The Legend of Broken

{i:}

“And what are your feelings today, Sentek?” asks Visimar, as he brings his mare to a halt alongside Sixt Arnem, who is seated atop the great grey stallion known as the Ox, reviewing the fitness of the Talons, as they pass along the Daurawah Road, leading east from the base of Broken’s mountain toward the great port. Having had no time to accustom himself to command of his kingdom’s entire army before being ordered to destroy the Bane, Arnem is glad to be at his familiar post as commander of this elite legion. Only the endless questions with which Visimar has confronted him since they departed Broken have disturbed his thoughts; for they are of such a nature that the sentek finds it difficult — even, at times, impossible — to give forthright answers. He has tried every way he knows to distract Visimar: he has even told him the details of the attempted poisoning of the God-King. But all to no avail; for it seems that Visimar’s knowledge of that subject, too, somehow exceeds his own.

“Today?” the sentek finally concedes, looking at the bright blue sky that continues to be dominated by a peculiarly hot sun. It is a sky that would rouse little interest in high summer; but during the height of spring, it is unsettling. “Today is no different, old man. This strange heat bodes ill for our undertaking. I should think little of it, had the past winter been a mild one — but such harsh cold has not visited Broken since the winter of the Varisian war. Indeed, we had killing frosts well into early spring. Yet you know all this, Visimar. So, tell me — how can such heat come so early in the year?”

Although evasive, the sentek’s reply is relevant to the business at hand: for on this, the second morning of the expedition’s steady march toward the port of Daurawah, the sun’s continued hammering of the farming dales of central Broken is unobstructed by even the suggestion of a cloud. The sentek (setting, as always, an example) wears his lightest suit of leather armor beneath a wine-red cloak of cotton, not wool, and forgoes either steel cuirass† or shirt of chain mail, ordinarily the prudent uniform of the Talons in the field. But the spring morning is too warm for such precautions, and the Talons are still at least two days’ march from the Cat’s Paw and the Bane army — two days that were to have been used to find forage for their horses and supplies for the men in the towns at the rich heart of the kingdom. Arnem does not think his command in true danger of anything more than a skirmish with raiding Bane Outragers, as yet; but his mind is vexed, by the strange weather as well as by the odd gloom of the towns through which the Talons have thus far passed.

There the soldiers have been greeted, not with the gratitude a prosperous people owe their defenders, but with the sullen antagonism (or even open hostility) that a mistreated populace feels for troops who require more food and forage than the townspeople seem able to offer. Arnem, aided by Visimar, has begun to see that the cause of these unhappy confrontations is not ill will toward the soldiers themselves, but resentment of Arnem’s masters in Broken. The anxiety that has crept into the hearts of subjects who have always composed the most secure communities in the kingdom has also meant that these same subjects now angrily refuse to trade the valuable fruits of their various labors in the busy markets of Broken: finding prices for their goods in the great city impossibly low, of late, they are instead hoarding their supplies, not only of grain and other foods, but of fabrics and the handiwork of craftsmen other than weavers, solely for their own use — despite the considerable and even dangerous loss of profit that they will thereby suffer.

Yet there have been no widespread crop failures or shortages of other kinds such as would explain this bitterness among the kingdom’s prosperous weavers, millers, fishermen, and freehold and tenant farmers, the last of whom till Broken’s rich soil for the great landowning families of the mountain city’s fashionable First District. Nor has there been, according to the priests who maintain each town’s small temple, any faltering in observance of the basic Kafran tenet that devout living, combined with hard labor, will produce bounteous harvests, rich profits, and the robust health of physical beauty: all principle signs of the golden god’s favor. Instead, popular anger seems fixed, first, upon those foreign raiders from the North, now turned “men of commerce,” who bring plundered stores of goods in their longships to Daurawah, and second on those agents of uncertain employ who purchase and transport such wares up the mountain to Broken, that they may be sold again for far less than Broken’s own farmers, weavers, and artisans can afford to ask for their goods. It is because of this that the people of the provinces are withholding the fruits of their own labor, and surviving by bartering them locally; and the worry occasioned by this fact, in turn, causes Arnem to sigh at Visimar’s repeated desire to talk of what the sentek calls “irrelevant events from the past”:

“You are aware of the intent behind my question, I think, Sentek,” Visimar says. “Certainly, I do not seek your opinion of the weather.”

Hoping that concession on his part will produce movement on to more pressing affairs, Arnem holds his hands out in resignation and says, “If you are asking whether I have this morning found such words as have eluded me for the last eight years, I can only tell you — as I have for two days, Anselm — that I have not.” Arnem refers to his companion by the latter’s assumed appellation, lest any passing soldier recognize the legendary, indeed the infamous name of Visimar, which, for close on twenty years, has ranked second only to that of Caliphestros in its power to frighten the children of Broken: children who have grown up to become, in many cases, the sentek’s youngest pallins, such as Arnem’s companion on the walls of several nights earlier, Ban-chindo. Such young men are scarcely more than boys, at heart, however powerful their bodies have grown during many months of relentless training. And the faces of those youngest soldiers have appeared ever more boyish still, it seems to Arnem, with every mile that the column has put between itself and home.

“I begin to wonder if my aide was not correct, old man,” Arnem says, half-seriously. “Perhaps bringing your blasphemous old bones along was a mistake.”

“I am not quite so ‘old’ as the suffering inflicted by the priests of Kafra makes me appear, Sentek,” Visimar replies. “And, if I may voice the obvious, you are no devout member of that faith, to speak of ‘blasphemy’ as though you mean it. Was it not your doubts about the absurd faith of the golden god that inspired you to invite me on this march? I believe so — and I believe that you know it, in your heart.”

Arnem’s aspect darkens. “I warn you, Visimar,” he says quietly, after he has made sure that no other has heard the old man’s words. “Try my patience all you like — but unsettle my men, put doubt into their heads, and I shall pack you off to the merchants and priests in Broken, and let them finish their work.” The sentek turns to watch the last unit of cavalry pass by, two abreast, and then studies the first of the infantry, who march four-wide: a tight formation designed to keep each of the two khotors ready to wheel quickly into the infantry and cavalry quadrates† that are their standard defensive battle formation, should the Bane be foolish enough to attack so far from Davon Wood. For all the wise caution of the formation, it also makes the words that pass between Arnem and his officers, and especially his conversations with “Anselm,” more audible to his men; and this is why the sentek warns his guest so quietly, yet so sternly.

For his part, Visimar watches the soldiers pass for a moment; and, having taken their measure, he nods judiciously. “You are right, Sentek,” he says, surprising Arnem. “I shall endeavor to be more careful.” He seems to genuinely regret that he was briefly provocative. “Too many years of playing the madman in back alleys and taverns have, I fear, made me foolhardy. It is the great danger of disguise — if we play our assumed roles too long, we risk losing our way back. Do you not think so, Sentek?”

Two days ago, the remark would have startled Arnem, who had not known, as he left Broken, exactly what “role” his impetuously chosen companion would play during this campaign, other than (as he told Niksar) the sort of idiot that soldiers are fond of having about camp. Men faced with the reality of death nearly every day (whether from wounds or from pestilence) are as superstitious as old women; and one of the most popular superstitions among Broken troops is that a madman’s touched mind allows him to make sense of what sane soldiers cannot — the chaos of conflict.‡ It is an ability that transforms such peculiar souls into agents of good fortune, who may increase a man’s, and even an army’s, chances of surviving the shapeless tumult of war.

Such had been Arnem’s outward justification for enlisting “Anselm”; and the older man has played his role well. He has also, more importantly, given not only Arnem, but the sentek’s troops, some explanation for the blackness of mood displayed by the farmers, fishermen, and seksents†† along the Daurawah Road: for their complaints have been voiced, not only to Arnem and his officers (particularly to those linnets-of-the-line† who are generally the first officers to enter each community), but to the sentek’s bemused legionaries. The whole of Arnem’s column are now aware that the affairs of the kingdom of Broken are badly out of joint: never a safe thing for soldiers to have gnawing at their minds. The schemes regarding trade might be counted as simply another ploy of the ruthless ruling class of Broken to increase their profits; but such weakening of the kingdom’s own industry by illegal imported goods is forbidden by Kafran law. In addition, the supposed “traders” bear the appearance of raiders, with whom the merchants of Broken are forbidden to treat. Most unsettling of all, reports are rife that the authorities who are entrusted with protecting Broken’s commerce from such foreign goods (from the Grand Layzin and the powerful Merchant Lord, all the long way down to local magistrates) are aware of the true origins of many of the shipments of goods with which unscrupulous men line their pockets at the expense of humbler subjects. There are even rumors that these lofty royal servants do worse than ignore these merchant dealings — they profit from them …

In reaction to the villagers’ complaints, Arnem has explained to his officers (at Visimar’s — or “Anselm’s”—urgings, which are supported by the madman’s “visions”) that the grumblings are fantastic concoctions, designed to explain away the ill fortune of those subjects lacking the nerve to survive in the heated competition of Broken’s marketplaces; and each officer has been careful to pass this on to his men. At the same time, the sentek has also explained earnestly to those town elders whom he has encountered that neither he nor his officers have been made aware of any such treasonous shifts in trade practices, and that the leaders of the army possess no authority to address purely commercial issues — the conduct of trade being, within the Kafran faith, ultimately a sacred, not a secular, activity. Nevertheless, Arnem has repeatedly pledged that, when he reaches Daurawah, he will seek out nefarious traders, and will extract from them, not only the names of their partners within Broken, but whether they possess written dispensation to carry on so sacrilegious a form of commerce. Throughout the first days of his march, this has sufficed to placate the townspeople, and he has departed each community with such meager stores of provisions and fodder as its elders can supply—

And yet … Such coolness on the part of subjects who have always been happy to welcome Broken’s soldiers as the embodiment of the God-King’s love for even the humblest of his people, has caused confusion to spread through the ranks of the Talons. While as yet mild, it occupies a growing portion of their own, and their commander’s, thoughts.

“They will see far more unsettling things, when they actually find themselves in an engagement,” Visimar continues to muse. “And should they continue to meet with this ingratitude on the part of the very subjects for whose sake they will be fighting, and in many cases dying — they may lose the will to fight, and especially to die …”

With the two men’s remove from the troops now safe, Arnem finds that he is grateful to voice and hear voiced the anxieties that have plagued him since the night of Korsar’s banishment. He has not dared express such doubts to anyone — not even to the loyal Niksar, or, in full, to his wife — but somehow, he feels safe sharing them with one who obviously (if somewhat surprisingly) comprehends them: even if that one has ever been rumored to have been nearly as evil as the dreaded Caliphestros himself. Indeed, some within Broken consider Visimar to have been the more evil of the pair, for while Caliphestros cut up the fresh bodies of citizens killed by violence, execution, or poor health, it was Visimar who supervised the acquisition of the bodies. And the more handsome the corpse, whether male or female, the more eager the creature of the sorcerer was to buy or steal it.

The sentek takes the hem of his cloak and moistens it with a large skin of water that hangs from his saddle, then leans down to wipe sweat from the Ox’s glistening shoulders. “I was not aware,” he says, dismounting and using more water to clean the Ox’s neck and face, “that explorers of the dark arts were also interested in military matters.”

“You mock me, Sentek,” says Visimar, still good-naturedly. “But I was once given a unique perspective from which to study your mind and heart — as was my master. I know your moods; and I comprehend your devotion to the rites of Kafra — or rather, its compromised nature.”

Pain seizes Arnem’s body: it is the physical discomfort, not of illness, but of shame. Visimar has brought their conversation — not for the first time — to the brink of a terrible truth the two share: that Arnem had not merely been among the soldiers that escorted the Halap-stahla ritual party that mutilated Caliphestros, so many years ago, and then, some months thereafter, the Denep-stahla that left Visimar in his present condition; no, the full truth is that Arnem commanded those detachments. He and his troops played no active part in the repugnant rituals, of course; but they protected the priests from any interference by the acolytes of the sorcerer and his principal assistant, or by the ever-watchful Bane.

Visimar observes what has washed over Arnem’s features, even as the sentek continues to lovingly groom his horse. “I only persist in broaching the subject, Sentek,” the older man says kindly, “so that you will realize that, if you speak of it once, we need not dwell on it. I could see at the time that you disdained the rituals; and I heard that, after my own punishment, you refused to stand guard at any others — and that your refusal played no small part in the God-King’s decision to suspend the practices altogether. I tell you truly that I then felt happiness for you. Not loathing.”

Arnem looks up, his eyes dark. “Such understanding would be extraordinary, Visimar. And it cannot have made these years easier.”

Visimar tilts his head thoughtfully. “It has not — and yet it has. My body’s suffering would have been worsened by perpetual hatred of men such as yourself, Sixt Arnem. You were all — and remain, whether or not you know it — nearly as helpless, effective prisoners of the priests and the merchants as both myself and my master once were. Or so he and I have always believed — and, I think, you have begun to suspect.”

Much of the darkness lifts suddenly from Arnem’s aspect. “You said ‘have always believed’—so the tales are true, and Caliphestros yet lives!” Visimar glances away uncertainly; but he does not deny it. “I have always suspected as much,” the sentek continues, with apparent relief.

Visimar smiles at Arnem’s eagerness, knowing it grows from a strong desire to be absolved of the shame of having guarded the Kafran mutilation rituals — even if such participation had been compulsory. For the old acolyte also knows that, where matters of such violent moment are concerned, compulsion does not absolve participation, in the mind of the superior military man: instead, he will wonder — if, eventually, he refuses to carry out a repugnant order, and then finds that his refusal leads, not to his punishment, but to a reassessment of the actions ordered — how many other unfortunates might have been spared, had he objected earlier.

“Well, Sentek, I can but say that I knew him to have been alive, at least until fairly recently,” Visimar replies. “But as to the questions of how I knew it, and whether or not he lives still, I can say but little, save that I have plainly been in no condition to seek him out. I will tell you this, however: if anyone could have survived for so long, without his legs and in the most dangerous parts of that wilderness, it would have been my master. And so — fear not, Sixt Arnem. If Caliphestros is still among the living, then we shall both meet him again, and likely soon.”

Just then, the two men mark the sound of a horse approaching at the gallop. The man astride the hardworking white animal is Niksar, returned to them from the column’s head.

“Sentek!” Niksar shouts; and even through the young linnet’s urgency, Visimar can see that Arnem’s aide remains confounded by the manner in which his commander continues to spend private moments in close counsel with an aging unbeliever. “You must rejoin the vanguard. Scouts have reached the next town — one is now returning.”

Arnem, reading trouble in Niksar’s noble features, shifts his attention. “But this will be Esleben — surely the merchants and farmers of so wealthy a town can offer no such complaints as we have heard already.” Arnem studies Niksar closely. “Yet your face tells me that they can …”

“Their objections are far worse, from the first look of things,” Niksar replies, hoping his commander will pull away from the madman at his side — as, indeed, he does.

“Stay well back, Anselm,” Arnem orders, as he sets out. “We cannot say when dissatisfaction may turn into something distinctly more unpleasant!”

Visimar nudges his horse with his thighs back toward the marching troops. “True enough, Sentek Arnem,” he muses, as his whispering is drowned out by the rhythmic tramp of the infantry. “Neither here — nor anywhere else, in this kingdom. Not on this journey …” Knowing he has a part to play in that journey, Visimar becomes all happy congeniality, as he draws alongside the foot soldiers of the Talons; and they give loud voice to their satisfaction at his choosing to march for a time in their company.

{ii:}

At the head of the marching column of Talons, Arnem and Niksar gallop past the suddenly and plainly apprehensive lead cavalry units. They are entering a lush, flat expanse of farming fields, beyond which, almost a mile from the head of the column, lies Esleben: a considerably larger and more well-to-do place than any of the communities the expedition has yet passed. This is a result, not only of its rich farmland, but of its place at the juncture of the Daurawah Road and a similarly well-traveled route that spans the kingdom from north to south. It is also the terminus of an impressive stone aqueduct that brings water from the Cat’s Paw to the south: an aqueduct that powers the enormous stone mills that are the town’s chief places of employment and sources of profit. The mills and the farming required to feed them have long kept Esleben an energetic town; yet that energy seems fixed, today, on turmoil. Arnem and Niksar can hear, above the drumming of their horses’ hooves, the unmistakable voice of a mob, echoing among the town’s stone-walled, thatch-roofed mills, granaries, forges and smiths,† as well as its many taverns.

In order to guard against raids by the Bane upon this wealthy center of commerce, its garrison of twelve veterans of Broken’s regular army, always commanded by an experienced linnet-of-the-line, is maintained in a strong stockade on Esleben’s eastern limits. The impenetrable nature of Broken’s borders means this fortification has never seen any real “battle”; today, however, the rage of the townspeople is great enough to lead to a most disordered clash of arms. Yet this violence seems to be directed against any man who wears the distinctive armor or identifying symbols of Broken’s own legions: in addition to seeing two of his mounted scouts amid a throng of menacing villagers, Arnem sees that the third scout, who is riding back to the column, is spurring his horse as if his life, and not simply a report, depends upon it. Arnem and Niksar increase their own pace, and meet the approaching scout midway between the town and the rest of the men. One look at the golden-haired young soldier, as well as at the lather on the flanks of his mount, is all Arnem requires to understand that the two scouts still in Esleben may be surrounded by more trouble than they can manage on their own.

“Ho, soldier!” cries Arnem, reining in the Ox. The scout’s horse rears with a cry of its own, after which the soldier gets a fist to his chest in salute and tries to catch his breath. “Akillus!”† Arnem continues; for he knows each scout in the Talons by name, as they are the most intrepid of Broken’s already brave troops; and none is braver than the chief scout before the sentek. In addition, Akillus is, because of his seemingly inexhaustible good humor, a favorite of Arnem’s “The people of Esleben are even less pleased to see us than their neighbors have been, it would seem,” the commander says.

The scout pauses a moment to steady his voice, and wipes at the moist brown shoulders of his horse as he brings the mount alongside the Ox. “Aye, Sentek,” he answers, his concern for his two comrades still in the town, as well as for his horse, plain in his face, if not his disciplined words. “We thought to contact the garrison, but — the villagers are keeping them penned up inside their own stockade, and have for some time, apparently. And, when we asked the village elders for an explanation … Well, Sentek, what we received in reply was a mob of madmen. And may the golden god shrivel my stones if we’ve been able to learn the cause of it all—”

“Akillus!” Niksar says, though his rank is but marginally higher than the chief scout’s own. “Whining villagers are no reason to blaspheme before your commander.”

Akillus begins to apologize, but Arnem holds up a hand. “Yes, yes, forgiveness granted, lad.‡ Crowds are tricky things — I suspect that even Kafra will not begrudge your outburst.” Pulling a scrap of parchment and a bit of hard charcoal from a pocket beneath his armor, Arnem quickly scrawls a short note, which he hands to the scout. “Return to the column, now, Akillus. Give this to the first Lenzinnet†† that you find, and have him bring his unit back with you. We go on ahead.”

“Sentek?” says the scout uneasily. “Surely you should wait—”

But Arnem has put his ball-headed spurs§ to the Ox’s sides, and is away to the town at a hard gallop. Niksar, sighing in fretful familiarity at Arnem’s impetuousness, makes ready to follow, saying only, “And make them good men, Akillus — I don’t like the mood of that town …”

As he begins to turn his own horse round so that he can carry out his order, Akillus glances at Arnem, who is moving directly to the aid of the two scouts in Esleben. And, as he watches his commander, Akillus smiles — a full, heartfelt smile, one that reveals clearly why Arnem’s men love him so: their commander will forgive a blasphemy that many officers might punish with a thrashing, and at the next moment rush off into danger before support troops have even started for the trouble.

“He’s mad, himself,” the scout murmurs, in great respect. Observing for a last time how Arnem expertly handles his horse, riding so low that his body seems merely another muscle in the Ox’s back, Akillus quietly adds, “But it’s a madness that we would gladly share — eh, Niksar?”

Before Niksar can again upbraid him again, Akillus is away, his own horse’s pace almost matching that of the Ox in the opposite direction.

As Arnem draws close enough to discern the townspeople’s outraged expressions, he can also see the large mills and granaries at the center of the town, which are surrounded by a circular cart path fed by the four roads that approach the town from the four cardinal directions. Within the dusty circle stands a large platform with pillory and gibbet, a fair-sized temple to Kafra, and the terminus of the long stone aqueduct, which brings its turbulent waters along a gently sloping stone channel several miles in length. The concentrated flow from this channel is directed to the outer wheels of the grinding stones housed in the millhouses, the relentless engines of which pulverize prodigious amounts of the grain that is brought from the fields surrounding Esleben, as well as from distant farmsteads—

Yet on this warm spring day, the water from the pool does not flow, and the great mill wheels do not turn …

Upon entering the square, Arnem offers the crowd of what he would guess to be some eighty people no sign at all that he is preparing to slow his charge into their midst. On the contrary, when he is sure the crowd can see both his face and the silver claws on his shoulders, he unsheathes his cavalry sword.† Holding this deceptively elegant weapon calmly but purposefully along his leg — where it can be easily used to cut a few throats — the sentek charges toward the townspeople who appear most ready to confront his wild advance; but as the moment of collision nears, the crowd’s determination breaks, and they dash in every direction, leaving the two scouts alone near the gibbet.

As the townspeople disperse, Arnem sees what Akillus has described in more than a few of their faces. In truth, it is something beyond rage, he determines; something that bears a disturbing resemblance to lunacy …

Both of the scouts, like Arnem, have their riding blades drawn, but have yet to make any truly menacing move; and, although their horses had earlier been frightened into turning tight circles in the midst of the crowd, once free of the mass of humans the animals quickly regain composure. Arnem rides directly to the soldiers, without acknowledging the retreating mob. Both men salute bravely, and as they do, Arnem can hear Niksar behind him, using his own mount to ensure that the crowd stays back. “Brekt — Ehrn,” Arnem says, again calling each of the scouts by name. “It seems you’ve stumbled into some sort of commotion.” The sentek keeps the tone of his voice almost merry, as if the threatening scene is nothing more than a mildly amusing spectacle. “Are there any details that I need be concerned with?”

Both scouts laugh, relieved as much as amused, and the older man, Brekt, replies: “We don’t yet know, Sentek — we haven’t been able to speak to any of the garrison. All we do know is that this lot”—he indicates the now-splintering crowd—“say that they’ve had eleven of the men penned up in their own stockade for days, if not weeks—”

“Eleven?” Arnem asks, attempting not to betray the dread he feels. “And where is the twelfth?” For a town garrison to be short a man is ominous: such a loss would ordinarily be reported to Broken immediately, to allow a replacement to be sent out at once. But if the townspeople have laid siege to the garrison for so long, then the missing man means the elders in Esleben have deliberately kept the situation from their rulers. An evil indication, thinks Arnem, with another ominous twinge.

“We can’t get a reasonable answer,” says the second scout, Ehrn, a slight trembling in his voice. “Just screaming about a ‘crime’—”

With greater confidence, Brekt interrupts, “They claim that one of the garrison soldiers committed a terrible offense, but they won’t tell us what.”

“Where are they keeping the man?” Arnem asks severely.

The scouts shrug.† “They won’t tell us that, either, Sentek,” Ehrn declares.

“The lot of them simply refuse,” Brekt adds. “They want us to get out, nothing more or less. Not the garrison, however; they will say that we’re to leave them behind, as they’ve got further business with them — or, at least, with their commander.”

Niksar, having ridden up behind Arnem, quietly observes, “That tells us what sort of crime we’re dealing with, Sentek.”

Arnem nods grimly. “I’m afraid so, Niksar. Either a girl or a death — and likely both, damn it all …” He turns to the scouts. “All right, lads. Take up position by the west road — watch for our relief, and then detail three men to guard the main routes in and out of the town.”

“But — Sentek,” Brekt protests, “shouldn’t we stay with you? That crowd hasn’t shown any great respect for the soldiers of Broken—”

“It’s possible they’ve had little reason to,” Arnem replies. “Go on — we’ll get nothing out of them, if we attempt to impress them with only our strength. Hold the roads, and above all, keep an eye out for any Bane, even if they are retreating—particularly if they are retreating.”

As the two scouts slowly walk their horses to the town’s western approach, they cast meaningful glances at the townspeople who had pushed closest to them during their recent quarrel, silently assuring them that only the influence of their commander has stayed their sword arms.

Arnem crosses over to the mob, particularly toward three men who appear to be the town’s elders. They are agèd, dignified characters, who have stepped forward from behind the protective crowd. Their wizened faces show as little fear as Arnem’s; but when the sentek sheathes his sword and swings his right leg over the Ox’s neck, in order to be able to slide from the beast in one agile movement that leaves him face to face with the elders, those older men finally do display some little apprehension, causing Niksar to again shake his head at Arnem’s familiar recklessness.

“Honored Fathers,” the sentek says, bowing his head respectfully. “You speak for the people of Esleben?”

“We do, Sentek Arnem,” says the old man in the center, who is evidently senior to the others. “And, unlike our sons and grandsons in this village, we are not frightened by your rank — all three of us gave years of our youth to the campaigns against the eastern marauders during the reign of the God-King Izairn, when we were stronger men. We do not deserve the breaking of faith we have had from his son, or from those who enforce that son’s edicts.”

Although he is too cunning to allow it to register in his face, the sentek is shocked and alarmed by this statement. “‘Breaking of faith’?” he echoes. “These are strong words, Elder.”

“Aye, Sentek,” the greying elder replies forthrightly, “and meant to be. We have ever kept faith with those who rule in Broken — yet now, the God-King permits the sapping of our kingdom’s inner strength, by allowing foreign pirates to supplant the place of Broken’s own farmers and craftsmen, and his soldiers to defile our daughters with disease, simply to satisfy their passing desires. It is time that we say these things aloud.”

Such are indeed bold indictments; but, coming from an obviously seasoned, proud old campaigner — the kind of man under whom, during his own youth, Arnem would have been grateful to serve — the sentek neither disputes them aloud nor dismisses them in his mind. Indeed, because of the elder’s statement, the nature of the crowd begins to change, in Arnem’s eyes — for he is now faced with the honest complaints of that unheralded hero whom he has always respected most: a loyal, tested veteran of the army. Arnem is forced to weigh anew the resentment that the villagers feel toward the army garrison and his own troops.

“Whatever treatment you have received thus far, Honored Father,” Arnem says earnestly, “I see that you are wise enough to know who, and what, I am; and I hope you know that I will treat your complaints with the seriousness that your youthful sacrifices merit.”

The principal elder nods, perhaps not warmly, but with the beginnings of appreciation. He turns to either side, as if to confirm that he and his fellow elders were correct in thinking that they would receive better treatment from the renowned Sentek Arnem than has been their lot of late. “Your words are gracious, Sentek,” the man continues — but then he grows uneasy again, as panicked rumblings go through his townspeople. More horses’ hooves are heard coming from the west: the relief from the main column of the Talons.

Arnem turns to Niksar in alarm. “Get out there, Reyne. Tell them to hold their positions at the town’s edge — I want no more complaints from these people.”

Once again disturbed by what he sees as Arnem’s recklessness, Niksar nonetheless obeys, knowing any objection to leaving his commander alone inside the town will only irritate Arnem. As Niksar wheels his horse, the sentek indicates the nearby platform to the elders. “Shall we speak privately, Fathers?”

Enjoying the sentek’s deference with silent satisfaction, the men nod, motion to the rest of the townspeople to stay where they are, and cross to the town’s center to sit in earnest conversation with a man about whom they have heard many tales, but whose wisdom and fairness they must now judge for themselves. As for Arnem, it is only when he leads the Ox to the platform that his ever-searching gaze can finally catch sight of the small, stout stockade just north of the Daurawah Road:

It is surrounded by a larger crowd, who brandish similarly humble (but deadly) weapons as do their fellows in the town square. Happily, however, this second crowd also seems to be calming with the news of what has just taken place. Such being the case, and with the common touch that has ever made him stand out so in the Broken army, Arnem confidently engages the elders; and it is mere moments before looks of appreciation and even light amusement cross the old villagers’ faces. Niksar, watching from a distance, turns away from the conference; but his relief is short-lived, for he spies, among the men at the western edge of Esleben, the mounted figure of the old heretic chatting amiably with the several horsemen about him.

Niksar spurs his mount to a trot and rides up to the former outcast, letting his own horse aggressively butt his forehead into the neck of the old man’s calm mare. “What are you doing here, Anselm?” he demands; and then he turns his head to the other men. “Who among you took it upon himself to bring this man?”

“Peace, Niksar,” Linnet Akillus says, clapping an amiable hand on Visimar’s shoulder. “It was I who brought him.”

“Oh? And did you never suspect the possible danger—”

But Akillus is already urging Niksar aside with small nods of his head. As the pair moves a short distance away from the others, Niksar quietly demands, “Well, Akillus? On what authority—”

“The sentek’s own,” Akillus interrupts, producing a small piece of parchment from his belt. “He seemed to think you would find it amusing …”

Niksar takes the note that Arnem gave Akillus just before riding into town; and the sentek’s aide quickly reads its few scribbled words:

{iii:}

Niksar’s face becomes an odd mixture of familiar irritation and something new, something that Akillus cannot quite define, but which is plainly not a sentiment to be taken lightly. “He thinks he’s always so bloody amusing,” the aide murmurs. “But this time …” Niksar knows his commander can be worrisomely careless about his own safety, which is ultimately his own business; but he also knows that Arnem has never acted upon any whim or flight of fancy where the well-being of his men is concerned. Yet the linnet now holds evidence that his commander has summoned the strange old heretic into these most ominous doings. Has he taken leave of his senses? Niksar wonders silently, as he stares at the note while the other riders continue to chat with Visimar. Or can it be that he and the men are right, and that the old lunatic is truly an agent of good fortune?

“I didn’t understand it, either, Niksar,” Akillus says, addressing his fellow linnet confidentially and congenially, having read the look on Niksar’s face and trying to ease his mind. “But — he certainly did give me that note, and must have had his reasons. You think otherwise?”

Niksar ignores the question, glances at the heretic, and moves his horse toward him. “And so, Anselm — what possible service can you offer, at so delicate a moment as this?”

“I cannot say with certainty, Linnet — but look there.” Visimar points toward the center of the town. “I’d say that we’re about to find out.”

Atop the wooden platform inside the circular roadway at the center of Esleben, Arnem is waving in a broad motion, ordering the soldiers to finally enter the town. After this, he leaps back to the ground and bows to the elders, as they move off toward a series of litters, each of which is borne by two men. Only when they are not watching does Arnem turn again in the direction of his men, and, in an unmistakable motion, wave a flattened hand, blade like, across his left knee.

“Hak …” noises Visimar, with a small laugh. “Neither subtle nor flattering — but it seems he wishes me to accompany you into the village.”

“Aye, old man,” Akillus replies. “And, based on how ugly Brekt, Ehrn, and I have already seen those supposedly peaceful villagers become, I’d say your talents for good fortune and laughter will be of great use.”

Niksar finally tries to put his own misgivings aside, given both Arnem’s note and the genuine good humor that Visimar has been able to inspire among the horsemen in what is plainly a dangerous situation. “Well, Talons?” Niksar says. “We have our orders: by twos, and at an easy gallop.† And you, Anselm — will you ride with me?”

Visimar inclines his head in what seems to the others no more than appreciative acknowledgment of Niksar’s offer; but the former acolyte realizes that Arnem’s aide, in addition to honoring him, is also signaling some tempering of his enmity and distrust. “It will be my honor and pleasure, Linnet,” Visimar replies with true gratitude, as he takes the head of the small column with the golden-haired son of Broken.

In the formation and at the pace commanded, the horsemen ride into the central square of Esleben. At the town’s center, where Arnem sits astride the Ox once more, the soldiers find that the crowd is breaking up, if sullenly. One of the three elders’ litters — the best-crafted of the group, with soft cushions on its seat and colorful lengths of cotton about its frame — is already moving toward one of the stone storage structures near Esleben’s mills. Arnem directs the Ox to follow the litter, indicating to Niksar and Visimar that they should join him. When they have, the sentek grins just perceptibly at his aide.

“Do I detect some vague air of harmony between you two?” he says. “I did tell you, Niksar, that he might have his uses.”

Niksar nearly contains a smile before asking his commander, “Sentek — where, precisely, are we going? The garrison’s stockade, to say nothing of Daurawah beyond, are to be reached by way of the road eastward.”

“We have a mystery to solve in Esleben, Niksar,” Arnem replies, “before it will be safe to go on — and before the elders will release grain and other supplies from their stores.”

“A mystery, Sentek?” Visimar replies. “I think not — rather we have two such, both housed, apparently, somewhere in the town’s granaries.”

Arnem brings the Ox to a halt, as the chief elder’s litter continues onward. Plainly impressed and intrigued, the sentek nevertheless takes a moment to turn and call back into the town: “Akillus! Go with the other two elders to the garrison — you’ll have no trouble, now. Tell the men in the stockade that when I return, I want its gates open and their commander ready to give his account of what has happened here.”

“Yes, Sentek!” Akillus replies; and as the other two elders issue commands to their respective bearers, he leads the rest of the riders to the eastern road, which will take them in a few moments to the palisaded garrison.

“Sentek,” Niksar says, watching in astonishment. “What makes you speak of one mystery in Esleben, while this old lunatic talks of two?” The linnet turns his handsome, worried features toward Visimar. “You understand, I hope, that I use the word ‘lunatic’ only in its literal sense. I grant that I may have misread your intentions — but about your sanity, I was most certainly correct.”

“Ah,” says Arnem, smiling. “And so peace of a kind has indeed taken a seat at my little war council — well said, Niksar! And, as to the mysteries of Esleben …” The sentek resumes the march south. “Allow me to ask, Reyne — what lies at the heart of all good mysteries?” Seeing that his aide is tiring of games, Arnem continues, “Death, old friend — murder, or so the honored citizens here believe.”

At the mention of the word, all three men see the litter ahead of them stop, its occupant apparently having overheard this portion of their conversation.

“Murder?” echoes Niksar; and, given the notion, he is not altogether surprised when Esleben’s chief elder peers out from between the rear drapes of his litter and replies:

“Indeed, Linnet — or as good as murder. A young woman — the daughter of one of our most respected and successful millers, and a maiden who was scarcely more than a girl — died horribly, half a Moon ago. The only fact that we have determined certainly, concerning her death, is that she was, without the knowledge of her family, carrying on a carnal relationship with a soldier of the garrison, one both beneath her family in rank and station, and concerned only with his animal appetites.”

“The accuracy of those last facts, Niksar,” says Arnem, too softly to be overheard. “I have yet to establish …” He raises his voice again, before suspicion can be fostered: “But let me add to the honored elder’s statement only that the maiden neither took her own life, when the business was discovered, nor was struck down by some furious member of her family.”

“Why think the soldier involved at all, then, Honored Father?” Niksar calls. “Did she show signs of the pox, or some other—disease of like nature?”

“Indeed,” the elder answers, displaying angry, horrified grief.

“Very well, then,” Niksar says solemnly. “The laws are clear, if it was given to her by the soldier. There should be no confusion, no ‘mystery.’”

“There should be none,” Arnem replies, esteeming his aide’s respectful manner, and matching it. “But we have two additional and unfortunate facts to consider, for they lie behind the actions of the young pallin’s comrades — and, more importantly, those of their commander. Both the soldier and his maiden insisted, even unto their deaths from the sickness, that they had engaged in no—” The commander attempts to find a gentler word, but cannot: “No fornication. Only innocent trysts.”

