The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,230

him. Slaves. Thieves. Deserters. Foreigners. Even a few men whose only sin had been poverty. Those had joined the bridge crews out of desperation. The pay was good when compared with nothing, and they were promised that if they survived a hundred bridge runs, they would be promoted. Assignment to a watch post—which, in the mind of a poor man, sounded like a life of luxury. Being paid to stand and look at things all day? What kind of insanity was that? It was like being rich, almost.

They didn’t understand. Nobody survived a hundred bridge runs. Kaladin had been on two dozen, and he was already one of the most experienced living bridgemen.

Bridge Four followed him. The last of the holdouts—a thin man named Bisig—had given in yesterday. Kaladin preferred to think that the laughter, the food, and the humanity had finally gotten to him. But it had probably been a few glares or under-the-breath threats from Rock and Teft.

Kaladin turned a blind eye to those. He’d eventually need the men’s loyalty, but for now, he’d settle for obedience.

He guided them through the morning exercises he’d learned his very first day in the military. Stretches followed by jumping motions. Carpenters in brown work overalls and tan or green caps passed on their way to the lumberyard, shaking their heads in amusement. Soldiers on the short ridge above, where the camp proper began, looked down and laughed. Gaz watched from beside a nearby barrack, arms folded, single eye dissatisfied.

Kaladin wiped his brow. He met Gaz’s eye for a long moment, then turned back to the men. There was still time to practice hauling the bridge before breakfast.

Gaz had never gotten used to having just one eye. Could a man get used to that? He’d rather have lost a hand or a leg than that eye. He couldn’t stop feeling that something hid in that darkness he couldn’t see, but others could. What lurked there? Spren that would drain his soul from his body? The way a rat could empty an entire wineskin by chewing the corner?

His companions called him lucky. “That blow could have taken your life.” Well, at least then he wouldn’t have had to live with that darkness. One of his eyes was always closed. Close the other, and the darkness swallowed him.

Gaz glanced left, and the darkness scuttled to the side. Lamaril stood leaning against a post, tall and slim. He was not a massive man, but he was not weak. He was all lines. Rectangular beard. Rectangular body. Sharp. Like a knife.

Lamaril waved Gaz over, so he reluctantly approached. Then he took a sphere out of his pouch and passed it over. A topaz mark. He hated losing it. He always hated losing money.

“You owe me twice as much as this,” Lamaril noted, raising the sphere up to look through it as it sparkled in the sunlight.

“Well, that’s all you’ll get for now. Be glad you get anything.”

“Be glad I’ve kept my mouth shut,” Lamaril said lazily, leaning back against his post. It was one that marked the edge of the lumberyard.

Gaz gritted his teeth. He hated to pay, but what else could he do? Storms take him. Raging storms take him!

“You have a problem, it seems,” Lamaril said.

At first, Gaz thought he meant the half payment. The lighteyed man nodded toward Bridge Four’s barracks.

Gaz eyed the bridgemen, unsettled. The youthful bridgeleader barked an order, and the bridgemen raced the span of the lumberyard in a jog. He already had them running in time with one another. That one change meant so much. It sped them up, helped them think like a team.

Could this boy actually have military training, as he’d once claimed? Why would he be wasted as a bridgeman? Of course, there was that shash brand on his forehead….

“I don’t see a problem,” Gaz said with a grunt. “They’re fast. That’s good.”

“They’re insubordinate.”

“They follow orders.”

“His orders, perhaps.” Lamaril shook his head. “Bridgemen exist for one purpose, Gaz. To protect the lives of more valuable men.”

“Really? And here I thought their purpose was to carry bridges.”

Lamaril gave him a sharp look. He leaned forward. “Don’t try me, Gaz. And don’t forget your place. Would you like to join them?”

Gaz felt a spike of fear. Lamaril was a very lowly lighteyes, one of the landless. But he was Gaz’s immediate superior, a liaison between bridge crews and the higher-ranked lighteyes who oversaw the lumberyard.

Gaz looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Brightlord.”

“Highprince Sadeas holds an edge,” Lamaril