The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,165

that, particularly if you were hanging your lights in a place they could be stolen.

Sadeas didn’t enforce a curfew, but Kaladin had learned that a lone bridgeman had best remain in the lumberyard at night. Half-drunken soldiers in stained uniforms sauntered past, whispering in the ears of whores or boasting to their friends. They called insults at the bridgemen, laughing riotously. The streets felt dark, even with the lanterns and the moonlight, and the haphazard nature of the camp—some stone structures, some wooden shanties, some tents—made it feel disorganized and dangerous.

Kaladin and his two companions stepped aside for a large group of soldiers. Their coats were unbuttoned, and they were only mildly drunk. A soldier eyed the bridgemen, but the three of them together—one of them being a brawny Horneater—were enough to dissuade the soldier from doing more than laughing and shoving Kaladin as he passed.

The man smelled of sweat and cheap ale. Kaladin kept his temper. Fight back, and he’d be docked pay for brawling.

“I don’t like this,” Teft said, glancing over his shoulder at the group of soldiers. “I’m going back to the camp.”

“You will be staying,” Rock growled.

Teft rolled his eyes. “You think I’m scared of a lumbering chull like you? I’ll go if I want to, and—”

“Teft,” Kaladin said softly. “We need you.”

Need. That word had strange effects on men. Some ran when you used it. Others grew nervous. Teft seemed to long for it. He nodded, muttering to himself, but stayed with them as they went on.

They soon reached the wagonyard. The fenced-off square of rock was near the western side of the camp. It was deserted for the night, the wagons sitting in long lines. Chulls lay slumbering in the nearby pen, looking like small hills. Kaladin crept forward, wary of sentries, but apparently nobody worried about something as large as a wagon being stolen from the middle of the army.

Rock nudged him, then pointed to the shadowy chull pens. A lone boy sat upon a pen post, staring up at the moon. Chulls were valuable enough to watch over. Poor lad. How often was he required to wait up nights guarding the sluggish beasts?

Kaladin crouched down beside a wagon, the other two mimicking him. He pointed down one row, and Rock moved off. Kaladin pointed the other direction, and Teft rolled his eyes, but did as asked.

Kaladin sneaked down the middle row. There were about thirty wagons, ten per row, but checking was quick. A brush of the fingers against the back plank, looking for the mark he’d made there. After just a few minutes, a shadowed figure entered Kaladin’s row. Rock. The Horneater gestured to the side and held up five fingers. Fifth wagon from the top. Kaladin nodded and moved off.

Just as he reached the indicated wagon, he heard a soft yelp from the direction Teft had gone. Kaladin flinched, then peeked up toward the sentry. The boy was still watching the moon, kicking his toes absently against the post next to him.

A moment later, Rock and a sheepish Teft scurried up to Kaladin. “Sorry,” Teft whispered. “The walking mountain startled me.”

“If I am being a mountain,” Rock grumbled, “then why weren’t you hearing me coming? Eh?”

Kaladin snorted, feeling the back of the indicated wagon, fingers brushing the X mark in the wood. He took a breath, then climbed under the wagon on his back.

The reeds were still there, tied in twenty bundles, each about as thick as a handspan. “Ishi, Herald of Luck be praised,” he whispered, untying the first bundle.

“All there, eh?” Teft said, leaning down, scratching at his beard in the moonlight. “Can’t believe we found so many. Must have pulled up every reed on the entire plain.”

Kaladin handed him the first bundle. Without Syl, they wouldn’t have found a third this many. She had the speed of an insect in flight, and she seemed to have a sense of where to find things. Kaladin untied the next bundle, handing it out. Teft tied it to the other, making a larger bundle.

As Kaladin worked, a flurry of small white leaves blew under the wagon and formed into Syl’s figure. She slid to a stop beside his head. “No guards anywhere I could see. Just a boy in the chull pens.” Her white-blue translucent figure was nearly invisible in the darkness.

“I hope these reeds are still good,” Kaladin whispered. “If they dried out too much…”

“They’ll be fine. You worry like a worrier. I found you some bottles.”

“You did?” he