Seasons of War

said. ‘Thank you.’
    The mercenary captain nodded to Balasar, and then to Eustin. His gait as he walked out was the same as when he’d walked in. Balasar stood and stepped back, kicking the old, flat cushion onto the corpse. Eustin also stood, shaking his head.
    ‘Not what you’d expected, then?’ Balasar asked,
    ‘He didn’t even try to talk you out of it,’ Eustin said. ‘I thought he’d at least play you for time. Another day.’
    ‘You’re convinced, then?’
    Eustin hesitated, then stooped to roll the rug over the corpse. Balasar sat at the writing desk, watching as Eustin finished covering the poor, arrogant, pathetic man in his ignominious shroud and called in two soldiers to haul him away. Riaan Vaudathat, the world’s last poet if Balasar had his way, would rest in an unmarked grave in this no-man’s-land between the Westlands and Nantani. It took more time than throwing him into a ditch, and there were times that Balasar had been tempted. But treating the body with respect said more about the living than the dead, and it was a dignity with only the smallest price. A few men, a little work.
    A new rug was brought in, new pillows, and a plate of curried chicken and raisins, a flagon of wine. The servants all left, and Eustin still hadn’t spoken.
    ‘When you brought this to me,’ Balasar said, ‘you said his hesitation would be proof of his guilt. Now you’re thinking his lack of hesitation might be just as damning.’
    ‘Seemed like he might be trying to keep the poor bastard from saying something,’ Eustin said, his gaze cast down. Balasar laughed.
    ‘There’s no winning with you. You know that.’
    ‘I suppose not, sir.’
    Balasar took a knife and cut a slice from the chicken. It smelled lovely, sweet and hot and rich. But beneath it and the lemon candles, there was still a whiff of death and human blood. Balasar ate the food anyway. It tasted fine.
    ‘Keep watch on him,’ Balasar said. ‘Be polite about it. Nothing obvious. I don’t want the men thinking I don’t believe in him. If you don’t see him plotting against us by the time we reach Nantani, perhaps you’ll sleep better.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘It’s nothing. Some chicken?’
    Eustin glanced at the plate, and then his eyes flickered toward the tent flap behind him.
    ‘Or,’ Balasar said, ‘would you rather go set someone to shadow Captain Ajutani.’
    ‘If it’s all the same, sir,’ Eustin said.
    Balasar nodded and waved the man away. In the space of two breaths, he was alone. He ate slowly. When the meal was almost done - chicken gone, flagon still over half full - a chorus of crickets suddenly burst out. Balasar listened. The poet was dead.
    There was no turning back now. The High Council back in Acton would be desperately angry with him when they heard the news, but there wasn’t a great deal they could do to breathe life back into a corpse. And if his work went well, by the time winter silenced these crickets, there would no longer be a man alive in the world who could take Riaan’s place. And yet, his night’s work was not complete.
    He wiped his hands clean, savored a last sip of wine, and took the leather satchel from under his cot. He put the books on his writing table, side by side by side. The ancient pages seemed alive with memory. He still bore the scars on his shoulder from hauling these four books out of the desert. He still felt the ghosts of his men at his back, watching in silence, waiting to see whether their deaths had been noble or foolish. And beyond that - beyond himself and his life and struggles - the worn paper and pale ink knew of ages. The hand that had copied these words had been dust for at least ten generations. The minds that first conceived these words had fallen into forgetfulness long before that. The emperor whose greater glory they had been offered to was forgotten, his palaces ruins. The lush forests and jungles of the Empire were dune-swept. Balasar put his hand on the cool metallic binding of the first of the volumes.
    Killing the man was nothing. Killing the books was more difficult. The poet, like any man, was born to die. Moving his transition from flesh to spirit forward by a few decades was hardly worth considering, and Balasar was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. Killing men was his work. It would have been as well to ask a farmer to regret the fate of his wheat. But to take these words which had lasted longer than the civilization that created them,