no-man's-land between the Westlands and Nantani. It took more time than
throwing him into a ditch, and there were times that Balasar had been
tempted. But treating the body with respect said more about the living
than the dead, and it was a dignity with only the smallest price. A few
men, a little work.
A new rug was brought in, new pillows, and a plate of curried chicken
and raisins, a flagon of wine. The servants all left, and Eustin still
hadn't spoken.
"When you brought this to me," Balasar said, "you said his hesitation
would be proof of his guilt. Now you're thinking his lack of hesitation
might he just as damning."
"Seemed like he might be trying to keep the poor bastard from saying
something," hustin said, his gaze cast down. Balasar laughed.
`.. There's no winning with you. You know that."
"I suppose not, sir."
Balasar took a knife and cut a slice from the chicken. It smelled
lovely, sweet and hot and rich. But beneath it and the lemon candles,
there was still a whiff of death and human blood. Balasar ate the food
anyway. It tasted fine.
"Keep watch on him," Balasar said. "Be polite about it. Nothing obvious.
I don't want the men thinking I don't believe in him. If you don't see
him plotting against us by the time we reach Nantani, perhaps you'll
sleep better."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's nothing. Some chicken?"
Eustin glanced at the plate, and then his eyes flickered toward the tent
flap behind him.
"Or," Balasar said, "would you rather go set someone to shadow Captain
Ajutani."
"If it's all the same, sir," Eustin said.
Balasar nodded and waved the man away. In the space of two breaths, he
was alone. He ate slowly. When the meal was almost donechicken gone,
flagon still over half full-a chorus of crickets suddenly burst out.
Balasar listened. The poet was dead.
'T'here was no turning back now. The High Council back in Acton would be
desperately angry with him when they heard the news, but there wasn't a
great deal they could do to breathe life hack into a corpse. And if his
work went well, by the time winter silenced these crickets, there would
no longer be a man alive in the world who could take Riaan's place. And
yet, his night's work was not complete.
He wiped his hands clean, savored a last sip of wine, and took the
leather satchel from under his cot. He put the books on his writing
table, side by side by side. The ancient pages seemed alive with memory.
He still bore the scars on his shoulder from hauling these four books
out of the desert. He still felt the ghosts of his men at his back,
watching in silence, waiting to see whether their deaths had been noble
or foolish. And beyond that-beyond himself and his life and strugglesthe
worn paper and pale ink knew of ages. The hand that had copied these
words had been dust for at least ten generations. The minds that first