bathhouses and winter gardens, vying for money and power now that the
city's fallen. Half of them will be wearing tunics with the Galtic Tree
on it come spring.
He looked down at the body of the man he'd had killed and briefly felt
the impulse to put "Ian-Sadar to the torch. Instead, he turned and
walked away, going back to the palaces he had taken for himself and for
his men.
Eight thousand remained to him. Several hundred had been lost in battle
or to the raids that had slowed his travel since Nantani. The rest he
had left in conquered I'tani. 'T'here was little enough left of I'dun
that he hadn't bothered leaving men to occupy the city. 't'here was no
call to leave people there to guard ashes.
tltani had offered only token resistance and been for the most part
spared. "Ian-Sadar had very nearly set the musicians to playing and
lined the roads with dancing girls. That wasn't true, but as Balasar
stalked hack through the great vaulted hall of the Khai's palace, his
steps echoing off the blue and gold tilework high above him, his disgust
with the place made it seem that way. They hadn't fought, and while that
might have been wise, it wasn't something to celebrate. The only ones
who had spines had been the poet and the Khai. Well, and the Khai's
wives and children, whom he'd had killed. So perhaps he wasn't really in
the best position to speak about what was honorable and noble after all.
"Darkness has come on as usual, sir;
Balasar looked tip. Eustin stood in salute at the foot of a wide flight
of stairs. His tunic was stained, his chin unshaven, and even from five
paces away, he stank of horses. Balasar restrained himself from rushing
over and embracing the man.
"The darkness," Balasar asked through his grin.
"Always happens at the end of a campaign, sir. You fall into a black
mood for a few weeks. Happened in Eddensca and after the siege at
NIalsam. All respect, sir, it's like watching my sister after she's
birthed a babe."
Balasar laughed. It felt good to laugh, and to smile, and to be reminded
that the foul mood that had come on him was something he often suffered.
In truth, he had forgotten. He took Eustin's hand in his own.
"Good to have you back," Balasar said. "I didn't know you'd returned."
"I would have sent a runner to pass the news, but it seemed faster if I
came myself."
"Come LIP," Balasar said. "Tell me what's happened."
"It might be best if I saw a bathhouse, sir...."
"Later," Balasar said. "If you can stand the reek, I can. And besides,
you deserve some discomfort after that birthing comment. Come up, and
I'll have them send us wine and food."
"Yes, sir," Eustin said.
They sat on couches while pine logs burned in the grate, sap hissing and
popping and sending up sparks. True to his word, Balasar sent for rice
wine infused with cherries and the stiff salty brown cheese that was a
local delicacy of 'Ian-Sadar. Eustin recounted his season-the attack on
Pathai, his decision to split the force before moving on to the poet's