Niksar, however, has fixed his mind on the first of Arnem’s revelations: “‘Their deaths’?”

“Indeed,” Arnem says. “For the pallin also died, soon after the girl.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arnem sees Visimar’s wandering gaze and attention fix on the great stone structure that they are approaching: it is a reaction of the sort that the sentek has hoped to provoke. “Ignis Sacer,” the cripple murmurs. “The Holy Fire …”

“Elder,” Arnem calls, as the horses reach the litter. “May I assume that the two deaths, while they may not have occurred at the same time, were of the same—variety?”

The elder seems somewhat uncertain of the meaning behind this question, and he hesitates; at which the fearfully fascinated Visimar, perhaps unwisely, steps in: “Of course they were, Sentek. In both cases, death was preceded by a fever that seemed to come and go, each time returning with more force. It was eventually accompanied by small red sores across the back and stomach, as well as the chest and the throat.”

“Our own healer,” the elder says, “then thought it to be rose fever, which was cause enough for alarm.”

“Indeed, Father,” Visimar says, nodding and glancing at Arnem as the latter starts at the mention of rose fever. “But very soon, it degenerated further, into a madness that destroyed their minds, as well as an unspeakable rot that ate their bodies away.”

The elder’s face darkens. “I have never seen its like. Kafra’s wrath is terrible, especially when it ravages such young and healthy forms.”

Already making Arnem nervous with his apparent inability to choose his words carefully (or silence himself altogether), Visimar presses forward with his description: “Yes — a ravaging sickness, perhaps too fearsome to be accurately described by words, and consuming first their minds and then their beauty: it turned their admirably pale skin — particularly that of the girl’s delicate hands and feet — a deep, sickly yellow, then the color of plums, and finally black, after which first the toes and fingers, and then perhaps entire extremities, simply … fell away. And the stench …”

Ignoring the warning look that Arnem has fixed upon him, Visimar seems to puzzle with his own comments: “And yet …” A series of unusually deep wrinkles enter Visimar’s brow: “And yet — there is something incorrect about it all, Elder …”

“Incorrect?” the elder says, distrust sharpening the word.

Arnem attempts to patch the momentary breach: “I am certain that my comrade meant only to say that there is something amiss, Elder.”

The elder, however, is unappeased: “Of course there is something ‘amiss,’ Sentek Arnem: the entire business is—”

“Perhaps, perhaps, Honored Father,” Visimar says, still lost in thought. “But if the illness were a pox of some horrifying variety, as you claim, what you describe would be its final stages. Yet you have intimated to us that the couple knew each other only a short time; that the soldier’s interest was but carnal and temporary, whatever his or the girl’s claims to the contrary. Yet — even assuming that their trysts were so base — it would take months for any known pox to manifest such monstrous symptoms.”

The elder’s expression darkens, suddenly and considerably: a moment before he had felt unexpected satisfaction at the appearance of the noted Sentek Arnem and his officers, and at the justice he had begun to feel that they had brought with them; now, his blood begins to heat with familiar yet disappointing resentment: “I might have known …,” he murmurs.

But Arnem has already lifted a conciliatory, if warning, hand. “Hold, now, Father, I beg you. This old man has been my surgeon in the field for more years than I care to count, and I will admit, he has become somewhat addled in his thinking and loose with his speech, due to all that he has seen.” Arnem gives Niksar a quick glance, finding in his aide’s face at least some comprehension of his ruse’s necessity; and then he tries to warn Visimar once more with his eyes that he must keep silent. Yet the elder’s indignation only seems to support the old man’s contentions, and if Arnem is able to divine as much, so should Visimar be. Yet despite the cripple’s behavior, the dangerous situation must be handled deftly: “If he has spoken mistakenly,” Arnem continues, “or simply more bluntly than he should have, you must accept my apology — our sole desire is to establish the truth, not to insult either you or your loyal community.”

“Fine words and sentiments, Sentek,” the elder says, his voice more controlled, yet no less suspicious. “And if that is, indeed, your desire, then you must descend with me to the deepest vault beneath our largest granary. There, the temperature is always cool, even uncomfortably cold — and we have kept the bodies of the dead couple there, lest anyone question our actions or our demands in regard to the garrison’s commander.”

“You have preserved the bodies?” Visimar says, suddenly shocked. “You have not buried or burned them? But—”

“Anselm.” Visimar finally silences himself at the harsh way in which Arnem says the name. The sentek then turns a kinder expression on the elder. “Of course you would have had to preserve them, Honored Father.”

“Indeed,” the elder replies. “For in such cases, as you doubtless know, Sentek, the commander of the town’s garrison, if he attempts to shield the offending soldier, is, by law, as guilty of misconduct as the soldier himself. Yet after the girl died, and we learned of the youth’s illness, the commander would neither yield the boy up until he was dead, nor put himself into our hands for trial.”

By now Visimar is staring at the large stone granary, as if the mere sight of it held answers. “But if this be the entire extent of the matter, Father,” the old man murmurs, “why, I pray you tell, have you experienced more outbreaks of the unidentified pox? For you have, have you not? And why have you not told us of them? Surely you are not suggesting that this one pallin was behind every death in Esleben?”

At these words, everyone present is suddenly seized by different forms of dread: Arnem recognizes that Visimar is not merely speculating, but is certain of his accusations, whereas Niksar is consumed by a new confusion that causes him to grip the hilt of his sword in preparation for a fight; the elder’s litter bearers, meanwhile, suddenly release their burden, which hits the ground with a sharp slamming of wood against hard Earth as their faces fill with fearful astonishment. Yet Visimar does not move, as the elder fairly leaps from his conveyance and thunders in accusation:

“Who is this man? I demand you tell me, Sentek!”

Matters only worsen when the elder’s bearers begin to murmur the dreaded word: “Sorcery … it must be sorcery …”

The elder silences these men with a wave of one hand, and shouts: “Well, Sentek Arnem? How comes this fellow to know so much of our business? Not only the girl’s death, but our subsequent misfortunes! Is he in secret communication with someone in Esleben?” But both Arnem and Niksar remain, for the moment, too stunned to speak. “I demand to know, I tell you!” the elder rails on. “You call him your surgeon, yet he does not wear the uniform of your legion — who, then, by all that is holy, is he?”

Although inwardly somewhat satisfied that his suspicion concerning Visimar’s usefulness to this campaign has been borne out, Arnem must, because of the cripple’s rash statements, continue to affect only shock: “You don’t mean to say,” the sentek asks the elder, “that he has spoken the truth of this business?”

“Truth enough,” the elder answers, himself astounded at Arnem’s question. “But surely you know it to be, Sentek.”

“I know no such thing, Elder,” Arnem replies, aware that he is engaged in a dangerous ploy. “If you tell me it is so, I shall not contradict you — but do not mistake this fellow. He is still a competent healer, one who inspires faith in my men, and I have kept him on this march for their sake. But his rants are not true ‘vision,’ Elder; they are only the noises created by his broken mind, whatever their seeming conformity to any truth.” The elder seems to become suddenly uncertain. “And, even if he has stumbled upon some few details of events here,” Arnem presses, “do not doubt that he yet remains a stranger to reason, the greater part of the time.” Drawing his blade slowly, Arnem faces Visimar, but glances at the elder. “Finally, I promise you this — if there be any truth in what he says, then I shall discover how he knows it …” The sentek attempts greater congeniality. “But that inquiry, as well as my inspection of the bodies in the granary, do not require your presence, Father. For I have seen the dead of all varieties, during my campaigns, and require no guidance — whereas I would not have you witness what may become necessary, during my interrogation of this man. Niksar—” Arnem’s aide salutes his commander. “Escort the elder back to his home. Do not allow anyone to bully or threaten him in any way.” As Niksar salutes once more, Arnem calls to the elder: “And accept my assurance, Father — you may leave this matter in our hands, and my Talons will determine the truth of it for you …”

Faced with Arnem’s hard aspect, Visimar realizes that he has said too much, and ought to have waited until he was alone with the sentek to divulge his accurate apprehension of the lovers’—and indeed the town of Esleben’s — fates. His words have been dangerous, he quickly sees, precisely because of their accuracy: the townspeople are plainly interpreting the mysterious illness as some sort of punishment brought down upon their whole community by the golden god as punishment for both the reckless acts of the malevolent young soldier and the disobedience of the commander of the garrison. They do not know, as Visimar believes he does, that a terrible sickness is at work in Esleben, one that is not only impossible to cure or control, but is also of an entirely different nature than the supposèd “poison” with which the Bane (according to Arnem) are said to have attempted the assassination of the God-King Saylal.

In short, there are in all likelihood two deadly diseases now at work in Broken: one in the city, and one in the provinces. The first might admit of some cure, if treated as an illness and not a poison; but the second, should it spread, will become as voracious as the fire for which it is named.

Visimar requires but an instant, after this realization, to finally comprehend that he must cooperate with Arnem’s deception, and convince the elder and his bearers that his conclusions concerning the lovers’ deaths and the fate of the town indeed arose from a disordered imagination. By doing so, he will gain for Arnem the freedom to independently seek out the commander of the garrison, and then determine if, in fact, the soldiers of that unit are as doomed as most of the townspeople appear to be.

With this end in mind, Visimar quickly affects a long string of nonsensical declamatory remarks, deliberately made within the retiring elder’s hearing and concerning the “true” (and “magical”) source of his insight. The cripple makes a great show of saying that the birds about Esleben have whispered to him all that they have seen and heard, a ploy — inspired by the work of Visimar’s old master, Caliphestros, who often seemed truly able to draw such information from creatures wild and tame, as if they spoke plainly to him — that is effective; and ere long the elder, still peering out through the back of his litter, orders his men to hasten the return to Esleben, satisfied that Sentek Arnem will honestly determine the extent of the old healer’s madness, and, should it prove in any mischievous way connected to actual events in Esleben, punish Visimar accordingly.

“But remember, Sentek,” the elder calls, as he returns to the assembled crowd, “that the commander of the garrison also awaits the God-King’s justice — and do not think I take any joy in it. For we had hoped, when a new commander was appointed—”

Arnem’s brow arches. “A new commander?” he calls out.

“Certainly,” the elder replies with a nod. “Sent from Daurawah, almost half a year ago. Surely you knew.” Arnem feigns simply having forgotten a fact that, in truth, he never learned. “And we had hoped he would be worthy of our trust — but a man who locks both his dishonorable subordinate and then himself away from his accusers inspires something very different.”

“Indeed, Elder,” Arnem replies. “But I tell you again, we are not here to defy our own customs and laws — if what you say is true, you have my word that the garrison commander will hang for it.”

It is the first open mention of an execution that has passed Arnem’s lips; and it seems to heartily encourage the elder. The drapes of the litter finally close, and Niksar nods to Arnem, signaling that he fully understands his task: to buttress all that the sentek has said with word and action.

Arnem answers with an easy salute, in appreciation of his young aide’s willingness to undertake a less than gallant, but still brave and necessary, service; and when the litter has moved off far enough for plain talk to be safe, the sentek glowers at Visimar, his sword still bared.

“I will tell you but once more, old man. Say what you like to me — but do not endanger the lives of my men or their purpose, or I shall hang you beside this garrison commander!”

“I admit the error, Sixt Arnem — but I spoke the truth, and you must, as quickly as you can, get your men away from Esleben. Deadly sickness is here — indeed, a far more horrifying illness than you have described as being at work in Broken. Its spread in the town can no longer be stopped: and it will begin to kill others with as little warning, or apparent explanation, as it did the unfortunate lovers. And your men cannot be protected from it, save by leaving.”

Arnem studies Visimar, deeply puzzled. “How can you know this, old man, before we have even seen the dead bodies?”

“Viewing the bodies is meaningless — indeed, we had best not even enter the granary, lest we expose ourselves to great danger.”

“Danger — from the dead?”

“From the dead — and from that.” Visimar points to the topmost breaks in the high granary walls, designed to allow for ventilation. Through these openings can be seen grain: a great store of it.

Following Visimar’s indication, as the two men approach the building, Arnem asks, “And what is that, save grain?”

“Proof, Sentek,” Visimar replies. “In the form of winter rye, from the look of it: an off-season crop that should have been sent to Broken long ago. Instead, because these people believe that the merchants in Broken are cheating them by buying foreign grain that is less expensive, the townspeople have kept it here, and allowed it to spoil — to spoil in a most subtle manner …” As they reach the granary walls, Visimar searches the ground. “Keep a tight rein on your mount, Sentek,” he murmurs. “Do not allow him to find and nibble at — ah! there …” The old man points to a spot where some of the grain, having escaped through the ventilation gaps, has fallen to the ground. “Do you see there, Sentek — where the kernels have formed a plum-colored growth?” Arnem eyes the kernels as closely as he can, then begins to dismount, in order to reach down and get a closer look. “No, Sentek!” Visimar says, still quietly, but very urgently. “Do not allow yourself the least contact with it.”

“But why?” Arnem says, settling himself in his saddle once more.

“Because, Sixt Arnem,” Visimar breathes in relief, “should you even touch it, and then bring your fingers into contact with your mouth or eyes, you might well die as horribly as did the young girl and her suitor.”

“Visimar,” Arnem says, “explain yourself plainly.”

“There lies your murderer.” He indicates the ground again. “The pallin from the garrison was a victim, not a killer.”

“And again I ask,” Arnem says impatiently, “how can you say as much, without seeing his body?”

“I do not need to see his body, Sentek — and neither do you. The elder’s reaction has already confirmed my description of its condition; and we would only be endangering ourselves, if we entered that cellar of death and decay. Any chance contact with the rotting flesh of the pallin and the maid would be as perilous as consuming that rotting grain.”

“But what is it? How can mere grain be so dangerous?”

“By giving you a deadly illness that you know well, Sixt Arnem — that is, under very different circumstances,” Visimar replies. “Come: let us move to the building’s far side, and at least seem to be doing what you said we would do. But in reality, our most urgent task is to get to the garrison, and prevent your men from coming into any contact with this substance.”

“‘A sickness I know well, under other circumstances’?” Arnem repeats, following Visimar’s mare, but not his explanation. “And what would that be? Enough wasting time, Visimar, simply tell me—”

“Very well: I called it Ignis Sacer, which means the ‘Holy Fire,’ in the language of the Lumun-jani,” Visimar explains. “You know it as the ‘fire wounds.’”†

“The fire wounds?” Arnem repeats, his voice very skeptical. “But fire wounds are attained in battle, from wounds that fester!”

“Not always, Sentek,” Visimar says, his thoughts occupied with both a patient explanation of the disease and working out a route to the garrison that will allow the two men to make their way to that place unobserved by anyone in Esleben; but he soon finds the dual task impossible. “Right now, however, I say again, the most imperative task we face is getting your aide and any others among your men who remain within the town out of it, and away from the inhabitants — for those unsuspecting people are about to undergo a calamity that will claim many if not most of their lives, as well as those of anyone unlucky enough to tarry here.”

“It is not the practice of the soldiers of Broken to abandon the God-King’s subjects in their hour of need, old man,” Arnem says sternly.

“But they are not ‘in need,’ Sixt Arnem,” Visimar replies, in like tone. “I tell you they are, almost to the last man, woman, and child, doomed.”

Arnem would argue the point further; but just then, with disturbing suddenness, a thought — a mere image — appears in his mind: the figure of Lord Baster-kin, standing in the remarkable tunnels beneath the city of Broken, his attention strangely fixed upon the vast stores of grain kept therein. The sentek can recall — quite distinctly, now — that these same small, purple growths upon each kernel had not been visible upon the grain: a fact perhaps uninteresting, in itself, save for what Arnem now realizes to have been Baster-kin’s apparent relief on finding that such was the case. That relief, Arnem comprehends as he fixes his mind on the moment, implied an anxiety that his lordship might have found the grain to be in some other, some far more dangerous, condition …

{iv:}

By the time the Arnem and Visimar have traveled in the sort of long, furtive route toward the Esleben garrison’s stockade that will eliminate any fear of being seen by someone within the town, not only has afternoon begun to give way to evening, but the commander of the Talons has learned a great deal about the two illnesses that his guest believes to be at work in the kingdom, and of the respective ways in which they propagate among men and women. First, there is the supposèd poisoning that took place within the city of Broken, which Visimar believes to in fact have been the first acknowledged (but likely not the first true) case of the terrible pestilence that Esleben’s healer rightly dismissed as being at work among his own people: rose fever, a sickness that hides itself in befouled water. The second is a more outwardly chilling rot that savagely attacks by way of any foods or flesh over which it has already taken hold, a malady that the sentek indeed knows as “the fire wounds,” but that is more properly identified by the terms “Holy Fire” (for who save a deity could be responsible for its monstrous symptoms?) and, still more precisely, among truly learnèd healers, as gangraena. This sickness, as Arnem has said, often appears as a result of the festering of soldiers’ wounds; but it can also carve its path using such insidious methods as the commander and the acolyte have just observed. Which of the two is the more dangerous? That is a question to which not even Visimar will hazard an answer; all he can do is continue to urge Arnem on, and to emphasize the importance of getting his Talons out of and away from ill-fated Esleben and its inhabitants. Before he can commit to that withdrawal, however, the ever-dutiful Arnem requires some more exact explanation of just what has taken place between the men of the garrison and the townspeople.

When the sentek and his fool-become-advisor finally do come within sight of the town’s small, formidable stockade, they find that mention of Arnem’s name has apparently been, as hoped, enough to prize open the gates of the place, and that members of the small command have emerged, the deep blue of their regular-army cloaks contrasting with the wine-red of the Talons’ similar garments. But before the two men can reach the stockade, they encounter some ten to fifteen groups of Talons, each consisting of three to five frontline infantrymen, who, in keeping with Broken military practice, have formed a watchful perimeter about the stockade. These are particularly skilled and veteran warriors, for in battle it is the duty of such men to quickly form the face of each side of the Broken quadrates, where they absorb the initial and harshest blows of the enemy, as well as lead the way in unhesitating attack when those quadrates shift into offensive or pursuing formations. It is these two equally valiant yet dangerous roles that have given such soldiers their informal name: Wildfehngen,† because their disciplined ferocity in battle is believed to be unmatched, certainly by any warriors that the army of Broken has ever faced.

From the Wildfehngen, Arnem soon learns how matters truly stand within the stockade: although its gates are open, the men within can give no explanation for what has taken place in Esleben, beyond that already offered by the town elders. As for the commander of the garrison (the sole person, Arnem believes, who may be able to shed true light on the mysterious goings-on in and about the town) he remains barred within his quarters, not, it seems, because of disloyalty or disobedience, but because of illness. This information only makes the sentek more determined to immediately spur the Ox on toward the stockade and greater insight; but before he can depart, Visimar catches his arm, speaking to him as earnestly as he can, while keeping his voice very hushed:

“If the garrison commander is ill,” the cripple says, “you must determine the nature of that illness before you approach him. Remember, Sixt Arnem — we have but two goals, now: to get away from here without incident, and to ensure that your own men do not take any of the town’s forage or food supplies with them. Nothing in Esleben is to be trusted.”

“I shall attempt to remember all such points,” Arnem replies, his various frustrations becoming more apparent in his angered words. “But I will be given a clearer understanding of what is taking place here — whatever this commander’s condition.” Once more preparing to speed away, the sentek suddenly catches sight of something ahead, a sight that finally brings some sort of relief to his face. “Well. There’s one worry eased: Niksar seems to have escaped the town unscathed …”

Niksar is riding at a good pace toward Arnem and Visimar, and the sentek urges the Ox out a short distance to intercept him. “Well met, Reyne,” he says, acknowledging his aide’s salute. “But before you give voice to the understandable indignation that I detect upon your face, tell me: you weren’t, by any chance, offered any hospitality — say, any sustenance — while you were in the town, were you?”

Niksar scoffs. “Unlikely, Sentek. They were only too happy to be rid of me, when I said I had to report to you. I doubt they would have let me eat so much as the grass upon the ground, as at least my horse did.”

Arnem studies his aide’s mount. “You’re certain that’s all he ate? No loose grain that might have been scattered about, for instance?”

Niksar looks puzzled, indeed. “None, Sentek. Why, what’s happened?”

“We’ll explain as we enter the stockade,” Arnem says, resuming his progress toward the small stronghold’s gates. “It’s a tale you may have to employ all your imagination to credit, as well as your newfound trust of our friend here.” Arnem indicates Visimar. “But do credit it, Reyne, and make certain the men understand that no forage, no grain goods of any kind, are to be consumed in or taken away from Esleben. And, for an even fuller understanding of just what is happening, I’m afraid we’ll need the garrison commander, who’s evidently ill and barricaded away in his quarters. Hear me, now, Niksar …” Arnem draws alongside the younger soldier. “I know you won’t like the charge, but once we’re in the stockade, help the old man get up the stairs in the quadrangle, will you, while I go on ahead? I must, at the very least, begin questioning this man as quickly as possible.”

“Sentek?” Niksar says, perturbed: for he can now see that his commander’s manner indicates more than mere annoyance: a profound anxiety of spirit is present, as well. “Of course, but I—”

“Questions later, Reyne,” Arnem says. “I want some answers, now …”

Yet with damnable stubbornness, still more disturbing questions await the sentek when he, Niksar, and Visimar reach and enter the garrison stockade. By now, the first of his long-range scouts have returned from the east, and the news they bring from those towns closer to Daurawah, as well as the rumors issuing from farmsteads within sight of the walls of that sprawling riverfront town itself, are vague and grim. Unrest, varying in degree, has taken hold of the laborers, merchants, and elders of other communities along the way to Broken’s principal port; and, perhaps most worrying of all, the scouts have heard that disorder of a far worse variety has taken hold inside Daurawah itself. If such is the truth, it is an unusually alarming fact for Arnem, both professionally and personally: the governing of the port has for several years been the responsibility of one of the sentek’s oldest friends in the army of Broken, Gerolf Gledgesa,† with whom Arnem had faced the Torganians at the Atta Pass, and to whom the new chief of the army had hoped to pass the command of the Talons when he himself was so tragically elevated to Yantek Korsar’s post. But if Gledgesa has allowed matters in Daurawah to deteriorate to such a point, the appointment of his old comrade — always, like Arnem himself, a controversial figure within the army — will be out of the question. The full possible consequences of the scouting reports from the east are plain, then: but none is more ominous than the notion that, even if the Talons can avoid violent encounters with the subjects of the eastern kingdom, those same subjects will continue to surrender the food and forage which the soldiers require for their march against the Bane only grudgingly, if at all — and the men will be able to accept such supplies only if they are found to be untainted. Thus, Arnem may be forced to plan his campaign anew, calculating time, now, as a powerful ally of the Bane, rather than of his own force: ever one of the worst advantages that a commander can concede to his enemy.

As all these possibilities mount, the sentek’s temper shortens: “Akillus!” Arnem calls angrily, when he finally passes into the stockade and reaches the center of its quadrangle, his eyes spying the chief of scouts laughing nearby amid his own men and several members of the garrison. As Arnem dismounts, the sentek’s young skutaar, Ernakh‡ (sole child of the Arnems’ nurse and housekeeper, Nuen), appears to take the reins of the Ox, thinking to inquire how long his commander anticipates remaining in Esleben, so that he may determine how much to refresh the steed, as well as whether or not Arnem himself will require quarters. But the black-haired, intuitive youth divines from the briefest study of Arnem’s manner that the Talons will not be staying long in this place, despite the sentek’s deliberately vague answers on the subject; and Ernakh leads the Ox off to be watered, fed, and quickly curried, so that he will be ready (if not entirely rested) for the force’s departure, which may, the young skutaar correctly believes, come at any moment. Akillus, meanwhile, hurries along to Arnem, his smile vanishing.

“I understand, Akillus,” the sentek says, “that the commander of the garrison is unable to report due to illness — have you determined if this is true?”

“Yes, Sentek,” Akillus answers, saluting so firmly that his chest resonates with the impact of his fist. “He is shut tightly away in his quarters, above.” Akillus points to the northwestern-most doorway of a dozen such on the fort’s upper level, above which the parapet encircles the structure. Another walkway runs the full length of the fort’s upper level outside the doors of these rooms, guarded by a railing of cut timbers: all workmanship characteristic of Broken’s sappers and engineers. “He says he will not come out, and will speak only with you alone.”

“Indeed?” says Arnem, letting out a weighty sigh. “Well, then — his secrets had better be as remarkable as his behavior, or I’ll have the hide off his back. And the elders will have his neck. For now — spread the word, Akillus: the men must be ready to resume the march at any moment.”

“Aye, Sentek!” says Akillus, never questioning the surprising order; instead, he simply runs to his horse and mounts the animal with his usual, seemingly effortless motion.

Watching carefully, in order to weigh the reactions that Akillus receives from the men as he relays these orders through the clusters of soldiers, Arnem is suddenly startled by a horse snorting, not far behind his head: turning, he once again finds Visimar atop his mare, and accompanied by Niksar. Two skutaars appear to tend to the men’s mounts, one helping the old acolyte to the ground. Once supported by his familiar walking staff, Visimar finds, in addition, that he is being offered a ready and supporting shoulder from Niksar, who follows Arnem’s earlier order with a mixture of obedience and emerging compassion. The sentek is thus allowed to rush up the stockade stairs with a speed that, if not enthusiastic, is purposeful; and when he first sets foot on the walkway above, he quickens his pace still more. Only when he gets within an arm’s length of the officer’s doorway does a sudden apprehension shoot through his bones and prickle his skin, taking nearly all the determination out of him in an instant. It is not a feeling that he can define, but it is one that he must obey: and when he finally raps at the door, he does so but lightly, not knowing whence this hesitation has come.

“Linnet?” he calls, scarcely loud enough to be heard. Then, suddenly, he is made aware of the reason for his wariness: a smell, or rather a stench, the blunt stink of human sweat, waste, and decay, of filthy garments and bedding — in sum, the stink of mortal illness …

“Linnet!” Arnem states with more authority. “I order you to open this door.”

The man tries to answer, but his words are soon choked off by a fit of moist coughing. When the attack subsides, Arnem hears a weak voice, one that, clearly, was once strong, and with the unmistakable inflections of an officer who, although young, is accustomed to command:

“I am sorry, Sentek — I cannot obey you,” the voice says. “But it is not out of impertinence, for I have known you for nearly all of my life, and there is no soldier, indeed no man, that I respect more. But I cannot risk your …” The voice trails off; it has, for the moment, no strength left.

And during the pause, Sentek Arnem realizes that, beneath the distortions of sickness, he knows the voice well: it belongs to the younger brother of his own aide, who is — or once was — as vibrant and ideal an example of Broken virtues as is Reyne.

“Donner?”† Arnem murmurs, as quietly as he can. “Donner Niksar?”

A noise of assent from the chamber’s occupant quickly dissolves back into terrible coughing. “Forgive me for not opening the door, sir,” the younger Niksar brother says, after his fit has subsided. “But you mustn’t come in here — not now. I haven’t let the rest of them in since the pallin died. I first detected the symptoms in myself within hours of his death; and, while it is possible that my men have already been affected by the sickness, they may also have escaped, and I won’t allow the mess that is coming out of me — that I have become—to somehow endanger them …”

Just then, Arnem hears Niksar struggling up the stairs with Visimar, and the sentek grows ever more anxious. “Donner, your brother is with me, surely you will wish to talk with him—”

“No, Sentek, please!” comes the desperate reply. “I fear I have only enough time to tell what I must: of these damnable town merchants, with their elders and their plots and poisons …”

Arnem’s eyes widen. “You think the townspeople tried to poison you, Donner?”

“I realize that it sounds like madness, Sentek. And it may well be. But I’ve good reason to believe it. We meant to interfere with certain of their schemes to remedy their trade difficulties, you see, while at the same time, one of our men had what they considered the cheek to actually court one of their daughters. Their rage was becoming deadly — indeed, as you may have seen, some of them actually seem to be mad …”

Arnem is struck by each part of this statement, but none more so than the last — for he remembers well the looks on the faces of some of the townspeople when he entered Esleben. “But, Donner,” he says, “what are you doing in Esleben? And what ‘plans’ of theirs would you have spoiled?”

“I had formerly been serving under your old comrade, Sentek Gledgesa, in Daurawah,” young Donner Niksar replies, his voice now so hoarse as to suggest razor-like knives lacerating the back of his throat. “Until he sent me here. The last garrison commander had been caught concluding deals with those river raiders who have been bringing their grain up the Meloderna and into the rivers that feed it, including the Cat’s Paw, from which Esleben draws water for its aqueduct. This was Moons ago, Sentek Arnem, midwinter … Before there was any report of disease. Without informing anyone, Sentek Gledgesa called the garrison commander to Daurawah, executed him on his own authority, and dispatched me to take his place. He seemed to know you would be coming, and with you, Reyne; and that you would both believe me, more readily than his other officers.”

“But how did this lead to the business of this pallin, and the girl from the town?”

“That story began to unfold soon after I arrived here,” young Niksar goes on; and it seems that he has found a way in which to speak for longer periods of time, if he keeps the volume of his voice low, making it necessary for Arnem to put his ear directly to the wooden door. “Sentek Gledgesa knew well enough that the commander of the garrison was guilty of the crimes with which so many had charged him; what he could not determine was what part, if any, the elders of Esleben were also playing in the grain scheme. Yet, despite my taking command, the foreign grain continued to make its way upriver in the raiders’ ships, while neither my men nor I could prove the elders of Esleben were involved — yet such did not demonstrate their innocence. Then this business concerning the pallin and his maiden was uncovered in early spring, just as we began to hear of the fire wounds in Daurawah, where they were already burning dozens, perhaps hundreds of bodies, every week, dead from what the commander was confident, by then, represented a foul new way our enemies had devised to weaken our power — I had by then learned otherwise, however. For the maiden had mentioned to her pallin that the town elders meant to take the matter of the raiders into their own hands, and he reported as much to me. I dispatched to Sentek Gledgesa a report that told of the plot—” His words having come too fast, Donner begins to cough terribly again.

“Slow, now, son,” Arnem says, in a voice he hopes is soothing. “Are you trying to say the elders of Esleben meant to oppose the foreign traders?”

“It was after the winter rye had been harvested …” Arnem hears Donner Niksar pouring water into his tormented mouth. “The merchants in Broken — they continued to offer payment that enticed the pirates, being far lower than anything the farmers and millers of Esleben were accustomed to receiving. Soon, the elders of Esleben decided that, so long as those longboats were allowed to race up and down the rivers, they would feed their grain to their own people and animals, rather than accept such low prices from merchants who were meant to protect Broken’s own commerce, not betray it. They then began to do just that, hoping it would bring notice from the Merchants’ Council or even the Grand Layzin and the God-King. It did not, but almost immediately, the girl became ill. Even to myself, the timing of it all seemed — odd … And the rage among the townspeople was implacable. I offered to meet with them alone, to show the army’s goodwill and freedom from further involvement in the illegal trading that was cheating them of the rightful fruits of their labor. I was invited to sup with their elders’ council, so long as I did, indeed, come alone — which I did …”

Arnem’s heart sinks at this news: for he realizes that, alone among the garrison, Donner Niksar had broken what Visimar has told the sentek must be tainted bread with the people of Esleben, unknowingly condemning himself to a hideous death …

Suddenly, a small sound of triumph from across the walkway reaches Arnem’s ears, and he turns to see that Visimar and the sentek’s weary aide have reached the top of the wooden stairway. Arnem waves to the pair urgently to slow their advance. Both are confused, but Arnem cannot concern himself with it: he must hear Donner out, before Reyne does so and, very likely, is driven to violence by his brother’s condition.

“Donner, we haven’t much time — your brother approaches.”

“Reyne?” the younger Niksar gasps. “Delay him, Sentek, please — although there are certain things I must tell him, to ease my family’s burden …”

“And you shall,” Arnem says, a still greater feeling of wretched responsibility settling on his heart. “But first, you must complete your tale — what can the trysting of the pallin and a town maiden have had to do with all these other matters?”

Donner Niksar spits; this time as much in disdain as because of sickness. “None, Sentek.” And instantly, Arnem recalls Visimar’s words concerning the dead soldier: a victim, not a murderer … “The notion that we were all protecting one love-struck member of our company offered the ever more unreasonable elders and their followers more than a question of a girl supposedly losing her virtue in defiance of army regulations: it was an easy way of justifying their grievances and their desires for vengeance. I attempted to explain the truth to them when we met, but they were beyond explanations — or, at least, any explanations that made sense.”

“Yes,” Arnem replies. “I have encountered them in that mood.”

“Then you know how full of mad rage they can become—” Donner murmurs, before another coughing fit overtakes him. As he listens helplessly, Arnem thinks of one last hope to offer:

“Listen to me, Donner — I have with me a rare man of medicine, who has seen this sickness before. It is possible that he can help you.”

“I fear I am well beyond any such aid,” comes the plaintive, gasping answer.

“You are not,” Arnem declares, as if discipline can overcome disease. “I forbid you to surrender, Linnet.”

Still struggling to breathe, Donner assembles a final attempt to complete the task he has set for himself: “Let me only finish my report, Sentek, that I may die in peace …” Arnem cannot find it in him to forbid such, and so says nothing, at which Donner tries to order his thoughts and voice: “I had warning that the elders intended to take definite action against the illegal river trading. It was a small matter to have them watched. And the madness the townsmen planned was simply that. They believed that they might teach not only the agents of the merchants in Broken, but the foreign traders, too, a lesson. For two nights, they worked in the river’s shallowest run, sinking deadly gutting stakes — sharpened tree trunks, their points reinforced by iron plating. As a last measure, the stakes were joined with heavy chains. The long ships draw so little draught that they can usually sail or row this far upriver without mishap — but they could not have survived that viciousness. I had no time to do anything save send another dispatch to Sentek Gledgesa, then turn my attention toward dismantling the work of these fools … Not because I approved of what the raiders and the Broken merchants were doing, of course, but to try to stop a war with the northerners — for that would have been the result of it, and the raiders have grown very powerful, through all their piracy and plunder. So I took several men and teams of horses, late on a Moonless night, and went to the river. We fastened our own series of chains to their deadly spikes and undid their trap. That was when we were forced within our stockade by enormous mobs from Esleben and more than a few neighboring villages …” Donner’s voice pauses; and Arnem can now hear only a wheezing, choking sound, one that is little short of the noises that so often precede death.

“Donner!” Arnem whispers urgently, trying the door once again, to equally little effect. “Unbar the door, son, and let us in to help you.”

After regaining enough strength to speak — Arnem fears for the last time — the younger Niksar replies, “Nay, Sentek. I know the lay of things. The townspeople want my death, atop the young pallin’s. And I have arranged for all to occur as they wish; for, despite your kind offer, Commander, there is no art, sacred, black, or otherwise, that can help me — not now. I saw what happened to our young pallin …” For a moment, Arnem hears nothing, and his own spirit sinks again; but then, Donner murmurs, in deathly earnest, “You must get your men away, Sentek. I believe I have fulfilled my final commission in the manner that my family, the God-King, and Kafra would have wished, and that yourself and Sentek Gledgesa will approve. Whatever the case, I am dying, and would have my death be of use. I shall not have to strength, then, to tell Reyne — to tell him what I—”

Arnem finally concedes. “Let your soul be at peace, Donner,” he says quietly. “I know what you wish him to know — your actions have told me. He is but an instant away, if you can manage the wait — if not, know from me that you are as good a soldier as Broken has ever known, and that I am indeed proud of you, as I know that Sentek Gledgesa will be. And your family, as well.” The young officer murmurs his pained thanks, relief finding a way through his suffering; at which Arnem turns, haggard, and signals across the walkway to his aide.

