‘We could also ask Cehmai,’ Kiyan said. ‘He’s a poet of enough prestige and ability to hold Stone-Made-Soft, and his reputation hasn’t been compromised.’
‘That might be wise,’ Otah said, grabbing for the chance to take the conversation away from the complexities of the past. ‘But let’s go over the evidence you have, Liat-cha. All of it. From the start.’
It took the better part of the day. Otah listened to the full story; he read the statements of the missing poet’s slaves and servants, the contracts broken by the fleeing Galtic trade ship, the logs of couriers whose whereabouts Nayiit had compiled. Whatever objections he raised, Liat countered. He could see the fatigue in her face and hear the impatience in her voice. This matter was important to her. Important enough to bring her here. That she had come was proof enough of her conviction, if not of the truth of her claim. The girl he had known had been clever enough, competent enough, and still had been used as a stone in other people’s games. Perhaps he was harsh in still thinking of her in that light. The years had changed him. They certainly could have changed her as well.
And, as the sun shifted slowly toward the western peaks, Otah found his heart growing heavy. The case she made was not complete, but it was evocative as a monster tale told to children. Galt might well have taken in this mad poet. There was no way to know what they might do with him, or what he might do with their help. The histories of the Empire murmured in the back of Otah’s mind: wars fought with the power of gods, the nature of space itself broken, and the greatest empire the world had ever known laid waste. And yes, if all Liat suspected proved true, it might happen again.
But if they acted on their fears, if the Dai-kvo mandated the use of the andat to remove the possibility of a Galtic poet, thousands would die who knew nothing of the plots that had brought down their doom. Children not old enough to speak, men and women who led simple, honest lives. Galt would be made a wasteland to rival the ruins of the Empire. Otah wondered how certain they would all have to be in order to take that step. How certain or else how frightened.
‘Let me sit with this,’ he said at last, nodding to Liat and her son. ‘I’ll have apartments cleared for you. You’ll stay here at the palaces.’
‘There may not be much time,’ Maati said softly.
‘I know it,’ Otah said. ‘Tomorrow I’ll decide what to do. If Cehmai’s the right bearer, we can do this all again with him in the room. And then . . . and then we’ll see what shape the world’s taken and do whatever needs doing.’
Liat took a pose of gratitude, and a heartbeat later Nayiit mirrored her. Otah waved the gestures away. He was too tired for ceremony. Too troubled.
When Maati and the two visitors had left, Otah rose and stood beside Kiyan at the railing, looking out over the city as it fell into its early, sudden twilight. Plumes of smoke rose from among the green copper roofs of the forges. The great stone towers thrust toward the sky as if they supported the deepening blue. Kiyan tossed an almond out into the wide air, and a black-winged bird swooped down to catch it before it reached the distant ground. Otah touched her shoulder; she turned to him smiling as if half-surprised to find him there.
‘How are you, love?’ he asked.
‘I should be the one asking,’ she said. ‘Those two . . . that’s more than one lifetime’s trouble they’re carrying.’
‘I know it. And Maati’s still in love with her.’
‘With both of them,’ Kiyan said. ‘One way and another, with both of them.’
Otah took a pose that agreed with her.
‘You know her well enough,’ Kiyan said. ‘Does she love him, do you think?’
‘She did once,’ Otah said. ‘But now? It’s too many years. We’ve all become other people.’
The breeze smelled of smoke and distant rain. The first chill of evening raised gooseflesh on Kiyan’s arm. He wanted to turn her toward him, to taste her mouth and lose himself for a while in simple pleasure. He wanted badly to forget the world. As if hearing his thought, she smiled, but he didn’t touch her again and she didn’t move nearer to him.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘Tell Cehmai, send out couriers west to see what we can divine about the situation in Galt, appeal to the Dai-kvo. What else can I do? A mad poet, prone to fits of temper and working for the Galtic High Council? There’s not a story worse than that.’
‘Will the Dai-kvo do what she asks, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Otah said. ‘He’ll know this Riaan better than any of us. If he’s certain that the man’s not capable of a proper binding, perhaps we’ll let him try and pay the price of it. One simple death is the best we can hope for, sometimes. If it saves the world.’
‘And if the Dai-kvo isn’t sure?’
‘Then he’ll spin a coin or throw tiles or whatever it is he does to make a decision, and we’ll do that and hope it was right.’
Kiyan nodded, crossing her arms and leaning forward, gazing out into the distance as if by considering carefully, she could see Galt from here. Otah’s belly growled, but he ignored it.
‘He’ll destroy them, won’t he?’ she asked. ‘The Dai-kvo will use the andat against the Galts.’
‘Likely.’
‘Good,’ Kiyan said with a certainty that surprised him. ‘If it’s going to happen, let it happen there. At least Eiah and Danat are safe from it.’
