of the Dai-kvo. And then there was only the race to the North to put
AmnatTan, 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."
""Ibo 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. "I'he 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 Arcn. 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-how, 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 he 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 he served . .
Riaan leaned hack, 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 hack
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 hack 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."