Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Kaladin calmed himself. The riddens—the quiet rainfall at the trailing end of a highstorm—continued outside, drops sprinkling the roof.
“You wouldn’t wake up,” Sigzil said. Kaladin glanced at the Azish man, sitting with his back to the stone wall. He hadn’t tried to hold Kaladin down. “You were having some kind of fever dream.”
“I feel just fine,” Kaladin said. That wasn’t quite true; his head ached and he was exhausted. He took a deep breath and threw back his shoulders, trying to force the fatigue away.
The sphere in the corner flickered. Then its light faded away, leaving them in darkness.
“Storm it!” Moash muttered. “That eel Gaz. He’s been giving us dun spheres again.”
Kaladin crossed the pitch-black barrack, stepping carefully. His headache faded away as he felt for the door. He pushed it open, letting in the faint light of an overcast morning.
The winds were weak, but the rain still fell. He stepped out, and was shortly soaked through. The other bridgemen followed him out, and Rock tossed Kaladin a small chunk of soap. Like most of the others, Kaladin wore only his loincloth, and he lathered himself up in the cold downpour. The soap smelled of oil and was gritty with the sand suspended in it. No sweet, soft soaps for bridgemen.
Kaladin tossed the bit of soap to Bisig, a thin bridgeman with an angular face. He took it gratefully—Bisig didn’t say much—and began to lather up as Kaladin let the rain wash the soap from his body and hair. To the side, Rock was using a bowl of water to shave and trim his Horneater beard, long on the sides and covering the cheeks, but clean below the lips and chin. It made an odd counterpoint to his head, which he shaved up the center, from directly above the eyebrows back. He trimmed the rest of his hair short.
Rock’s hand was smooth and careful, and he didn’t so much as nick himself. Once finished, he stood up and waved to the men waiting behind him. One by one, he shaved any who wanted it. He occasionally paused to sharpen the razor using his whetstone and leather strop.
Kaladin raised his fingers to his own beard. He hadn’t been clean-shaven since he’d been in Amaram’s army, so long ago. He walked forward to join those waiting in line. When Kaladin’s time came, the large Horneater laughed. “Sit, my friend, sit! Is good you have come. Your face is more like scragglebark branches than a proper beard.”
“Shave it clean,” Kaladin said, sitting down on the stump. “And I’d rather not have a strange pattern like yours.”
“Ha!” Rock said, sharpening his razor. “You are a lowlander, my good friend. Is not right for you to wear a
humaka’aban
. I would have to thump you soundly if you tried this thing.”
“I thought you said fighting was beneath you.”
“Is allowed several important exceptions,” Rock said. “Now stop with your talking, unless you wish to be losing a lip.”
Rock began by trimming the beard down, then lathered and shaved, starting at the left cheek. Kaladin had never let another shave him before; when he’d first gone to war, he’d been young enough that he’d barely needed to shave at all. He’d grown into doing it himself as he got older.
Rock’s touch was deft, and Kaladin didn’t feel any nicks or cuts. In a few minutes, Rock stood back. Kaladin raised his fingers to his chin, touching smooth, sensitive skin. His face felt cold, strange to the touch. It took him back, transformed him—just a little—into the man he had been.
Strange, how much difference a shave could make.
I should have done this weeks ago.
The riddens had turned to drizzle, heralding the storm’s last whispers. Kaladin stood up, letting the water wash bits of shorn hair from his chest. Baby-faced Dunny—the last of those waiting—sat down for his turn at being shaven. He hardly needed it at all.
“The shave suits you,” a voice said. Kaladin turned to see Sigzil leaning against the wall of the barrack, just under the roof’s overhang. “Your face has strong lines. Square and firm, with a proud chin. We would call it a leader’s face among my people.”
“I’m no lighteyes,” Kaladin said, spitting to the side.
“You hate them so much.”
“I hate their lies,” Kaladin said. “I hate it that I used to believe they were honorable.”
“And would you cast them down?” Sigzil asked, sounding curious. “Rule in their place?”
“No.”
This seemed to surprise Sigzil. To the side, Syl finally appeared, having finished frolicking in the winds of the highstorm. He always worried—just a little—that she’d ride away with them and leave him.
“Have you no thirst to punish those who have treated you so?” Sigzil asked.
“Oh, I’m happy to punish them,” Kaladin said. “But I have no desire to take their place, nor do I wish to join them.”
