chair scraped against the floor as she rose. Otah put his hand out to
her, and she took it, stepping in close to him, her arms around him. He
kissed her temple.
"Promise me this all ends well," she said. "Just tell me that."
"It will he fine," he said. "Nothing's going to hurt our boy."
They stood silently for a time, looking at each other, and then out at
the city. The plumes of smoke rising from the forges, the black-cobbled
streets and gray slanted roofs. The sun slipped behind the clouds or
else the clouds rose to block the light. The knock that interrupted them
was sharp and urgent.
"Most High?" a man's voice said. "Most High, forgive me, but the poets
wish to speak with you. Maati-cha says the issue is urgent."
Kiyan walked with him, her hand in his, as they went to the Council
chamber where Maati waited. His face was flushed, his mouth set in a
deep scowl. A packet of paper fluttered in his hand, the edges rough
where he'd ripped them rather than take the labor of unsewing the
sheets. Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were also there, the poet pacing
restlessly, the andat smiling its placid, inhuman smile at each of them
in turn.
"News from the Dai-kvo?" Otah asked.
"No, the couriers we sent west," Cehmai said.
Maati tossed the pages to the table as he spoke. "The Galts have fielded
an army."
THE THIRD LEGION ARRIVED ON A BRIGHT MORNING, THE SUN SHINING ON the
polished metal and oiled leather of their armor as if they'd been
expecting a victory parade instead of the start of a war. Balasar
watched from the walls of the city as they arrived and made camp. The
sight was so welcome, even the smell of a hundred and a half camp
latrines couldn't undermine his pleasure.
They were later even than they'd expected, and with stories and excuses
to explain the delay. Balasar, leaning against the map table, listened
and kept his expression calm as the officers apprised him of the
legion's state-the men, the food, the horses, the steam wagons, the
armor, the arms. Mentally, he put the information into the vast map that
was the campaign, but even as he did, he felt the wolfish grin coming to
his lips. These were the last of his forces to come into place. The hour
was almost upon him. The war was about to begin.
He listened as patiently as he could, gave his orders on the disposition
of their men and materiel, and told them not to get comfortable. When
they were gone, Eustin came in alone, the same excitement that Balasar
felt showing on his face.
"What's next, sir? The poet?"
""I'he poet," Balasar said, leading the way out the door.
They found Riaan in the Warden's private courtyard. He was sitting in
the wide shade of a catalpa tree heavy with wide, white blooms and wide
leaves the same green as the poet's robes. He'd had someone bring out a
wide divan for him to lounge on. Across a small table, the Khaiate
mercenary captain was perched on a stool. Both men were frowning at a
handful of stones laid out in a short arc. The captain rose when he
caught sight of them. The poet only glanced up, annoyed. Balasar took a
pose of greeting, and the poet replied with something ornate that he
couldn't entirely make sense of. The glitter in the captain's eyes
suggested that the complexity was intentional and not entirely
complimentary. Balasar put the insult, whatever it was, aside. There was
no call to catalog more reasons to kill the man.
"Sinja-cha," Balasar said. "I need to speak with the great poet in private."
"Of course," the captain said, then turning to Riaan with a formal pose,
"We can finish the game later if you like."
Riaan nodded and waved, the movement half permission for Sinja to go,
half shooing him away. The amusement in the captain's eyes didn't seem
to lessen. Eustin escorted the man away, and when they were alone,
Balasar took the vacated stool.
"My men are in place," he said. "The time's come."
He kept his gaze on the poet, looking for reluctance or unease in his
eyes. But Riaan smiled slowly, like a man who had heard that his dearest
enemy had died, and laced his fingers together on his belly. Balasar had
half-expected the poet to repent, to change his mind when faced with the
prospect of the deed itself. There was nothing of that.
"Tomorrow morning," Riaan said. "I will need a servant to attend me
today and through the night. At first light tomorrow, I will prove that
the Dai-kvo was a fool to send me away. And then I shall march to my
father's house with your army behind me like a flood."
Balasar grinned. He had never seen a man so shortsighted, vain, and
petty, and he'd spent three seasons in Acton with his father and the
High Council. As far as the poet was concerned, none of this was for
anything more important than the greater glory of Riaan Vaudathat.
"How can we serve you in this?" Balasar asked.
"Everything is already prepared. I must only begin my meditations."
It sounded like dismissal to Balasar. He rose, bowing to the poet.
"I will send my most trusted servant," he said. "Should anything more
arise, only send word, and I will see it done."
Riaan smiled condescendingly and nodded his head. But as Balasar was
just leaving the garden, the poet called his name. A cloud had come over
the man, some ghost of uncertainty that had not risen from the prospect
of binding.
"Your men," the poet said. "They have been instructed that my family is
not to be touched, yes?"
"Of course," Balasar said.
"And the library. The city is, of course, yours to do with as you see
fit, but without the libraries of the Khaiem, binding a second andat
will be much more difficult. They aren't to be entered by any man but me."
"Of course," Balasar said again, and the poet took a pose accepting his
assurances. The concern didn't leave Riaan's brow, though. So perhaps
the man wasn't quite as dim as he seemed. Balasar told himself, as he
strode hack through the covered pathways to his own rooms, that he would
have to be more careful with him in the future. Not that there was much
future for him. Win or lose, Riaan was a dead man.
The day seemed more real than the ones that had come before it: the
sunlight clearer, the air more alive with the scents of flowers and
sewage and grass. The stones of the walls seemed more interesting, the
subtle differences in color and texture clear where previous days had
made them only a field of gray. Even Balasar's body hummed with energy.