Seasons of War (24 page)

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Authors: Daniel Abraham

BOOK: Seasons of War
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His pavilion was in place before the last light of the sun had vanished in the west: couches made from wood and canvas that could be broken down flat and carried on muleback, flat cushions embroidered with the Galtic Tree, a small writing table. A low iron brazier took the edge from the night’s chill, and half a hundred lemon candles filled the air with their scent and drove away the midges. He’d had it set on the top of a rise, looking down over the valley where the light of cook fires dotted the land like stars in the sky. A firefly had found its way through the gossamer folds of his tent, shining and then vanishing as it searched for a way out. A thousand of its fellows glittered in the darkness between camps. It was like something from a children’s story, where the Good Neighbors had breached the division between the worlds to join his army. He saw the three of them coming toward him, and he knew each long before he could make out their faces.
Eustin’s stride was long, low, and deceptively casual. Captain Ajutani moved carefully, each step provisional, the weight always held on his back foot until he chose to shift it. Riaan’s was an unbalanced, civilian strut. Balasar rose, opened the flap for them to enter, and rolled down the woven-grass mats to give them a level of visual privacy, false walls that shifted and muttered in the lightest of breezes.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiem.
Sinja and Riaan took poses, the forms a study in status; Sinja accepted the greeting of a superior, Riaan condescended to acknowledge an honored servant. Eustin only nodded. In the corner of the pavilion, the firefly burst into sudden brilliance and then vanished again. Balasar led the three men to cushions on a wide woven rug, seating himself to face Sinja. When they had all folded their legs beneath them, Balasar leaned forward.
‘When I began this campaign,’ he said, ‘it was not my intention to continue the rule of the poets and their andat over the rest of humanity. In the course of my political life, I allowed certain people to misunderstand me. But it is not my intention that Riaan-cha should be burdened by another andat. Or that anyone should. Ever.’
The poet’s jaw dropped. His face went white, and his hands fluttered toward poses they never reached. Sinja only nodded, accepting the new information as if it were news of the weather.
‘That leaves me with an unpleasant task,’ Balasar said, and he drew a blade from his vest. It was a thick-bladed dagger with a grip of worked leather. He tossed it to the floor. The metal glittered in the candlelight. Riaan didn’t understand; his confusion was written on his brow and proclaimed by his silence. If he’d understood, Balasar thought, he’d be begging by now.
Sinja glanced at the knife, then up at Balasar and then Eustin. He sighed.
‘And you’ve chosen me to see if I’d do it,’ the mercenary said with a tone both weary and amused.
‘I don’t . . .’ Riaan said. ‘You . . . you can’t mean that . . . Sinja-kya, you wouldn’t—’
The motion was casual and efficient as swatting at a fly. Sinja leaned over, plucked the knife from the rug, and tossed it into the poet’s neck. It sounded like a melon being cleaved. The poet rose half to his feet, clawing at the handle already slick with his blood, then slowly folded, lying forward as if asleep or drunk. The scent of blood filled the air. The poet’s body twitched, heaved once, and went still.
‘Not your best rug, I assume,’ Sinja said in Galtic.
‘Not my best rug,’ Balasar agreed.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘Not now,’ Balasar 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, to slaughter history was a task best done by the ignorant. Only a man who did not understand his actions would be callous enough to destroy these without qualm.
And yet what must be done, must be done. And it was time.
Carefully, Balasar laid the books open in the brazier. The pages shifted in the breeze, scratching one on another like dry hands. He ran his fingers along one line, translating as best he could, reading the words for the last time. The lemon candle spilled its wax across his knuckles as he carried it, and the flame leapt to twice its height. He touched the open leaves with the burning wick as a priest might give a blessing, and the books seemed to embrace the fire. He sat, watching the pages blacken and curl, bits of cinder rise and dance in the air. A pale smoke filled the air, and Balasar rose, opening the flap of the pavilion to the wide night air.
The firefly darted past him, glowing. Balasar watched it fly out to freedom and the company of its fellows until it went dark and vanished. The cook fires were fewer, the stars hanging in the sky bright and steady. A strange elation passed through him, as if he had taken off a burden or been freed himself. He grinned like an idiot at the darkness and had to fight himself not to dance a little jig. If he’d been certain that none of his men were near, that no one would see, he would have allowed himself. But he was a commander and not a child. Dignity had its price.
When he returned to the brazier, nothing was left but blackened hinges, split leather, gray ash. Balasar stirred the ruins with a stick, making sure no text had survived, and then, satisfied, turned to his cot. The day before him would be long.
As he lay in the darkness, half asleep, he felt the ghosts again. The men he had left in the desert. The men still alive whom he would leave in the field. Riaan, books cradled in his arms. Balasar’s sacrifices filled the pavilion, and their presence and expectation comforted him until a small voice came from the back of his mind.
Kya
, it said.
Sinja
-kya,
he called him. Sinja
-cha
would have been the proper form, wouldn’t it?
Kya
is used for a lover or a brother. Why would Riaan have thought of Sinja as a brother?
And then, as if Eustin were seated beside the cot, his voice whispered,
Seemed like he might be trying to keep the poor bastard from saying something
.
 
