An Autumn War

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 hit 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."

lie 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.

"\'h-,, 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.

""I'he ruins of the Empire were made," he said. "God didn't write it

that the world should have something like that in it. Men created it.

Men with little gods in their sleeves. And men like that still live. The

cities of the Khaiem each have one, and they look on them like plow

horses. 'Fools to feed their power and their arrogance. If it suited

them, they could turn their andat loose on us. Hold our crops in

permanent winter or sink our lands into the sea or whatever else they

could devise. They could turn the world itself against us the way you or

I might hold a knife. And do you know why they haven't?"

F,ustin blinked, u

"No, sir."

"Because they haven't yet chosen to. That's all. They might. Or they

might turn against each other. They could make everything into

wastelands just like those. Acton, Kirinton, Marsh. Every city, every

town. It hasn't happened yet because we've been lucky. But someday, one

of them will grow ambitious or mad. And then all the rest of us are ants

on a battlefield, trampled into the mud. That's what I mean when I say

this is needed. You and I are seeing that it never happens," he said,

and his words made his own blood hot. He was no longer uncertain or

touched by shame. Balasar gri

then let him be proud. No man could do what he intended without it.

"When I've finished, the god-ghosts of the Khaiem will be a story women

tell their babes to scare them at night, and nothing more than that.

That's what Little Ott died for. Not for money or conquest or glory.

"I'm saving the world," Balasar said. "So, now. Say you'd rather drown

than help me."

1

It had rained for a week, the cold gray clouds seeming to drape

themselves between the mountain ranges to the east and west of the city

like a wet canopy. The mornings were foggy, the afternoons chill. With

the snowdrifts of winter almost all melted, the land around hlachi

became a soupy mud whose only virtue was the spring crop of wheat and

snow peas it would bring forth. Travel was harder now even than in the

deadly cold of deep winter.

And still, the travelers came.

"With all respect, this exercise, as you call it, is ill-advised," the

envoy said. His hands still held a pose of deference though the

conversation had long since parted from civility. "I am sure your

intentions are entirely honorable, however it is the place of the I)ai-kvo-"

"If the I)ai-kvo wants to rule hfachi, tell him to come north," the Khai

NIachi snapped. "He can pull my puppet strings from the next room. I'll

make a bed for him."

The envoy's eyes went wide. He was a young man, and hadn't mastered the

art of keeping his mind from showing on his face. Utah, the Khai Machi,

waved away his own words and sighed. He had gone too far, and he knew