Otah swallowed. He wanted to rise to the defense of the innocent in Galt, wanted to say the sort of high-minded words that he’d held as comfort many years ago when he had been moved to kill in the name of mercy. But the years had taken that man. The years he had lived, and the dark, liquid eyes of his children. If black chaos was to be loosed, he had to side with Kiyan. Better that it was loosed elsewhere. Better a thousand thousand Galtic children die than one of his own. It was what his heart said, but it made him feel lessened and sad.
‘And the other problem?’ Kiyan asked. Her voice was low, but there was a hardness to it almost like anger. Otah took a querying pose. Kiyan turned to him. He hadn’t expected to see fear in her eyes, and the surprise of it filled him with dread as deep as any he had suffered.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She looked at him, part in surprise, part accusation.
‘Nayiit,’ she said. ‘No one would think that man was Maati’s child. Not for a heartbeat. You have two sons, Otah-kya.’
5
Balasar was quickly coming to resent the late-spring storms of the Westlands. Each morning seemed to promise a bright day in which his masters of supply could make their inventories, his captains could train their men. Before midday, great white clouds would hulk up in the south and advance upon him. The middle afternoon had been roaring rain and vicious lightning for the past six days. The training fields were churned mud, the wood for the steam wagons was soaked, and the men were beginning to mirror Balasar’s own impatience.
They had been guests of the Warden of Aren for two weeks now, the troops in their tents outside the city walls, Balasar and his captains sleeping in the high keep. The Warden was an old man, fat and boisterous, who understood as well as Balasar the dangers of an army grown restless, even an army still only half assembled. The Warden put a pleasant face on things - he’d agreed to allow a Galtic army on his lands, after all. There was little enough to do now besides be pleasant and hope they’d go away again.
He had even been so kind as to offer Balasar the use of his library. It was a small room overlooking a courtyard, less grand than Balasar’s own home in Galt, less than the smallest apartments of the least of the Khaiate nobility. But it was serviceable, and it had the effect each man desired. Balasar had a place to brood, and the Westlanders had a convenient way to keep clear of him.
The afternoon rains pecked at the windows. The pot of black tea had grown tepid and bitter, ignored on a corner of the wide, oaken table. Balasar looked again at the maps. Nantani would be the first, and the easiest. The western forces would be undivided - five fu
ll legions with support of the mercenaries hired with the High Council’s gold and promises of plunder. The city wouldn’t stand for a morning. Then one legion would turn North, going overland to Pathai while two others took the mercenaries to Shosheyn-Tan, Lachi, and Saraykeht. That left him two legions to go upriver to Udun, Utani, and Tan-Sadar, less whatever men he left behind to occupy the conquered. Eight of the cities. Over half, but the least important.
Coal and his men were already in place, waiting in the low towns and smugglers’ camps outside Chaburi-Tan. When the andat failed, they would sack the city, and take ships North to Yalakeht. The pieces for steam-driven boats were already in the warehouses of the Galtic tradesmen, ready to be pegged onto rafts and sped upriver to the village of the Dai-kvo. And then there was only the race to the North to put Amnat-Tan, Cetani, and Machi to the torch before winter came.
Balasar wished again that he had been able to lead the force in Chaburi-Tan. The fate of the world would rest on that sprint to the libraries and catacombs of the poets. If only he had had time to sail out there . . . but days were precious, and Coal had been preparing his men all the time Balasar had played politics in Acton. It was better this way. And still . . .
He traced a finger across the western plains - Pathai to Utani. He wished he knew better how the roads were. The school for the young poets wasn’t far from Pathai. That wouldn’t be a pleasant duty either. And he couldn’t trust the slaughter of children to mercenaries, not with the stakes so high. This wasn’t a war that had room for moments of compassion.
A soft knock came at the door, and Eustin stepped in. He wore the deep blue and red of a captain’s uniform. Balasar acknowledged him with a nod.
‘Has the third legion arrived, then?’ Balasar asked.
‘No, sir,’ Eustin said. ‘We’ve had a runner from them. They’ll be here by the week’s end, sir.’
‘Too long.’
‘Yes, sir. But there’s another problem.’
Balasar rose, hands clasped behind him. He could feel his mind straining back toward the plans and maps almost as if it were a physical force, but he believed that battles were won or lost long before they were fought. If Eustin had thought something worth interrupting him, it would likely need his whole attention.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘The poet. He’s refusing to pay for his whores again, sir. Been saying the honor of being with him should be enough. One of the girls took offense and poured a cup of hot tea in his lap. Scalded his little poet like a boiled sausage.’
Balasar didn’t smile, nor did Eustin. The moment between them was enough.
‘Will he be able to ride?’ Balasar asked.
‘Given a few days, sir, he’ll be fine. But he’s demanding the girl be killed. Half the houses in the city have threatened to raise their rates, and they’re talking to their local clients too. I’ve had two letters today that didn’t quite say the grain would cost more than expected.’
Balasar felt a brief flush of anger.