Liat walked through darkness between the Khai’s palaces and the library where Maati, she hoped, was still awake and waiting for her. She felt like a washrag wrung out, soaked, and wrung out again. It was seven days now since Stone-Made-Soft had escaped, and she’d spent the time either meeting with the Khai Machi or waiting to do so. Long days spent in the gilded halls and corridors of the palaces were, she found, more tiring than travel. Her back ached, her legs were sore, and she couldn’t even think what she had done to earn the pain. Sitting shouldn’t carry such a price. If she’d lifted something heavy, there would at least be a reason . . .
The city seemed darker now than when she’d arrived. It might be only her imagination, but there seemed fewer lanterns lit on the paths, fewer torches at the doorways. The windows of the palaces that shone with light seemed dimmed. No slaves sang in the gardens, the members of the utkhaiem that she saw throughout her day all shared a tension that she understood too well.
Candles flickered behind Maati’s closed shutters, a thin line of light where the wooden frames had warped over the years. Liat found herself more grateful than she had expected to be as she took the last steps down the path that led to his door.
Maati sat on the low couch, a bowl of wine cradled in his fingers. A bottle less than half full sat on the floor at his feet. He smiled as she let herself in, but she saw at once that something wasn’t well. She took a pose of query, and he looked away.
‘Maati-kya?’
‘I’ve had a letter from the Dai-kvo,’ Maati said. ‘The timing of all this isn’t what I’d hoped, you know. I’ve spent years puttering through the library here, looking for nothing in particular, and only stumbled on my little insight now. Just when the Galts have gotten out of hand. And now Cehmai. And . . . forgive me, love, and you. And our boy.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Liat said. ‘The Dai-kvo. What did he say?’
‘He said that I should come.’ Maati sighed. ‘There’s nothing in the letter about the Galts or the missing poet. There’s nothing about Stone-Made-Soft, of course. The courier won’t be there with that sorry news for days yet. It’s only about me. It’s the thing I’d always hoped for. It’s my absolution, Liat-kya. I have been out of favor since before Nayiit was born. After I took Otah’s cause in the succession, they almost forbade me from wearing the robes, you know. The old Daikvo made it very clear he didn’t consider me a poet.’
Liat leaned against the cool stone wall. Her pains were forgotten. She watched Maati raise his brows, shake his head. His lips shifted as if he were having some silent conversation to which she was only half welcome. A familiar heaviness touched her heart.
‘You must have hoped for this,’ she said.
‘Dreamed of it, when I dared to. I’m welcomed back with honor and dignity. I’m saved.’
‘That’s a bitter tone for a saved man,’ she said.
‘I’ve only just met you again. I’ve only just started to know Nayiit. And Otah-kvo’s in need. And the Galts are stirring trouble again. My shining hour has come to call me away from everyone who actually matters.’

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