Suspecting some strange development, and making sure that Visimar now stands securely upon his walking stick, the elder Niksar runs ahead; the agèd cripple, meanwhile, watches the linnet’s face go pale as Arnem relates some news of evidently shattering effect. Niksar attempts to force the door of the garrison commander’s quarters open, fails, and then falls to his knees by it, speaking softly to the planks of wood before him.

Arnem, helpless, moves to join Visimar on the walkway, saying only, “His brother — a lad I knew well,” before turning to lean over the railing at his side, almost as if he will be sick. From that position, he nearly fails to notice Linnet Akillus, as the latter charges into the stockade quadrangle and leaps from his horse’s back, making for the stairway.

“Sentek Arnem!” Akillus shouts repeatedly, his voice ringing with a sort of alarm that Visimar has not yet heard from the man.

Arnem is angered by the interruption, for Niksar’s sake even more than for his own; and he catches Akillus at the top of the stairs. “Linnet! I hope you have some reason for barging in here like a mad dog. What in the name of Kafra’s stones are you thinking—?”

But, even as he speaks, Arnem suddenly takes note of his men forming up below, as if some new danger has appeared in Esleben: a danger which the Talons require no specific order to prepare to face. “The townsmen, Sentek!” Akillus says, never for a moment concerning himself with Visimar. “Or I should say, not only the men of this town, but others as well, for such are their numbers! And there are women, too — hundreds, armed with farming tools as well as weapons — anything that can be made to kill! They are all moving on the garrison, and they — well—”

“Well what, Akillus?” Arnem asks, concerned to see such apprehension in a soldier who has kept his head in far deadlier situations.

“Well, sir,” Akillus tries to explain. “It is the look of them — like mad, desperate beasts — and moving against us!”

{v:}

Arnem immediately dashes down the stairs before him, leaving behind his aide to bid a heartrending farewell to his brother Donner (who continues to refuse any healthy person entrance into his chamber), and issuing an order to Akillus — a man whose lack of social condescension is as strong as his reliability in a fight — to bear Visimar upon his back to the old man’s waiting mare below to save time. Once upon the earthen quadrangle floor, Arnem finds that his own mount, the Ox, is refreshed and ready to ride, the skutaar Ernakh having, as always, anticipated his commander’s orders. Soon, Arnem is among his men outside the garrison gates as they continue to group into defensive formations to meet the approaching mob, which the sentek now spies for the first time; and that first glimpse is enough to tell him that his chief scout’s extreme alarm was not unwarranted.

What must indeed be hundreds of townspeople, from Esleben as well as surrounding villages, are moving against the stockade: merchants, laborers, and farmers, as well as men of obviously less established station, the greater number of them interwoven with more than a few score of their own wives and older daughters (whose sex does nothing to diminish their fury), are all armed, and moving in a great wave east. The sentek cannot yet accurately determine what their full numbers must be, for they seem scarcely human at all: most wear bandages which are stained and oozing with pus and blood, both fresh and dried. As for their weapons, they matter less than the manner in which they are wielded: even a sickle, or a mere sharpened length of tree limb, can attest to a man’s or woman’s commitment to their cause, if carried in such a way that clearly displays a desire for blood.

Even so unpracticed a philosopher as Sixt Arnem can pause for an instant, in the face of such a sight, to apprehend the apparent irony in the fact that the Natural wealth of Broken — which has been transformed, over many generations, into the formidable bone, sinew, and muscle that enables a legion such as the Talons to become peerless fighting men — has (according to Visimar) somehow been altered, so that it contains an agent that has imbued these townspeople with the equally exceptional, if utterly irrational, conviction required to attack the very soldiers they have long relied on for protection. And Arnem can further see that the coming fight, during which his men must try to fend off and then retreat before these loosely organized lunatics, is indeed reminiscent (as Akillus attempted to express) of some diseased, maddened beast that gnaws at its own flesh, torturously destroying and consuming itself from its tail and feet forward and upward with burning mind and slashing teeth, for reasons that the agonized creature itself does not understand …

Although many of the maddened citizens are rushing toward the garrison gate from the south, the main body approach from the direction of Esleben itself. A central group from among the latter (they can scarcely be called a “formation”) drive powerful farm animals: oxen and horses, in the main, yoked to wagons that bear still more men and women, as well as larger implements of violence. Atop one aging wagon is an interwoven grouping of smaller logs, branches, hay, and pitch, all of which the several men who assist the oxen yoked to the conveyance in driving it forward are eager to set alight with torches they carry. Yet this is not the most hideous aspect of this crude machine of war:

Impaled upon an iron-tipped stake that still shows signs of the river bottom in which it was lately sunken is the shocking figure of a man: and no young warrior, but a mature, distinguished man of Esleben. Arnem has by been joined by Visimar, who, like the sentek, observes this cart’s approach largely in stunned silence — for they realize that the body gutted by the stake is not some agèd tramp or vagabond, nor even some humble craftsman: it is the same chief elder with whom the two men met but hours ago, in an attempt to reach a reasonable, if not an amicable, solution to the conflict between the town garrison and the citizens of Esleben. His body has been driven with such force upon the stake that his ribs have cracked outward and now show bright white amid the darker gore of his body’s central cavity, as do bits of his spine, while a jumble of intestine-strangled vital organs hang from the jagged pieces of bone. His head is cocked at an angle that indicates the breaking of his neck during this fiendish process, while his eyes remain wide open, full of the shock that filled his last moments.

Around the elder’s neck hangs a bit of plank, tied with rope, upon which has been painted — in what may be his own blood, if judged by the tint — only a few words:

As the soldiers about him observe the sight in horrified silence, Visimar says, with soft passion:

“Too deeply … The Holy Fire has burned too deeply into this place …”

In answer comes a most unexpected voice: Niksar’s. “We were too late,” he murmurs, and when Arnem turns, he sees that Reyne has made no attempt to conceal the marks of heavy tears. “Such were Donner’s last words, Sentek — that neither the rose fever nor any other pestilence he has witnessed can account for what is happening here. For what happened to him … And we all, starting with the garrison itself, realized as much too late to even mitigate its spread …”

Arnem turns to Visimar, who raises a brow as if to say, “I take no joy in being correct, Sentek — but we must face this as it is …” The old man’s thought is soon reflected in other, more pragmatic words by Arnem’s officers, as the Eslebeners suddenly ignite the wagons that hold pitch-drenched cargoes, intended to burn long enough into the gloom of twilight to enable them to smash into the now fully formed quadrates of the Talons:

“Their plan is not so disordered as their reason,” Akillus says. “Mobile fire, whether or not they know it, is ever the best means of attack against the quadrates, Sentek.”

“To be matched only by the Krebkellen,† Akillus,” Arnem replies, citing the Broken army’s chief tactical alternative to the quadrates: another invention of the supposedly Mad King, Oxmontrot, the Krebkellen is a primarily offensive maneuver, but one that serves admirably when the defensive squares are threatened. “And so, Linnet — will you take, say, two cavalry fausten and two of Taankret’s Wildfehngen in among these madmen, and shatter their initial movement just sternly enough to allow us to get away eastward down the Daurawah Road?”

Akillus is both challenged and excited by the charge. “If I could not, Sentek, neither I nor the men should be worthy of our claws!”‡

Arnem delivers his next orders to the commander of the Wildfehngen, an impressive linnet of infantry called Taankret. The sentek orders this aptly named fellow†† (whose surcoat and finely worked steel mail are somehow, even on this dusty march, impeccably neat) to take a hundred Wildfehngen, and form them into the center of the Krebkellen, coordinating the breaking-up of the attacking townspeople with Linnet Akillus, who will provide a similar number of cavalry on the flanks.

“A hard order, Taankret,” Arnem says, watching the effect of his commands on the linnet, as the latter dispatches messengers to assemble the needed men. “To ask our lads to engage their own countrymen.”

“Not so hard as you may think, Sentek,” Taankret answers, with passion but no panic. He swipes a bare finger beneath his mustache and smoothes his carefully clipped beard, then pulls on a pair of heavy gauntlets. Finally, he draws the lengthy marauder sword for which he is known throughout his khotor and the army itself, which he took from a vanquished warrior of the East many years ago. “The men have had enough time in this accursèd town to gain a healthy disrespect for its ungrateful passions,” Taankret continues. “I do not think that they would happily receive an order to massacre, but a chance to spend an hour smacking this mob about with the flat of their blades while the rest of you start for Daurawah?” A smile makes its way into one corner of the linnet’s mouth. “That is an order they’ll relish.”

“Truly,” agrees Akillus. “Have no worries on that account, Sentek.”

Arnem grins, proud and more than a little regretful that he will not be joining his rearguard commanders. “Very well, then — Taankret. Akillus. But bear that one thing in mind — the flat of your blades, where you can. Cracked heads will be of more use than severed.”

The growing sense of happy challenge among the two linnets, who demonstrate perfectly why they have achieved their status in the most renowned legion of Broken, is suddenly interrupted by a sound of shattering wood and glass. It comes from just around the southwest corner of the small fort that was the home of the Esleben’s departing garrison: from the direction of, among other things, the window of the commander’s quarters.

In addition, a short cry is heard, in a voice that both Arnem and Niksar know to be Donner’s, only to be quickly stilled by some unknown force.

Arnem addresses his anxious linnets in a humorless voice, now: “You two finish your preparations. Niksar, Anselm — accompany me.” The sentek looks to his aide. “And remember, Reyne: our only task now is to get away from this foul place …” Niksar nods in reply, apprehensive of what they may find, but no less certain of his duty, at which the three men move at a slow trot round the corner of the stockade, Niksar’s sense of foreboding suddenly confirmed by a most unexpected group of agents:

The maddened townspeople have stopped, if only for a moment; and their eyes are fixed, as if they were one enormous, grotesque creature, on the window in Donner Niksar’s quarters. They have, apparently, already seen what the soldiers and their guest cannot, yet — that one of their demands, at least, has been met, if in a manner utterly different from that which they earlier demanded:

The sentek, his aide, and Visimar, proceeding forward, look up at the shattered window of the commander’s quarters. The crude glass has been broken from within, the sound and accompanying sight intended to transfix the rushing, furious mob; and the object used to achieve this effect was Donner Niksar’s own body, which now sways slowly by a rope, one end of which is securely tied within his quarters, and the other around his neck. No amount of descending darkness can obscure his condition: his head is snapped harshly to one side, and his eyes are still open. Strangely, the horrifying image reminds Arnem of those in Broken society who always believed that Donner, while of slighter stature than his brother, was nonetheless finer in his features. But not this night: even were his tongue not protruding grotesquely from the corner of his mouth, even had he been able to conceal the raw ravages of the Holy Fire from his face and bared chest, and even if, by some impossible effort, he had been able to clothe himself in a new, clean nightshirt, rather than the hideously stained garment that now wafts about his emaciated frame: even if all these things could have been accomplished, nothing could ever compensate for his swollen, tortured eyes, which cast their pained, accusatory stare onto every face that turns to him, reflecting the mob’s torches as his body rotates below the window. The message is unmistakable: the townspeople have exacted their revenge. One question remains, and it is Niksar who murmurs it:

“Will it be enough? For these—creatures?”

Arnem has been dumbstruck, for an instant; and so it is Visimar who says gently, “I know you think me a mad heretic, Linnet. And I would never presume to intrude upon the grief you feel after so noble a brother has given his life to try to extinguish the fire that is consuming the people of Esleben.” Niksar says nothing, but inclines his head slightly, at which Visimar continues: “At the least, he was able to claim for himself a sane and meaningful death. If you look to the west, you will see that no such mercy will be shown to the mob.” A small glance at the momentarily confused mob is all Niksar needs to confirm the old man’s claim.

“Aye, heretic,” the young officer breathes, without resentment. “Whatever Donner lost, he kept his head, and his honor, to the last …”

“Just so. As we must now keep ours. Let us honor your brother, Linnet, by securing what he wished us to: the safety of our own and his troops, and the continuation of what has become an expedition less of conquest than of investigation.”

Arnem, amazed that the old man can make sound sense at such a moment, claps a gentle hand to Niksar’s shoulder. “The old fool is right, Reyne. We must honor that.” The sentek turns his narrowing eyes to the east, as the sounds of the crowd’s madness mount once more. “Ernakh!” he cries, and the skutaar appears, silently waiting as Arnem scribbles a charcoal note upon a bit of parchment. “Take this to the master of archers, Fleckmester,† and return with him — quickly, now.” Ernakh salutes, hurtling off into the darkness.

Niksar looks to his commander with some puzzlement. “Sentek? We should be away, as quickly as possible—”

“As we shall, Reyne,” Arnem assures his aide, even as he makes no immediate move to depart. “But I will not leave Donner’s body to those madmen.”

Visimar has already begun to nod, suspecting what the sentek plans, while Niksar must wait the few moments that it takes for Linnet Fleckmester to appear, running swiftly with several of his own officers. He is a tall, enormously powerful man, who makes his Broken longbow‡ seem diminutive by comparison. “Aye, Sentek?” he says crisply, saluting smartly.

Arnem indicates the palisades of the garrison structure. “How much fire could your men direct onto that structure as an opening to the coming action, Fleckmester? I want complete immolation, speedily and with intent.”

The master of archers takes his meaning perfectly. “More than enough to serve your purpose, Sentek.” Fleckmester bows to Niksar. “With the greatest of respect and sympathy, Linnet Niksar.”

Niksar remains silent through Fleckmester’s departure, and even then, he can say no more than, “Thank you, Sentek — my family, like myself, will be truly in your debt …” And with that, after a final glance up at what is only the dark shape of his brother, now released from the agonies of both hideous illness and the hatred of the crowd of villagers he had undertaken to protect, Niksar puts his spurs into his white mount and departs, leaving Arnem to study Visimar before he follows.

“I am aware of this latest debt to you, old man,” the commander says, “as I am of the others I have incurred, this day. Be assured of that …”

Before Visimar can reply, Arnem urges the Ox to follow Niksar, and the old cripple makes ready to follow; but he is suddenly consumed by a sensation of being observed, one that he at first chastises himself for believing is coming from the dead body of Donner Niksar. Looking up before he can dismiss his superstition, he realizes it is not the feeling that is mistaken, merely the identification of its source. Against the dark sky that is illuminated by the rising Moon, Visimar sees enormous wings pass over his head in utter silence, just above the garrison walls. While most of the soldiers might be unnerved by such a vision — for the six-foot span of the creature’s wings is greater than the height of some of the troops — Visimar is elated by it.

“Nerthus!”† the cripple calls out with a grin, as the enormous owl (for such the creature is) silently circles downward to settle her twenty pounds of weight — so little, for one of her size and power — upon Visimar’s shoulder and lifted arm, startling the mare upon which he rides. Calming the horse and trotting away from the main body of Arnem’s troops (although still to the west), Visimar explains to the horse, “No, no, my friend, you have no need to fear this bird, although a newborn colt might!” He turns again to the owl, whose neck cranes around and down as only owls’ may, shifting the feathery tufts atop her head — tufts that so resemble ears, or perhaps stern brows — and looks for all the world as though she will tear the old fool’s nose from his face; but Visimar does not fear the motion, and indeed, the owl only opens her beak to gently nibble and lick at the bridge and nostrils between Visimar’s agèd eyes — an indication of the profound trust that can only result from a longstanding, affectionate, and most extraordinary acquaintance. Visimar cannot help but laugh and reach up to run his fingers gently down the bird’s mottled chest feathers.

The owl, it seems, means more than pure affection by its motion, and holds one enormous set of talons up to catch Visimar’s eyes. “Ah?” he noises. “And what do you carry, that is so urgent?”

In the tight black claws are clutched a bundle of flowers and plants: some deep blue, some bright yellow, others knobby and green, but all, Visimar quickly notices by the cleanly cut ends of the stems, harvested by men no more than a half a day earlier. “So …” Trying to calculate the meaning of all this, as he keeps a part of his attention fixed on the advancing mob, Visimar soon reaches a conclusion. “I see,” he says certainly. “Well, my girl, off to your master, and let him see, as well — for you must not stay here to be injured by an arrow from one of these provincial fools, nor from the more precise missiles of the Broken archers. I must away after the sentek — but we shall meet again soon, and in far fewer than the many months it has been this time …”

As if satisfied with the man’s response, the owl again pulls affectionately at a tuft of his grey hair, cutting a little of it loose and bundling it in among the plants. She then spreads her remarkable wings to either side of Visimar’s head and makes for the night skies again. The old man, his mood profoundly changed by the several implications of this encounter, uses his one foot to spur his mount on after Arnem and Niksar.

{vi:}

By the time the two officers and their crippled companion have returned to the troops who will participate in the rearguard engagement, most of the remaining contingents of the Talons have already started eastward away from Esleben, and the head of their column is well along the Daurawah Road. The ten remaining members of the Esleben garrison have remained behind with the rearguard units, looking to Sentek Arnem for direction; and Arnem, in turn, looks subtly to Visimar, uncertain whether the men’s exposure to either their leader’s illness or, in passing, to any grain-based goods in Esleben, should affect his decisions. A subtle twist of Visimar’s head tells Arnem firmly that the garrison troops must not march with the main force; and that the sentek must contrive some mission worthy of the men, while keeping them away until time can tell the danger they pose.

“We would join in the fight, if you will have us, Sentek Arnem,” one tall, gruff veteran man steps forward to say, and general assent to this proposition is proclaimed by the other garrison men. Momentarily at a loss, Arnem soon settles on a solution, turning to the man who addressed him.

“I am impressed by this, Linnet—?”

“Gotthert, Sentek,” the man replies, saluting, “but I do not have the honor to be a linnet, sir.”

“You do now, Gotthert,” Arnem says. “I know the look of a man ready to lead; and so, unless one among your company chooses to contest the appointment …?” All that emerge are expressions of agreement with the sentek’s choice, causing Arnem to smile again. “Well, then, Linnet Gotthert — I have another plan, equally important, in mind for you: under cover of the brawl about to begin, set out for the banks of the Cat’s Paw in the area of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, and judge the preparations of both the Bane, and those patrols of the Merchant Lord’s Guard who keep regular watch in the area of the Fallen Bridge. Your men can get some well-deserved rest, once there, to say nothing of decent food, and then report to me when I bring the column along in no more than two days’ time.” Arnem glances at Visimar, and sees that the cripple does not object to his ploy.

“Very well, Sentek,” Gotthert replies, both disappointed (for his men clearly wish to play some role in avenging Donner Niksar) and relieved that his unit’s ordeal within the stockade is over. Giving his superior a final salute, and receiving one in acknowledgment, Gotthert begins to move toward the southeast, followed by his troops; but Arnem, having observed the look upon Gotthert’s and his men’s faces, delays them for a moment.

“You shall at least see this chastisement of Esleben, Gotthert,” the sentek calls, “which will do double duty as the official pyre for your former commander.” Looking to his right, Arnem finds Fleckmester has drawn up a double line of his strongest bowmen. In front of them burns a shallow trench of pitch and oil, and each man has nocked an arrow with a large, dripping head, and all await only the word to fire.

“Fleckmester!” Arnem calls, holding his own sword aloft. “Collapse the westward wall first, and proceed from there in the necessary order. If any of the townspeople interfere — shoot them down!”

Fleckmester shouts out the commands to light, aim, and loose the fiery shafts: the dried fir logs always favored in the construction of such palisades prove vulnerable to the flames, and in mere moments the whole of the western wall is burning with a fury to give even the madmen from Esleben some pause.

“All right, Taankret,” Arnem calls to the Krebkellen of infantry and cavalry fausten. “You could hardly ask for a more obliging invitation!”

“Indeed, Sentek!” Taankret replies, the marauder blade going high enough in the air for all to see in it the reflection of the raging fire. “Men of Broken — we move!”

Taankret’s words are uttered as the fort’s western wall begins to collapse with loud cracks, sending burning wood aloft amid a storm of sparks, even as the fire spreads to and begins to destroy the southern and northern walls.

“Very good, then, Linnet Gotthert,” Arnem says to the new commander of the garrison troops. “The diversion of your antagonists’ attention is complete — away with you and your men, and Kafra go with you. We shall meet soon, on the banks of the Cat’s Paw!”

Each man of the Esleben garrison salutes both Reyne Niksar and Arnem as they pass; and yet the blue-cloaked troops do not move with full dispatch until they actually see the Esleben fort transformed into a most worthy funeral pyre for a most worthy officer. When the eastern wall of the structure is pulled down at the last by the collapse of the other three, all the men to the west are privileged to watch as the ignoble rope with which Donner hanged himself finally serves an admirable purpose: whipped by the collapse of the wall to which it is fixed, it hurls the body of Reyne Niksar’s young brother high into the air above the flames, even causing Donner’s form to lay out horizontally as it comes crashing down upon the now-enormous pile of pine logs below, which glow and flame in shades ranging from red to orange, from yellow to white. Arnem could not have wished for a better execution of the funereal spectacle, and the sentek is quick to turn to the master archer, Fleckmester, and salute him in gratitude; and the garrison men do the same, as they set out at a run.

The sentek marvels, as he has so many times in his long career, at the resourcefulness of the average Broken soldier. Neither Linnet Gotthert nor any of his garrison comrades could even have suspected what their ultimate duty was likely to be, this night; and yet Arnem now observes their willing disappearance into the darkness, as though their actions were the result of a long and detailed council of war. The sentek takes a moment to reproach himself for the duplicity that underlies the orders he has given them; yet he cannot take a great deal of time for such self-recrimination: although the townsfolk of Esleben, and the people who have been drawn in from the countryside, are moving as mobs will — relying on a few individuals initiating each tentative advance — the pain of the disease that is driving them is clearly mounting, and there is only one spur to rash action more potent than lunacy: sheer physical agony.

Even so, Arnem is able to see the mob are strangely moving past pain, almost as if their sickness is destroying their ability to sense that most potent of physical influences. And, faced with this degenerated behavior among what are, after all, subjects of Broken who must, until very lately, have been no more mad than himself, Arnem finds himself spurring the Ox off to some little distance from Visimar and Niksar, and at the same time — almost thoughtlessly, and by the light of a Moon that has now made its way up over the hills and valleys — searching for the silver clasp that his wife placed in one of his inner pockets before the Talons’ triumphal march out of Broken. When he finds it, he withdraws the thing, and gazes down at the stern, one-eyed face and the portentous ravens it artfully depicts; then, without considering what he is doing, he actually addresses it:

“And so, great Allsveter,” he murmurs, repeating the term that he has sometimes heard his wife murmur when contemplating the thing. “Was it you who inspired a brave young man to end his misery thus?”

Replacing the clasp in his deepest pocket, Arnem shakes his head to clear it of nonsense; but then he hears the discreet voice of Visimar:

“Are you troubled enough to address the gods of old, Sentek? Fearing, perhaps, that Kafra has betrayed his own people?”

Quickly looking to see that Niksar has chosen to bury his grief by personally taking charge of the Wildfehngen units, Arnem glares at the old man harshly. “Nothing of the kind. The object is a meaningless token from my wife, to whom my thoughts turn before any battle, particularly so strange an engagement. Make no more of it, old fool.”

“As you will, Sixt Arnem,” Visimar replies; and then he breathes heavily with concern. “But I fear I must tell you that matters in the home you long for may be growing as wretched as they are here. For the rose fever in Broken, it seems, is spreading …”

Arnem’s face reveals clear bewilderment. “And how come you to know this?” the sentek asks, making ready to join his aide.

“I should almost enjoy telling you that I have employed sorcery,” the cripple replies. “But we have no time for childish games. You shall simply have to trust that I know it — and, it may interest you to know, I have at the same time received further proof that my master yet lives.”

“Truly?” Arnem replies, his interest showing plainly. “I pray so. For, by the look of things, we shall require the keenest of minds soon.”

Visimar eyes him carefully. “Why should the ‘sorcerer,’ the ‘heretic’ Caliphestros, have any interest in serving the needs of Broken? And how could he serve them, in a way acceptable to the rulers of the great kingdom?”

Before Arnem can answer, he receives an urgent request for leadership from Niksar. “I believe that he shall, when he realizes, as we all soon must, what is truly at work in this land.” Then the balled spurs go into the Ox’s side, and Arnem is away. “Reyne!” he shouts. “Ride out to join the left claw with Akillus, and I shall do the same with the right! Let us finish our work quickly, and then push our foes back toward Taankret — let the Krebkellen be completed!”

As the Ox passes before the infantry Wildfehngen—knowing, as such warrior mounts ever do, the importance of the moment and his role in it — the infantry formations begin locking their great, convex skutem shields† about the sides of their three quadrates, while Arnem continues to call out his orders with such authority that not a man misses a word: “Remember, Talons — although I wish no death to befall these people, my concern for your own lives is far greater; and should you find yourselves in peril, I shall not begrudge you a wounding or even a lethal blow — however diseased your enemies may be!”

A roar goes up from the Wildfehngen, who have been unleashed; and the great machine that is this part of Broken’s finest legion sets to work:

High as their emotions are, they never outstrip discipline. Akillus and Niksar’s left fauste of horsemen make quickly for the townsmen, who show the ferocity of madmen collected into throngs: there is no order in their violence, only raw rage, and it is not long before the Broken horsemen have encircled and pressed them into the oncoming foot soldiers. Despite these predictable results, however, a wave of surprise runs through the men of Niksar’s command: for some of the townsmen — those who appear the most afflicted by whatever illness has taken hold of their community — simply keep coming at the soldiers, even after sustaining wounds that would make seasoned warriors flee outright. A few of them seem to notice these wounds so little that Sentek Arnem’s order against inflicting grievous injury must be violated in several cases, so that the maddened townsmen can at least be disarmed — and such disarming, it becomes clear in these several cases, means the taking off of a hand or a limb. Yet even these terrible injuries cause little or no discouragement.

From the baggage train, where he enjoys the youthful protection of the skutaars, Visimar sees this development by the light of the Moon; but the sight gives the old man no amusement or solace.

“Too deep,” he murmurs, repeating his phrase of earlier in the evening. “The Holy Fire has burned too deep into them …” Then, aloud, he calls out: “Ernakh!” Turning, he asks of the young men: “Where is Sentek Arnem’s skutaar, who is called Ernakh?”

Within a few moments, the dark-haired marauder youth is rushed before Visimar, who seizes the lad’s shoulders, as if to shake urgency into him.

“Find your mount, son,” the old man says. “Get to your master, and tell him this: the disease has progressed too far, and many are insensible to pain. As soon as there is a separation between the townspeople and his men, he must retreat with haste!”

“Retreat?” another skutaar calls. “You are mad, indeed, old father, to think that the Talons need retreat before such useless fools!”

“Do as I say!” Visimar commands, keeping his attention fixed on Ernakh, and rightly sensing that the youth enjoys a more serious nature than his fellows. “Your master will thank you when all has finally become clear.” As the boy leaps atop a nearby horse, Visimar turns to the other young men. “And the rest of you — begin moving the equipment of the khotor, even before your commanders return!”

Visimar keeps his still-keen eyes fixed on the white and grey forms of Niksar’s and Arnem’s mounts on the distant field, and the speeding Ernakh riding fearlessly into the violence — and how expertly, the old man thinks, how naturally and with what seriousness does the marauder boy move atop a horse and among men engaged in a fight that is becoming increasingly deadly! The cripple sees Ernakh reach Sixt Arnem’s grey, deliver his message, and receive acknowledgment from the sentek. Almost immediately, the wagons and pack animals of the baggage train begin to move quickly eastward along the darkness of the Daurawah Road, while Visimar remains behind, quietly but desperately urging speed upon Arnem and his men.

It is, in the end, an unnecessary entreaty; for, just as effectively as they have thrashed and herded the townsmen back toward Esleben, the Talons are able to break the Krebkellen formation, form into well-ordered lines of retreat — two abreast, now, rather than four, for speed’s sake — and return past the spot where Visimar is waiting, all long before their opponents can follow. Some Talons bleed from lucky blows scored by the Eslebeners, but most are simply sweating and bewildered; yet they never slow their double-quick march along the Daurawah Road. Arnem, for his part, draws up beside Visimar, breathing hard and allowing the Ox a moment to revel in his reunion with the old man’s mare.

“Well, cripple, Kafra knows how you could tell as much, but they were beginning to seem beyond — or better say below—human: the most grievous wounds imaginable, taken as though they were scratches!”

“I would be surprised if your golden god has any sense of why all this is so, Sentek. It will be my unhappy duty to explain it to you — but let us get your men well away from the evil of Esleben …”

Arnem will not take to the Daurawah Road until the very last of his wounded — all, thankfully, sound enough to ride and march — depart; and Visimar, for his own reasons, will not start without the commander. The appearance of the eagle owl he called Nerthus has proved beyond doubt to the acolyte that the pestilences at work in Broken have spread throughout (although each in different parts of) the western kingdom, likely for the same reasons that caused their appearance further east, in and about Daurawah; and he must make the sentek see that all the towns along the route that they are traveling, where they had thought to find welcome, provisioning, and forage, must now be avoided.

{vii:}

Despite the Talons’ dispatch of the threat at Esleben, questions about the future of the campaign upon which the legion had embarked became more nagging as the force marched east to Daurawah. The enemy had been sickened townsmen, after all, Broken’s own farmers, millers, and traders, many of them women, fighting at the behest of some madness or even of Death himself, who had forced them to dance his deadly round.† Whatever the case, the work there had not been truly fit for such peerless troops as the Talons, and each of them has come to this realization by the time Akillus and his scouting parties report that Daurawah is close; and the mood among the men has grown somber at best. Is this because, after several days of unusually warm, bright weather, the third morning of the soldiers’ march looks, to judge by the dim light and a damp chill in the mist, to be strangely muted? Perhaps; but muted, too, are the sounds of Nature’s world, and they only lessen as the column nears the Meloderna River, an Unnatural, unharmonious development that even Visimar cannot (or will not) explain.

And as the grey light slowly increases and the walls of Daurawah grow closer, it indeed becomes apparent that even the relief and comfort that it was once hoped the port would offer will be denied to Arnem’s men: for the western gates of the place, which no man can ever remember seeing closed, are not only shut, but barred from within and sealed from without. The lack of activity before the northern and southern gates, meanwhile, which front the sharp bend in the Meloderna created by the Cat’s Paw’s emptying into that larger, calmer river, suggests that those portals are similarly sealed — and soon, sounds begin to emerge from within the port’s walls that explain why:

They are the sounds of human beings whose bodies may still walk this Earth, but whose minds are already crossing the Great River, or have completed that journey and arrived in Hel‡ itself. Such are mournful noises, as if those who make them have some faint recognition of what has befallen them, and of how irretrievable the loss has been.

It is not, therefore, any fear that the men of Broken’s Ninth Khotor (the legion that has for over a century guarded Daurawah and the eastern frontier of the kingdom) or some even larger mob of ordinary townspeople will be disgorged from the tightly shut city gates that slows the pace of Sentek Arnem’s Talons as they march steadily toward the walls of the port; rather, it is simple dread of what sights must accompany such terrible sounds as emerge from the place in greater volume with every step they take that holds the soldiers back. It is as if Daurawah — sitting, on its landward side, at the end of a long hillside road, one flanked by inexplicably empty pastureland that ends at the thick strips of forest that line the low banks of the two rivers — has become a place entirely unto itself, one which does not even notice the approach of five hundred soldiers, an event that would ordinarily call for great clamor, either of alarm or welcome. But on this dismal morning, the echoing cries of pain, woe, and confusion continue unabated until the Talons are well along the road leading up to the main gate; yet when they finally halt, it is neither some great increase in the port’s uproar nor a sudden silence that stops them. Instead, the wind — which has been out of the west and at their backs since before dawn — abruptly shifts for but a few moments, so that it comes in off of the wide Meloderna beyond Daurawah, stopping each soldier before he has received any such order to halt. For this wind carries with it the smell of burning human flesh, the stink of hundreds of bodies, which no fire could be large enough, if built within the port’s walls, to burn quickly; not without risk of setting entire town districts afire …

“So many bodies …” Visimar muses through his cloak, which he holds about his nose and mouth. “Matters are already at far worse a pass than even I thought they could be …”

He has brought his mare beside Arnem’s mount, and on the sentek’s opposite flank, as always, is Niksar. “What can we do, Sentek?” the linnet asks. “Daurawah’s gates are nearly immune to violation — and the men of the Ninth are unlikely to let us get close enough to try.”

“Nor would such an attempt bear any fruit, in all likelihood, Reyne,” Arnem replies. “For, as you say, they are much like Broken’s gates — the eight or ten feet of oak at the bottom of each is wholly sheathed in iron plate. And so we will wait. They do not seem to have noticed us: we must observe what happens when they do. In the meantime—” Arnem turns to the men behind him. “Akillus. Dispatch parties of your men down to each of the riverbanks. See if anything has transpired there, or in the water itself …”

Without a word, Akillus signals to several other linnets of scouts, each of whom takes three or four men and makes with typical speed for the Meloderna and the Cat’s Paw at the most approachable points in the steep riverbanks. It requires deft horsemanship, as well as longer periods than the sentek would have thought, for the scouts to return; and few words pass among those who remain as they wait. It is only when they hear the sound of a commotion emanating from one particularly obscure stretch of riverbank, as well as atop the walls of Daurawah, that any general murmuring goes through the officers and ranks of the Talons. When the other scouts reappear, Arnem realizes with aching dread that it is Akillus himself who has raised the alarm; and the commander does not rest easy until he sees his most reliable set of “eyes” finally emerge from the great trees and heavy undergrowth.

Akillus is, as so often, out of breath when he arrives before his commander. Niksar offers water from his own skin, which Akillus gratefully accepts before speaking. “The water gate at the base of the main stairway to the river, along with their wharves, are unmanned — unmanned, and destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Arnem asks, clearly shocked. “To what end?”

“To the same end that the Eslebeners sought,” Akillus declares, shaken by what he has seen. “The same sickness has produced the same goal — save that the people of Daurawah were able to achieve it. You ought to see the Meloderna, Sentek, just below the city — a place of certain death, for men and ships!”

“But they are burning bodies, from the stench,” Arnem replies.

“The bodies of their own dead, yes,” Akillus says. “But the crews of the ships — long ships, for the most part, but other river craft, as well — to say nothing of … well, Sentek, they seem to be Bane, but they have rotted into pieces. And long before they saw Daurawah, I would hazard. Nor are they Bane men alone — there are women and children, too, traders and villagers along with warriors. And come down the Cat’s Paw, or at least, their bodies are along its banks, from what I could see, as well as the Meloderna’s …” Akillus is visibly shaken, and Arnem allows him a moment to gather his wits. “The wretched mess is everywhere.”

“But how?” Niksar puzzles. “Even if the Ninth brought their ballistae† up onto the walls, they cannot have been so successful with them—”

Akillus shakes his head. “No, Niksar. There are markers that set out the most dangerous parts of the bend in the Meloderna, below the town walls. They simply moved these, and let Nature do the work that traps would have done. And the stench — even the lower stretches are littered with the bodies of northern raiders. The Ninth had apparently reserved the ballistae for the caravans from the south — on my return, I saw dozens of dead pack animals, many camels among them, all killed with the great arrows the machines throw: madness has not degraded the Ninth’s skill with artillery,† that much is sure. As for the people of the caravans, some must have been allowed to return home, to tell of the fate with which they met — although most lie in great crowds upon the ground.”

“Shot by archers?” Arnem asks.

