The others in the barrack found this curious, but not worrisome. Some even cheered. Storms. Kaladin couldn’t imagine any force of Dalinar’s soldiers being so welcoming of a deserter, let alone a dangerous one.
Considering that, Kaladin now picked out another undercurrent in the room. Men sharpening weapons that had chips in them. Armorers repairing cuts in leather—cuts made by lances in battle. Conspicuously empty seats at most of the tables, with cups set at them.
These men had suffered losses. Not huge ones yet. They could still laugh. But storms, there was a tension to this room.
“So,” Noro said. “Shash brand?”
The rest of the squad settled in, and a short man with hair on the backs of his hands set a bowl of thick stew and flatbread in front of Kaladin. Standard fare, with steamed tallew and cubed meat. Soulcast, of course, and lacking flavor—but hearty and nutritious.
“I had a squabble,” Kaladin said, “with Highlord Amaram. I felt he’d gotten some of my men killed needlessly. He disagreed.”
“Amaram,” said one of the men. “You aim high, friend.”
“I know Amaram,” the man with hairy hands said. “I did secret missions for him, back in my operative days.”
Kaladin looked at him, surprised.
“Best to ignore Beard,” Lieutenant Noro said. “It’s what the rest of us do.”
“Beard” didn’t have a beard. Maybe the hairy hands were enough. He nudged Kaladin. “It’s a good story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”
“You can’t just brand a lighteyed man a slave,” Lieutenant Noro said. “You need a highprince’s permission. There’s more to this story.”
“There is,” Kaladin said. Then he continued eating his stew.
“Oooh,” said a tall member of the squad. “Mystery!”
Noro chuckled, then waved at the room. “So what do you think?”
“You said you weren’t going to press me,” Kaladin said between bites.
“I’m not pressing you, but you won’t find a place out there in the city where you’ll eat as well as you do here.”
“Where do you get it?” Kaladin asked, spooning the stew into his mouth. “You can’t use Soulcasters. The screamers will come after you. Stockpile? I’m surprised one of the highlords in the city hasn’t tried to appropriate it.”
“Astute,” Lieutenant Noro said with a smile. He had a disarming way about him. “That’s a Guard secret. But in here there’s always a stew bubbling and bread baking.”
“It’s my recipe,” Beard added.
“Oh please,” the tall man said. “You’re a cook now too, Beard?”
“A chef, thank you very much. I learned that flatbread recipe from a Horneater mystic at the top of a mountain. The real story is how I got there.…”
“It’s where you landed, obviously,” the tall soldier said, “after someone in your last squad kicked you.”
The men laughed. It felt warm in here, on this long bench, a well-laid fire burning steadily in the corner. Warm and friendly. As Kaladin ate, they gave him some space, chatting among themselves. Noro … he seemed less a soldier and more a chummy merchant trying to sell you earrings for your beloved. He dropped very obvious dangling hints for Kaladin. Reminders of how well-fed they were, of how good it was to be part of a squad. He spoke of warm beds, of how they didn’t have to go on watch duty that often. Of playing cards while the highstorm blew.
Kaladin got a second bowl of stew, and as he settled back into his place, he realized something with a shock.
Storms. They’re all lighteyes, aren’t they?
Every person in the room, from the cook to the armorers, to the soldiers doing dishes. In a group like this, everyone had a secondary duty, like armoring or field surgery. Kaladin hadn’t noticed their eyes. The place had felt so natural, so comfortable, that he’d assumed they were all darkeyed like him.
He knew that most lighteyed soldiers weren’t high officers. He’d been told that they were basically just people—he’d been told it over and over. Somehow, sitting in that room finally made the fact real to him.
“So, Kal…” Lieutenant Noro asked. “What do you think? Maybe reenlist? Give this another try?”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll desert?” Kaladin asked. “Or worse, that I can’t control my temper? I might be dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as being short manned,” Beard said. “You know how to kill people? That’s good enough for us.”
Kaladin nodded. “Tell me about your commander. That will be a big part of any group. I only just got into town. Who is this Highmarshal Azure?”
“You can meet him yourself!” Beard said. “He does rounds every night around dinner time, checking on each barracks.”
“Um, yes,” Noro said.
Kaladin eyed him. The lieutenant seemed uncomfortable.
“The highmarshal,” Noro said quickly, “is incredible. We lost our former commander during the riots, and Azure led a group who held the wall when the Cult of Moments tried—in the chaos—to seize the city gates.”
“He fought like a Voidbringer,” another squad member said. “I was there. We were almost overwhelmed, then Azure joined us, holding aloft a gleaming Shardblade. He rallied our numbers, inspired even the wounded to keep fighting. Storms. Felt like we had spren at our backs, holding us up, helping us fight.”
Kaladin narrowed his eyes. “You don’t say…”
He pried more from them as he finished his bowl. They had nothing but praise for Azure, though the man hadn’t displayed any other … odd abilities that Kaladin could discover. Azure was a Shardbearer, maybe a foreigner, who had been previously unknown to the Guard—but with the fall of their commander, and the subsequent disappearance of their highlord patron at the palace, Azure had ended up in command.
There was something else. Something they weren’t saying. Kaladin helped himself to a third bowl of stew, more to delay to see if the highmarshal really would make an appearance or not.
Soon, a disturbance near the door sent men standing up. Kaladin followed suit, turning. A senior officer entered wearing a glittering chain and a bright tabard, accompanied by attendants, inspiring a round of salutes. The highmarshal wore an appropriately azure cloak—a lighter shade than the traditional Kholin blue—with a mail coif down around the neck and a helm carried in hand.
She was also a she.
Kaladin blinked in surprise, and heard a gasp from Syl up above. The highmarshal was of average height for an Alethi woman, maybe just under, and wore her hair straight and short, reaching halfway down her cheeks. Her eyes were orange, and she wore a side sword with a glistening silver basket hilt. That wasn’t Alethi design. Was it the aforementioned Shardblade? It did have an otherworldly look about it, but why wear it instead of dismissing it?
Regardless, the highmarshal was lean and grim, and had a couple of serious scars on her face. She wore gloves on both hands.
“The highmarshal is a woman?” Kaladin hissed.
“We don’t talk about the marshal’s secret,” Beard said.
“Secret?” Kaladin said. “It’s pretty storming obvious.”