Seasons of War

yet, the poet was what he needed, and the stakes could not have been higher. He sighed.
    ‘I will see to it,’ Balasar said. ‘And permit me to send you my own personal physician. I would not have a man of your importance suffer, Most High.’
    ‘This should never have happened,’ Riaan said. ‘You will do better in the future.’
    ‘Indeed,’ Balasar agreed, then rose, taking what he hoped was an appropriate pose for an honored if somewhat junior man taking leave of someone above his station. He must have come near the mark, because the poet took a pose of dismissal. Balasar bowed and left. He walked back down the steps more slowly, weighing his options. He found Eustin in a common room with three of his other captains. He knew that the poet’s injury had been the topic of their conversation. The sudden quiet when he entered and the merriment in their eyes were evidence enough. He greeted each man by name and gestured for Eustin to follow him back out to the street.
    ‘Any luck, sir?’
    ‘No,’ Balasar said. ‘He’s still talking himself into a tantrum. But I had to try. I’ll need Carlsin sent to him with some ointment for the burn. And he’ll need to wear good robes. If he shows up in his usual rags, the man will never believe he’s my physician.’
    ‘I’ll see he’s told, sir.’
    They reached the gray-cobbled street, and Balasar turned back toward the Warden’s palaces and the little library with all his maps and plans. Eustin kept pace at his side. In the far distance, there was a rumble of thunder. Balasar cursed, and Eustin agreed.
    ‘And the girl, sir?’ Eustin asked.
    Balasar nodded and blew out his breath.
    ‘Tell all the comfort houses to give Riaan whatever he asks, and send the bills to me. I’ll see them fairly paid. Warn them that I’ll be keeping account, though. I’m not opening the coffers to every tiles player and alley worker in the Westlands.’
    ‘We have enough silver then, sir?’
    ‘We’ll have more when we’ve reached Nantani,’ Balasar said. ‘If the men are a little hungry before then, that might even serve us.’
    A gust of wind brought the harsh blast of rain and a salting of tiny hailstones. Other than raising his voice slightly, Balasar ignored it.
    ‘And the girl herself will have to die,’ he said. ‘Tell her employer I’ll pay the house fair price for the lost income.’
    Eustin was silent. Balasar looked at him, and the man’s face was dark. The general felt his mouth curled in a deep frown.
    ‘Say it,’ Balasar said.
    ‘I think you’re wrong, sir.’
    Balasar took Eustin’s elbow and angled off from the street under a covered stone archway. A girl stood there, a cart of green winter apples at her feet, looking out at the gray-white rain and the foul, brown brook at the edge of the street. Balasar scooped up two of the apples and tossed the girl a wide copper coin before finding a low bench and nodding for Eustin to sit.
    He handed his captain one of the apples and said, ‘Make your case.’
    Eustin shrugged, bit the apple, and chewed thoughtfully for a long moment. A glance at the apple seller, and then he spoke, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible over the clatter of the storm.
    ‘First off, we haven’t got so much gold we can afford to spend all of it here. Having the men hungry, well, that’s one thing. But five legions is a lot of men. And there’s no cause for this, not really. Any of the other men did the thing, you’d take it out of their skins. And they know it.’
    ‘I half think you’re sweet on the girl,’ Balasar said.
    ‘I’ve got a certain respect for her,’ Eustin said with a grin, but then sobered. ‘The thing is, you’re not treating him like he was long-term, if you see. The story for the High Council is that once we’ve settled the Khaiem out, our man Riaan’s to hook these andat to our yoke. Tell the Lord Convocate otherwise, and it would be someone else leading this. But if that’s true, Riaan’s going to be around for the rest of your life and mine, and a damned important man at that. All apologies, but you’re dancing to his tune like you’re hoping he’ll kiss you.’
    Balasar tossed the apple from hand to hand and waited for the flush of anger to recede.
    ‘I need the man,’ Balasar said. ‘If I have to bow and scrape for a time—’
    ‘That’s just it, though. For a time . None of the men are used to seeing you drink piss and smile. They’re waiting to see you crack, to see you