The Way of Kings (114 page)

Sadeas’s officer hesitated. The officer in blue rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The other two were holding fine halberds with gleaming half-moon heads.

A group of soldiers in red moved out of the crowd and began to surround those in blue. The air grew tense, and Kaladin realized that the street—bustling just moments ago—was quickly emptying. He stood practically alone, the only one watching the three men in blue, now surrounded by seven in red. The woman was still on the ground, sniffling. She huddled next to the blue garbed officer.

The man who had kicked her—a thick-browed brute with a mop of uncombed black hair—began to button up the right side of his coat. “You don’t belong here, friends. It seems you wandered into the wrong warcamp.”

“We have legitimate business,” said the officer in blue. He had light golden hair, speckled with Alethi black, and a handsome face. He held his hand before him as if wishing to shake hands with Sadeas’s officer. “Come now,” he said affably. “Whatever your problem with this woman, I’m sure it can be resolved without anger or violence.”

Kaladin moved back under the overhang where Syl had hidden.

“She’s a whore,” Sadeas’s man said.

“I can see that,” replied the man in blue. He kept his hand out.

The officer in red spat on it.

“I see,” said the blond man. He pulled his hand back, and twisting lines of mist gathered in the air, coalescing in his hands as he raised them to an offensive posture. A massive sword appeared, as long as a man is tall.

It dripped with water that condensed along its cold, glimmering length. It was beautiful, long and sinuous, its single edge rippled like an eel and curved up into a point. The back bore delicate ridges, like crystal formations.

Sadeas’s officer stumbled away and fell, his face pale. The soldiers in red scattered. The officer cursed at them—as vile a curse as Kaladin had ever heard—but none returned to help him. With a final glare, he scrambled up the steps back into the building.

The door slammed, leaving the roadway eerily silent. Kaladin was the only one on the street besides the soldiers in blue and the fallen courtesan. The Shardbearer gave Kaladin a glance, but obviously judged him no threat. He thrust his sword into the stones; the blade sank in easily and stood with its hilt toward the sky.

The young Shardbearer then gave his hand to the fallen whore. “What did you do to him, out of curiosity?”

Hesitantly, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “He refused to pay, claiming his reputation made it a pleasure for me.” She grimaced. “He kicked me the first time after I made a comment about his ‘reputation.’ It apparently wasn’t what he thought he was known for.”

The brightlord chuckled. “I suggest you insist on being paid
first
from now on. We’ll escort you to the border. I advise against returning to Sadeas’s warcamp anytime soon.”

The woman nodded, holding the front of her dress to her chest. Her safehand was still exposed. Sleek, with tan skin, the fingers long and delicate. Kaladin found himself staring at it and blushing. She sidled up to the brightlord while his two comrades watched the sides of the streets, halberds ready. Even with her hair disheveled and her makeup smudged, she was quite pretty. “Thank you, Brightlord. Perhaps I could interest you? There would be no charge.”

The young brightlord raised an eyebrow. “Tempting,” he said, “but my father would kill me. He has this thing about the old ways.”

“A pity,” she said, pulling away from him, awkwardly covering her chest as she slipped her arm into its sleeve. She took out a glove for her safehand. “Your father is quite prudish, then?”

“You might say that.” He turned toward Kaladin. “Ho, bridgeboy.”

Bridgeboy?
This lordling looked to be just a few years older than Kaladin himself.

“Run and give word to Brightlord Reral Makoram,” the Shardbearer said, flipping something across the street toward Kaladin. A sphere. It sparkled in the sunlight before Kaladin caught it. “He’s in the Sixth Battalion. Tell him that Adolin Kholin won’t make today’s meeting. I’ll send word to reschedule another time.”

Kaladin looked down at the sphere. An emerald chip. More than he normally earned in two weeks. He looked up; the young brightlord and his two men were already retreating, the whore following.

“You rushed to help her,” a voice said. He looked up as Syl floated down to rest on his shoulder. “That was very noble of you.”

“Those others got there first,” Kaladin said.
And one of them a lighteyes, no less. What was in it for him?

“You still tried to help.”

“Foolishly,” Kaladin said. “What would I have done? Fought down a lighteyes? That would have drawn half the camp’s soldiers down on me, and the whore would just have been beaten more for causing such a fracas. She could have ended up dead for my efforts.” He fell silent. That sounded too much like what he’d been saying before.

He couldn’t give in to assuming he was cursed, or had bad luck, or whatever it was. Superstition never got a man anywhere. But he had to admit, the pattern
was
disturbing. If he acted as he always had before, how could he expect different results? He had to try something new. Change, somehow. This was going to take more thought.

Kaladin began walking back toward the lumberyard.

“Aren’t you going to do what the brightlord asked?” Syl said. She didn’t show any lingering effects of her sudden fright; it was as if she wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“After how he treated me?” Kaladin snapped.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“I’m not going to bow to them,” Kaladin said. “I’m done running at their whims just because they
expect
me to do so. If he was so worried about this message, then he should have waited to make certain I was willing.”

“You took his sphere.”

“Earned by the sweat of the darkeyes he exploits.”

Syl fell silent for a moment. “This darkness about you when you talk of them frightens me, Kaladin. You stop being yourself when you think about lighteyes.”

