Authors: Brandon Sanderson
“Things are going to change in Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “For one thing, there will be no more sleeping in.”
“And what are we going to do instead?” Sigzil demanded. He had dark brown skin and black hair—that meant he was Makabaki, from southwestern Roshar. He was the only bridgeman without a beard, and judging by his smooth accent, he was probably Azish or Emuli. Foreigners were common in bridge crews—those who didn’t fit in often made their way to the crem of an army.
“Excellent question,” Kaladin said. “We are going to train. Each morning before our daily chores, we will run the bridge in practice to build up our endurance.”
More than one of the men’s expressions grew dark at this.
“I know what you are thinking,” Kaladin said. “Aren’t our lives hard enough? Shouldn’t we be able to relax during the brief times we have for it?”
“Yeah,” said Leyten, a tall, stout man with curly hair. “That’s right.”
“
No
,” Kaladin snapped. “Bridge runs exhaust us because we spend most of our days lounging. Oh, I know we have chores—foraging in the chasms, cleaning latrines, scrubbing floors. But the soldiers don’t expect us to work hard; they just want us busy. The work helps them ignore us.
“As your bridgeleader, my primary duty is to keep you alive. There’s not much I can do about the Parshendi arrows, so I have to do something about
you
. I have to make you stronger, so that when you charge that last leg of a bridge run—arrows flying—you can run quickly.” He met the eyes of the men in the line, one at a time. “I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man.”
The men stared at him incredulously. Finally, a hefty, thick-limbed man at the back bellowed out a laugh. He had tan skin, deep red hair, and was nearly seven feet tall, with large arms and a powerful torso. The Unkalaki—simply called Horneaters by most—were a group of people from the middle of Roshar, near Jah Keved. He’d given his name as “Rock” the previous night.
“Crazy!” said the Horneater. “Is crazy man who now thinks to lead us!” He laughed in a deep-bellied way. The others joined him, shaking their heads at Kaladin’s speech. A few laughterspren—minnowlike silver spirits that darted through the air in circular patterns—began to zip about them.
“Hey Gaz,” Moash called, cupping his hand around his mouth.
The short, one-eyed sergeant was chatting with some soldiers nearby. “What?” Gaz yelled back with a scowl.
“This one wants us to carry bridges about as practice,” Moash called back. “Do we have to do what he says?”
“Bah,” Gaz said, waving a hand. “Bridgeleaders only have authority in the field.”
Moash glanced back at Kaladin. “Looks like you can storm off, friend. Unless you’re going to beat us all into submission.”
They broke apart, some men wandering back into the barrack, some walking toward the mess halls. Kaladin was left standing alone on the stones.
“That didn’t go so well,” Syl said from his shoulder.
“No. It didn’t.”
“You look surprised.”
“No, just frustrated.” He glared at Gaz. The bridge sergeant turned away from him pointedly. “In Amaram’s army, I was given men who were inexperienced, but never ones who were blatantly insubordinate.”
“What’s the difference?” Syl asked. Such an innocent question. The answer should have been obvious, but she cocked her head in confusion.
“The men in Amaram’s army knew they had worse places they could go. You could punish them. These bridgemen know they’ve reached the bottom.” With a sigh, he let some of his tension bleed away. “I’m lucky I got them out of the barrack.”
“So what do you do now?”
“I don’t know.” Kaladin glanced to the side, where Gaz still stood chatting with the soldiers. “Actually, yes I do.”
Gaz caught sight of Kaladin approaching and displayed a look of urgent, wide-eyed horror. He broke off his conversation and hastily rushed around the side of a stack of logs.
“Syl,” Kaladin said, “could you follow him for me?”
She smiled, then became a faint line of white, shooting through the air and leaving a trail that vanished slowly. Kaladin stopped where Gaz had been standing.
Syl zipped back a short time later and reassumed her girlish form. “He’s hiding between those two barracks.” She pointed. “He’s crouched there, watching to see if you follow.”
With a smile, Kaladin took the long way around the barracks. In the alleyway, he found a figure crouching in the shadows, watching in the other direction. Kaladin crept forward, then grabbed Gaz’s shoulder. Gaz let out a yelp, spinning, swinging. Kaladin caught the fist easily.
