He shook his head and sat on the camp stool. Sinja leaned against the
stone wall of the garden.
"War's more fun when the enemy doesn't fight back," Sinja said. "There's
never been a sack as easy as Nantani. You had to know things would get
harder when the Khaiem got themselves organized."
"I did," Balasar said. "But ... I carry the dead. I can feel them behind
me. I know that they died because of my pride."
Balasar sipped at the tea. Far away across the war, a man shouted
something, but Sinja couldn't make out the language, much less the words.
"All respect, Balasar-cha. They died because they were fighting in a
war," Sinja said. "It's to be expected."
""They died in my war. My men, in my war."
"I see what you mean about pride."
Balasar looked up sharply, his lips thin, his face flushing. Sinja
waited, and the general forced a smile. The maple leaves tapped against
each other in the shifting breeze.
"I should have kept better discipline," Balasar said. "The men came to
Udun for a slaughter. There's no mercy out there today. It's going to
take longer to sack the city, it's going to mean more casualties for us,
and tltani and 'Ian-Sadar will know what happened. They'll know it's a
fight to the last man."
"As I recall, you came to destroy the Khaiem," Sinja said. "Not to
conquer them."
Balasar nodded, accepting the criticism in Sinja's tone as his due.
Sinja half-expected to see the general's hands take a pose of
contrition, but instead he looked into Sinja's eyes. There was no
remorse there, only the hard look of a man who has claimed his own
failures and steeled himself to correcting them.
"I can destroy the Khaiem without killing every fruit seller and baker's
apprentice along the way," Balasar said. "I need your help to do it.
"You had something in mind."
"I want your men to carry messages to Utani and Tan-Sadar. Not to the
Khaiem. The utkhaiem and merchant houses. Men who have power. Tell them
that if they stand aside when we come, they won't be harmed. We want the
poets, and the books, and the Khaiem."
Sinja shook his head.
"You might as well run a spear through us now," Sinja said. "We're
traitors. Yes, I know we're a mercenary company, and we took service and
on and on. But every man I have was born in these cities we're sacking.
Waving a contract isn't going to excuse them in the eyes of the
citizens. Send prisoners instead. Find a dozen men your soldiers haven't
quite hacked to death and use them to carry the messages. They'll be
more effective than we will anyway."
"You think they can be trusted not to simply flee?"
"Catch a man and his wife. Or a father and child. There have to be a few
left out there. Bring me the hostages and I'll keep them safe. When the
husbands and fathers come back, you can give them a few lengths of
silver and a day's head start. It won't undo what we've done here, but
having a few survivors tell tales of your honorable treatment is better
than none."
Balasar sipped his tea. "l'he general's brow was furrowed.
""That's wise," he said at last. "We'll do that. I'll have my men bring
the hostages to you by nightfall."
"Best not to rape them," Sinja said. "It takes something from the spirit
of the thing if they're treated poorly."
"You're the one looking after them."
"And I can control the situation once they're in my care. It's before
that I'm worried by."
"I'll see to it. If I give the order, it will be followed. "They're my
men." Ile said it as if he were reminding himself of something more than
what the words meant.
For a moment, Sinja saw a profound weariness in the Galt's pale face. It
struck him for the first time how small Balasar Gice was. It was only
the way he moved through the world that gave the impression of standing
half a head above everyone else in the room. '['he first dusting of gray
had touched his temples, but Sinja couldn't say if it was premature or
late coming. "l'he breeze stirred, reeking of smoke.
"I can't tell if you hate war or love it," Sinja said.
Balasar looked up as if he'd forgotten Sinja was there. His smile was
amused and bitter.
"I see the necessity of it," Balasar said. "And sometimes I forget that
the point of war is the peace at the end of it."
"Is it? And here I thought it \vas gold and women."
""Those can be the same," Balasar said, ignoring the joke. "'T'here are
worse things than enough money and someone to spend it on."
"And glory?"
Balasar chuckled as he stood, but there was very little of mirth in the
sound. I Ic put down his bowl and his hands took a rough pose of query,
as simple as a child's.
"I)o you see glory in this, Sinja-cha? I only see a bad job that needs
doing and a man so sure of himself, he's spent other people's lives to
do it. I Iardly sounds glorious."
""l'hat depends," Sinja said, dropping into the language of the Galts.
"Does it really need doing,"
"Yes. It does."
Sinja spread his hands, not a formal pose, but only a gesture that
completed the argument. For a moment, something like tears seemed to
glisten in the general's eyes, and he clapped Sinja on the shoulder.
Without thinking, Sinja put his hand to the general's, clasping it hard,
as if they were brothers or soldiers of the same cohort. As if their
lives were somehow one. Far away, something boomed deep as a drum.
Something falling. Ildun, falling.
"I'll get you those hostages," Balasar said. "You take care of them for me."
"Sir," Sinja said, and stood braced at attention until the general was
gone and he was alone again in the garden. Sinja swallowed twice,
loosening the tightness in his throat. The maple swayed, black leaves
touched with red.
In a better world, he thought, I'd have followed that man to hell.
Please the gods, let him never reach Machi.
17
The watchmen Kiyan had placed at the tops of the towers began ringing
their hells just as the sun touched the top of the mountains to the
west. "Traffic stopped in the streets below and in the palace corridors.
All eyes looked up, straining to see the color of the banners draped
from the high, distant windows. Yellow would mean that a Galtic army had
come at last, that their doom had come upon them. Red meant that the
Khai had returned. So far above the city, colors were difficult to make
out. At least to Nlaati's eyes, the first movement of the great signal
cloth was only movement-the banners Hew. It was the space of five fast,
shaky breaths before he made out the red. (bah Machi had returned.