He didn’t respond, just continuing on his way. He owed that brightlord nothing, and besides, he had orders to be back in the lumberyard.

But the man
had
stepped up to protect the woman.

No,
Kaladin told himself forcefully.
He was just looking for a way to embarrass one of Sadeas’s officers. Everyone knows there’s tension between the camps.

And that was all he let himself think on the subject.

ONE YEAR AGO

Kaladin turned the rock over in his fingers, letting the facets of suspended quartz catch the light. He leaned against a large boulder, one foot pressed back against the stone, his spear next to him.

The rock caught the light, spinning it in different colors, depending on the direction he turned it. Beautiful, miniature crystals shimmered, like the cities made of gemstones mentioned in lore.

Around him, Highmarshal Amaram’s army prepared for battle. Six thousand men sharpened spears or strapped on leather armor. The battlefield was nearby, and, with no highstorms expected, the army had spent the night in tents.

It had been nearly four years since he’d joined Amaram’s army on that rainy night. Four years. And an eternity.

Soldiers hurried this way and that. Some raised hands and called greetings to Kaladin. He nodded to them, pocketing the stone, then folded his arms to wait. In the near distance, Amaram’s standard was already flying, a burgundy field blazoned with a dark green glyphpair shaped like a whitespine with tusks upraised.
Merem
and
khakh
, honor and determination. The banner fluttered before a rising sun, the morning’s chill starting to give way to the heat of the day.

Kaladin turned, looking eastward. Toward a home to which he could never return. He’d decided months ago. His enlistment would be up in a few weeks, but he would sign on again. He couldn’t face his parents after having broken his promise to protect Tien.

A heavyset darkeyed soldier trotted up to him, an axe strapped to his back, white knots on his shoulders. The nonstandard weapon was a privilege of being a squadleader. Gare had beefy forearms and a thick black beard, though he’d lost a large section of scalp on the right side of his head. He was followed by two of his sergeants—Nalem and Korabet.

“Kaladin,” Gare said. “Stormfather, man! Why are you pestering me? On a battle day!”

“I’m well aware of what’s ahead, Gare,” Kaladin said, arms still folded. Several companies were already gathering, forming ranks. Dallet would see Kaladin’s own squad into place. At the front, they’d decided. Their enemy—a lighteyes named Hallaw—was fond of long volleys. They’d fought his men several times before. One time in particular was burned into Kaladin’s memory and soul.

He had joined Amaram’s army expecting to defend the Alethi borders—and defend them he did. Against other Alethi. Lesser landlords who sought to slice off bits of Highprince Sadeas’s lands. Occasionally, Amaram’s armies would try to seize territory from other highprinces—lands Amaram claimed really belonged to Sadeas and had been stolen years before. Kaladin didn’t know what to make of that. Of all lighteyes, Amaram was the only one he trusted. But it did seem like they were doing the same thing as the armies they fought.

“Kaladin?” Gare asked impatiently.

“You have something I want,” Kaladin said. “New recruit, just joined yesterday. Galan says his name is Cenn.”

Gare scowled. “I’m supposed to play this game with you
now
? Talk to me after the battle. If the boy survives, maybe I’ll give him to you.” He turned to leave, cronies following.

Kaladin stood up straight, picking up his spear. The motion stopped Gare in his tracks.

“It’s not going to be a trouble to you,” Kaladin said quietly. “Just send the boy to my squad. Accept your payment. Stay quiet.” He pulled out a pouch of spheres.

“Maybe I don’t want to sell him,” Gare said, turning back.

“You’re not selling him. You’re transferring him to me.”

Gare eyed the pouch. “Well then, maybe I don’t like how everyone does what
you
tell them. I don’t care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own.”

“I’m not going to give you any more, Gare,” Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. “We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line soldier. Send him to me.”

Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Kaladin kept walking.

“What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?” Gare called after Kaladin. “Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you
want
to get killed!”

Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they’d heard of his reputation. Youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank.

The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west.

The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an
actual
border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram’s troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day.

That wasn’t for spearmen to think about. So he’d been told. Repeatedly. He supposed he should listen, as he figured that his duty was to keep his squad alive as best he could. Winning was secondary to that.

You can’t kill to protect….

He found the surgeon’s station easily; he could smell the scents of antiseptics and of small fires burning. Those smells reminded him of his youth, which now seemed so far, far away. Had he ever really planned to go become a surgeon? What had happened to his parents? What of Roshone?

Meaningless, now. He’d sent word to them via Amaram’s scribes, a terse note that had cost him a week’s wages. They knew he’d failed, and they knew he didn’t intend to return. There had been no reply.

Ven was the chief of the surgeons, a tall man with a bulbous nose and a long face. He stood watching as his apprentices folded bandages. Kaladin had once idly considered getting wounded so he could join them; all of the apprentices had some incapacitation that prevented them from fighting. Kaladin hadn’t been able to do it. Wounding himself seemed cowardly. Besides, surgery was his old life. In a way, he didn’t deserve it anymore.

Kaladin pulled a pouch of spheres from his belt, meaning to toss it to Ven. The pouch stuck, however, refusing to come free of the belt. Kaladin cursed, stumbling, tugging at the pouch. It came free suddenly, causing him to lose his balance again. A translucent white form zipped away, spinning with a carefree air.