latrines couldn't undermine his pleasure.
They were later even than they'd expected, and with stories and excuses
to explain the delay. Balasar, leaning against the map table, listened
and kept his expression calm as the officers apprised him of the
legion's state-the men, the food, the horses, the steam wagons, the
armor, the arms. Mentally, he put the information into the vast map that
was the campaign, but even as he did, he felt the wolfish grin coming to
his lips. These were the last of his forces to come into place. The hour
was almost upon him. The war was about to begin.
He listened as patiently as he could, gave his orders on the disposition
of their men and materiel, and told them not to get comfortable. When
they were gone, Eustin came in alone, the same excitement that Balasar
felt showing on his face.
"What's next, sir? The poet?"
""I'he poet," Balasar said, leading the way out the door.
They found Riaan in the Warden's private courtyard. He was sitting in
the wide shade of a catalpa tree heavy with wide, white blooms and wide
leaves the same green as the poet's robes. He'd had someone bring out a
wide divan for him to lounge on. Across a small table, the Khaiate
mercenary captain was perched on a stool. Both men were frowning at a
handful of stones laid out in a short arc. The captain rose when he
caught sight of them. The poet only glanced up, annoyed. Balasar took a
pose of greeting, and the poet replied with something ornate that he
couldn't entirely make sense of. The glitter in the captain's eyes
suggested that the complexity was intentional and not entirely
complimentary. Balasar put the insult, whatever it was, aside. There was
no call to catalog more reasons to kill the man.
"Sinja-cha," Balasar said. "I need to speak with the great poet in private."
"Of course," the captain said, then turning to Riaan with a formal pose,
"We can finish the game later if you like."
Riaan nodded and waved, the movement half permission for Sinja to go,
half shooing him away. The amusement in the captain's eyes didn't seem
to lessen. Eustin escorted the man away, and when they were alone,
Balasar took the vacated stool.
"My men are in place," he said. "The time's come."
He kept his gaze on the poet, looking for reluctance or unease in his
eyes. But Riaan smiled slowly, like a man who had heard that his dearest
enemy had died, and laced his fingers together on his belly. Balasar had
half-expected the poet to repent, to change his mind when faced with the
prospect of the deed itself. There was nothing of that.
"Tomorrow morning," Riaan said. "I will need a servant to attend me
today and through the night. At first light tomorrow, I will prove that
the Dai-kvo was a fool to send me away. And then I shall march to my
father's house with your army behind me like a flood."
Balasar grinned. He had never seen a man so shortsighted, vain, and
petty, and he'd spent three seasons in Acton with his father and the
High Council. As far as the poet was concerned, none of this was for
anything more important than the greater glory of Riaan Vaudathat.
"How can we serve you in this?" Balasar asked.