"'T'hank you all for coming," Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiem.
Sinja and Riaan took poses, the forms a study in status; Sinja accepted
the greeting of a superior, Riaan condescended to acknowledge an honored
servant. Eustin only nodded. In the corner of the pavilion, the firefly
burst into sudden brilliance and then vanished again. Balasar led the
three men to cushions on a wide woven rug, seating himself to face
Sinja. When they had all folded their legs beneath them, Balasar leaned
forward.
"When I began this campaign," he said, "it was not my intention to
continue the rule of the poets and their andat over the rest of
humanity. In the course of my political life, I allowed certain people
to misunderstand me. But it is not my intention that Riaan-cha should be
burdened by another andat. Or that anyone should. Ever."
The poet's jaw dropped. His face went white, and his hands fluttered
toward poses they never reached. Sinja only nodded, accepting the new
information as if it were news of the weather.
"That leaves me with an unpleasant task," Balasar said, and he drew a
blade from his vest. It was a thick-bladed dagger with a grip of worked
leather. He tossed it to the floor. The metal glittered in the
candlelight. Riaan didn't understand; his confusion was written on his
brow and proclaimed by his silence. If he'd understood, Balasar thought,
he'd be begging by now.
Sinja glanced at the knife, then up at Balasar and then Eustin. He sighed.
"And you've chosen me to see if I'd do it," the mercenary said with a
tone both weary and amused.
"I don't . . ." Riaan said. "You ... you can't mean that ... Sinja-kya,
you wouldn't-"
The motion was casual and efficient as swatting at a fly. Sinja leaned
over, plucked the knife from the rug, and tossed it into the poet's
neck. It sounded like a melon being cleaved. The poet rose half to his
feet, clawing at the handle already slick with his blood, then slowly
folded, lying forward as if asleep or drunk. The scent of blood filled
the air. The poet's body twitched, heaved once, and went still.
"Not your best rug, I assume," Sinja said in Galtic.
"Not my best rug," Balasar agreed.
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
"Not now," Balasar said. "Thank you."
The mercenary captain nodded to Balasar, and then to Eustin. His gait as
he walked out was the same as when he'd walked in. Balasar stood and
stepped back, kicking the old, flat cushion onto the corpse. Eustin also
stood, shaking his head.
"Not what you'd expected, then?" Balasar asked,
"He didn't even try to talk you out of it," Eustin said. "I thought he'd
at least play you for time. Another day."
"You're convinced, then?"
Eustin hesitated, then stooped to roll the rug over the corpse. Balasar
sat at the writing desk, watching as Eustin finished covering the poor,
arrogant, pathetic man in his ignominious shroud and called in two
soldiers to haul him away. Riaan Vaudathat, the world's last poet if