the honor of being with him should be enough. One of the girls took
offense and poured a cup of hot tea in his lap. Scalded his little poet
like a boiled sausage."
Balasar didn't smile, nor did Eustin. "I'he moment between them was enough.
"Will he be able to ride?" Balasar asked.
"Given a few days, sir, he'll be fine. But he's demanding the girl be
killed. Half the houses in the city have threatened to raise their
rates, and they're talking to their local clients too. I've had two
letters today that didn't quite say the grain would cost more than
expected."
Balasar felt a brief flush of anger.
""They're aware that the majority of the Galtic armies are either in the
ward now or will be here shortly?"
"Yes, sir. And they've not said it's final that they'll stick it to us
for more silver. But they're proud folks. It's just a whore he wants
killed, but she's a Westlands whore, if you see what I mean. She's one
of their own."
This was a mess. He didn't want to start the campaign by fighting the
Ward of Arcn. He didn't yet have all his men assembled. Balasar looked
out the windows, casting his gaze over the courtyard below without truly
seeing it.
"I suppose I'd best speak with him, then," Balasar said.
"He's in his rooms, sir. Should I bring him here?"
"No," Balasar said. "I'll face the beast in its lair."
"Yessir."
The central city of Aren was a squat affair. Thick stone walls covered
with mud and washed white were the order of the day. The constant wars
of the Westlands and the occasional attack by Galt had kept the ward
cropped low as a rabbit-haunted garden. The highest houses rose no more
than four stories above ground, and the streets, even near the palaces
of the Warden, smelled of sewage and old food. Balasar reached the
building where he and his captains were housed, shook the rain from his
cloak, and gestured for Eustin to wait for him. He took the stairs three
at a time up to the anteroom of the poet's apartments. The men guarding
the door bowed as he entered, then stood aside as he announced himself.
Riaan sat on a low couch, his robes propped up above his lap like a
tent, the hem rising halfway up his shins. The awareness of his
indignity shone in the poet's face-lips pressed thin, jaw set forward.
Even as Balasar made his half-how, he could tell the man had been
working himself into a rage. If any of his captains had acted this way,
Balasar would have assigned them to patrolling on horseback until the
wounds had healed. Idiocy should carry a price. Instead he lowered
himself to a couch across from the poet and spoke gently.
"I heard about your misfortune," Balasar said in the tongue of the
Khaiate cities. "I wanted to come and offer my sympathies. Is there
anything I can do to be of service?"
"You could bring me the slack-cunt's heart," the poet spat. "I should
have cut her down where she stood. She should he drowned in her own shit
for this!"