besides a man. They had never seen him weep over Little Ott's body or
call out into the dry, malign desert air for Kellem. To this army, he
was General Gice. They might be prepared to kill or die at his word, but
they did not know him. It was, he supposed, the difference between faith
and loyalty. He found faith isolating. And it was in this sense of being
alone among many that the messenger from Sinja Ajutani found him.
The day's travel was done, and they had made good time again. His
outriders had made contact with local forces twice-farm boys with rabbit
bows and sewn leather armor-and had done well each time. The wells in
the low towns had been fouled, but the river ran clean enough. Another
two days, three at the most, and they would reach iidun. In the
meantime, the sunset was beautiful and birdsong filled the evening air.
Balasar rested beneath the wide, thick branches of a cottonwood, Hat
bread and chicken still hot from the fires on a metal field plate by his
side, their scents mixing with those of the rich earth and the river's
damp. The man standing before him, hands flat at his sides, looked no
more than seventeen summers, but Balasar knew himself a poor judge of
ages among these people. He might have been fifteen, he might have been
twenty. When he spoke, his Galtic was heavily inflected.
"General Gice," the boy said. "Captain Ajutani would like a word with
you, if it is acceptable to your will."
Balasar sat forward.
"He could come himself," Balasar said. "He has before. Why not now?"
The messenger boy's lips went tight, his dark eyes fixed straight ahead.
It was anger the boy was controlling.
"Something's happened," Balasar said. "Something's happened to one of
yours."
"Sir," the boy said.
Balasar took a regretful look at the chicken, then rose to his feet.
""lake me to Captain Ajutani," Balasar said.
Their path ended at the medical tent. The messenger waited outside when
Balasar ducked through the Hap and entered. The thick canvas reeked with
concentrated vinegar and pine pitch. The medic stood over a low cot
where a man lay naked and bloody. One of Sinja's men. The captain
himself stood against the tent's center pole, arms folded. Balasar
stepped forward, taking in the patient's wounds with a practiced eye.
Two parallel cuts on the ribs, shallow but long. Cuts on the hands and
arms where the bov had tried to ward off the blades. Skinned knuckles
where he'd struck out at someone. Balasar caught the medic's eye and
nodded to the man.
"No broken bones, sir," the medic said. "One finger needed sewing, and
there'll be scars, but so long as we keep the wounds from festering, he
should be fine."
"What happened?" Balasar asked.
"I found him by the river," Sinja said. "I brought him here."
Balasar heard the coolness in Sinja's voice, judged the tension in his
face and shoulders. Ile steeled himself.
"Come, then," Balasar said as he lifted open the tent's wide flap, "eat
with me and you can tell me what happened."