over, plucked the knife from the rug, and tossed it into the poet's

neck. It sounded like a melon being cleaved. The poet rose half to his

feet, clawing at the handle already slick with his blood, then slowly

folded, lying forward as if asleep or drunk. The scent of blood filled

the air. The poet's body twitched, heaved once, and went still.

"Not your best rug, I assume," Sinja said in Galtic.

"Not my best rug," Balasar agreed.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Not now," Balasar said. "Thank you."

The mercenary captain nodded to Balasar, and then to Eustin. His gait as

he walked out was the same as when he'd walked in. Balasar stood and

stepped back, kicking the old, flat cushion onto the corpse. Eustin also

stood, shaking his head.

"Not what you'd expected, then?" Balasar asked,

"He didn't even try to talk you out of it," Eustin said. "I thought he'd

at least play you for time. Another day."

"You're convinced, then?"

Eustin hesitated, then stooped to roll the rug over the corpse. Balasar

sat at the writing desk, watching as Eustin finished covering the poor,

arrogant, pathetic man in his ignominious shroud and called in two

soldiers to haul him away. Riaan Vaudathat, the world's last poet if

Balasar had his way, would rest in an unmarked grave in this

no-man's-land between the Westlands and Nantani. It took more time than

throwing him into a ditch, and there were times that Balasar had been

tempted. But treating the body with respect said more about the living

than the dead, and it was a dignity with only the smallest price. A few

men, a little work.

A new rug was brought in, new pillows, and a plate of curried chicken

and raisins, a flagon of wine. The servants all left, and Eustin still

hadn't spoken.

"When you brought this to me," Balasar said, "you said his hesitation

would be proof of his guilt. Now you're thinking his lack of hesitation

might he just as damning."

"Seemed like he might be trying to keep the poor bastard from saying

something," hustin said, his gaze cast down. Balasar laughed.

`.. There's no winning with you. You know that."

"I suppose not, sir."

Balasar took a knife and cut a slice from the chicken. It smelled

lovely, sweet and hot and rich. But beneath it and the lemon candles,

there was still a whiff of death and human blood. Balasar ate the food

anyway. It tasted fine.

"Keep watch on him," Balasar said. "Be polite about it. Nothing obvious.

I don't want the men thinking I don't believe in him. If you don't see

him plotting against us by the time we reach Nantani, perhaps you'll

sleep better."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's nothing. Some chicken?"

Eustin glanced at the plate, and then his eyes flickered toward the tent

flap behind him.

"Or," Balasar said, "would you rather go set someone to shadow Captain

Ajutani."

"If it's all the same, sir," Eustin said.

Balasar nodded and waved the man away. In the space of two breaths, he

was alone. He ate slowly. When the meal was almost donechicken gone,

flagon still over half full-a chorus of crickets suddenly burst out.

Balasar listened. The poet was dead.

'T'here was no turning back now. The High Council back in Acton would be

desperately angry with him when they heard the news, but there wasn't a

great deal they could do to breathe life hack into a corpse. And if his

work went well, by the time winter silenced these crickets, there would

no longer be a man alive in the world who could take Riaan's place. And

yet, his night's work was not complete.

He wiped his hands clean, savored a last sip of wine, and took the

leather satchel from under his cot. He put the books on his writing

table, side by side by side. The ancient pages seemed alive with memory.

He still bore the scars on his shoulder from hauling these four books

out of the desert. He still felt the ghosts of his men at his back,

watching in silence, waiting to see whether their deaths had been noble

or foolish. And beyond that-beyond himself and his life and strugglesthe

worn paper and pale ink knew of ages. The hand that had copied these

words had been dust for at least ten generations. The minds that first

conceived these words had fallen into forgetfulness long before that.

The emperor whose greater glory they had been offered to was forgotten,

his palaces ruins. The lush forests and jungles of the Empire were

dune-swept. Balasar put his hand on the cool metallic binding of the

first of the volumes.

Killing the man was nothing. Killing the books was more difficult. The

poet, like any man, was horn to die. Moving his transition from flesh to

spirit forward by a few decades was hardly worth considering, and

Balasar was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. Killing men was his

work. It would have been as well to ask a farmer to regret the fate of

his wheat. But to take these words which had lasted longer than the

civilization that created them, to slaughter history was a task best

done by the ignorant. Only a man who did not understand his actions

would be callous enough to destroy these without qualm.

And yet what must be done, must be done. And it was time.

Carefully, Balasar laid the hooks open in the brazier. The pages shifted

in the breeze, scratching one on another like dry hands. He ran his

fingers along one line, translating as best he could, reading the words

for the last time. The lemon candle spilled its wax across his knuckles

as he carried it, and the flame leapt to twice its height. He touched

the open leaves with the burning wick as a priest might give a blessing,

and the books seemed to embrace the fire. He sat, watching the pages

blacken and curl, bits of cinder rise and dance in the air. A pale smoke

filled the air, and Balasar rose, opening the flap of the pavilion to

the wide night air.

The firefly darted past him, glowing. Balasar watched it fly out to

freedom and the company of its fellows until it went dark and vanished.

The cook fires were fewer, the stars hanging in the sky bright and

steady. A strange elation passed through him, as if he had taken off a

burden or been freed himself. He grinned like an idiot at the darkness

and had to fight himself not to dance a little jig. If he'd been certain

that none of his men were near, that no one would see, he would have

allowed himself. But he was a commander and not a child. Dignity had its

price.

When he returned to the brazier, nothing was left but blackened hinges,

split leather, gray ash. Balasar stirred the ruins with a stick, making