Gaz looked up at Kaladin with horror. “I wasn’t going to lie! Storm you, you
don’t
have authority anywhere other than on the field. If you hurt me again, I’ll have you—”
“Calm yourself, Gaz,” Kaladin said, releasing the man. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not yet, at least.”
The shorter man backed away, rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Kaladin.
“Today’s third pass,” Kaladin said. “Payday.”
“You get your pay in an hour like everyone else.”
“No. You have it now; I saw you talking to the courier there.” He held out his hand.
Gaz grumbled, but pulled out a pouch and counted spheres. Tiny, tentative white lights shone at their centers. Diamond marks, each worth five diamond chips. A single chip would buy a loaf of bread.
Gaz counted out four marks, though there were five days to a week. He handed them to Kaladin, but Kaladin left his hand open, palm forward. “The other one, Gaz.”
“You said—”
“Now.”
Gaz jumped, then pulled out a sphere. “You have a strange way of keeping your word, lordling. You promised me…”
He trailed off as Kaladin took the sphere he’d just been given and handed it back.
Gaz frowned.
“Don’t forget where this comes from, Gaz. I’ll keep to my word, but you aren’t keeping part of my pay. I’m
giving
it to you. Understand?”
Gaz looked confused, though he did snatch the sphere from Kaladin’s hand.
“The money stops coming if something happens to me,” Kaladin said, tucking the other four spheres into his pocket. Then he stepped forward. Kaladin was a tall man, and he loomed over the much shorter Gaz. “Remember our bargain. Stay out of my way.”
Gaz refused to be intimidated. He spat to the side, the dark spittle clinging to the rock wall, oozing slowly. “I ain’t going to lie for you. If you think one cremstained mark a week will—”
“I expect only what I said. What is Bridge Four’s camp duty today?”
“Evening meal. Scrubbing and cleaning.”
“And bridge duty?”
“Afternoon shift.”
That meant the morning would be open. The crew would like that; they could spend payday losing their spheres on gambling or whores, perhaps forgetting for a short time the miserable lives they lived. They’d have to be back for afternoon duty, waiting in the lumberyard in case there was a bridge run. After evening meal, they’d go scrub pots.
Another wasted day. Kaladin turned to walk back to the lumberyard.
“You aren’t going to change anything,” Gaz called after him. “Those men are bridgemen for a reason.”
Kaladin kept walking, Syl zipping down from the roof to land on his shoulder.
“You don’t have authority,” Gaz called. “You’re not some squadleader on the field. You’re a storming
bridgeman
. You hear me? You can’t have authority without a rank!”
Kaladin left the alleyway behind. “He’s wrong.”
Syl walked around to hang in front of his face, hovering there while he moved. She cocked her head at him.
“Authority doesn’t come from a rank,” Kaladin said, fingering the spheres in his pocket.
“Where does it come from?”
“From the men who give it to you. That’s the only way to get it.” He looked back the way he’d come. Gaz hadn’t left the alleyway yet. “Syl, you don’t sleep, do you?”
“Sleep? A spren?” She seemed amused by the concept.
“Would you watch over me at night?” he said. “Make sure Gaz doesn’t sneak in and try something while I’m sleeping? He may try to have me killed.”
“You think he’d actually do that?”
Kaladin thought for a moment. “No. No, probably not. I’ve known a dozen men like him—petty bullies with just enough power to be annoying. Gaz is a thug, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. Besides, in his opinion, he doesn’t
have
to hurt me; he just has to wait until I get killed on a bridge run. Still, best to be safe. Watch over me, if you would. Wake me if he tries something.”
“Sure. But what if he just goes to more important men? Tells them to execute you?”
Kaladin grimaced. “Then there’s nothing I can do. But I don’t think he’d do that. It would make him look weak before his superiors.”
Besides, beheading was reserved for bridgemen who wouldn’t run at the Parshendi. So long as he ran, he wouldn’t be executed. In fact, the army leaders seemed hesitant to do much to punish bridgemen at all. One man had committed murder while Kaladin had been a bridgeman, and they’d strung the fool up in a highstorm. But other than that, all Kaladin had seen was a few men get their wages garnished for brawling, and a couple get whipped for being too slow during the early part of a bridge run.
Minimal punishments. The leaders of this army understood. The lives of bridgemen were as close to hopeless as possible; shove them down too much further, and the bridgemen might just stop caring and let themselves be killed.
