“Thanks for the report,” Kaladin said, tucking the shell into his pocket. “Send back and tell Sigzil his proposed route takes me too far from the warcamps. Have him draw up another one. Also, tell Teft I need a few more men to come here today and relieve Moash and Drehy. They’ve both been pulling too many hours lately. I’ll guard Dalinar tonight myself—suggest to the highprince it would be convenient if his entire family would be together for the highstorm.”
“If the winds will, gon,” Lopen said, finishing his last bite of chouta. He whistled then, looking in at the practice grounds. “That is something, isn’t it?”
Kaladin followed Lopen’s gaze. Adolin, having left his brother with Zahel, was now executing a training sequence with his Shardblade. Gracefully, he spun and twisted on the sands, sweeping his sword in broad, flowing patterns.
On a practiced Shardbearer, Plate never looked clumsy. Imposing, resplendent, it fit to the form of the wearer. Adolin’s reflected sunlight like a mirror as he made sweeps of the sword, moving from one posture to the next. Kaladin knew it was just a warm-up sequence, more impressive than functional. You’d never do something like this on the battlefield, though many of the individual postures and cuts represented practical movements.
Even knowing that, Kaladin had to shake off a feeling of awe. Shardbearers in Plate looked inhuman when they fought, more like Heralds than men.
He caught Syl sitting on the edge of the roof overhang near Adolin, watching the young man. She was too distant for Kaladin to make out her expression.
Adolin finished his warm-up in a move where he fell to one knee and slammed his Shardblade into the ground. It sank up to mid-blade, then vanished when he released it.
“I’ve seen him summon that weapon before,” Kaladin said.
“Yeah, gancho, on the battlefield, when we saved his sorry ass from Sadeas.”
“No, before that,” Kaladin said, remembering an incident with a whore in Sadeas’s camp. “He saved someone who was being bullied.”
“Huh,” Lopen said. “He can’t be too bad then, you know?”
“I suppose. Anyway, off with you. Make sure to send that replacement team.”
Lopen saluted, collecting Shen, who had been poking at practice swords along the side of the courtyard. Together, they jogged off on the errand.
Kaladin did his rounds, checking on Moash and the others before walking over to where Renarin sat—still armored—on the ground before his new master.
Zahel, the ardent with the ancient eyes, sat in a solemn posture that belied his ragged beard. “You will need to relearn how to fight, wearing that Plate. It changes the way a man steps, grips, moves.”
“I…” Renarin looked down. It was very odd to see a man wearing spectacles in the magnificent armor. “I will not need to relearn how to fight, master. I never learned in the first place.”
Zahel grunted. “That’s good. It means I don’t have to break down any old, bad habits.”
“Yes, master.”
“We’ll start you off easily, then,” Zahel said. “There are some steps at the corner over there. Climb up onto the roof of the dueling grounds. Then jump off.”
Renarin looked up sharply. “… Jump?”
“I’m old, son,” Zahel said. “Repeating myself makes me eat the wrong flower.”
Kaladin frowned, and Renarin cocked his head, then looked at Kaladin questioningly. Kaladin shrugged.
“Eat… what… ?” Renarin asked.
“It means I get angry,” Zahel snapped. “You people don’t have proper idioms for anything. Go!”
Renarin sprang to his feet, kicking up sand, and hustled away.
“Your helmet, son!” Zahel called.
Renarin stopped, then scrambled back and snatched his helmet off the ground, nearly slipping onto his face as he did so. He spun, off balance, and ran awkwardly toward the stairs. He nearly plowed into a pillar on the way.
Kaladin snorted softly.
“Oh,” Zahel said, “and you assume you’d do better your first time wearing Shardplate, bodyguard?”
“I doubt I’d forget my helmet,” Kaladin said, shouldering his spear and stretching. “If Dalinar Kholin intends to force the other highprinces into line, I think he’s going to need better Shardbearers than this. He should have picked someone else for that Plate.”
“Like you?”
“Storms no,” Kaladin said, perhaps too vehemently. “I’m a soldier, Zahel. I want nothing to do with Shards. The boy is likable enough, but I wouldn’t trust men to his command—let alone armor that could keep a much better soldier alive on the field—and that’s it.”
“He’ll surprise you,” Zahel replied. “I gave him the whole ‘I’m your master and you do what I say’ talk, and he actually listened.”
“Every soldier hears that on their first day,” Kaladin said. “Sometimes they listen. That the boy did is hardly noteworthy.”
“If you knew how many spoiled ten-year-old lighteyed brats came through here,” Zahel said, “you’d think it worth noting. I thought a nineteen-year-old like him would be insufferable. And don’t call him a boy, boy. He’s probably close to your own age, and is the son of the most powerful human on this—”
He cut off as scraping from atop the building announced Renarin Kholin charging and throwing himself off into the air, boots grinding against the stone coping of the roof. He sailed a good ten or twelve feet out over the courtyard—practiced Shardbearers could do far better—before floundering like a dying skyeel and crashing down into the sand.
Zahel looked toward Kaladin, raising an eyebrow.
“What?” Kaladin asked.
“Enthusiasm, obedience, no fear of looking foolish,” Zahel said. “I can teach him how to fight, but those qualities are innate. This lad is going to do just fine.”
“Assuming he doesn’t fall on anyone,” Kaladin said.
Renarin climbed to his feet. He looked down, as if surprised that he hadn’t broken anything.
“Go up and do it again!” Zahel called to Renarin. “This time, fall headfirst!”
Renarin nodded, then turned and trotted off toward the stairwell.
“You want him to be confident in how the Plate protects him,” Kaladin said.
“Part of using Plate is knowing its limits,” Zahel said, turning back to Kaladin. “Plus, I just want him moving in it. Either way he’s listening, and that’s good. Teaching him is going to be a real pleasure. You, on the other hand, are another story.”
Kaladin raised his hand. “Thanks, but no.”
“You’d turn down an offer to train with a full weapons master?” Zahel asked. “I can count on one hand the number of darkeyes I’ve seen given that chance.”
“Yes, well, I’ve already done the ‘new recruit’ thing. Yelled at by sergeants, worked to the bone, marched for hours on end. Really, I’m fine.”
“This isn’t the same at all,” Zahel said, waving down one of the ardents walking past. The man was carrying a Shardblade with metal guards over the sharp edges, one of the ones the king provided for training use.