where he'd ripped them rather than take the labor of unsewing the

sheets. Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were also there, the poet pacing

restlessly, the andat smiling its placid, inhuman smile at each of them

in turn.

"News from the Dai-kvo?" Otah asked.

"No, the couriers we sent west," Cehmai said.

Maati tossed the pages to the table as he spoke. "The Galts have fielded

an army."

THE THIRD LEGION ARRIVED ON A BRIGHT MORNING, THE SUN SHINING ON the

polished metal and oiled leather of their armor as if they'd been

expecting a victory parade instead of the start of a war. Balasar

watched from the walls of the city as they arrived and made camp. The

sight was so welcome, even the smell of a hundred and a half camp

latrines couldn't undermine his pleasure.

They were later even than they'd expected, and with stories and excuses

to explain the delay. Balasar, leaning against the map table, listened

and kept his expression calm as the officers apprised him of the

legion's state-the men, the food, the horses, the steam wagons, the

armor, the arms. Mentally, he put the information into the vast map that

was the campaign, but even as he did, he felt the wolfish grin coming to

his lips. These were the last of his forces to come into place. The hour

was almost upon him. The war was about to begin.

He listened as patiently as he could, gave his orders on the disposition

of their men and materiel, and told them not to get comfortable. When

they were gone, Eustin came in alone, the same excitement that Balasar

felt showing on his face.

"What's next, sir? The poet?"

""I'he poet," Balasar said, leading the way out the door.

They found Riaan in the Warden's private courtyard. He was sitting in

the wide shade of a catalpa tree heavy with wide, white blooms and wide

leaves the same green as the poet's robes. He'd had someone bring out a

wide divan for him to lounge on. Across a small table, the Khaiate

mercenary captain was perched on a stool. Both men were frowning at a

handful of stones laid out in a short arc. The captain rose when he

caught sight of them. The poet only glanced up, annoyed. Balasar took a

pose of greeting, and the poet replied with something ornate that he

couldn't entirely make sense of. The glitter in the captain's eyes

suggested that the complexity was intentional and not entirely

complimentary. Balasar put the insult, whatever it was, aside. There was

no call to catalog more reasons to kill the man.

"Sinja-cha," Balasar said. "I need to speak with the great poet in private."

"Of course," the captain said, then turning to Riaan with a formal pose,

"We can finish the game later if you like."

Riaan nodded and waved, the movement half permission for Sinja to go,

half shooing him away. The amusement in the captain's eyes didn't seem

to lessen. Eustin escorted the man away, and when they were alone,

Balasar took the vacated stool.

"My men are in place," he said. "The time's come."

He kept his gaze on the poet, looking for reluctance or unease in his

eyes. But Riaan smiled slowly, like a man who had heard that his dearest

enemy had died, and laced his fingers together on his belly. Balasar had

half-expected the poet to repent, to change his mind when faced with the

prospect of the deed itself. There was nothing of that.

"Tomorrow morning," Riaan said. "I will need a servant to attend me

today and through the night. At first light tomorrow, I will prove that

the Dai-kvo was a fool to send me away. And then I shall march to my

father's house with your army behind me like a flood."

Balasar grinned. He had never seen a man so shortsighted, vain, and

petty, and he'd spent three seasons in Acton with his father and the

High Council. As far as the poet was concerned, none of this was for

anything more important than the greater glory of Riaan Vaudathat.

"How can we serve you in this?" Balasar asked.

"Everything is already prepared. I must only begin my meditations."

It sounded like dismissal to Balasar. He rose, bowing to the poet.

"I will send my most trusted servant," he said. "Should anything more

arise, only send word, and I will see it done."

Riaan smiled condescendingly and nodded his head. But as Balasar was

just leaving the garden, the poet called his name. A cloud had come over

the man, some ghost of uncertainty that had not risen from the prospect

of binding.

"Your men," the poet said. "They have been instructed that my family is

not to be touched, yes?"

"Of course," Balasar said.

"And the library. The city is, of course, yours to do with as you see

fit, but without the libraries of the Khaiem, binding a second andat

will be much more difficult. They aren't to be entered by any man but me."

"Of course," Balasar said again, and the poet took a pose accepting his

assurances. The concern didn't leave Riaan's brow, though. So perhaps

the man wasn't quite as dim as he seemed. Balasar told himself, as he

strode hack through the covered pathways to his own rooms, that he would

have to be more careful with him in the future. Not that there was much

future for him. Win or lose, Riaan was a dead man.

The day seemed more real than the ones that had come before it: the

sunlight clearer, the air more alive with the scents of flowers and

sewage and grass. The stones of the walls seemed more interesting, the

subtle differences in color and texture clear where previous days had

made them only a field of gray. Even Balasar's body hummed with energy.

It was like being a boy again, and diving into the lake from the highest

cliff-the one all the other boys feared to jump from. It was dread and

joy and the sense of no longer being able to take his decision hack. It

was what Balasar lived for. He knew already that he would not sleep.

Eustin was waiting for him in the entrance hall.

"There's someone wants a word with you, sir."

Balasar paused.

his men." "° The Khaiate captain. He wanted to speak about fallback

plans for

Eustin nodded to a side room. There was distrust in his expression, and

Balasar waited a long moment for him to speak. Eustin added nothing.

Balasar went to the wide, dark oaken door, knocked once, and went in. It

was a preparation room for servants-muddy boots cast beside benches and

waiting to be scraped clean, cloaks of all weights and colors hung from

pegs. It smelled of wet dog, though there was no animal present. The

captain sat on a stool tilted hack against the wall, cleaning his nails