Kaladin took the paper Syl had written on and folded it, then tucked it in his jacket pocket. “I’m keeping this,” he said. “It’s wonderful.” “Now,” Syl said, “I can actually be your scribe.” She glanced at the paper. “So long as you carry the materials…” He smiled, packing them—and her book—into his ruck. He slung it over both shoulders onto his back, then the two headed out. “I assume,” Kaladin said under his breath, “most book-quartermasters aren’t so terrible.” “Wait, what did you call her?” “Um … book-quartermaster? Who works at the scribes’ supply depot?” “The head librarian,” she said,
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