The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,191

those marks. Occasionally, chasmfiends stalked these pathways, searching for either carrion or a suitable plateau to pupate upon. Encountering one of them was uncommon, but possible.

“Kelek, but I hate this place,” Teft said, walking beside Kaladin. “I heard that once an entire bridge crew got eaten by a chasmfiend, one at a time, after it backed them into a dead end. It just sat there, picking them off as they tried to run past.”

Rock chuckled. “If they were all eaten, then who was returning to tell this story?”

Teft rubbed his chin. “I dunno. Maybe they just never returned.”

“Then perhaps they fled. Deserting.”

“No,” Teft said. “You can’t get out of these chasms without a ladder.” He glanced upward, toward the narrow rift of blue seventy feet above, following the curve of the plateau.

Kaladin glanced up as well. That blue sky seemed so distant. Unreachable. Like the light of the Halls themselves. And even if you could climb out at one of the shallower areas, you’d either be trapped on the Plains without a way to cross chasms, or you’d be close enough to the Alethi side that the scouts would spot you crossing the permanent bridges. You could try going eastward, toward where the plateaus were worn away to the point that they were just spires. But that would take weeks of walking, and would require surviving multiple highstorms.

“You ever been in a slot canyon when rains come, Rock?” Teft asked, perhaps thinking along the same lines.

“No,” Rock replied. “On the Peaks, we have not these things. They only exist where foolish men choose to live.”

“You live here, Rock,” Kaladin noted.

“And I am foolish,” the large Horneater said, chuckling. “Did you not notice this thing?” These last two days had changed him a great deal. He was more affable, returning in some measure to what Kaladin assumed was his normal personality.

“I was talking,” Teft said, “about slot canyons. You want to guess what will happen if we get trapped down here in a highstorm?”

“Lots of water, I guess,” Rock said.

“Lots of water, looking to go any place it can,” Teft said. “It gathers into enormous waves and goes crashing through these confined spaces with enough force to toss boulders. In fact, an ordinary rain will feel like a highstorm down here. A highstorm…well, this would probably be the worst place in Roshar to be when one hits.”

Rock frowned at that, glancing upward. “Best not to be caught in the storm, then.”

“Yeah,” Teft said.

“Though, Teft,” Rock added, “it would give you bath, which you very much need.”

“Hey,” Teft grumbled. “Is that a comment on how I smell?”

“No,” Rock said. “Is comment on what I have to smell. Sometimes, I am thinking that a Parshendi arrow in the eye would be better than smelling entire bridge crew enclosed in barrack at night!”

Teft chuckled. “I’d take offense at that if it weren’t true.” He sniffed at the damp, moldy chasm air. “This place ain’t much better. It smells worse than a Horneater’s boots in winter down here.” He hesitated. “Er, no offense. I mean personally.”

Kaladin smiled, then glanced back. The thirty or so other bridgemen followed like ghosts. A few seemed to be edging close to Kaladin’s group, as if trying to listen in without being obvious.

“Teft,” Kaladin said. “‘Smells worse than a Horneater’s boots’? How in the Halls isn’t he supposed to take offense at that phrase?”

“It’s just an expression,” Teft said, scowling. “It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying.”

“Alas,” Rock said, pulling a tuft of moss off the wall, inspecting it as they walked. “Your insult has offended me. If we were at the Peaks, we would have to duel in the traditional alil’tiki’i fashion.”

“Which is what?” Teft asked. “With spears?”

Rock laughed. “No, no. We upon the Peaks are not barbarians like you down here.”

“How then?” Kaladin asked, genuinely curious.

“Well,” Rock said, dropping the moss and dusting off his hands, “is involving much mudbeer and singing.”

“How’s that a duel?”

“He who can still sing after the most drinks is winner. Plus, soon, everyone is so drunk that they probably forget what argument was about.”

Teft laughed. “Beats knives at dawn, I suppose.”

“I guess that depends,” Kaladin said.

“Upon what?” Teft asked.

“On whether or not you’re a knife merchant. Eh, Dunny?”

The other two glanced to the side, where Dunny had moved up close to listen. The spindly youth jumped and blushed. “Er—I—”

Rock chuckled at Kaladin’s words. “Dunny,” he said to the youth. “Is odd name. What is meaning of it?”

“Meaning?”