“I’d join them in a heartbeat,” Moash said, walking up behind. He folded his arms across his lean, well-muscled chest. “If I were in charge, things would change. The lighteyes would work the mines and the fields. They would run bridges and die by Parshendi arrows.”
“Won’t happen,” Kaladin said. “But I won’t blame you for trying.”
Sigzil nodded thoughtfully. “Have either of you ever heard of the land of Babatharnam?”
“No,” Kaladin said, glancing toward the camp. The soldiers were moving about now. More than a few were washing too. “That a funny name for a country, though.”
Sigzil sniffed. “Personally, I always thought Alethkar sounded like a ridiculous name. I guess it depends on where you were raised.”
“So why bring up Babab…” Moash said.
“Babatharnam,” Sigzil said. “I visited there once, with my master. They have very peculiar trees. The entire plant—trunk and all—lies down when a highstorm approaches, as if built on hinges. I was thrown in prison three times during our visit there. The Babath are quite particular about how you speak. My master was quite displeased at the amount he had to pay to free me. Of course, I think they were using any excuse to imprison a foreigner, as they knew my master had deep pockets.” He smiled wistfully. “One of those imprisonments
was
my fault. The women there, you see, have these patterns of veins that sit shallowly beneath their skin. Some visitors find it unnerving, but I found the patterns beautiful. Almost irresistible…”
Kaladin frowned. Hadn’t he seen something like that in his dream?
“I bring up Babath because they have a curious system of rule there,” Sigzil continued. “You see, the elderly are given office. The older you are, the more authority you have. Everyone gets a chance to rule, if they live long enough. The king is called the Most Ancient.”
“Sounds fair,” Moash said, walking over to join Sigzil beneath the overhang. “Better than deciding who rules based on eye color.”
“Ah yes,” Sigzil said. “The Babath are very fair. Currently, the Monavakah Dynasty reigns.”
“How can you have a dynasty if you choose your leaders based on their age?” Kaladin asked.
“It’s actually quite easy,” Sigzil said. “You just execute anyone who gets old enough to challenge you.”
Kaladin felt a chill. “They
do
that?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Sigzil said. “There is a great deal of unrest in Babatharnam. It was dangerous to visit when we did. The Monavakahs make very certain that
their
family members live the longest; for fifty years, no one outside their family has become Most Ancient. All others have fallen through assassination, exile, or death on the battlefield.”
“That’s horrible,” Kaladin said.
“I doubt many would disagree. But I mention these horrors for a purpose. You see, it has been my experience that no matter where you go, you will find some who abuse their power.” He shrugged. “Eye color is not so odd a method, compared to many others I have seen. If you were to overthrow the lighteyes and place yourselves in power, Moash, I doubt that the world would be a very different place. The abuses would still happen. Simply to other people.”
Kaladin nodded slowly, but Moash shook his head. “No. I’d change the world, Sigzil. And I mean to.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Kaladin asked, amused.
“I came to this war to get myself a Shardblade,” Moash said. “And I still mean to do it, somehow.” He blushed, then turned away.
“You joined up assuming they’d make you a spearman, didn’t you?” Kaladin asked.
Moash hesitated, then nodded. “Some of those who joined with me did become soldiers, but most of us got sent to the bridge crews.” He glanced at Kaladin, expression growing dark. “This plan of yours had better work, lordling. Last time I ran away, I got a beating. I was told if I tried again, I’d get a slave’s mark instead.”
“I never promised it would work, Moash. If you’ve got a better idea, go ahead and share it.”
Moash hesitated. “Well, if you really do teach us the spear like you promised, then I guess I don’t care.”
Kaladin glanced about, warily checking to see if Gaz or any bridgemen from other crews were nearby. “Keep quiet,” Kaladin muttered to Moash. “Don’t speak of that outside of the chasms.” The rain had almost stopped; soon the clouds would break.
Moash glared at him, but remained silent.
“You don’t really think they’d let you have a Shardblade, do you?” Sigzil said.
“Any man can win a Shardblade.” Moash said. “Slave or free. Lighteyes or dark. It’s the law.”
“Assuming they follow the law,” Kaladin said with a sigh.
“I’ll do it somehow,” Moash repeated. He glanced to the side, where Rock was closing up his razor and wiping the rainwater from his bald head.
