direct it, and despite all his late-night sufferings, in this moment he

could not imagine failure. Eustin cleared his throat.

"If they had found some andat to do this," Balasar said, "do you know

what would have happened?"

"Sir?" Eustin said.

"If the andat had done this-Wagon-'T'hat-Pulls-Itself or Horse-

l)oesn't-'l'ire, something like that-no one would ever have designed a

steam wagon. The merchants would have paid some price to the Khai, the

poet would have been set to it, and it would have worked until the poet

fell down stairs or failed to pass the andat on."

"Or until we came around," Eustin said, but Balasar wasn't ready to

leave his chain of thought for self-congratulations yet.

"And if someone had made the thing, had seen a way that any decent smith

could do what the Khai charged good silver for, he'd either keep it

quiet or find himself facedown in the river," Balasar said and then

spat. "It's no way to run a culture."

Eustin's mount whickered and shifted. Balasar sighed and shifted his

gaze forward to the rolling hills and grasslands where the first and

farthest-flung of Nantani's low towns dotted the landscape. Another day,

perhaps two, and he would be there. He was more than half tempted to

press on; night marches weren't unheard-of and the anticipation of what

lay before them sang to him, the hours pressing at him. But the summer

was hardly begun. Better not to suffer surprises too early in the

campaign. He moved a practiced gaze over the road ahead, considered the

distance between the reddening orb of the sun and the horizon, and made

his decision.

"When the first wagon reaches that stand of trees, call the halt," lie

said. ""That will still give the men half a hand to forage before sunset."

"Yes, sir," Eustin said. "And that other matter, sir?"

"After dinner," Balasar said. "You can bring Captain Ajutani to my tent

after dinner."

His impulse had been to kill the poet as soon as the signal arrived. The

binding had worked, the cities of the Khaiem lay open before him. Riaan

had outlived his use.

Eustin had been the one to counsel against it, and Sinja Ajutani had

been the issue. Balasar had known there was something less than trust

between the two men; that was to be expected. lie hadn't understood how

deeply Eustin suspected the Khaiate mercenary. He had tracked the

man-his visits to the poet, the organization of his men, how Riaan's

unease had seemed to rise after a meeting with Sinja and fall again

after he spoke with Balasar. It was nothing like an accusation; even

Eustin agreed there wasn't proof of treachery. The mercenary had done

nothing to show that he wasn't staying bought. And yet Eustin was more

and more certain with each day that Sinja was plotting to steal Riaan

back to the Khaiem, to reveal what it was he had done and, just

possibly, find a way to undo it.

The problem, Balasar thought, was a simple failure of imagination.

Eustin had followed Balasar through more than one campaign, had walked

through the haunted desert with him, had stood at his side through the

long political struggle that had brought this army to this place on this

supreme errand. Loyalty was the way Eustin understood the world. The

thought of a man who served first one cause and then another made no

more sense to him than stone floating on water. Balasar had agreed to

his scheme to prove Captain Ajutani's standing, though he himself had

little doubt. He took the exercise seriously for Eustin's sake if

nothing else. Balasar would be ready for them when they came.

I lis pavilion was in place before the last light of the sun had

vanished in the west: couches made from wood and canvas that could be

broken down flat and carried on muleback, flat cushions embroidered with

the Galtic 'I gee, a small writing table. A low iron brazier took the

edge from the night's chill, and half a hundred lemon candles filled the

air with their scent and drove away the midges. He'd had it set on the

top of a rise, looking down over the valley where the light of cook

fires dotted the land like stars in the sky. A firefly had found its way

through the gossamer folds of his tent, shining and then vanishing as it

searched for a way out. A thousand of its fellows glittered in the

darkness between camps. It was like something from a children's story,

where the Good Neighbors had breached the division between the worlds to

join his army. He saw the three of them coming toward him, and he knew

each long before he could make out their faces.

Eustin's stride was long, low, and deceptively casual. Captain Ajutani

moved carefully, each step provisional, the weight always held on his

back foot until he chose to shift it. Riaan's was an unbalanced,

civilian strut. Balasar rose, opened the flap for them to enter, and

rolled down the woven-grass mats to give them a level of visual privacy,

false walls that shifted and muttered in the lightest of breezes.

"'T'hank you all for coming," Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiem.

Sinja and Riaan took poses, the forms a study in status; Sinja accepted

the greeting of a superior, Riaan condescended to acknowledge an honored

servant. Eustin only nodded. In the corner of the pavilion, the firefly

burst into sudden brilliance and then vanished again. Balasar led the

three men to cushions on a wide woven rug, seating himself to face

Sinja. When they had all folded their legs beneath them, Balasar leaned

forward.

"When I began this campaign," he said, "it was not my intention to

continue the rule of the poets and their andat over the rest of

humanity. In the course of my political life, I allowed certain people

to misunderstand me. But it is not my intention that Riaan-cha should be

burdened by another andat. Or that anyone should. Ever."

The poet's jaw dropped. His face went white, and his hands fluttered

toward poses they never reached. Sinja only nodded, accepting the new

information as if it were news of the weather.

"That leaves me with an unpleasant task," Balasar said, and he drew a

blade from his vest. It was a thick-bladed dagger with a grip of worked

leather. He tossed it to the floor. The metal glittered in the

candlelight. Riaan didn't understand; his confusion was written on his

brow and proclaimed by his silence. If he'd understood, Balasar thought,

he'd be begging by now.

Sinja glanced at the knife, then up at Balasar and then Eustin. He sighed.

"And you've chosen me to see if I'd do it," the mercenary said with a

tone both weary and amused.

"I don't . . ." Riaan said. "You ... you can't mean that ... Sinja-kya,

you wouldn't-"

The motion was casual and efficient as swatting at a fly. Sinja leaned