often; he had kept to the South in the years he had been a courier, and
the Khaiem had always been reluctant to meet one another, preferring to
send envoys and girl children to wed. Nonetheless, he had traveled it.
He was still trying to recall the details when Nayiit interrupted him.
"What are we going to do in Cetani, Most High?"
The boy's face was sharp and focused. Eager. Otah saw something of what
he had been at that age. He knew the answer to Nayiit's question as soon
as it was spoken, but still it took him a moment to bring himself to say it.
"You aren't coming, Nayiit-cha. I need you to see those books back to
Maati."
"Anyone can do that," Nayiit said. "I'll be of use to you. I've been
through Cetani. I was there just weeks ago, when we were coming to
Machi. I can-"
"You can't," Otah said, and took the boy's hand. His son's hand. "You
called a retreat when no one had given the order. In the Old Empire, I'd
have had to see you killed for that. I can't have you come now."
The surprise on Nayiit's face was heartbreaking.
"You said it wasn't my fault," he said.
"And it isn't. I would have called the retreat myself if you hadn't.
What happened to our men, what happened here, to the Dai-kvo.. . none of
that's yours to carry. If you'd done differently, it would have changed
nothing. But there will be a next time, and I can't have someone calling
commands who might do what you've done."
Nayiit stepped hack, just out of his reach. Ah, Maati, Otah thought,
what kind of son have we made, you and I?
"It won't," Nayiit said. "It won't happen again."
"I know. I know it won't," Otah said, making his tone gentle to soften
hard words. "Because you're going back to Machi."
UDUN WAS A RIVER CITY. IT WAS A CITY OF BRIDGES, AND A CITY OF BIRDS.
Sinja had lived there briefly while recovering from a dagger wound in
his thigh. He remembered the songs of the jays and the finches, the
sound of the river. He remembered Kiyan's stories of growing up a
wayhouse keeper's daughter-the beggars on the riverside quays who drew
pictures with chalks to cover the gray stone or played the small reed
flutes that never seemed to be popular anywhere else; the canals that
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