The Galts had come.
SNOW FELL GENTLY THAT MORNING, DRIFTING DOWN FROM THE SHEET OF clouds above them in small, hard flakes. Balasar stood on the ridgeline of the hills south of the city. Frost had formed on the fold of his leather cloak, and the snow that landed on his shoulders didn't melt. Before him, the stone towers rose, seeming closer than they were, more real than the snow-grayed mountains behind them. No enemy army had marched out to meet him, no party of utkhaiem marred the thin white blanket, still little more than ankle-deep, that separated Balasar from Machi. Behind him, his men were gathered around the steam wagons, pressed around the furnace grates that Balasar had ordered opened. The medics were already busy with men suffering from the cold. The captains and masters of arms were seeing that every clump of men was armed and armored. Balasar had been sure to mention the warm baths beneath Machi, the food supplies laid in those tunnels-enough, he assumed, to keep two cities alive for the winter.
Smoke rose from the tops of the towers and from the city itself. Banners flew. He heard a horseman approaching him from behind, and he glanced back to see Eustin on a great bay mare. The beast's breath was heavy and white as feathers. Balasar raised a hand, as Eustin cantered forward, pulled his mount to a halt, and saluted.
"I'm ready, sir. I've a hundred men volunteered to come with me. With your permission."
"Of course," Balasar said, then looked back at the towers. "Do you really think they'd do it? Sneak out. Run north and try to hide in the low towns out there?"
"Best to have us there in the event," Eustin said. "I could be wrong, sir. But I'd rather be careful now than have to spend the cold part of the season making raids. Especially if this is the warm hit."
Balasar shook his head. He didn't believe that the Khai Machi Sinja had described to him would run. He would fight unfairly, he would launch attacks from ambush, he would have his archers aim for the horses. But Balasar didn't think he would run. Still, the poets might. Or the Khai might send his children away for safety, if he hadn't already. And there would he refugees. Eustin's plan to block their flight was a wise one. He couldn't help wishing that Eustin might have been with him here, at the end. They were the last of the men who had braved the desert, and Balasar felt a superstitious dread at sending him away.
"Sir?"
"Be careful," Balasar said. "'That's all."
A trumpet called, and Balasar turned back to the city. Sure enough, there was something-a speck of black on the white. A single rider, fleeing Machi.
"Well," Eustin said. "Looks like Captain Ajutani's come back after all. Give him my compliments."
Balasar smiled at the disdain in Eustin's voice.
"I'll be careful too," he said.
It took something like half a hand for Sinja to reach the camp. Balasar noticed particularly that he didn't turn to the bridge, riding instead directly over the frozen river. Eustin and his force were gone, looping around to the North, well before the mercenary captain arrived. Balasar had cups of strong kafe waiting when Sinja, his face pink and rawlooking from his ride, was shown into his tent.
Balasar retuned his salute and gestured to a chair. Sinja took a pose of thanks-so little time back among the Khaiem and the use of formal pose seemed to have returned to the man like an accent-and sat, drawing a sheaf of papers from his sleeve. When they spoke, it was in the tongue of the Khaiem.
"It went well?"
"Well enough," Sinja said. "I made a small mistake and had to do some very pretty dancing to cover it. But the Khai's got few enough hopes, he wants to trust me. flakes things easier. Now, here. These are rough copies of the maps he's used. They're filling in the main entrances to the underground tunnels to keep us from bringing any single large force down at once. The largest paths they've left open are here," Sinja touched the map, "and here."
"And the poets?"
"They have the outline of a binding. I think they're going to try it. And soon."
Balasar felt the sinking of dread in his belly, and strangely also a kind of peace. Ile wouldn't have thought there was any part of him that was still held hack, and yet that one small fact-the poets lived and planned and Would recapture one of the andat now if they could-took away any choice he might still have had. He looked at the map, his mind sifting through strategies like a tiles player shuffling chits of bone.
"'T'here are men in the towers," Balasar said.
"Yes, sir," Sinja said. ""They'll have stones and arrows to drop. You won't be able to use the streets near them, but the range isn't good, and they won't be able to aim from so far up. Go a street or two over and keep by the w+alls, and we'll he safe. There won't he much resistance above ground. 'T'heir hope is to keep you at hay long enough for the cold to do their work for them."