and putting the packets back in order again. The candle stub had fizzled
to nothing and the lanterns' oil visibly dropped before he was finished.
The memory had been a lie. Everything had been in place. Balasar stood,
stretched, and went to the window. When he opened the shutters, the cool
breeze felt fresh as a bath. Birds were singing, though there was no
light yet in the east. The full moon was near to setting. The dawn was
coming. "There would be no sleep for him. Not now.
A soft scratch came at the door, and after Balasar called his
permission, Eustin entered. There were dark pouches under the man's
eyes, but that was the only sign that he had managed no better with his
sleep. His uniform was crisp and freshly laundered, the marks of rank on
his back and breast, his hair was tied back and fastened with a thick
silver ceremonial bead, and there was an energy in all his movements
that Balasar understood. Eustin was dressed to witness the change of the
world. Balasar was suddenly aware of his rough clothes and bare feet.
"What news?" Balasar said.
"He's been up all through the night, sir. Meditating, reading,
preparing. Truth is I don't know that half of what he's done is needed,
but he's been doing it all the same."
"Almost none of it's strictly called for," Balasar said. "But if it
makes him feel better, let him."
"Yes, sir. I've called for his breakfast. He says that he'll want to
wait a half a hand for his food to go down, and then it's time. Says
that dawn's a symbolic moment, and that it'll help."
"I suppose I'll be getting prepared, then," Balasar said. "If this isn't
a full-dress occasion, I don't know what is."
"I've sent men to wait for the signal. We should know by nightfall."
Balasar nodded. All along the highest hills from Nantani to Aren,
bonfires were set. If all worked as they hoped, there would be a signal
from the agents he had placed in the city, and they would be lit, each
in turn. A thin line of fire would reach from the Khaiem to his own door.
"Have a mug of kafe and some bread sent to my rooms," Balasar said.
"I'll meet you before the ceremony."
"Not more than that, sir? The bacon's good here...."
"After," Balasar said. "I'll eat a decent meal after."
The room given them by the Warden had been in its time a warehouse, a
meeting hall, and a temple, the last being the most recent. Tapestries
of the Four Gods the Warden worshipped had been taken down, rolled up,
and stacked in the corner like carpet. The smooth stone walls were
marked with symbols, some familiar to Balasar, others obscure. The
eastern wall was covered with the flowing script of the fallen Empire,
like a page from a book of poetry. A single pillow rested in the center
of the room, and beside it a stack of books, two with covers of ruined
leather, one whose cover had been ripped from it, and one last closed in
bright metal. It had been years since Balasar had carried those books
out of the desert wastes. He nodded to them when he saw them, as if they
were old friends or perhaps enemies.
Riaan himself was walking around the room with long, slow strides. He
breathed in audibly with one step, blew the air out on the next. His