“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.
“Of course we will find seat,” Rock said, grinning. “We have secret weapon.” He pointed to where Peet, oval-faced and quiet, was working his way through the room toward the front bar. A pretty darkeyed woman stood polishing a glass there, and she smiled brightly when she saw Peet.
“So,” Sigzil said to Kaladin, “have you given thought to where you’re going to house the married men of Bridge Four?”
Married men? Looking at Peet’s expression as he leaned across the bar, chatting with the woman, it seemed that might not be far off. Kaladin hadn’t given any thought to it. He should have. He knew that Rock was married—the Horneater had already sent letters to his family, though the Peaks were so far away, news had not yet returned. Teft had been married, but his wife was dead, as was much of his family.
Some of the others might have families. When they’d been bridgemen, they hadn’t spoken much of their pasts, but Kaladin had teased out hints here and there. They would slowly reclaim normal lives, and families would be part of that, particularly here with the stable warcamp.
“Storms!” Kaladin said, raising a hand to his head. “I’ll have to ask for more space.”
“There are many barracks partitioned to allow families,” Sigzil noted. “And some of the married soldiers rent places in the market. Men could move to one of those choices.”
“This thing would break up Bridge Four!” Rock said. “It cannot be allowed.”
Well, married men tended to make better soldiers. He’d have to find a way to make it work. There were a lot of empty barracks around in Dalinar’s camp now. Maybe he should ask for a few more.
Kaladin nodded toward the woman at the bar. “She doesn’t own the place, I assume.”
“No, Ka is just barmaid,” Rock said. “Peet is quite taken with her.”
“We’ll need to see if she can read,” Kaladin said, stepping aside as a semi-drunk patron pushed out into the night. “Storms, but it would be good to have someone around to do that.” In a normal army, Kaladin would be lighteyed, and his wife or sister would act as the battalion’s scribe and clerk.
Peet waved them over, and Ka led them through to a table set off to the side. Kaladin settled himself with his back to the wall, near enough to a window that he could look out if he wanted, but where he wouldn’t be silhouetted. He spared some pity for Rock’s chair as the Horneater settled down. Rock was the only one in the crew who had a few inches’ height on Kaladin, and he was practically twice as broad.
“Horneater lager?” Rock asked hopefully, looking at Ka.
“It melts our cups,” she said. “Ale?”
“Ale,” Rock said with a sigh. “This thing should be a drink for women, not for large Horneater men. At least he is not wine.”
Kaladin told her to bring whatever, barely paying attention. This place was not inviting, really. It was loud, obnoxious, smoky, and smelly. It was also alive. Laughing. Boasts and calls, mugs clanking. This . . . this was what some people lived for. A day of honest labor, followed by an evening at the tavern with friends.
That was not so bad a life.
“It’s loud tonight,” Sigzil noticed.
“Is always loud,” Rock replied. “But tonight, maybe more.”
“The army won a plateau run along with Bethab’s army,” Peet said.
Good for them. Dalinar hadn’t gone, but Adolin had, along with three men from Bridge Four. They hadn’t been required to go into battle, though—and any plateau run that didn’t endanger Kaladin’s men was a good one.
“So many people is nice,” Rock said. “Makes tavern warmer. Is too cold outside.”
“Too cold?” Moash said. “You’re from the storming Horneater Peaks!”
“And?” Rock asked, frowning.
“And those are mountains. It’s got to be colder up there than anything down here.”
Rock actually sputtered, an amusing mixture of indignation and incredulity, bringing a red cast to his light Horneater skin. “Too much air! Hard for you to think. Cold? Horneater Peaks is warm! Wonderfully warm.”
“Really?” Kaladin asked, skeptical. This could be one of Rock’s jokes. Sometimes, those didn’t make much sense to anyone but Rock himself.
“It’s true,” Sigzil said. “The peaks have hot springs to warm them.”
“Ah, but these are not springs,” Rock said, wagging a finger at Sigzil. “This is lowlander word. The Horneater oceans are waters of life.”
“Oceans?” Peet asked, frowning.
“Very small oceans,” Rock said. “One for every peak.”
“The top of each mountain forms a kind of crater,” Sigzil explained, “which is filled with a large lake of warm water. The heat is enough to create a pocket of livable land, despite the altitude. Walk too far from one of the Horneater towns, though, and you’ll end up in freezing temperatures and ice fields left by the highstorms.”
“You are telling story wrong,” Rock said.
“These are facts, not a story.”
“Everything is story,” Rock said. “Listen. Long ago, the Unkalaki—my people, ones you call Horneaters—did not live in peaks. They lived down where air was thick and thinking was difficult. But we were hated.”
“Who would hate Horneaters?” Peet said.
“Everyone,” Rock replied as Ka brought the drinks. More special attention. Most everyone else was having to go to the bar to pick up drinks. Rock smiled at her and grabbed his large mug. “Is first drink. Lopen, you are trying to beat me?”
