looking eastward.
Change and decision. He checked over his shoulder. He’d passed the guard post, and now nobody was close enough to see him. So, belt laden with bags of spheres, Kaladin stepped off into the chasm.
* * *
Shallan did not care for Sadeas’s warcamp.
The air was different here than it was in Sebarial’s camp. It stank, and it smelled of desperation.
Was desperation even a smell? She thought she could describe it. The scent of sweat, of cheap drink, and of crem that had not been cleaned off the streets. That all churned above roads that were poorly lit. In Sebarial’s camp, people walked in groups. Here, they loped along in packs.
Sebarial’s camp smelled of spice and industry—of new leather and, sometimes, livestock. Dalinar’s camp smelled of polish and oil. Around every second corner in Dalinar’s camp, someone was doing something practical. There were too few soldiers in Dalinar’s camp these days, but each wore his uniform, as if it were a shield against the chaos of the times.
In Sadeas’s camp, the men who wore their uniforms wore them with unbuttoned jackets and wrinkled trousers. She passed tavern after tavern, each spitting forth a racket. The women who idled in front of some indicated that not all were simply taverns. Whorehouses were common in every camp, of course, but they seemed more blatant here.
She passed fewer parshmen than she commonly saw in Sebarial’s camp. Sadeas preferred traditional slaves: men and women with branded foreheads, scurrying about with backs bowed and shoulders slumped.
This was, honestly, what she’d expected from all of the warcamps. She’d read accounts of men at war—of camp followers and discipline problems. Of tempers flaring, of the attitudes of men who were trained to kill. Perhaps, instead of wondering at the awfulness of Sadeas’s camp, she should be marveling that the others weren’t the same.
Shallan hurried on her way. She wore the face of a young darkeyed man, her hair pushed up into her cap. She wore a pair of sturdy gloves. Even disguised as a boy, she wasn’t about to go around with her safehand exposed.
Before leaving tonight, she had done a series of sketches to use as new faces, if need be. Testing had proven she could draw a sketch in the morning, then use it for an image in the afternoon. If she waited longer than about a day, though, the image she created was blurred and sometimes looked melted. That made perfect sense to Shallan. The process of creation left a picture in her mind that eventually wore thin.
Her current face had been based on the messenger youths who moved in Sadeas’s camp. Though her heart thumped every time she passed a pack of soldiers, nobody gave her a second glance.
Amaram was a highlord—a man of third dahn, which made him a full rank higher than Shallan’s father had been, two ranks higher than Shallan herself. That entitled him to his own little domain within his liege’s warcamp. His manor flew his own banner, and he had his own personal military force occupying nearby buildings. Posts set into the stone and striped with his colors—burgundy and forest green—delineated his sphere of influence. She passed them without pausing.
“Hey, you!”
Shallan froze in place, feeling very small in the darkness. Not small enough. She turned slowly as a pair of patrolling guards walked up. Their uniforms were sharper than any she’d seen in this camp. Even the buttons were polished, though at the waists they wore skirtlike takama instead of trousers. Amaram was a traditionalist, and his uniforms reflected that.
The guards loomed over her, as most Alethi did. “Messenger?” one asked. “This time of night?” He was a solid fellow with a greying beard and a thick, wide nose.
“It’s not even second moon yet, sir,” Shallan said in what she hoped was a boyish voice.
He frowned at her. What had she said? Sir, she realized. He’s not an officer.
“Report at the guard posts from now on when you visit,” the man said, pointing toward a small, lit area in the distance behind them. “We’re going to start keeping a secure perimeter.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Oh, stop harassing the lad, Hav,” the other soldier said. “You can’t expect him to know rules that half the soldiers don’t even know yet.”
“On with you,” Hav said, waving Shallan through. She hastened to obey. A secure perimeter? She didn’t envy these men that task. Amaram didn’t have a wall to keep people out, just some striped posts.
Amaram’s manor was relatively small—two stories, with a handful