“Why are you telling me this?” Shallan asked.

“Because in a little over a day’s time, we’re going to reach the Shattered Plains. This is the last chance for you to back out.”

“I . . .”

What was she going to do about Tyn when she arrived? Admit that she had only gone along with Tyn’s assumptions in order to learn from her? She knows people, Shallan thought. People in the warcamps who might be very useful to know.

Should Shallan continue with the subterfuge? She wanted to, though part of her knew it was because she liked Tyn, and didn’t want to give the woman a reason to stop teaching her. “I am committed,” Shallan found herself saying. “I want to go through with my plan.”

A lie.

Tyn sighed, then nodded. “All right. Are you ready to tell me what this grand scam is?”

“Dalinar Kholin,” Shallan said. “His son is betrothed to a woman from Jah Keved.”

Tyn raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s curious. And the woman isn’t going to arrive?”

“Not when he expects,” Shallan said.

“And you look like her?”

“You could say that.”

Tyn smiled. “Nice. You had me thinking it would be blackmail, which is very tough. This, though, this is a scam you might actually be able to do. I’m impressed. It’s bold, but attainable.”

“Thank you.”

“So what’s your plan?” Tyn said.

“Well, I’ll go introduce myself to Kholin, indicate I’m the woman his son is to marry, and let him set me up in his household.”

“No good.”

“No?”

Tyn shook her head sharply. “It puts you too much in Kholin’s debt. It will make you seem needy, and that will undermine your ability to be respected. What you’re doing here is called a pretty face con, an attempt to relieve a rich man of his spheres. That kind of job is all about presentation and image. You want to set up in an inn somewhere in a different warcamp and act like you’re completely self-sufficient. Maintain an air of mystery. Don’t be too easy for the son to capture. Which one is it, by the way? The older one or the younger one?”

“Adolin,” Shallan said.

“Hmmm . . . Not sure if that’s better or worse than Renarin. Adolin Kholin is a flirt by reputation, so I can see why his father wants him married off. It will be tough to keep his attention, though.”

“Really?” Shallan asked, feeling a spike of real concern.

“Yeah. He’s been almost engaged a dozen times. I think he has been engaged before, actually. It’s good you met me. I’ll have to work on this one awhile to determine the right approach, but you are certainly not going to accept Kholin hospitality. Adolin will never express interest if you’re not in some way unobtainable.”

“Hard to be unobtainable when we’re already in a causal.”

“Still important,” Tyn said, raising a finger. “You’re the one who wants to do a love scam. They’re tricky, but relatively safe. We’ll figure this out.”

Shallan nodded, though inside, her worries had spiked. What would happen with the betrothal? Jasnah wasn’t around to push for it any longer. The woman had wanted Shallan tied to her family, presumably because of the Surgebinding potential. Shallan doubted the rest of the Kholin house would be so determined to have a nobody Veden girl marry into the family.

As Tyn rose, Shallan stuffed away her anxiety. If the betrothal ended, so be it. She had far more important concerns in Urithiru and the Voidbringers. She would have to figure out a way to deal with Tyn, though—a way that didn’t involve actually scamming the Kholin family. Just one more thing to juggle.

Oddly, she found herself excited by the prospect as she decided to do one more drawing before finding some food.

Smokeform for hiding and slipping ’tween men.

A form of power—like Surges of spren.

Do we dare to wear this form again? It spies.

Crafted of gods, this form we fear.

By Unmade touch its curse to bear,

Formed from shadow—and death is near. It lies.

—From the Listener Song of Secrets, 51st stanza

Kaladin led his troop of sore, tired men up to Bridge Four’s barrack, and—as he’d secretly requested—the men got a round of cheers and welcoming calls. It was early evening, and the familiar scent of stew was one of the most inviting things Kaladin could imagine.

He stepped aside and let the forty men tromp past him. They weren’t members of Bridge Four, but for tonight, they’d be considered such. They held their heads higher, smiles breaking out as men passed them bowls of stew. Rock asked one how the patrolling had gone, and though Kaladin couldn’t hear the soldier’s reply, he could definitely hear the bellowing laughter it prompted from Rock.

Kaladin smiled, leaning back against the barrack wall, folding his arms. Then he found himself checking the sky. The sun hadn’t quite set, but in the darkening sky, stars had begun to appear around Taln’s Scar. The Tear hung just above the horizon, a star much brighter than the others, named for the single tear that Reya was said to have shed. Some of the stars moved—starspren, nothing to be surprised by—but something felt odd about the evening. He breathed in deeply. Was the air stale?

“Sir?”

Kaladin turned. One of the bridgemen, an earnest man with short dark hair and strong features, had not joined the others at the stew cauldron. Kaladin searched for his name . . .

