Kaladin growled in the back of his throat, and then pulled himself free of the soldiers, but remained in line. So be it. Cutting down trees, building bridges, fighting in the army. None of it mattered. He would just keep living. They’d taken his freedom, his family, his friends, and—most dear of all—his dreams. They could do nothing more to him.
After her inspection, the noblewoman took a writing board from her assistant and made a few quick notations on its paper. Tvlakv gave her a ledger detailing how much each slave had paid down on their slave debt. Kaladin caught a glimpse; it said that not a single one of the men had paid anything. Perhaps Tvlakv lied about the figures. Not unlikely.
Kaladin would probably just let all of his wages go to his debt this time. Let them squirm as they saw him actually call their bluff. What would they do if he got close to earning out his debt? He’d probably never find out—depending on what these bridgemen earned, it could take anything from ten to fifty years to get there.
The lighteyed woman assigned most of the slaves to forest duty. A half-dozen of the more spindly ones were sent to work the mess halls, despite what she’d said before. “Those ten,” the noblewoman said, raising her rod to point at Kaladin and the others from his wagon. “Take them to the bridge crews. Tell Lamaril and Gaz that the tall one is to be given special treatment.”
The soldiers laughed, and one began shoving Kaladin’s group along the pathway. Kaladin endured it; these men had no reason to be gentle, and he wouldn’t give them a reason to be rougher. If there was a group citizen soldiers hated more than mercenaries, it was deserters.
As he walked, he couldn’t help noticing the banner flying above the camp. It bore the same symbol emblazoned on the soldiers’ uniform coats: a yellow glyphpair in the shape of a tower and a hammer on a field of deep green. That was the banner of Highprince Sadeas, ultimate ruler of Kaladin’s own home district. Was it irony or fate that had landed Kaladin here?
Soldiers lounged idly, even those who appeared to be on duty, and the camp streets were littered with refuse. Camp followers were plentiful: whores, worker women, coopers, chandlers, and wranglers. There were even children running through the streets of what was half city, half warcamp.
There were also parshmen. Carrying water, working on trenches, lifting sacks. That surprised him. Weren’t they fighting parshmen? Weren’t they worried that these would rise up? Apparently not. The parshmen here worked with the same docility as the ones back in Hearthstone. Perhaps it made sense. Alethi had fought against Alethi back in his armies at home, so why shouldn’t there be parshmen on both sides of this conflict?
The soldiers took Kaladin all the way around to the northeastern quarter of the camp, a hike that took some time. Though the Soulcast stone barracks each looked exactly the same, the rim of the camp was broken distinctively, like ragged mountains. Old habits made him memorize the route. Here, the towering circular wall had been worn away by countless highstorms, giving a clear view eastward. That open patch of ground would make a good staging area for an army to gather on before marching down the incline to the Shattered Plains themselves.
The northern edge of the field contained a subcamp filled with several dozen barracks, and at their center a lumberyard filled with carpenters. They were breaking down some of the stout trees Kaladin had seen on the plains outside: stripping off their stringy bark, sawing them into planks. Another group of carpenters assembled the planks into large contraptions.
“We’re to be woodworkers?” Kaladin asked.
One of the soldiers laughed roughly. “You’re joining the bridge crews.” He pointed to where a group of sorry-looking men sat on the stones in the shade of a barrack, scooping food out of wooden bowls with their fingers. It looked depressingly similar to the slop that Tvlakv had fed them.
One of the soldiers shoved Kaladin forward again, and he stumbled down the shallow incline and crossed the grounds. The other nine slaves followed, herded by the soldiers. None of the men sitting around the barracks so much as glanced at them. They wore leather vests and simple trousers, some with dirty laced shirts, others bare-chested. The grim, sorry lot weren’t much better than the slaves, though they did look to be in slightly better physical condition.
“New recruits, Gaz,” one of the soldiers called.
A man lounged in the shade a distance from the eating men. He turned, revealing a face that was so scarred his beard grew in patches. He was missing one eye—the other was brown—and didn’t bother with an eye patch. White knots at his shoulders marked him as a sergeant, and he had the lean toughness Kaladin had learned to associate with someone who knew his way around a battlefield.
“These spindly things?” Gaz said, chewing on something as he walked over. “They’ll barely stop an arrow.”
The soldier beside Kaladin shrugged, shoving him forward once more for good measure. “Brightness Hashal said to do something special with this one. The rest are up to you.” The soldier nodded to his companions, and they began to trot away.
Gaz looked the slaves over. He focused on Kaladin last.
“I have military training,” Kaladin said. “In the army of Highlord Amaram.”
“I don’t really care,” Gaz cut in, spitting something dark to the side.
Kaladin hesitated. “When Amaram—”
“You keep mentioning that name,” Gaz snapped. “Served under some unimportant landlord, did you? Expect me to be impressed?”
Kaladin sighed. He’d met this kind of man before, a lesser sergeant with no hope of advancement. His only pleasure in life came from his authority over those even sorrier than himself. Well, so be it.
“You have a slave’s mark,” Gaz said, snorting. “I doubt you ever held a spear. Either way, you’ll have to condescend to join us now, Lordship.”
Kaladin’s windspren flitted down and inspected Gaz, then closed one of her eyes, imitating him. For some reason, seeing her made Kaladin smile. Gaz misinterpreted the smile. The man scowled and stepped forward, pointing.
At that moment, a loud chorus of horns echoed through the camp. Carpenters glanced up, and the soldiers who had guided Kaladin dashed back toward the center of camp. The slaves behind Kaladin looked around anxiously.
“Stormfather!” Gaz cursed. “Bridgemen! Up, up, you louts!” He began kicking at some of the men who were eating. They scattered their bowls, scrambling to their feet. They wore simple sandals instead of proper boots.
“You, Lordship,” Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin.
“I didn’t say—”
“I don’t care what in Damnation you said! You’re in Bridge Four.” He pointed at a group of departing bridgemen. “The rest of you, go wait over there. I’ll divide you up later. Get moving, or I’ll see you strung up by your heels.”
Kaladin shrugged and jogged after the group of bridgemen. It was one of many teams of such men pouring out of barracks or picking themselves up out of alleys. There seemed to be quite a lot of them. Around fifty barracks, with—perhaps—twenty or thirty men in each…that would make nearly as many bridgemen in this army as there had been soldiers in Amaram’s entire force.
Kaladin’s team crossed the grounds, weaving between boards and piles of sawdust, approaching a large wooden contraption. It had obviously weathered a few highstorms and some battles. The dents and holes scattered along its length looked like places where arrows had struck. The bridge in bridgeman, perhaps?