dried figs, asked for and received the tools for writing the report now

required of him, and gave orders that he not be disturbed until his men

arrived. Then, alone, he opened his satchel and drew forth the hooks he

had recovered, laying them side by side on the desk that looked out over

the port. There were four, two hound in thick, peeling leather, another

whose covers had been ripped from it, and one encased in metal that

appeared to be neither steel nor silver, but something of each. Balasar

ran his fingers over the mute volumes, then sat, considering them and

the moral paradox they represented.

For these, he had spent the lives of his men. While the path back to

Galt was nothing like the risk he had faced in the ruins of the fallen

Empire, still it was sea travel. "There were storms and pirates and

plagues. If he wished to be certain that these volumes survived, the

right thing would he to transcribe them here in Parrinshall. If he were

to die on the journey home, the books, at least, would not be drowned.

The knowledge within them would not be lost.

Which was also the argument against making copies. He took the larger of

the leather-hound volumes and opened it. The writing was in the flowing

script of the dead Empire, not the simpler chop the Khaiem used for

business and trade with foreigners like himself. Balasar frowned as he

picked out the symbols his tutor had taught him as a boy.

Mere are two types of impossibility in the andat: those which cannot he

un- delstood, and those whose natures make binding impossible. His

translation was rough, but sufficient for his needs. "These were the

books he'd sought. And so the question remained whether the risk of

their loss was greater than the risk posed by their existence. Balasar

closed the hook and let his head rest in his hands. He knew, of course,

what he would do. He had known before he'd sent Eustin and Coal to find

a boat for them. Before he'd reached Far Gait in the first place.

It was his awareness of his own pride that made him hesitate. History

was full of men who thought themselves to be the one great soul whom

power would not corrupt. He did not wish to be among that number, and

yet here he sat, holding in his hands the secrets that might remake the

shape of the human world. A humble man would have sought counsel from

those wiser than himself, or at least feared to wield the power. He did

not like what it said of him that giving the books to anyone besides

himself seemed as foolish as gambling with their destruction. Ile would

not even have trusted them to Eustin or Coal or any of the men who had

died helping him.

He took the paper he'd been given, raised the pen, and began his report

and, in a sense, his confession.

THREE WEEKS Ot!T, Et'STIN BROKE.

The sea surrounded them, empty and immense as the sky. So far south, the

water was clear and the air warm even with the slowly failing days. The

birds that had followed them from Parrinshall had vanished. The only

animal was a three-legged dog the ship's crew had taken on as a mascot.

Nor were there women on hoard. Only the rank, common smell of men and

the sea.

The rigging creaked and groaned, unnerving no one but Balasar. He had

never loved traveling by water. Campaigning on land was no more

comfortable, but at least when the day ended he was able to see that

this village was not the one he'd been in the night before, the tree

under which he slept looked out over some different hillside. I lore, in

the vast nothingness of water, they might almost have been standing

still. Only the long white plume of their wake gave him a sense of

movement, the visible promise that one day the journey would end. Ile

would often sit at the stern, watch that constant trail, and take what

solace he could from it. Sometimes he carved blocks of wax with a small,

thin knife while his mind wandered and softened in the boredom of inaction.

It should not have surprised him that the isolation had proved corrosive

for Eustin and Coal. And yet when one of the sailors rushed up to him

that night, pale eyes bulging from his head, Balasar had not guessed the

trouble. His man, the one called Eustin, was belowdecks with a knife,

the sailor said. He was threatening to kill himself or else the crippled

mascot dog, no one was sure which. Normally, they'd all have clubbed him

senseless and thrown him over the side, but as he was a paying passage,

the general might perhaps want to take a hand. Balasar put down the wax

block half-carved into the shape of a fish, tucked his knife in his

belt, and nodded as if the request were perfectly common.

The scene in the belly of the ship was calmer than he'd expected. Eustin

sat on a bench. He had the dog by a rope looped around the thing's chest

and a field dagger in his other hand. Ten sailors were standing in

silence either in the room or just outside it, armed with blades and

cudgels. Balasar ignored them, taking a low stool and setting it

squarely in front of Eustin before he sat.

"General," Eustin said. His voice was low and flat, like a man halfdead

from a wound.

"I hear there's some issue with the animal."

"He ate my soup."

One of the sailors coughed meaningfully, and Eustin's eyes narrowed and

flickered toward the sound. Balasar spoke again quickly.

"I've seen Coal sneak half a bottle of wine away from you. It hardly

seems a killing offense."

"He didn't steal my soup, General. I gave it to him."

"You gave it to him?"

"Yessir."

The room seemed close as a coffin, and hot. If only there weren't so

many men around, if the bodies were not so thick, the air not so heavy

with their breath, Balasar thought he might have been able to think

clearly. He sucked his teeth, struggling to find something wise or

useful to say, some way to disarm the situation and bring Eustin back

from his madness. In the end, his silence was enough.

"He deserves better, General," Eustin said. "He's broken. He's a sick,

broken thing. He shouldn't have to live like that. There ought to he

some dignity at least. If there's nothing else, there should at least he

some dignity."

The dog whined and craned its neck toward Eustin. Balasar could see

distress in the animal's eyes, but not fear. The dog could hear the pain

in Eustin's voice, even if the sailors couldn't. The bodies around him

were wound tight, ready for violence, all of them except for Eustin. He

held the knife weakly. The tension in his body wasn't the hot, loose

energy of battle; he was knotted, like a boy tensed against a blow; like

a man facing the gallows.

"Leave us alone. All of you," Balasar said.

"Not without Tripod!" one of the sailors said.