“That is the peculiar part,” Akillus answers, genuinely baffled. “Some, yes, shot down — but many killed by hand, primarily the youngest. The Ninth must have been leaving through small doorways in the northern and southern gates in raiding parties, likely by night.”

“It is the pattern of the illness,” Visimar says quietly. “Again, it takes the young first. It arrived here somewhat later, but it did arrive — and when it did, the commander of the legion may have shut all his people, citizens and soldiers alike, into the city; and the madness of the Holy Fire caused those in the caravans to turn upon one another. Sentek, did you not say that this commander was an old comrade of yours?”

“I did,” Arnem replies, quickly and certainly. “The kind of treachery you are describing could never have been his work. Gerolf Gledgesa was not capable of it — I’ve seen him risk his life a hundred times for the honor and safety of Broken and its people, despite his originally having come from a foreign land that lies hard by the Northern Sea, precisely like—” Arnem has been on the verge of saying “your master” to Visimar, in the heat of his indignation, but has caught himself, in part out of tact, in part because of an inscrutable expression that has entered Visimar’s face. “Precisely like some of Broken’s most worthy citizens.”

Visimar pauses, weighing his words carefully. “He may have been murdered, Sentek — whatever the case, you must try to contact whoever now commands the Ninth Legion, for clearly it is being used by him for such strange purposes. Certainly, Lord Baster-kin did not warn you that we would find such conditions here, did he, Sentek?”

All eyes turn to Arnem, who looks at the cripple in shock: it is precisely the sort of statement that he has warned Visimar for three days’ time not to utter in front of the men.

“I beg your pardon, fool?” the sentek answers, with controlled threat that is not unlike the careful drawing of his sword. “Did you dare to bring the name of the Merchant Lord into this, and question his loyalty and honesty? Or am I mistaken?”

“I assure you, you are indeed mistaken,” Visimar replies earnestly; and in the old man’s still-expressive eyes, Arnem thinks he can read a message: I do not intend what you suppose — you must reassure the men that this is a local aberration, that their homes are safe. “My question was honest,” the cripple continues. “If Lord Baster-kin said nothing of this, then he can know nothing of it, which means that whoever commands the Ninth, like the elders of Esleben, has sent no message to either the Merchants’ Council or the Grand Layzin—”

Looking to his men again, Arnem sees that, in their confusion, they wish and almost require Visimar’s statement to be true. “Forgive my quick temper, Anselm,” the sentek says, attempting contrition. “You are right, Lord Baster-kin did not even hint at such disruption. And so we can at least reassure ourselves that the problem is contained to the eastern reaches of Broken—”

But then, finally, it comes: contact with the walls of Daurawah. Taankret is the first to spy movement near the western gate, and he points his sword to the spot.

“Sentek Arnem!” he cries. “A sentry atop the walls!”

Arnem turns the Ox toward the port, and calls, “Make way! Make way, there — he seems to be signaling!”

And indeed, the soldier who has appeared — without either helmet or spear — seems desperate to contact the men below, so wildly do his arms flail about and his mouth open and close, giving the impression that he is shouting, yet with no voice to match the manner.

“Ho!” Taankret bellows. “The southwest tower — another man!”

Arnem stops trying to make out the first soldier’s meaning when he turns to see that the second soldier is waving some sort of bloodstained banner, which appears to have been, originally, a sheet of white silk;† and yet there seems to be little in his behavior to suggest anything concerning surrender. In fact, the two soldiers appear to have little in common, a suspicion that is confirmed when the first soldier takes flight at the merest glimpse of the second. Planting his banner in some sort of bracket inside the battlements, the second soldier draws his short-sword, quickly pursues the first man and, catching him, thrusts the blade deep into the man’s side. He then hurls the screaming unfortunate over the battlements; and for the whole of the thirty-foot fall that follows, the badly wounded soldier’s shrill cries of fear and agony continue, only stopping when he slams into the bare Earth.

All the Talons are struck dumb — but Arnem forces himself to speak, knowing that confusion and panic have suddenly become his greatest enemies:

“Niksar! Anselm!” He is forced to shake the old man’s arm, in order to jog his memory of his assumed name. “Old cripple!” he cries, successfully gaining Visimar’s attention. “You, too, Akillus — come with me. Taankret! Stay here and begin to form into quadrates—the golden god alone knows why our own men are killing both each other and peaceful traders.” Yet Taankret’s ordinarily calm, keen eyes remain fixed upon Daurawah in horror. “Linnet!” Arnem repeats, at which the reliable infantry officer finally turns. “Keep the men busy — eh?”

Taankret salutes smartly. “Aye, Sentek!” And with that, he is off to deliver orders to the other quadrate commanders, as Arnem and his three fellow horsemen set out toward the presumably dead soldier lying near the western gate of Daurawah. When they have covered only half the distance to the man, however, they see that his body is still writhing, and they pause — an action quickly revealed as a mistake. With a rushing roar, something approaches from out of the Heavens, and a thunderous crash throws up a mass of sod and dirt before their horses, who rear up, screaming in rare fright as the officers and their companion take in the sight of the shaft of an enormous bolt: eight feet long and yet another in diameter, its iron head has sunk deep into the ground. It is one of the deadliest weapons hurled by ballistae.

Arnem looks up at the battlements, enraged and bewildered, to see that the several operators of the engine of war are busily dropping boulders the size of small pigs down upon the man who was attacked by his supposèd comrade and thrown from the walls, and whose little chance at continued life is soon crushed, literally, by men he would ordinarily have had every reason to trust.

“You’ve come far enough, Sentek,” the soldier with the white banner calls, as he joins the crew of the ballista. “Do not mistake our intentions by the color of this standard. It was all I could lay hands on, and I thought that the blood that covers it might at least give you pause, if not cause your immediate withdrawal. Given that neither resulted, we were forced to fire. I take it that you are Sentek Arnem?”

“I am,” Arnem answers, not wishing to display the full anger he feels at the pallin’s impertinence, which is as likely the result of lunacy as of disrespect. “I will not ask your name, although I should like to know why a soldier of Broken has lost all respect for rank, if he recognizes it!”

“Oh, make no mistake,” the man says. “I have the greatest of respect for you, Sentek. As I did for that man. But we have had a great deal of trouble determining just who has fallen victim to the foreign demons who are stealing the very souls of Broken. That fellow, for instance — we were old comrades, and even older friends. Recently, however, he’d fallen victim to the disease being spread by unholy forces throughout this entire area. As for you and your men, it was impossible to say with certainty. If some of our own legion have fallen victim to it, why not some of yours, as well?”

“Fallen victim to what, Pallin?” Niksar asks.

“It is a devastating and yet peculiar disease,” the pallin on the wall answers, as if he were discussing a morning’s drill. “At first, very painful — the blood, you see, is somehow stolen from the body, and exchanged for molten metal.† The pain is horrific, and the sufferer becomes enslaved to whomever can stop it. Which, we’ve seen, are the agents of foreign kingdoms, the demon traders. The afflicted continually try to open the gates and allow such enemies in. They’ve even sought the help of the Bane.”

All is silence, on the road below; finally, Akillus murmurs, “The man is a lunatic. Plainly, completely — a lunatic …”

“Sentek Arnem?” the man on the wall bellows. “Our own commander — an old comrade of yours, I believe, Sentek Gledgesa — has agreed to come out of the city to speak with you. But I warn you—”

“‘Warn’ him?” Niksar seethes. “Warn the commander of the Talons? I’ll have the man’s tongue out—!”

But Arnem only replies: “You warn us of what?”

“My comrades are, as you have seen, particularly accurate with their weapon. I would recommend you speak to our sentek alone — with your aide, of course — and that your men attempt no tricks.”

Arnem knows what his answer must be. “Very well, then.”

“One final thing,” the soldier shouts. “Sentek Gledgesa’s vision is gone, but our healers seemed able to stop the degeneration there. His own daughter will guide him out, and what applies to him, applies to her. The girl’s speech has been stolen, but our healers have kept her alive.”

“A daughter …” Arnem murmurs softly. “Gerolf has a daughter …?” Then he shouts: “Tell your commander that he and any dear to him will be safe with me. I believe that he will understand that. I shall meet him halfway between here and the gate.”

“You are as wise as your reputation states, Sentek Arnem,” the soldier replies, saluting casually. And at that, the echoing sound of heavy iron locks being thrown becomes audible, and Arnem’s men look to see a smaller doorway, just large enough for a man upon a horse, opening in the greater structure.

Before moving forward, Arnem turns to Niksar. “If, for any reason, I do not return, Reyne — I shall need you to get the men back to Broken.”

“But—” Niksar protests haltingly. “He has told us you are to bring—”

“I’ll take the old man, instead; if Gledgesa is in the desperate condition he describes, he will be of more use …” Arnem does not reveal his true reason for taking Visimar to meet Gerolf Gledgesa, a reason that he suspects the old man may guess at: for the truth is, the two officers, Arnem and Gledgesa, shared the duty of escorting the Kafran priests during their ritual mutilations, so long ago; and both were present, the day that Visimar’s leg was severed and the man himself left to die on the edge of Davon Wood …

{viii:}

As Arnem and Visimar move up the road toward the walls of Daurawah and the figures of Gerolf Gledgesa and his daughter, who have appeared on horse and pony, respectively, from out of the smaller doorway in the great port’s western gate, the old man remains silent, and slowly reins his mare, against her will, off the Ox’s pace, until he is riding some twelve to fifteen feet behind the sentek. The cripple knows what must be going through the commander’s mind: for no man of integrity can face the decay and death of a friend, particularly a friend alongside whom he has faced death on a score of occasions, without a deep sense of wretched sadness and of his own mortality. Visimar therefore does not burden the sentek with practical pressures and details at this moment. Time will press, soon enough — in truth it is pressing, already; but not so hard that the last meeting of two good men can justly be curtailed or tainted.

The three horses and one pony finally stop their painfully slow progress when a space of perhaps ten feet separates them. The young girl next to Gledgesa (a delicate, once-pretty child, Arnem supposes, who now wears bandages and scarves wrapped around her neck, as well as from the top of her skull to her lower jaw, beneath which the windings are tied tight, leaving only the upper part of her face, particularly her lovely, light eyes, open to view) reaches up to rein in her father’s giant, dark stallion to a stop with the lightest of touches; and as soon as the horse has halted, his rider grins beneath two eyes covered by a soft silken bandage. Arnem’s heart sinks far deeper when he sees what has become of his old friend: the same signs of living decay that he and his troops have so often observed during their current march eastward cover Gledgesa’s once proud, powerful body, beneath his elegantly appointed leather armor.

A formidable warrior sprung from that rare breed of seksent that combines handsome features with an equally well formed and hugely powerful body, Gledgesa had originally been a mercenary, who had indeed come from the lands northeast of the Seksent Straits to Broken because he was tall enough to pass for a respected worshipper of Kafra. Arnem had met him some twenty years before this morning, when both young men had been selected, as a reward for valor, to move from the regular army to the Talons. But, although they had risen together — Gledgesa ever the fiery-eyed, intrepid warrior who delighted at being first into any enemy’s front line, while Arnem, although no less fierce, was a more even-headed soldier who could comprehend the full range of threats posed to his men — it had always been plain from their complementary natures that, while each was consistently showered with glory, Gerolf Gledgesa had come to Broken for money, not laurels: after all, a kingdom, the patron god of which delighted in the amassing of wealth, had seemed ideally suited to a mercenary. Gledgesa, like many a similar aspirant, had not ultimately found the rumors of Broken’s boundless wealth to be accurate; or rather, he had found them to be so only if the aspirant was willing to subject himself to the tenets of the Kafran faith and state. And so, Gledgesa had elected to leave the Talons and take command of the unique Ninth Legion, composed wholly of fast-moving freilic troops, most of them lightly armed cavalrymen tasked with making themselves available along the entire eastern frontier of the kingdom — where the possibilities for seizing prize monies and goods happened to be most abundant.

During the time that he commanded the Ninth, Gledgesa slowly became estranged from the rapidly rising Arnem, each of the two men explaining the drift by citing their new duties and physical distance; but there was another and far truer cause for the estrangement, one that went back to the beginning of their comradeship before the Torganian war, and that involved the shared duty that, as time passed, both men found increasingly difficult to live with as a private memory, much less a public one: the guarding of the Kafran priests’ mutilation and exile rituals on the banks of the Cat’s Paw. In particular, it was the fiendishly bloody rites that they had been forced to observe being inflicted upon Caliphestros and Visimar that had brought about, not only their resignations from the much-coveted guardianship of the priests, but the beginning of their estrangement, as well.

Neither man had ever been able to state, precisely, why their mutual objections and protests should have driven them apart. It had been for wise Isadora to later explain to her husband how shared shame often eats at friendships so relentlessly that the glories of triumph can do little to preserve the bond. Thus, while in later years the company of a man with whom one has achieved honorable glory will always be welcome, the mere sight of a comrade with whom one has played even an involuntary part in foul actions, can bring the sense of shame back again with full, vivid force.

And for this reason, these two men — whose last glimpse of one another was long enough ago that Gledgesa has had time, in the interval, to father and raise a child who is now, Arnem would guess, some eight or nine years old — face each other on the plain east of Daurawah, each not quite knowing, for all their bygone years of comradeship, just what to expect of the other …

In characteristic fashion, Gledgesa’s grin widens, or widens as much as his distorted features will allow. “Forgive me for not saluting, Sixt, old friend, as well as for failing to invite you into Daurawah. But the salute might well crack one of my chalk-like bones; and you mustn’t try to enter the port — not now. I haven’t let any Broken troops in or out—not since it became apparent that the Cat’s Paw is now poisoned.”

Arnem spins to face Visimar, who, for his part, is busy staring at Gledgesa in a manner that tells Arnem he indeed remembers the now-ravaged soldier’s presence at his Denep-stahla.

“Did you come by the river?” Gledgesa asks. “And see the bodies?”

“No, Gerolf. We stayed on the main road, to forage in and about Esleben.”

“Esleben!” Gledgesa attempts a laugh, one that dissolves into a hideous cough: a cough reminiscent of the final moments of Donner Niksar, who Gledgesa soon mentions: “I suppose you learned the truth about those ignorant, treacherous townspeople from young Niksar’s brother, as I hoped you would.” He coughs again, at which his daughter reaches up to attempt to put a comforting hand to his shoulder, although she can manage only his forearm. As she does so, she begins to hum a most pleasant and soothing plainsong† for her father. Gledgesa gently presses her hand and then removes it, although the effect upon his symptoms of her touch and song has been immediate. “It’s all right, Weda.‡ I will be fine, as will you.” The girl continues to hum her plainsong. “But you must meet my oldest friend, Sentek — nay, Yantek Sixt Arnem, commander of the Army of Broken, if the heralds from the great city are to be believed!”

Arnem looks down into the girl’s tightly swaddled face, or at the upper half that is visible; and if her father’s crisp blue eyes and golden hair, which she has inherited fully, are any indication, she is indeed a lovely child, who inspires immediate pity for the suffering she silently endures. Knowing that she cannot speak, Arnem says, “Hello, Weda,” and then rushes to add, “Do not try to reply, I know that you are too ill. I have a daughter almost exactly your age — it must be hard to stay silent, even if you are unwell.”

“You’ve been told she’s ill?” Gledgesa says, his blinded head moving from side to side, as if he might defeat the silk bandage that covers his corrupted eyes by finding a way around it.

“Yes,” Arnem replies carefully. “By those extraordinary sentries on your walls.” He cannot help but laugh. “You were always talented with ballistae and catapults, Gerolf — and you have evidently shared your secrets.”

Having brought up a mouthful of phlegm with an attempt at laughter, Gledgesa spits it out; and Visimar sees that its color is so ruby red as to almost be black. “Those maniacs,” he murmurs in disgust. “We’ve had enemies enough, without their creating more.”

“‘Enemies enough’?” Arnem echoes. “The northerners?”

“The northerners alone would have been manageable,” Gledgesa replies, his voice weakening. “Them, along with the easterners, we learned how to either treat with or punish long ago. But the armies behind these southern caravans, both the Byzantines and the Mohammedans … They’ve wanted to destroy us for years, and may even have worked out the method, now. And this new breed of river pirates is leading the way. Just who is paying whom, and why, I don’t know, but it will gut the kingdom, if it goes on.”

“Gerolf — you speak of the poisoning of the river?” Arnem asks.

“I know, Sixt, you likely find it inconceivable,” Gledgesa says. “But I’ve been writing to the council for weeks; sending dead bodies to prove the point, and not only those of the Bane. The first of my own men to fall, as well. I even sent reports to Baster-kin himself. Nothing’s come of it. And now, of a sudden, we receive a message that all this devastation has actually been the work of the Bane? And that you’re leading a campaign to destroy them?”

“You doubt both points, Gerolf,” Arnem says. “Yet to each, I would ask — who else?”

“Anyone else, Arnem,” Gledgesa responds desperately, his voice fading. “The Bane? Devastation of this order? There are too many contradictions. Many of my own men and their people are dying, yet they do not drink from the river — like any garrison, we have our own well. Suppose the Bane have tainted the Cat’s Paw — how did they manage to despoil that reserve? And try to crush them — yourself and your Talons? What do you know of warfare in the Wood, Sixt? What do any of us? And what’s to happen when these other foreign armies enter the kingdom while you’re fooling about with the exiles? And enter they will: they’re planning the end of Broken, I tell you, Sixt — but what’s just as clear is that they’ve had some kind of help from within the kingdom. I’m not certain just who — the council, Baster-kin, the Layzin, even the God-King — or why, or if those internal partners even realize the true danger of what they’re about—”

Suddenly, Gerolf Gledgesa’s impassioned plea sends him into a paroxysm of coughing. The attack becomes so severe that he slumps to the side of his stallion’s neck, then slips off his saddle altogether. He slams to the ground on his shoulder, screaming once in uncontrollable pain. His daughter’s face grows terrified, and she quickly dismounts, sliding down the side of her pony and, as she does, loosening the bandages below her chin. With her attention desperately fixed on her father, she does not notice as those bandages fall away—

And when they do, the whole of her lower jaw begins to come away with them. The rot in her body has destroyed those joints altogether, as well as much of the skin of her lower face; but this is not the most astounding thing about the condition, for all its horror. No, even more amazing is that there is no evidence the girl feels what is happening at all.

Arnem, who has rushed to Gledgesa’s side, glances up at his friend’s child; but Visimar hurriedly limps to the girl, and deftly relocates the jaw, rewrapping the bandages more tightly. Weda herself is no more than embarrassed by this event, and with her hands and a few plaintive moans urges Visimar to help her father. The cripple obliges, seeming no more concerned for the child than she is for herself.

“What are you doing, old fool?” Arnem nearly shouts. “Gerolf has only fallen, but the girl’s face—”

“He has not ‘only fallen,’ Sentek,” Visimar answers evenly, his thinking never clouded. “His ribs have begun to collapse, and if he is not rushed to a resting place, he will die in a very short time.” Arnem looks to his old comrade, who is barely conscious: so labored has his breathing become that it seems he is being strangled from within. Yet, despite this plain truth, Arnem’s own fatherly instincts will not allow him to simply ignore Weda, and he moves toward her, forcing Visimar to roughly grasp his arm.

“Wait, Sixt Arnem, wait!” the old man whispers. “Look at her, look at her — she feels no pain!”†

The sentek looks into the girl’s placid eyes — and sees that the cripple is correct. “No pain,” he murmurs, stunned and saddened. “But, then …”

“Aye,” Visimar replies. “The fire wounds have reached their last stages.” Putting his mouth close to Arnem’s ear, the old man whispers urgently: “They will both be dead before nightfall — and we must away, Sentek, — look at the soldiers above. They believe we attacked their commander, who I fear may be little more than their prisoner, and are preparing that machine again, and bringing a second up—”

Arnem’s reaction is predictable: “No, Visimar! I will not allow a collection of maddened renegades to doom one of our greatest soldiers!” The sentek cups his hand: “Niksar! Akillus! A fauste of cavalry, quickly!”

Both young officers have been awaiting such an order: for they have gathered a group of hard-looking horsemen, who thunder out onto the plain before the city. Gledgesa grabs at the sentek’s shoulder.

“Visimar!” he seethes, choking up blood with every word and breath. “Did I hear that name, Arnem, or have I finally lost my mind altogether?”

“You have not, old friend,” Arnem says gently; and then he looks up when he hears the thunderous sound of the long-barred western gate of Daurawah being drawn back. “It appears your men intend to rescue you, Gerolf,” Arnem says, chuckling in what he hopes will be a reassuring way: a reminder of their old campaigns, when it was common to laugh in the midst of great danger. “So I must be quick. I found Visimar, or rather he found me. He was alive, and in Broken — and I brought him along on this campaign, not least with you in mind.”

“Visimar … If only it were possible — there is much I would say …”

“It is possible, Sentek Gledgesa,” Visimar answers, kneeling as best he can by the dying man. “And you have said all you need say, as has Sentek Arnem. I forgive you for any part you played in my torment, and rejoice that you risked so much to oppose the mutilations.”

“And you accept my — apologies?” Gledgesa forces himself to ask. “Inadequate as I know they are?”

“I do. And now, you and your daughter must rest, Sentek, and prepare yourselves. You must give her courage as you both cross the river …”

“Then you can help us embark upon that journey?” the blind man asks.

“Fear not, Gerolf Gledgesa, for yourself or your daughter. You shall mount and cross the Arch of All Colors that spans the Waters of Life, and Geldzehn the Guardian shall take you both into the Hall of Heroes. Hel shall not use the crime against me that you and Sentek Arnem witnessed, when you were both mere servants of the Kafran priests, as a justification for dragging you to her terrible realm — I release you, in the presence of your gods and mine, from that burden.”

“River?” Arnem is confused. “But, Gerolf, you said the rivers are—”

“We speak of another river, Sixt,” Gledgesa replies, in an uncharacteristically gentle way. “Another river altogether. Visimar knows it … And I thank you, old man. Sixt — put my daughter’s hand in mine, and put me on my feet. Then go, old friend.”

“Damn it, Gerolf! There may yet be something Visimar can do, I have seen his healing skills—”

“There is naught, Sixt — no help of that sort, I mean …” Arnem helps Gledgesa up and Visimar guides the girl Weda to his side, again making certain her bandaging is sound as Arnem puts the girl’s hand into her father’s. “I trust those are your horsemen I hear,” Gledgesa continues. “We ate all but a few of our mounts long ago. So — let me return without your life upon my conscience.” The blind man reaches into the air, not expecting Visimar to touch him, but signaling his contentment, and urging the cripple, too, to go. “And thank you again, old man, for removing our part in your torment from my shoulders, where it has weighed heavily for so long …”

All that happens next happens too quickly for the grief-stricken Arnem to comprehend fully; unable to watch Gerolf Gledgesa attempting to mount his horse on his own, he helps his comrade, while Visimar does the same for the almost weightless Weda. Father and daughter begin to walk their horses to what must be their ends in Daurawah, the city’s commander calling out as best he can to his own troops, ordering them to halt. Akillus and Niksar arrive with their determined horsemen to guard the sentek as he mounts the Ox, and to help Visimar get astride his mare. Then the ride back begins, Arnem’s face a mask, not only of terrible sorrow, but of contrition.

“I am as ashamed as I can ever remember being, old man,” Arnem says. “I pray your judgment was correct.”

“About this moment, it was, Sentek, although your shame is understandable,” Visimar replies. “But for now, you must steel yourself — bend that shame to other purposes. For, when you fully understand the injustices that lie beneath these ugly circumstances — then, Sentek, you will find answers, and true justice.” He pauses, seemingly awed by the magnitude of the task he himself has described. “Let us only hope,” he murmurs in conclusion, “that we survive to witness it …”

{i:}

Heldo-Bah stands before an ancient ash tree, the bark of which is so deeply wrinkled and roughly surfaced as to remind him of the dried, grey skin of a hag seeress, to whom he once traded a fine seksent knife for what proved to be the woman’s utterly worthless assurance that a half-marauder whore with whom he had passed a recent night near Daurawah was clean of disease, and that his chafed loins had actually been caused by riding a stolen Broken warhorse back to the Cat’s Paw. He allows his rigid body to fall into the bark of the ash’s trunk in such a way that his head strikes first: such has been the effect on his mind and spirit of an argument between Keera and Veloc that has raged since he himself ran back into their camp the day before to relate the news of his rediscovery of Caliphestros’s place of exile. Keera is convinced that she must go to meet this all-important character on her own, worrying that Veloc and Heldo-Bah will bungle the matter if they accompany her. For his part, Veloc is concerned, not only for his sister’s safety, but for her soundness of mind, as well; while Heldo-Bah has by now reached the simple hope that someone — a noble, merciful tree, if needs must — will knock him unconscious and end the wretchedness of listening to his friends debate again and again the same points.

“You have never in your life shown true respect for the tenets of the Moon, Veloc,” Keera snaps at her brother, her voice having grown hoarse. “Why, then, do you now show such sudden deference?”

“I’ve told you twenty times, sister!” Veloc protests.

“… closer to fifty …,” Heldo-Bah murmurs, quietly and uselessly, as his head slams into the trunk of the ash again.

“It is one thing to question the faith among men and women,” Veloc declares, paying Heldo-Bah no mind. “I will grant you that I have sometimes done so, often for the pure and idiotic amusement of it. But by Kafra’s rotting bunghole, Keera, when you introduce the white panther herself into this discussion—”

“Fool — you make my argument for me!” Keera shouts, her round face now blazing red. “If, in fact, we are contending with the animal who possesses the noblest and most powerful spirit in all the Wood, then she will not be fooled by your momentary airs of devotion and solemnity — indeed, she will only kill us all the more quickly, when you assume them! You may lie as you wish to the women in the towns and villages you visit, Veloc, you may even, on occasion, persuade the Groba to believe your tales; but if you think for an instant that this panther will not sense your untrue voice and words — I tell you, you must not even attempt it!”

“What, then?” Veloc demands, his own voice exhausted.

“… suicide …,” Heldo-Bah mutters, after which comes the dull thud† of his head striking the tree once more.

“But do you seriously propose that we allow you to go into that place alone, Keera?” Veloc presses once more. “It’s madness! We are faced with the greatest sorcerer ever known to the Tall — so great that he has created, in the worst part of this Wood, a garden that Heldo-Bah says has grown to rival, in beauty as well as bounty, any in the glades about Okot, or even in the Meloderna valley—”

“… far superior, in fact …” Heldo-Bah agrees, now clinging to consciousness, as well as to the ash trunk, by the barest of threads, yet unconcerned with his condition.

“—and in this miraculous place,” continues Veloc, “this place that is plainly governed by sorcerous arts of a kind at which we cannot even guess, this master of black arts lives with this — this wild creature! All this, I might add, only after he survived the Halap-stahla—which neither man nor demon has ever done! How will you stand up to such a being, I should like to know?”

“I will not, you idiot.” Keera bitterly pushes her face close to her brother’s. “I will have no need to. Both panther and sorcerer will sense my sincerity, and deal with me fairly: such great spirits do not demean themselves with the sort of petty viciousness you describe, Veloc. And later, after I have explained to them the — the peculiarities exhibited by you and our touched friend, over there, who—” Glancing at the last member of their party, Keera stops shouting for a moment. “Heldo-Bah — what in the Moon’s name are you doing to yourself?”

“If death will free me from this squabble …,” Heldo-Bah says, through lips that are crushed into deep grooves of the ash tree’s bark, “Then I swear to you, I almost welcome it … Blood of the Moon, Veloc! When, tell me, please, when have you ever judged a predicament more wisely than Keera?” Seeing that Veloc has no answer, Heldo-Bah moves away from the tree at last and bellows, “And so why, in the name of all that is unholy, are we still talking about this?”

“Quiet, fool!” Veloc whispers. “They may hear you — if they really are but two rises away, the sound will certainly—”

“They will hear me, cuckolder?” Heldo-Bah interrupts. “Oh, that is a new depth of dishonesty and dim-wittedness, even for you — the pair of you have been shouting at each other throughout the night. There’s nary a creature in Davon Wood that hasn’t heard you! Heard me … I hope the sorcerer hears me, that he may come and put an end to all this idiocy — that is, if he’s not somewhere around us right now! In fact, he likely is — indeed, he’s probably been here the entire time—” Without turning, Heldo-Bah points accusingly at the tree beneath which the three made their camp the night before: a broad, sheltering oak that stands nearby, protected by the coming together of two relatively small but sharp ridges in the slope of the mountain. “Yes — probably right in that damned tree, having himself a fine old laugh at how petty and imbecilic the Bane can be—”

Heldo-Bah stops suddenly, his arm still in the air. “Ahhh,” he noises, just as a man might release his final breath. “Your cursèd, endless talk, Veloc … Ficksel …” The word is less a curse, on this occasion, than a statement of submission, even a kind of obscene prayer; and, blood-speckled as the upper part of his face may be, it quickly loses all inner color, while his lower jaw falls open ever wider.

“Heldo-Bah,” Keera says. “What is it — have you done yourself actual harm, you foolish—” She moves toward him, producing a small, clean kerchief, ready to mop the blood from his forehead and face. “You look as though you’ve seen a vision of your own death—”

“As I may well have,” Heldo-Bah says. “But — I was wrong concerning one detail. They are not in the oak.” Keeping his arm high, he points all the more urgently, now, just to the left of the oak, where, another ten feet along, stands a beautiful elm. Its delicately laced branches are markedly undamaged, for its being so high on the windswept mountain. “Death and his handmaiden — or is it the other way round? No matter, for there they are — in that elm …”

Keera and Veloc turn to follow their friend’s indication, and when they catch sight of the cause of his gaping shock, their faces and jaws, too, droop open.

Along the crotch of two long, low limbs of the elm lies a pale, glowing form, draped as one might a luxuriant white cloth upon a table, if one were expecting honored guests, or perhaps as one would bedeck an altar. But the folds of this drape are undulating: because, apparently, whatever is beneath it breathes, and the many lines of its surface are not, in fact, ripples of fabric, but the folds of powerful muscles. Toward the left extreme, two brilliant green orbs shine out, lit as if by the sun — despite the fact that the sun is not shining directly upon the spot. Finally, at each end, two long, lazy legs stretch and steady the apparition, while toward its rear, a tail flicks gently, very gently, its languorous movements speaking not of carelessness but of the near-effortless speed with which the creature itself could deliver death, if such a fancy should strike her.

Above this sight, the three foragers can just make out another form; and, once the cloud that has in fact been momentarily blocking the sun passes, this figure is clarified. Two human arms rest casually on elm branches as if they were arms of a chair, while the half-legs lie atop the haunches of the lounging creature below. Greyed hair streaked by patches of snowy white is scarcely contained by a faded black skullcap, while the long, hanging beard would seem to have been washed and combed, recently — or perhaps, given its rich fullness, even groomed with a boar-bristle brush. But the eyes, like those of the beast, catch the light of the day in such a way that they seem not to do so at all, but rather to radiate their own inner fire: an effect that is increased by the seeming smiles that fill the features of both forms, in the rather disconcerting manner of hungry hunters toying with their next meal.

“Let your arm drop, Bane,” the man says quietly, indicating Heldo-Bah with a nod of his chin. Then he pauses thoughtfully, contemplating his own words. “Well — that is odd. The first words I have spoken to another human in …” He quickly sharpens his wits and fastens his attention on the foragers once more. “Allow the wise young female among you to see to your head. You may indeed have done yourself some small injury, although I blame you not for it. It really was a most inscrutable conversation. Amusing, however …”

Keera is the first to recover herself: she thrusts the kerchief into Veloc’s hands, and says, “Get him cleaned up.” She then begins to walk, slowly and deliberately, toward the elm tree, wanting to examine the visitors but forcing herself to turn her gaze respectfully toward the ground.

“Health and long life to you,” she murmurs quietly, angry that she cannot keep her voice from trembling. “Lord Caliphestros …”

“I thank you, young Keera,” Caliphestros answers, in all sincerity and with a nod of appreciation. “Though the first of your wishes, regrettably, is no longer possible, while the second holds only limited interest for me. But why do you avert your eyes?”

“Is it not done?” Keera asks with some concern. “Upon encountering such superior creatures as yourselves?”

“Tetch,” noises Caliphestros. “I am no such thing. Although I cannot offer any similar assurance, so far as my companion is concerned. She cares precious little for humans, I know that much — but as for her being entirely of this world, well … Though a man of science, I have often had my doubts. But why do you all exhibit such surprise? Certainly, it was you yourselves who, some years ago, came upon our home, after you had received the packet of documents from my friend here.”

Her body quivering with sudden realization, Keera turns to Veloc and Heldo-Bah quickly. “The letters …”

“So it was him,” Veloc answers quietly. “Just as you suspected, Keera.”

Heldo-Bah closes his eyes. “Thank Kafra’s golden stones and the Moon itself that we bothered to deliver the damned things …”

“I don’t understand,” Caliphestros says. “Surely, when you saw who my messenger was, and then followed her to our dwelling—”

“But we never did see her, my lord,” Keera replies. “We found the leather pouch in the center of our camp, when we awoke one morning. And, while it is true that we followed the tracks of a panther that we thought might be the white legend to what we supposed to be your camp, we never saw either of you. Indeed, Heldo-Bah, there—”

Heldo-Bah looks at Keera as if identifying him with her mere finger has been little short of signing his death warrant; but he feebly raises a hand and bows his head. “My lord,” he mumbles, not knowing what else to say.

“—he thought that the panther we had tracked had likely killed and consumed you, and that such explained why, although your camp seemed perfectly tended, we did not see any signs of life.”

“Ha!” Caliphestros laughs, plainly pleased by every aspect of this story. He looks down at the panther, who turns her head up to him and slowly closes and opens her eyes several times in deep affection, seemingly knowing that she is at least one of the causes of her companion’s merriment. The old man reaches down to scratch the top of the head that rises, atop the animal’s extending, powerful neck, to meet his fingers. “There truly is no end to this one’s cleverness …”

Bringing his hand back up, Caliphestros indicates the foragers once more. “When she returned so soon, I knew that you, or other Bane as capable as yourselves, were about, and that, being members of a curious and intrepid race, you would not be able to resist at least an attempt to find the lair of what you might well think to be the fabled white panther of Davon Wood, whose tracks would have been near the pouch when you discovered it. And so, we withdrew into our cave, and left you to wonder at all the mysterious circumstances you had encountered. And, let me only say that I owe you great gratitude, for had you not so decently taken the pouch to my acolytes, I could not have survived these many years.”

Heldo-Bah thrusts an elbow into Veloc’s side. “There, you see? I told you, did I not, that delivering those things without informing the Groba would be both profitable and decent, just as he says?”

Returning his friend’s sharp blow in kind, Veloc whispers, “Save that the word ‘decent’ never crossed your lying lips!”

Caliphestros sees Keera lift her head for but an instant to steal a peek at the panther, then lower her eyes again in deference; and the old man nods in true appreciation, which is augmented when he hears that Stasi has begun to purr. “It would seem that my companion also recognizes her debt to you: she has remembered your scent, and particularly wishes you to feel at your ease, Keera — you should feel honored, for she not only does not trust humans, as a rule, but nearly always sets out to kill any with whom she crosses paths.”

“Indeed I do feel honored, lord,” Keera says, still with great humility. “For she is famed among all our tribe as the most righteous and powerful of woodland spirits — a noble soul with a mighty heart. One of our fellow foragers claims to this day to have seen her kill nearly every member of a Broken hunting party, long ago.”

