“Up and organize!” Kaladin shouted in his best squadleader’s voice. He shocked himself with the authority in it.
The men blinked bleary eyes.
“That means,” Kaladin bellowed, “out of the barrack and form ranks! You’ll do it now, storm you, or I’ll haul you out one by one myself!”
Syl fluttered down and landed on his shoulder, watching curiously. Some of the bridgemen sat up, staring at him, baffled. Others turned over in their blankets, putting their backs to him.
Kaladin took a deep breath. “So be it.” He strode into the room and chose a lean Alethi named Moash. He was a strong man; Kaladin needed an example, and one of the skinnier men like Dunny or Narm wouldn’t do. Plus, Moash was one of those who’d turned over to go back to sleep.
Kaladin grabbed Moash by one arm and heaved, pulling with all his strength. Moash stumbled to his feet. He was a younger man, perhaps near Kaladin’s age, and had a hawkish face.
“Storm off!” Moash snapped, pulling his arm back.
Kaladin punched Moash right in the gut, where he knew it would wind him. Moash gasped in shock, doubling over, and Kaladin stepped forward to grab him by the legs, slinging Moash over his shoulder.
Kaladin almost toppled from the weight. Luckily, carrying bridges was harsh but effective strength training. Of course, few bridgemen survived long enough to benefit from it. It didn’t help that there were unpredictable lulls between runs. That was part of the problem; the bridge crews spent most of their time staring at their feet or doing menial chores, then were expected to run for miles carrying a bridge.
He carted the shocked Moash outside and set him down on the stone. The rest of the camp was awake, woodworkers arriving at the lumberyard, soldiers jogging to their breakfast or training. The other bridge crews, of course, were still asleep. They were often allowed to sleep late, unless they were on morning bridge duty.
Kaladin left Moash and walked back into the low-ceilinged barrack. “I’ll do the same to each of you, if I have to.”
He didn’t have to. The shocked bridgemen filed out into the light, blinking. Most stood bare-backed to the sunlight, wearing only knee-length trousers. Moash climbed to his feet, rubbing his stomach and glaring at Kaladin.
“Things are going to change in Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “For one thing, there will be no more sleeping in.”
“And what are we going to do instead?” Sigzil demanded. He had dark brown skin and black hair—that meant he was Makabaki, from southwestern Roshar. He was the only bridgeman without a beard, and judging by his smooth accent, he was probably Azish or Emuli. Foreigners were common in bridge crews—those who didn’t fit in often made their way to the crem of an army.
“Excellent question,” Kaladin said. “We are going to train. Each morning before our daily chores, we will run the bridge in practice to build up our endurance.”
More than one of the men’s expressions grew dark at this.
“I know what you are thinking,” Kaladin said. “Aren’t our lives hard enough? Shouldn’t we be able to relax during the brief times we have for it?”
“Yeah,” said Leyten, a tall, stout man with curly hair. “That’s right.”
“No,” Kaladin snapped. “Bridge runs exhaust us because we spend most of our days lounging. Oh, I know we have chores—foraging in the chasms, cleaning latrines, scrubbing floors. But the soldiers don’t expect us to work hard; they just want us busy. The work helps them ignore us.
“As your bridgeleader, my primary duty is to keep you alive. There’s not much I can do about the Parshendi arrows, so I have to do something about you. I have to make you stronger, so that when you charge that last leg of a bridge run—arrows flying—you can run quickly.” He met the eyes of the men in the line, one at a time. “I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man.”
The men stared at him incredulously. Finally, a hefty, thick-limbed man at the back bellowed out a laugh. He had tan skin, deep red hair, and was nearly seven feet tall, with large arms and a powerful torso. The Unkalaki—simply called Horneaters by most—were a group of people from the middle of Roshar, near Jah Keved. He’d given his name as “Rock” the previous night.
“Crazy!” said the Horneater. “Is crazy man who now thinks to lead us!” He laughed in a deep-bellied way. The others joined him, shaking their heads at Kaladin’s speech. A few laughterspren—minnowlike silver spirits that darted through the air in circular patterns—began to zip about them.
“Hey Gaz,” Moash called, cupping his hand around his mouth.
The short, one-eyed sergeant was chatting with some soldiers nearby. “What?” Gaz yelled back with a scowl.
“This one wants us to carry bridges about as practice,” Moash called back. “Do we have to do what he says?”
“Bah,” Gaz said, waving a hand. “Bridgeleaders only have authority in the field.”
Moash glanced back at Kaladin. “Looks like you can storm off, friend. Unless you’re going to beat us all into submission.”
They broke apart, some men wandering back into the barrack, some walking toward the mess halls. Kaladin was left standing alone on the stones.
“That didn’t go so well,” Syl said from his shoulder.
“No. It didn’t.”
“You look surprised.”
“No, just frustrated.” He glared at Gaz. The bridge sergeant turned away from him pointedly. “In Amaram’s army, I was given men who were inexperienced, but never ones who were blatantly insubordinate.”
“What’s the difference?” Syl asked. Such an innocent question. The answer should have been obvious, but she cocked her head in confusion.
“The men in Amaram’s army knew they had worse places they could go. You could punish them. These bridgemen know they’ve reached the bottom.” With a sigh, he let some of his tension bleed away. “I’m lucky I got them out of the barrack.”
“So what do you do now?”
“I don’t know.” Kaladin glanced to the side, where Gaz still stood chatting with the soldiers. “Actually, yes I do.”
Gaz caught sight of Kaladin approaching and displayed a look of urgent, wide-eyed horror. He broke off his conversation and hastily rushed around the side of a stack of logs.
“Syl,” Kaladin said, “could you follow him for me?”
She smiled, then became a faint line of white, shooting through the air and leaving a trail that vanished slowly. Kaladin stopped where Gaz had been standing.
Syl zipped back a short time later and reassumed her girlish form. “He’s hiding between those two barracks.” She pointed. “He’s crouched there, watching to see if you follow.”
With a smile, Kaladin took the long way around the barracks. In the alleyway, he found a figure crouching in the shadows, watching in the other direction. Kaladin crept forward, then grabbed Gaz’s shoulder. Gaz let out a yelp, spinning, swinging. Kaladin caught the fist easily.
Gaz looked up at Kaladin with horror. “I wasn’t going to lie! Storm you, you don’t have authority anywhere other than on the field. If you hurt me again, I’ll have you—”
“Calm yourself, Gaz,” Kaladin said, releasing the man. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not yet, at least.”
The shorter man 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.”