Seasons of War

bring him a bowl of tea.’
    Old Mani blinked and nodded his apology before ducking back into the house. The protection wasn’t a promise he could keep. He hadn’t asked General Gice’s permission before he’d extended it. And still, he thought the old man’s chances were good.
    Balasar stepped into the garden as if he knew it, as if he owned it. It wasn’t arrogance. That was what made the man so odd. The general’s expression was drawn and thoughtful; that at least was a good sign. Sinja put his bowl of tea on the dusty red brick pathway, stood, and made his salute. Balasar returned it, but his gaze seemed caught by the shifting branches of the maple tree.
    ‘All’s well, I hope, sir,’ Sinja said.
    ‘Well enough,’ Balasar said. ‘Well enough for a bad day, anyway. And here? Have your men been . . . Have you lost anyone?’
    ‘I can account for all of them. I can have them ready to go out in half a hand, if you think they’re needed, sir.’
    Balasar shifted, looking straight into Sinja’s eyes as if seeing him clearly for the first time.
    ‘No,’ Balasar said. ‘No, it won’t be called for. What resistance there still is can’t last long.’
    Sinja nodded. Of course not. Udun had numbers and knowledge, but they weren’t fighters. The raids had continued for the whole trek upriver. Hunting parties had been harassed, wells fouled, the low towns the army had passed through stripped bare of anything that might have been of use to them. And the bodies of the soldiers slain in the raids were wrapped in shrouds and ashes to join the train. Balasar Gice had left Nantani with ten thousand men, and with all the gods watching him, he’d reached Udun with the full ten thousand, no matter if a few dozen needed carrying. Sinja tried to keep the disapproval from his face, but the general saw it there anyway, frowned, and looked away.
    ‘What’s the matter with that tree?’ Balasar asked.
    Sinja considered the maple. It was small - hardly taller than two men’s height - and artfully cut to give shade without obstructing the view of the sky.
    ‘Nothing, sir,’ he said. ‘It looks fine.’
    ‘The leaves are black.’
    ‘They’re supposed to be,’ Sinja said. ‘If you look close, you can see it’s really a very deep green, but they call it blackleaf all the same. When autumn comes, it turns a brilliant red. It’s lovely, especially if the leaves haven’t let go when the first snow comes.’
    ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here to see it,’ the general said.
    ‘Well, not the snows,’ Sinja said, ‘but you can see on the edges of those lower leaves where the red’s starting.’
    Balasar stepped over and took a low branch in his hand. He bent it to look at the leaves, but he didn’t pluck them free. Sinja gave the man credit for that. Most Galts would have ripped the leaves off to look at them. With a sigh, Balasar let the branch swing back to its place.
    ‘Tea?’ Old Mani said from the doorway. Balasar looked over his shoulder at the old man and nodded. Sinja motioned the wayhouse keeper close, took the bowl, and sipped from it before passing it on to the general. Old Mani took a pose of thanks and backed out again.
    ‘Tasting my food and drink?’ Balasar asked in the tongue of the Khaiem. There was amusement in his tone. ‘Surely we haven’t come to the point I’d expect you to poison me.’
    ‘I didn’t brew it,’ Sinja said. ‘And Old Mani knew a lot of people you killed today.’
    Balasar took the cup and frowned into it. He was silent for long enough that Sinja began to grow uncomfortable. When he spoke, his tone was almost confessional.
    ‘I’ve come to tell you that I was wrong,’ Balasar said. ‘You were right. I should have listened.’
    ‘I’m gratified that you think so. What was I right about?’
    ‘The bodies. The men. I should have buried them where they lay. I should have left them. Now there’s vengeance in it, and it’s . . .’
    He shook his head and sat on the camp stool. Sinja leaned against the stone wall of the garden.
    ‘War’s more fun when the enemy doesn’t fight back,’ Sinja said. ‘There’s never been a sack as easy as Nantani. You had to know things would get harder when the Khaiem got themselves organized.’
    ‘I did,’ Balasar said. ‘But . . . I carry the dead. I can feel them behind me. I know that they died because of my pride.’
    Balasar sipped at the tea. Far away across the war, a man shouted something, but Sinja couldn’t