desert. Perhaps he'd been ashamed of what he might see reflected there.
And perhaps his shame had some part in this. Eustin was his man, and so
the pain he bore was Balasar's responsibility. He'd been weak and stupid
to shy away from that. And weakness and stupidity always carried a price.
"Let the dog go. There's no call to involve him, or these men," Balasar
said. "Sit with me awhile, and if you still need killing, I'll be the
one to do it."
Eustin's gaze flickered over his face, searching for something. To see
whether it was a ruse, to see whether Balasar would actually kill his
own man. When he saw the answer, Eustin's wide shoulders eased. He
dropped the rope, freeing the animal. It hopped in a circle, uncertain
and confused.
"You have the dog," Balasar said to the sailors without looking at them.
"Now go."
They filed out, none of them taking their eyes from Eustin and the knife
still in his hand. Balasar waited until they had all left, the low door
pulled shut behind them. Distant voices shouted over the creaking
timbers, the oil lamp swung gently on its chain. This time, Balasar used
the silence intentionally, waiting. At first, Eustin looked at him,
anticipation in his eyes. And then his gaze passed into the distance,
seeing something beyond the room, beyond them both. And then silently,
Eustin wept. Balasar shifted his stool nearer and put his hand on the
man's shoulder.
"I keep seeing them, sir."
"I know."
"I've seen a thousand men die one way or the other. But ... but that was
on a field. That was in a fight."
"It isn't the same," Balasar said. "Is that why you wanted those men to
throw you in the sea?"
Eustin turned the blade slowly, catching the light. He was still
weeping, his face now slack and empty. Balasar wondered which of them he
was seeing now, which of their number haunted him in that moment, and he
felt the eyes of the dead upon him. They were in the room, invisibly
crowding it as the sailors had.
"Can you tell me they died with honor?" Eustin breathed.
"I'm not sure what honor is," Balasar said. "We did what we did because
it was needed, and we were the men to do it. The price was too high for
us to bear, you and I and Coal. But we aren't finished, so we have to
carry it a hit farther. "That's all."
"It wasn't needed, General. I'm sorry, but it wasn't. We take a few more
cities, we gain a few more slaves. Yes, they're the richest cities in
the world. I know it. Sacking even one of the cities of the Khaiem would
put more gold in the High Council's coffers than a season in the
Westlands. But how much do they need to buy Little Ott back from hell?"
Eustin asked. "And why shouldn't I go there and get him myself, sir?"
"It's not about gold. I have enough gold of my own to live well and die
old. Gold's a tool we use-a tool I use-to make men do what must be done."
"And honor?"
"And glory. Tools, all of them. We're men, Eustin. We've no reason to
lie to each other."
lie had the man's attention now. Eustin was looking only at him, and
there was confusion in his eyes-confusion and pain-but the ghosts
weren't inside him now.
"\\'h-,, then, sir? Why are we doing this?"
Balasar sat back. He hadn't said these words before, he had never
explained himself to anyone. Pride again. He was haunted by his pride.
The pride that had made him take this on as his task, the work he owed
to the world because no one else had the stomach for it.
""I'he ruins of the Empire were made," he said. "God didn't write it
that the world should have something like that in it. Men created it.
Men with little gods in their sleeves. And men like that still live. The
cities of the Khaiem each have one, and they look on them like plow
horses. 'Fools to feed their power and their arrogance. If it suited
them, they could turn their andat loose on us. Hold our crops in
permanent winter or sink our lands into the sea or whatever else they
could devise. They could turn the world itself against us the way you or
I might hold a knife. And do you know why they haven't?"
F,ustin blinked, unnerved, Balasar thought, by the anger in his voice.
"No, sir."
"Because they haven't yet chosen to. That's all. They might. Or they
might turn against each other. They could make everything into
wastelands just like those. Acton, Kirinton, Marsh. Every city, every
town. It hasn't happened yet because we've been lucky. But someday, one
of them will grow ambitious or mad. And then all the rest of us are ants
on a battlefield, trampled into the mud. That's what I mean when I say
this is needed. You and I are seeing that it never happens," he said,
and his words made his own blood hot. He was no longer uncertain or
touched by shame. Balasar grinned wide and wolfish. If it was pride,
then let him be proud. No man could do what he intended without it.
"When I've finished, the god-ghosts of the Khaiem will be a story women
tell their babes to scare them at night, and nothing more than that.
That's what Little Ott died for. Not for money or conquest or glory.
"I'm saving the world," Balasar said. "So, now. Say you'd rather drown
than help me."
1
It had rained for a week, the cold gray clouds seeming to drape
themselves between the mountain ranges to the east and west of the city
like a wet canopy. The mornings were foggy, the afternoons chill. With
the snowdrifts of winter almost all melted, the land around hlachi
became a soupy mud whose only virtue was the spring crop of wheat and
snow peas it would bring forth. Travel was harder now even than in the
deadly cold of deep winter.
And still, the travelers came.
"With all respect, this exercise, as you call it, is ill-advised," the
envoy said. His hands still held a pose of deference though the
conversation had long since parted from civility. "I am sure your
intentions are entirely honorable, however it is the place of the I)ai-kvo-"
"If the I)ai-kvo wants to rule hfachi, tell him to come north," the Khai
NIachi snapped. "He can pull my puppet strings from the next room. I'll
make a bed for him."
The envoy's eyes went wide. He was a young man, and hadn't mastered the
art of keeping his mind from showing on his face. Utah, the Khai Machi,
waved away his own words and sighed. He had gone too far, and he knew
it. Another few steps and they'd he pointing at each other and yelling