fewest men. Everyone knows how it is.”

“Luck-”

Rock pointed a fat finger at him, cutting him off. “Airsick lowlander.”

It was just luck. But, well, Kaladin would take it for the small blessing it was. No use arguing when someone had finally decided to start listening to him.

But one man wasn’t enough. Even if both he and Rock went on half rations, one of the sick men would starve. He needed spheres. He needed them desperately. But he was a slave; it was illegal for him to earn money in most ways. If only he had something he could sell. But he owned nothing. He…

A thought occurred to him.

“Come on,” he said, striding away from the barrack. Rock followed curiously. Kaladin searched through the lumberyard until he found Gaz speaking with a bridgeleader in front of Bridge Three’s barrack. As was growing more common, Gaz grew pale when Kaladin approached, and made as if to scurry away.

“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