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 full 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 W
arden’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 when 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.
“Say it,” Balasar said.
“I think you’re wrong, sir.”
Balasar took Eustin’s elbow and angled off from the street under a covered stone archway. A girl stood there, a cart of green winter apples at her feet, looking out at the gray-white rain and the foul, brown brook at the edge of the street. Balasar scooped up two of the apples and tossed the girl a wide copper coin before finding a low bench and nodding for Eustin to sit.
He handed his captain one of the apples and said, “Make your case.”
Eustin shrugged, bit the apple, and chewed thoughtfully for a long moment. A glance at the apple seller, and then he spoke, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible over the clatter of the storm.
“First off, we haven’t got so much gold we can afford to spend all of it here. Having the men hungry, well, that’s one thing. But five legions is a lot of men. And there’s no cause for this, not really. Any of the other men did the thing, you’d take it out of their skins. And they know it.”
“I half think you’re sweet on the girl,” Balasar said.
“I’ve got a certain respect for her,” Eustin said with a grin, but then sobered. “The thing is, you’re not treating him like he was long-term, if you see. The story for the High Council is that once we’ve settled the Khaiem out, our man Riaan’s to hook these andat to our yoke. Tell the Lord Convocate otherwise, and it would be someone else leading this. But if that’s true, Riaan’s going to be around for the rest of your life and mine, and a damned important man at that. All apologies, but you’re dancing to his tune like you’re hoping he’ll kiss you.”
Balasar tossed the apple from hand to hand and waited for the flush of anger to recede.
“I need the man,” Balasar said. “If I have to bow and scrape for a time—”
“That’s just it, though. For a time. None of the men are used to seeing you drink piss and smile. They’re waiting to see you crack, to see you put him in his place. It keeps not happening, and they’re wondering why. Wondering how you can stand the idea of a life licking that little prick’s boot. Time will come they’ll understand you aren’t thinking of him in the long term.”
Balasar needed a moment to think that through. He bit the apple; it was tart and chalky and squeaked against his teeth. He tossed the rest of it out into the street where the rain took it rolling downhill, white flesh and green skin in the dark water.
“Do you think Riaan suspects?” Balasar asked at length.
Eustin snorted. “He can’t believe the tide would go out so long as he was on the beach. The waves all love him too much to leave. But the men, sir. They’ll figure you’re planning to kill him. And if they do, they may slip.”
Balasar nodded. Eustin was right. He was acting differently than he would have had Riaan been a problem with a future. It hadn’t been difficult to let the Councilmen in Acton blind themselves to the poet’s character. Visions of godlike power, of magic bent to the High Council’s will, were enough to let them overlook the dangers. The captains, the men who spoke with Riaan, would be more likely to understand why he wasn’t to be trusted. They might well see what Balasar had seen from the beginning, even before he had made the doomed journey into the desert: that the andat were a dangerous tool, best discarded the moment the need had passed.
But, and here was the trouble, not a moment before that. If the poet failed him, everything was lost. He weighed the risks for a long moment before Eustin spoke again.
“Let me send the girl away, sir. I’ll give her enough silver to take herself out into the farmland for half a year, and tell her that if we see her in the city, I’ll have her head on a pike for true. I’ll send the poet a pig heart, say we cut it out of her. The man that runs the comfort house’ll know. I’ll tell the men it was your idea.”
“It’s a gamble,” Balasar said.
“It’s all a gamble, sir,” Eustin said, and then, “Besides. He really did earn it.”
To the east, lightning flashed, and before the thunder reached them, Balasar nodded his assent. Eustin took his leave, stalking out into the downpour to make this one more tiny adjustment to the monumental plan Balasar had devised and directed. At the end of the pathway, the apple-selling girl sensed some slackening, pulled a hood up over her fair hair, and darted out into the city. For a time, Balasar sat quietly, feeling the weariness in his flesh that came from tension without release. He let his gaze soften, the white walls of the city fading, losing their separate natures, becoming different shades of nothing, like the shadows of hills covered by snow.
