A polite cough came from the archways behind them, and Balasar turned. A
secretary of the Council stood in the shade of the wide colonnade. As
Balasar and Eustin rose, he bowed slightly at the waist.
"General Gice," the secretary said. "The Lord Convocate requests your
presence.
"Good," Balasar said, then turned to Eustin and spoke quickly and low.
"Stay here and keep an eye on our friend. If this goes poorly, we may
need to make good time out of Acton."
Eustin nodded, his face as calm and impassive as if Balasar asked him to
turn against the High Council half the days of any week. Balasar tugged
his vest and sleeves into place, nodded to the secretary, and allowed
himself to be led into the shadows of government.
The path beneath the colonnade led into a maze of hallways as old as
Galt itself. The air seemed ancient, thick and dusty and close with the
breath of men generations dead. The secretary led Balasar up a stone
stairway worn treacherously smooth by a river of footsteps to a wide
door of dark and carved wood. Balasar scratched on it, and a booming
voice called him in.
The meeting room was wide and long, with a glassed-in terrace that
looked out over the city and shelves lining the walls with books and
rolled maps. Low leather couches squatted by an iron fireplace, a low
rosewood table between them with dried fruits and glass flutes ready for
wine. And standing at the terrace's center looking out over the city,
the Lord Convocate, a great gray bear of a man.
Balasar closed the door behind him and walked over to the man's side.
Acton spilled out before them-smoke and grime, broad avenues where steam
wagons chuffed their slow way through the city taking on passengers for
a half-copper a ride laced with lanes so narrow a man's shoulders could
touch the walls on either side. For a moment, Balasar recalled the ruins
in the desert, placing the memory over the view hefore him. Reminding
himself again of the stakes he played for.
"I've been riding herd on the Council since you gave your report. They
aren't happy," the Lord Convocatc said. "The High Council doesn't look
favorably on men of ... what should I call it? Profound initiative? None
of them had any idea you'd gone so far. Not even your father. It was
impolitic."
"I'm not a man of politics."
The Lord Convocate laughed.
"You've led an army on campaign," he said. "If you didn't understand
something of how to manage men, you'd be feeding some Westland tree by now."
Balasar shrugged. It wasn't what he'd meant to do; it was the mo- nment
to come across as controlled, loyal, reliable as stone, and here he was
shrugging like a petulant schoolboy. He forced himself to smile.
"I suppose you're right," he said.
"But you know they would have refused you."
"Know is a strong word. Suspected."
"Feared?"
"perhaps."
"Fourteen cities in a single season. It can't be done, Balasar. Uther