The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,99

backed away, rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Kaladin.

“Today’s third pass,” Kaladin said. “Payday.”

“You get your pay in an hour like everyone else.”

“No. You have it now; I saw you talking to the courier there.” He held out his hand.

Gaz grumbled, but pulled out a pouch and counted spheres. Tiny, tentative white lights shone at their centers. Diamond marks, each worth five diamond chips. A single chip would buy a loaf of bread.

Gaz counted out four marks, though there were five days to a week. He handed them to Kaladin, but Kaladin left his hand open, palm forward. “The other one, Gaz.”

“You said—”

“Now.”

Gaz jumped, then pulled out a sphere. “You have a strange way of keeping your word, lordling. You promised me…”

He trailed off as Kaladin took the sphere he’d just been given and handed it back.

Gaz frowned.

“Don’t forget where this comes from, Gaz. I’ll keep to my word, but you aren’t keeping part of my pay. I’m giving it to you. Understand?”

Gaz looked confused, though he did snatch the sphere from Kaladin’s hand.

“The money stops coming if something happens to me,” Kaladin said, tucking the other four spheres into his pocket. Then he stepped forward. Kaladin was a tall man, and he loomed over the much shorter Gaz. “Remember our bargain. Stay out of my way.”

Gaz refused to be intimidated. He spat to the side, the dark spittle clinging to the rock wall, oozing slowly. “I ain’t going to lie for you. If you think one cremstained mark a week will—”

“I expect only what I said. What is Bridge Four’s camp duty today?”

“Evening meal. Scrubbing and cleaning.”

“And bridge duty?”

“Afternoon shift.”

That meant the morning would be open. The crew would like that; they could spend payday losing their spheres on gambling or whores, perhaps forgetting for a short time the miserable lives they lived. They’d have to be back for afternoon duty, waiting in the lumberyard in case there was a bridge run. After evening meal, they’d go scrub pots.

Another wasted day. Kaladin turned to walk back to the lumberyard.

“You aren’t going to change anything,” Gaz called after him. “Those men are bridgemen for a reason.”

Kaladin kept walking, Syl zipping down from the roof to land on his shoulder.

“You don’t have authority,” Gaz called. “You’re not some squadleader on the field. You’re a storming bridgeman. You hear me? You can’t have authority without a rank!”

Kaladin left the alleyway behind. “He’s wrong.”

Syl walked around to hang in front of his face, hovering there while he moved. She cocked her head at him.

“Authority doesn’t come from a rank,” Kaladin said, fingering the spheres in his pocket.

“Where does it come from?”

“From the men who give it to you. That’s the only way to get it.” He looked back the way he’d come. Gaz hadn’t left the alleyway yet. “Syl, you don’t sleep, do you?”

“Sleep? A spren?” She seemed amused by the concept.

“Would you watch over me at night?” he said. “Make sure Gaz doesn’t sneak in and try something while I’m sleeping? He may try to have me killed.”

“You think he’d actually do that?”

Kaladin thought for a moment. “No. No, probably not. I’ve known a dozen men like him—petty bullies with just enough power to be annoying. Gaz is a thug, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. Besides, in his opinion, he doesn’t have to hurt me; he just has to wait until I get killed on a bridge run. Still, best to be safe. Watch over me, if you would. Wake me if he tries something.”

“Sure. But what if he just goes to more important men? Tells them to execute you?”

Kaladin grimaced. “Then there’s nothing I can do. But I don’t think he’d do that. It would make him look weak before his superiors.”

Besides, beheading was reserved for bridgemen who wouldn’t run at the Parshendi. So long as he ran, he wouldn’t be executed. In fact, the army leaders seemed hesitant to do much to punish bridgemen at all. One man had committed murder while Kaladin had been a bridgeman, and they’d strung the fool up in a highstorm. But other than that, all Kaladin had seen was a few men get their wages garnished for brawling, and a couple get whipped for being too slow during the early part of a bridge run.

Minimal punishments. The leaders of this army understood. The lives of bridgemen were as close to hopeless as possible; shove them down too much further, and the bridgemen might just stop caring and let themselves be killed.

Unfortunately, that