Seasons of War

head. But as Balasar was just leaving the garden, the poet called his name. A cloud had come over the man, some ghost of uncertainty that had not risen from the prospect of binding.
    ‘Your men,’ the poet said. ‘They have been instructed that my family is not to be touched, yes?’
    ‘Of course,’ Balasar said.
    ‘And the library. The city is, of course, yours to do with as you see fit, but without the libraries of the Khaiem, binding a second andat will be much more difficult. They aren’t to be entered by any man but me.’
    ‘Of course,’ Balasar said again, and the poet took a pose accepting his assurances. The concern didn’t leave Riaan’s brow, though. So perhaps the man wasn’t quite as dim as he seemed. Balasar told himself, as he strode back through the covered pathways to his own rooms, that he would have to be more careful with him in the future. Not that there was much future for him. Win or lose, Riaan was a dead man.
    The day seemed more real than the ones that had come before it: the sunlight clearer, the air more alive with the scents of flowers and sewage and grass. The stones of the walls seemed more interesting, the subtle differences in color and texture clear where previous days had made them only a field of gray. Even Balasar’s body hummed with energy. It was like being a boy again, and diving into the lake from the highest cliff - the one all the other boys feared to jump from. It was dread and joy and the sense of no longer being able to take his decision back. It was what Balasar lived for. He knew already that he would not sleep.
    Eustin was waiting for him in the entrance hall.
    ‘There’s someone wants a word with you, sir.’
    Balasar paused.
    ‘The Khaiate captain. He wanted to speak about fallback plans for his men.’
    Eustin nodded to a side room. There was distrust in his expression, and Balasar waited a long moment for him to speak. Eustin added nothing. Balasar went to the wide, dark oaken door, knocked once, and went in. It was a preparation room for servants - muddy boots cast beside benches and waiting to be scraped clean, cloaks of all weights and colors hung from pegs. It smelled of wet dog, though there was no animal present. The captain sat on a stool tilted back against the wall, cleaning his nails with a knife.
    ‘Captain Ajutani,’ Balasar said.
    The stool came down, and the captain rose, sheathing his blade and bowing in the same motion.
    ‘I appreciate the time, General,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve a great deal on your mind just now.’
    ‘I’m always available,’ Balasar said. ‘Though the surroundings are . . .’
    ‘Yes. Your man Eustin seemed to think it more appropriate for me to wait here. I’m not sure he likes me.’ The captain was more amused than offended, so Balasar also smiled and shrugged.
    ‘Your men are in place?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, yes. Broken into groups of three or four, each assigned to one of your sergeants. Except for myself, of course.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Only I wanted to ask something of you, General. A favor of sorts.’
    Balasar crossed his arms and nodded for the man to continue.
    ‘If it fails - if our friend Riaan doesn’t do his magic trick well enough - don’t kill them. My boys. Don’t have them killed.’
    ‘Why would I do that?’ Balasar asked.
    ‘Because it’s the right thing,’ Sinja said. The amusement was gone from the man’s eyes. He was in earnest now. ‘I’m not an idiot, General. If it happens that the binding fails, you’ll be standing here in Aren with an army the size of a modest city. People have already noticed it, and the curiosity of the Khaiem is the last thing you’d want. They’d still have their andat, and all you’d have is explanations to give. You’ll turn North and make all those stories about conquering the whole of the Westlands to the border with Eddensea true just to make all this—’ The captain gestured to the door at Balasar’s back. ‘—seem plausible. All I ask is, let us go with you. If it happens that you have to keep to this coast and not the cities of the Khaiem, I’ll re-form the group and lead them wherever you like.’
    ‘I wouldn’t kill them,’ Balasar said.
    ‘It would be dangerous, letting them go back home. Stories about how they were set to be interpreters and guides? Not one of them knows the Westlands except the part we walked through to get here. If the Khaiem are wondering whether you had some other plan to start with . .