the length of the room, literally wringing his hands in agitation or excitement. Balasar closed the door behind him with a thump as the captain bowed.
'Sir,' he said. 'There's a man come wanting to speak with you. I thought I'd best bring him to you myself.'
'What's his business?' Balasar asked.
'Mercenary captain, sir. Brought his men down from Annaster.'
'I don't need more forces.'
'You'll want to talk with this one all the same, sir. His company? They're from the Khaiem. Says they got turned out by the Khai Machi and they've been traveling ever since.'
'He's been in the winter cities?'
'For years, sir.'
'You were right to bring him. Show the man in,' Balasar said, then stopped the captain as he headed to the door. 'What's his name?'
'Captain Ajutani, sir. Sinja Ajutani.'
It had become clear to Sinja shortly after his arrival in aren that he had misjudged the situation.
The company, such as it was, had passed through the mountains that divided the Westlands from the lands that, while not directly controlled, associated themselves with Machi and Pathai weeks before. The men were young and excited to he on the march, so Sinja had pushed them. By the time they'd reached Annaster, they were tired enough to complain, but there was still a light in their eyes. They'd escaped the smothering, peaceful blankets of the Khaiem; they were in the realm where violence was met with violence, and not by the uncanny powers of the poets and their andat. They had come to the place where they could prove themselves on the bodies of their enemies.
Besides Sinja, only a dozen or so of the higher ranks had ever been in battle. For the rest, this was like walking into a children's tale. Sinja hadn't tried to explain. Perhaps they'd be able to find glory in the soulcrushing boredom of a siege; perhaps they'd face their first battles and discover that they loved violence. More likely, he'd be sending half of them home to their mothers by midsummer, and that would have been fine. He was here as much to stretch his legs as to keep his master and friend the Khai Machi out of trouble with the Dai-kvo.
He hadn't expected to walk into the largest massing of military force in memory.
Galt was in the southern wards, and it was there in force. All through the Westlands, Wardens had forgotten their squabbles. Every gaze was cast south. The common wisdom was that Galt had finally decided to end its generations-long games of raid and abandon. It had come to take control of the whole of the Westlands from the southern coast up to Eddensea. There were even those who wondered whether it was going to be a good season for Eddensea.
Sinja had done what he did best-listened. The stories he heard were, of course, overblown. Men and women throughout the Westlands were in different stages of panic. Someone had seen a thousand ships off the coast. There had been agreements signed with Aren, but all the other Wardens and all their children were to he slaughtered to assure that no one would have claim to rule once the Galts had come through. There were even a few optimists who thought that Balasar Gice-the general at the head of this largest of all gathered armieswasn't looking to the Westlands, but gathering his forces to take control of Galt itself. He could overthrow the High Council and install himself as autocrat.
What it all came to was this: Any mercenary company working for anyone besides Galt was likely to be on the losing side of the fight. The collected Wardens were putting out calls for free companies and garrison forces, preparing themselves as best they could. The fees that Sinja was offered would have been handsome for a band of veterans and siege captains, much less for a few hundred foreign sell-swords one step up from thugs. And so Sinja had considered the money, considered the offers and the stories and his own best instincts, then quietly packed up his men and headed south to Aren to sell their services at a fourth of the price, but to the winners.
The men had grumbled. Wide, square Westland coins had been dancing in their minds. Morale had started to fail. So Sinja had paused in the Ward of Castin, made contact with a free company who'd taken contract there, and challenged their veterans to a day of games. Once Sinja's men had understood and accepted his point, they bound their ribs and continued to the south. No one had questioned his judgment again.
Aren was one of the wards farthest to the south. Low hills covered with rich green grasses, towns of stone buildings with thatched roofs, elk and deer so wise to the ways of men that the bowmen he sent ahead to forage never caught one of them. Wherever they went, Sinja saw the signs of an army having passed-ruined crops, abandoned campsites with the ashes of a half hundred fires churned into the mud. But even with this, he had been shocked when they topped one of the many hills and caught first sight of the city of Aren.
No city under siege had ever seen so many troops at its wall. Tents and low pavilions were laid out around it on all sides, dark oiled cloth shining in row after row after row. The smoke of cook fires left a low haze through the valley that even the rain could not wholly dispel, the strange bulbous steam wagons the Galts used to move supplies and leave their men unburdened seemed as numerous as horses in the fields, and the squirming, streaming activity of men moving through each of the opened gates made the city seem like a dead sparrow overrun by ants.
His men set camp at a polite distance from the existing companies while Sinja dared the city itself. He entered the gates at midday. It wasn't more than three hands later he was being escorted through the halls of the Warden's palace to the library and the general himself. I Ie'd surrendered his blades and the garrote he kept at his waist before being permitted to speak with the great man. Either Balasar Gice felt this unprecedented mass of men was too little for whatever task lay ahead of him and was grabbing at every spare sword and dagger in the world, or else Sinja was, for reasons that passed imagining, of particular interest to him.
Either way, Sinja disliked it.
Balasar Gice turned out to he a smallish man, mouse-brown hair running to white at the temples. He wore the gray tunic of command that Sinja had seen before when he'd been in the field as a young man fighting against the Galts or else with them. lie might have been anyone, to look at him. A farmer or a merchant seaman or a seafront customs agent.
'Bad weather for traveling,' the general said, amiably, as if they were simply two men who'd met at a wayhouse. He spoke the Khaiate tongue clearly, his accent flavoring the words rather than obscuring them.
'It's always wet in the South this time of year,' Sinja agreed in Galtic. 'Not always so cold, but that's why the gods made wool. '['hat or as a joke against sheep.'
The general smiled, either at the words or the language they were in, Sinja wasn't certain. Sinja kept his expression pleasant and empty. They both knew he was here to sell the use of his men, but only the general knew why the meeting was here and not with some low captain. Sinja opted to wait and see what came of it. Balasar Gice seemed to read his intention; he nodded and walked to a side table, where he poured them both clear wine from a cut-glass carafe. No, not wine. Water.
'I hear the Khai Machi turned you out,' the general said in Galtic as he passed a cup to Sinja. That wasn't true. Sinja had told the captain that they were out from Nlachi, but perhaps there had been some misunderstanding. Sinja shrugged. It was too early in the game to correct anyone's misconceptions.
'It's his right,' he said. 'Some of the men were causing trouble. Too long in a quiet place. I'm sure you understand.'
Balasar chuckled. It was a warm sound, and Sinja found himself liking the man. Balasar nodded to a couch beside the brazier. Sinja made a small how and sat, the general leaning casually against the table.
'You left on good terms?'
'We didn't turn back and burn the city,' Sinja said, 'if that's what you mean.
'Do you owe the Khai Machi loyalty? Or are you a free company?'
The truth was that any silver he took would find its way back to Otah Machi's coffers. The company was no more free than the Galtic armies outside the city. And yet there was something in the general's voice when he asked the question, something in his eyes.
'We're mercenaries. We follow whoever pays us,' Sinja said.
'And if someone should offer to pay you more? No offense, but the one thing you can say of loyalty for hire is that it's for hire.'
'We'll finish out a contract,' Sinja said. 'I've been through enough to know what happens to a company with a reputation for switching sides mid-battle. But I won't lie, the boys I have are green, most of them. They haven't
