and then did it.

Or else he would fail and he and every Galtic man and woman would be a

corpse or a refugee.

I Ic twisted in his sheets. The stars shone where the clouds were thin

enough to permit it. Framed in the opened shutters, they glittered. The

stars wouldn't care what happened here. And yet by the next time their

light silvered these stones, the fate of the world would have turned one

way or the other.

Once, he came near to sleep. His eyes grew heavy, his mind began to

wander into the half-sense of dreams. And then, irrationally, he became

certain that he had mixed one of the orders. The memory, at first vague

but clearer as he struggled to capture it, of sealing a packet with red

that should have been green swam through his mind. He thought he might

have noted at the time that it would need changing. And yet he hadn't

done it. The wrong orders would go out. A legion would start to the

North while the others moved cast. They would lose time finding the

error, correcting it. Or the poet would fail, and some stray company of

armsmen would find its way to Nantani and reveal him to the Khaiem. Half

a thousand stories plagued him, each less likely than the last. His

sense of dread grew.

At last, half in distress and half in disgust, he rose, pulled on a

heavy cotton shirt and light trousers, and walked barefoot from his room

toward the library. He would have to open them all, check them, reseal

them, and keep a careful tally so that the crazed monkey that had taken

possession of his mind could be calmed. He wondered, as he passed

through hallways lit only by his single candle, whether Uther Redcape

had ever rechecked his own plans in the dead night like an old, fearful

merchant rattling his own shutters to be sure they were latched. Perhaps

these indignities were part of what any man suffered when the weight of

so many lives was on his back.

The guards outside his library door stood at attention as he passed

them, whatever gossip or complaint they had been using to pass the dark

hours of the night forgotten at the first sight of him. Balasar nodded

to them gravely before passing through the door. With the stub of his

bedside candle, he lit the lanterns in the library until the soft glow

filled the air. The orders lay where he had left them. With a sigh, he

took out the bricks of colored wax and his private seal. 'T'hen he began

the long, tedious task of cracking each seal, reviewing his commands,

and putting the packets back in order again. The candle stub had fizzled

to nothing and the lanterns' oil visibly dropped before he was finished.

The memory had been a lie. Everything had been in place. Balasar stood,

stretched, and went to the window. When he opened the shutters, the cool

breeze felt fresh as a bath. Birds were singing, though there was no

light yet in the east. The full moon was near to setting. The dawn was

coming. "There would be no sleep for him. Not now.

A soft scratch came at the door, and after Balasar called his

permission, Eustin entered. There were dark pouches under the man's

eyes, but that was the only sign that he had managed no better with his

sleep. His uniform was crisp and freshly laundered, the marks of rank on

his back and breast, his hair was tied back and fastened with a thick

silver ceremonial bead, and there was an energy in all his movements

that Balasar understood. Eustin was dressed to witness the change of the

world. Balasar was suddenly aware of his rough clothes and bare feet.

"What news?" Balasar said.

"He's been up all through the night, sir. Meditating, reading,

preparing. Truth is I don't know that half of what he's done is needed,

but he's been doing it all the same."

"Almost none of it's strictly called for," Balasar said. "But if it

makes him feel better, let him."

"Yes, sir. I've called for his breakfast. He says that he'll want to

wait a half a hand for his food to go down, and then it's time. Says

that dawn's a symbolic moment, and that it'll help."

"I suppose I'll be getting prepared, then," Balasar said. "If this isn't

a full-dress occasion, I don't know what is."

"I've sent men to wait for the signal. We should know by nightfall."

Balasar nodded. All along the highest hills from Nantani to Aren,

bonfires were set. If all worked as they hoped, there would be a signal

from the agents he had placed in the city, and they would be lit, each

in turn. A thin line of fire would reach from the Khaiem to his own door.

"Have a mug of kafe and some bread sent to my rooms," Balasar said.

"I'll meet you before the ceremony."

"Not more than that, sir? The bacon's good here...."

"After," Balasar said. "I'll eat a decent meal after."

The room given them by the Warden had been in its time a warehouse, a

meeting hall, and a temple, the last being the most recent. Tapestries

of the Four Gods the Warden worshipped had been taken down, rolled up,

and stacked in the corner like carpet. The smooth stone walls were

marked with symbols, some familiar to Balasar, others obscure. The

eastern wall was covered with the flowing script of the fallen Empire,

like a page from a book of poetry. A single pillow rested in the center

of the room, and beside it a stack of books, two with covers of ruined

leather, one whose cover had been ripped from it, and one last closed in

bright metal. It had been years since Balasar had carried those books

out of the desert wastes. He nodded to them when he saw them, as if they

were old friends or perhaps enemies.

Riaan himself was walking around the room with long, slow strides. He

breathed in audibly with one step, blew the air out on the next. His

face was deeply relaxed; his arms were swinging free at his sides. To

look at the two of them, Balasar guessed he would look more like the man

about to face death. He took a pose of respect and greeting. The poet

came slowly to a halt, and returned the gesture.

"I trust all is well with you," Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiem.

"I am ready," Riaan said, with a smile that made him seem almost gentle.

"I wanted to thank you, Balasar-cha, for this opportunity. 't'hese are

strange times that men such as you and I should find common cause. The

structures of the I)ai-kvo have caused good men to suffer for too many

generations. I honor you for the role you have played in bringing me here."

Balasar bowed his head. Over the years he had known many men whose minds

had been touched by wounds-blows from swords or stones, or fevers like

the one that had prompted Riaan's fall from favor. Balasar knew how

impulsive and unreliable a man could become after such an injury. But he

also knew that with many there was also a candor and honesty, if only

because they lacked the ability they had once had to dissemble. Against