The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,197

ladder first, waiting to go up last. Rock waited with him, and as Dunny finally started up—leaving Rock and Kaladin alone—the tall Horneater put a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, speaking in a soft voice.

“You do good work here,” Rock said. “I am thinking that in a few weeks, these men will be yours.”

Kaladin shook his head. “We’re bridgemen, Rock. We don’t have a few weeks. If I take that long winning them over, half of us will be dead.”

Rock frowned. “Is not a happy thought.”

“That’s why we have to win over the other men now.”

“But how?”

Kaladin looked up at the dangling ladder, shaking as the men climbed up. Only four could go at a time, lest they overload it. “Meet me after we’re searched. We’re going to the camp market.”

“Very well,” Rock said, swinging onto the ladder as Earless Jaks reached the top. “What will be our purpose in this thing?”

“We’re going to try out my secret weapon.”

Rock laughed as Kaladin held the ladder steady for him. “And what weapon is this?”

Kaladin smiled. “Actually, it’s you.”

Two hours later, at Salas’s first violet light, Rock and Kaladin walked back into the lumberyard. It was just past sunset, and many of the bridgemen would soon be going to sleep.

Not much time, Kaladin thought, gesturing for Rock to carry his burden to a place near the front of Bridge Four’s barrack. The large Horneater set his burden down next to Teft and Dunny, who had done as Kaladin had ordered, building a small ring of stones and setting up some stumps of wood from the lumberyard scrap pile. That wood was free for anyone to take. Even bridgemen were allowed; some liked to take chunks to whittle.

Kaladin got out a sphere for light. The thing Rock had been carrying was an old iron cauldron. Even though it was secondhand, it had cost Kaladin a fair chunk of the knobweed sap money. The Horneater began to unpack supplies from inside the cauldron as Kaladin arranged some wood scraps inside the ring of stones.

“Dunny, water, if you please,” Kaladin said, getting out his flint. Dunny ran off to fetch a bucket from one of the rain barrels. Rock finished emptying the cauldron, laying out small packages that had cost another substantial portion of Kaladin’s spheres. He had only a handful of clearchips left.

As they worked, Hobber limped out of the barrack. He was mending quickly, though the other two wounded that Kaladin had treated were still in bad shape.

“What are you up to, Kaladin?” Hobber asked just as Kaladin got a flame started.

Kaladin smiled, standing. “Have a seat.”

Hobber did just that. He hadn’t lost the near-devotion he’d shown Kaladin for saving his life. If anything, his loyalty had grown stronger.

Dunny returned with a bucket of water, which he poured into the cauldron. Then he and Teft ran off to get more. Kaladin built up the flames and Rock began to hum to himself as he diced tubers and unwrapped some seasonings. In under a half hour, they had a roaring flame and a simmering pot of stew.

Teft sat down on one of the stumps, warming his hands. “This is your secret weapon?”

Kaladin sat down next to the older man. “Have you known many soldiers in your life, Teft?”

“A few.”

“You ever known any who could turn down a warm fire and some stew at the end of a hard day?”

“Well, no. But bridgemen ain’t soldiers.”

That was true. Kaladin turned to the barrack doorway. Rock and Dunny started up a song together and Teft began to clap along. Some of the men from other bridge crews were up late, and they gave Kaladin and the others nothing more than scowls.

Figures shifted inside the barrack, shadows moving. The door was open, and the scents of Rock’s stew grew strong. Inviting.

Come on, Kaladin thought. Remember why we live. Remember warmth, remember good food. Remember friends, and song, and evenings spent around the hearth.

You aren’t dead yet. Storm you! If you don’t come out…

It all suddenly seemed so contrived to Kaladin. The singing was forced, the stew an act of desperation. It was all just an attempt to briefly distract from the pathetic life he had been forced into.

A figure moved in the doorway. Skar—short, square-bearded, and keen-eyed—stepped out into the firelight. Kaladin smiled at him. A forced smile. Sometimes that was all one could offer. Let it be enough, he prayed, standing up, dipping a wooden bowl into Rock’s stew.

Kaladin held the bowl toward Skar. Steam curled from the