“You’re working,” Syl said. “Still.”
“I need to get these men ready.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know something is coming. Those countdowns on the walls… Have you seen more of those red spren?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I think so, at least. In the corners of my eyes, watching me. Very infrequently, but there.”
“Something is coming,” Kaladin said. “That countdown points right toward the Weeping. Whatever happens then, I’ll have the bridgemen ready to weather it.”
“Well, you won’t if you drop dead from exhaustion first!” Syl hesitated. “People really can do that, right? I heard Teft saying he felt like he was going to do so.”
“Teft likes to exaggerate,” Kaladin said. “It’s one mark of a good sergeant.”
Syl frowned. “And that last part… was a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” She looked into his eyes. “Rest anyway, Kaladin. Please.”
Kaladin looked toward Bridge Four’s barrack. It was a distance away, down the rows, but he thought he could hear Rock’s laughter echoing through the night.
Finally, he sighed, acknowledging his exhaustion. He could check on the last two platoons tomorrow. Spear in hand, he turned and hiked back. The advent of darkness meant it would be about two hours before men started turning in for the night. Kaladin arrived to the familiar scent of Rock’s stew, though Hobber—sitting on a tall stump the men had fashioned for him, a blanket across his grey, useless legs—was doing the serving. Rock stood nearby, arms folded, looking proud.
Renarin was there, taking and washing the dishes of those who’d finished. He did that every night, kneeling quietly beside the washbasin in his bridgeman uniform. The lad certainly was earnest. He didn’t display any of the spoiled temperament of his brother. Though he had insisted on joining them, he often sat at the edges of the group, near the back of the bridgemen at night. Such an odd young man.
Kaladin passed Hobber and gripped the man’s shoulder. He nodded, meeting Hobber’s eyes, raising a fist. Fight on. Kaladin reached for some stew, then froze.
Sitting nearby on a log were not one, but three beefy, thick-armed Herdazians. All wore Bridge Four uniforms, and Kaladin only recognized Punio out of the three.
Kaladin found Lopen nearby, staring at his hand—which he held before himself in a fist for some reason. Kaladin had long since given up on understanding Lopen.
“Three?” Kaladin demanded.
“Cousins!” Lopen replied, looking up.
“You have too many of those,” Kaladin said.
“That’s impossible! Rod, Huio, say hello!”
“Bridge Four,” the two men said, raising their bowls.
Kaladin shook his head, accepting his own stew and then walking past the cauldron into the darker area beside the barrack. He peeked into the storage room, and found Shen stacking sacks of tallew grain there, lit only by a single diamond chip.
“Shen?” Kaladin said.
The parshman continued stacking bags.
“Fall in and attention!” Kaladin barked.
Shen froze, then stood up, back straight, at attention.
“At ease, soldier,” Kaladin said softly, stepping up to him. “I spoke to Dalinar Kholin earlier today and asked if I could arm you. He asked if I trusted you. I told him the truth.” Kaladin held out his spear to the parshman. “I do.”
Shen looked from the spear to Kaladin, dark eyes hesitant.
“Bridge Four doesn’t have slaves,” Kaladin said. “I’m sorry for being frightened before.” He urged the man to take the spear, and Shen finally did so. “Leyten and Natam practice in the mornings with a few men. They’re willing to help you learn so that you don’t have to train with the greenvines.”
Shen held the spear with what seemed to be reverence. Kaladin turned to leave the storage room.
“Sir,” Shen said.
Kaladin paused.
“You are,” Shen said, speaking in his slow way, “a good man.”
“I’ve spent my life being judged for my eyes, Shen. I won’t do something similar to you because of your skin.”
“Sir, I—” The parshman seemed troubled by something.
“Kaladin!” Moash’s voice came from outside.
“Was there something you wanted to say?” Kaladin asked Shen.
“Later,” the parshman said. “Later.”
Kaladin nodded, then stepped out to see what the disturbance was. He found Moash looking for him near the cauldron.
“Kaladin!” Moash said, spotting him. “Come on. We’re going out, and you’re coming with us. Even Rock is coming tonight.”
“Ha! Stew is in good hands,” Rock said. “I will go do this thing. Will be good to get away from stink of little bridgemen.”
“Hey!” Drehy said.
“Ah. And stink of big bridgemen too.”
“Come on,” Moash said, waving to Kaladin. “You promised.”
He’d done no such thing. He just wanted to settle down by the fire, eat his stew, and watch the flamespren. Everyone was looking at him, though. Even the ones who weren’t going with Moash tonight.
“I…” Kaladin said. “Fine. Let’s go.”
They cheered and clapped. Storming fools. They cheered to see their commander go out drinking? Kaladin slurped down a few bites of stew, then handed the rest to Hobber. With reluctance, he then walked over to join Moash, as did Lopen, Peet, and Sigzil.
“You know,” Kaladin growled under his breath to Syl, “if this had been one of my old spearman crews, I’d assume they wanted me out of the camp so they could get away with something while I’m gone.”
“I doubt it’s that,” Syl said, frowning.
“No,” Kaladin said. “These men just want to see me as human.” He did need to go, for that reason. He was already too separate from the men. He didn’t want them thinking of him as they would a lighteyes.
“Ha!” Rock said, jogging up to join them. “These men, they claim they can drink more than Horneater. Airsick lowlanders. Is not possible.”
“A drinking contest?” Kaladin said, groaning inwardly. What was he getting into?
“None of us are on duty until the late morning,” Sigzil said with a shrug. Teft was watching the Kholins overnight, along with Leyten’s team.
“Tonight,” Lopen said, finger to the air, “I will be victorious. It is said you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!”
“It is?” Moash asked.
“It will be said,” Lopen continued, “you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!”
“You weigh about as much as a starved axehound, Lopen,” Moash said skeptically.
“Ah, but I have focus.”
They continued, turning down a pathway that led toward the market. The warcamp was laid out with blocks of barracks forming a large circle around the lighteyed buildings closer to the center. On the way out toward the market, which was in the outer ring of camp followers beyond the soldiers, they passed plenty of other barracks manned by ordinary soldiers—and the men there were busy in tasks that Kaladin had rarely seen in Sadeas’s army. Sharpening spears, oiling breastplates, before their dinner call came.