An Autumn War

by Daniel Abraham

  It was part of why Otah had postponed for so long the conversation he was doomed to have with Liat Chokavi. But it was only part. Kiyan's chair scraped against the floor as she rose. Otah put his hand out to her, and she took it, stepping in close to him, her arms around him. He kissed her temple.

  "Promise me this all ends well," she said. "Just tell me that."

  "It will he fine," he said. "Nothing's going to hurt our boy."

  They stood silently for a time, looking at each other, and then out at the city. The plumes of smoke rising from the forges, the black-cobbled streets and gray slanted roofs. The sun slipped behind the clouds or else the clouds rose to block the light. The knock that interrupted them was sharp and urgent.

  "Most High?" a man's voice said. "Most High, forgive me, but the poets wish to speak with you. Maati-cha says the issue is urgent."

  Kiyan walked with him, her hand in his, as they went to the Council chamber where Maati waited. His face was flushed, his mouth set in a deep scowl. A packet of paper fluttered in his hand, the edges rough where he'd ripped them rather than take the labor of unsewing the sheets. Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were also there, the poet pacing restlessly, the andat smiling its placid, inhuman smile at each of them in turn.

  "News from the Dai-kvo?" Otah asked.

  "No, the couriers we sent west," Cehmai said.

  Maati tossed the pages to the table as he spoke. "The Galts have fielded an army."

  THE THIRD LEGION ARRIVED ON A BRIGHT MORNING, THE SUN SHINING ON the polished metal and oiled leather of their armor as if they'd been expecting a victory parade instead of the start of a war. Balasar watched from the walls of the city as they arrived and made camp. The sight was so welcome, even the smell of a hundred and a half camp latrines couldn't undermine his pleasure.

  They were later even than they'd expected, and with stories and excuses to explain the delay. Balasar, leaning against the map table, listened and kept his expression calm as the officers apprised him of the legion's state-the men, the food, the horses, the steam wagons, the armor, the arms. Mentally, he put the information into the vast map that was the campaign, but even as he did, he felt the wolfish grin coming to his lips. These were the last of his forces to come into place. The hour was almost upon him. The war was about to begin.

  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?"

  ""I'he 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?"

  "It would be embarrassing to walk into Nantani and have the andat waiting to greet us," Balasar agreed. "But don't let it concern you. Riaan isn't going to mumble into the air and send us all off to die. I'll be certain of that."

  "You have a runner in Nantani? Someone who can bring word when the andat's vanished?"

  "Don't concern yourself, Sinja," Balasar said. "Just be ready to move when I say and in the direction I choose."

  "Yes, General."

  Balasar turned and strode to the door. He could see Eustin standing close, his hand on his sword. It was a reassuring sight.

  "Captain Ajutani," Balasar said over his shoulder. "What were you speaking to Riaan about before we came?"

  "Himself mostly," the captain said. "Is there another subject he's interested in?"

  "He was concerned when I spoke with him. Concerned with things that never seemed to occur to him before. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

  "No, General," Sinja said. "Wouldn't be any profit in it."

  Balasar nodded and resumed the path to his rooms. Eustin fell in beside him.

  "I don't like that man," Eustin said under his breath. "I don't trust him."

  "I do," Balasar said. "I trust him to be and to have always been my staunchest supporter just as soon as he's sure we're going to win. He's a mercenary, but he isn't a spy. And his men will be useful."

  "Still."

  "It will be fine."

  Balasar didn't give his uncertainties and fears free rein until he was safely alone in the borrowed library, and then his mind rioted. Perhaps Sinja was right-the poet could fail, the Khaiem could divine his purpose, the destruction he'd dedicated himself to preventing might be brought about by his miscalculation. Everything might still fail. A thousand threats and errors clamored.

  He took out his maps again for the thousandth time. Each road was marked on the thin sheepskin. Each bridge and ford. Each city. Fourteen cities in a single season. They would take Nantani and then scatter. The other forces would come in from the sea. It was nearing summer, and he told himself again and again as if hoping to convince himself that after the sun rose tomorrow, it would be a question only of speed.

  In the first battle he'd fought, Balasar had been a crossbowman. He and a dozen like him were supposed to loose their bolts into the packed, charging bodies of the warriors of Eymond and then pull back, letting the men with swords and axes and flails-men like his fathermove in and take up the melee. He'd hardly been a boy at the time, much less a man. He had done as he was told, as had the others, but once they were safely over the rise of the hill, out of sight of the enemy and the battle, Balasar had been stupid. The grunts and shrieks and noise of bodies in conflict were like a peal of thunder that never faded. The sound called to him. With each shriek from the battle, he imagined that it had been his father. The nightmare images of the violence happening just over the rise chewed at him. I le'd had to see it. He had gone back over. It had almost cost him his life.