Caliphestros studies the young Bane woman further. “Your homage is well stated, young lady. I have long known of the deference your people show the great cats of the Wood: but in you there is something else — something more than mere fear or deference.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keera answers with a quick nod. “If my agreement is not unacceptably vain.”

“It is not. You are a woman who exhibits graceful strength, integrity, deep knowledge, and compassion. Do not ever apologize for such qualities, Keera, for in the vicious, mendacious world of men, they are the finest and most powerful gifts that anyone can hope to possess.” Caliphestros leans forward, stroking his grey beard and suddenly realizing just how long the thing has become, and how much of that length is no longer grey, but white. “And so, please, bring your eyes up, if you can bear the sight of the deteriorating, mutilated man before you, that we may converse the easier. As for Stasi — if your friends do not hold her gaze for too long, until she has grown as tolerant of their scents as she is pleased by yours, she shall not strike at them. Not so long as you are present, at any rate.”

Keera, eagerly but nonetheless slowly, turns upward, letting her eyes run the length of the panther and then settle on the green jewels that are set into her proud face; and for an instant, she feels a deep chill of mournful recognition. “I — it is said, in our village, that she is so fearsome because she sprang from the loins of the Moon itself, which gave her such color, brilliance, and almighty power …”

“I have heard this tale.” Caliphestros lifts his head, ever more intrigued by this small woman of great wisdom. “But you think otherwise …”

“I — with all respect, my lord, I believe I know otherwise.”

“Indeed? And you may simply call me Caliphestros, Keera. It was my name, when there were other humans to use it, and so I suppose it must become such again.” A thought occurs to him. “Do you know the meaning of your own name, by any chance?”

Keera quickly shakes her head. “No. Caliphestros.”

Watching this extraordinary scene, Heldo-Bah begins to moan, his upper body rocking back and forth. “She has called actually him by his name alone — without his title. We are dead men, dead, dead, dead …”

“Stop it,” Veloc hisses, cuffing his friend a quick blow to the head.

“You two will be silent,” Caliphestros says, more forcefully than angrily — but his tone is nonetheless stern enough that the panther punctuates his remark by eyeing the two small men and letting out the short, low growl that such creatures employ as a warning call to those immediately about them. The old man reaches down to stroke her haunch as his gaze returns to Heldo-Bah and Veloc. “Do not suppose that my gratitude is infinite,” he says, “for I know that foraging, while vital to your people’s survival, is also employed as punishment, on occasion. And at first blush, the pair of you have the sort of habitually contrite expressions that would mark Bane who have undertaken their foraging under precisely such disgraced circumstances.” Caliphestros deliberately softens his aspect and voice, once more, as he looks again to Keera. “Yours is a name from far to the south,” he continues. “From the Sassanid empire, which some call Persia. Do you know of it?”

Keera shakes her head modestly. “No, Cali—” Her voice falters. “I beg your pardon, but may I not call you ‘my lord,’ for now? I find that I feel impertinent, doing otherwise. Perhaps, with time, this will change …”

“Wiser and wiser,” replies Caliphestros, as he slowly nods once or twice. “Very well, Keera. It is a beautiful, indeed a fine name, intended for those who are gifted with sight: to see far and truly — in all ways. Which, I suspect, you do.”

“She does that, my lord,” Veloc says, putting one hand to his chest and holding the other arm out before him, assuming his best historian’s pose. He then declaims further, and just as clownishly: “There is no greater tracker in our tribe, nor a wiser head—”

“If you wish to keep your head, boy,” Caliphestros interrupts, “and the throat beneath it, then mind your tongue until your opinion is requested.” He gives Keera a rather conspiratorial glance. “Your brother, eh? I heard you mention as much, during your argument — and it would more readily explain why one of your character keeps such questionable company as his.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keera replies. “But he is not as great a fool as he sometimes sounds. A good man, in fact, but he has long had the ambition to be the historian of our tribe, which ofttimes causes him to take on airs.”

“Historian, eh?” Caliphestros echoes. “Indeed? And to what school of history do you belong, Veloc?”

Again assuming the absurd pose of the orator, Veloc asks, “My lord? I fear I do not understand you — what school of history?”

“Yes,” Caliphestros says, plainly entertained. “History is, among many other things, a long war, Veloc — a war between factions, each of which is as fanatical as any army. So — are you an annalist, for example, like the great Tacitus? Or perchance you seek moral lessons in the lives of great men, as did Plutarch.” Reading utter consternation in the handsome Bane’s features, the old man tries not to laugh aloud, and queries further, “No? Perhaps you admire the books of the estimable Bede, from across the Seksent Straits. He was once a friend of mine — although I do not know if he yet lives.”†

“I know none of these names, lord.” Veloc’s mask of pride, now undercut by confusion, grows naught but sillier. “And I must ask — what has history to do with books?”

“Ah,” noises Caliphestros. “So you speak the tales of history, do you, Veloc?”

The handsome Bane shrugs. “What else should a true historian do, my lord? Were history to be recorded in books, why … How should we know who put it there? Or where it originated, and what part is fact, what legend, and what mere myth? Only spoken knowledge, handed down through the generations from wise man to pupil, over and over, can offer us such integrity — should any of our number speak lies, his fellows will likely catch him at it, whereas the lies of a man who writes books will long outlive him, with no one left to tell of his deceptions!”

Stroking his beard slowly, Caliphestros studies Veloc for a few silent moments. “He is either more intelligent than he sounds and appears,” the old man muses quietly, “or wholly unaware that he has grazed a deep truth. And I am not certain which I find the more disconcerting …” Coming out of this reverie, Caliphestros fixes his grey gaze on Keera again. “And so, my sharp-eyed girl — you saw something in Stasi’s face, before we were interrupted. I believe so, at any rate.”

“I may be wrong, of course, lord,” Keera carefully murmurs. “But — it is a thing, I have noticed, a thing that certain animals, even though they be as different as man to panther, can sense in each other. The loss — the death — of a loved one. Loved ones.”

Caliphestros’s brow ripples suddenly with profound sorrow. “You have lost children?”

“Not — yet,” Keera answers softly. “But … my husband. The only man I have ever loved.” She nods quickly, without turning, in the direction of her companions. “Loved, that is, as a wife should — with affection, admiration, and—”

There follows a pause, which Caliphestros fills for the modest Keera: “And desire, my girl. Eh?” At a quick nod from her, the old man elaborates: “There is no shame in it, Keera, nor embarrassment, save for those who have never known such love. Was it the illness that has struck your people?”

Keera’s lips tremble, much as the old man’s did, only an instant earlier; and in her desperation to maintain her dignity, she lets the fact that Caliphestros seems to already know of the plague in Okot pass. “He — he was taken, just a few days ago. The pestilence has come to several parts of the town we call Okot. Two of my children are also—” Keera fights back the tide of weeping that is rising in her breast and throat; but a lone tear finally escapes, to fall heavily upon her cheek, and drift down it.

The panther sets her pointed, tufted ears sharply forward, and picks her proud head up. But her green eyes fix, not on the forest about the camp, but on what seems to be Keera’s face. Or is it her throat? Veloc and Heldo-Bah ask each other with quick, worried glances. Then, leaving Caliphestros perched on a limb, in one almost impossibly agile movement, the panther almost pours herself from the elm to the ground, upon which she begins to walk softly toward the Bane female.

As Heldo-Bah covers his face in panic and horror, Veloc quickly lifts his short bow over his shoulder and nocks an arrow, all his pompous, foolish posturing vanishing as he executes the expert motion. He then draws the bow, aiming at the panther’s chest.

“Keera!” he cries. “Move aside — run, I have no shot!”

“Lower your bow, historian!” Caliphestros orders, raising an arm and outstretching a hand in seeming threat. “Such foolhardy aggression can only anger, not harm, both my companion and myself!”

Keera, who has been staring into the eyes of the beast, only nods and holds five splayed fingers out behind her. “It’s all right, Veloc. Put the bow away …”

{ii:}

“I will not put it away,” Veloc says, raising his outstretched bow arm to now take aim at Caliphestros. “If I cannot hit the animal, old man, then you will suffer for it, unless you truly have charms that can stop an arrow!”

Caliphestros sighs once. “I should hardly be much of a ‘sorcerer,’ if I did not, historian.” The old man seems no longer concerned, now that Veloc’s arms have moved, despite the arrow’s threatening his own life. Seeing this, Veloc’s draw on his bow begins to relax. “You have some little bit of your sister’s wisdom, then,” the old man goes on. “Good. For you have nothing to fear, in this …” He keeps the same hand held out, but turns the palm upward as he indicates Keera and the panther.

As he allows the draw on his powerful bow to ease further, Veloc stares in bewilderment at the masterful huntress who is approaching Keera: remarkably, there is no malice or hunger in the animal’s expression, and her body betrays no hint that she is stalking. Although confused and a little uneasy, Keera stands her ground well; and when her face is level with the panther’s, there being but a few feet between them, she can see that the cat means her no harm.

“You have a way with creatures, I see, Keera — and they with you,” Caliphestros says quietly. “Yes … a great gift. I know only one other like you …” But the old man can speak no more of the matter, apparently; and his jaw sets, trembling just enough to indicate a battle raging inside him.

The panther’s nose, deep red and looking as tough as hide, nonetheless is delicacy itself when it moves to a spot just a few inches from Keera’s face — close enough for the Bane tracker to hear the surprisingly gentle sniffing and whistling sounds, as well as the short, ever so short breaths of air, that escape from it.

Having found the precise spot on Keera’s face where the single tear fell, the white panther sniffs ever more delicately at the small trace of salt and moisture that remain; and then she reveals her rough, pink tongue. Even as her breath speaks of the kills she has made only recently, the barest tip of that long organ licks the tear and its track gently away from Keera’s face …

Keera trembles throughout her body; but the quivering calms as trust grows along with it, and the beginning of a bond is formed. When the tracker begins to lift a hand, she glances up at Caliphestros, as if to ask his leave to touch the creature.

“I think you will be safe, now,” the old man answers, reassured by Stasi’s actions that he has been right to trust these three Bane, and especially this young Bane woman.

Keera, meanwhile, runs one small hand along the panther’s arching, solidly muscular neck, and then her fingers move up to scratch behind the animal’s ear. At that, the panther begins to purr once more, and to lick Keera’s face with less delicacy, yet more delight.

“It would seem,” Caliphestros says, “that Stasi has understood you precisely, Keera.”

“‘Stasi,’” the Bane woman murmurs, smiling in friendship and still caressing and scratching the panther’s head and neck. “What does it mean?”

“It means that she is a creature of rebirth,” Caliphestros replies. “Of resurrection — as you will soon discover …” He laughs affectionately when he sees the panther put one paw to Keera’s left shoulder and the other on her right, keeping most of her weight on her hind legs, and still delicately cleaning the Bane woman’s face, and then her neck and hair: precisely as she would if Keera were a cub of her own. In the midst of this seemingly impossible moment, only Veloc continues to look momentarily alarmed, but Caliphestros dismisses the Bane’s brotherly concern with a wave of his hand. “You need not fear, Veloc,” he calls. “She is only making a new friend — and a new friend who doubtless offers far more amusement than the sole companion she has had these ten years.”

“Ten years?” Heldo-Bah echoes. “You have been in that cave with this beast for ten years? Scant wonder you’re mad, old man.”

“Heldo-Bah!” Veloc scolds.

“Oh, calm yourself, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah replies. “If he could have transformed us into toads, he would have done so when you threatened to kill him.”

“You suppose yourself as cunning as you are repulsive, eh, forager?” Caliphestros calls to Heldo-Bah. “Well, I warn you — put aside any belief that, simply because I am not all the things that fearful, ignorant men say, I am therefore wholly without—arts …” Heldo-Bah’s expression changes with its characteristic speed, back to youthfully apprehensive; but Caliphestros’s next words are calculated to put him, as well as the other two Bane, more at their ease: “Although there is no reason that those who shall now become our common enemies in Broken need ever learn anything I have told or will tell you about either my ‘arts’ or their limits.”

Keera glances up at the old man. “You speak of our undertaking a ‘common’ endeavor against Broken, my lord. If you have been listening to our argument for any length of time, you know that we have come to ask for your help against the Tall, who, it seems, have at last determined to destroy our tribe, through methods as horrible as they are cowardly. Do your words mean that you intend to give us such assistance?”

“Give?” Caliphestros puzzles with the word for a moment. “Certainly, we shall make common cause, Keera. But please — let us undertake further discussion in the home I share with Stasi, or rather, the home which she has kindly shared with me these many years.” Making a few clicking, whistling noises, Caliphestros attempts to summon the panther, who by now is on her back upon the forest floor, allowing Keera to softly caress her belly. “Come, Stasi!” the old man calls out. “We have much to do, and you must first get me out of this tree …”

Gathering up his various crutches, which have been hidden among the branches of the elm, Caliphestros waits until the panther bounds back to the tree and up into its branches. She positions herself so that the old man can easily regain his customary position astride her back, just behind her enormously powerful shoulders, and then she carefully bears him back down to the ground.

“My compliments, Lord Caliphestros,” Veloc says. “You have trained the animal well.”

“And you,” the old man answers, settling more comfortably onto Stasi’s back, now that the astounding pair are on the ground, “are an ignorant ass, Veloc, if you believe that so proud and strong-willed a being as a Davon panther — and most especially this Davon panther — can be ‘trained’ by such feeble creatures as men. Every step, every decision she takes, she determines for herself. There are no masters or servants, here, Veloc — remember that, if you want to survive the great undertaking upon which we now embark.”

Heldo-Bah releases a scoffing grunt in the direction of his friend. “You bootlicking fool …” He then lifts his chin toward Caliphestros’ crutches. “What are those mechanisms you have, old man?” he asks, even a little haughtily, now. “They don’t bespeak any great wizardry.”

As he straps himself onto his platform and single “leg,” then uses his crutches to get upright and stand free of Stasi’s support, Caliphestros eyes Heldo-Bah just menacingly enough to emphasize his next point: “I may in fact be old, forager, and half the man I once was; but I do not stink to the Heavens, nor do I assume pompous airs with new acquaintances whose true powers I have not yet divined, and whose help I desperately need. Therefore — call me anything save ‘my lord,’ from this point onward, and you’ll know the less friendly things that a ‘sorcerer’ and a panther can do …”

Hobbling to the spot where Keera stands and appearing momentarily concerned, Caliphestros lifts one hand from a crutch and quickly points at Veloc and Heldo-Bah. “I have much equipment and other supplies, Keera, that must make the trip to Okot with us — but I believe that you and your brother can manage what Stasi and I cannot.” Pausing, the old man speaks in greater confidence. “Is it really necessary that we let the fool, there, live? Or, if we must let him live, can we not send him ahead of us to Okot?”

“He will complain, my lord,” Keera answers. “But he has the ability to carry both delicate and weighty goods. And, in the event that we meet any scouting parties come out from Broken, or our own Outragers …”

Caliphestros nods, not impressed, but acquiescent. “I see — a man of violent talents, is he? And looks the part. Very well, then. Let us at least get a good meal into our bellies, while I pack the necessary supplies, and then a few hours’ sleep upon goose down, before we begin. Bane foragers, if I am not mistaken, prefer to travel by night, as does Stasi. And so, we shall depart when the Moon is well up. We have a most important errand to attend to before we make for Okot.”

“Goose down and good food?” says Heldo-Bah. “I like you better already, O Lord and Mighty Caliphestros!”

He is about to clap a good-natured hand on Caliphestros’s shoulder; but the old man turns, making the foolish forager as stone with but a glance. “Touching my person, along with sarcasm, is to be included among those things in which you indulge only at peril of your life, Heldo-Bah.” Looking away once more, the old man murmurs, “An absurd name — I can but assume that the person who gave it to you intended it as a grim jest.”

“And most of my life has been just such, my lord,” Heldo-Bah replies, at which Caliphestros cannot help but chuckle. He has never suffered fools with grace; but those who, in some deep recess of their souls, know the extent and truth of their own foolishness, can often be a different matter, and he begins to suspect that Heldo-Bah is one such.

Keera speaks with continuing respect, but boldly. “But, my lord, what errand could be so important as to keep us from making directly for Okot?”

The old man reaches into the tunic that he wears beneath his robe, and draws out what seems a collection of flowers wrapped about a shining stick. He urges the confused Keera to approach, but she hesitates: along with her companions, she can see the mysterious gleam of gold among the blossoms and greenery, and Keera knows that sorcerous charms and spells can be cast with far humbler elements than gold and such wildflowers as these. At further and more insistent coaxing, however, the tracker finally draws close to Caliphestros — and is amazed to find that he is clutching a golden arrow precisely like those that the three foragers saw in the body of the dead soldier at the Fallen Bridge, and that around this arrow are entwined strands of moss, as well as the stems and petals of several particularly remarkable and renownèd flowers. The first are tightly formed bundles of yellow-green, their general form like the smallest of fir tree cones, but their texture and color far more vivid and full of life; the second is a small, star-shaped flower of the lightest yellow that grows in ample bunches; and last, there is a group of large, full but delicate flowers on thick stems, with shell-like purple petals and yellow anthers in a tight bunch at their cores.

Keera points first at the arrow. “But — that is—”

“Yes,” says the old man, nodding, “taken from a body that, to judge by the look on your face, the three of you came upon, and recently. The moss that my — my messenger fetched up with it grows on both the rocks and the trees above the Cat’s Paw, particularly at those spots where the natural bridges lie, for there, the rock formations are most interspersed with soil to give the trees life enough to grow so tall. I suspect, in this case, that the arrow was taken near what your people call the Fallen Bridge.”

Keera nods. “Yes,” she murmurs, looking back to her brother, and seeing that he and Heldo-Bah are exchanging worried expressions.

“You need not fear it,” Caliphestros tells Keera of the arrow. “The disease of the victim cannot linger upon it, certainly not since I cleaned it in a solution of lye and quicklime. Take it, then, and tell me what the flowers tell you …”

Keera grasps the shaft of the arrow, her body tingling; but the sensation stops, and her face grows puzzled, as she studies the flowers. “These two are no mystery.” She indicates the smaller flowers: the clustered yellow-green, and then the yellow stars. “The first are mountain hops, which we cultivate in the Wood for trade to the Tall. They use it to brew a special beer,† a drink which drives their young men mad: they drink it in the stadium in Broken, whether they participate or merely watch the games there — and they crave it so desperately that we have been able to trade sacks of the hop flowers for instruments that our own healers require. These prettier blooms,” the tracker continues, her finger trembling only slightly as it points to the star-shaped flowers, “are woad,‡ which can be used to make blue dye, but also as a medicine for growths, especially inside the body. But only if the healer is wise, and knows the amount to employ.” Caliphestros’s pleasure at Keera’s knowledge remains evident — and yet, she notices, something in his expression also indicates that he has expected no less from her; and so she attempts to speak with more confidence: “But these purple flowers — they are meadow bells,†† and they are not found in Davon Wood, nor along the Cat’s Paw, nor indeed anywhere, save the most fertile vales and plains. In Broken, they grow only in the Meloderna valley, that I have ever heard.”

“And its properties?” Caliphestros adds.

“It has many,” Keera answers. “To ease the pains of women, and to ensure healthy births; indeed, to ease all pains of the stomach and the abdomen, as well as those of the bones, especially the spine; and to treat the most serious fevers.”

“All true,” says Caliphestros. “A formidable medicinal flower, especially given its delicacy and beauty. Now observe the stems of each plant — what do they tell you?”

Keera carefully studies the stems. “They were taken with a blade, certainly,” she answers. “The hops and woad you might have gathered yourself, my lord, here on the mountain — but how did you come by the meadow bells? And the arrow, as well?”

Caliphestros begins haltingly, “I have—persuaded an acquaintance of mine to fetch me a new store of the meadow bells, early each spring, which is its season. I received these, along with the arrow, just before I came here today.”

“Whoever this acquaintance is, my lord,” Heldo-Bah observes, impressed by this tale, “he is loyal and has stones — from here to the Cat’s Paw and the Meloderna beyond would be a deadly journey, for a mere collection of flowers and an almost worthless amount of gold.”

Caliphestros looks up at the treetops in irritation, then murmurs to Keera: “Does one become accustomed to the interruptions — should we truly not rid ourselves of him now?”

“He has his uses, as I say. But I cannot promise that you will ever grow accustomed to his foolish remarks.”

Caliphestros nods in acquiescence. “Very well, then — examine the stems of the flowers. What do the marks of the knife on them tell you?”

“The flowers are too valuable and too fragile to take for mere decoration, or to be cut with scythe or sickle,” Keera answers, puzzled at first; but her consternation is short-lived. “But their main purpose is a healing one — each, in its own way, can play a part in fighting the most serious of fevers.”

“And so …?”

“So — there is fever, along the Meloderna — deadly fever, if they are harvesting such plants in large amounts.” She pauses, drawing a quick breath. “Is the plague, then, at work in Broken, as well as in the Okot?”

“If plague it be,” Caliphestros replies. “Certainly, there is a terrible fever at work somewhere in the kingdom of the God-King — likely in many places, if, as you say, the flowers are being harvested in such quantities that my messenger could readily find them in piles.”

“And the arrow?” Keera asks. “It tells us the man was killed by the priests of Broken, but not why — and his death occurred far from the Meloderna.”

“True. It does not enlighten us as to why he was killed — not completely. But enough for now — we shall discuss all this further, within Stasi’s cave. Help your fellows, there, and then join us as soon as you can.”

The old man begins to hobble away again, the great panther taking up her watchful position, just far enough behind him to have an unobstructed view of the foragers, who observe the pair’s departure with three puzzled faces.

{iii:}

“His mind certainly seems unaffected by all he has endured,” Veloc judges, watching Caliphestros and the seemingly magical white panther disappear over the next ridge. “Although I’ll wager his talk of not being a sorcerer is a ruse.”

“Do you fault him?” Keera asks. “Look what his punishment for that title was, from the God-King and the priests of Kafra.”

The conversation is interrupted by a sudden flutter of wings: the small, active wings of a speckled bird that descends onto a branch just above the foragers, clicking its beak and clucking from its throat.

“Te-kamp!” the bird blurts, still flapping its wings energetically at the Bane. “Te-kamp! Kaw-ee-fess-tross!”

Keera eyes her disbelieving friends. “I think you have a small hint as to his powers as a sorcerer, Veloc,” she says. Then, to the bird, she calls, “Tell your master not to worry. We shall not be long!”

But the bird makes no move.

“Oh, splendid …,” Heldo-Bah grumbles, as the three foragers set about breaking their camp. “Must I now mind my mouth around every animal in Davon Wood, lest it report back to that old cripple?”

“For now,” Veloc replies, “I’d recommend it. And I’d recommend learning a few new phrases of address for him, Heldo-Bah. It’s plain we don’t know what he actually is, or what power he has over how many and which of these beings.”

“True, brother,” Keera agrees, kicking dirt atop their smoldering fire and still studying the starling admiringly — for she has rightly begun to suspect that the bird’s speech has been the result of long acquaintance, not sorcery. “And did you take note of one thing, particularly? The effortless manner in which he persuades the panther to do his bidding — does it not remind you of someone?”

Veloc claps a hand to his forehead. “That witch of a priestess — she showed precisely the same art!”

“Well,” Heldo-Bah says doubtfully. “Not precisely the same art. I don’t think the old man uses seduction upon — that is … Oh, no …” As so often happens, the gap-toothed grin of confident skepticism instantly becomes an expression of shocked fear. “Does he?”

“No, I don’t believe anything of the sort,” Keera says. “The similarity is only in the silent, practiced manner of communicating; and it is no coincidence, I’ll wager.”

“Exactly so, Keera,” says Veloc. “To find one such being is improbable enough, but two—and both of the royal circle, in which they must have moved for at least a few of the same years? Why, sister, he said it himself: ‘I know only one other like you.’ Yes, he bears watching, our new friend. Clever as a stoat, for all his being legless.”

Keera holds up a hand, considering the matter for a moment, and then finally whispers: “You are right, Veloc — he did not say he knew one other with such a gift. ‘I know only one other …’ Those were indeed his words.”

“You suspect he yet communicates with the Kafran priestess?” Veloc asks.

Keera cocks her head, puzzling with it. “Not as we understand it, certainly. But two mortals who can command the mightiest of forest spirits? One old, one young — is it not likely that the one taught the other? And if the other is indeed not only a priestess, but a Wife of Kafra … I do not like to think it, for I believe he is a good man who truly wants and means to help us. But his soul is as scarred as his legs, and his thoughts have been made obscure by the deceit and treachery of Broken’s rulers. Until we are certain of the pattern of their twists and turns, I think we must keep our encounter with the priestess from him …”

So great does Keera’s preoccupation with these thoughts become that she not only falls behind her brother and Heldo-Bah as they make for Caliphestros’s camp, but nearly stumbles headlong into the old man’s enormous herb garden, with its rich, almost overpowering blend of aromas, before realizing that they have arrived at their destination. Only as her head is sent swimming by those same scents does Keera hear the calls of Veloc and Heldo-Bah, who are already by the mouth of the cave wherein Caliphestros and Stasi have lived for so long; and, taking a few moments to appreciate the other seemingly impossible aspects of the grounds outside the cave — particularly the forge, with its marvelously engineered chimney of stone and mortar, in which the foragers’ host has created, by the look of the area about the thing, many essential tools, as well as fascinating scientific implements, over the years — Keera finally joins the others, her happiness growing, once again, as the panther bounds toward her when she appears at the cave entrance.

Yet no amount of speculation based on what they have seen outside the cave can prepare any of the foragers for what Caliphestros and Stasi have achieve within: for the den’s appointments are almost stupefying.

“You could give our Groba a welcome lesson in the comfortable furnishing of caves, old man,” Heldo-Bah declares, throwing himself upon Caliphestros’s own large sack of goose down, but quickly getting to his feet again when the panther growls low and turns toward him. “But how did you manage it all?” the gap-toothed forager continues, joining Veloc and making no attempt, for a few moments, to dilute his amazement with sarcasm.

“Aye,” Veloc agrees. “It is achievement enough for any man, but you, wounded — nay, mutilated! — as you found yourself upon arriving here, how was it, how has it been possible?”

Caliphestros indicates the panther, and then begins to hobble toward her, feeling a most pointed confusion of heart and mind that is caused by the unprecedented sight and sounds of other humans moving about settings that have ever been his own and hers alone. “I never could have managed it without the assistance — always given ere it was ever asked — of Stasi. I should never have survived, if not for her help.”

As he reaches the panther, Caliphestros scratches behind her tall, unusually peakèd ears, requesting affection and receiving, without doubt, much; but Stasi also maintains her position by Keera.

“You have made a true friend,” Caliphestros muses to the tracker, allowing the slight — and, he knows, somewhat absurd — jealousy that he feels to reveal itself plainly in the tone of his words.

“She honors me, my lord,” Keera says. “But such adversities as the two of you have conquered together must surely have marked you as forever her closest friend.”

“And here are your vaunted books, my lord,” Veloc calls, having reached one of Caliphestros’s rough-hewn shelves in the cave walls, upon which sit many of the former Second Minister of Broken’s volumes. “Even in a cave, so many — yet have they truly aided the creation of this wondrous home?”

“More than you could likely comprehend, Veloc,” the old man answers. “These are but a small part of the collection that I brought with me to Broken, and built upon during my years there. And, with a few exceptions, they were chosen because they had some relevance to my survival in this place, and to the final reckoning with Broken that I first prayed, then later hoped, and finally believed would come: hence, as you see, I have pored time and again over examinations of history and medicine, of science and war, and of the realms in which science and war merge — those of metallurgy and chemistry.”

Heldo-Bah, having detected attractive aromas emerging from a large iron pot that sits on the edge of the cookstove’s surface, has begun to lift its lid; but at these last words, he drops it noisily. “Alchemy!” he cries, glancing from Veloc to Keera quickly. “So — that is why they exiled you from Broken!”

Caliphestros only tilts his head judiciously. “If, by that ridiculous outburst, you mean to say that the rulers of the great city and its kingdom were, in the end, as superstitious, ignorant, and hostile to reason and knowledge as yourself, Heldo-Bah, then you are correct.”

“Oho!” the impertinent forager scoffs. “You call alchemy reason, do you? And attempting to transform base metals into gold is evidence of high scientific wisdom, I suppose? Tell me, then — do you also abuse yourself out in the great Wood, spending your seed into holes the ground and attempting to grow tiny men like vegetables?”†

Caliphestros sighs, heavily. “Only imagine the blessèd silence, Keera, were he gone … He would feel little pain, I promise you: only the brief stab of Stasi’s largest teeth into the great artery of his neck, and his life’s blood would quickly and quietly stream away …”‡

Keera laughs quietly (for she has ceased to believe, rightly, that the old man intends Heldo-Bah actual harm), and says only, “We seem to have far too many things to pack and carry, my lord, to allow the loss of even one bearer. And, as I have said, he can carry a great deal.”

“Very well. I shall trust your word, and let the matter rest.” Lifting his head to call to the sharp-toothed Bane again, Caliphestros says, “Heldo-Bah, allow me to propose a more practical test of what you ignorantly call ‘alchemy’: the weapons that you and Veloc carry — I believe that I noted two rather well-crafted short-swords of Broken manufacture among them. Is this so?”

“Indeed it is,” Heldo-Bah crows. “Veloc’s was taken, just days ago, from one of our own Outragers, who had stolen it, I suspect, while undertaking one of his errands of murder and imagined justice for the Moon priestess. My own, however, came directly from a member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, whom I myself subdued!” And with that, Heldo-Bah unsheathes the sword and brings it out from under his cloak, holding its unarguably fine blade out toward his host.

Caliphestros nods silently, taking one or two steps toward Heldo-Bah and seemingly impressed by both the blade and its origins. But then it becomes plain that he has stepped less toward Heldo-Bah than in the direction of his own bedding, where, in a quick movement not at all encumbered by his crutches, he reaches beneath his sack of goose down and produces a sword of his own. Though not so elegant as either Heldo-Bah’s or Veloc’s, especially in the crafting of its hilt, handle, and pommel, the sword nevertheless has a peculiar and impressive effect on the three Bane, achieved primarily through the ripples of cold blue-grey that seem shot through its carefully honed, single-edged blade of moderate length.

“And suppose I were to tell you,” the old man says amiably, still holding his weapon out and toward Heldo-Bah, who uneasily but quickly moves his own blade into a position of defense, “that I could offer you something better — far better, in fact? Would you still cling so tightly to your prize?”

Further unnerved by Caliphestros’s attitude — which is less one of threat than of confidence — Heldo-Bah says only, “If you think to trick me into some sort of barter for that unadorned slab of steel, old man, I tell you that you would as likely persuade me to put my head in your companion’s maw.”

Once again, Caliphestros nods with seeming indifference; he then moves his own blade up and down casually, gripping its deerskin-wrapped handle with his right hand lightly—

And suddenly, in a pair of movements that seem to the foragers far too quick for a crippled old man to achieve, Caliphestros releases the pressure of his right armpit on the corresponding crutch, letting it clatter to the cave floor as he shifts all of his weight leftward, onto his wooden leg and remaining crutch. Even as he does this, he raises his right arm and his sword swiftly and brings the strangely tinted length of steel down with great force on Heldo-Bah’s blade. When all is still once more, Heldo-Bah stands in precisely the same attitude, save that his eyes have gone wide as they look down to see that the prize he took from the unfortunate young member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard has been severed by Caliphestros’s seemingly humble blade. The piercing tip of the Bane’s once-proud trophy, along with more than a foot of the best Broken steel, now lie on the cave floor.

{iv:}

Caliphestros examines the cutting edge of his own sword, and frowns slightly. “Hmm — not so clean as I would have liked,” he says calmly. “I seem to have nicked the edge of my blade, a bit …”

“Truly?” Veloc says in amazed derision. “Nicked it a bit? How unacceptable …”

Heldo-Bah’s head slowly shakes in disbelief, before nodding with envy; and finally, when he regains his complete composure, he casts his diminished sword to the cave floor as thoughtlessly as he stole it. He then fairly leaps to Caliphestros’s side, and anxiously indicates the blade that Keera has also moved closer to examine. “May I–Lord Caliphestros, may I have this one? It’s only fair, after all, now that you’ve rendered mine useless.”

Caliphestros shrugs. “If you wish,” he says. “I have several more like it.”

Heldo-Bah takes Caliphestros’s sword from the old man and gauges its weight. “So light!” he pronounces. “By the Moon, Veloc — we could sweep through the Tall as though they were so much wheat, had we blades the like of this!”

“Aye, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc replies, “I can already envision the historical epics I shall compose and relate, concerning the swords of the Bane that dealt mighty blows to the Tall and their kingdom.”

Caliphestros’s tone turns momentarily harsh. “You will be tempted to think you can achieve such feats, as would almost any people who have been maligned and subdued for so long, and who suddenly find themselves offered the chance for forceful redress; but the weapons are useless unless one learns the proper ways in which to use them. Repeat that phrase to yourself, Heldo-Bah, from now ‘till we reach Okot; nay, until we find ourselves, one day, before the gates of Broken itself. And if you can believe it, at length, and make your people believe it, then we may, we just may, succeed …”

Turning to the cookstove and lifting the lid of the pot to find that its contents have begun to softly bubble and pop, Caliphestros fetches several earthenware bowls and spoons, as well as a ladle, the utensils all carved from a tightly grained wood, and then sets the collection of objects on his rough-hewn table. “But before this process can begin, much less be mastered, we must work, eat, and then sleep. My admittedly theatrical exhibition was intended only to hearten your spirits about the struggle to come — not to slow our progress.”

“And you have achieved your object, old fellow,” Heldo-Bah declares. “Now, let us finish the packing of your possessions, that we may consume this fare — for if you can cook stew as well as you can steel, Lord of Feathers and Fangs, it shall be satisfying, indeed!”

In this way — by the portentous shattering of a single sword — is formed an odd yet fast friendship between the most infamous person in Broken’s history and the three Bane foragers upon whom the mantle “saviors of their tribe” rests most precariously.

The stew is, even Heldo-Bah must admit, a most excellent concoction, not least because it is flavored with all manner of herbs and heartened by roots and greens, all taken from Caliphestros’s own garden. Of course, the fact the three foragers have been swiftly running and somewhat madly searching for most of the last three days and nights would make almost any food palatable, at this moment. But so genuinely satisfying is Caliphestros’s stew, and so much do his guests consume, that, by the time all the packed sacks have been set by the cave entrance, the three Bane are more than ready to seek out places among the many large bags filled with the down of various birds that cushion the cave’s hard rock protrusions, in its walls as well as on its floor. Exhausted and sated, the foragers fairly collapse onto these welcome spots to sleep away the few idle hours they have been allowed, ere nightfall signals their departure.

For his part, Caliphestros attempts sleep, as does Stasi, the latter lying on her side at the foot of her companion’s bedding, vigilantly lifting her head whenever a sound is captured by her exceptional ears, in order to assure herself that the Bane men are indeed slumbering harmlessly. In time, however, this duty becomes plainly unnecessary, and the great white panther rises, glances once more about the cave, and then walks slowly to its entrance, where three heavy deerskin sacks, as well as two lighter bags, sit waiting for their bearers to rise. Stasi will now sit and stand guard from this spot, and at first, she thinks to do this duty alone; but her wakefulness has brought her companion out of his comparatively light slumber, for they are as alive to each other’s restiveness as any two humans who have lived together for many years. Caliphestros drags himself across the cave, using the arms that have grown powerful in the absence of his legs to swing his half-body forward, and reaches the spot where Stasi now sits, her hind legs tucked beneath her, her fore legs side by side in front of her, and her powerful neck holding her head in an easy but alert position.

