stables, but Sinja had called them hack inside. There was a madness on
Balasar Dice's men, and he didn't intend to have his own fall to it.
In the small walled garden at the hack, Sinja sat on a camp stool and
drank a howl of mint tea brewed with fresh-plucked leaves. "Thyme and
basil grew around him, and a small black-leaf maple gave shade. Smoke
rose into the skv, dark and solid as the towers of Machi. The birds were
silent or lied. The scouts he'd sent out, their uniforms clearly the
colors of Galt, reported that the rivers and canals had all turned red
from the blood and the fish were dying of it. Sinja wasn't sure he
believed that, but it seemed to catch the flavor of the day. Certainly
he wasn't going to go out and look for himself.
An ancient man, spine bent and mouth innocent of anything resembling
teeth, poked his head out the wide oaken doors at the end of the garden.
The red-rimmed eyes seemed uncertain. The old hands shook so badly Sinja
could see the trembling from where he sat. War is no place for the old,
Sinja thought. It's meant for young men who can't yet distinguish
between excitement and fear. Men who haven't yet grown a conscience.
"Mani-cha," Sinja called to the wayhouse keeper. "Is there something I
can do for you?"
"'There's a man conic for you, Sinja-cha. Say's he's the ... ah ... the
general."
"Bring him here," Sinja said.
The wayhouse keeper took a pose of acknowledgment, smiled an uncertain
smile, and wavered half in, half out of the doorframe.
"You'll be fine, Mani-cha. You've my protection. He's not going to have
you hanged, I promise. But you might bring him a bowl of tea."
Old Mani blinked and nodded his apology before ducking back into the
house. The protection wasn't a promise he could keep. He hadn't asked
General Gice's permission before he'd extended it. And still, he thought
the old man's chances were good.
Balasar stepped into the garden as if he knew it, as if he owned it. It
wasn't arrogance. That was what made the man so odd. The general's
expression was drawn and thoughtful; that at least was a good sign.
Sinja put his bowl of tea on the dusty red brick pathway, stood, and
made his salute. Balasar returned it, but his gaze seemed caught by the
shifting branches of the maple tree.
"All's well, I hope, sir," Sinja said.
"Well enough," Balasar said. "Well enough for a bad day, anyway. And
here? Have your men been ... Have you lost anyone?"
"I can account for all of them. I can have them ready to go out in half
a hand, if you think they're needed, sir."
Balasar shifted, looking straight into Sinja's eyes as if seeing him
clearly for the first time.
"No," Balasar said. "No, it won't be called for. What resistance there
still is can't last long."
Sinja nodded. Of course not. tldun had numbers and knowledge, but they
weren't fighters. The raids had continued for the whole trek upriver.
Hunting parties had been harassed, wells fouled, the low towns the army
had passed through stripped bare of anything that might have been of use