That shouldn’t have to be our problem, he thought. But it was as his father always said. If they didn’t do it, who would?

The Outer Market was far more disorganized than the markets inside Dalinar’s warcamp. Here, the ramshackle buildings—mostly built of stone blocks quarried from nearby—had grown up without any specific plan. A large number of the merchants were Thaylen, with their typical caps, vests, and long, wagging eyebrows.

The busy market was one of the few places where soldiers from all ten warcamps mingled. In fact, that had become one of the main functions of the place; it was neutral ground where men and women from different warcamps could meet. It also provided a market that wasn’t heavily regulated, though Dalinar had stepped in to provide some rules once the marketplace had begun to show signs of lawlessness.

Adolin nodded to a passing group of Kholin soldiers in blue, who saluted him. They were on patrol, halberds held at their shoulders, helms gleaming. Dalinar’s troops patrolled this place, and his scribes watched over it. All at his own cost.

His father didn’t like the layout of the Outer Market or its lack of walls. He said that a raid could be catastrophic to it, that it violated the spirit of the Codes. But it had been years since the Parshendi had raided the Alethi side of the Plains. And if they did decide to strike at the warcamps, the scouts and guards would give ample warning.

So what was the point of the Codes? Adolin’s father acted as if they were vitally important. Always be in uniform, always be armed, always stay sober. Be ever vigilant while under threat of attack. But there was no threat of attack.

As he walked through the market, Adolin looked—really looked—for the first time and tried to see what it was his father was doing.

He could pick out Dalinar’s officers easily. They wore their uniforms, as commanded. Blue coats and trousers with silver buttons, knots on the shoulders for rank. Officers who weren’t from Dalinar’s camp wore all kinds of clothing. It was difficult to pick them out from the merchants and other wealthy civilians.

But that doesn’t matter, Adolin told himself again. Because we’re not going to be attacked.

He frowned, passing a group of lighteyes lounging outside another winehouse. Much as he’d just been doing. Their clothing—indeed, their postures and mannerisms—made them look like they cared only about their revelry. Adolin found himself annoyed. There was a war going on. Almost every day, soldiers died. They did so while lighteyes drank and chatted.

Maybe the Codes weren’t just about protecting against the Parshendi. Maybe they were about something more—about giving the men commanders they could respect and rely on. About treating war with the gravity it deserved. Maybe it was about not turning a war zone into a festival. The common men had to remain on watch, vigilant. Therefore, Adolin and Dalinar did the same.

Adolin hesitated in the street. Nobody cursed at him or called for him to move—they could see his rank. They just went around him.

I think I see now, he thought. Why had it taken him so long?

Disturbed, he hurried on his way toward the day’s match.

“‘I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru,’” Dalinar said, quoting from memory. “‘In this, the metaphor and experience are one, inseparable to me like my mind and memory. One contains the other, and though I can explain one to you, the other is only for me.’”

Sadeas—sitting beside him—raised an eyebrow. Elhokar sat on Dalinar’s other side, wearing his Shardplate. He’d taken to that more and more, sure that assassins were thirsting for his life. Together, they watched the men dueling down below, at the bottom of a small crater that Elhokar had designated the warcamps’ dueling arena. The rocky shelves running around the inside of the ten-foot-tall wall made excellent seating platforms.

Adolin’s duel hadn’t started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other’s padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.

“So, wait,” Sadeas said to him. “This man who wrote the book…”

“Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we’re not certain whether that was actually his real name or not.”

“He decided to walk from where to where?”

“Abamabar to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told.”

“Wasn’t he a king?”

“Yes.”

“But why—”

“It’s confusing,” Dalinar said. “But listen. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat and continued. “‘I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.

“‘Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar?

“‘Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life—my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort—has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’”

Sadeas frowned at this. In front of them, the two swordsmen continued their duel; Elhokar watched keenly. He loved duels. Bringing in sand to coat the floor of this arena had been one of his first acts at the Shattered Plains.

“‘Regardless,’” Dalinar said, still quoting from The Way of Kings, “‘I made the trip and—as the astute reader has already concluded—survived it. The stories of its excitements will stain a different page in this narrative, for first I must explain my purpose in walking this strange path. Though I was quite willing to let my family think me insane, I would not leave the same as my cognomen upon the winds of history.

“‘My family traveled to Urithiru via the direct method, and had been awaiting me for weeks when I arrived. I was not recognized at the gate, for my mane had grown quite robust without a razor to tame it. Once I revealed myself, I was carried away, primped, fed, worried over, and scolded in precisely that order. Only after all of this was through was I finally asked the purpose of my excursion. Couldn’t I have just taken the simple, easy, and common route to the holy city?’”

“Exactly,” Sadeas interjected. “He could at the very least have ridden a horse!”

“‘For my answer,’” Dalinar quoted, “‘I removed my sandals and proffered my callused feet. They were comfortable upon the table beside my half-consumed tray of grapes. At this point, the expressions of my companions proclaimed that they thought me daft, and so I explained by relating the stories of my trip. One after another, like stacked sacks of tallew, stored for the winter season. I would make flatbread of them soon, then stuff it between these pages.