"I'm not an idiot," he said. "If you tell me you plan to take over the
Khaicm by flying through the sky on winged dogs, I'll still clap you on
the back and swear I'm your ally."
"Of course you will. You'll say you're my dearest friend and solidly
behind me. I'll thank you and distrust you and keep you unarmed and
under guard. We'll each avoid turning our backs on the other. I think we
can take that all as given," Balasar said with a dismissive wave. "I
don't care what you say or do, Captain. I care what you think."
Sinja felt a genuine smile blooming on his lips. When he laughed,
Balasar laughed with him.
"Well," Sinja said. "As long as we're agreed on all that. Go ahead.
Convince me that you're going to prevail against the poets."
"They talked for what seemed like the better part of the evening.
Outside, the storm slackened, the clouds broke. By the time a servant
boy came to light the lanterns, a moon so full it seemed too heavy to
rise glowed in the indigo sky. Gnats and midges buzzed through the open
windows, ignored by both men as they discussed Balasar's intentions and
strategies. The general was open and forthcoming and honest, and with
every unfolding scheme, Sinja understood that his life was worth
whatever Balasar Gice said it was worth. It was up to him to convince
the general that letting him live after he'd heard all this wouldn't be
a mistake. It was a clever tactic, all the more so because once Sinja
understood the trick, it lost none of its power.
Afterward, armsmen escorted him to a small, well-appointed bedchamber
with windows too narrow to crawl out and a bar on the outside of the
door. Sinja lay in the bed, listening to the nearly inaudible hiss and
tick of the candle flame. His body felt poorly attached, likely to slip
free of his mind at any moment. Light-headed, he washed his face in cold
water, cracked his knuckles, anything to bring his mind to something
real and immediate. Something the Galtic general had not just torn away.
It was as if he had fallen into a nightmare, or woken to something worse
than one. He felt as if he'd just watched a man he knew well die by
violence. The Galt's plan would end the world he had known. If it
worked. And in his bones, he knew it would.
The hours passed, the night seeming to stretch on without end. Sinja
paced his room or sat or lay sleepless on the bed, remembering the
illness he had felt after his first battle. This was the same disease,
back again. But the more he thought about it, the more his mind tracked
across the maps he and the general had considered, the more his
conviction grew.
The turncoat poet and the army were only a part of it-in some ways the
least. It was the general's audacity and certainty and caution. It was
the force of his personality. Sinja had seen commanders and wardens and
kings, and he could tell the sort that fated themselves to lose. Balasar
Gice was going to win.
And so, Sinja supposed with a sense of genuine regret, the right thing
was to work for him.
6
The poet's house was warm, the scent of trees thick in the air. The