Words of Radiance (Page 126)

“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?”

“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.’