“I’m sorry,” Kaladin said. He’d rather be thinking about the new sword stances that Zahel had taught him, but Wit had shown him kindness before. The least Kaladin could do was chat with him. “So, uh, did you keep your job? As King’s Wit, I mean. When we met before, you implied you were in danger of losing your title.”

“I haven’t checked yet,” Wit said.

“You . . . you haven’t . . . Does the king know you’re back?”

“Nope! I’m trying to think of a properly dramatic way to inform him. Perhaps a hundred chasmfiends marching in unison, singing an ode to my magnificence.”

“That sounds . . . hard.”

“Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.”

“That didn’t help, Wit.”

“Ah! So you’re going deaf, are you? Let me know when the process is complete. I have something I want to try. If I can just remember—”

“Yes, yes,” Kaladin said, sighing. “You want to play the flute for one.”

“No, that’s not it . . . Ah! Yes. I’ve always wanted to sneak up and poke a deaf man in the back of the head. I think it will be hilarious.”

Kaladin sighed. It would take an hour or so, even moving quickly, to reach Sebarial’s warcamp. A very long hour.

“So you’re just here,” Kaladin said, “to mock me?”

“Well, it’s kind of what I do. But I’ll go easy on you. I wouldn’t want you to go flying off on me.”

Kaladin jolted with a start.

“You know,” Wit said, nonchalant, “flying off in an angry tirade. That kind of thing.”

Kaladin narrowed his eyes at the tall lighteyed man. “What do you know?”

“Almost everything. That almost part can be a real kick in the teeth sometimes.”

“What do you want, then?”

“What I can’t have.” Wit turned to him, eyes solemn. “Same as everyone else, Kaladin Stormblessed.”

Kaladin fidgeted. Wit knew about him and about Surgebinding. Kaladin was sure of it. So, should he expect some kind of demand?

“What do you want,” Kaladin said, trying to speak more precisely, “from me?”

“Ah, so you’re thinking. Good. From you, my friend, I want one thing. A story.”

“What kind of story?”

“That is for you to decide.” Wit smiled at him. “I hope it will be dynamic. If there is one thing I cannot stomach, it is boredom. Kindly avoid being dull. Otherwise I might have to sneak up and poke you in the back of the head.”

“I’m not going deaf.”

“It’s also hilarious on people who aren’t deaf, obviously. What, you think I’d torment someone just because they were deaf? That would be immoral. No, I torment all people equally, thank you very much.”

“Great.” Kaladin settled back, waiting for more. Amazingly, Wit seemed content to let the conversation die.

Kaladin watched the sky, so dull. He hated days like these, which reminded him of the Weeping. Stormfather. Grey skies and miserable weather made him wonder why he’d even bothered to get out of bed. Eventually, the carriage reached Sebarial’s warcamp, a place that looked even more like a city than the other warcamps. Kaladin marveled at the fully constructed tenements, the markets, the—

“Farmers?” he asked as they rolled past a group of men hiking toward the gates, carrying worming reeds and buckets of crem.

“Sebarial has them setting up lavis fields on the southwestern hills,” Wit explained.

“The highstorms out here are too powerful for farming.”

“Tell that to the Natan people. They used to farm this entire area. Requires a strain of plant that doesn’t grow as large as you’re accustomed to.”

“But why?” Kaladin asked. “Why wouldn’t farmers go someplace where it’s easier? Like Alethkar proper.”

“You don’t know a lot about human nature, do you, Stormblessed?”

“I . . . No, I don’t.”

Wit shook his head. “So frank, so blunt. You and Dalinar are alike, certainly. Someone needs to teach the pair of you how to have a good time now and then.”

“I know full well how to have a good time.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It involves being anywhere you aren’t.”

Wit stared at him, then chuckled, shaking the reins so the horses danced a little. “So you do have some spark of wit in you.”

It came from Kaladin’s mother. She’d often said things like that, though never so insulting. Being around Wit must be corrupting me.

Eventually, Wit pulled the carriage up to a nice manor home, the likes of which Kaladin would have expected in some fine lait, not here in a warcamp. With those pillars and beautiful glass windows, it was even finer than the citylord’s manor back in Hearthstone.

In the carriageway, Wit asked the footman to fetch Adolin’s causal betrothed. Adolin climbed out to await her, straightening his jacket, polishing the buttons on one sleeve. He glanced up toward the driver’s seat, then started.

“You!” Adolin exclaimed.

“Me!” Wit replied. He swung down from the top of the carriage and performed a flowery bow. “Ever at your service, Brightlord Kholin.”

