Jasnah hesitated at the doorway. “At first meeting, I took you for a rural opportunist, seeking only to ride my name to greater wealth.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“No,” Jasnah said, “there is undoubtedly some of that in you. But we are each many different people, and you can tell much about a person by what they carry with them. If that notebook is any indication, you pursue scholarship in your free time for its own sake. That is encouraging. It is, perhaps, the best argument you could make on your own behalf.
“If I cannot be rid of you, then I might as well make use of you. Go and sleep. Tomorrow we will begin early, and you will divide your time between your education and helping me with my studies.”
With that, Jasnah withdrew.
Shallan sat, bemused, blinking tired eyes. She got out a sheet of paper and wrote a quick prayer of thanks, which she’d burn later. Then she hurriedly gathered up her books and went looking for a servant to send to the Wind’s Pleasure for her trunk.
It had been a very, very long day. But she’d won. The first step had been completed.
Now her real task began.
The Shallan’s Notes
Chulls
Chulls are everywhere, of course, and they come in a variety of shapes and sizes. There must be far more breeds of the animals than I’d originally assumed. I’ve seen them pulling carts, towing boxes, carrying jugs of water in racks on their sides.
I even saw a man riding one for transportation, though it seems that walking would be far faster.
The shells aren’t nearly as heavy as they look.
In the wild, plants grow in the crevices, and a sleeping chull looks much like a boulder.
Apparently, the beasts aren’t hurt if the shell is cracked, or even shaped. Some people sand flat places on top to ride, and many carts are hooked to fittings drilled directly into the shell.
Many of the drivers here on the coast direct the animals by tapping on their antennae with a long pole, rather than using a complex leather bridle like the workers on my father’s estate.
9
Damnation
“Ten people, with Shardblades alight, standing before a wall of black and white and red.”
Kaladin had not been assigned to Bridge Four by chance. Out of all the bridge crews, Bridge Four had the highest casualty rate. That was particularly notable, considering that average bridge crews often lost one-third to one-half of their number on a single run.
Kaladin sat outside, back to the barrack wall, a sprinkle of rain falling on him. It wasn’t a highstorm. Just an ordinary spring rain. Soft. A timid cousin to the great storms.
Syl sat on Kaladin’s shoulder. Or hovered on it. Whatever. She didn’t seem to have any weight. Kaladin sat slumped, chin against his chest, staring at a dip in the stone, which was slowly collecting rainwater.
He should have moved inside Bridge Four’s barrack. It was cold and unfurnished, but it would keep off the rain. But he just… couldn’t care. How long had he been with Bridge Four now? Two weeks? Three? An eternity?
Of the twenty-five men who had survived his first bridge deployment, twenty-three were now dead. Two had been moved to other bridge crews because they’d done something to please Gaz, but they’d died there. Only one other man and Kaladin remained. Two out of nearly forty.
The bridge crew’s numbers had been replenished with more unfortunates, and most of those had died too. They had been replaced. Many of those had died. Bridgeleader after bridgeleader had been chosen. It was supposed to be a favored position on a bridge crew, always getting to run in the best places. It didn’t matter for Bridge Four.
Some bridge runs weren’t as bad. If the Alethi arrived before the Parshendi, no bridgemen died. And if they arrived too late, sometimes another highprince was already there. Sadeas wouldn’t help in that case; he’d take his army and go back to camp. Even in a bad run, the Parshendi would often choose to focus their arrows on certain crews, trying to bring them down one at a time. Sometimes, dozens of bridgemen would fall, but not a single one from Bridge Four.
That was rare. For some reason, Bridge Four always seemed to get targeted. Kaladin didn’t bother to learn the names of his companions. None of the bridgemen did. What was the point? Learn a man’s name, and one of you would be dead before the week was out. Odds were, you’d both be dead. Maybe he should learn names. Then he’d have someone to talk to in Damnation. They could reminisce about how terrible Bridge Four had been, and agree that eternal fires were much more pleasant.
He smirked dully, still staring at the rock in front of him. Gaz would come for them soon, send them to work. Scrubbing latrines, cleaning streets, mucking stables, gathering rocks. Something to keep their minds off their fate.
He still didn’t know why they fought on those blustering plateaus. Something about those large chrysalises. They had gemstones at their hearts, apparently. But what did that have to do with the Vengeance Pact?
Another bridgeman – a youthful Veden with reddish-blond hair – lay nearby, staring up into the spitting sky. Rainwater pooled in the corners of his brown eyes, then ran down his face. He didn’t blink.
They couldn’t run. The warcamp might as well have been a prison. The bridgemen could go to the merchants and spend their meager earnings on cheap wine or whores, but they couldn’t leave the warcamp. The perimeter was secure. Partially, this was to keep out soldiers from the other camps – there was always rivalry where armies met. But mostly it was so bridgemen and slaves could not flee.
Why? Why did this all have to be so horrible? None of it made sense. Why not let a few bridgemen run out in front of the bridges with shields to block arrows? He’d asked, and had been told that would slow them down too much. He’d asked again, and had been told he’d be strung up if he didn’t shut his mouth.
The lighteyes acted as if this entire mess were some kind of grand game. If it was, the rules were hidden from bridgemen, just as pieces on a board had no inkling what the player’s strategy might be.
“Kaladin?” Syl asked, floating down and landing on his leg, holding the girlish form with the long dress flowing into mist. “Kaladin? You haven’t spoken in days.”
He kept staring, slumped. There was a way out. Bridgemen could visit the chasm nearest the camp. There were rules forbidding it, but the sentries ignored them. It was seen as the one mercy that could be given the bridgemen.
Bridgemen who took that path never returned.
“Kaladin?” Syl said, voice soft, worried.
“My father used to say that there are two kinds of people in the world,” Kaladin whispered, voice raspy. “He said there are those who take lives. And there are those who save lives.”
Syl frowned, cocking her head. This kind of conversation confused her; she wasn’t good with abstractions.
“I used to think he was wrong. I thought there was a third group. People who killed in order to save.” He shook his head. “I was a fool. There is a third group, a big one, but it isn’t what I thought.”
“What group?” she said, sitting down on his knee, brow scrunched up.
“The people who exist to be saved or to be killed. The group in the middle. The ones who can’t do anything but die or be protected. The victims. That’s all I am.”