Words of Radiance

“None of us are on duty until the late morning,” Sigzil said with a shrug. Teft was watching the Kholins overnight, along with Leyten’s team.

“Tonight,” Lopen said, finger to the air, “I will be victorious. It is said you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!”

“It is?” Moash asked.

“It will be said,” Lopen continued, “you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!”

“You weigh about as much as a starved axehound, Lopen,” Moash said skeptically.

“Ah, but I have focus.”

They continued, turning down a pathway that led toward the market. The warcamp was laid out with blocks of barracks forming a large circle around the lighteyed buildings closer to the center. On the way out toward the market, which was in the outer ring of camp followers beyond the soldiers, they passed plenty of other barracks manned by ordinary soldiers—and the men there were busy in tasks that Kaladin had rarely seen in Sadeas’s army. Sharpening spears, oiling breastplates, before their dinner call came.

Kaladin’s men weren’t the only ones going out for the night, though. Other groups of soldiers had already eaten, and these strolled toward the market, laughing. They were recovering, slowly, from the slaughter that had left Dalinar’s army crippled.

The market was aglow with life, torches and oil lanterns shining from most buildings. Kaladin wasn’t surprised. An ordinary army would have had camp followers aplenty, and that was for a moving army. Here, merchants showed off wares. Criers sold news they claimed had come via spanreed, reporting events in the world. What was that about a war in Jah Keved? And a new emperor in Azir? Kaladin had only a vague idea of where that was.

Sigzil jogged over to get an earful of news, paying the crier a sphere while Lopen and Rock argued which tavern was the best to visit for the night. Kaladin watched the flow of life. Soldiers passing on the night watch. A group of chatting darkeyed women moving from spice merchant to spice merchant. A lighteyed courier posting projected highstorm dates and times on a board, her husband yawning nearby and looking bored—as if he’d been forced to come along to keep her company. The Weeping was coming up soon, the time of constant rain with no highstorms—the only break was Lightday, right in the middle. It was an off year in the thousand-day cycle of two years, which meant the Weeping would be a calm one this time.

“Enough arguing,” Moash said to Rock, Lopen, and Peet. “We’re going to the Ornery Chull.”

“Aw!” Rock said. “But they do not have Horneater lagers!”

“That’s because Horneater lagers melt your teeth,” Moash said. “Anyway, it’s my pick tonight.” Peet nodded eagerly. That tavern had been his choice as well.

Sigzil got back from hearing the news, and he’d apparently stopped somewhere else as well, as he carried something steaming and wrapped in paper.

“Not you too,” Kaladin said, groaning.

“It’s good,” Sigzil said defensively, then took a bite of the chouta.

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Of course I do.” Sigzil hesitated. “Hey, Lopen. What’s in this stuff?”

“Flangria,” Lopen said happily as Rock ran off to the street vendor to get himself some chouta too.

“Which is?” Kaladin asked.

“Meat.”

“What kind of meat?”

“The meaty kind.”

“Soulcast,” Kaladin said, looking at Sigzil.

“You ate Soulcast food every night as a bridgeman,” Sigzil said, shrugging and taking a bite.

“Because I had no choice. Look. He’s frying that bread.”

“You fry the flangria too,” Lopen said. “Make little balls of it, mixed with ground lavis. Batter it up and fry it, then stuff it in fried bread and pour on gravy.” He made a satisfied sound, licking his lips.

“It’s cheaper than water

,” Peet noted as Rock jogged back.

“That’s probably because even the grain is Soulcast,” Kaladin said. “It will all taste like mold. Rock, I’m disappointed in you.”

The Horneater looked sheepish, but took a bite. His chouta crunched.

“Shells?” Kaladin asked.

“Cremling claws.” Rock grinned. “Deep-fried.”

Kaladin sighed, but they finally struck out again through the crowd, eventually reaching a wooden building built on the leeward side of a larger stone structure. Everything here was, of course, arranged so that as many doorways as possible could point away from the Origin, streets designed so that they could run east to west and provide a way for winds to blow.

Warm, orange light spilled from the tavern. Firelight. No tavern would use spheres for light. Even with locks on the lanterns, the rich glow of spheres might be just a little too tempting for the intoxicated patrons. Shouldering their way inside, the bridgemen were confronted by a low roar of chatter, yelling, and singing.

“We’ll never find seats,” Kaladin said over the din. Even with the reduced population of Dalinar’s warcamp, this place was packed.