back to see Eustin on a great bay mare. The beast's breath was heavy and
white as feathers. Balasar raised a hand, as Eustin cantered forward,
pulled his mount to a halt, and saluted.
"I'm ready, sir. I've a hundred men volunteered to come with me. With
your permission."
"Of course," Balasar said, then looked back at the towers. "Do you
really think they'd do it? Sneak out. Run north and try to hide in the
low towns out there?"
"Best to have us there in the event," Eustin said. "I could be wrong,
sir. But I'd rather be careful now than have to spend the cold part of
the season making raids. Especially if this is the warm hit."
Balasar shook his head. He didn't believe that the Khai Machi Sinja had
described to him would run. He would fight unfairly, he would launch
attacks from ambush, he would have his archers aim for the horses. But
Balasar didn't think he would run. Still, the poets might. Or the Khai
might send his children away for safety, if he hadn't already. And there
would he refugees. Eustin's plan to block their flight was a wise one.
He couldn't help wishing that Eustin might have been with him here, at
the end. They were the last of the men who had braved the desert, and
Balasar felt a superstitious dread at sending him away.
"Sir?"
"Be careful," Balasar said. "'That's all."
A trumpet called, and Balasar turned back to the city. Sure enough,
there was something-a speck of black on the white. A single rider,
fleeing Machi.
"Well," Eustin said. "Looks like Captain Ajutani's come back after all.
Give him my compliments."
Balasar smiled at the disdain in Eustin's voice.
"I'll be careful too," he said.
It took something like half a hand for Sinja to reach the camp. Balasar
noticed particularly that he didn't turn to the bridge, riding instead
directly over the frozen river. Eustin and his force were gone, looping
around to the North, well before the mercenary captain arrived. Balasar
had cups of strong kafe waiting when Sinja, his face pink and rawlooking
from his ride, was shown into his tent.
Balasar retuned his salute and gestured to a chair. Sinja took a pose of
thanks-so little time back among the Khaiem and the use of formal pose
seemed to have returned to the man like an accent-and sat, drawing a
sheaf of papers from his sleeve. When they spoke, it was in the tongue
of the Khaiem.
"It went well?"
"Well enough," Sinja said. "I made a small mistake and had to do some
very pretty dancing to cover it. But the Khai's got few enough hopes, he
wants to trust me. flakes things easier. Now, here. These are rough
copies of the maps he's used. They're filling in the main entrances to
the underground tunnels to keep us from bringing any single large force
down at once. The largest paths they've left open are here," Sinja
touched the map, "and here."
"And the poets?"