Unfortunately, that also meant that there wouldn’t be much Kaladin could do to punish his own crew, even if he’d had that authority. He had to motivate them in another way. He crossed the lumberyard to where the carpenters were constructing new bridges. After some searching, Kaladin found what he wanted—a thick plank waiting to be fitted into a new portable bridge. A handhold for a bridgeman had been affixed to one side.
“Can I borrow this?” Kaladin asked a passing carpenter.
The man raised a hand to scratch a sawdust-powdered head. “Borrow it?”
“I’ll stay right here in the lumberyard,” Kaladin explained, lifting the board and putting it on his shoulder. It was heavier than he’d expected, and he was thankful for the padded leather vest.
“We’ll need it eventually…” the carpenter said, but didn’t offer enough of an objection to stop Kaladin from walking away with the plank.
He chose a level stretch of stone directly in front of the barracks. Then he began to trot from one end of the lumberyard to the other, carrying the board on his shoulder, feeling the heat of the rising sun on his skin. He went back and forth, back and forth. He practiced running, walking, and jogging. He practiced carrying the plank on his shoulder, then carrying it up high, arms stretched out.
He worked himself ragged. In fact, he felt close to collapsing several times, but every time he did, he found a reserve of strength from somewhere. So he kept moving, teeth gritted against the pain and fatigue, counting his steps to focus. The apprentice carpenter he’d spoken to brought a supervisor over. That supervisor scratched his head beneath his cap, watching Kaladin. Finally, he shrugged, and the two of them withdrew.
Before long, he drew a small crowd. Workers in the lumberyard, some soldiers, and a large number of bridgemen. Some from the other bridge crews called gibes, but the members of Bridge Four were more withdrawn. Many ignored him. Others—grizzled Teft, youthful-faced Dunny, several more—stood watching in a line, as if they couldn’t believe what he was doing.
Those stares—stunned and hostile though they were—were part of what kept Kaladin going. He also ran to work out his frustration, that boiling, churning pot of anger within. Anger at himself for failing Tien. Anger at the Almighty for creating a world where some dined in luxury while others died carrying bridges.
It felt surprisingly good to wear himself down in a way he chose. He felt as he had those first few months after Tien’s death, training himself on the spear to forget. When the noon bells rang—calling the soldiers to lunch—Kaladin finally stopped and set the large plank down on the ground. He rolled his shoulder. He’d been running for hours. Where had he found the strength?
He jogged over to the carpenter’s station, dripping sweat to the stones, and took a long drink from the water barrel. The carpenters usually chased off bridgemen who tried that, but none said a word as Kaladin slurped down two full ladles of metallic rainwater. He shook the ladle free and nodded to a pair of apprentices, then jogged back to where he’d left the plank.
Rock—the large, tan-skinned Horneater—was hefting it, frowning.
Teft noticed Kaladin, then nodded to Rock. “He bet a few of us a chip each that you’d used a lightweight board to impress us.”
If they could have felt his exhaustion, they wouldn’t have been so skeptical. He forced himself to take the plank from Rock. The large man let it go with a bewildered look, watching as Kaladin ran the plank back to where he’d found it. He waved his thanks to the apprentice, then trotted back to the small cluster of bridgemen. Rock was reluctantly paying out chips on his bet.
“You’re dismissed for lunch,” Kaladin told them. “We have afternoon bridge duty, so be back here in an hour. Assemble at the mess hall at last bell before sundown. Our camp chore today is cleaning up after supper. Last one to arrive has to do the pots.”
They gave him bemused expressions as he trotted away from the lumberyard. Two streets away, he ducked into an alleyway and leaned against the wall. Then, wheezing, he sank to the ground and stretched out.
He felt as if he’d strained every muscle in his body. His legs burned, and when he tried to make his hand into a fist, the fingers were too weak to fully comply. He breathed in and out in deep gasps, coughing. A passing soldier peeked in, but when he saw the bridgeman’s outfit, he left without a word.
Eventually, Kaladin felt a light touch on his chest. He opened his eyes and found Syl lying prone in the air, face toward his. Her feet were toward the wall, but her posture—indeed, the way her dress hung—made it seem as if she were standing upright, not face toward the ground.