Seasons of War

There ought to be some dignity at least. If there’s nothing else, there should at least be some dignity.’
    The dog whined and craned its neck toward Eustin. Balasar could see distress in the animal’s eyes, but not fear. The dog could hear the pain in Eustin’s voice, even if the sailors couldn’t. The bodies around him were wound tight, ready for violence, all of them except for Eustin. He held the knife weakly. The tension in his body wasn’t the hot, loose energy of battle; he was knotted, like a boy tensed against a blow; like a man facing the gallows.
    ‘Leave us alone. All of you,’ Balasar said.
    ‘Not without Tripod!’ one of the sailors said.
    Balasar met Eustin’s eyes. With a small shock he realized it was the first time he’d truly looked at the man since they’d emerged from the desert. Perhaps he’d been ashamed of what he might see reflected there. And perhaps his shame had some part in this. Eustin was his man, and so the pain he bore was Balasar’s responsibility. He’d been weak and stupid to shy away from that. And weakness and stupidity always carried a price.
    ‘Let the dog go. There’s no call to involve him, or these men,’ Balasar said. ‘Sit with me awhile, and if you still need killing, I’ll be the one to do it.’
    Eustin’s gaze flickered over his face, searching for something. To see whether it was a ruse, to see whether Balasar would actually kill his own man. When he saw the answer, Eustin’s wide shoulders eased. He dropped the rope, freeing the animal. It hopped in a circle, uncertain and confused.
    ‘You have the dog,’ Balasar said to the sailors without looking at them. ‘Now go.’
    They filed out, none of them taking their eyes from Eustin and the knife still in his hand. Balasar waited until they had all left, the low door pulled shut behind them. Distant voices shouted over the creaking timbers, the oil lamp swung gently on its chain. This time, Balasar used the silence intentionally, waiting. At first, Eustin looked at him, anticipation in his eyes. And then his gaze passed into the distance, seeing something beyond the room, beyond them both. And then silently, Eustin wept. Balasar shifted his stool nearer and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
    ‘I keep seeing them, sir.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘I’ve seen a thousand men die one way or the other. But . . . but that was on a field. That was in a fight.’
    ‘It isn’t the same,’ Balasar said. ‘Is that why you wanted those men to throw you in the sea?’
    Eustin turned the blade slowly, catching the light. He was still weeping, his face now slack and empty. Balasar wondered which of them he was seeing now, which of their number haunted him in that moment, and he felt the eyes of the dead upon him. They were in the room, invisibly crowding it as the sailors had.
    ‘Can you tell me they died with honor?’ Eustin breathed.
    ‘I’m not sure what honor is,’ Balasar said. ‘We did what we did because it was needed, and we were the men to do it. The price was too high for us to bear, you and I and Coal. But we aren’t finished, so we have to carry it a bit farther. That’s all.’
    ‘It wasn’t needed, General. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t . We take a few more cities, we gain a few more slaves. Yes, they’re the richest cities in the world. I know it. Sacking even one of the cities of the Khaiem would put more gold in the High Council’s coffers than a season in the Westlands. But how much do they need to buy Little Ott back from hell?’ Eustin asked. ‘And why shouldn’t I go there and get him myself, sir?’
    ‘It’s not about gold. I have enough gold of my own to live well and die old. Gold’s a tool we use - a tool I use - to make men do what must be done.’
    ‘And honor?’
    ‘And glory. Tools, all of them. We’re men, Eustin. We’ve no reason to lie to each other.’
    He had the man’s attention now. Eustin was looking only at him, and there was confusion in his eyes - confusion and pain - but the ghosts weren’t inside him now.
    ‘Why then, sir? Why are we doing this?’
    Balasar sat back. He hadn’t said these words before, he had never explained himself to anyone. Pride again. He was haunted by his pride. The pride that had made him take this on as his task, the work he owed to the world because no one else had the stomach for it.
    ‘The ruins of the Empire were made,’ he said. ‘God didn’t write it that the world should have something like that in it.