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?"
"The 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. It was like being a boy again, and diving into the lake from the highest cliff-the one all the other boys feared to jump from. It was dread and joy and the sense of no longer being able to take his decision hack. It was what Balasar lived for. He knew already that he would not sleep.
Eustin was waiting for him in the entrance hall.
"There's someone wants a word with you, sir."
Balasar paused. his men." "° The Khaiate captain. He wanted to speak about fallback plans for
Eustin nodded to a side room. There was distrust in his expression, and Balasar waited a long moment for him to speak. Eustin added nothing. Balasar went to the wide, dark oaken door, knocked once, and went in. It was a preparation room for servants-muddy boots cast beside benches and waiting to be scraped clean, cloaks of all weights and colors hung from pegs. It smelled of wet dog, though there was no animal present. The captain sat on a stool tilted hack against the wall, cleaning his nails with a knife.
"Captain Ajutani," Balasar said.
The stool came down, and the captain rose, sheathing his blade and bowing in the same motion.
"I appreciate the time, General," he said. "I know you've a great deal on your mind just now."
"I'm always available," Balasar said. "Though the surroundings are…
"Yes. Your man Eustin seemed to think it more appropriate for me to wait here. I'm not sure he likes me." The captain was more amused than offended, so Balasar also smiled and shrugged.
"Your men are in place?" he asked.
"Yes, Yes. Broken into groups of three or four, each assigned to one of your sergeants. Except for myself, of course."
"Of course."
"Only I wanted to ask something of you, General. A favor of sorts."
Balasar crossed is arms and nodded for the man to continue.
"If it fails-if our friend Riaan doesn't do his magic trick well enough-don't kill them. My boys. Don't have them killed."
"Why would I do that?" Balasar asked.
"Because it's the right thing," Sinja said. The amusement was gone from the man's eyes. He was in earnest now. "I'm not an idiot, General. If it happens that the binding fails, you'll be standing here in Aren with an army the size of a modest city. People have already noticed it, and the curiosity of the Khaiem is the last thing you'd want. They'd still have their andat, and all you'd have is explanations to give. You'll turn North and make all those stories about conquering the whole of the Westlands to the border with Eddensea true just to make all this-" The captain gestured to the door at Balasar's back. "-seem plausible. All I ask is, let us go with you. If it happens that you have to keep to this coast and not the cities of the Khaiem, I'll re-form the group and lead them wherever you like."
"I wouldn't kill them," Balasar said.
"It would be dangerous, letting them go back home. Stories about how they were set to be interpreters and guides? Not one of them knows the Westlands except the part we walked through to get here. If the Khaiem are wondering whether you had some other plan to start with
…"
Sinja raised his hands, palms up as if he were offering Balasar the truth resting there. Balasar stepped close, putting his own hands below the captain's and curling the other man's fingers closed.
"I won't kill them," Balasar said. "They're my men now, and I don't kill my own. You can tell them that if you'd like. And that aside, Riaan isn't going to fail us."
Sinja looked down, his head shifting as if he were weighing something.
"I can be sure," Balasar said, answering the unasked question.
"I've never seen one of these before," Sinja said. "Have you? I mean, I assume there's some ceremony, and he'll do something. If there was an andat beside him at the end, you'd have proof, but this thing you're doing… there's nothing to show, is there? So how will you know?"