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.
A crowd formed at the edge of the city as the first wagons came over the
bridge. The women and children and old men of Machi come to greet the
militia that had gone out to save the l)ai-kvo. The Dai-kvo and the city
and the world. Maati pushed his way in, elbowing people aside and taking
more than one sharp rebuttal in his own ribs. The horses that pulled the
wagons were blown. The men who rode them were gray-pale in the face and
bloodied. The few who still walked, shambled. A ragged cheer rose from
the crowd and then slunk away. A girl in a gray robe of cheap wool
stepped out from the edge of the crowd, moving toward the soldiers. From
where he stood trapped in the press of bodies, Maati could see the
girl's head as it turned, searching the coming train of men for some
particular man. Even before the first soldier reached her, Nlaati saw
how small the group was, how many men were missing.
"Nayiit!" he shouted, hoping that his boy would hear him. "Nayiit! Over
here!"
His voice was drowned. The citizens of Machi surged forward like an
attack. Some of the men crossing the bridge drew back from them as if in
fear, and then there was only one surging, swirling mass of people.
'T'here was no order, no control. One of the first wagons was pushed
sideways from the road, the horses whinnying their protest but too tired
to bolt. A man younger than Nayiit with a badly cut arm and a bruise on
his face stumbled almost into i\laati's arms.
"What happened?" Maati demanded of the boy. "Where's the Khai? I lave
you seen Nayiit Chokavi?" A blank stare was the only reply.
The chaos seemed to go on for a day, though it wasn't really more than
half a hand. Then a loud, cursing voice rose over the tumult, clearing
the way for the wagons. There were hurt men. Men who had to see
physicians. Men who were dying. Men who were dead. The people stood
aside and let the wagons pass. The sounds of weeping and hard wheels on
paving stones were the only music. Maati felt breathless with dread.
As he pushed back into the city, following in the path the wagons had
opened, he heard bits and snatches from the people he passed. The Khai
had taken the utkhaiem and ridden for Cetani. The Galts weren't far
behind. The I)ai-kvo was dead. The village of the Dai-kvo was burned.
'T'here had been a blood-soaked farce of a battle. As many men were dead
as still standing.
Rumor, Maati told himself. Everything is rumor and speculation until I
hear it from Nayiit. Or Otah-kvo. But his chest was tight and his hands
balled in fists so tight they ached when, out of breath and ears
ringing, he made his way back to the library. A man in a travel-stained
robe squatted beside his door, a tarp-covered crate on the ground at his
side.
Nayiit. It was Nayiit. Maati found the strength to embrace his boy, and
allowed himself at last to weep. He felt Nayiit's arms around him, felt
the boy soften in their shared grief, and then pull away. Maati forced
himself to step hack. Nayiit's expression was grim.
"Come in," Nlaati said. "Then tell me."
It was had. The Galts were not on Machi's door and Otah-kvo lived, but
these were the only bright points in Nayiit's long, quiet recitation.
They sat in the dimming front room, shutters closed and candles unlit,
while Nayiit told the tale. Maati clasped his hands together, squeezing
his knuckles until they ached. The Dai-kvo was dead. The men whom Maati
had known in the long years he had lived in the village were memories
now. ITe found himself trying to remember their names, their faces.
't'here were fewer fresh to his mind than he would have thoughtthe
firekeeper whose kiln had been at the corner nearest Maati's cell, the