behind him, the slap of leather and metal. The army of Machi took its
place-archers and footmen and horsemen. All exhausted by their day's
ride, all facing a real enemy for the first time. From across the
valley, a sound came, sharp as cracking thunder-thousands of voices
raised as one. And then, just as suddenly, silence. Otah ran his hand
over the thick leather straps of the reins and forced himself to think.
In the soft quarter of Saraykeht, Otah had seen showfighters pout and
preen before the blows came. He had seen them flex their muscles and
beat their own faces until there was blood on their lips. It had been a
show for the men and women who had come to partake of brutality as
entertainment, but it had also been the start of the fight. A display to
unnerve the enemy, to sow fear. This was no different. A thousand men
who could speak in one voice could fight as one. They were not men, they
were a swarm; a single mind with thousands of bodies. Hearus, the
wordless cry had said, and die.
Utah looked at the darkening sky, the misty rain. He thought of all the
histories he had read, the accounts of battles lost and won in ancient
days before the poets and their andat. Of the struggles in the low
cities of the world. He raised his hands, and the messengers, Nayiit
among them, came to his side.
"Tell the men to make camp," he said.
The silence was utter.
"Most High?" Nayiit said.
"They won't begin a battle now that they'd have to finish in darkness.
This is all show and bluster. 'ell the men to set their tents and build
what cook fires we cap in all this wet. Put them here where those
bastards can see the light of them. "Tell the men to rest and eat and
drink, and we'll set up a pavilion and have songs before we sleep. Let
the Galts see how frightened we are."
The messengers took poses that accepted the order and turned their
mounts. Otah caught Nayiit's gaze, and the boy hesitated. When the
others had gone, Otah spoke again.
"Also find the scouts and have them set a watch. In case I'm wrong."
He saw Nayiit draw breath, but he only took the accepting pose and rode
away.
The night was long and unpleasant. The rain had stopped; the clouds
thinned and vanished, letting the heat of the ground fly out into the
cold, uncaring sky. Utah passed among the fires, accepting the oaths and
salutes of his men. He felt his title and dignity on his shoulders like
a cloak. He would have liked to smile and be charming, to ease his fears
with companionship and wine, just as his men did. It would have been no
favor to them, though, so he held back and played the Khai for another
night. No attack came, and between the half candle and the threequarter
mark, Utah actually fell asleep. He dreamed of nothing in particular-a
bird that flew upside down, a river he recalled from childhood, Danat's
voice in an adjacent room singing words Utah could not later recall. He
woke in darkness to the scent of frying pork and the sound of voices.
I IC pulled on his robes and boots and stepped out into the chill of the
morning. The cook fires were lit again or had never been put out. And