Caliphestros makes a small, affectionate sound of greeting, one that he is glad the three Bane cannot hear, for he does not wish them to think him overly sentimental. Yet his watchfulness, at this moment, is not a matter of sentiment alone: for often, on pleasant evenings when the pair have found themselves abroad in Davon Wood long past nightfall, Caliphestros has noticed Stasi’s wont to climb some log or large stone and fix her eyes on the distant sight of the small lights that flicker atop the great mountain to the northeast. The old man has always been able to see — in the panther’s strikingly expressive eyes, in her steady, low growls of threat, and in a distinct tightening of those muscles which all cats, the greater as well as the lesser, employ during their deadliest maneuver, the pounce—that Stasi long ago identified those lights as marking the den of her enemies. Caliphestros has usually seized the chance to speak to her, at these moments, and tell her of the day when they must and will scale the distant, shadowy mountain, and fight against the humans in the city that crowns it. And so he believes sincerely, this evening, that the panther understands that the moment when they must undertake their great, shared object has arrived.

The old scholar leans his left side against Stasi’s nearest shoulder, and together they sit and observe for what may be a final time the gardens before their cave and the forest beyond them, which are illuminated by the twilight that seems to slice open the highest mountain ridge far to the west. From there, the light is fractured by the countless new leaves that cover the boughs of trees far and near, and finally comes to burnish both the colors in and about the old man’s gardens and Stasi’s unique coat. The panther’s near-white fur absorbs and then reissues the fading sunlight, until she seems to become even more than usually apparitional. The sun moves ever closer to the mountaintops, and then, still casting its bright spring light, sinks below them; and yet, from the manner in which Stasi’s head remains up and constantly moving, just as her tail continuously swipes from side to side as she warily and knowingly glances in the direction of what seems every noise produced by the surrounding Wood, Caliphestros determines that his words continue all the while to sharpen both her alertness and her desire that they at last be on their way.

The foragers, however, never wake, making it necessary for the pair at the mouth of the cave to wait, if only for a short while longer. But as they do, and as the old man whispers still more words into the white panther’s ear concerning their coming, shared vengeance, Caliphestros suddenly notices in Stasi’s expression a new aspect. It is an expression of longing, that much is plain, but longing for what? Revealed in those dazzling green eyes that comprehend all that lies before them and many things far beyond are powerful emotions that burn deep in the panther’s heart, emotions that Caliphestros has seen her display during their life together, but never with this suggestion that what she longs for is beyond this cave, this companion, this life, and will give her greater reward than that which is to be had with the mere sight of her enemies’ suffering: it will, in fact, restore at least one among the missing pieces of her spirit—

“What is it, my girl?” Caliphestros whispers, his voice full of urgent curiosity. He pulls himself round to face her, and places his hands on each side of her noble head. “You would have more than blood — I see this. More than killing, richly deserved though the killing may be — but what?”

Stasi’s steady gaze never breaks, however; and she offers no hint to her companion of what the unprecedented longing he has detected might be.

But this display has not escaped another mind present: for, unnoticed by the old man, Keera has suddenly yet silently woken, and has spent the last few moments using her remarkable ears and mind to listen to and try to comprehend Caliphestros’s moment of worried confusion. And, slowly, the tracker realizes that she saw something similar earlier in the day, something in the great cat that the old man evidently has not himself seen and, even more essentially, cannot see; cannot, Keera detects, by simple virtue of his sex, and of his never having fathered children.

The two Bane men finally start from their own beddings, upon the first cry of what sounds like a Davon dog-owl.† Yet this bird must be unusually large, if it is indeed a dog-owl, Keera judges silently. Just what has prompted such an alarm, the Bane tracker cannot say, the area outside the cave being out of her sight; but she wonders if the as yet unknown creature is without, standing guard; and so she stands, herself, to carefully look out the mouth of the cave into the semi-darkness, attempting to see what might be the cause—

“It is always so, Keera, at this time of the evening,” Caliphestros says aloud, startling her; for he has made not the slightest move to turn in her direction. “It is hatching season, and the dog-owls are on the watch for ravens and hawks that would take their little ones, or younger owls who would usurp their domains. There is a pair who have returned to the hollow of a large maple tree just above this cave for as long as I have been in the Wood, and the male has only heightened his defiance of all enemies, over the years.” For the time, this is the explanation that Keera must agree to; although not without her own ploys of conversation:

“An unusually long time for a male dog-owl, much less a couple, to have survived and bred yearly in the same nest, my lord,” Keera says, allowing suspicion to taint her words.

“Blasted creatures,” Heldo-Bah grunts, scratching at his groin and arse with one hand and his head with the other, and presenting an appearance that would be merely comical, were it not so vile. “Dog-owls! The most unpleasant way in the world to be woken …” He holds a hand up to Keera quickly. “And yet, I know, we must respect all owls, Keera — for they are mystical heralds of the Moon …”

“So they are,” Keera replies sternly, “and you are wise to withdraw one of your own blasphemous outcries, at last. For the Moon despises those who mock or abuse her night-flyers, and demands that such fools be tormented severely — and promptly.”

“You would think that the Moon would have tired of tormenting me long ago,” Heldo-Bah mumbles.

Within an hour, the foragers have helped Caliphestros tidy, seal off, and disguise the entrance to what he insists is “Stasi’s cave.” Heldo Bah watches as the tracker and Veloc assist Caliphestros in taking his place atop Stasi’s back, his own smaller bags over his shoulders and causing, at first, unaccustomed problems of balance for both rider and beast. But this is a problem quickly resolved, and after it has been, Caliphestros and Stasi bid a brief farewell to the dwelling and grounds that have for so long been considered both mythical and mystical, not only among the Bane, but among those Tall who have heard the rumors of their existence. After this, the little troop that carries the hopes of the Bane tribe, in the form of books and instruments that the foragers cannot begin to read or comprehend, finally gets under way.

Not, however, at the speed that Caliphestros had insisted to the foragers would be necessary — not initially, at any rate. Instead, the old man explains that one additional leave-taking is necessary. So earnest and even grave is his manner, when he makes this statement, that even Heldo-Bah offers neither opinion nor argument; instead, when Caliphestros requests ignition for a small torch he produces after getting atop Stasi, the gap-toothed Bane quickly produces a flint and his gutting knife, using the blunt side of the heavy blade to strike the stone and, after several attempts, obliging the old man. Then, at no more than a steady if brisk walk, the travelers make their way farther west, to an icy feeder stream that, Caliphestros tells his new allies, has often been his quickest source of relief from the persistent agonies of his wounds; but the old man indicates silence again as the party start downhill in a northerly direction, along a worn path next to the stream, walking for some minutes before they reach a small clearing, where the slope of the mountainside levels for a short distance. Apparently, this is their destination: Stasi takes Caliphestros to a fallen tree on the eastern edge of the level clearing, and gently dips her forelegs and turns her neck so that he can take a seat upon it, without being forced to strap himself back into his walking apparatus. The three Bane, in the meantime, look about, by the light of Caliphestros’s wavering torch, in utter bewilderment.

As they do, Stasi slowly walks toward what appear to be two burial mounds at the center of the clearing, while Caliphestros urges the foragers to keep well back. And when Keera asks what is taking place, he begins to tell the tale that he has assembled, bit by bit, of Stasi’s murdered children, explaining that the mounds before them are the final resting places of two of her cubs — the pair that were speared and trampled to death by Broken hunters and their servants, in full view of their wounded mother, and left to rot. Caliphestros speaks so passionately, for the first time since meeting the three Bane, that it quickly becomes apparent to the foragers that, if anyone in the seemingly impossible friendship between mutilated man and powerful beast is “enthralled,” it is the supposèd sorcerer himself, and not the panther, as the foragers initially believed.

Hearing the hideous tale of brutal murder naturally deepens Keera’s profound sympathy for the panther; and when she sees Stasi climb a nearby rocky ledge, and then begin to issue the long, low cry that seems a summons, not only to her stolen children, but to the spirits of those whose bones lie under the mounds of stone and Earth that are now before her, Keera is moved enough to approach the creature (something that Caliphestros has never dared, at such moments, out of respect for Stasi’s grief). And then, before the eyes of the three men, some shielded path of communication between the two females, a path that had been indicated earlier in the day, now opens fully, plainly apparent for even Heldo-Bah to see. Keera mounts the rocks, puts her own head to the panther’s neck, and with her looks up and northeasterly to see:

“Broken,” the tracker announces to the others. “She can see the accursèd city from this spot — as can I …”

For long moments, only the night creatures of Davon Wood are audible in the little clearing; and despite the impatience of Heldo-Bah, Caliphestros makes certain that none of the three men say or do anything to interrupt the deepening of the remarkable bond between what are now the two leaders of the newly reshaped woodland party, Keera and Stasi. Only when that pair descend from the rocks willingly and take up their respective burdens does the group set out again.

{v:}

The party reaches the rocky gorges of the upper Cat’s Paw before the creeping indigo of dawn has even begun to transform the sky — a sky that is once more fully visible in broad, Moonlit swaths, between the overhanging branches of the trees that so desperately grasp the rocks on both sides of the ever-furious river. Once on those rocks, both Keera and Stasi slow their steps for the first time, respecting the danger of the slippery shelves of flat, massive stone that, when covered with leaves and moss, set perhaps the deadliest series of natural traps in the already lethal Wood.

This slackening of pace offers a new opportunity for conversation; and Veloc, attempting to impress Caliphestros with his historian’s skills, courteously asks the old man to explain the most essential facts of his long and interesting life, that the handsome, ambitious Bane may begin the composition of a Heldenspele,† the heroic narratives that are passed from generation to generation of Bane historians, to ensure that the tribe never loses its unity, as well as its unique sense of itself. Bane children can best learn their place in the world, Veloc explains, by hearing the songs and stories, not only of the tribe’s own heroes, but of those outsiders who have occasionally allied themselves with the tribe. Caliphestros is plainly flattered: it has been a very long time since the old man experienced the sensation of being appreciated by a society of human beings of any kind. And so, he agrees to Veloc’s request — despite his awareness that such compliance will open the way for a new onslaught of dubious observations from Heldo-Bah.

And Heldo-Bah does not disappoint. Following the old man’s cautiously limited but honest recitation of the start of his long life’s tale to Veloc, the skeptical Bane undertakes to dispel at least some of the aura surrounding the legendary man who travels with them.

“Now, a moment, please, O noble lord,” Heldo-Bah calls from the rear of the little column. “You have told us that you originally came from the great northeastern trading lands, home to those tribes for whom buying, selling, and bartering are not mere ruses to make raiding and raping easier, as is the case with their cousins farther north, but a wholly different and more enlightened way of life.”

Caliphestros simply smiles and laughs quietly, for he has also come to understand many of Heldo-Bah’s seeming insults, clownish or otherwise, mask a strangely fascinating willingness to do the distasteful work of actually attending to the safety of his tribe, and especially of his comrades, by determining the reliability of newcomers.

“Yes, my small friend,” Caliphestros replies, echoing Heldo-Bah’s impertinence with muted amusement. “That is what I told you.”

“‘Small’?” Heldo-Bah replies. “If I were without my feet and half my legs, and required the use of mechanical contrivances and legendary beasts to get about, I’m not certain I’d be so free with that kind of language, O Legless Lord.”

“Perhaps not,” says Caliphestros. “But then, never having had the trust of a legendary beast, I doubt that you are able to appreciate precisely the sense of security that such a bond brings.”

At that instant, in a further demonstration of her remarkable intuition concerning human language, Stasi turns her head fully about, looking over her shoulder at Heldo-Bah just as a long, large drop of saliva falls from her panting tongue to the ground.

“Very well,” the malodorous forager replies. “Let us stay away from such questions — what I particularly want to know is this: you say you studied, for the most part, in this city called Alexandria, in the grain kingdom of Egypt-land, where they let you cut up dead bodies to your peculiar heart’s content; which was not the case in Broken, where you were forced to have your minions steal bodies before they were placed atop funeral pyres. And you became fascinated, you say, by the subject of diseases, and of plagues — and most especially by the Death itself.”

“Your memory astounds me, Heldo-Bah,” taunts the old man.

“And when the Mohammedans, displaying that infinite wisdom of men who worship one entirely improbable god, conquered this Egypt-land, and then, after a brief period of uncertainty, decided that all you grave robbers and body hackers should either go somewhere else or have your own bodies hacked to pieces, you set out for the capital of the still another people who believe in one god, but who hold that their one can actually be the sum of three deities — an only slightly less idiotic notion than that of one almighty lord creating both all the good and all the evil in the world.”

“The Christ-worshippers may indeed hold beliefs that seem to turn back on themselves, Heldo-Bah,” Caliphestros concedes. “But I am not so certain that they can be dismissed as ‘idiotic.’”

“No?” queries the Bane. “Well, listen further, then: I have made a study of their faith, and even conversed with that fool monk who has for so long been wandering about from tribe to tribe and kingdom to kingdom. Surely you know of him, great traveler that you are — the lunatic who cut down the ash tree of the Frankesh thunder god—”†

“Winfred?” Caliphestros queries, in such amazement that he almost falls from Stasi’s back. “You, Heldo-Bah, have discussed the Christ-worshipper’s religion with this man, who was given the name Boniface by their supreme leader, after he crossed the Seksent Straits to undertake his work?”

“The very fellow!” Heldo-Bah laughs. “‘Vat of Turds’!† I shall never forget his face when I explained to him why so many laughed at his ‘holy’ name, in Broken — for it has the same sound, does it not? You know of him, then, do you, wise man?”

Caliphestros nods slowly, still in profound amazement. “I knew him quite well. It was before ever I saw Broken — indeed, I first journeyed to that city in his company. I was living, then, at the abbey at Wearmouth, across the Seksent Straits, in Britain. My friend — the historian Bede to whom I have made reference, Veloc — was unusually curious concerning science, for a Christ-worshipper. He had given me a chamber and a place in their apothecary, where I worked for the abbey by day, and conducted my own labors by night.” His words coming to a sudden halt, Caliphestros looks at both Veloc and Keera, without seeming to actually see them. “I have not spoken of all this since … by the heavens, for so many years …” His body rattles suddenly, and he returns to his tale: “I met Winfred there — he was a monk and a priest, seeking funds as well as companions and followers for the great endeavor of converting the tribes and kingdoms hereabouts as well as farther north to the way of the Christ. I had heard many tales of the kingdom where the Kafran faith ruled, and was deeply curious about it. And so I packed my instruments and books, crossed the Seksent Straits in Winfred’s company, and went on to the city upon the mountain. One of Winfred’s first objects — although those of his faith called him Boniface, by then — was to convince the God-King Izairn to accept the Christ. He had heard that Broken was a mighty state, where law was maintained and commerce thrived, and that Izairn was a fair man, as indeed he was—”

“Hak!” Heldo-Bah exclaims with a laugh. “I did not know he ever attempted to play his holy tricks upon Broken’s God-King — although he seemed fool enough to try. The last I heard of him, some few years ago, he was planning to convert the Varisians! Imagine it — those bloodthirsty rapists, attempting to live according to the Christ’s babble about loving their enemies. I should like to know if he ever undertook that mad effort, and what became of him, if he did.”‡ Seeing that Caliphestros either will not or cannot continue his own tale, for the moment, Heldo-Bah charges on: “At any rate, this fellow, this Boniface, had, as I suppose you know, been booted out of Broken, soon after he first entered the kingdom and city. He was doing his best to get back in, at the time I made his acquaintance. Indeed, I was to provide the horses for his followers, if they were ever allowed to return — although such was plainly unlikely.”

“And I’m sure his party would have been safe, under your guidance and protection, Heldo-Bah,” Caliphestros mocks softly.

“Indeed he would, for they had far too little gold to—” Catching himself before the indiscretion is voiced, Heldo-Bah declares: “The point that I am attempting to make, my lord, is that he and I spoke, several times, about this idea that three divine entities can be one god, and that the one thus produced should be praised as having authority over all the evil as well as all the good in this world. ‘Yet how can this be so?’ I asked of him. ‘If your god is indeed three deities in one, and the one master of all, then his actions are either capricious, or tell us plainly that his mind remains badly cracked into warring parts.’ And the next question I asked him, I will put to you, Lord of Woodland Wisdom: how, tell me, how can one almighty creature be so unmercifully wanton as to create and spread pestilences such as the Death, on the one hand, and yet, on the other, claim credit for what enjoyments and pleasantness this life offers? The entire proposition is madness!”

Caliphestros laughs quietly again, using a small swatch of cloth to wipe perspiration from his own brow, and then pouring a small amount of water from a skin into Stasi’s upturned mouth, before drinking himself. “You Bane have a peculiarly perverse manner of arriving at the of truth of things, or rather, at a kind of truth.”

“Ah! But it is truth, eh, Wizard Lord?” Heldo-Bah declares in triumph.

“Let us say that it is,” answers the old man, “and proceed to your point.”

“Assuming you have one,” Veloc chides quietly.

“I have made it already,” Heldo-Bah scoffs. “See how my genius confounds the wise man! My point is merely that the more you learn of these one-god peoples, the more absurd they become …” Shaking his head, the forager continues, “And you, old man: what god did you find to worship, who seems to have preserved you during your foolish — but doubtless noble! — pursuit of the Death, only to snatch your legs from you for your merciful troubles?”

“Heldo-Bah!” Keera finally shouts, unable to endure her friend’s endless disrespect and mockery.

“I am deeply sorry, Keera,” Heldo-Bah replies, “but, sorcerer or no, noble intentions or not, what kind of fool follows the Death about from place to place?”

Keera is red-faced with rage, and Veloc, seeing this, calls out, “Can you not simply discuss the subject, Heldo-Bah, without recourse to insults and altercations?”

“Do not concern yourself, Veloc,” Caliphestros says. “And I am honored by your indignation, Keera — but among the endless procession of ignorant assaults under which I have been trampled during my life, your friend’s is actually one of the more amusing and even interesting varieties.” Urging Stasi closer to Keera, Caliphestros continues to speak to her, but in confidence, now: “And my distraction and indulgence of both Heldo-Bah and your brother has a purpose, Keera. If what I suspect about the plague that has come to Broken as well as the Wood is indeed true, then we may catch the scent—you may catch the scent — of still more bodies among the rocks that line the Cat’s Paw, as well as along the heights above it. Animal scents, in addition to human. All things dead near this river must be examined carefully if we are to solve this terrible puzzle.”

Keera stands straighter as she walks, putting her nose into the westerly breeze. “I understand, my lord; although I cannot say that the task will prevent me from hurling a stone at Heldo-Bah’s rude, ignorant mouth.”

“You leave Heldo-Bah to me,” Caliphestros laughs quietly.

Sighing once, Keera says, “Very well, my lord,” and then turns her nose and her gaze in all directions. “We have passed the most deadly rocks, and dawn begins to make the remaining distance safer,” she judges at length.

“What in the name of Kafra’s foul face are you two scheming at?” Heldo-Bah shouts.

“Calm yourself, Heldo-Bah,” replies Caliphestros. “And begin to temper the volume of your voice — for the river is narrowing, and I hardly need tell you who is on the other side. Baster-kin’s men may be using the time they have left before their advance to search for those Bane who trussed one of their number and served him up to the wolves.”

“Calm yourself, ancient one,” Heldo-Bah says; yet he eyes the far side of the river uneasily. “Even if the Merchant Lord’s men are there, they will likely not have heard me. These chasms do strange things to sound.”

“You would stake your own life, and all of ours, on that proposition?” Caliphestros declares. “After all, Stasi and I heard the man’s shrieks, and subsequently investigated their cause — it is wholly likely that the watch atop Broken’s walls heard it, as well. Prudence, my defiant friend, may let you keep a few more of your teeth, along with your life.”

“Yes, yes,” Heldo-Bah answers, waving the statement away. “But do not think that you can continue to avoid my principal question, by so distracting me. I would know this, finally: with all the lands you have visited, and all the great philosophers and kings you have met and advised — why, why would you choose to settle in Broken, of all places? You must have known of the evil nature of their faith—”

“In fact, I did,” Caliphestros replies, still calmly and readily. “For I first observed what is there called the ‘cult’ of Kafra in Alexandria. It had been brought hence by tribes who live along the upper reaches of the river Nilus,† which is called ‘the mother of Egypt.’ I next encountered the faith in several small but wealthy border towns in Broken, during my journey there with Boniface—”

Heldo-Bah cannot help but blurt, “Ha! ‘Vat of Turds,’” assuming an air of complete self-satisfaction as Caliphestros continues:

“The faith and its adherents had traveled repeatedly, or so I was told, aboard the grain ships that ply the seas between Lumun-jan and Egypt. And that was what interested me, particularly, about the golden god: his path across the waters, throughout the empires to the south, and then to the northern kingdoms, followed exactly the route that had been traveled by every spread of the Death.” The old man pauses, and then glances down at the remnants of his legs. “Not unlike the rats that infest those same grain ships … ‡ Yet it had never occurred to me that such a peculiar faith could become the foundation of a state, and when I began to hear that it had, I grew fascinated. I had already intended to visit Broken in Brother Winfred’s company, to determine if the Death had struck there; and the remarkable news that the place had become not only a functioning but a powerful Kafran kingdom became simply an additional reason to make the journey.”

“I feel I should point out, my lord,” says Veloc, not without some indignation, “that any Bane schoolchild knows that Kafra came into our own part of the world when Oxmontrot and his comrades, who had traveled south to seek their fortunes in the wars of the Lumun-jani, returned home.”

A sudden, rather peculiar look of fascination enters Caliphestros’s features. “So the Bane know of Oxmontrot?”

“Why should we not?” Veloc queries, still playing the role of offended scholar. “He began the banishments of all those who could not or would not be slaves to the plan to build his great city, after all. And so he was, in one way, the father of our tribe — as the man who rapes a woman and leaves her with child is the detestable but undoubted father of that infant.”

Caliphestros is further impressed: “That is soundly argued, Veloc, and with an economy of words. I begin to wonder why your Groba should have refused to name you historian of your tribe.”

“If you’d like clarification, my lord,” Heldo-Bah interrupts, “simply ask him how many women of the Tall he’s bedded — that’s but one reason why the members of the Groba doubt him. There is also the small matter of his being often in my company — which, I think, they would ignore, save for the additional business of his refusing to copulate with the Priestess of the Moon …”

“Is all this true, Veloc?” Caliphestros asks, without either rancor or censure. “But I understood that the Priestess may choose any mate she desires from your tribe — in emulation, say the Kafran clergy, of their own customs — and that none dare refuse her.”

“Well, Lord Sorcerer,” Heldo-Bah declares, now holding a mockingly proud hand toward Veloc, “allow me to present the only one who ever has!”

Trying to ignore Heldo-Bah’s caustic comment, Veloc also attempts to direct the conversation elsewhere: “But how come you to know so much of our tribe, my lord?”

“I?” the old man says. “It was many years ago — a lifetime, one could say, without exaggeration. I had served the God-King Izairn long and faithfully enough to gain his trust, and he bade me undertake a study of your tribe. Together with my acolytes, I assembled an enormous store of information — a store that would subsequently become very useful during my years of exile.”

“Oh?” Heldo-Bah inquires pointedly. “And what has become of that collection? For there are more than a few in our tribe who contend that you carried out your ‘study’ by dissecting the living bodies of Bane prisoners.”

“Can you never cease your childish prattle, Heldo-Bah?” Keera says angrily. “Those were fables, made up by a few Outragers.”

“I’m simply asking, Keera,” Heldo-Bah says. “You know that I despise the Outragers even more than you, or indeed than any other Bane. I merely wish to know what truth, if any, there is in the tale.”

Caliphestros snorts in dismissal: “If you will believe such stories, Heldo-Bah, there is little point to continuing either our discussion or our actions in concert.” The old man’s features grow momentarily puzzled: “But is it true that you despise the Outragers — and that others in your tribe harbor similar sentiments?”

Keera and Veloc nod in turn, leaving it to Heldo-Bah to say: “Despise them? Why, we as good as left one for dead, not a week ago. And an important one, at that—”

“Heldo-Bah!” Keera commands. “There is no reason to reveal what we may or may not have—”

“Oh, but there is, Keera,” Caliphestros says. “If you will pardon my interrupting you. This hostility among the Bane against the Outragers was not a fact that was contained in my study of your tribe. During my years in Broken, I actually tried to rouse similar sentiment against another group of murderers turned sacred soldiers — the Personal Guard of the Merchant Lord, of whom we have just been speaking. Those posturing villains who, after my banishment, tortured and murdered my acolytes.”

Heldo-Bah’s mangled brows come together in distrust, and his filed teeth again show in the skeptical curl of his lip. “Truly, old man?”

Caliphestros takes in an excited breath, yet he hesitates: he knows that the veracity of his next words, and the greater trust that they will — with luck — breed, cannot help but be crucial to the future of the little band’s present undertaking; but as ever, secrets shared make him uneasy. “What I tell you now, I say in confidence. Fate having brought us together in a vital undertaking, I must trust in the sincerity of each of you, and must also be able to trust that you comprehend the need for constant discretion — for that undertaking will require from us all the best efforts and truest belief in one another that we can muster. And so — can you, all three, pledge me that trust and that assurance? And will you believe me if I pledge the same?”

Among the foragers, it is Veloc who nods assent first, quickly and eagerly; Heldo-Bah, not surprisingly, continues to appear uneasy, but also agrees to the compact, after only a few moments’ further consideration; but Keera, somewhat surprisingly, displays the most cautious aspect. “If that be so, my lord,” she says, “then — in the spirit of the honest alliance you would establish between us — there is yet one thing that we must tell you.”

Both Veloc and Heldo-Bah appear suddenly alarmed, as though they know exactly what Keera is referring to, and dread its announcement; yet Caliphestros — to the surprise of all the foragers — smiles kindly, indeed, almost indulgently. “Yes, I thought there might be.”

Heldo-Bah throws his hands toward the branches of the forest ceiling. “There — you see? He reads our very thoughts — an undoubted a sorcerer, just as I have always maintained!”

“Hush, Heldo-Bah!” Veloc orders; and then, to his sister, he murmurs, “So long as you are certain, Keera …”

Keera keeps her gaze on Caliphestros’s gently smiling face. “How did you know, my lord?”

“How could I not?” answers the old man. “I do not know if you realize as much, Keera, but you Bane, inscrutable as your activities may sometimes be, are not obscure, when conversing with one another. And last night, as we were packing my instruments and materials, there was one subject that all three of you seemed anxious to mention — save that every time any one of you came near to it, one of the others would give the careless speaker a boot in his backside, or the flat of your hand across his head.”

Caliphestros coaxes Stasi a few steps away from the others, and faces northeast, toward Broken: for the distant mountain and the city walls atop it have now been plainly revealed by the dawn, across the river and through gaps in the much thinner lines of trees on the riverbanks. “So,” he says, his voice scarcely audible. “She has been in the Wood again …”

The foragers move slowly closer to the spot on which stand the white panther and her rider. “She has,” Veloc says. “And you know more about this Wife of Kafra, my lord, than simply her station and rank — as we supposed you must. And, apparently, that she has been in the Wood before. But you are certain that we’re talking about the same witch?”

Caliphestros inclines his head in agreement, but keeps his eyes on the horizon. “A tall woman with coal-black hair that falls in straight, gleaming sheets, and eyes of a darker green than Stasi’s, but just as brilliant?”

“The very one,” Heldo-Bah answers, clapping his hands to the sides of his head in resignation. “Allow me to guess — she is your daughter? Or are you yourself a half-breed demon, who had your way with some mortal female — and a female of great beauty, she must have been — when you still had legs?”

To the forager’s somewhat accusatory suggestions, Caliphestros offers only a small laugh. “You are wrong in every respect, Heldo-Bah. The woman you saw is no kin to me — or no blood kin, I should perhaps say. She was—is—a princess: the daughter of the God-King I served, Izairn, and sister to that good man’s heir, Saylal.”

“That cannot—” Veloc stops before he can complete the question, allowing himself time to frame it more cautiously. “I would not have thought that possible, my lord. For the Wives of Kafra, Bane historians have long known, are the God-King’s mistresses, as well.”

“Fool, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah chastises quietly. “Did you truly think that a woman demented enough to seduce a Davon panther would pause at bedding her own brother?”†

Keera alone sees that Caliphestros winces and trembles abruptly at this question. “My lord?” she asks. “Are you unwell? Shall we rest a short while, and prepare some of your medicines?”

The old man smiles faintly at the question. “No, Keera … although I thank you. But not even I have medicines to cure such foolishness and tragedy …” Again he looks up and through the trees to the northern horizon, as if he can see into the chambers of the God-King’s palace itself; and, as he indulges this seeming vision, he murmurs just one name:

“Alandra …”‡

Keera approaches Caliphestros and Stasi carefully; and when she is beside them, she summons the nerve to ask, “That was — is — what she is called?”

Caliphestros nods again. “It was and is, Keera. A name derived from the legends of those whom the people of Broken know as the Kreikisch, and the people of Roma, or Lumun-jan, call the Graeci.† In particular, the name comes from the ancient tale of another great city that was put to siege — just as we may well be forced, one day, to lay siege to Broken.”

Ignoring a scoffing grunt from Heldo-Bah, Keera says, “I do not wish to reach for conclusions before we have sufficient reason, my lord, but—”

Keera grows suddenly silent, turning toward the northwest with an expression that Veloc and Heldo-Bah know only too well: for it betrays the detection of some new danger. A gust of wind has coursed through the series of long, high gorges that comprise this portion of the valley of the Cat’s Paw, and finally made its way to the rock on which the tracker stands with Caliphestros and Stasi; and, almost immediately after turning away to the left, Keera turns back round again, to glance down and see that the white panther has also detected something on the breeze, and that her large, brick-red nostrils are flared open.

The panther’s ears slowly go down and back, down and back, until they sink beneath the crown of her head; and she is already growling in both alarm and warning, as well as opening her mouth and taking quick, steady breaths in the quietly peculiar way that cats do at such moments. Caliphestros, in a whisper, explains to Keera that, when employing certain exceptionally sensitive organs found inside their mouths, cats can actually taste scents‡ and therefore danger: a most impressive ability that seems, to the uneducated, a sort of magic.

Yet Keera is little interested in academic matters, just at this instant: “Death!” she suddenly cries. “Perhaps not the Death, but death, all the same, and much of it. I would place it—” Her nostrils again flare, as the cat growls. “Above the point at which we emerged from the deep forest and reached the river; and it comes—” She dashes to the edge of the Wood and climbs a gnarled cherry tree, judging the increase or decrease in the power of the scent from that point. She then returns to the spot where Stasi stands with her rider, the old man knowing enough to let the tracker go about her work without interference. “From very near the river, if not from within the valley itself. Indeed, my best guess would be that it originates along the silted banks of one of the large pools that form where the river first descends. Those calmer stretches, that is, where creatures of every variety come to drink and bathe.” Her upper teeth bite at her lower lip, as her confusion and concern heighten: “For there are many varieties of death and decay, within this one stench …”

Stasi soon steps to the left, moving onto the more solid ground at the edge of Davon Wood; and there she paces uneasily to and fro, her eyes searching the northwest forest and sky, both of which are still gripped by darkness sufficient to allow her imagination full sway. Caliphestros strokes her neck and urges her to be calm, but with little success: “It was in just such a spot,” explains the old man to the others, “that Stasi and her cubs were first spied by the party of Broken hunters and drivers that gave them chase deeper into the Wood.”

Keera studies the white panther’s motions and the expressions of her face and voice for a few more moments, and finally says, “It seems that Stasi returns to that terrible time even now — as if she senses that those who carried out the attack upon her family are also responsible for the death she now detects; and she desires another chance to settle—”

Stasi suddenly releases her resonant, hauntingly high-toned cry of alarm. She then rushes a little deeper into the forest proper, to a nearby cluster of thick roseberry† bushes that grow out of a patch of particularly soft Earth that is covered by a thick layer of moss. Here, she gracefully but deliberately dips her left foreleg and side, causing Caliphestros to lose his balance atop her and, clutching his twin bags and his bundled crutches, to roll into the patch of almost harmless bushes and, soon, into the thick moss at their base. Then, briefly glancing back to see that the old man has survived without mishap, Stasi dashes away, keeping just within the line of the forest’s edge, where the ground is easier to grip, and soon disappearing into the northwesterly wilderness.

“Stasi!” Caliphestros cries, before he has even gotten himself into a sitting position. As the foragers rush to assist him, he continues to shout in fear, “Stasi, do not be rash — you must wait for our help!”

{vi:}

“My lord!” Keera says, leaping into the enveloping bushes, finding a path through the more widely spaced branches at the base of the thicket, and thus a way to the old man’s side, as quickly as we might, by now, have grown to expect of these Bane. “Are you injured?” Keera says, when she reaches him.

Caliphestros grinds his teeth hard, already grabbing at a small deerskin pouch that hangs round his neck. “No — not injured, Keera,” he says, groaning. “It is nothing more than the old pain …” This statement bleeds into another groan and more teeth-gnashing: “Nor is it anything less. May the true deities who watch over this world damn the golden god and his priests to such eternal fire as is forever mine!”

“Hak! Be careful, now,” Heldo-Bah laughingly scolds, as he cuts his way through the berry bush branches. “You’ve spent too much time in our company already, Lord of Wisdom — blaspheming like some cheap Daurawah whore, you shock me!”

“But what happened, my lord?” Veloc asks, his mind, like Heldo-Bah’s, fully capable of carrying on a conversation as his hands and arms slash away at the strong bush expertly enough to avoid the painful cuts that the larger thorns can inflict.

“As I have told you, Veloc, Stasi’s actions and purposes are her own,” the struggling Caliphestros replies sharply, taking three pressed balls of what Keera can tell, simply by their scent, are powerful combinations of herbaceous medicines out of his pouch, then quickly putting them into his mouth and chewing them, seemingly oblivious to what the tracker surmises must be their terribly bitter taste. “Although I cannot pretend that both my pride and other, pettier feelings of my heart do not suffer when these things happen …” Already having revealed far more about this moment than he would have liked, even in friendly company, Caliphestros abruptly ceases such talk and calls out: “Heldo-Bah! I assume you have some quantity of potent drink on your person?”

Much of Heldo-Bah’s humorous view of this latest event has been driven out of his mind and manner by sudden and close scrutiny of the terrible scars on the old man’s thighs; and so he responds to this inquiry by reaching inside his tunic, producing what appears to be a fairly small wineskin, made of kid hide and lined with the stomach of the same animal. “You assume rightly, my lord, and you are welcome to as much of it as you need …”

Caliphestros nods, takes a deep draught from the skin, and hastens to draw air. “By whatever gods be true!” he soon gasps, staring at Heldo-Bah with stunned features, “What is that?”

Heldo-Bah grins, lets the old man take another pull at the skin, then indulges in one, himself; and even he must work to keep it down. “That is the one civilized thing to come north with the dark barbarians southeast of the Tombs,” he says, sucking in his own cooling gasp of air. “Plum brandy, or so they claim it to be. Slivevetz, they call it.”†

“Brandy?” Caliphestros echoes in disbelief. “It cannot be. An incendiary used by their armies, perhaps — I would almost believe it to be napthes,‡ save that I know from my own studies that those tribes are too ignorant to distill such.”