“I’m at it, mancha,” Lopen said, raising his own mug, which was not quite so large.
The large Horneater took a pull on his drink, which left froth on his lip. “Everyone wanted to kill Horneaters,” he said, thumping his fist on the table. “They were frightened of us. Stories say we were too good at fighting. So we were hunted and nearly destroyed.”
“If you were so good at fighting,” Moash said, pointing, “then how come you were nearly destroyed?”<
br />
“There are few of us,” Rock said, hand proudly to his chest. “And very many of you. You are all over down here in lowlands. Man cannot step without finding toes of Alethi beneath his boot. So the Unkalaki, we were nearly destroyed. But our tana’kai—is like a king, but more—went to the gods to plead for help.”
“Gods,” Kaladin said. “You mean spren.” He sought out Syl, who had chosen a perch on a rafter up above, watching a couple of little insects climb on a post.
“These are gods,” Rock said, following Kaladin’s gaze. “Yes. Some gods, though, they are more powerful than others. The tana’kai, he sought the strongest among them. He went first to gods of the trees. ‘Can you hide us?’ he asked. But gods of the trees could not. ‘Men hunt us too,’ they said. ‘If you hide here, they will find you, and will use you for wood just like they use us.’”
“Use Horneaters,” Sigzil said blandly, “as wood.”
“Hush,” Rock replied. “Next, tana’kai, he visited gods of the waters. ‘Can we live in your depths?’ he pled. ‘Give to us power to breathe as fish, and we will serve you beneath oceans.’ Alas, waters could not help. ‘Men dig into our hearts with hooks, and bring forth those we protect. If you were to live here, you would become their meals.’ So we could not live there.
“Last, tana’kai—desperate—visited most powerful of gods, gods of the mountains. ‘My people are dying,’ he pled. ‘Please. Let us live on your slopes and worship you, and let your snows and ice provide our protection.’
“Gods of the mountains thought long. ‘You cannot live upon our slopes,’ they said, ‘for is no life here. This is place of spirits, not of men. But if you can find way to make him a place of men and of spirits, we will protect you.’ And so, tana’kai returned to gods of the waters and said, ‘Give to us your water, that we may drink and live upon mountains.’ And he was promised. Tana’kai went to gods of the trees and said, ‘Give to us your fruit in bounty, that we may eat and live upon the mountains.’ And he was promised. Then, tana’kai returned to mountains, and said, ‘Give to us your heat, this thing that is in your heart, that we may live upon your peaks.’
“And this thing, he pleased gods of mountains, who saw that Unkalaki would work hard. They would not be burden upon the gods, but would solve problems on their own. And so, gods of mountains withdrew their peaks into themselves, and made open place for waters of life. The oceans were created of gods of the waters. Grass and fruit to give life were had of promise of gods of trees. And heat from heart of the mountains gave a place that we may live.”
He sat back, taking a deep drink of his mug, then slammed it down on the table, grinning.
“So the gods,” Moash said, nursing his own drink, “were pleased that you solved problems on your own . . . by going to other gods and begging them for help instead?”
“Hush,” Rock said. “Is good story. And is truth.”
“But you did call the lakes up there water,” Sigzil said. “So they’re hot springs. Just like I said.”
“Is different,” Rock replied, raising his hand and waving toward Ka, then smiling very deeply and wagging his mug in a supplicating way.
“How?”
“Is not just water,” Rock said. “Is water of life. It is connection to gods. If Unkalaki swim in it, sometimes they see place of gods.”
Kaladin leaned forward at that. His mind had been drifting toward how to help Bridge Eighteen with their discipline problems. This struck him. “Place of the gods?”
“Yes,” Rock said. “Is where they live. The waters of life, they let you see place. In it, you commune with gods, if you are lucky.”
“Is that why you can see spren?” Kaladin asked. “Because you swam in these waters, and they did something to you?”
“Is not part of story,” Rock said as his second mug of ale arrived. He grinned at Ka. “You are very wonderful woman. If you come to the Peaks, I will make you family.”
“Just pay your tab, Rock,” Ka said, rolling her eyes. As she moved off to collect some empty mugs, Peet jumped up to help her, surprising her by gathering some from another table.
“You can see the spren,” Kaladin pressed, “because of what happened to you in these waters.”
“Is not part of story,” Rock said, eyeing him. “It is . . . involved. I will say no more of this thing.”
“I’d like to visit,” Lopen said. “Go for a dip myself.”
“Ha! Is death to one not of our people,” Rock said. “I could not let you swim. Even if you beat me at drinking tonight.” He raised an eyebrow at Lopen’s drink.
“Swimming in the emerald pools is death to outsiders,” Sigzil said, “because you execute outsiders who touch them.”
“No, this is not true. Listen to story. Stop being boring.”
“They’re just hot springs,” Sigzil grumbled, but returned to his drink.
Rock rolled his eyes. “On top, is water. Beneath, is not. Is something else. Water of life. The place of the gods. This thing is true. I have met a god myself.”
