Seasons of War

true, but as Balasar stalked back through the great vaulted hall of the Khai’s palace, his steps echoing off the blue and gold tilework high above him, his disgust with the place made it seem that way. They hadn’t fought, and while that might have been wise, it wasn’t something to celebrate. The only ones who had spines had been the poet and the Khai. Well, and the Khai’s wives and children, whom he’d had killed. So perhaps he wasn’t really in the best position to speak about what was honorable and noble after all.
    ‘Darkness has come on as usual, sir?’
    Balasar looked up. Eustin stood in salute at the foot of a wide flight of stairs. His tunic was stained, his chin unshaven, and even from five paces away, he stank of horses. Balasar restrained himself from rushing over and embracing the man.
    ‘The darkness?’ Balasar asked through his grin.
    ‘Always happens at the end of a campaign, sir. You fall into a black mood for a few weeks. Happened in Eddensea and after the siege at Malsam. All respect, sir, it’s like watching my sister after she’s birthed a babe.’
    Balasar laughed. It felt good to laugh, and to smile, and to be reminded that the foul mood that had come on him was something he often suffered. In truth, he had forgotten. He took Eustin’s hand in his own.
    ‘Good to have you back,’ Balasar said. ‘I didn’t know you’d returned.’
    ‘I would have sent a runner to pass the news, but it seemed faster if I came myself.’
    ‘Come up,’ Balasar said. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
    ‘It might be best if I saw a bathhouse, sir . . .’
    ‘Later,’ Balasar said. ‘If you can stand the reek, I can. And besides, you deserve some discomfort after that birthing comment. Come up, and I’ll have them send us wine and food.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Eustin said.
    They sat on couches while pine logs burned in the grate, sap hissing and popping and sending up sparks. True to his word, Balasar sent for rice wine infused with cherries and the stiff salty brown cheese that was a local delicacy of Tan-Sadar. Eustin recounted his season - the attack on Pathai, his decision to split the force before moving on to the poet’s school. Pathai hadn’t been as large or as wealthy as a port city like Nantani, but it was near the Westlands. Moving what wealth it had back to Galt would be simpler than the other inland cities.
    ‘And the school?’ Balasar said, and a cloud passed over Eustin’s face.
    ‘They were younger than I’d thought. It wasn’t the sort of thing they sing about. Unless they’re singing laments. Then, maybe.’
    ‘It was necessary.’
    ‘I know, sir. That’s why we did it.’
    Balasar poured him another cup of the wine, and then one for himself, and they drank in silence together before Eustin went on with his report. The men they’d sent to take the southern cities had managed quite well, apart from an incident with poisoned grain in Lachi and a fire at the warehouses of Saraykeht. That matched with what Balasar himself had heard. All the poets had been found, all the books had been burned. No Khai had lived or left heir.
    In return, Balasar shared what news he had from the North. Tan-Sadar, the nearest city to the Dai-kvo, had known about the destruction of the village for weeks before Balasar’s prisoner-envoys had arrived. The story was also widely known of the battle; one of the Khaiem in the winter cities had fielded an army of sorts. The estimates of the dead went from several hundred to thousands. Few, if any, had been Coal’s. The retelling of that tale as much as the sacking of Udun had broken the back of Utani and Tan-Sadar.
    A letter in Coal’s short, understated style had come south after Amnat-Tan had fallen. Another courier was due any day bringing the news of Cetani and Machi. But if Coal had kept to the pace he’d intended, those cities were also fallen.
    ‘It’ll be good to know for certain, though,’ Eustin said.
    ‘I trust him,’ Balasar said.
    ‘Didn’t mean anything else, sir.’
    ‘No. Of course not. You’re right. It will be good to know it’s done.’ Balasar took a bite of the brown cheese and stared at the dancing flames where the wood glowed and blackened and fell to ash. ‘You’ll put your men in Utani?’
    ‘Or send some downriver. Depends how much food there is. There’s more than a few who’d be willing to make a winter crossing if it meant getting home to start spending their shares.’
    ‘We have made a large