Cehmai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again and silently took a pose that accepted Utah's command. Nlaati looked up, his eyes brimming and red. 'T'here was no begging in his expression, no plea. Only remorse and resignation. If he could have moved without disturbing Eiah, Utah would have embraced the man, comforted him as best he could. And still lie would have sent Nlaati away. Ile could see that his old friend knew that. Nlaati's thick hands took a formal pose of leave-taking, appropriate to the beginning of a long journey or else a funeral. Utah took one that accepted the apology he had not offered. "'i'he Galts," the Khai Cetani said. "What about the Galts?"
Utah reached his arms tinder Eiah, one under her shoulder blades, the other at her knees, and lifted her into his lap. 't'hen, straining, lie stood. She was heavier than he remembered. It had been years since lie had carried her. She had been smaller then, and lie had been younger.
"We'll find the trumpeter and call the attack," Otah said. "Listen to them. If they're as had as she is, they'll barely be able to fight. We'll drive them hack out of the city if we do it now."
The Khai Cetani's eyes brightened, his shoulders pulled back. With a pit dog's grin, he took a pose that mirrored Cehmai's. The command accepted. Utah nodded.
"Hai!You!" the Khai Cetani yelled toward the servants, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Get the trumpeter. Have him sound the attack. And a blade! Find me a blade, and another for the Emperor!"
"No," Utah said. "Not for me. I have my daughter to see to."
And before anyone could make the mistake of objecting, Otah turned his back on them all, carrying Fiah to the stairway, and then down into darkness.
26
What would have happened, Balasar wondered, if he had not tried?
It had been a thing from nightmare. Balasar had moved his men like stones on a playing board, shifting them from street to street, building to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers. The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was above his ankles now, but Balasar didn't feel the cold. His blood was singing to him, and he could not keep from grinning. The first of the forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That winter would not take them.
He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they'd planned for fighting in the tunnels. It was to be slow and systematic. The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire. There would he no hurry-the line mustn't spread thin. Balasar could see in their faces that discipline would hold.
A few local fighters made assaults on the square and were cut down in their turn. Brave men, and stupid. The trumpets of the enemy had sounded out, giving away their positions with their movements, their signals a cacophony of amateur coordination. The white sky was slowly growing gray-the sun setting or else the clouds growing thicker. Balasar didn't know. He'd lost track of time's passage. It hardly mattered. His men stood ready. His men. The army that he'd led half across the world to this last battle. He could not have been more proud of them all if they'd been his sons.
The pain came without warning. He saw it pass through the men like wind stirring grass, and then it found Balasar himself. It was agonizing, embarrassing, humiliating. And even as he struggled to keep his feet, he knew what it meant.
The andat had been hound. The enemy had turned some captive spirit against them. They'd been assaulted, but they were not dead. Hurt, leaning on walls with teeth clenched in pain, formations forgotten and tears steaming on their checks. Their cries and groans were louder than a landslide, and Balasar knew his own voice was part of it. But they were not dead. Not yet.
"Rally!" Balasar had cried. "To me! Form up!"
And god bless them, they had tried. Discipline had held even as they shambled, knowing as he did that this was the power they had conic to destroy, loosed against them at last. Shrieking in pain, and still they made their formations. They were crippled but undefeated.
What would have happened, he thought, if he had not tried? What would the world have become if he had listened to his tutor, all those years ago, heard the tales of the andat and the war that ripped their Empire apart, and had merely shuddered? There were monster stories enough for generations of boys, and each of them as frightening as the next. If the voting Balasar Gice hadn't taken that particular story to heart, if he had not thought This will he my work; I ZL,'il/ make the a:'or/d safe from these things, how would it have gone? Who would Little Ott have been if he hadn't followed Balasar out to die in the desert? Who might Coal have married? What would Mavarsin have named his daughters and sons? tie heard the attack before he saw it. "There was no form to it-men waving knives and axes pouring toward them like a handful of dried peas thrown against a wall; first one, then a few, and then all the rest in a clump. Balasar called to his men, and a rough shout rose from them. It was ridiculous. He should have won. This band of desperate fools didn't know how to fight, didn't know how to coordinate. Half of them didn't know how to hold their weapons without putting their own fingers at risk. Balasar should have won.
The armies came together with a crash. The smell of blood filled the air, the sound of brawling. And more of them came, boiling up out of the ground and charging down the streets. The humiliating pain made Balasar's every step uncertain. Every time he tried to stand at his full height, his knees threatened to give way beneath him.
All the ghosts that had followed him, all the men he had sacrificed. All the lives he had spent because the world was his to save. They had led to this comic-opera melee. The streets were white with snow, black where the dark cobbles showed through, red with fresh-spilled blood. The men of Machi and Cetani ran through the square barking like dogs. The army of Galt, the finest fighting force the world had ever seen, tried to hold them off while half-bent in pain.
It should have been a comedy. Nothing so ridiculous should have the right to inspire only horror.
They will kill tis all, Balasar thought. Every man among us will be dead by morning if this doesn't stop.
He called the retreat, and his men stumbled and shuffled to comply. Street by street, the archers held hack the advancing forces with IIIaimed arrows and bolts. Footmen stumbled, weeping, and were dragged by men who would themselves stumble shortly and he dragged along in turn. "l he sky grew dark, the snow fell thicker. By the time Balasar reached the buildings in the south of the city that he'd ordered taken that morning, it was almost impossible to see across the width of a street. The snow had drawn a curtain across the city to hide his shame.
The army of \lachi also fell back, retreating, Balasar supposed, into their warm holes and warrens and leaving him and his men to the mercy of the night. There was little food, few fires, and a chorus throughout the black night of men weeping in pain and despair. When Balasar dragged himself away from the little fire in the cooking grate of the house in which he'd taken shelter and relieved himself out the hack door, his piss was black with blood and stank of bad meat.
He wondered what would have happened if he had stayed in Galt, if he had contented himself with raiding the Wcstlands and Eymond, Eddensea and Bakta. Ile wondered what would have happened if he hadn't tried.