“Pitt, isn’t it?” Kaladin said.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Bridge Seventeen.”

“What did you need?”

“I just . . .” The man glanced at the inviting fire, with members of Bridge Four laughing and chatting with the patrol group. Nearby, someone had hung a few distinctive suits of armor on the barrack walls. They were carapace helms and breastplates, attached to the leathers of common bridgemen. Those had now been replaced with fine steel caps and breastplates. Kaladin wondered who had hung the old suits up. He hadn’t even known that some of the men had fetched them; they were the extra suits that Leyten had crafted for the men and stashed down in the chasms before being freed.

“Sir,” Pitt said, “I just want to say that I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Back when we were bridgemen.” Pitt raised a hand to his head. “Storms, that seems like a different life. I couldn’t think rightly during those times. It’s all hazy. But I remember being glad when your crew was sent out instead of mine. I remember hoping you’d fail, since you dared to walk with your chin up . . . I—”

“It’s all right, Pitt,” Kaladin said. “It wasn’t your fault. You can blame Sadeas.”

“I suppose.” Pitt got a distant look on his face. “He broke us right good, didn’t he, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Turns out, though, men can be reforged. I wouldn’t have thought that.” Pitt looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to have to go do this for the other lads of Bridge Seventeen, aren’t I?”

“With Teft’s help, yes, but that’s the hope,” Kaladin said. “Do you think you can do it?”

“I’ll just have to pretend to be you, sir,” Pitt said. He smiled, then moved on, taking a bowl of stew and joining the others.

These forty would be ready soon, ready to become sergeants to their own teams of bridgemen. The transformation had happened more quickly than Kaladin had hoped. Teft, you marvelous man, he thought. You did it.

Where was Teft, anyway? He’d gone on the patrol with them, and now he’d vanished. Kaladin glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see him; perhaps he’d gone to check on some of the other bridge crews. He did catch Rock shooing away a lanky man in an ardent’s robe.

“What was that?” Kaladin asked, catching the Horneater as he passed.

“That one,” Rock said. “Keeps loitering here with sketchbook. Wants to draw bridgemen. Ha! Because we are famous, you see.”

Kaladin frowned. Strange actions for an ardent—but, then, all ardents were strange, to an extent. He let Rock return to his stew and stepped away from the fire, enjoying the peace.

Everything was so quiet out there, in the camp. Like it was holding its breath.

“The patrol seems to have worked out,” Sigzil said, strolling up to Kaladin. “Those men are changed.”

“Funny what a couple of days spent marching as a unit can do to soldiers,” Kaladin said. “Have you seen Teft?”

“No, sir,” Sigzil said. He nodded toward the fire. “You’ll want to get some stew. We won’t have much time for chatting tonight.”

“Highstorm,” Kaladin realized. It seemed like too soon since the last one, but they weren’t always regular—not in the way he thought of it. The stormwardens had to do complex mathematics to predict them; Kaladin’s father had made a hobby of it.

Perhaps that was what he was noticing. Was he suddenly predicting highstorms because the night seemed too . . . something?

You’re imagining things, Kaladin thought. Shrugging off his fatigue from the extended ride and march, he went over to get some stew. He’d have to eat quickly—he’d want to go join the men guarding Dalinar and the king during the storm.

The men from the patrol cheered him as he filled his bowl.

* * *

Shallan sat on the rattling wagon and moved her hand over the sphere on the seat beside her, palming it and dropping another.

Tyn raised an eyebrow. “I heard the replacement hit.”

“Drynets!” Shallan said. “I thought I had it.”

“Drynets?”

“It’s a curse,” Shallan said, blushing. “I heard it from the sailors.”

“Shallan, do you have any idea at all what that means?”

“Like . . . for fishing?” Shallan said. “The nets are dry, maybe? They haven’t been catching any fish, so it’s bad?”

Tyn grinned. “Dear, I’m going to do my very best to corrupt you. Until then, I think you should avoid using sailor curses. Please.”

“All right.” Shallan passed her hand over the sphere again, swapping the spheres. “No clink! Did you hear that? Or, um, did you not hear that? It didn’t make a noise!”

“Nice,” Tyn said, getting out a pinch of some kind of mossy substance. She began rubbing it between her fingers, and Shallan thought she saw smoke rising from the moss. “You are getting better. I also feel like we should figure out some way to use that drawing talent of yours.”

Shallan already had an inkling of how it would come in handy. More of the former deserters had asked her for pictures.

“You’ve been working on your accents?” Tyn asked, eyes glazing as she rubbed the moss.

“I have indeed, my good woman,” Shallan said with a Thaylen accent.