Heldo-Bah laughs once, and heartily, as if he has just seen the first evidence he can truly comprehend that Caliphestros is indeed a man, as Heldo-Bah understands the word: a person who, whatever his present diminished state, once savored the visceral joys of life. “Yes, I thought the same, my lord, when first I tasted it,” the Bane calls in delight. “Save that it does not rob one of life. Rather the opposite!”

Keera has taken the small but weighty bags from Caliphestros’s shoulders and set them aside, after which she helps the old man to sit fully up. Caliphestros looks off in the direction of the forest undergrowth through which Stasi disappeared.

“Should we not hurry, my lord, to aid Stasi?” Keera asks. “If you are able, of course.”

“We shall,” answers the old man, getting his crutches on. “But we need not move too quickly. Stasi will attack only if she finds living humans at the site of whatever death has taken place upriver — and the chances of discovering such life, be it animal or human are, if I am correct about what is taking place, small. And that is fortunate — for it is the dead who hold the clearest answers to our questions …” The old man, gaining strength, glances about. “Yet we must consider that our purposes now seem to lead in two opposing directions.”

“These strange deaths upriver,” Keera says with a nod, “and the soldier at the Fallen Bridge.”

“Indeed, Keera,” Caliphestros replies. “Thus we must, for the moment, split our band into sensible pieces. I propose that you and I follow Stasi; Veloc, you go with Heldo-Bah and keep watch over the body downriver, taking every care not to be observed until our return, when we may conduct a more thorough investigation.”

“It shall be done as you say, my lord,” Veloc replies, again anxious to please the old man. “You may rely upon it, and upon us.”

“And,” Heldo-Bah adds eagerly, “as yours will be the longer journey—” Without anyone having ordered it, he fetches up Caliphestros’s two bags from the midst of the roseberry bush. “Permit me to assume these burdens for you, Lord Caliphestros.” Moaning when he lifts the bags onto his shoulders, he removes one and hands it to Veloc. “Who would have ever thought that the day would come when we would be draughting books about the Wood, as if they were blocks of gold or iron ore …”

“I very much doubt that anyone would believe it,” Caliphestros says quickly, anxious to get under way. “Come here, now, both of you.” Heldo-Bah and Veloc obey, and stand quite still as Caliphestros retrieves a few small objects from his bags, and then hands these apparently precious items to Keera, who places them in her own shoulder sack. “Remember this,” the old man says, indicating his bags to Veloc and Heldo-Bah. “These books, as well as the instruments you carry, are in fact of far greater importance to our finding the source of the illness, and whether it is indeed a plan set in motion by those who rule Broken, than any of the goods you usually carry. Be careful with them, especially at those moments when you display, as you so frequently do, little concern for your own necks. And so — on your way!”

“If my senses are true,” Keera adds, “we can be no more than an hour or two from the deaths Stasi detected. Cover your ground quickly, Veloc, for we should not be far behind.”

Veloc and Heldo-Bah sling their larger foraging bags atop their free shoulders. “We shall meet again ere noontime,” Heldo-Bah calls as he departs, “at the Fallen Bridge!”

Having watched the two Bane men depart, Keera and Caliphestros soon set off on their own, less certain journey, Keera walking beside the hobbling old man and carefully following the trail that Stasi has evidently made no effort to hide — indeed, that she must have deliberately tried to mark, so much is the path at variance with the very great stealth that Davon panthers ordinarily exhibit. When Keera considers this fact in combination with Caliphestros’s strange lack of surprise or meaningful reaction to Stasi’s departure, as well as to his having been left rather unceremoniously to the mercies of forest moss and a berry bush, she feels that she is safe in asking:

“My lord — Caliphestros — I am curious: what causes these sudden departures by the great panther?”

Caliphestros smiles. “Yes — you looked as though you might be puzzling that out.” He sighs once, any lingering pain in his legs now being very effectively shrouded by the medicines he has consumed. “Stasi has what I would term an instinct for unnatural death. But often, when that admittedly facile explanation seems inadequate, I have followed her to the various streams in our part of the Wood, where we happen upon agèd or mortally wounded creatures who have come to the water to die, and I ask of myself, again and again—why has she come here? In virtually every instance, during these investigations, Stasi has approached the dead and the dying with neither alarm nor killing in her thoughts, but as if to determine why they have met or are meeting their ends. I began to see that it is chiefly death inflicted by man that fascinates her. When Stasi — in my presence as well as, I suspect, alone — comes across an eagle, a hawk, or even a raven, that has been pierced by an arrow but is still alive, she neither finishes nor consumes it; not immediately or, in most cases, at all. The same is even more true if she encounters some creature who shares her world of the forest floor: instead of throttling it and consuming its flesh, she will nose about the injurious arrow, seeking the scent — or so I have always thought — of whatever human loosed it.”

Putting his own nose into the air, Caliphestros stops short. “Hak! — the stench of death grows more pungent with nearly every step. It must be particularly oppressive, for one with senses as powerful as your own.”

Keera nods. “Yes, lord. I did not wish to interrupt, but — we cannot be far off, now …”

The rest of their short progress through the Wood is made in silence, for the heightened stench soon makes it necessary to use their mouths only for breathing, after they have blocked their noses. This small task they achieve when Keera harvests the redolent sap of a nearby pine tree, compresses into bits small enough to fit into their nostrils.

“So much death …” Keera murmurs, anxiously moving ahead of Caliphestros when the path that Stasi has already taken approaches the banks of the Cat’s Paw.

“Indeed, Keera” Caliphestros calls after her. “Yet why and how — these become even more important questions.” Pulling himself toward the sound of the river, eyes ever on the increasingly dangerous ground, the old man arrives at the silty shore of a broad and relatively calm pool in the river, fed at its far end by a single high waterfall. A thick mist obscures the pool’s surface, at various spots, and an enormous rock formation serves as its easternmost bank, a narrow but deep channel of escape having been cut into the middle of it by countless, powerful spring floods. Keera stands atop this formation, taking in whatever surrounds her with apparent horror.

“Keera?” Caliphestros says, as he moves toward the base of the rocky mass, which obscures his view of all save the nearest banks of the pool. “What is it?”

Her voice is eerily — indeed, deathly — calm: “Stasi was right about the scent of men … but wrong in her concern that they were a threat to us …”

Caliphestros comes closer, and soon sees that the tracker is not alone atop the stone rise:

“Stasi!” he calls, at which the great cat bounds down to him. To make amends for her sudden departure, she takes a moment to rub her brow, muzzle, and nose into the old man’s lowered face and his side, in what she evidently considers gentle affection, which is still nearly enough to topple him from his crutches; and, when certain that he is both amenable and ready, she lowers her neck and shoulders in the usual manner, allowing Caliphestros to get off his walking contrivances and back astride her shoulders. Though happy to see him, the panther is also in a clear state of agitation, and is evidently anxious that her companion see the object of her unrest as quickly as possible.

“All right,” Caliphestros says, as Stasi bounds back up and onto the stone embankment upon which Keera stands. “We can discuss the manner of your departure later. Now, what is it that caused you to—”

But by now, rider and mount are atop Keera’s enormous rock, and he is able to see the scene in and around the broad pool that spreads out before them. The sound of the fall at the water’s far end is muted, in reality by distance and the last of the morning mist — but for a moment it seems that the terrible scenes that line the pool’s northern and eastern banks have themselves caused the falling water to quiet its roar, out of solemn respect: respect for the dead, and respect for the irretrievably dying …

{vii:}

Caliphestros has witnessed most of the varieties of brutality which either Man or Nature can display — but he is now forced to admit woefully that he has scarcely ever beheld such unnatural carnage as that which stretches away before him. All stages of death and decay, afflicting nearly every kind of woodland and lowland creature, are represented; and, while there are flutters of movement among several groups of untamed grazing animals, these scarcely living representatives of their kinds are greatly outnumbered by the scores of dead. It is a supremely lamentable and pitiable sight, made worse when one or another of the throng’s still-living members — who lie, almost uniformly, on their sides, their ribs revealed so clearly and painfully that it seems they must soon burst through their hides — twitch and occasionally start, trying but inevitably failing to get back to their feet. The dead, meanwhile, are only less horrific for their being, mercifully, finished with life: some lie with abdomens burst open, some with but a little rotted meat clinging to their skeletons, and some with those same skeletons bleached to an almost pure white, but all in the same position, with their necks and heads extended toward the bank of the pool, as if they had expected to find salvation or at least comfort in the cold waters, but were cruelly disappointed. Yet there are other, even more surprising varieties of dead beasts at this place, too: hunters of the wood and the plains, including wolves, and even a young panther, have also come to the cooling waters, seeking relief from whatever it is that sickened and then slew them. There is cause for pity in this, too, for the wolves have brought their young with them, in an attempt to save at least those future members of their indomitable breed; yet those smaller hunters also lie dead and dying, their whimpering providing the most lamentable and strange sound in the small world that Death has built here, over what must have been many days and weeks.

“Look, my lord,” Keera says at length, scarce able to contain her sorrow, but suddenly intrigued by one collection of carcasses and half-dead beasts that surround a small, shaded inlet, a cove of sorts, at the very northernmost point of the pool’s long bank. “Can it be …?”

“Aye, Keera,” Caliphestros whispers, urging Stasi forward on the great mass of stone that provides their vantage point. “Shag cattle — strays, and almost certainly Lord Baster-kin’s own.”

“It is as if …” Keera speaks softly, and tears have by now moistened her face; and so she sets her jaw and says no more.

But Caliphestros knows her well enough, by now, to finish her thought: “It is as if every sort of creature has been assembled to die in this one place; and finally, in that death, they have become neither hunters nor hunted, but only fellows in their suffering, fellows who are soon, together, to travel to and reside forever in the next existence …”

Keera nods silently. “Yes, my lord — and have you noticed one thing more?” But Caliphestros makes no reply, and so she continues: “All creatures of this Earth are here …” Keera lifts a hand to indicate an ash stand in the northeasternmost corner of the pool. “Even our own …”

Caliphestros requires a moment to make sense of the dappled, early morning scene toward which Keera has directed his gaze; but soon he sees that a human body hangs amid the ash trunks, strapped by its arms between a pair of the trees, and missing the lower portions of its legs: a victim, plainly, of the Halap-stahla.

“Armor,” Keera says, as if unable to quite believe it. “He wears the armor of Broken. And very fine armor it is …”

“And, therefore, warrants further inspection by us,” Caliphestros answers with a nod, his manner suddenly fretful. “But be careful, Keera — you must touch neither the body, nor any of the other carnage, here, no matter how great your pity and sympathy. It is enough that we even walk through this scene — for the very air may be full of pestilence, for all we know or can tell …” Glancing at the water that flows through the stone channel beneath them, which is some eight feet across and again as deep, Caliphestros judges, “Stasi can leap to the other side, with my scant weight on her back. I can then send her for you—”

“There is no need, my lord.” Keera has been searching the surrounding trees, and has found what she desires — a length of thick climbing vine, which hangs from one especially stout limb of a high, spreading oak on the opposite bank. Taking up a long, notched branch that lies among a scattering of dead wood on the rocky surface, she grabs hold of the vine with it, and has swung across the spillway even before Stasi’s broad paws have leapt from the south to touch the northern side. The hardest part of their passage to the ash stand on the far side is, however, yet to come: Keera must exert all her will to keep from looking into the eyes of the now-close collection of dying animals — for there is, in the wide, dark eyes of each surviving thing, not only a terrible, bewildered fear, but a pitiable plea begging relief of any living thing that might pass by. It is not long before Keera must look away altogether, and hurry to keep pace with Stasi and Caliphestros. The panther’s mind is fixed most determinedly on the man suspended from the trees, a man who reeks with the scent of those deadly and despicable men of Broken …

When Keera does reach her comrades, she finds them both deep in contemplation of the scene of ritual mutilation: Stasi’s nose moves from spot to spot upon the ground, able, apparently, to pick up a scent trail. Caliphestros, in the meantime, twists and turns his head as Stasi roots through the undergrowth of the forest floor, keeping his eyes — which have gone from an expression of worry to one of recognition and shock — fixed on the hanging dead man. Deeply creased skin interrupts the victim’s grey and white beard and surrounds the eye sockets (the latter emptied by scavenging birds, some of them, perhaps, the very ravens that are now among the dying that ring the pool), all of which betray a man of advanced years.

“Korsar …” Caliphestros pronounces, lifting a trembling hand to indicate the lifeless half-figure. “But I knew this man …” He stares deep into the famed soldier’s eye sockets as if searching for the light of mutual recognition, and finding only the gleam of putrid gore.

“Yantek Korsar?” Keera asks, herself shocked, now.

“Aye, Keera,” Caliphestros answers. “Once, the famed and honored commander of all of Broken’s legions. Yet now …”

Keera glances at Caliphestros, to take the measure of his sentiment; but she finds an expression impossible to interpret, and so looks again at the sadly mutilated body. “Was he one of those who denounced you?” she asks at length.

“Denounced me?” Caliphestros answers, his face and voice ambiguity itself. “No. Neither did he speak for me, but — Herwald Korsar was a good man. A tragic man, in many ways. But no …” And at that moment, as his characteristically certain voice trails away again, an aspect enters his features that surprises Keera, perhaps more than the sight of the mutilated body. For the first time during his alliance with the Bane foragers, this master of sorcery, or of science, or of whatever art it is that usually enables him to speak with such authority about so many strange and wondrous subjects, appears uncertain. “I had expected some such horror as this, when news came of Broken’s plan to invade the Wood and attack your tribe,” he says. “But to see it …” He glances at the tracker. “I should hate any such torment to be the fate of you or your children, Keera—”

Keera thinks to ask where such “news” could have come from, to one alone in the Wood; but the strangely discomfiting moment is shattered by a sudden scream of pain and terror from one of the stray and dying shag cattle that lie in the small inlet on the pool’s north shore. As if magically, the beast, a once-imposing steer, rises suddenly from the carcasses around it, stands awkwardly upon strangely misshapen hooves, and begins to buck wildly. Caliphestros and Keera both watch warily as the steer’s mad eyes — out of which seep small trails of blood — catch sight of Stasi’s brilliant green orbs, which must appear to it as a signal fire in the morning mist; and a clearly malicious intent abruptly taints the steer’s every breath and movement. Stasi growls in return, the massive muscles of her shoulders and haunches readying for combat; but, just as Keera prepares to lift Caliphestros’s scant weight from the panther’s back, in order to allow Stasi freedom for battle, the old man stays the tracker’s arm.

“No, Keera!” he cries, locking one arm as tightly as he can about the panther’s thick, straining neck, and using the other to cover Stasi’s eyes. “She must not tear the flesh of the diseasèd beast, nor allow herself to be even scratched — your bow, quickly, drop the animal as it charges!”

Keera asks no questions, but lifts bow from shoulder and arrow from quiver, each with one arm and in a practiced set of motions, as she steps out in front of her new friends. She nocks her shaft at once, and then — with the shag steer now bearing down on them in feverish madness, charging through bank, mud, water, and finally over stone — she takes careful aim and lets fly. The arrow finds its way to the animal’s breast, through scant meat and between bone, and finally into the heart. The steer collapses and slides along the stone upon which Keera, Stasi, and Caliphestros stand, its body made slick by its own sweat, blood, and spittle, so that it comes to a halt all too near the brave Bane tracker. When the creature does stop, Keera finally draws breath once more, and for the first time allows herself to realize what has occurred.

“Impossible,” she mutters, as the last rattle of death shakes the pitiable beast before her. “Could the pestilence drive it so very mad?”

“Not the pestilence that you have described to me as afflicting your people,” Caliphestros answers, as he and Stasi come up beside Keera. He nods in acknowledgment of the skill of her shot, then says, “But another pestilence altogether was plain to be seen, as soon as the poor creature rose. Observe the ears, Keera, and then the hooves …”

Keera takes a few steps toward the beast, and sees that its ears have been badly mauled by some sort of combat; but then she realizes the truth, murmuring, “Nay — they have rotted away …!” And so, she then sees, have the hooves, whole parts of which are missing, revealing sickly flesh beneath.

“Oh, great Moon,” Keera whispers, going down upon one knee before the steer, but careful not to touch it. “What can this harmless animal have done to warrant your fire?”

Caliphestros’s head cocks at these words, as Stasi begins to shift to and fro, knowing now that the steer is a mass of disease and anxious to be away from it. But Caliphestros strokes her muzzle and neck calmingly, and asks the tracker, “What say you, Keera—’fire?’ You know of it?”

Keera’s head slowly nods. “Moonfire,” she says. “The fever that maddens and rots …”

“Yes,” Caliphestros says. “Of course that is what you would call it. Moonfire — the fire of Saint Anthony, Ignis Sacer—the Holy Fire …”

Keera stands and approaches the old man, who has again retreated into a world of unsettling thought. “My lord? What are these things of which you speak?”

“All names that are one, in their essence.” Caliphestros sighs deeply, and then glances back up at the decaying body of Yantek Korsar. “So we are doubly cursed — doubly plagued …”

And then, strangest of all, the old man cradles his forehead in one hand — and quietly weeps. It lasts a mere moment, but the moment is enough: “Lord Caliphestros,” Keera says, not at all reassured at the sound of even quiet tears. “Do you not have the skill to face the presence of two pestilences in this place — and perhaps in Okot?”

But Caliphestros, his tears gone, only answers in a tongue that is strange to Keera, and which further disturbs her: “Ther is moore broke in Brokynne …”

“My lord,” the tracker insists, sternly calling him to the moment and its perils. “Has the fire taken your reason, as well, then?”

Holding up a delicate, wrinkled hand, the old man steadies himself and says, “Forgive me, Keera. It was a saying, a small jest, with which the monk in whose company I first came to the great city — Winfred, or Boniface, of whom we have spoken — was wont to ease our cares, in his own tongue, when we came to realize the true nature of the place: ‘Ther is moore broke in Brokynne, thanne ever was knouen so.’† It meant only that, beneath the surface of its renownèd power, Broken was a far more ominous place than either of us could even say with accuracy. But now—” Again with his eyes fixed upon the old soldier strapped between the ash trees, Caliphestros murmurs, “—now, I know the bitter truth of that ‘jest’; and I believe we can begin to see and know the true extent of Broken’s malice and corruption. Certainly, it is doubled, at the very least: twice the peril — two pestilences, as you say, Keera, and perhaps still more danger. For we also have this testament”—he points up to the mutilated remains of the once-proud Yantek Korsar—“to another kind of illness, another type of danger, altogether …”

Keera can only shake her head in frustration, and then cries, “My lord, you must explain these things! I must know if my children—”

“And explain them I shall,” Caliphestros answers, with deep if controlled concern, as he turns away from the ash stand and attempts confident composure, putting a hand to Keera’s shoulder. “Not least for the sake of your children, Keera. And, as a way of atoning for any confusion that I may at times inflict upon you, let me say that all Bane children, at least, should be in no greater danger, from this latest disease that we have discovered; for, although we cannot be certain, the plague you have described as being at work in Okot shares few if any symptoms with the second fever, that which you call Moonfire. That is one thing from which we may take solace. And with that assurance, let us be on our way, and speedily. I have much to explain to your leaders, and on our way to meet with them we might even try to prove why the rose fever alone has struck Okot.”

After Caliphestros has slid onto the panther’s shoulders once more, Stasi approaches the noisy waterway at a quick pace, and then bursts, with the fantastic strength that comes so easily to her kind, in a long leap over the rushing outlet—

And yet Keera, clinging fast to her vine and reaching the southern bank just after Stasi, can hear the old man still murmuring to himself, over and over, as if it were a desperate prayer, now:

“Ther is moore broke in Brokynne …”

So long as Stasi maintains a fast pace, however, down the stone and back onto the trail that brought the three to this place, Keera does not question the old man’s strange speech, nor any other aspect of his behavior. Neither does she trouble her mind more than a little over a brief glimpse that she caught, as she swung back over that pool’s outlet, of a flash of shining white: a fleeting glimpse of a human bone, being washed quickly through the waterway. She has no cause to let it worry her, she assures herself as she runs: after all, where was found one dead, decaying man whose legs were severed, there would likely be an abundance of such bones, from long ago. And if this one in particular appeared too small ever to have resided within the body of a full-grown human, whether Bane or Tall, well … Certainly, it is of no importance to the affairs of the moment; thus, although she knows this explanation to be inadequate to the peculiar sight, she tucks the memory away in the back of her distracted mind and fixes her thoughts upon reaching Okot …

{viii:}

Before Okot, however, must come the arranged meeting with Veloc and Heldo-Bah at the Fallen Bridge. Keera finds, as she does her best to keep pace with Stasi during their morn-to-noonday run, that the memory of their terrible discovery cements the particular bond that the three of them — tracker, scholar, and panther — have from the first been inclined to feel, somehow confirming the full and terrible importance of the journey upon which they have embarked and the purpose that they are now serving; and this sense of importance, the tracker knows, outweighs anything that could have propelled even Heldo-Bah’s and Veloc’s steps. Keera is not altogether surprised, therefore, when — as the stench of the rotting soldier’s body begins to cause her nostrils to flare in renewed distaste soon after the enormous, moss-draped form of the Fallen Bridge comes within view some distance down the deep, rocky riverbed — neither of the male foragers are anywhere to be seen. She surmises aloud to Caliphestros that their own speed may have been sufficient to have allowed them to outstrip her usual companions, who cannot always be counted upon to give their fullest effort or to follow instructions precisely once they are out of both the hearing and the reach of her personal commands and exhortations. For his part, Caliphestros wonders if the two Bane men have not met with some mishap; but Keera assures him that her heart is not vexed by such worries, for Veloc and Heldo-Bah know this stretch of the Cat’s Paw only too well; and since neither she herself nor Stasi have smelled the fresh blood that would characterize such violence, she suspects that her brother gave in to the lazy exhortations of Heldo-Bah, once they had run for a good part of their journey and their usual taskmaster was well out of sight, and slowed his pace to accommodate the added weight of Caliphestros’s books. Keera therefore suggests that Caliphestros and she inspect the diminished corpse of the soldier while they wait for the two to appear, an activity that proves to take little time: the seemingly sorcerous old fellow is able to judge, even by the maggot-infested mess that the soldier’s body has become, that he died of the rose fever alone, that he was not killed by the priests of Kafra (as the golden arrows that seemed to have pierced his body indicated), but was made to appear as if he had been so dispatched, and that the remains are no longer a danger to other living creatures, if indeed they ever were.

“But how can you make such judgments, my lord?” Keera asks, her voice rising over the eternally roaring waters of the Cat’s Paw, “when the body itself is so very decayed?”

“Most of my conclusions are the result of simple observation,” Caliphestros replies. “Keera, have you ever tried to loose one of the Tall’s golden arrows from your bow?”

“We have never had reason or opportunity,” the tracker answers. “When we discover such valuable items, they are always in the bodies of similarly executed outcasts from Broken, and our Groba insists that they be brought back to decorate that council’s Den of Stone, in order to increase the mystical power of that place.”

“Well, then,” the old man continues, “perhaps now you might examine at least one more such shaft from a practical point of view?”

Bemused, Keera steps toward the mass of decay on the ground; but then she pauses, seeking reassurance. “It—will it be safe to touch them?”

Caliphestros smiles gently in admiration. “While I should not be surprised if your healers and other wise men and women were unable to divine the cause of his death immediately, now that you, Keera, know it to be the rose fever, I will wager what is left of my legs that you know its chief properties.”

“I — believe so, Lord Caliphestros,” Keera answers. “As you have said, the rose fever, unlike some similar diseases, seems to lose its threat with the host’s death.”

“Indeed,” Caliphestros replies. “Although when my assistant brought my arrow to me”—he quickly takes the flower-entwined example that he displayed to the foragers on the previous evening from within his smallest, lightest satchel—“I was forced to take extra precautions. Only when you told me your tale did I realize they had been unnecessary, for both myself and my … messenger …”

As Keera makes her first informal estimate of the weight of the shaft she took from the soldier, she says, with affected disinterest, “Yes, your messenger—messengers—I wonder if we may not discuss all the creatures who do your bidding, ere we rejoin the others, my lord …” She moves quickly from the body a final time, using the seemingly inconsequential moment required to study and clean bits of decayed flesh from the arrow. “For it is the only thing that you have yet to—”

“Clever, my girl,” the old man answers, with a light laugh. “But let me retain one small secret for now, eh? Now, to the business at hand. What do you note about the arrow?”

Keera’s face fills with disappointment as she lets the arrow rest upon her finger. “The balance is wretched. You could not loose this shaft from more than a short distance with any chance of accuracy. And these flights — there is no question of their being able to steady its course, even could you launch it further.”

“Just so,” Caliphestros judges approvingly. “And what, then, would you guess the likelihood of the best Broken archers killing a man with such arrows to be, even were the condemned close by?”

“Small, my lord,” Keera replies. “If it exists, at all.”

“Indeed, Keera,” Caliphestros says. “These arrows are intended to thus deceive Broken’s enemies. And to attempt to spread a disease that the priests of Kafra were unaware could not be spread after death. They no doubt thought it identical with the Holy Fire, the pious fools …”

“Whatever their thinking, they pressed the deadly heads into the softer parts of his flesh,” Keera says, “after he was already dead.”

“Excellent.” Caliphestros urges Stasi a little closer to the corpse, glancing at it again for as long as he can tolerate the stench. “Thus we can, indeed, conclude that the fever had killed him before he was pierced by such precious ritual weapons.”

“Then when we were at that wretched pool upriver,” Keera says, “you were adamant about our not touching any creatures, the dead along with the living, because we could not say just what affliction had killed which creature, particularly from a distance.”

“Well reasoned, Keera,” Caliphestros answers. “Would that I had been able to teach the Kafran priests and healers such logic. My quickly increased alarm was due to my detecting the presence of what you call Moonfire; for after the victims of that disease — call it what you will, Holy Fire, the Ignis Sacer of the Romani, or the name other Christ-worshippers use, Saint Anthony’s Fire — die, their bodies release a type of evil vapor or bad air,† one that the illness seems to use, to carry itself on to other living beings.”

“But, surely,” Keera answers, “if one disease can ride upon the air released by the bodies undetected, others — such as the rose fever — would do the same.”

Caliphestros lets a deep breath escape him in frustration. “Indeed. It is an inconsistency that I have not been able to resolve, save to think that these pestilences, like other orders of beings, are not all equally clever. Why should one sickness remain dangerous after its host has died, while another does not? Most that call themselves healers — and none worse than the Kafran — cannot grasp the notion that this a question that must have an answer. To nearly all such, it is the will of their god, and that is enough.”

Although he is about to continue, Caliphestros, like Keera and Stasi, suddenly goes rigid and looks up, when a loud “Shhh!” sounds from above. The panther growls low, looking for a tree to climb as well as the human who has, presumably, made the sound; but she finds neither, until Heldo-Bah’s voice continues to whisper, “Can you two not conclude this imbecilic discussion, or must you tease out every little thread of mutual congratulation, to assure one another of your shared genius?”

Not even Stasi can locate the gap-toothed Bane at first, thanks to his ever-reliable trick of keeping his body smeared with the scents of various animals when in peril; and it is unsurprising, therefore, that neither Caliphestros nor Keera can spot him, either. Soon enough, however, Heldo-Bah’s ugly mouth and teeth — made somehow even more repellant by their being upside down — appear, along with the rest of his face, when he lets himself slowly hang by the knees from the lower limb of a nearby oak tree, its branches laden with leaves.

“Heldo-Bah!” Keera says. “So you did make good time in getting here!”

“And shall remember your unkind words on that subject,” Heldo-Bah replies. “The very thought that we would shirk our duty at a moment such as—”

“Get them into the trees, will you not, Heldo-Bah?” comes Veloc’s whispering voice, from further up; then, to his sister, he adds, “You are in greater danger than you know, Keera — I would suggest any one of this stand of trees for you, and that rather obliging beech, there, for Lord Caliphestros and his companion, who will find its lower limbs easily conquered.”

Heeding Veloc’s sense of urgency with no more than whispers and gestures, the old man is able to direct Stasi up and into the nearby beech, which does indeed have several stout lower limbs that grow at odd angles, offering easy pathways upward to the panther’s sharp claws and powerful legs. In only a few quiet moments, cat and rider find themselves in the higher reaches of the beech, at about the height of the three Bane, who are nestled into other, more upright trees of different varieties.

“At last,” Heldo-Bah whispers. “I did not think that either of you would ever allow us to get a word in, that you might get off the ground and into safety. Great gods, what vain chattering …”

Now that Keera is away from the rotting soldier, the scent of men becomes unmistakable, bringing several low growls from Stasi before Caliphestros quiets the panther. Yet it is not the simple scent of one tribe of men, but the complex aromas of at least two, and perhaps more. “Yes — I make it out, now,” Keera pronounces. “Our own warriors, somewhere close by. But something else, too — not the honest scent of true Broken soldiers, but the scented, well-preening aroma of — of—”

“Baster-kin’s Guard, sister,” Veloc says, directing his chin to the far side of the river. “They imagine themselves well hidden, but even I can pick up the scent and detect their movements. I imagine they await the arrival of some more powerful contingents of the actual Broken army — a fact that would be comforting, were our own men not also proving inexplicably noisy, behind us …”

“Behind us?” Caliphestros asks. “You mean to say that we …?”

“Yes, old sage,” Heldo-Bah replies scornfully. “You’ve hit upon it: we’ve stumbled between two quietly advancing forces, and sudden revelation of our presence may be enough to earn us either outright execution from the Guard, or several mistakenly aimed, poison-tipped arrows from advance groups of our own archers, who are no doubt very, very nervous just now. A devilish predicament …”

“But what can your commander be thinking?” Caliphestros says, somewhat stunned. “When stealth and the Wood have always been your people’s greatest protections?”

“I believe he intends some gesture,” Heldo-Bah replies, “to make the Tall reconsider all their usual thoughts about how our people fight.”

Veloc is far from satisfied with this explanation: “And yet it is inexplicable that Ashkatar should make so terrible an error — he is a great soldier.”

An idea strikes Veloc at that moment, and he turns to face south. “Linnet!” he suddenly says, not in a full shout, but in a whisper loud enough to be clearly detected. “Linnet-of-the-Line, any Linnet-of-the-Line, in the Army of the Bane Tribe!”

“Veloc, you imbecile, shut your mouth!” Heldo-Bah commands; and it is well that he does, for almost immediately, an arrow that they both recognize as having come from a sharp-eyed Bane archer’s short bow strikes the tree near the handsome tracker’s head. “Do you listen to nothing that I say? Do you imagine that Ashkatar’s men are acquainted with the average forager’s methods of concealment, much less our own, and so can know who we are? Fool!”

At the commotion, Stasi growls deeply, looking now to the woodland to the south and its small race of men, who suddenly seem a source of threat: unusual and confusing considerations, for her, an animal who has always respected the Bane enough to spare them from vengeful attacks, just as they have always respected her. Caliphestros whispers words of explanation and reassurance to his companion, stroking her magnificent white coat, but she will not take her brilliant green eyes from the forest, and the hairs of her mighty neck and shoulders she keeps high, as her tail begins to flick in a manner that would ordinarily mean death for some creature. Keera, observing her fellow foragers’ confusion and the discomfort of their new allies with equal alarm, decides that she alone can remove the threat of violence from this turn of events.

“The pair of you!” she whispers loud to her brother and Heldo-Bah, swinging down to a lower branch of her tree. “Make no move. And if you would please oblige me, Lord Caliphestros — I will bring some member of our own forces to our position without useless death. If I can …”

With a few more fast, agile movements, Keera reaches the forest floor, and disappears into the undergrowth of the thicker woodland. Her brother offers one quick protest, but Heldo-Bah has a tight hand over his mouth before he can do any more.

Their wait is a mercifully short one. There are few of Ashkatar’s officers and men who do not know Keera, at least by reputation; and she manages to find and return with a young pallin who relates that the Bane commander’s force has been on the watch for the return of Heldo-Bah’s foraging party — along with “unexpected guests,” Ashkatar has been careful to say, although he has vouchsafed no more to his men, in the hope that they would not serve their various watches in a state of panic, knowing that they were awaiting the coming, not only of the sorcerer Caliphestros, but of possible strange companions and familiars of that great and mighty entity. No warning of Ashkatar’s, of course, could truly have prepared his men; for when the young Bane warrior sees not only the old man but the enormous white panther, as well, descending from their beech tree, he begins to visibly shake.

Keera puts a reassuring hand to his shoulder. “Do not fear, Pallin,” she says. “They have proved true friends of our tribe — for many years, it turns out.”

“Yes,” the young man gasps, his dark features going quite white, “but you must understand, Tracker Keera. Since I was a child, I have been told that this animal was but a myth. And the sorcerer was spoken of only when my mother wished to terrify me into complying with her wishes—”

“Well,” Heldo-Bah laughs quietly, leaping to the ground from the next-to-lowest limb of his own perch, “now you will have something with which to terrify her, young Pallin! As is only right and just, the world turning as it does, and all parents who engage in such behavior eventually receiving a dose of their own medicine, when the Moon is playing fair.”

“Pay no attention to Heldo-Bah,” Veloc says reassuringly; but he realizes his error immediately, for any comfort he might have offered with his manner is removed by his referring to his infamous friend by name, a name almost as fearful to the pallin as is that of Caliphestros.

“Heldo-Bah?” says the young man, again turning to Keera. “Then it is true you travel with the murderer—” Quickly realizing his own misstep, the soldier glances back at the approaching forager. “Although I have been told, we have all been told, of the great and terrible quest upon which the Groba sent you, several days ago, and I respect your patriotism, sir—”

“Don’t bother, boy,” Heldo-Bah whispers cheerfully, showing the filed, irregular teeth in a grin that does little to help the trembling young fellow. “I do what I do for my friends, out of the desire to extract vengeance on the Tall, and because I must — no great nobility involved in it, as you will yourself discover, should your yantek actually be fool enough to take you out across the river and onto the Plain.” The lethal eyes search the forest further south. “Where is he, by the way? I rather expected him to greet us, after what we’ve been through.”

“Be at your ease, soldier,” Veloc attempts, joining the group and leaving Stasi and Caliphestros just a few steps behind, so that they are both partially hidden and shielded by his own and Heldo-Bah’s bodies. “You have nothing to fear from any of us, as I’m sure my sister has told you.”

“Sister?” the lad repeats. “So you, then, are Veloc, the final member of the party. I am honored—”

“You need to put aside all this being honored and tell us what’s happening, little hero in swaddling clothes,” Heldo-Bah says, still merrily, but also insultingly enough, now, to make the soldier a bit indignant, despite his fear.

“Pay my friend no mind,” Keera says, wondering just how many times she has had to say such things, as she claps the pallin’s shoulder hard to bring him back to the point. “Rudeness comes to him as does breathing to most.” She looks to her fellow foragers with familiar irritation. “The pallin was part of a small scouting party, when I found him — his linnet and another pallin have gone back to fetch Ashkatar, but it will likely take a few moments, as the yantek is moving up and down the line. Apparently, he does indeed intend the attack that Lord Caliphestros envisioned. It seems we have arrived only just in time to prevent a terrible error.”

Very soon, Ashkatar, even more heavily armed than is his usual custom, whip firmly in hand, comes running into the small clearing into which the foragers and their guests have moved with the pallin, another foot soldier and an equally young linnet trailing close behind him.

“Ah — so it’s true, then,” he says through the bristling black beard, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest despite his lowered volume. “The three of you have returned.” Looking over Veloc’s and Heldo-Bah’s shoulders, however, even the powerful and angry Ashkatar pales a bit. “And have succeeded in your mission — or so it would seem,” he adds, his voice losing a good deal of its certainty and confidence.

