After so many years away, thinking of his mother tongue felt strange. He yawned again, settling on his cot, back to the stone wall. They had three small barracks and a common room in the center.
Out there, everyone pushed, ramble-scramble, up to the breakfast table. Rock had to shout at them—yet again—to organize themselves. Months in Bridge Four, now apprentice Knights Radiant, and the lot of them still couldn’t figure out how to line up properly. They wouldn’t last a day in Azir, where queuing in an orderly way wasn’t only expected, it was practically a mark of national pride.
Sigzil rested his head against the wall, remembering. He’d been the first from his family in generations with a real shot at passing the exams. A silly dream. Everyone in Azir talked about how even the humblest man could become Prime, but the son of a laborer had so little time to study.
He shook his head, then washed with a basin of water he’d fetched the night before. He took a comb to his hair, and inspected himself in a polished length of steel. His hair was growing far too long; the tight black curls had a tendency to stick straight out.
He set out a sphere to use its light for a shave—he had acquired his own razor. Soon after he started, however, he nicked himself. He sucked in a breath at the pain, and his sphere winked out. What …
His skin started glowing, letting off a faint luminescent smoke. Oh, right. Kaladin was back.
Well, that was going to solve so many problems. He got out another sphere, and did his best not to eat this one as he finished shaving. Afterward, he pressed his hand against his forehead. Once, he’d had slave brands there. The Stormlight had healed those, though his Bridge Four tattoo remained.
He rose and put on his uniform. Kholin blue, sharp and neat. He slid his new hogshide notebook into his pocket, then stepped out into the common room—and stopped short as Lopen’s face swung down right in front of him. Sigzil almost slammed into the Herdazian, who was stuck by the bottoms of his feet to the storming ceiling.
“Hey,” Lopen said, bowl of morning porridge held upside down—or, well, right-side up, but upside down to Lopen—in front of him. The Herdazian tried to take a bite, but the porridge slipped off his spoon and splatted to the ground.
“Lopen, what are you doing?”
“Practicing. I’ve got to show them how good I am, hooch. It’s like with women, only it involves sticking yourself to the ceiling and learning not to spill food on the heads of people you like.”
“Move, Lopen.”
“Ah, you have to ask the right way. I’m not one-armed anymore! I can’t be shoved around. Say, do you know how to get two armed Herdazians to do what you want?”
“If I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Well, you take away both of their spears, obviously.” He grinned. A few feet away, Rock laughed with a loud “Ha!”
Lopen wiggled his fingers at Sigzil, as if to taunt him, fingernails glistening. Like all Herdazians, he had fingernails that were dark brown and hard as crystal. A bit reminiscent of carapace.
He still had a tattoo on his head too. Though so far only a few of Bridge Four had learned to draw in Stormlight, each of those had kept their tattoos. Only Kaladin was different; his tattoo had melted off once he took in Stormlight, and his scars refused to heal.
“Remember that one for me, hooch,” Lopen said. He never would explain what “hooch” meant, or why he used it only to refer to Sigzil. “I’ll need, sure, lots and lots of new jokes. Also sleeves. Twice as many of those, except on vests. Then the same number.”
“How did you even manage to get up there, so you could stick your feet … no, don’t start. I don’t actually want to know.” Sigzil ducked under Lopen.
The men were still scrambling for food, laughing and shouting in complete disarray. Sigzil shouted to get their attention. “Don’t forget! The captain wanted us up and ready for inspection by second bell!”
Sigzil could barely be heard. Where was Teft? They actually listened when he gave orders. Sigzil shook his head, weaving his way toward the door. Among his people, he was of average height—but he’d gone and moved among the Alethi, who were practically giants. So here, he was a few inches shorter than most.
He slipped out into the hallway. The bridge crews occupied a sequence of large barracks on the tower’s first floor. Bridge Four were gaining Radiant powers, but there were hundreds more men in the battalion who were still ordinary infantry. Perhaps Teft had gone to inspect the other crews; he’d been given responsibility for training them. Hopefully it wasn’t the other thing.
Kaladin bunked in his own small suite of rooms at the end of the hallway. Sigzil made his way there, going over his scribbles in the notebook. He used Alethi glyphs, as was acceptable for a man out here, and had never learned their actual writing system. Storms, he’d been away so long, the dream was probably right. He might have trouble writing in the Azish script.
What would life be like if he hadn’t turned into a failure and a disappointment? If he’d passed the tests, instead of getting into trouble, needing to be rescued by the man who had become his master?
The list of problems first, he decided, reaching Kaladin’s door and knocking.
“Come!” the captain’s voice said from inside.
Sigzil found Kaladin doing morning push-ups on the stone floor. His blue jacket was draped over a chair.
“Sir,” Sigzil said.
“Hey, Sig,” Kaladin said, grunting as he continued his push-ups. “Are the men up and mustered?”
“Up, yes,” Sigzil said. “When I left them, they seemed bordering on a food fight, and only half were in uniform.”
“They’ll be ready,” Kaladin said. “Was there something you wanted, Sig?”
Sigzil settled down in the chair next to Kaladin’s coat and opened his notebook. “A lot of things, sir. Not the least of which is the fact that you should have a real scribe, not … whatever I am.”
“You’re my clerk.”
“A poor one. We’ve a full battalion of fighting men with only four lieutenants and no official scribes. Frankly, sir, the bridge crews are a mess. Our finances are in shambles, requisition orders are piling up faster than Leyten can deal with them, and there’s an entire host of problems requiring an officer’s attention.”
Kaladin grunted. “The fun part of running an army.”
“Exactly.”
“That was sarcasm, Sig.” Kaladin stood up and wiped his brow with a towel. “All right. Go ahead.”
“We’ll start with something easy,” Sigzil said. “Peet is now officially betrothed to the woman he’s been seeing.”
“Ka? That’s wonderful. Maybe she could help you with scribe duties.”
“Perhaps. I believe that you were looking into requisitioning housing for men with families?”
“Yeah. That was before the whole mess with the Weeping, and the expedition onto the Shattered Plains, and … And I should go back to Dalinar’s scribes about it, shouldn’t I?”
“Unless you expect the married couples to share a bunk in the standard barracks, then I’d say that yes, you should.” Sigzil looked to the next page in his book. “I believe that Bisig is close to being betrothed as well.”
“Really? He’s so quiet. I never know what’s going on behind those eyes of his.”