The Way of Kings

“Amaram’s army,” Kaladin said. “A citizen, second nahn.”

“Once a citizen,” Tvlakv put in quickly. “He was–”

She silenced Tvlakv again with her rod, glaring at him. Then she used the rod to push aside Kaladin’s hair and inspect his forehead.

“Shash glyph,” she said, clicking her tongue. Several of the soldiers nearby stepped closer, hands on their swords. “Where I come from, slaves who deserve these are simply executed.”

“They are fortunate,” Kaladin said.

“And how did you end up here?”

“I killed someone,” Kaladin said, preparing his lies carefully. Please, he thought to the Heralds. Please. It had been a long time since he had prayed for anything.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a murderer, Brightness,” Kaladin said. “Got drunk, made some mistakes. But I can use a spear as well as any man. Put me in your brightlord’s army. Let me fight again.” It was a strange lie to make, but the woman would never let Kaladin fight if she thought he was a deserter. In this case, better to be known as an accidental murderer.

Please… he thought. To be a soldier again. It seemed, in one moment, the most glorious thing he could ever have wanted. How much better it would be to die on the battlefield than waste away emptying chamber pots.

To the side, Tvlakv stepped up beside the lighteyed woman. He glanced at Kaladin, then sighed. “He’s a deserter, Brightness. Don’t listen to him.”

No! Kaladin felt a blazing burst of anger consume his hope. He raised hands toward Tvlakv. He’d strangle the rat, and–

Something cracked him across the back. He grunted, stumbling and falling to one knee. The noblewoman stepped back, raising her safehand to her breast in alarm. One of the army soldiers grabbed Kaladin and towed him back to his feet.

“Well,” she finally said. “That is unfortunate.”

“I can fight,” Kaladin growled against the pain. “Give me a spear. Let me–”

She raised her rod, cutting him off.

“Brightness,” Tvlakv said, not meeting Kaladin’s eyes. “I would not trust him with a weapon. It is true that he is a murderer, but he is also known to disobey and lead rebellions against his masters. I couldn’t sell him to you as a bonded soldier. My conscience, it would not allow it.” He hesitated. “The men in his wagon, he might have corrupted them all with talk of escape. My honor demands that I tell you this.”

Kaladin gritted his teeth. He was tempted to try to take down the soldier behind him, grab that spear and spend his last moments ramming it through Tvlakv’s portly gut. Why? What did it matter to Tvlakv how Kaladin was treated by this army?

I should never have ripped up the map, Kaladin though. Bitterness is repaid more often than kindness. One of his father’s sayings.

The woman nodded, moving on. “Show me which ones,” she said. “I’ll still take them, because of your honesty. We need some new bridgemen.”

Tvlakv nodded eagerly. Before moving on, he paused and leaned in to Kaladin. “I cannot trust that you will behave. The people in this army, they will blame a merchant for not revealing all he knew. I… am sorry.” With that, the merchant scuttled away.

Kaladin growled in the back of his throat, and then pulled himself free of the soldiers, but remained in line. So be it. Cutting down trees, building bridges, fighting in the army. None of it mattered. He would just keep living. They’d taken his freedom, his family, his friends, and – most dear of all – his dreams. They could do nothing more to him.

After her inspection, the noblewoman took a writing board from her assistant and made a few quick notations on its paper. Tvlakv gave her a ledger detailing how much each slave had paid down on their slave debt. Kaladin caught a glimpse; it said that not a single one of the men had paid anything. Perhaps Tvlakv lied about the figures. Not unlikely.

Kaladin would probably just let all of his wages go to his debt this time. Let them squirm as they saw him actually call their bluff. What would they do if he got close to earning out his debt? He’d probably never find out – depending on what these bridgemen earned, it could take anything from ten to fifty years to get there.

The lighteyed woman assigned most of the slaves to forest duty. A half-dozen of the more spindly ones were sent to work the mess halls, despite what she’d said before. “Those ten,” the noblewoman said, raising her rod to point at Kaladin and the others from his wagon. “Take them to the bridge crews. Tell Lamaril and Gaz that the tall one is to be given special treatment.”

The soldiers laughed, and one began shoving Kaladin’s group along the pathway. Kaladin endured it; these men had no reason to be gentle, and he wouldn’t give them a reason to be rougher. If there was a group citizen soldiers hated more than mercenaries, it was deserters.