‘They’re aware that the majority of the Galtic armies are either in the ward now or will be here shortly?’
‘Yes, sir. And they’ve not said it’s final that they’ll stick it to us for more silver. But they’re proud folks. It’s just a whore he wants killed, but she’s a Westlands whore, if you see what I mean. She’s one of their own.’
This was a mess. He didn’t want to start the campaign by fighting the Ward of Aren. He didn’t yet have all his men assembled. Balasar looked out the windows, casting his gaze over the courtyard below without truly seeing it.
‘I suppose I’d best speak with him, then,’ Balasar said.
‘He’s in his rooms, sir. Should I bring him here?’
‘No,’ Balasar said. ‘I’ll face the beast in its lair.’
‘Yessir.’
The central city of Aren was a squat affair. Thick stone walls covered with mud and washed white were the order of the day. The constant wars of the Westlands and the occasional attack by Galt had kept the ward cropped low as a rabbit-haunted garden. The highest houses rose no more than four stories above ground, and the streets, even near the palaces of the Warden, smelled of sewage and old food. Balasar reached the building where he and his captains were housed, shook the rain from his cloak, and gestured for Eustin to wait for him. He took the stairs three at a time up to the anteroom of the poet’s apartments. The men guarding the door bowed as he entered, then stood aside as he announced himself.
Riaan sat on a low couch, his robes propped up above his lap like a tent, the hem rising halfway up his shins. The awareness of his indignity shone in the poet’s face - lips pressed thin, jaw set forward. Even as Balasar made his half-bow, he could tell the man had been working himself into a rage. If any of his captains had acted this way, Balasar would have assigned them to patrolling on horseback until the wounds had healed. Idiocy should carry a price. Instead he lowered himself to a couch across from the poet and spoke gently.
‘I heard about your misfortune,’ Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiate cities. ‘I wanted to come and offer my sympathies. Is there anything I can do to be of service?’
‘You could bring me the slack-cunt’s heart,’ the poet spat. ‘I should have cut her down where she stood. She should be drowned in her own shit for this!’
The poet gestured toward his own crotch, demonstrating the depth of his hurt. Balasar didn’t smile. With all the gravity he could manage, he nodded.
‘It will cause problems if I have her killed,’ Balasar said. ‘The local men are uneasy already. I could have her whipped—’
‘No! She must die!’
‘If there was some other way that honor could be served . . .’
Riaan leaned back, his gaze cold. This, Balasar thought, was the man on whom the hopes of the world rested. A man who had leapt at the chance to turn against his own people, who had eaten the interest and novelty of the people of Acton like it was honey bread, who vented his rage on whores and servants. Balasar had never seen a tool less likely. And yet, the poet was what he needed, and the stakes could not have been higher. He sighed.
‘I will see to it,’ Balasar said. ‘And permit me to send you my own personal physician. I would not have a man of your importance suffer, Most High.’
‘This should never have happened,’ Riaan said. ‘You will do better in the future.’
‘Indeed,’ Balasar agreed, then rose, taking what he hoped was an appropriate pose for an honored if somewhat junior man taking leave of someone above his station. He must have come near the mark, because the poet took a pose of dismissal. Balasar bowed and left. He walked back down the steps more slowly, weighing his options. He found Eustin in a common room with three of his other captains. He knew that the poet’s injury had been the topic of their conversation. The sudden quiet when he entered and the merriment in their eyes were evidence enough. He greeted each man by name and gestured for Eustin to follow him back out to the street.
‘Any luck, sir?’
‘No,’ Balasar said. ‘He’s still talking himself into a tantrum. But I had to try. I’ll need Carlsin sent to him with some ointment for the burn. And he’ll need to wear good robes. If he shows up in his usual rags, the man will never believe he’s my physician.’
‘I’ll see he’s told, sir.’
They reached the gray-cobbled street, and Balasar turned back toward the Warden’s palaces and the little library with all his maps and plans. Eustin kept pace at his side. In the far distance, there was a rumble of thunder. Balasar cursed, and Eustin agreed.
‘And the girl, sir?’ Eustin asked.
Balasar nodded and blew out his breath.
‘Tell all the comfort houses to give Riaan whatever he asks, and send the bills to me. I’ll see them fairly paid. Warn them that I’ll be keeping account, though. I’m not opening the coffers to every tiles player and alley worker in the Westlands.’
‘We have enough silver then, sir?’
‘We’ll have more whe
n we’ve reached Nantani,’ Balasar said. ‘If the men are a little hungry before then, that might even serve us.’
A gust of wind brought the harsh blast of rain and a salting of tiny hailstones. Other than raising his voice slightly, Balasar ignored it.
‘And the girl herself will have to die,’ he said. ‘Tell her employer I’ll pay the house fair price for the lost income.’
Eustin was silent. Balasar looked at him, and the man’s face was dark. The general felt his mouth curled in a deep frown.
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