He wondered what Little Ott would have made of all this: the campaign, the poet, the wheels within wheels that he’d put in motion. If it came together as he planned, Balasar would save the world from another war like the one that had toppled the Old Empire. If it failed, he might start one. And whatever happened, he had sacrificed Bes, Laran, Kellem, Little Ott. Men who had loved him were dead and would never return. Men alive now who trusted him might well die. His nation, everyone he’d known or cared for—his father growing bent with age, the girl he’d lost his heart to when he was a boy shaking the petals off spring cherry trees, Eustin, Coal—they might all be slaughtered if he once judged poorly. It was something he tried not to consider, afraid the weight of it might crush him. And yet in these still moments, it found him. The dread and the awe at what he had begun. And with it the certainty that he was right.
He imagined Bes standing in the street before him, wide face split in the knowing grin that he would never see again outside memory. Balasar lifted a hand in greeting, and the image bowed to him and faded. They would have understood. All the men whose blood he’d spilled for this would have understood. Or if they didn’t, they’d have done it all the same. It was what they meant by faith.
When at last he returned to the library, one of his other captains—a lanky man named Orem Cot—was pacing the length of the room, literally wringing his hands in agitation or excitement. Balasar closed the door behind him with a thump as the captain bowed.
“Sir,” he said. “There’s a man come wanting to speak with you. I thought I’d best bring him to you myself.”
“What’s his business?” Balasar asked.
“Mercenary captain, sir. Brought his men down from Annaster.”
“I don’t need more forces.”
“You’ll want to talk with this one all the same, sir. His company? They’re from the Khaiem. Says they got turned out by the Khai Machi and they’ve been traveling ever since.”
“He’s been in the winter cities?”
“For years, sir.”
“You were right to bring him. Show the man in,” Balasar said, then stopped the captain as he headed to the door. “What’s his name?”
“Captain Ajutani, sir. Sinja Ajutani.”
IT HAD become clear to Sinja shortly after his arrival in Aren that he had misjudged the si
tuation.
The company, such as it was, had passed through the mountains that divided the Westlands from the lands that, while not directly controlled, had associated themselves with Machi and Pathai weeks before. The men were young and excited to be on the march, so Sinja had pushed them. By the time they’d reached Annaster, they were tired enough to complain, but there was still a light in their eyes. They’d escaped the smothering, peaceful blankets of the Khaiem; they were in the realm where violence was met with violence, and not by the uncanny powers of the poets and their andat. They had come to the place where they could prove themselves on the bodies of their enemies.
Besides Sinja, only a dozen or so of the higher ranks had ever been in battle. For the rest, this was like walking into a children’s tale. Sinja hadn’t tried to explain. Perhaps they’d be able to find glory in the soul-crushing boredom of a siege; perhaps they’d face their first battles and discover that they loved violence. More likely, he’d be sending half of them home to their mothers by midsummer, and that would have been fine. He was here as much to stretch his legs as to keep his master and friend the Khai Machi out of trouble with the Dai-kvo.
He hadn’t expected to walk into the largest massing of military force in memory.
Galt was in the southern wards, and it was there in force. All through the Westlands, Wardens had forgotten their squabbles. Every gaze was cast south. The common wisdom was that Galt had finally decided to end its generations-long games of raid and abandon. It had come to take control of the whole of the Westlands from the southern coast up to Eddensea. There were even those who wondered whether it was going to be a good season for Eddensea.
Sinja had done what he did best—listened. The stories he heard were, of course, overblown. Men and women throughout the Westlands were in different stages of panic. Someone had seen a thousand ships off the coast. There had been agreements signed with Aren, but all the other Wardens and all their children were to be slaughtered to assure that no one would have claim to rule once the Galts had come through. There were even a few optimists who thought that Balasar Gice—the general at the head of this largest of all gathered armies—wasn’t looking to the Westlands, but gathering his forces to take control of Galt itself. He could overthrow the High Council and install himself as autocrat.
An Autumn War (The Long Price Quartet) Page 9