The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,374

of the Askarki people, and they’re ethnically Makabaki—dark-skinned, like myself. Their kingdom borders my own, and I visited there many times in my youth.

“It is a wondrous place, filled with exotic travelers.” Sigzil grew more relaxed as he continued to talk. “Their legal system is very lenient toward foreigners. A man who is not of their nationality cannot own a home or shop, but when you visit, you are treated as a ‘relative who has traveled from afar, to be shown all kindness and leniency.’ A foreigner can take dinner at any residence he calls upon, assuming he is respectful and offers a gift of fruit. The people are most interested in exotic fruits. They worship Jezrien, though they don’t accept him as a figure from the Vorin religion. They name him the only god.”

“The Heralds aren’t gods,” Teft scoffed.

“To you they aren’t,” Sigzil said. “Others regard them differently. The Emuli have what your scholars like to call a splinter religion—containing some Vorin ideas. But to the Emuli, you would be the splinter religion.” Sigzil seemed to find that amusing, though Teft just scowled.

Sigzil continued in more and more detail, talking of the flowing gowns and head-wraps of the Emuli women, the robes favored by the men. The taste of the food—salty—and the way of greeting an old friend—by holding the left forefinger to the forehead and bowing in respect. Sigzil knew an impressive amount about them. Kaladin noticed him smiling wistfully at times, probably recalling his travels.

The details were interesting, but Kaladin was more taken aback by the fact that this city—which he had flown over in his dream weeks ago—was actually real. And he could no longer ignore the strange speed at which he recovered from wounds. Something odd was happening to him. Something supernatural. What if it was related to the fact that everyone around him always seemed to die?

He knelt down to begin rifling the pockets of the dead men, a duty the other bridgemen avoided. Spheres, knives, and other useful objects were kept. Personal mementoes like unburned prayers were left with the bodies. He found a few zircon chips, which he added to the pouch.

Maybe Moash was right. If they could get this money out, could they bribe their way free of the camp? That would certainly be safer than fighting. So why was he so insistent on teaching the bridgemen to fight? Why hadn’t he given any thought to sneaking the bridgemen out?

He had lost Dallet and the others of his original squad in Amaram’s army. Did he think to compensate for that by training a new group of spearmen? Was this about saving men he’d grown to love, or was it just about proving something to himself?

His experience told him that men who could not fight were at a severe disadvantage in this world of war and storms. Perhaps sneaking out would have been the better option, but he knew little of stealth. Besides, if they sneaked away, Sadeas would send troops after them. Trouble would track them down. Whatever their path, the bridgemen would have to kill to remain free.

He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering one of his escape attempts, when he’d kept his fellow slaves free for an entire week, hiding in the wilderness. They’d finally been caught by their master’s hunters. That was when he’d lost Nalma. None of that has to do with saving them here and now, Kaladin told himself. I need these spheres.

Sigzil was still talking about the Emuli. “To them,” the Worldsinger said, “the need to strike a man personally is crass. They wage war in the opposite way from you Alethi. The sword is not a weapon for a leader. A halberd is better, then a spear, and best of all a bow and arrow.”

Kaladin pulled another handful of spheres—skychips—from a soldier’s pocket. They were stuck to an aged hunk of sow’s cheese, fragrant and moldy. He grimaced, picking the spheres out and washing them in a puddle.

“Spears, used by lighteyes?” Drehy said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” Sigzil said, sounding offended. “I find the Emuli way to be interesting. In some countries, it is seen as displeasing to fight at all. To the Shin, for instance, if you must fight a man, then you have already failed. Killing is, at best, a brutish way of solving problems.”

“You’re not going be like Rock and refuse to fight, are you?” Skar asked, shooting a barely-veiled glare at the Horneater. Rock sniffed and turned his back on the shorter man,