An Autumn War by Daniel Abraham Page A

Utani. He wished he knew better how the roads were. The school for the young poets wasn't far from Pathai. That wouldn't be a pleasant duty either. And he couldn't trust the slaughter of children to mercenaries, not with the stakes so high. This wasn't a war that had room for moments of compassion.
    A soft knock came at the door, and Eustin stepped in. He wore the deep blue and red of a captain's uniform. Balasar acknowledged him with a nod.
    "Has the third legion arrived, then?" Balasar asked.
    "No, sir," Eustin said. "We've had a runner from them. They'll be here by the week's end, sir."
    ""Ibo long."
    "Yes, sir. But there's another problem."
    Balasar rose, hands clasped behind him. He could feel his mind straining back toward the plans and maps almost as if it were a physical force, but he believed that battles were won or lost long before they were fought. If Eustin had thought something worth interrupting him, it would likely need his whole attention.
    "Go ahead," he said.
    "The poet. He's refusing to pay for his whores again, sir. Been saying the honor of being with him should be enough. One of the girls took offense and poured a cup of hot tea in his lap. Scalded his little poet like a boiled sausage."
    Balasar didn't smile, nor did Eustin. "I'he moment between them was enough.
    "Will he be able to ride?" Balasar asked.
    "Given a few days, sir, he'll be fine. But he's demanding the girl be killed. Half the houses in the city have threatened to raise their rates, and they're talking to their local clients too. I've had two letters today that didn't quite say the grain would cost more than expected."
    Balasar felt a brief flush of anger.
    ""They're aware that the majority of the Galtic armies are either in the ward now or will be here shortly?"
    "Yes, sir. And they've not said it's final that they'll stick it to us for more silver. But they're proud folks. It's just a whore he wants killed, but she's a Westlands whore, if you see what I mean. She's one of their own."
    This was a mess. He didn't want to start the campaign by fighting the Ward of Arcn. He didn't yet have all his men assembled. Balasar looked out the windows, casting his gaze over the courtyard below without truly seeing it.
    "I suppose I'd best speak with him, then," Balasar said.
    "He's in his rooms, sir. Should I bring him here?"
    "No," Balasar said. "I'll face the beast in its lair."
    "Yessir."
    The central city of Aren was a squat affair. Thick stone walls covered with mud and washed white were the order of the day. The constant wars of the Westlands and the occasional attack by Galt had kept the ward cropped low as a rabbit-haunted garden. The highest houses rose no more than four stories above ground, and the streets, even near the palaces of the Warden, smelled of sewage and old food. Balasar reached the building where he and his captains were housed, shook the rain from his cloak, and gestured for Eustin to wait for him. He took the stairs three at a time up to the anteroom of the poet's apartments. The men guarding the door bowed as he entered, then stood aside as he announced himself.
    Riaan sat on a low couch, his robes propped up above his lap like a tent, the hem rising halfway up his shins. The awareness of his indignity shone in the poet's face-lips pressed thin, jaw set forward. Even as Balasar made his half-how, he could tell the man had been working himself into a rage. If any of his captains had acted this way, Balasar would have assigned them to patrolling on horseback until the wounds had healed. Idiocy should carry a price. Instead he lowered himself to a couch across from the poet and spoke gently.
    "I heard about your misfortune," Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiate cities. "I wanted to come and offer my sympathies. Is there anything I can do to be of service?"
    "You could bring me the slack-cunt's heart," the poet spat. "I should have cut her down where she stood. She should he drowned in her own shit for this!"
    The poet