go away again.
Ile had even been so kind as to offer Balasar the use of his library. It
was a small room overlooking a courtyard, less grand than Balasar's own
home in Galt, less than the smallest apartments of the least of the
Khaiate nobility. But it was serviceable, and it had the effect each man
desired. Balasar had a place to brood, and the Westlanders had a
convenient way to keep clear of him.
The afternoon rains pecked at the windows. The pot of black tea had
grown tepid and hitter, ignored on a corner of the wide, oaken table.
Balasar looked again at the maps. Nantani would be the first, and the
easiest. The western forces would be undivided-five full legions with
support of the mercenaries hired with the High Council's gold and
promises of plunder. The city wouldn't stand for a morning. Then one
legion would turn North, going overland to Pathai while two others took
the mercenaries to Shosheyn-Tan, Lachi, and Saraykeht. That left him two
legions to go upriver to Udun, Utani, and Tan-Sadar, less whatever men
he left behind to occupy the conquered. Eight of the cities. Over half,
but the least important.
Coal and his men were already in place, waiting in the low towns and
smugglers' camps outside Chaburi-Tan. When the andat failed, they would
sack the city, and take ships North to Yalakeht. The pieces for
steam-driven boats were already in the warehouses of the Galtic
tradesmen, ready to be pegged onto rafts and sped upriver to the village
of the Dai-kvo. And then there was only the race to the North to put
AmnatTan, Cetani, and Machi to the torch before winter came.
Balasar wished again that he had been able to lead the force in
Chaburi-Tan. The fate of the world would rest on that sprint to the
libraries and catacombs of the poets. If only he had had time to sail
out there ... but days were precious, and Coal had been preparing his
men all the time Balasar had played politics in Acton. It was better
this way. And still ...
He traced a finger across the western plains-Pathai to Utani. He wished
he knew better how the roads were. The school for the young poets wasn't
far from Pathai. That wouldn't be a pleasant duty either. And he
couldn't trust the slaughter of children to mercenaries, not with the
stakes so high. This wasn't a war that had room for moments of compassion.
A soft knock came at the door, and Eustin stepped in. He wore the deep
blue and red of a captain's uniform. Balasar acknowledged him with a nod.
"Has the third legion arrived, then?" Balasar asked.
"No, sir," Eustin said. "We've had a runner from them. They'll be here
by the week's end, sir."
""Ibo long."
"Yes, sir. But there's another problem."
Balasar rose, hands clasped behind him. He could feel his mind straining
back toward the plans and maps almost as if it were a physical force,
but he believed that battles were won or lost long before they were
fought. If Eustin had thought something worth interrupting him, it would
likely need his whole attention.
"Go ahead," he said.