“A god like Syl?” Kaladin asked. “Or maybe a riverspren?” Those were somewhat rare, but supposedly able to speak at times in simple ways, like windspren.
“No,” Rock said. He leaned in, as if saying something conspiratorial. “I saw Lunu’anaki.”
“Uh, great,” Moash said. “Wonderful.”
“Lunu’anaki,” Rock said, “is god of travel and mischief. Very powerful god. He came from depths of peak ocean, from realm of gods.”
“What did he look like?” Lopen asked, eyes wide.
“Like person,” Rock said. “Maybe Alethi, though skin was lighter. Very angular face. Handsome, perhaps. With white hair.”
Sigzil looked up sharply. “White hair?”
“Yes,” Rock said. “Not grey, like old man, but white—yet he is young man. He spoke with me on shore. Ha! Made mockery of my beard. Asked what year it was, by Horneater calendar. Thought my name was funny. Very powerful god.”
“Were you scared?” Lopen asked.
“No, of course not. Lunu’anaki cannot hurt man. Is forbidden by other gods. Everyone knows this.” Rock downed the rest of his second mug and raised it to the air, grinning and wagging it toward Ka again as she passed.
Lopen hurriedly drank the rest of his first mug. Sigzil looked troubled, and had only touched half of his drink. He stared at it, though when Moash asked him what was wrong, Sigzil made an excuse about being tired.
Kaladin finally took a sip of his own drink. Lavis ale, sudsy, faintly sweet. It reminded him of home, though he’d only started drinking it once in the army.
The others moved on to a conversation about plateau runs. Sadeas had apparently been disobeying orders to go on plateau runs in teams. He’d gone on one a bit back on his own, seizing the gemheart before anyone got there, then tossing it away as if it was unimportant. Just a few days back, though, Sadeas and Highprince Ruthar had gone on another run together—one they weren’t supposed to go on. They claimed to have failed to get the gemheart, but it was open knowledge they’d won and hidden the winnings.
These overt slaps in Dalinar’s face were the buzz of the warcamps. More so because Sadeas seemed outraged that he wasn’t being allowed to put investigators into Dalinar’s warcamp to search for “important facts” he said related to the safety of the king. It was all a game to him.
Someone needs to put Sadeas down, Kaladin thought, sipping his drink, swishing the cool liquid in his mouth. He’s as bad as Amaram—tried to get me and mine killed repeatedly. Don’t I have reason, even right, to return the favor?
Kaladin was learning how to do what the assassin did—how to run up walls, maybe reach windows that were thought inaccessible. He could visit Sadeas’s camp in the night. Glowing, violent . . .
Kaladin could bring justice to this world.
His gut told him that there was something wrong with that reasoning, but he had trouble producing it logically. He drank a little more, and looked around the room, notic
ing again how relaxed everyone seemed. This was their life. Work, then play. That was enough for them.
Not for him. He needed something more. He got out a glowing sphere—just a diamond chip—and began to idly roll it on the table.
After about an hour of conversation, Kaladin taking part only sporadically, Moash nudged him in the side. “You ready?” he whispered.
“Ready?” Kaladin frowned.
“Yeah. Meeting is in the back room. I saw them come in a bit ago. They’ll be waiting.”
“Who . . .” He trailed off, realizing what Moash intended. Kaladin had said he’d meet with Moash’s friends, the men who had tried to kill the king. Kaladin’s skin went cold, the air suddenly seeming chill. “That’s why you wanted me to come tonight?”
“Yeah,” Moash said. “I thought you’d figured it out. Come on.”
Kaladin looked down into his mug of yellow-brown liquid. Finally, he downed the rest and stood up. He needed to know who these men were. His duty demanded it.
Moash excused them, saying he’d noticed an old friend he wanted to introduce to Kaladin. Rock, looking not the least bit drunk, laughed and waved them on. He was on his . . . sixth drink? Seventh? Lopen was already tipsy after his third. Sigzil had only barely finished his second, and didn’t seem inclined to continue.
So much for the contest, Kaladin thought, letting Moash lead him. The place was still busy, though not quite as packed as it had been earlier. Tucked away in the back of the tavern was a hallway with private dining rooms, the type used by wealthy merchants who didn’t want to be subjected to the crudeness of the common room. A swarthy man lounged outside of one. He might have been part Azish, or maybe just a very tan Alethi. He carried very long knives at his belt, but didn’t say anything as Moash pushed open the door.
“Kaladin . . .” Syl’s voice. Where was she? Vanished, apparently, from even his eyes. Had she done that before? “Be careful.”
He stepped into the room with Moash. Three men and a woman drank wine at a table inside. Another guard stood at the back, wrapped in a cloak, a sword at his waist and his head down, as if he were barely paying attention.
Two of the seated people, including the woman, were lighteyes. Kaladin should have expected this, considering the fact that a Shardblade was involved, but it still gave him pause.
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