with their breath, Balasar thought he might have been able to think
clearly. He sucked his teeth, struggling to find something wise or
useful to say, some way to disarm the situation and bring Eustin back
from his madness. In the end, his silence was enough.
"He deserves better, General," Eustin said. "He's broken. He's a sick,
broken thing. He shouldn't have to live like that. There ought to he
some dignity at least. If there's nothing else, there should at least he
some dignity."
The dog whined and craned its neck toward Eustin. Balasar could see
distress in the animal's eyes, but not fear. The dog could hear the pain
in Eustin's voice, even if the sailors couldn't. The bodies around him
were wound tight, ready for violence, all of them except for Eustin. He
held the knife weakly. The tension in his body wasn't the hot, loose
energy of battle; he was knotted, like a boy tensed against a blow; like
a man facing the gallows.
"Leave us alone. All of you," Balasar said.
"Not without Tripod!" one of the sailors said.
Balasar met Eustin's eyes. With a small shock he realized it was the
first time he'd truly looked at the man since they'd emerged from the
desert. Perhaps he'd been ashamed of what he might see reflected there.
And perhaps his shame had some part in this. Eustin was his man, and so
the pain he bore was Balasar's responsibility. He'd been weak and stupid
to shy away from that. And weakness and stupidity always carried a price.
"Let the dog go. There's no call to involve him, or these men," Balasar
said. "Sit with me awhile, and if you still need killing, I'll be the
one to do it."
Eustin's gaze flickered over his face, searching for something. To see
whether it was a ruse, to see whether Balasar would actually kill his
own man. When he saw the answer, Eustin's wide shoulders eased. He
dropped the rope, freeing the animal. It hopped in a circle, uncertain
and confused.
"You have the dog," Balasar said to the sailors without looking at them.
"Now go."
They filed out, none of them taking their eyes from Eustin and the knife
still in his hand. Balasar waited until they had all left, the low door
pulled shut behind them. Distant voices shouted over the creaking
timbers, the oil lamp swung gently on its chain. This time, Balasar used
the silence intentionally, waiting. At first, Eustin looked at him,
anticipation in his eyes. And then his gaze passed into the distance,
seeing something beyond the room, beyond them both. And then silently,
Eustin wept. Balasar shifted his stool nearer and put his hand on the
man's shoulder.
"I keep seeing them, sir."
"I know."
"I've seen a thousand men die one way or the other. But ... but that was
on a field. That was in a fight."
"It isn't the same," Balasar said. "Is that why you wanted those men to
throw you in the sea?"
Eustin turned the blade slowly, catching the light. He was still