The Galts had come.
SNOW FELL GENTLY THAT MORNING, DRIFTING DOWN FROM THE SHEET OF clouds
above them in small, hard flakes. Balasar stood on the ridgeline of the
hills south of the city. Frost had formed on the fold of his leather
cloak, and the snow that landed on his shoulders didn't melt. Before
him, the stone towers rose, seeming closer than they were, more real
than the snow-grayed mountains behind them. No enemy army had marched
out to meet him, no party of utkhaiem marred the thin white blanket,
still little more than ankle-deep, that separated Balasar from Machi.
Behind him, his men were gathered around the steam wagons, pressed
around the furnace grates that Balasar had ordered opened. The medics
were already busy with men suffering from the cold. The captains and
masters of arms were seeing that every clump of men was armed and
armored. Balasar had been sure to mention the warm baths beneath Machi,
the food supplies laid in those tunnels-enough, he assumed, to keep two
cities alive for the winter.
Smoke rose from the tops of the towers and from the city itself. Banners
flew. He heard a horseman approaching him from behind, and he glanced
back to see Eustin on a great bay mare. The beast's breath was heavy and
white as feathers. Balasar raised a hand, as Eustin cantered forward,
pulled his mount to a halt, and saluted.
"I'm ready, sir. I've a hundred men volunteered to come with me. With
your permission."
"Of course," Balasar said, then looked back at the towers. "Do you
really think they'd do it? Sneak out. Run north and try to hide in the
low towns out there?"
"Best to have us there in the event," Eustin said. "I could be wrong,
sir. But I'd rather be careful now than have to spend the cold part of
the season making raids. Especially if this is the warm hit."
Balasar shook his head. He didn't believe that the Khai Machi Sinja had
described to him would run. He would fight unfairly, he would launch
attacks from ambush, he would have his archers aim for the horses. But
Balasar didn't think he would run. Still, the poets might. Or the Khai
might send his children away for safety, if he hadn't already. And there
would he refugees. Eustin's plan to block their flight was a wise one.
He couldn't help wishing that Eustin might have been with him here, at
the end. They were the last of the men who had braved the desert, and
Balasar felt a superstitious dread at sending him away.
"Sir?"
"Be careful," Balasar said. "'That's all."
A trumpet called, and Balasar turned back to the city. Sure enough,
there was something-a speck of black on the white. A single rider,
fleeing Machi.
"Well," Eustin said. "Looks like Captain Ajutani's come back after all.
Give him my compliments."
Balasar smiled at the disdain in Eustin's voice.
"I'll be careful too," he said.
It took something like half a hand for Sinja to reach the camp. Balasar
noticed particularly that he didn't turn to the bridge, riding instead
directly over the frozen river. Eustin and his force were gone, looping
around to the North, well before the mercenary captain arrived. Balasar
had cups of strong kafe waiting when Sinja, his face pink and rawlooking
from his ride, was shown into his tent.
Balasar retuned his salute and gestured to a chair. Sinja took a pose of
thanks-so little time back among the Khaiem and the use of formal pose
seemed to have returned to the man like an accent-and sat, drawing a
sheaf of papers from his sleeve. When they spoke, it was in the tongue
of the Khaiem.
"It went well?"
"Well enough," Sinja said. "I made a small mistake and had to do some
very pretty dancing to cover it. But the Khai's got few enough hopes, he
wants to trust me. flakes things easier. Now, here. These are rough
copies of the maps he's used. They're filling in the main entrances to
the underground tunnels to keep us from bringing any single large force
down at once. The largest paths they've left open are here," Sinja
touched the map, "and here."
"And the poets?"
"They have the outline of a binding. I think they're going to try it.
And soon."
Balasar felt the sinking of dread in his belly, and strangely also a
kind of peace. Ile wouldn't have thought there was any part of him that
was still held hack, and yet that one small fact-the poets lived and
planned and Would recapture one of the andat now if they could-took away
any choice he might still have had. He looked at the map, his mind
sifting through strategies like a tiles player shuffling chits of bone.
"'T'here are men in the towers," Balasar said.
"Yes, sir," Sinja said. ""They'll have stones and arrows to drop. You
won't be able to use the streets near them, but the range isn't good,
and they won't be able to aim from so far up. Go a street or two over
and keep by the w+alls, and we'll he safe. There won't he much
resistance above ground. 'T'heir hope is to keep you at hay long enough
for the cold to do their work for them."
't'hree forces, Balasar thought. One to clear out the houses and trading
shops on the south, another to push in toward the forges and the
metalworkers, a third to take the palaces. He wouldn't take the steam
wagons-he'd learned that much from Coal-so horsemen would be important
for the approach, though they might he less useful if the fighting moved
inside structures as it likely would. And they'd be near useless once
they were underground. Archers wouldn't have much effect. "There were
few long, clear open spaces in the city. But despite what Sinja said,
Balasar expected there would he some fighting on the surface, so enough
archers were mixed with the foot troops to fire back at anyone harassing
them from the windows and snow doors of the passing buildings.
"Thank you, Sinja-cha," Balasar said. "I know how much doing this must
have cost you."
"It needed doing," Sinja said, and Balasar smiled.
"I won't insist that you watch this happen. You can stay at the camp or
ride North and Join Eustin."
"North?"
"I Ie's taken it to guard. In case someone tries to slip away during the
battle."
"That's a good thought," Sinja said, his tone somewhat rueful. "If it's
all the same, I'd like to ride with Eustin-cha. I know he hasn't always
thought well of me, and if anything does go wrong, I'd like to he where
he can see I wasn't the one doing it."
"A pretty thought," Balasar said, chuckling.
"You're going to win," Sinja said. It was a simple statement, but there
was a weight behind it. A regret that soldiers often had in the face of
loss, and only rarely in victory.
"You thought of changing sides," Balasar said. "While you were there,
with all the people you know. In your old home. It was hard not to stand