“Yes.”

“Ah.” She looked into his eyes. “Rest anyway, Kaladin. Please.”

Kaladin looked toward Bridge Four’s barrack. It was a distance away, down the rows, but he thought he could hear Rock’s laughter echoing through the night.

Finally, he sighed, acknowledging his exhaustion. He could check on the last two platoons tomorrow. Spear in hand, he turned and hiked back. The advent of darkness meant it would be about two hours before men started turning in for the night. Kaladin arrived to the familiar scent of Rock’s stew, though Hobber—sitting on a tall stump the men had fashioned for him, a blanket across his grey, useless legs—was doing the serving. Rock stood nearby, arms folded, looking proud.

Renarin was there, taking and washing the dishes of those who’d finished. He did that every night, kneeling quietly beside the washbasin in his bridgeman uniform. The lad certainly was earnest. He didn’t display any of the spoiled temperament of his brother. Though he had insisted on joining them, he often sat at the edges of the group, near the back of the bridgemen at night. Such an odd young man.

Kaladin passed Hobber and gripped the man’s shoulder. He nodded, meeting Hobber’s eyes, raising a fist. Fight on. Kaladin reached for some stew, then froze.

Sitting nearby on a log were not one, but three beefy, thick-armed Herdazians. All wore Bridge Four uniforms, and Kaladin only recognized Punio out of the three.

Kaladin found Lopen nearby, staring at his hand—which he held before himself in a fist for some reason. Kaladin had long since given up on understanding Lopen.

“Three?” Kaladin demanded.

“Cousins!” Lopen replied, looking up.

“You have too many of those,” Kaladin said.

“That’s impossible! Rod, Huio, say hello!”

“Bridge Four,” the two men said, raising their bowls.

Kaladin shook his head, accepting his own stew and then walking past the cauldron into the darker area beside the barrack. He peeked into the storage room, and found Shen stacking sacks of tallew grain there, lit only by a single diamond chip.

“Shen?” Kaladin said.

The parshman continued stacking bags.

“Fall in and attention!” Kaladin barked.

Shen froze, then stood up, back straight, at attention.

“At ease, soldier,” Kaladin said softly, stepping up to him. “I spoke to Dalinar Kholin earlier today and asked if I could arm you. He asked if I trusted you. I told him the truth.” Kaladin held out his spear to the parshman. “I do.”

Shen looked from the spear to Kaladin, dark eyes hesitant.

“Bridge Four doesn’t have slaves,” Kaladin said. “I’m sorry for being frightened before.” He urged the man to take the spear, and Shen finally did so. “Leyten and Natam practice in the mornings with a few men. They’re willing to help you learn so that you don’t have to train with the greenvines.”

Shen held the spear with what seemed to be reverence. Kaladin turned to leave the storage room.

“Sir,” Shen said.

Kaladin paused.

“You are,” Shen said, speaking in his slow way, “a good man.”

“I’ve spent my life being judged for my eyes, Shen. I won’t do something similar to you because of your skin.”

“Sir, I—” The parshman seemed troubled by something.

“Kaladin!” Moash’s voice came from outside.

“Was there something you wanted to say?” Kaladin asked Shen.

“Later,” the parshman said. “Later.”

Kaladin nodded, then stepped out to see what the disturbance was. He found Moash looking for him near the cauldron.

“Kaladin!” Moash said, spotting him. “Come on. We’re going out, and you’re coming with us. Even Rock is coming tonight.”

“Ha! Stew is in good hands,” Rock said. “I will go do this thing. Will be good to get away from stink of little bridgemen.”

“Hey!” Drehy said.

“Ah. And stink of big bridgemen too.”

“Come on,” Moash said, waving to Kaladin. “You promised.”

He’d done no such thing. He just wanted to settle down by the fire, eat his stew, and watch the flamespren. Everyone was looking at him, though. Even the ones who weren’t going with Moash tonight.

“I . . .” Kaladin said. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They cheered and clapped. Storming fools. They cheered to see their commander go out drinking? Kaladin slurped down a few bites of stew, then handed the rest to Hobber. With reluctance, he then walked over to join Moash, as did Lopen, Peet, and Sigzil.

“You know,” Kaladin growled under his breath to Syl, “if this had been one of my old spearman crews, I’d assume they wanted me out of the camp so they could get away with something while I’m gone.”

“I doubt it’s that,” Syl said, frowning.

“No,” Kaladin said. “These men just want to see me as human.” He did need to go, for that reason. He was already too separate from the men. He didn’t want them thinking of him as they would a lighteyes.

“Ha!” Rock said, jogging up to join them. “These men, they claim they can drink more than Horneater. Airsick lowlanders. Is not possible.”

“A drinking contest?” Kaladin said, groaning inwardly. What was he getting into?

“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.

“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?”