Kaladin smiled as the apothecary shuffled forward with his cane, oblivious of the invisible windspren. His face was as full of chasms as the Shattered Plains themselves, weaving out in a pattern from his deeply recessed eyes. He wore a pair of thick spectacles on the tip of his nose, and was dressed in dark robes.

Kaladin’s father had told him of apothecaries—men who walked the line between herbalists and surgeons. Common people regarded the healing arts with enough superstition that it was easy for an apothecary to cultivate an arcane air. The wooden walls were draped with cloth glyphwards styled in cryptic patterns, and behind the counter were shelves with rows of jars. A full human skeleton hung in the far corner, held together by wires. The windowless room was lit with bundles of garnet spheres hanging from the corners.

Despite all that, the place was clean and tidy. It had the familiar scent of antiseptic Kaladin associated with his father’s surgery.

“Ah, young bridgeman.” The short apothecary adjusted his spectacles. He stooped forward, running his fingers through his wispy white beard. “Come for a ward against danger, perhaps? Or maybe a young washwoman in the camp has caught your eye? I have a potion which, if slipped into her drink, will make her regard you with favor.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow.

Syl, however, opened her mouth in an amazed expression. “You should give that to Gaz, Kaladin. It would be nice if he liked you more.”

I doubt that’s what it’s intended for, Kaladin thought with a smile.

“Young bridgeman?” the apothecary asked. “Is it a charm against evil you desire?”

Kaladin’s father had spoken of these things. Many apothecaries purveyed supposed love charms or potions to cure all manner of ailments. They’d contain nothing more than some sugar and a few pinches of common herbs to give a spike of alertness or drowsiness, depending on the purported effect. It was all nonsense, though Kaladin’s mother had put great stock in glyphwards. Kaladin’s father had always expressed disappointment in her stubborn way of clinging to “superstitions.”

“I need some bandages,” Kaladin said. “And a flask of lister’s oil or knobweed sap. Also, a needle and gut, if you have any.”

The apothecary’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“I’m the son of a surgeon,” Kaladin admitted. “Trained by his hand. He was trained by a man who had studied in the Great Concourse of Kharbranth.”

“Ah,” the apothecary said. “Well.” He stood up straighter, setting aside his cane and brushing his robes. “Bandages, you said? And some antiseptic? Let me see….” He moved back behind the counter.

Kaladin blinked. The man’s age hadn’t changed, but he didn’t seem nearly as frail. His step was firmer, and his voice had lost its whispering raspiness. He searched through his bottles, mumbling to himself as he read off his labels. “You could just go to the surgeon’s hall. They would charge you far less.”

“Not for a bridgeman,” Kaladin said, grimacing. He’d been turned away. The supplies there were for real soldiers.

“I see,” the apothecary said, setting a jar on the counter, then bending down to poke in some drawers.

Syl flitted over to Kaladin. “Every time he bends I think he’ll snap like a twig.” She was growing able to understand abstract thought, and at a surprisingly rapid pace.

I know what death is…. He still wasn’t certain whether to feel sorry for her or not.

Kaladin picked up the small bottle and undid the cork, smelling what was inside. “Larmic mucus?” He grimaced at the foul smell. “That’s not nearly as effective as the two I asked for.”

“But it’s far cheaper,” the old man said, coming up with a large box. He opened the lid, revealing sterile white bandages. “And you, as has been noted, are a bridgeman.”

“How much for the mucus, then?” He’d been worried about this; his father had never mentioned how much his supplies cost.

“Two bloodmarks for the bottle.”

“That’s what you consider cheap?”

“Lister’s oil costs two sapphire marks.”

“And knobweed sap?” Kaladin said. “I saw some of reeds of it growing just outside of camp! It can’t be that rare.”

“And do you know how much sap comes from a single plant?” the apothecary asked, pointing.

Kaladin hesitated. It wasn’t true sap, but a milky substance that you could squeeze from the stalks. Or so his father had said. “No,” Kaladin admitted.

“A single drop,” the man said. “If you’re lucky. It’s cheaper than lister’s oil, sure, but more expensive than the mucus. Even if the mucus does stink like the Nightwatcher’s own backside.”

“I don’t have that much,” Kaladin said. It was five diamond marks to a garnet. Ten days’ pay to buy one small jar of antiseptic. Stormfather!

The apothecary sniffed. “The needle and gut will cost two clearmarks. Can you afford that, at least?”

“Barely. How much for the bandages? Two full emeralds?”

“They’re just old scraps that I bleached and boiled. Two clearchips an arm length.”

“I’ll give a mark for the box.”

“Very well.” Kaladin reached into his pocket to get the spheres as the old apothecary continued, “You surgeons, all the same. Never give a blink to consider where your supplies come from. You just use them like there will be no end.”

“You can’t put a price on a person’s life,” Kaladin said. One of his father’s sayings. It was the main reason that Lirin had never charged for his services.

Kaladin brought out his four marks. He hesitated when he saw them, however. Only one was still glowing with its soft crystal light. The other three were dull, the bits of diamond barely visible at the center of the drops of glass.

“Here now,” the apothecary said, squinting. “You trying to pass dun spheres off on me?” He snatched one before Kaladin could complain, then fished around under his counter. He brought up a jeweler’s loupe, removing his spectacles and holding the sphere up toward the light. “Ah. No, that’s a real gemstone. You should get your spheres infused, bridgeman. Not everyone is as trusting as I am.”

“They were glowing this morning,” Kaladin protested. “Gaz must have paid me with run-down spheres.”

The apothecary removed his loupe and replaced the spectacles. He selected three marks, including the glowing one.

“Could I have that one?” Kaladin asked.

The apothecary frowned.

“Always keep a glowing sphere in your pocket,” Kaladin said. “It’s good luck.”

“You certain you don’t want a love potion?”

“If you get caught in the dark, you’ll have light,” Kaladin said tersely. “Besides, as you said, most people aren’t as trusting as you.”

Reluctantly, the apothecary traded the infused sphere for the dead one—though he did check it with the loupe to be certain. A dun sphere was worth just as much as an infused one; all you had to do was leave it out in a highstorm, and it would recharge and give off light for a week or so.

Kaladin pocketed the infused sphere and picked up his purchase. He nodded farewell to the apothecary, and Syl joined him as he stepped out into the camp’s street.