and Danat are safe from it.'
Otah swallowed. He wanted to rise to the defense of the innocent in Galt, wanted to say the sort of high- minded words that he'd held as comfort many years ago when he had been moved to kill in the name of mercy. But the years had taken that man. The years he had lived, and the dark, liquid eyes of his children. If black chaos was to he loosed, he had to side with Kiyan. Better that it was loosed elsewhere. Better a thousand thousand Galtic children die than one of his own. It was what his heart said, but it made him feel lessened and sad.
'And the other problem?' Kiyan asked. Her voice was low, but there was a hardness to it almost like anger. Otah took a querying pose. Kiyan turned to him. He hadn't expected to see fear in her eyes, and the surprise of it filled him with dread as deep as any he had suffered.
'What is it?' he asked.
She looked at him, part in surprise, part accusation.
'Nayiit,' she said. 'No one would think that man was Maati's child. Not for a heartbeat. You have two sons, Otah-kya.'
Balasar was quickly coming to resent the late-spring storms of the Westlands. Each morning seemed to promise a bright day in which his masters of supply could make their inventories, his captains could train their men. Before midday, great white clouds would hulk up in the south and advance upon him. The middle afternoon had been roaring rain and vicious lightning for the past six days. The training fields were churned mud, the wood for the steam wagons was soaked, and the men were beginning to mirror Balasar's own impatience.
They had been guests of the Warden of Aren for two weeks now, the troops in their tents outside the city walls, Balasar and his captains sleeping in the high keep. The Warden was an old man, fat and boisterous, who understood as well as Balasar the dangers of an army grown restless, even an army still only half assembled. The Warden put a pleasant face on things-he'd agreed to allow a Galtic army on his lands, after all. 'There was little enough to do now besides be pleasant and hope they'd go away again.
Ile had even been so kind as to offer Balasar the use of his library. It was a small room overlooking a courtyard, less grand than Balasar's own home in Galt, less than the smallest apartments of the least of the Khaiate nobility. But it was serviceable, and it had the effect each man desired. Balasar had a place to brood, and the Westlanders had a convenient way to keep clear of him.
The afternoon rains pecked at the windows. The pot of black tea had grown tepid and hitter, ignored on a corner of the wide, oaken table. Balasar looked again at the maps. Nantani would be the first, and the easiest. The western forces would be undivided-five full legions with support of the mercenaries hired with the High Council's gold and promises of plunder. The city wouldn't stand for a morning. Then one legion would turn North, going overland to Pathai while two others took the mercenaries to Shosheyn-Tan, Lachi, and Saraykeht. That left him two legions to go upriver to Udun, Utani, and Tan-Sadar, less whatever men he left behind to occupy the conquered. Eight of the cities. Over half, but the least important.
Coal and his men were already in place, waiting in the low towns and smugglers' camps outside Chaburi-Tan. When the andat failed, they would sack the city, and take ships North to Yalakeht. The pieces for steam-driven boats were already in the warehouses of the Galtic tradesmen, ready to be pegged onto rafts and sped upriver to the village of the Dai-kvo. And then there was only the race to the North to put AmnatTan, Cetani, and Machi to the torch before winter came.
Balasar wished again that he had been able to lead the force in Chaburi-Tan. The fate of the world would rest on that sprint to the libraries and catacombs of the poets. If only he had had time to sail out there… but days were precious, and Coal had been preparing his men all the time Balasar had played politics in Acton. It was better this way. And still…
He traced a finger across the western plains-Pathai to Utani. He wished he knew better how the roads were. The school for the young poets wasn't far from Pathai. That wouldn't be a pleasant duty either. And he couldn't trust the slaughter of children to mercenaries, not with the stakes so high. This wasn't a war that had room for moments of compassion.
A soft knock came at the door, and Eustin stepped in. He wore the deep blue and red of a captain's uniform. Balasar acknowledged him with a nod.
'Has the third legion arrived, then?' Balasar asked.
'No, sir,' Eustin said. 'We've had a runner from them. They'll be here by the week's end, sir.'
'Ibo long.'
'Yes, sir. But there's another problem.'
Balasar rose, hands clasped behind him. He could feel his mind straining back toward the plans and maps almost as if it were a physical force, but he believed that battles were won or lost long before they were fought. If Eustin had thought something worth interrupting him, it would likely need his whole attention.
'Go ahead,' he said.
'The poet. He's refusing to pay for his whores again, sir. Been saying the honor of being with him should be enough. One of the girls took offense and poured a cup of hot tea in his lap. Scalded his little poet like a boiled sausage.'
Balasar didn't smile, nor did Eustin. 'I'he moment between them was enough.
'Will he be able to ride?' Balasar asked.
'Given a few days, sir, he'll be fine. But he's demanding the girl be killed. Half the houses in the city have threatened to raise their rates, and they're talking to their local clients too. I've had two letters today that didn't quite say the grain would cost more than expected.'
Balasar felt a brief flush of anger.
'They're aware that the majority of the Galtic armies are either in the ward now or will be here shortly?'
'Yes, sir. And they've not said it's final that they'll stick it to us for more silver. But they're proud folks. It's just a whore he wants killed, but she's a Westlands whore, if you see what I mean. She's one of their own.'
This was a mess. He didn't want to start the campaign by fighting the Ward of Arcn. He didn't yet have all his men assembled. Balasar looked out the windows, casting his gaze over the courtyard below without truly seeing it.
'I suppose I'd best speak with him, then,' Balasar said.
'He's in his rooms, sir. Should I bring him here?'
'No,' Balasar said. 'I'll face the beast in its lair.'
'Yessir.'
The central city of Aren was a squat affair. Thick stone walls covered with mud and washed white were the order of the day. The constant wars of the Westlands and the occasional attack by Galt had kept the ward cropped low as a rabbit-haunted garden. The highest houses rose no more than four stories above ground, and the streets, even near the palaces of the Warden, smelled of sewage and old food. Balasar reached the building where he and his captains were housed, shook the rain from his cloak, and gestured for Eustin to wait for him. He took the stairs three at a time up to the anteroom of the poet's apartments. The men guarding the door bowed as he entered, then stood aside as he announced himself.
Riaan sat on a low couch, his robes propped up above his lap like a tent, the hem rising halfway up his shins. The awareness of his indignity shone in the poet's face-lips pressed thin, jaw set forward. Even as Balasar made his half-how, he could tell the man had been working himself into a rage. If any of his captains had acted this way, Balasar would have assigned them to patrolling on horseback until the wounds had healed. Idiocy should carry a price. Instead he lowered himself to a couch across from the poet and spoke gently.
'I heard about your misfortune,' Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiate cities. 'I wanted to come and offer my sympathies. Is there anything I can do to be of service?'
'You could bring me the slack-cunt's heart,' the poet spat. 'I should have cut her down where she stood. She should he drowned in her own shit for this!'
The poet gestured toward his own crotch, demonstrating the depth of his hurt. Balasar didn't smile. With all the gravity he could manage, he nodded.
'It will cause problems if I have her killed,' Balasar said. 'The local men are uneasy already. I could have her whipped-'
'No! She must die!'
'If there was some other way that honor could he served..
Riaan leaned hack, his gaze cold. This, Balasar thought, was the man on whom the hopes of the world
