recommend you kill him now. "There's no room on a campaign like this for
someone who'll take up arms against the man that pays his wage.
Balasar nodded, leaning back in his chair.
"I think we understand each other," he said.
"Let's he certain," Sinja said, and put his hands open and palms-down on
the table between them. "I'm a mercenary, and to judge by that pile of
silk and cedar chests you're about to ship hack to Galt, you're the man
who's got the money to pay my contract. If I've given you reason to
think there's more happening than that, I'd rather we cleared it up now.
Balasar chuckled. It was a warm sound. That was good.
"Are you ever subtle?" Balasar asked.
"If I'm paid to be," Sinja said. "I've had a had experience working for
someone who thought I might look better with a knife-shaped hole in my
belly, sir, and I'd rather not repeat it. Have I done something to make
you question my intentions?"
Balasar considered him. Sinja met his gaze.
"Yes," Balasar said. "You have. But it's nothing I would be comfortable
hanging you for. Not yet at least. The poet, when you killed him. He
addressed you in the familiar. Sinja-kya."
"Men begging for their lives sometimes develop an inaccurate opinion of
how close they are to the men holding the blades," Sinja said, and the
general had the good manners to blush. "I understand your position, sir.
I've been living under the Khaiem for a long time now. You don't know my
history, and if you did, it wouldn't help you. I've broken contracts
before, and I won't lie about it. But I would appreciate it if we could
treat each other professionally on this."
Balasar sighed.
"You've managed to shame me, Captain Ajutani."
"I won't brag about that if you'll agree to he certain you've a decent
cause to kill me before taking action," Sinja said.
"Agreed," Balasar said. "But your men? I meant what I said about them."
"I'll be sure they understand," Sinja said, then swigged down the last
of his wine, took a pose appropriate to taking leave of a superior, and
walked hack into the streets of the fallen city, hoping that it wouldn't
be clear from his stride that his knees felt loose. Not that a sane
measure of fear could be held against him, but there was pride to
consider. And someone was watching him. He could be damned sure of that.
So he walked straight and calm through the streets and the smoke and the
wailing of the survivors until he reached the camp outside the last
trailing building of Nantani. The tents were far from empty-the thugs
and free armsmen of Nlachi didn't all have a stomach for looting
Nantani- but he didn't speak to his men until just after nightfall.
They had a fire burning, though the summer night wasn't cold. The light
of it made the tents glow gold and red. The men were quiet. The boasting
and swaggering that the Galts were doing didn't have a place here. It
would have if the burning city had been made from gray Westlands stone.
Sinja stood at the front on a plank set up on chairs in a makeshift
dais. He wanted them to see him. The scouts he'd sent out to assure that
the conversation was private returned and took a confirming pose. If