carried as much traffic as the streets. The palaces of the Khai Udun
spanned the river itself, sinking great stone stanchions down into the
river like the widest bridge in the world. As a girl, Kiyan had heard
stories about the ghouls that lived in the darkness under those great
palaces. She had gone there in boats with her cohort in the dark of
night, the way that Sinja himself had dared burial mounds at midnight
with his brothers. She had kissed her first lover in the twilight
beneath a bridge just North of here. He had spent so little time in I.
dun, and yet he felt he knew it so well.
The wayhouse where Sinja housed his men was south of the palaces. Its
walls were stone and mud and thick as the length of his arm. The
shutters were a green so dark they seemed almost black. It hadn't been
built to fit as many men as Sinja commanded, but the standards of a
soldier were lower than those of it normal traveler. And the standards
of a soldier as likely to be mistaken for the enemy by his alleged
fellows as killed by the defending armsmen were lower still. The great
common room was covered from one wall to the other with thin cotton
bedrolls. 'T'he upper rooms, intended for four men or fewer, housed
eight or ten. 'T'here had been a few men who had ventured as far as the
stables, but Sinja had called them hack inside. There was a madness on
Balasar Dice's men, and he didn't intend to have his own fall to it.
In the small walled garden at the hack, Sinja sat on a camp stool and
drank a howl of mint tea brewed with fresh-plucked leaves. "Thyme and
basil grew around him, and a small black-leaf maple gave shade. Smoke
rose into the skv, dark and solid as the towers of Machi. The birds were
silent or lied. The scouts he'd sent out, their uniforms clearly the
colors of Galt, reported that the rivers and canals had all turned red
from the blood and the fish were dying of it. Sinja wasn't sure he
believed that, but it seemed to catch the flavor of the day. Certainly
he wasn't going to go out and look for himself.
An ancient man, spine bent and mouth innocent of anything resembling
teeth, poked his head out the wide oaken doors at the end of the garden.
The red-rimmed eyes seemed uncertain. The old hands shook so badly Sinja
could see the trembling from where he sat. War is no place for the old,
Sinja thought. It's meant for young men who can't yet distinguish
between excitement and fear. Men who haven't yet grown a conscience.
"Mani-cha," Sinja called to the wayhouse keeper. "Is there something I
can do for you?"
"'There's a man conic for you, Sinja-cha. Say's he's the ... ah ... the
general."
"Bring him here," Sinja said.
The wayhouse keeper took a pose of acknowledgment, smiled an uncertain
smile, and wavered half in, half out of the doorframe.
"You'll be fine, Mani-cha. You've my protection. He's not going to have
you hanged, I promise. But you might bring him a bowl of tea."
Old Mani blinked and nodded his apology before ducking back into the
house. The protection wasn't a promise he could keep. He hadn't asked
General Gice's permission before he'd extended it. And still, he thought
the old man's chances were good.
Balasar stepped into the garden as if he knew it, as if he owned it. It
wasn't arrogance. That was what made the man so odd. The general's
expression was drawn and thoughtful; that at least was a good sign.
Sinja put his bowl of tea on the dusty red brick pathway, stood, and
made his salute. Balasar returned it, but his gaze seemed caught by the
shifting branches of the maple tree.
"All's well, I hope, sir," Sinja said.
"Well enough," Balasar said. "Well enough for a bad day, anyway. And
here? Have your men been ... Have you lost anyone?"
"I can account for all of them. I can have them ready to go out in half
a hand, if you think they're needed, sir."
Balasar shifted, looking straight into Sinja's eyes as if seeing him
clearly for the first time.
"No," Balasar said. "No, it won't be called for. What resistance there
still is can't last long."
Sinja nodded. Of course not. tldun had numbers and knowledge, but they
weren't fighters. The raids had continued for the whole trek upriver.
Hunting parties had been harassed, wells fouled, the low towns the army
had passed through stripped bare of anything that might have been of use
to them. And the bodies of the soldiers slain in the raids were wrapped
in shrouds and ashes to join the train. Balasar Gice had left Nantani
with ten thousand men, and with all the gods watching him, he'd reached
tJdun with the full ten thousand, no matter if a few dozen needed
carrying. Sinja tried to keep the disapproval from his face, but the
general saw it there anyway, frowned, and looked away.
"What's the matter with that tree?" Balasar asked.
Sinja considered the maple. It was small-hardly taller than two men's
height-and artfully cut to give shade without obstructing the view of
the sky.
"Nothing, sir," he said. "It looks fine."
"The leaves are black."
"They're supposed to be," Sinja said. "If you look close, you can see
it's really a very deep green, but they call it black-leaf all the same.
When autumn comes, it turns a brilliant red. It's lovely, especially if
the leaves haven't let go when the first snow comes."
"I'm sorry I won't be here to see it," the general said.
"Well, not the snows," Sinja said, "but you can see on the edges of
those lower leaves where the red's starting."
Balasar stepped over and took a low branch in his hand. He bent it to
look at the leaves, but he didn't pluck them free. Sinja gave the man
credit for that. Most Galts would have ripped the leaves off to look at
them. With a sigh, Balasar let the branch swing back to its place.
"Tea?" Old Mani said from the doorway. Balasar looked over his shoulder
at the old man and nodded. Sinja motioned the wayhouse keeper close,
took the bowl, and sipped from it before passing it on to the general.
Old Mani took a pose of thanks and backed out again.
"Tasting my food and drink?" Balasar asked in the tongue of the Khaiem.
There was amusement in his tone. "Surely we haven't come to the point
I'd expect you to poison me."
"I didn't brew it," Sinja said. "And Old Mani knew a lot of people you
killed today."
Balasar took the cup and frowned into it. He was silent for long enough
that Sinja began to grow uncomfortable. When he spoke, his tone was
almost confessional.
"I've come to tell you that I was wrong," Balasar said. "You were right.
I should have listened."
"I'm gratified that you think so. What was I right about?"
"The bodies. The men. I should have buried them where they lay. I should
have left them. Now there's vengeance in it, and it's ..."