Daniel Abraham - An Autumn War

closed the hook and let his head rest in his hands. He knew, of course,

what he would do. He had known before he'd sent Eustin and Coal to find

a boat for them. Before he'd reached Far Gait in the first place.

It was his awareness of his own pride that made him hesitate. History

was full of men who thought themselves to be the one great soul whom

power would not corrupt. He did not wish to be among that number, and

yet here he sat, holding in his hands the secrets that might remake the

shape of the human world. A humble man would have sought counsel from

those wiser than himself, or at least feared to wield the power. He did

not like what it said of him that giving the books to anyone besides

himself seemed as foolish as gambling with their destruction. Ile would

not even have trusted them to Eustin or Coal or any of the men who had

died helping him.

He took the paper he'd been given, raised the pen, and began his report

and, in a sense, his confession.

THREE WEEKS Ot!T, Et'STIN BROKE.

The sea surrounded them, empty and immense as the sky. So far south, the

water was clear and the air warm even with the slowly failing days. The

birds that had followed them from Parrinshall had vanished. The only

animal was a three-legged dog the ship's crew had taken on as a mascot.

Nor were there women on hoard. Only the rank, common smell of men and

the sea.

The rigging creaked and groaned, unnerving no one but Balasar. He had

never loved traveling by water. Campaigning on land was no more

comfortable, but at least when the day ended he was able to see that

this village was not the one he'd been in the night before, the tree

under which he slept looked out over some different hillside. I lore, in

the vast nothingness of water, they might almost have been standing

still. Only the long white plume of their wake gave him a sense of

movement, the visible promise that one day the journey would end. Ile

would often sit at the stern, watch that constant trail, and take what

solace he could from it. Sometimes he carved blocks of wax with a small,

thin knife while his mind wandered and softened in the boredom of inaction.

It should not have surprised him that the isolation had proved corrosive

for Eustin and Coal. And yet when one of the sailors rushed up to him

that night, pale eyes bulging from his head, Balasar had not guessed the

trouble. His man, the one called Eustin, was belowdecks with a knife,

the sailor said. He was threatening to kill himself or else the crippled

mascot dog, no one was sure which. Normally, they'd all have clubbed him

senseless and thrown him over the side, but as he was a paying passage,

the general might perhaps want to take a hand. Balasar put down the wax

block half-carved into the shape of a fish, tucked his knife in his

belt, and nodded as if the request were perfectly common.

The scene in the belly of the ship was calmer than he'd expected. Eustin

sat on a bench. He had the dog by a rope looped around the thing's chest

and a field dagger in his other hand. Ten sailors were standing in

silence either in the room or just outside it, armed with blades and

cudgels. Balasar ignored them, taking a low stool and setting it

squarely in front of Eustin before he sat.

"General," Eustin said. His voice was low and flat, like a man halfdead

from a wound.

"I hear there's some issue with the animal."

"He ate my soup."

One of the sailors coughed meaningfully, and Eustin's eyes narrowed and

flickered toward the sound. Balasar spoke again quickly.

"I've seen Coal sneak half a bottle of wine away from you. It hardly

seems a killing offense."

"He didn't steal my soup, General. I gave it to him."

"You gave it to him?"

"Yessir."

The room seemed close as a coffin, and hot. If only there weren't so

many men around, if the bodies were not so thick, the air not so heavy

with their breath, Balasar thought he might have been able to think

clearly. He sucked his teeth, struggling to find something wise or

useful to say, some way to disarm the situation and bring Eustin back

from his madness. In the end, his silence was enough.

"He deserves better, General," Eustin said. "He's broken. He's a sick,

broken thing. He shouldn't have to live like that. There ought to he

some dignity at least. If there's nothing else, there should at least he

some dignity."

The dog whined and craned its neck toward Eustin. Balasar could see

distress in the animal's eyes, but not fear. The dog could hear the pain

in Eustin's voice, even if the sailors couldn't. The bodies around him

were wound tight, ready for violence, all of them except for Eustin. He

held the knife weakly. The tension in his body wasn't the hot, loose

energy of battle; he was knotted, like a boy tensed against a blow; like

a man facing the gallows.

"Leave us alone. All of you," Balasar said.

"Not without Tripod!" one of the sailors said.

Balasar met Eustin's eyes. With a small shock he realized it was the

first time he'd truly looked at the man since they'd emerged from the

desert. Perhaps he'd been ashamed of what he might see reflected there.

And perhaps his shame had some part in this. Eustin was his man, and so

the pain he bore was Balasar's responsibility. He'd been weak and stupid

to shy away from that. And weakness and stupidity always carried a price.

"Let the dog go. There's no call to involve him, or these men," Balasar

said. "Sit with me awhile, and if you still need killing, I'll be the

one to do it."

Eustin's gaze flickered over his face, searching for something. To see

whether it was a ruse, to see whether Balasar would actually kill his

own man. When he saw the answer, Eustin's wide shoulders eased. He

dropped the rope, freeing the animal. It hopped in a circle, uncertain

and confused.

"You have the dog," Balasar said to the sailors without looking at them.

"Now go."

They filed out, none of them taking their eyes from Eustin and the knife

still in his hand. Balasar waited until they had all left, the low door

pulled shut behind them. Distant voices shouted over the creaking

timbers, the oil lamp swung gently on its chain. This time, Balasar used

the silence intentionally, waiting. At first, Eustin looked at him,

anticipation in his eyes. And then his gaze passed into the distance,

seeing something beyond the room, beyond them both. And then silently,

Eustin wept. Balasar shifted his stool nearer and put his hand on the

man's shoulder.

"I keep seeing them, sir."

"I know."

"I've seen a thousand men die one way or the other. But ... but that was

on a field. That was in a fight."

"It isn't the same," Balasar said. "Is that why you wanted those men to

throw you in the sea?"

Eustin turned the blade slowly, catching the light. He was still

weeping, his face now slack and empty. Balasar wondered which of them he

was seeing now, which of their number haunted him in that moment, and he

felt the eyes of the dead upon him. They were in the room, invisibly

crowding it as the sailors had.

"Can you tell me they died with honor?" Eustin breathed.

"I'm not sure what honor is," Balasar said. "We did what we did because

it was needed, and we were the men to do it. The price was too high for

us to bear, you and I and Coal. But we aren't finished, so we have to

carry it a hit farther. "That's all."

"It wasn't needed, General. I'm sorry, but it wasn't. We take a few more