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."

They reached the gray-cobbled street, and Balasar turned back toward the

Warden's palaces and the little library with all his maps and plans.

Dustin kept pace at his side. In the far distance, there was a rumble of

thunder. Balasar cursed, and Eustin agreed.

"And the girl, sir?" Eustin asked.

Balasar nodded and blew out his breath.

""fell all the comfort houses to give Riaan whatever he asks, and send

the hills to me. I'll see them fairly paid. Warn them that I'll be