The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,164

to show worry as he said it. He had grown accustomed to her company.

She sniffed. “I can’t follow him. He’s too respectful.”

“You just said you liked that.”

“I do. Also, I detest it.” She said that with unaffected frankness, as if oblivious of the contradiction. She sighed, sitting down on the side of the wagon. “I led him to a patch of chull dung as a prank. He didn’t even yell at me! He just looked at it, as if trying to figure out some hidden meaning.” She grimaced. “That’s not normal.”

“I think the Horneaters must worship spren or something,” Kaladin said, wiping his brow.

“That’s silly.”

“People believe much sillier things. In some ways, I guess it makes sense to revere the spren. You are kind of odd and magical.”

“I’m not odd!” she said, standing up. “I’m beautiful and articulate.” She planted her hands on her hips, but he could see in her expression that she wasn’t really mad. She seemed to be changing by the hour, growing more and more…

More and more what? Not exactly humanlike. More individual. Smarter.

Syl fell silent as another bridgeman—Natam—approached. The long-faced man was carrying a smaller stone, obviously trying not to strain himself.

“Ho, Natam,” Kaladin said, reaching down to take the stone. “How goes the work?”

Natam shrugged.

“Didn’t you say you were once a farmer?”

Natam rested beside the wagon, ignoring Kaladin.

Kaladin set down the rock, moving it into place. “I’m sorry to make us work like this, but we need the good will of Gaz and the other bridge crews.”

Natam didn’t respond.

“It will help keep us alive,” Kaladin said. “Trust me.”

Natam just shrugged yet again, then wandered away.

Kaladin sighed. “This would be a lot easier if I could pin the duty change on Gaz.”

“That wouldn’t be very honest,” Syl said, affronted.

“Why do you care so much about honesty?”

“I just do.”

“Oh?” Kaladin said, grunting as he moved back to his work. “And leading men to piles of dung? How honest is that?”

“That’s different. It was a joke.”

“I fail to see how…”

He trailed off as another bridgeman approached. Kaladin doubted anyone else had Rock’s strange ability to see Syl, and didn’t want to be seen talking to himself.

The short, wiry bridgeman had said his name was Skar, though Kaladin couldn’t see any obvious scars on his face. He had short dark hair and angular features. Kaladin tried to engage him in conversation too, but got no response. The man even went so far as to give Kaladin a rude gesture before tromping back out.

“I’m doing something wrong,” Kaladin said, shaking his head and hopping down from the sturdy wagon.

“Wrong?” Syl stepped up to the lip of the wagon, watching him.

“I thought that seeing me rescue those three might give them hope. But they’re still indifferent.”

“Some watched you run earlier,” Syl said, “when you were practicing with the plank.”

“They watched,” Kaladin said. “But they don’t care about helping the wounded. Nobody besides Rock, that is—and he’s only doing it because he has a debt to me. Even Teft wasn’t willing to share his food.”

“They’re selfish.”

“No. I don’t think that word can apply to them.” He lifted a stone, struggling to explain how he felt. “When I was a slave…well, I’m still a slave. But during the worst parts, when my masters were trying to beat out of me the ability to resist, I was like these men. I didn’t care enough to be selfish. I was like an animal. I just did what I did without thinking.”

Syl frowned. Little wonder—Kaladin himself didn’t understand what he was saying. Yet, as he spoke, he began to work out what he meant. “I’ve shown them that we can survive, but that doesn’t mean anything. If those lives aren’t worth living, then they aren’t ever going to care. It’s like I’m offering them piles of spheres, but not giving them anything to spend their wealth on.”

“I guess,” Syl said. “But what can you do?”

He looked back across the plain of rock, toward the warcamp. The smoke of the army’s many cookfires rose from the craters. “I don’t know. But I think we’re going to need a lot more reeds.”

That night, Kaladin, Teft, and Rock walked the makeshift streets of Sadeas’s warcamp. Nomon—the middle moon—shone with his pale, blue-white light. Oil lanterns hung in front of buildings, indicating taverns or brothels. Spheres could provide more consistent, renewable light, but you could buy a bundle of candles or a pouch of oil for a single sphere. In the short run, it was often cheaper to do