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?”

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.