  One of the soldiers of Eymond had spotted him. He'd been a large man, tall as a tree it had seemed at the time. He'd broken away from the fight and rushed up the hill, axe raised and blood on his mind. Balasar remembered the panic when he understood that his own death was rushing up the hill toward him. The wise thing would have been to flee; if he could have gotten back to the other bowmen, they might have killed the soldier. But instead, without thought, he started to bend back the leaves of the crossbow, fumbling the bolt with fingers that had seemed numb as sausages. Though only one of them was running, it had been a race.

  When he'd raised the bow and loosed the bolt, the man had been fewer than ten feet from him. He could still feel the thrum of the string and feel the sinking certainty that he had missed, that his life was forfeit. In point of fact, the bolt had sunk so deep into the man it only seemed to have vanished. The breaths between when he'd fired and when the soldier sank to the ground were the longest he had ever known.

  And here he was again. Only this time he was the one in motion. The poets of the Khaiem would have a chance to call up another of the andat-and the measure of that hope was his speed in finding them, killing them, and burning their hooks.

  It was a terrible wager, and more than his own life was in the balance. Balasar was not a religious man. Questions of gods and heavens had always seemed too abstract to him. But now, putting aside the maps, the plans, all the work of his life prepared to find its fruition or else its ruin, he walked to the window, watched the full moon rising over this last night of the world as it had been, and put his hand to his heart, praying to all the gods he knew with a single word.

  Please.

  8

  Twilight came after the long sunset, staining red the high clouds in the west. A light wind had come from the North, carrying the chill of mountaintop glaciers with it, though there was little snow left on even the highest peaks that could be seen from the city. It grabbed at the loose shutters, banging them open and closed like an idiot child in love with the noise. Banners rippled and trees nodded like old men. It was as if an errant breath of winter had stolen into the warm nights. Otah sat in his private chambers, still in his formal robes. He felt no drafts, but the candles flickered in sympathy with the wind.

  The letters unfolded before him were in a simple cipher. The years he had spent in the gentleman's trade, carrying letters and contracts and information on the long roads between the cities of the Khaiem, returned to him, and he read the enciphered text as easily as if it had been written plainly. It was as Nlaati and Cehmai had said. The Wards of the Westlands were united in a state of panic. The doom of the world seemed about to fall upon them.

  Since the letters had arrived, Otah's world had centered on the news. He had sent another runner to the Dai-kvo with a pouch so heavy with lengths of silver, the man could have bought a fresh horse a
t every low town he passed through if it would get him there faster. Otah had sat up long nights with Nlaati and Cehmai, even with Liat and Nayiit. I Jere was the plan, then. With the threat of an andat of their own, the Galts would roll through the Westlands, perhaps Eddensea as well. In a year, perhaps two, they might own Bakta and Eymond too. The cities of the Khaiem would find themselves cut off from trade, and perhaps the rogue poet would even become a kind of Galtic Dai-kvo in time. The conquest of the Westlands was the first campaign in a new war that might make the destruction of the Old Empire seem minor.

  And still, Otah read the letters again, his mind unquiet. There was something there, something more, that he had overlooked. The certainty of the Gaits, their willingness to show their power. Whenever they tired of trade or felt themselves losing at the negotiating tables, Galt had been pleased to play raider and pirate. It had been that way for as long as Otah could remember. The Galtic High Council had schemed and conspired. It shouldn't have been odd that, emboldened by success, they would take to the field. And yet ...

  Otah turned the pages with a sound as dry as autumn leaves. They couldn't be attacking the Khaiem; even with an andat in their possession, they would he overwhelmed. The cities might have their rivalries and disputes, but an attack on one would unite them against their common foe. "Thirteen cities each with its own poet added to whatever the Dai-kvo held in reserve in his village. At worst, more than a dozen to one, and each of them capable of destruction on a scale almost impossible to imagine. The Galts wouldn't dare attack the Khaiem. It was posturing. Negotiation. It might even be a bluff; the poet might have tried his binding, paid the price of failure, and left the Galts with nothing but bluster to defend themselves.

  Otah had heard all these arguments, had made more than one of them himself. And still night found him here, reading the letters and searching for the thoughts behind them. It was like hearing a new voice in a choir. Somewhere, someone new had entered the strategies of the Gaits, and these scraps of paper and pale ink were all that Otah had to work out what that might mean.