Gaz looked up at Kaladin with horror. "I wasn't going to lie! Storm you, you don't have authority anywhere other than on the field. If you hurt me again, I'll have you-"

"Calm yourself, Gaz," Kaladin said, releasing the man. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not yet, at least."

The shorter man backed away, rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Kaladin.

"Today's third pass," Kaladin said. "Payday."

"You get your pay in an hour like everyone else."

"No. You have it now; I saw you talking to the courier there." He held out his hand.

Gaz grumbled, but pulled out a pouch and counted spheres. Tiny, tentative white lights shone at their centers. Diamond marks, each worth five diamond chips. A single chip would buy a loaf of bread.

Gaz counted out four marks, though there were five days to a week. He handed them to Kaladin, but Kaladin left his hand open, palm forward. "The other one, Gaz."

"You said-"

"Now."

Gaz jumped, then pulled out a sphere. "You have a strange way of keeping your word, lordling. You promised me…"

He trailed off as Kaladin took the sphere he'd just been given and handed it back.

Gaz frowned.

"Don't forget where this comes from, Gaz. I'll keep to my word, but you aren't keeping part of my pay. I'm giving it to you. Understand?"

Gaz looked confused, though he did snatch the sphere from Kaladin's hand.

"The money stops coming if something happens to me," Kaladin said, tucking the other four spheres into his pocket. Then he stepped forward. Kaladin was a tall man, and he loomed over the much shorter Gaz. "Remember our bargain. Stay out of my way."

Gaz refused to be intimidated. He spat to the side, the dark spittle clinging to the rock wall, oozing slowly. "I ain't going to lie for you. If you think one cremstained mark a week will-"

"I expect only what I said. What is Bridge Four's camp duty today?"

"Evening meal. Scrubbing and cleaning."

"And bridge duty?"

"Afternoon shift."

That meant the morning would be open. The crew would like that; they could spend payday losing their spheres on gambling or whores, perhaps forgetting for a short time the miserable lives they lived. They'd have to be back for afternoon duty, waiting in the lumberyard in case there was a bridge run. After evening meal, they'd go scrub pots.

Another wasted day. Kaladin turned to walk back to the lumberyard.

"You aren't going to change anything," Gaz called after him. "Those men are bridgemen for a reason."

Kaladin kept walking, Syl zipping down from the roof to land on his shoulder.

"You don't have authority," Gaz called. "You're not some squadleader on the field. You're a storming bridgeman. You hear me? You can't have authority without a rank!"

Kaladin left the alleyway behind. "He's wrong."

Syl walked around to hang in front of his face, hovering there while he moved. She cocked her head at him.

"Authority doesn't come from a rank," Kaladin said, fingering the spheres in his pocket.

"Where does it come from?"

"From the men who give it to you. That's the only way to get it." He looked back the way he'd come. Gaz hadn't left the alleyway yet. "Syl, you don't sleep, do you?"

"Sleep? A spren?" She seemed amused by the concept.

"Would you watch over me at night?" he said. "Make sure Gaz doesn't sneak in and try something while I'm sleeping? He may try to have me killed."

"You think he'd actually do that?"

Kaladin thought for a moment. "No. No, probably not. I've known a dozen men like him-petty bullies with just enough power to be annoying. Gaz is a thug, but I don't think he's a murderer. Besides, in his opinion, he doesn't have to hurt me; he just has to wait until I get killed on a bridge run. Still, best to be safe. Watch over me, if you would. Wake me if he tries something."

"Sure. But what if he just goes to more important men? Tells them to execute you?"

Kaladin grimaced. "Then there's nothing I can do. But I don't think he'd do that. It would make him look weak before his superiors."

Besides, beheading was reserved for bridgemen who wouldn't run at the Parshendi. So long as he ran, he wouldn't be executed. In fact, the army leaders seemed hesitant to do much to punish bridgemen at all. One man had committed murder while Kaladin had been a bridgeman, and they'd strung the fool up in a highstorm. But other than that, all Kaladin had seen was a few men get their wages garnished for brawling, and a couple get whipped for being too slow during the early part of a bridge run.

Minimal punishments. The leaders of this army understood. The lives of bridgemen were as close to hopeless as possible; shove them down too much further, and the bridgemen might just stop caring and let themselves be killed.

Unfortunately, that also meant that there wouldn't be much Kaladin could do to punish his own crew, even if he'd had that authority. He had to motivate them in another way. He crossed the lumberyard to where the carpenters were constructing new bridges. After some searching, Kaladin found what he wanted-a thick plank waiting to be fitted into a new portable bridge. A handhold for a bridgeman had been affixed to one side.

"Can I borrow this?" Kaladin asked a passing carpenter.

The man raised a hand to scratch a sawdust-powdered head. "Borrow it?"

"I'll stay right here in the lumberyard," Kaladin explained, lifting the board and putting it on his shoulder. It was heavier than he'd expected, and he was thankful for the padded leather vest.

"We'll need it eventually…" the carpenter said, but didn't offer enough of an objection to stop Kaladin from walking away with the plank.

He chose a level stretch of stone directly in front of the barracks. Then he began to trot from one end of the lumberyard to the other, carrying the board on his shoulder, feeling the heat of the rising sun on his skin. He went back and forth, back and forth. He practiced running, walking, and jogging. He practiced carrying the plank on his shoulder, then carrying it up high, arms stretched out.

He worked himself ragged. In fact, he felt close to collapsing several times, but every time he did, he found a reserve of strength from somewhere. So he kept moving, teeth gritted against the pain and fatigue, counting his steps to focus. The apprentice carpenter he'd spoken to brought a supervisor over. That supervisor scratched his head beneath his cap, watching Kaladin. Finally, he shrugged, and the two of them withdrew.

Before long, he drew a small crowd. Workers in the lumberyard, some soldiers, and a large number of bridgemen. Some from the other bridge crews called gibes, but the members of Bridge Four were more withdrawn. Many ignored him. Others-grizzled Teft, youthful-faced Dunny, several more-stood watching in a line, as if they couldn't believe what he was doing.

Those stares-stunned and hostile though they were-were part of what kept Kaladin going. He also ran to work out his frustration, that boiling, churning pot of anger within. Anger at himself for failing Tien. Anger at the Almighty for creating a world where some dined in luxury while others died carrying bridges.

It felt surprisingly good to wear himself down in a way he chose. He felt as he had those first few months after Tien's death, training himself on the spear to forget. When the noon bells rang-calling the soldiers to lunch-Kaladin finally stopped and set the large plank down on the ground. He rolled his shoulder. He'd been running for hours. Where had he found the strength?

He jogged over to the carpenter's station, dripping sweat to the stones, and took a long drink from the water barrel. The carpenters usually chased off bridgemen who tried that, but none said a word as Kaladin slurped down two full ladles of metallic rainwater. He shook the ladle free and nodded to a pair of apprentices, then jogged back to where he'd left the plank.