Seasons of War

make out the language, much less the words.
    ‘All respect, Balasar-cha. They died because they were fighting in a war,’ Sinja said. ‘It’s to be expected.’
    ‘They died in my war. My men, in my war.’
    ‘I see what you mean about pride.’
    Balasar looked up sharply, his lips thin, his face flushing. Sinja waited, and the general forced a smile. The maple leaves tapped against each other in the shifting breeze.
    ‘I should have kept better discipline,’ Balasar said. ‘The men came to Udun for a slaughter. There’s no mercy out there today. It’s going to take longer to sack the city, it’s going to mean more casualties for us, and Utani and Tan-Sadar will know what happened. They’ll know it’s a fight to the last man.’
    ‘As I recall, you came to destroy the Khaiem,’ Sinja said. ‘Not to conquer them.’
    Balasar nodded, accepting the criticism in Sinja’s tone as his due. Sinja half-expected to see the general’s hands take a pose of contrition, but instead he looked into Sinja’s eyes. There was no remorse there, only the hard look of a man who has claimed his own failures and steeled himself to correcting them.
    ‘I can destroy the Khaiem without killing every fruit seller and baker’s apprentice along the way,’ Balasar said. ‘I need your help to do it.’
    ‘You had something in mind.’
    ‘I want your men to carry messages to Utani and Tan-Sadar. Not to the Khaiem. The utkhaiem and merchant houses. Men who have power. Tell them that if they stand aside when we come, they won’t be harmed. We want the poets, and the books, and the Khaiem.’
    Sinja shook his head.
    ‘You might as well run a spear through us now,’ Sinja said. ‘We’re traitors. Yes, I know we’re a mercenary company, and we took service and on and on. But every man I have was born in these cities we’re sacking. Waving a contract isn’t going to excuse them in the eyes of the citizens. Send prisoners instead. Find a dozen men your soldiers haven’t quite hacked to death and use them to carry the messages. They’ll be more effective than we will anyway.’
    ‘You think they can be trusted not to simply flee?’
    ‘Catch a man and his wife. Or a father and child. There have to be a few left out there. Bring me the hostages and I’ll keep them safe. When the husbands and fathers come back, you can give them a few lengths of silver and a day’s head start. It won’t undo what we’ve done here, but having a few survivors tell tales of your honorable treatment is better than none.’
    Balasar sipped his tea. The general’s brow was furrowed.
    ‘That’s wise,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll do that. I’ll have my men bring the hostages to you by nightfall.’
    ‘Best not to rape them,’ Sinja said. ‘It takes something from the spirit of the thing if they’re treated poorly.’
    ‘You’re the one looking after them.’
    ‘And I can control the situation once they’re in my care. It’s before that I’m worried by.’
    ‘I’ll see to it. If I give the order, it will be followed. They’re my men.’ He said it as if he were reminding himself of something more than what the words meant.
    For a moment, Sinja saw a profound weariness in the Galt’s pale face. It struck him for the first time how small Balasar Gice was. It was only the way he moved through the world that gave the impression of standing half a head above everyone else in the room. The first dusting of gray had touched his temples, but Sinja couldn’t say if it was premature or late coming. The breeze stirred, reeking of smoke.
    ‘I can’t tell if you hate war or love it,’ Sinja said.
    Balasar looked up as if he’d forgotten Sinja was there. His smile was amused and bitter.
    ‘I see the necessity of it,’ Balasar said. ‘And sometimes I forget that the point of war is the peace at the end of it.’
    ‘Is it? And here I thought it was gold and women.’
    ‘Those can be the same,’ Balasar said, ignoring the joke. ‘There are worse things than enough money and someone to spend it on.’
    ‘And glory?’
    Balasar chuckled as he stood, but there was very little of mirth in the sound. He put down his bowl and his hands took a rough pose of query, as simple as a child’s.
    ‘Do you see glory in this, Sinja-cha? I only see a bad job that needs doing and a man so sure of himself, he’s spent other people’s lives to do it. Hardly sounds glorious.’
    ‘That depends,’ Sinja said, dropping into the language of the