up into the seat beside the carriage driver, then stopped.
“You!” he said, pointing at the driver.
“Me!” the King’s Wit replied from where he sat holding the reins. Blue eyes, black hair, black uniform. What was he doing driving the carriage? He wasn’t a servant, was he?
Kaladin clambered cautiously up into his seat, and Wit shook the reins, prodding the horses into motion.
“What are you doing here?” Kaladin asked him.
“Trying to find mischief,” Wit replied cheerfully, as the horses’ hooves rang against the stone. “Have you been practicing with my flute?”
“Uh . . .”
“Don’t tell me you left it in Sadeas’s camp when you moved out.”
“Well—”
“I said not to tell me,” Wit replied. “You don’t need to, since I already know. A shame. If you knew the history of that flute, it would make your brain flip upside-down. And by that, I mean that I would shove you off the carriage for having spied on me.”
“Uh . . .”
“Eloquent today, I see.”
Kaladin had left the flute behind. When he had gathered the bridgemen left in Sadeas’s camp—the wounded from Bridge Four, and the members of the other bridge crews—he’d been focused on people, not things. He hadn’t bothered with his little bundle of possessions, forgetting that the flute was among them.
“I’m a soldier, not a musician,” Kaladin said. “Besides, music is for women.”
“All people are musicians,” Wit countered. “The question is whether or not they share their songs. As for music being feminine, it’s interesting that the woman who wrote that treatise—the one you all practically worship in Alethkar—decided that all of the feminine tasks involve sitting around having fun while all the masculine ones involve finding someone to stick a spear in you. Telling, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“You know, I’m working very hard to come up with engaging, clever, meaningful points of interest to offer you. I can’t help thinking you’re not upholding your side of the conversation. It’s a little like playing music for a deaf man. Which I might try doing, as it sounds fun, if only someone hadn’t lost my flute.”
“I’m sorry,” Kaladin said. He’d rather be thinking about the new sword stances that Zahel had taught him, but Wit had shown him kindness before. The least Kaladin could do was chat with him. “So, uh, did you keep your job? As King’s Wit, I mean. When we met before, you implied you were in danger of losing your title.”
“I haven’t checked yet,” Wit said.
“You . . . you haven’t . . . Does the king know you’re back?”
“Nope! I’m trying to think of a properly dramatic way to inform him. Perhaps a hundred chasmfiends marching in unison, singing an ode to my magnificence.”
“That sounds . . . hard.”
“Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.”
“That didn’t help, Wit.”
“Ah! So you’re going deaf, are you? Let me know when the process is complete. I have something I want to try. If I can just remember—”
“Yes, yes,” Kaladin said, sighing. “You want to play the flute for one.”
“No, that’s not it . . . Ah! Yes. I’ve always wanted to sneak up and poke a deaf man in the back of the head. I think it will be hilarious.”
Kaladin sighed. It would take an hour or so, even moving quickly, to reach Sebarial’s warcamp. A very long hour.
“So you’re just here,” Kaladin said, “to mock me?”
“Well, it’s kind of what I do. But I’ll go easy on you. I wouldn’t want you to go flying off on me.”
Kaladin jolted with a start.
“You know,” Wit said, nonchalant, “flying off in an angry tirade. That kind of thing.”
Kaladin narrowed his eyes at the tall lighteyed man. “What do you know?”
“Almost everything. That almost part can be a real kick in the teeth sometimes.”
“What do you want, then?”
“What I can’t have.” Wit turned to him, eyes solemn. “Same as everyone else, Kaladin Stormblessed.”
Kaladin fidgeted. Wit knew about him and about Surgebinding. Kaladin was sure of it. So, should he expect some kind of demand?
“What do you want,” Kaladin said, trying to speak more precisely, “from me?”
“Ah, so you’re thinking. Good. From you, my friend, I want one thing. A story.”
“What kind of story?”
“That is for you to decide.” Wit smiled at him. “I hope it will be dynamic. If there is one thing I cannot stomach, it is boredom. Kindly avoid being dull. Otherwise