“What did you do with my usual carriage driver?”

“Nothing.”

“Wit—”

“What, you’re implying that I hurt the poor fellow? Does that sound like me, Adolin?”

“Well, no,” Adolin said.

“Exactly. Besides, I’m certain he’s gotten the ropes undone by now. Ah, and here’s your lovely almost-but-not-quite bride.”

Shallan Davar had emerged from the house. She bobbed down the steps, not gliding down them as most lighteyed ladies would have. She’s certainly an enthusiastic one, Kaladin thought idly, holding the reins, which he’d picked up after Wit had dropped them.

Something just felt off about this Shallan Davar. What was she hiding behind that eager attitude and ready smile? That buttoned sleeve on the safehand of a lighteyed woman’s dress, that could hide any number of deadly implements. A simple poisoned needle, stuck through the fabric, would be enough to end Adolin’s life.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t watch her every moment she was with Adolin. He had to show more initiative than that; could he instead confirm that she was who she said she was? Decide from her past if she was a threat or not?

Kaladin stood up, planning to jump down onto the ground to keep an eye on her as she approached Adolin. She suddenly started, eyes widening. She pointed at Wit with her freehand.

“You!” Shallan exclaimed.

“Yes, yes. People certainly are good at identifying me today. Perhaps I need to wear—”

Wit cut off as Shallan lunged at him. Kaladin dropped to the ground, reaching for his side knife, then hesitated as Shallan grabbed Wit in an embrace, her head against his chest, her eyes squeezed shut.

Kaladin took his hand off his knife, raising an eyebrow at Wit, who looked completely flabbergasted. He stood with his arms at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I always wanted to say thank you,” Shallan whispered. “I never had a chance.”

Adolin cleared his throat. Finally, Shallan released Wit and looked at the prince.

“You hugged Wit,” Adolin said.

“Is that his name?” Shallan asked.

“One of them,” Wit said, apparently still unsettled. “There are too many to count, really. Granted, most of them are related to one form of curse or another. . . .”

“You hugged Wit,” Adolin said.

Shallan blushed. “Was that improper?”

“It’s not about propriety,” Adolin said. “It’s about common sense. Hugging him is like hugging a whitespine or, or a pile of nails or something. I mean it’s Wit. You’re not supposed to like him.”

“We need to talk,” Shallan said, looking up at Wit. “I don’t remember everything we talked about, but some of it—”

“I’ll try to squeeze it into my schedule,” Wit said. “I’m fairly busy, though. I mean, insulting Adolin alone is going to take until sometime next week.”

Adolin shook his head, waving away the footman and helping Shallan into the carriage himself. After he did so, he leaned in to Wit. “Hands off.”

“She’s far too young for me, child,” Wit said.

“That’s right,” Adolin said with a nod. “Stick to women your own age.”

Wit grinned. “Well, that might be a little harder. I think there’s only one of those around these parts, and she and I never did get along.”

“You are so bizarre,” Adolin said, climbing into the carriage.

Kaladin sighed, then moved to follow them in.

“You intend to ride in there?” Wit asked, grin widening.

“Yeah,” Kaladin said. He wanted to watch Shallan. She wasn’t likely to try something in the open, while riding in the carriage with Adolin. But Kaladin might learn something by watching her, and he couldn’t be absolutely certain she wouldn’t try to harm him.

“Try not to flirt with the girl,” Wit whispered. “Young Adolin seems to be growing possessive. Or . . . what am I saying? Flirt with the girl, Kaladin. It might make the prince’s eyes bulge.”

Kaladin snorted. “She’s lighteyed.”

“So?” Wit asked. “You people are too fixated on that.”

“No offense,” Kaladin whispered, “but I’d sooner flirt with a chasmfiend.” He left Wit to drive the carriage, hauling himself into it.

Inside, Adolin looked toward the heavens. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s my job,” Kaladin said, seating himself next to Adolin.

“Surely I’m safe in here,” Adolin said through gritted teeth, “with my betrothed.”

“Well, maybe I just want a comfortable seat, then,” Kaladin said, nodding to Shallan Davar.

She ignored him, smiling at Adolin as the carriage started rolling. “Where are we going today?”

“Well, you said something about a dinner,” Adolin said. “I know of a new winehouse in the Outer Market, and it actually serves food.”

“You always know the best places,” Shallan said, her smile widening.

Could you be any more obvious with your flattery, woman? Kaladin thought.

Adolin smiled back. “I just listen.”

“Now if you only paid more attention to what wines were good . . .”

“I don’t because it’s easy!” He grinned. “They’re all good.”