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Behind it, in a splintery half-crate, lay a pile of discarded liquor bottles. Glass was precious enough that whole bottles would be reused, but these had cracks or broken tops. Kaladin set down his bundles, then selected three nearly whole bottles. He washed them in a nearby water barrel before tucking them into a sack he’d brought for the purpose.
He picked up his bundles again, nodding to the others. “Try to look like you’re doing something monotonous,” he said. “Bow your heads.” The other two nodded, and they walked out into a main road, carrying the bundles as if on some work detail. They drew far less attention than they had before.
They avoided the lumberyard proper, crossing the open field of rock used as the army’s staging area before walking down the slope of rock leading to the Shattered Plains. A sentry saw them, and Kaladin held his breath, but he said nothing. He probably assumed from their postures that they had a reason to be doing what they were. If they tried to leave the warcamp, it would be a different story, but this section down near the first few chasms wasn’t off limits.
Before long, they approached the place where Kaladin had nearly killed himself. What a difference a few days could make. He felt like a different person—a strange hybrid of the man he had once been, the slave he’d become, and the pitiful wretch he still had to fight off. He remembered standing on the edge of the chasm, looking down. That darkness still terrified him.
If I fail to save the bridgemen, that wretch will take control again. This time he’ll get his way…. That gave Kaladin a shiver. He set his bundles down beside the chasm ledge, then sat. The other two followed more hesitantly.
“We’re going to toss them into the chasm?” Teft asked, scratching his beard. “After all that work?”
“Of course not,” Kaladin said. He hesitated; Nomon was bright, but it was still night. “You don’t have any spheres, do you?”
“Why?” Teft asked, suspicious.
“For light, Teft.”
Teft grumbled, pulling out a handful of garnet chips. “Was going to spend these tonight….” he said. They glowed in his palm.
“All right,” Kaladin said, slipping out a reed. What had his father said about these? Hesitantly, Kaladin broke off the furry top of the reed, exposing the hollow center. He took the reed by the other end and ran his fingers down its length, squeezing it tight. Two drops of milky white liquid dripped into the empty liquor bottle.
Kaladin smiled in satisfaction, then squeezed his fingers along the length again. Nothing came out this time, so he tossed the reed into the chasm. For all his talk of hats, he didn’t want to leave evidence.
“I thought you said we aren’t throwing them in!” Teft accused.
Kaladin held up the liquor bottle. “Only after we have this out.”
“What is it?” Rock leaned closer, squinting.
“Knobweed sap. Or, rather, knobweed milk—I don’t think it’s really sap. Anyway, it’s a powerful antiseptic.”
“Anti…what?” Teft asked.
“It scares away rotspren,” Kaladin said. “They cause infection. This milk is one of the best antiseptics there is. Spread it on a wound that’s already infected, and it will still work.” That was good, because Leyten’s wounds had begun to turn an angry red, rotspren crawling all over.
Teft grunted, then glanced at the bundles. “There are a lot of reeds here.”
“I know,” Kaladin said, handing over the other two bottles. “That’s why I’m glad I don’t have to milk them all on my own.”
Teft sighed, but sat down and untied a bundle. Rock did so without the complaining, sitting with his knees bent to the sides, feet pressed together to hold the bottle as he worked.
A faint breeze blew up, rattling some of the reeds. “Why do you care about them?” Teft finally asked.
“They’re my men.”
“That’s not what being bridgeleader means.”
“It means whatever we decide,” Kaladin said, noting that Syl had come over to listen. “You, me, the others.”
“You think they’ll let you do that?” Teft asked. “The lighteyes and the captains?”
“You think they’ll pay enough attention to even notice?”
Teft hesitated, then grunted, milking another reed.
“Perhaps they will,” Rock said. There was a surprising level of delicacy to the large man’s motions as he milked the reeds. Kaladin hadn’t thought those thick fingers would be so careful, so precise. “Lighteyes, they are often noticing those things that you wish they would not.”
Teft grunted again, agreeing.
“How did you come here, Rock?” Kaladin asked. “How does a Horneater end up leaving his mountains and coming to the lowlands?”
“You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things, son,” Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. “We don’t talk about our pasts.”
“We don’t talk about anything,” Kaladin said. “You two didn’t even know each other’s names.”
“Names are one thing,” Teft grumbled. “Backgrounds, they’re different. I—”
“Is all right,” Rock said. “I will speak of this thing.”
Teft muttered to himself, but he did lean forward to listen when Rock spoke.
“My people have no Shardblades,” Rock said in his low, rumbling voice.
“That’s not unusual,” Kaladin said. “Other than Alethkar and Jah Keved, few kingdoms have many Blades.” It was a matter of some pride among the armies.
“This thing is not true,” Rock said. “Thaylenah has five Blades and three full suits of Plate, all held by the royal guards. The Selay have their share of both suits and Blades. Other kingdoms, such as Herdaz, have a single Blade and set of Plate—this is passed down through the royal line. But the Unkalaki, we have not a single Shard. Many of our nuatoma—this thing, it is the same as your lighteyes, only their eyes are not light—”
“How can you be a lighteyes without light eyes?” Teft said with a scowl.
“By having dark eyes,” Rock said, as if it were obvious. “We do not pick our leaders this way. Is complicated. But do not interrupt story.” He milked another reed, tossing the husk into a pile beside him. “The nuatoma, they see our lack of Shards as great shame. They want these weapons very badly. It is believed that the nuatoma who first obtains a Shardblade would become king, a thing we have not had for many years. No peak would fight another peak where a man held one of the blessed Blades.”
“So you came to buy one?” Kaladin asked. No Shardbearer would sell his weapon. Each was a distinctive relic, taken from one of the Lost Radiants after their betrayal.
Rock laughed. “Ha! Buy? No, we are not so foolish as this. But my nuatoma, he knew of your tradition, eh? It says that if a man kills a Shardbearer, he may take the Blade and Plate as his own. And so my nuatoma and his house, we made a grand procession, coming down to find and kill one of your Shardbearers.”
Kaladin almost laughed. “I assume it proved more difficult than that.”
“My nuatoma was not a fool,” Rock said, defensive. “He knew this thing would be difficult, but your tradition, it gives us hope, you see? Occasionally, a brave nuatoma will come down to duel a Shardbearer. Someday, one will win, and we will have Shards.”
