It was stone-gathering duty again, but that was nothing to complain about. He’d convinced the men that lifting the stones would improve their strength, and had enlisted the few he trusted the most to help gather the knobweed, the means by which he continued to—just barely—keep the men supplied with extra food and build his stock of medical supplies.

Two weeks. An easy two weeks, as the lives of bridgemen went. Only two bridge runs, and on one they’d gotten to the plateau too late. The Parshendi had escaped with the gemheart before they’d even arrived. That was good for bridgemen.

The other assault hadn’t been too bad, by bridgeman numbers. Two more dead: Amark and Koolf. Two more wounded: Narm and Peet. A fraction of what the other crews had lost, but still too many. Kaladin tried to keep his expression optimistic as he walked to the water barrel and took a ladle from one of the men, drinking it down.

Bridge Four would drown in its own wounded. They were only thirty strong, with five wounded who drew no pay and had to be fed out of the knobweed income. Counting those who’d died, they’d taken nearly thirty percent casualties in the weeks he’d begun trying to protect them. In Amaram’s army, that rate of casualties would have been catastrophic.

Back then, Kaladin’s life had been one of training and marching, punctuated by occasional frenzied bursts of battle. Here, the fighting was relentless. Every few days. That kind of thing could—would—wear an army down.

There has to be a better way, Kaladin thought, swishing the lukewarm water in his mouth, then pouring another ladle on his head. He couldn’t continue to lose two men a week to death and wounds. But how could they survive when their own officers didn’t care if they lived or died?

He barely kept himself from throwing the ladle into the barrel in frustration. Instead, he handed it to Skar and gave him an encouraging smile. A lie. But an important one.

Gaz watched from the shadow of one of the other bridgeman barracks. Syl’s translucent figure—shaped now like floating knobweed fluff—flitted around the bridge sergeant. Eventually, she made her way over to Kaladin, landing on his shoulder, taking her female form.

“He’s planning something,” she said.

“He hasn’t interfered,” Kaladin said. “He hasn’t even tried to stop us from having the nightly stew.”

“He was talking to that lighteyes.”

“Lamaril?”

She nodded.

“Lamaril’s his superior,” Kaladin said as he walked into the shade of Bridge Four’s barrack. He leaned against the wall, looking over at his men by the water barrel. They talked to one another now. Joked. Laughed. They went out drinking together in the evenings. Stormfather, but he never thought he’d be glad that the men under his command went drinking.

“I didn’t like their expressions,” Syl said, sitting down on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Dark. Like thunderclouds. I didn’t hear what they were saying. I noticed them too late. But I don’t like it, particularly that Lamaril.”

Kaladin nodded slowly.

“You don’t trust him either?” Syl asked.

“He’s a lighteyes.” That was enough.

“So we—”

“So we do nothing,” Kaladin said. “I can’t respond unless they try something. And if I spend all of my energy worrying about what they might do, I won’t be able to solve the problems we’re facing right now.”

What he didn’t add was his real worry. If Gaz or Lamaril decided to have Kaladin killed, there was little he could to do to stop them. True, bridgemen were rarely executed for anything other than failing to run their bridge. But even in an “honest” force like Amaram’s, there had been rumors of trumped-up charges and fake evidence. In Sadeas’s undisciplined, barely regulated camp, nobody would blink if Kaladin—a shash-branded slave—were strung up on some nebulous charge. They could leave him for the highstorm, washing their hands of his death, claiming that the Stormfather had chosen his fate.

Kaladin stood up straight and walked toward the carpentry section of the lumberyard. The craftsmen and their apprentices were hard at work cutting lengths of wood for spear hafts, bridges, posts, or furniture.

The craftsmen nodded to Kaladin as he passed. They were familiar with him now, used to his odd requests, like pieces of lumber long enough for four men to hold and run with to practice keeping cadence with one another. He found a half-finished bridge. It had eventually grown out of that one plank that Kaladin had used.

Kaladin knelt down, inspecting the wood. A group of men worked with a large saw just to his right, slicing thin rounds off a log. Those would probably become chair seats.

He ran his fingers along the smooth hardwood. All mobile bridges were made of a kind of wood called makam. It had a deep brown color, the grain almost hidden, and was both strong and light. The craftsmen had sanded this length smooth, and it smelled of sawdust and musky sap.

“Kaladin?” Syl asked, walking through the air then stepping onto the wood. “You look distant.”

“It’s ironic how well they craft these bridges,” he said. “This army’s carpenters are far more professional than its soldiers.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “The craftsmen want to make bridges that last. The soldiers I listen to, they just want to get to the plateau, grab the gemheart, and get away. It’s like a game to them.”

“That’s astute. You’re getting better and better at observing us.”

She grimaced. “I feel more like I’m remembering things I once knew.”

“Soon you’ll hardly be a spren at all. You’ll be a little translucent philosopher. We’ll have to send you off to a monastery to spend your time in deep, important thoughts.”

“Yes,” she said, “like how to best get the ardents there to accidentally drink a mixture that will turn his mouth blue.” She smiled mischievously.

Kaladin smiled back, but kept running his finger across the wood. He still didn’t understand why they wouldn’t let bridgemen carry shields. Nobody would give him a straight answer on the question. “They use makam because it’s strong enough for its weight to support a heavy cavalry charge,” he said. “We should be able to use this. They deny us shields, but we already carry one on our shoulders.”

“But how would they react if you try that?”

Kaladin stood. “I don’t know, but I also don’t have any other choice.”

Trying this would be a risk. A huge risk. But he’d run out of nonrisky ideas days ago.

“We can hold it here,” Kaladin said, pointing for Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. They stood beside a bridge turned up on its side, its underbelly exposed. The bottom was a complicated construction, with eight rows of three positions accommodating up to twenty-four men directly underneath, then sixteen sets of handles—eight on each side—for sixteen more men on the outside. Forty men, running shoulder to shoulder, if they had a full complement.

Each position underneath the bridge had an indentation for the bridgeman’s head, two curved blocks of wood to rest on his shoulders, and two rods for handholds. The bridgemen wore shoulder pads, and those who were shorter wore extras to compensate. Gaz generally tried to assign new bridgemen to crews based on their height.