The Horneater approached them. “I have heard of this place you spoke of, Sigzil,” Rock said. “Babatharnam. My cousin cousin cousin visited there one time. They have very tasty snails.”
“That is a long distance to travel for a Horneater,” Sigzil noted.
“Nearly same distance as for an Azish,” Rock said. “Actually, much more, since you have such little legs!”
Sigzil scowled.
“I have seen your kind before,” Rock said, folding his arms.
“What?” Sigzil asked. “Azish? We are not so rare.”
“No, not your race,” Rock said. “Your type. What is it they are called? Visiting places around the land, telling others of what they have seen? A Worldsinger. Yes, is the right name. No?”
Sigzil froze. Then he suddenly stood up straight and stalked away from the barrack without looking back.
“Now why is he acting like this thing?” Rock asked. “I am not ashamed of being cook. Why is he ashamed of being Worldsinger?”
“Worldsinger?” Kaladin asked.
Rock shrugged. “I do not know much. Are strange people. Say they must travel to each kingdom and tell the people there of other kingdoms. Is a kind of storyteller, though they are thinking of themselves as much more.”
“He’s probably some kind of brightlord in his country,” Moash said. “The way he talks. Wonder how he ended up with us cremlings.”
“Hey,” Dunny said, joining them. “What’d you do to Sigzil? He promised to tell me about my homeland.”
“Homeland?” Moash said to the younger man. “You’re from Alethkar.”
“Sigzil said these violet eyes of mine aren’t native to Alethkar. He thinks I must have Veden blood in me.”
“Your eyes aren’t violet,” Moash said.
“Sure they are,” Dunny said. “You can see it in bright sunlight. They’re just really dark.”
“Ha!” Rock said. “If you are from Vedenar, we are cousins! The Peaks are near Vedenar. Sometimes the people there have good red hair, like us!”
“Be glad that someone didn’t mistake your eyes for red, Dunny,” Kaladin said. “Moash, Rock, go gather your subsquads and pass the word to Teft and Skar. I want the men oiling their vests and sandals against the humidity.”
The men sighed, but did as ordered. The army provided the oil. While the bridgemen were expendable, good hogshide and metal for buckles were not cheap.
As the men gathered to work, the sun broke through the clouds. The warmth of the light felt good on Kaladin’s rain-wet skin. There was something refreshing about the chill of a highstorm followed by the sun. Tiny rockbud polyps on the side of the building opened, drinking in the wet air. Those would have to be scraped free. Rockbuds would eat away the stone of the walls, creating pockmarks and cracks.
The buds were a deep crimson. It was Chachel, third day of the week. The slave markets would show new wares. That would mean new bridgemen. Kaladin’s crew was in serious danger. Yake had caught an arrow in the arm during their last run, and Delp had caught one in the neck. There’d been nothing Kaladin could do for him, and with Yake wounded, Kaladin’s team was down to twenty-eight bridge-capable members.
Sure enough, about an hour into their morning activities—caring for equipment, oiling the bridge, Lopen and Dabbid running to fetch their morning gruel pot and bring it back to the lumberyard—Kaladin caught sight of soldiers leading a line of dirty, shuffling men toward the lumberyard. Kaladin gestured to Teft, and the two of them marched up to meet Gaz.
“Afore you yell at me,” Gaz said as Kaladin arrived, “understand that I can’t change anything here.” The slaves were bunched up, watched over by a pair of soldiers in wrinkled green coats.
“You’re bridge sergeant,” Kaladin said. Teft stepped up beside him. He hadn’t gotten a shave, though he’d begun keeping his short, grey beard neatly trimmed.
“Yeah,” Gaz said, “but I don’t make assignments any more. Brightness Hashal wants to do it herself. In the name of her husband, of course.”
Kaladin gritted his teeth. She’d starve Bridge Four of members. “So we get nothing.”
“I didn’t say
that
,” Gaz said, then spat black spittle to the side. “She gave you one.”
That’s something, at least,
Kaladin thought. There were a good hundred men in the new group. “Which one? He’d better be tall enough to carry a bridge.”
“Oh, he’s tall enough,” Gaz said, gesturing a few slaves out of the way. “Good worker too.” The men shuffled aside, revealing one man standing at the back. He was a little shorter than average, but he
was
still tall enough to carry a bridge.
But he had black and red marbled skin.
“A
parshman
?” Kaladin asked. To his side, Teft cursed under his breath.