“You know,” Kaladin said to Syl, “talking to you probably doesn’t do anything for my reputation of being insane.”

“I’ll do my best to stop being so interesting,” Syl said, alighting on his shoulder. She put her hands on her hips, then plopped down to a sitting position, smiling, obviously pleased with her comment.

Before Kaladin could get back to the barrack, he noticed Gaz hustling across the lumberyard toward him. “You!” Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin. “Hold a season.”

Kaladin stopped, waiting with folded arms.

“I’ve news for you,” Gaz said, squinting with his good eye. “Brightlord Lamaril heard what you did with the wounded.”

“How?”

“Storms, boy!” Gaz said. “You think people wouldn’t talk? What were you going to do? Hide three men in the middle of us all?”

Kaladin took a deep breath, but backed down. Gaz was right. “All right. What does it matter? We didn’t slow the army.”

“Yeah,” Gaz said, “but Lamaril isn’t too polished on the idea of paying and feeding bridgemen who can’t work. He took the matter to Highprince Sadeas, intending to have you strung up.”

Kaladin felt a chill. Strung up would mean hung out during a highstorm for the Stormfather to judge. It was essentially a death sentence. “And?”

“Brightlord Sadeas refused to let him do it,” Gaz said.

What? Had he misjudged Sadeas? But no. This was part of the act.

“Brightlord Sadeas,” Gaz said grimly, “told Lamaril to let you keep the soldiers—but to forbid them food or pay while they’re unable to work. Said it would show why he’s forced to leave bridgemen behind.”

“That cremling,” Kaladin muttered.

Gaz paled. “Hush. That’s the highprince himself you’re talking about, boy!” He glanced about to see if anyone had heard.

“He’s trying to make an example of my men. He wants the other bridgemen to see the wounded suffer and starve. He wants it to seem like he’s doing a mercy by leaving the wounded behind.”

“Well, maybe he’s right.”

“It’s heartless,” Kaladin said. “He brings back wounded soldiers. He leaves the bridgemen because it’s cheaper to find new slaves than it is to care for wounded ones.”

Gaz fell silent.

“Thank you for bringing me this news.”

“News?” Gaz snapped. “I was sent to give you orders, lordling. Don’t try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded; you’ll be refused.” With that, he rushed away, muttering to himself.

Kaladin made his way back to the barrack. Stormfather! Where was he going to get food enough to feed three men? He could split his own meals with them, but while bridgemen were kept fed, they weren’t given an excess. Even feeding one man beyond himself would be a stretch. Trying to split the meals four ways would leave the wounded too weak to recover and Kaladin too weak to run bridges. And he still needed antiseptic! Rotspren and disease killed far more men in war than the enemy did.

Kaladin stepped up to the men lounging by the barrack. Most were going about the usual bridgeman activities—sprawled on the ground and despondently staring into the air, sitting and despondently staring at the ground, standing and despondently staring into the distance. Bridge Four wasn’t on bridge duty at all this day, and they didn’t have work detail until third afternoon bell.

“Gaz says our wounded are to be refused food or pay until they are well,” Kaladin said to the collected men.

Some of them—Sigzil, Peet, Koolf—nodded, as if this was what they’d expected.

“Highprince Sadeas wants to make an example of us,” Kaladin said. “He wants to prove that bridgemen aren’t worth healing, and he’s going to do it by making Hobber, Leyten, and Dabbid die slow, painful deaths.” He took a deep breath. “I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for the wounded. We can keep those three alive if a few of you will split your meals with them. We’ll need about two dozen or so clearmarks to buy the right medicine and supplies. Who has something they can spare?”

The men stared at him, then Moash started laughing. Others joined him. They waved dismissive hands and broke up, walking away, leaving Kaladin with his hand out. “Next time it could be you!” he called. “What will you do if you’re the one that needs healing?”

“I’ll die,” Moash said, not even bothering to look back. “Out on the field, quickly, rather than back here over a week’s time.”

Kaladin lowered his hand. He sighed, turning, and almost ran into Rock. The beefy, towerlike Horneater stood with arms folded, like a tan-skinned statue. Kaladin looked up at him, hopeful.

“Don’t have any spheres,” Rock said with a grunt. “Is all spent already.”

Kaladin sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Two of us couldn’t afford to buy the medicine. Not alone.”

“I will give some food,” Rock grumbled.

Kaladin glanced back at him, surprised.

“But only for this man with arrow in his leg,” Rock said, arms still folded.

“Hobber?”

“Whatever,” Rock said. “He looks like he could get better. Other one, he will die. Is certain. And I have no pity for man who sits there, not doing anything. But for the other one, you may have my food. Some of it.”

Kaladin smiled, raising a hand and gripping the larger man’s arm. “Thank you.”

Rock shrugged. “You took my place. Without this thing, I would be dead.”

Kaladin smirked at that logic. “I’m not dead, Rock. You’d be fine.”

Rock shook his head. “I’d be dead. Is something strange about you. All men can see it, even if they don’t want to speak of this thing. I looked at bridge where you were. Arrows hit all around you—beside your head, next to your hands. But they weren’t hitting you.”

“Luck.”

“Is no such thing.” Rock glanced at Kaladin’s shoulder. “Besides, there is mafah’liki who always follows you.” The large Horneater bowed his head reverently to Syl, then made a strange gesture with his hand touching his shoulders and then his forehead.

Kaladin started. “You can see her?” He glanced at Syl. As a windspren, she could appear to those she wanted to—and that generally only meant Kaladin.

Syl seemed shocked. No, she hadn’t appeared to Rock specifically.

“I am alaii’iku,” Rock said, shrugging.

“Which means…”

Rock scowled. “Airsick lowlanders. Is there nothing proper you know? Anyway, you are special man. Bridge Four, it lost eight runners yesterday counting the three wounded.”

“I know,” Kaladin said. “I broke my first promise. I said I wasn’t going to lose a single one.”

Rock snorted. “We are bridgemen. We die. Is how this thing works. You might as well promise to make the moons catch each other!” The large man turned, pointing toward one of the other barracks. “Of the bridges that were fired upon, most lost many men. Five bridges fell. They lost over twenty men each and needed soldiers to help get bridges back. Bridge Two lost eleven men, and it wasn’t even a focus of firing.”