Both Stasi and Caliphestros draw themselves up proudly, at the appearance of this small but impressive man, for whom authority is an obvious and hard-earned habit, and begin to move slowly forward. The young Bane soldiers move backward in a matching manner, but Ashkatar stands his ground admirably, and even takes a step or two forward to greet the newcomers. “You are welcome among us, Lord Caliphestros. Should I — would it be customary to address your great companion, the noble white panther?” Ashkatar continues uncertainly, yet also with great respect. “Keera informs us that she understands human communications very well.”

This statement clearly impresses and pleases the old man, although he stops short of smiling. “Thank you, Yantek Ashkatar. Your manner does you credit. No, you need not offer any particular address to my friend, although she will be able to sense both your own and your men’s intentions and attitudes instantly. They would do well to remember that fact, and to spread the word quickly, so that there are no unhappy misunderstandings as we make for your camp and then for Okot.”

“Well, you lot?” Ashkatar barks at his men. “You heard Lord Caliphestros. Return to my camp, quickly, and tell all troops you encounter to make it known up and down the line just who has arrived, and how they are to conduct themselves.” Half-turning to see the soldiers too awed to comply, he growls. “Go on, then! And have my staff prepare food in my tent. We shall follow quickly behind.” As the young soldiers vanish into the forest undergrowth, the great black beard turns to Caliphestros again. “I should, perhaps, have said that we will return however quickly it is your pleasure to travel, my lord. You will find my men nervous, at your arrival, as you have seen, but you will also find our leaders grateful for your willingness to come to our aid in this time of crisis.”

“Just how much aid I shall be, Yantek,” Caliphestros replies, still aware of the need for appearances, “is yet to be seen. I must judge the worthiness and intentions of your tribe, although I have never been given cause to doubt either.”

Ashkatar nods, clearly impressed by and appreciative of this statement. “Shall we proceed, then, my lord?” he asks, holding his whip out in the direction that the soldiers took to return to their lines, and where Caliphestros can now see a rough trail barely marked out. He senses that Ashkatar expects him to move up and walk by his side, as the highest Bane authority present, and the old man indicates to Stasi to do so. She shows no hesitation in complying, for she has truly taken the measure of this rugged yet proud and impressive man, and found him to her liking. As he passes Keera by, however, Caliphestros brings Stasi to a halt, and says to Ashkatar, with reciprocal respect:

“I should like the tracker Keera to walk alongside us, as well, Yantek Ashkatar. She has already proved most invaluable, both to me, to the discovery of information invaluable to our shared goals of learning who and what lies behind the terrible illness — if single illness it be — that so afflicts the Wood and your tribe, and in the cause of keeping the great being upon whose back I am privileged enough to travel calm and reassured.”

“Of course, my lord,” Ashkatar says. “Although I fear the other two must follow behind. Veloc and Heldo-Bah are not held in the respect that Keera enjoys, among our tribe, and it would be inappropriate to offer them such honor, whatever their service in the last few days.”

Caliphestros lifts his nose in mock haughtiness as he moves forward past the two male foragers, murmuring to Heldo-Bah in particular, “How refreshingly accurate and honest an assessment, Yantek …”

“Well, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc says, making sure he cannot be overheard by those in front of him. “It’s the servants’ place for us. As usual …”

“Speak for yourself, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah replies bitterly. “There will be time enough for us to claim our proper position and respect, once our story becomes known.”

“Oh, certainly,” Veloc replies, his voice the essence of sarcasm. “But for now — try not to trod upon any panther droppings …”

So numerous and rapt in wonder are the Bane soldiers that appear on both sides of the route that the remarkable lead party take south (a path which leaves the course of the river behind altogether) that no one at first thinks to comment on Caliphestros’s peculiar request for Ashkatar’s small but tough, game troops to begin digging holes in the ground every one or two hundred paces. The old man quickly becomes immersed in their efforts, and seems satisfied with the results only when the troops’ shovels reach water beneath the forest floor. He is especially fascinated when the water thus discovered bears a particular odor, an odor reminiscent, to Keera (whose memory of what she has perceived through her senses is as sharp as those senses themselves), of the dying pool that she visited in the aging scholar’s and Stasi’s company only hours before. Most of the troops doing the digging cannot help but wonder further at Caliphestros’s insistence that all men and women who come into contact with such fluids instantly bathe their hands with strong lye soap, and above all do not drink of their discoveries. His inscrutable behavior in this regard seems only to match both his reputation and overall manner, however, and one thing that is clear is that Caliphestros is not a man to see such efforts as the soldiers expend go wasted. Yet not until the group goes before the Groba will the full significance of these strange investigative activities become startlingly clear …

{i:}

The warm, gentle breeze that blows across the city of Broken from the west on this late spring night might be expected to offer some comfort to the greatly admired yet even more feared chief of the kingdom’s most powerful trading clan, Rendulic Baster-kin. Such soft, sensual waves of air, particularly when they occur at night, are known as “Kafra’s Breath,” for the welcome effect that they have on the citizens of the city, who are just emerging from beneath winter’s hard-soled boot. This widespread sense of joyous release is perhaps best embodied in the scattered pairs of trysting young lovers that the Lord of the Merchants’ Council can even now spy on the rooftops of their various houses in the First District from his vantage point on one of the two highest points in the city: the terrace that surrounds the central tower of the magnificent Kastelgerd Baster-kin. Both the terrace (once a parapet) and the tower were originally intended as defensive military positions, from which threats to the family and the city itself could be spied long before they became deadly; but for generations, that function has been unnecessary, and the tower as well as the terrace have served as the private sanctum of the Merchant Lord, a place to which the supreme secular official of Broken may summon any subject — nearly all of whom dread such invitations.

Far below the tower lies the foundation of the Kastelgerd, completely concealed from public view and composed of another section of the city’s remarkable series of vaulted storage chambers, which, like all the others, is filled to overflowing with weapons and provisions. Above the foundation, the visible wings of the great residence are on a scale, it has often been said (not always with respect or admiration) to match the palace of the God-King. But because the Kastelgerd sits hard by the eastern wall of the city, and was first intended to serve the same genuine military purpose as the tower, it is stouter in overall appearance than the sacred ruler’s paradise: a forbidding exterior that further cows those who are required to attend audiences within.

Yet throughout Broken’s history it has been the tower that has remained the most unnerving part of the Kastelgerd. If the Sacristy of the High Temple is Broken’s greatest wonder, and the royal palace the kingdom’s most beauteous enigma, then the tower is the clearest and plainest statement of raw power within the city’s walls. The Merchant Lord may have no religious title, as such, but his might is in no way diminished by the suggestion that it is not governed by sacred codes: quite the contrary. Thus, while most citizens would rather forgo a command to appear in either the Sacristy of the Temple or Baster-kin’s tower, they would far rather receive a summons to the holier of the two chambers — a fact from which Rendulic Baster-kin cannot help but derive a deeply personal satisfaction. A location that inspires so much fear in others is the only sort of place where this man, whose deepest soul is a strange blend of worldly severity and almost boyish enthusiasms and fears, can feel truly safe.

With his own security, as well as his family’s, nearly as well protected as the God-King’s, then, it seems odd indeed that Baster-kin — even and perhaps especially as he stands upon the parapet of his tower, this night — cannot allow himself to take any solace in the voluptuous brush of Kafra’s Breath. Indeed, the warm air only seems to make the uneasiness that is plain in his features more apparent.

His concern has been caused, first, by the latest in a series of reports that began to arrive during the winter, detailing the particulars of northern raiders bringing cheap grain up the Meloderna and the Cat’s Paw to trade illegally with undiscovered partners. Such a story would not, ordinarily, cause Rendulic Baster-kin undue anxiety: disgruntled farmers and traders in some quarter or another of the kingdom are a constant, given the sacred laws and secular codes that govern such activities in Broken. But dispatches over the last several days from Sentek Arnem have reported that more than one trading village has crossed over from unhappiness into open rebellion; and their violence has been unknowingly fueled, Arnem’s reports say, by spoilt grain, several kernels of which he has included for Baster-kin’s perusal, along with a warning that the Merchant Lord wash his hands carefully after inspecting them. Yet even this combination of provincial reports and those of the new commander of Broken’s army would not be enough to alarm Baster-kin, at any other time. But there is a final thread that does stitch these seemingly manageable problems into what may become a tapestry of serious worry: the samples of dangerous grain that Arnem has sent to the Merchant Lord resemble all too closely kernels that the ever-watchful master of Broken’s mightiest Kastelgerd has, within the last day and night, found in one of the hidden stores beneath the city.

Rendulic Baster-kin’s commitment and sacrifices to his kingdom and his office have always been great: far greater, he would rightly contend, than those of not only the other members of the Merchants’ Council and previous Merchant Lords, but even of his own father, the most infamously ruthless Baster-kin of all. Certainly, Rendulic believes that he has little in common with the earliest man in his family to be declared Merchant Lord, who had been the most cunning of the mercenary adventurers who accompanied Oxmontrot on his travels about the world in the service of the Western and Eastern halves of the vast yet strangely fragile empire of Lumun-jan, and who had brought the creed of Kafra back to Broken. Yet despite these shared adventures, according to rumors too well founded to die, it was not loyalty to Oxmontrot that secured the first Lord Baster-kin a place of prominence in Broken politics and society, but treachery. For his elevation in rank, along with the gift of resources sufficient to build the first wings of the Kastelgerd around the family’s original tower, had come not from the Mad King, but from Oxmontrot’s son, Thedric; and it had been said then, and has been said ever since, that the origins of both the Baster-kins’ renown and their wealth could be traced to complicity in the murder of the Mad King. Not many who had known Thedric, after all, had credited him with enough intelligence (or his mother, Justanza, with enough sanity) to have planned and carried out the scheme on their own; and construction of the Kastelgerd Baster-kin had indeed begun on the very day that Thedric had been crowned and declared semi-divine. Since then, additions to both the Kastelgerd and the elaborate, terraced gardens that wind about it have been almost constant — constant, that is, until the ascension of Rendulic Baster-kin, who has been determined to wipe away all smears upon his family’s name through his devotion, faith, and hard work.

In addition, if there have been more than a few unworthy men among his ancestors, Rendulic knows, there have also been several wise enough to merit respect. First among these were the Lords Baster-kin who — indignant at frequent abuses of power by the Merchants’ Council, which periodically sought to take advantage of the royal family’s isolation from secular affairs — created and strengthened an instrument of force with which to serve Thedric’s heirs: the Personal Guard of the Lord of the Merchants’ Council (or, more commonly, Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, as no other clan chief, after one or two early and disastrous challenges, has ever held the office). For many generations, the strict mandate of these not-quite-military units was simply to maintain the quiet, secure, and legal conduct of trade within the city. But eventually, being an instrument of secular power, the Guard had been corrupted, not only by rivals to the Baster-kins, but even (or so some voices said) by certain royal representatives, who wished their peculiar yet sacred activities to remain discreet. The Guard also widened its activities to include keeping the peace, a task that became ever more violent and even lethal, as the prevention of thievery and plots within the city expanded to include the authority to arrest, beat, torture, and even execute whatever persons, within or without the walls, the linnets of the Guard found objectionable. True, the head of the Baster-kin clan always retained command of the increasingly unpopular Guard; but command and control have ever been very different qualities. Then, too, while the clan Baster-kin may have been losing its effective grip on the Guard, the fact that its “soldiers” continued to keep careful watch over the great Kastelgerd lent to that residence and to its lords something like a regal air, one sufficient to allow the Lords Baster-kin to deny even well-founded charges of degeneracy, corruption, and effective tyranny: abuses, all three of which Rendulic’s father had managed to practice within one lifetime.

And so it would be for the man who now paces the terrace of his tower to reassert both his family’s honor and its devotion to Kafran ideals, a task that Rendulic has undertaken not only through public pronouncements and rulings, but by way of private methods more extreme than any citizen has ever known of or appreciated. Yet these steps have not brought him peace of mind: no, for one as alert to danger as is Rendulic Baster-kin, even those threats that come in so seemingly inconsequential a form as a few misshapen and discolored kernels of grain must push the pleasure of a mild spring evening from his mind — particularly now. Now, at the outset of what will be the most fateful period in Broken’s history: a time when the kingdom’s ongoing pursuit of the sacred Kafran goals of perfecting all aspects of individual and collective strength must, of necessity, regain primacy. Any lingering doubts or hesitancy among the leaders of Broken concerning both the annexation of the daunting wilderness of Davon Wood and the destruction of the tribe of outcasts who inhabit that cursed but treasure-laden forest should have been put to rest, Baster-kin believes, first by the attempt on the life of the God-King, and then by the mutilation and death of Herwald Korsar. And yet, despite the city’s proud, joyous dispatch of the Talons upon their twin missions of conquest, only three people truly know, with any kind of certainty, what actually determined the momentous decision to move against the Wood and the Bane now. The first two of these — the God-King and the Grand Layzin — remain, tonight as all nights, inaccessible to the people of the city and the kingdom, and free to enjoy their particular pleasures. The third, Baster-kin himself, is the only man who is not only aware of but entirely consumed by every consideration that has gone into the decision to dispatch the kingdom’s most elite soldiers against the Bane; and so the Merchant Lord stands alone, peerless and friendless, upon his parapet, tonight, brooding over a single kernel of spoilt grain that lies hidden in one of his hands.

Damn Arnem, Baster-kin muses; a soldier should be concerned solely with unrest in the kingdom, rather than confirming my fears about this strange grain. Yet the Merchant Lord knows that the problem represented by what he holds in his hand is not so easily dismissed as he would like; Sentek Arnem, in fact, has only done his true duty by making his report. A pity he will have to pay such a high price for it, Baster-kin concludes. And yet, is it not Kafran doctrine that one man’s loss is another’s gain? And, thinking of this possibility — that Arnem’s loss might be his own gain — Baster-kin becomes aware, for the first time, of the gentle caress of Kafra’s Breath. But he cannot indulge the instant of pleasure; for he must be certain of his next moves, as certain as he has been of all arrangements that have been made this week. Such attention to detail quickly drives him out of the comfort of a spring night’s warm breeze and back inside his tower, there to attend himself to the details of his plans: plans that, to the untrained mind, might all too closely resemble scheming …

Baster-kin reenters the octagonal tower without ever taking notice that the room’s gaping stone fireplace — which is set into its southern wall, with a massive mantle supported by granite sculptures of two rampant Broken brown bears who have been frozen in eternal submission and service — is empty of flame, due to the warmth of the evening. His attention is immediately and wholly fixed upon a large, heavy table at the room’s center, its shape the same as the tower itself, and its size large enough to permit meetings of the most important members of the Merchants Council. Tonight, however, it is covered by maps of the kingdom, over which lie the dispatches of Sentek Arnem, detailing the state of the towns and villages between Broken and Daurawah — as well as the conditions of their grain stores.

But most importantly, atop all these sheets of parchment lies a note from Isadora Arnem, which she left with the second-most-powerful man in the Kastelgerd, the Baster-kin family’s greying yet remarkably vigorous seneschal, Radelfer.† A veteran of the Talons, and possessed of all the highest traits of loyalty, courage, and honor associated with that khotor, Radelfer was once the guardian of the youthful Rendulic Baster-kin: plucked from the ranks of the kingdom’s finest legion by Rendulic’s father, he had spent almost twenty years playing a role that the elder Baster-kin ought by rights to have filled himself. Now, the aging but still powerful Radelfer oversees affairs in his former charge’s home; and when Lady Arnem first appeared at the Kastelgerd’s entrance just two evenings after her husband’s departure from the city, only to find Lord Baster-kin himself not at home, she had asked to see Radelfer, with whom she apparently had past acquaintance. Happy to see the seneschal, and hinting at some urgent business with the Merchant Lord, Isadora had announced her intention to return the following evening, leaving behind a note that said as much. And it is this note that, to judge from its position atop the great table in Rendulic Baster-kin’s most private retreat, the Merchant Lord considers more important than all the maps of the Cat’s Paw crossings and the dispatches concerning unrest in the kingdom that lie beneath it. As he leans upon the table, he studies the note; not for its few and inconsequential words, but rather for the hand that wrote them, the hand that is so like it was, many years ago—

His distraction is interrupted when he suddenly hears a shriek, the human cry that he most dreads — a desperate, pained sound that might once have belonged to a woman, but surely cannot be made by any mortal throat now. It comes from one of the largest bedchambers in the northernmost corner of the Kastelgerd, opposite the northwestern face of the Merchant Lord’s octagonal tower. Listening to the sound with no more than a passive, even a downcast, reaction, Baster-kin comes to a conclusion: The heralds of death and rebirth ought to have a voice, he tells himself, and no one could deny that such a cry would more than suit their purpose … His own behavior certainly gives little evidence of such momentous change: as the voice shrieks on, only the fingers of his right hand move, slowly and forcefully grinding the fragile seed of grain held within them against his palm, until it has become but dusty bits.

There is little about this scene that can be called new, a fact that does not stop Baster-kin’s patience and temper from wearing away, as if the voice were in fact some sort of demon’s lash striping his very soul: for it is, in truth, the sound of his own wife’s voice, and it continues on and on, echoing through the halls of the Kastelgerd like a loosed fury. Assuming an accusatory tone, it screeches just one word over and over — and that one word is his name:

“Rendulic!”

But Baster-kin only moves to a basin in the tower room’s corner, remembering Sentek Arnem’s urgent warning that he wash his hands after handling the tainted grain.

{ii:}

Hoping that one of Lady Baster-kin’s ladies or her healer will soon control her screaming, his lordship paces about his high retreat, studying the only ornamentation in the room: four enormous tapestry panels that cover the walls between the eastern and western doorways, all depicting an earlier time in Rendulic’s life, the celebrated moment when he had completed his transformation from a slight, sickly youth into the strong, manly figure that he is today: the time when, though only eighteen years old, he had embarked upon a panther hunt. This had been the kind of hunt about which the scions of Broken’s merchant families dreamt, in the days before the city’s stadium became their haunt: before, that is, less hazardous sport replaced the dangers of battling wild beasts and pursuing Bane criminals and Outragers into Davon Wood.

During his hunt — which was led by that same tireless guardian, Radelfer, who had ever been the boy’s only true friend and counselor — Rendulic, riding ahead of his men, had encountered a group of four adolescent panthers, offspring of no less than the fabled white panther of Davon Wood. Although seemingly doomed to a most savage death, Rendulic had nonetheless demanded, when two of the animals were already dead and their mother disabled by a deep wound to one thigh, that he be allowed to engage the final brace of beasts.

The youth who braved death in what seemed so reckless a fashion that day had long been treated as a disappointment by his exacting father, then lord of the Kastelgerd. Rendulic had dared to believe, with a passion that made him so bold as to be utterly unconcerned with his own safety, that the outcome of the hunt would change his father’s low opinion of him; and, fueled by such thoughts, the brave young man and ever-faithful Radelfer succeeded in tricking and caging the young female panther, after which Rendulic flatly insisted that he be allowed to battle the last male alone. And alone, with arrows, pike, and finally a long, elegant dagger, Rendulic had indeed fought that animal, in the same clearing beyond the Cat’s Paw where the rest of the battle had taken place. Having mortally wounded the young panther with his pike, Rendulic gripped his dagger tight and used it to administer the dauthu-bleith to the still-defiant beast — all within clear sight of the animal’s living but helpless mother.

Doing thus, Rendulic had made this hunt, the last of its kind, a legend among the people of Broken. Even so, his father had not proved as readily persuaded of his son’s worthiness as Rendulic had hoped: a result, the youth chose to believe, of a bout of the pox that was returning to torment the aging lord with ever greater frequency. Then, too, the Stadium’s athletics were fast on their way to eclipsing woodland blood sports, and young men and women would, from that time on, turn almost exclusively to such activities for excitement, and as a way to prove themselves to the citizenry. True, their exhausting amusements still included contests against the great beasts of the Wood: but now those animals were captured and safely chained upon the sands of the Stadium, so that death was never a real danger for any young Broken athlete who entered the lists.

But it should not be thought that the tale of Rendulic Baster-kin’s panther hunt was forgotten: indeed, its memory would later form the basis of much of his unquestioned personal authority in the city. And most of all, he broods as he stares at the tapestries, it had virtually eliminated talk of an earlier incident in his life, an incident that was rumored to have involved a romantic quest after a young beauty from the Fifth District who was but two or three years older than he, the assistant to a renowned healer who had been summoned to help when, as the first signs of manhood matured in his young body, a terrible malady from which Rendulic had always suffered, that of the megrem,† had worsened cruelly. This crippling pain in the head and illness of the gut had proved beyond the skills of all Kafran doctors, just as it had, since ancient times, outwitted so many such feckless healers around the world, who knew it by different names. Any such men or women worth their fees, however, could recognize its symptoms instantly: the healer Gisa, for example, had been able not only to name it, but to ease it, with treatments that secretly took place at one of the Baster-kin family’s lodges on the lower slopes of Broken, whence one of the Merchant Lord’s younger brothers, an uncle who was near alone in having sympathy for the boy, tended to the herds of cattle upon the Plain that bore the family’s name. To such a place, Radelfer knew, the lord himself was unlikely to venture; and in this safe and shielded place, the ancient healer who was a legend to most of Broken, but a boon to many others in her native Fifth District, had set Rendulic Baster-kin on the road to a healthy manhood.† But while Gisa prepared the tinctures and infusions herself, keeping the ingredients kept jealously secret, the actual doses were administered by the soothing hands of the crone’s lovely apprentice, the orphaned girl called Isadora. Golden-haired and tall, Isadora possessed a comforting touch that had burrowed its way deep into young Rendulic’s heart and mind, and had been the source of his scandalously desperate efforts to find her in the weeks that followed her departure from his bedside. The boy’s father, meanwhile, either ignored or threatened to remove all such wagging tongues: and once his latest bout of the pox had passed, the sight of a son growing healthy had made the relentless Lord Baster-kin take horse, and begin the search for a politically advantageous wife for his heir …

Suddenly, Rendulic Baster-kin notices that another figure has appeared in the room: unannounced, remarkably, by any knock or other request for admission to the chamber. In a silent, eerie manner, this figure makes its entrance through a door opposite that to the terrace. He is clad in a black hooded robe of the lightest cotton; but what should be the exposed parts of his body — the hands, feet, and face — are wrapped in white cotton bandaging, continuous save for narrow slits that reveal the eyes, nostrils, and mouth. The brief opening and closing of the door to the high tower room brings the shrieking voice below all the more clearly into Baster-kin’s sanctum, and he hears the cruelly suffering woman shout distinctly, “What is it …? No! I will not, I have told you, unless my husband comes and puts the cup to my lips himself, I will not …!” Then, as the black-clad figure closes the iron-banded oak door, the sound fades somewhat, and Baster-kin sighs in relief, before turning back to the table, obscuring Lady Arnem’s note with his hands, and leaning upon the maps and correspondence as if he had been studying them closely.

“Well?” the Merchant Lord says quietly, in a strangely uncertain tone: disdain is present, and brusqueness, too, but something else tempers these harder sentiments, creating an opening for both tolerance and — what is it? Affection? Surely not.

The voice that speaks in reply, although it attempts discretion, is helplessly unpleasant: words poorly enunciated, accompanied by bursts of spittle that escape from one corner of the mouth, and the sound itself hoarse, grating, and displeasing. “My lord,” it announces, “the infusion is being administered. The crisis should soon pass, says Healer Raban†—although it would pass the quicker, he begs me inform you, should you yourself administer the drugs, and wait by her side as they take effect.”

Baster-kin only grunts in ridicule — but it is ridicule prompted by the thought of the traditional Kafran healer called Raban, and not by the messenger who brings it, that much is clear. He continues to stare at the map before him. “I trust you told that idiotic butcher that I am far too busy with matters of state to undertake a nurse’s work?” Baster-kin’s head remains determinedly still, but out of the corners of his eyes he nonetheless catches, by the light of torches held in iron sconces on the walls, a brief glimpse of the black robes and hood, as well as the white bandaging carefully wrapped around the near-useless hands, their fingers bound as one to oppose each thumb. The creature’s feet, as his lordship can more easily see without moving his head, are similarly bandaged, and shod only in soft leather sandals lined with thick lamb’s wool; but this is all Baster-kin will even glance at, for he has plainly seen this strange vision, in all its detail, before. He needs, above all, to avoid the bound face, in which the two azure eyes and the mouth are visibly surrounded by bits of deteriorating flesh marked by moist, pus-filled sores and leathery cracks in the visible skin. And yet, the voice that emerges from this pitiable human wreckage produces speaks, not with an air of criticism, nor even with a servant’s obsequiousness, but in a tone much like Baster-kin’s: with a certain familiarity, even intimacy.

“I told Raban as much,” the voice explains. “But he bid me warn you that, if you cannot find a moment to visit with her, he will not answer for her behavior when the effects of the drugs subside.”

Baster-kin draws in a deep, weary breath. “All right. If we can make some greater sense of this business with Arnem, I shall do as Raban requests. But if not, you must simply tell my lady’s charlatan to administer more of his cursèd drugs …”

“Raban says he has already treated her with as high a dose as he considers safe. Any more, he says, and her heart will slow so that death will draw near, and perhaps overtake her.”

A part of Baster-kin would like to give voice to the passionate but silent response that is plain on his face: that it might be better for all concerned (and particularly for him) if such death did write an end to the unfortunate woman. But then duty and, perhaps, some trace of true concern abolish all such thoughts and set the jaw once more. “Very well,” is all that he answers quietly.

“There is more,” says the black-clad figure. “Lady Arnem is here, once again. As she said she would be …”

“What?” Baster-kin finally looks up at the peculiar man opposite him. “But she was not to arrive for another hour. Does Radelfer know that she is here? Has he placed her somewhere—?”

“I have taken the liberty of consulting Radelfer,” the slurring, spitting voice answers, “and it was our decision that he show Lady Arnem into the library, and keep all its doors firmly closed. I have also suggested to him that he might entertain her, for they are known to each other, and they seem to have genuine affection for one another. His service in the Talons also coincided, it seems, with at least some of the sentek’s early years in those ranks — they may have known one another then. And if any room is safe from the cries coming from the north wing, it is the library, particularly if conversation is taking place. Finally, Lady Arnem has been informed that her early arrival cannot be expected to have more than a slight effect upon your own urgent schedule.”

Baster-kin looks uneasy at this statement: another uncommon reaction to draw from him. “And how did she receive all this information?” he asks.

“I would not report that she was pleased,” the spectral figure responds. “But as I have said, she trusts Radelfer, and that trust induces her to make every effort to manifest understanding and respect. All should yet be well — or so I would hazard.”

A shadow of gratitude quickly passes over Baster-kin’s face. “Very wise, Klauqvest,”† he says, suddenly and imperiously. “There remain moments when I am reminded why I spared you the fate of the Wood — and yet, when you have so little contact with properly formed persons, how is it, I wonder, that you can be so deft at dealing with them?” The rhetorical question, and the sentiment beneath it, is not meant to be as cruel as it sounds; and if it is received as malicious, the man Klauqvest exhibits no sign of it. But then, beneath so much bandaging, as well as the wafting black robe, it would be nearly impossible to distinguish one response from another …

Baster-kin shifts the position of several maps on the table, affecting a control of his own passions that is, for one who knows him as well as this Klauqvest apparently does, plainly transparent: the coming of Isadora Arnem has disordered his confidence. “And does she offer any explanation for the liberty she takes by arriving so early?” the Merchant Lord inquires.

“No, but I suspect you know the reason,” replies the moist, scratching voice. “Or, at least, the greater part of it.”

Mildly annoyed by the familiar tone of this comment, Baster-kin forgoes reprimand or argument, and proceeds directly to the source of the trouble: “The dispatch of my messages to her home, at the Layzin’s behest,” he murmurs, nodding slowly.

“Yes, my lord,” Klauqvest replies. “Although there are other points to be considered, as well.” The master of the Kastelgerd glances up in mild surprise. “She has, it appears, received some further communication from her husband. And, while she would say nothing precise to Radelfer on the subject, I formed the impression, as I listened outside the library door, that these latest messages touched upon the same subjects as did the sentek’s latest dispatches to your lordship.” Klauqvest holds a bandaged hand — one that is more like the extremity of a shelled sea creature than it is like a man’s, as his name unkindly suggests — toward a series of lines lightly drawn on the most detailed of the maps of the city and kingdom. “Am I to assume, then, that your lordship intends to accede to Sentek Arnem’s request for emergency provisioning of his troops at the encampment he intends to establish near the river?”

Whether it is the course of the questioning being pursued by Klauqvest, or simply the man’s voice, that has grated too long on the patience of the Merchant Lord, he suddenly slams a hand down upon the table. “You are to assume nothing!” And yet, as soon as he has lost his temper, Baster-kin makes an obvious effort to regain it — another strange action by this man who usually cares little or nothing for the feelings of his minions. “You have informed me of her presence, Klauqvest,” the master of the Kastelgerd states, through tightly set teeth. “Well and good. Now, with darkness upon us, I suggest you attend to your original task within the passageways beneath the city, and complete your inventory, continuing to pay special heed to both the quantity and condition of the grain stores, as well as the integrity of the sewers. And, given that your appearance forbids your playing any more open or constructive role in the life of this city and kingdom at this crucial hour, I should think you would be anxious to do so.”

What seems a long moment of silence passes between the two men: the gaze within Klauqvest’s eyes, whatever the state of the flesh surrounding them, remains clear and fixed upon Baster-kin’s own, in as close an expression of defiance as anyone would dare attempt before the Merchant Lord; and yet, for all the rage evident in his quivering jaw, Baster-kin neither continues his outburst nor calls for assistance. Rather, and remarkably, it is his eyes that break off the engagement first, as he flings several pieces of clearly unimportant parchment from the table, and then allows himself to sigh in something oddly like contrition. But the look in Klauqvest’s gaze never changes, as he waits for silence to return before declaring:

“Very well, then, Father—”

It is the unfortunate creature’s first misstep; and his eyes reflect vivid awareness of the error. Baster-kin looks back up as if scalded; and then, his eyes displaying less triumph than profound blending of sadness, disappointment, and anger, he strides about the table and stares hard into the strange man’s eyes. Klauqvest is fully as tall as the Merchant Lord, although he soon shies away from the older man a bit, and, as if anticipating a blow, stoops to take a few inches from that height.

“I shall see to my wife,” Baster-kin says, in an even tone. “As well as to greeting the Lady Arnem. You will remain here, for a time, before returning to those passageways beneath the city that are your only fitting home. I want answers to all my questions—” He waves a hand at the maps and charts upon the table, then draws a step or two closer to Klauqvest, who retreats yet more. “And never forget — I let you live solely to devise such answers, when it became clear that your mind was the only part of your body that Kafra had saved from your unholy origins. Yet, in so doing, I may have worsened the madness that was planted in my lady when you entered this world, and she saw, not only your true lineage, but evidence of the curse that Kafra had placed upon her soul. So never let that word escape the vile tangle that passes for your mouth.”

Klauqvest’s head finally bends in defeat. “Of course. Allow me only to apologize—my lord.”

“Keep your apologies.” Baster-kin turns toward the door, but then catches himself, in the manner of a hunting animal that has found one last way to torment his wounded prey. “But, since you mention the word — I need not ask, I suppose, just where my true son is, right now?”

“As you say — an unnecessary question,” Klauqvest responds simply. “Just as I hardly need reply that he is in the Stadium, with his fellow paragons of Kafran virtue …”

Baster-kin nods, releasing a long, dissatisfied sigh; and then he says, with continued severity: “I shall attend to him, and to the fools with whom he associates, and I shall do it soon — for upon his fate rests the only hope that Kafra has mercifully granted for the preservation of this house, this clan, and this kingdom. And you are to remember that the Wood is ever ready to receive you — as it received that misshapen creature, your sister — should you overstep yourself, should your mind cease to be of use, or, finally, should you choose to communicate with the world outside this tower and above the passageways beneath this Kastelgerd and city.”

And with that, the Merchant Lord strides out of the room, dragging the heavy oak door closed and slamming it resoundingly.

Alone in the tower chamber, Klauqvest allows his bandaged hands to drift across the documents upon the table for a moment, although he can lift them with only his thumbs and the collected fingers of each hand. Then he leans over, closely studying the maps. His movements remain slow and careful as he takes the further liberty of walking around four of the eight sides of the table, and then standing in the spot that belongs to the lord of the Kastelgerd, and sitting in the simple military camp chair that Baster-kin himself is accustomed to using. Trying to fit himself to the feel of the hard wooden arms, and the tight leather that is drawn across the seat and back of the frame, Klauqvest soon finds that his raw, painful skin will not allow it. He stands, continuing to study the maps—

And as he leans over them, a droplet of some salty bodily fluid falls from the exposed portion of his face onto the parchment sheets; a droplet that Klauqvest quickly wipes away, before it can leave any hint of having existed.

Satisfied with what he sees on the detailed charts, Klauqvest moves from the table to one of the tapestry panels, studying the scene it depicts: the dramatic moment before handsome young Rendulic Baster-kin — spear in one hand, dagger in another — killed what would forever be known, throughout Broken, as “his” panther. The composition and needlework are admirable, endowing the young merchant scion with features of exaggerated courage, and giving the young panther — whose body had, in reality, already been studded with and crippled by arrows — an aspect of equally heightened ferocity and power. Klauqvest then glances down from the tapestry to the hide and head that have lain, for as long as he has lived, on the floor of the chamber; and, with pain so severe that he very nearly cries out, he leans over to stroke the beast’s lifeless head with one bandaged hand, and what seems great tenderness.

Rising, and relieved to do so without mishap, Klauqvest steps away from the remains of the panther and toward the chamber’s eastern door, which leads out onto the old parapet. He opens the door, looks up at the sky, and sees that the Moon has begun to rise. Staring at that wisp of white in the rich blue of the southeastern twilight, Klauqvest then turns and looks back inside the chamber, at a bronze relief that hangs there:

It depicts the smiling, omnipresent face of Kafra, which — unusually, for such pieces — is set atop a muscular yet lithe young body, clad in naught save a loincloth: a body, Klauqvest knows, that was modeled on Rendulic Baster-kin’s own, in the days that followed that same panther hunt that dominates all decoration in the chamber. It is the sort of unusual yet impressive image that would bring sighs of admiration and reverence from most of Broken’s citizens, should they ever be permitted to see it; but from this black-robed outcast, only scratching, misshapen sounds that might pass for some sort of laughter emerge. Klauqvest’s hooded, bandaged head turns from the Moon to the image of Kafra and back again several times; and then he lets his eyes rest on the relief, as his laughter dies away.

“Smile all you like, golden god,” Klauqvest says, fluid again rising in his throat to obscure his words. “But that deity”—he lifts a hand to indicate the rising Moon—“is having the best of you, outside these walls. And it has only begun to wax …”

{iii:}

Out of the staircase that connects his private tower to the hallway of the Kastelgerd’s upper story, Rendulic Baster-kin quickly emerges, moving to the top of the broad central stairway of the residence — one of many deliberately overawing aspects of the building that visitors encounter upon entering through the structure’s high, heavy front doors. From above, his lordship sees a short, strong woman dressed in a plain gown of deep blue and bearing a towel† that has been soaked in water, as well as a clay pitcher filled with the same liquid. Baster-kin suspects that the healer’s servant has been moving repeatedly up and down the stairs between the kitchens to the rear of the great hall and the second-story bedchamber in the north wing, wherein lies the stricken lady of the house, all of the evening. Standing by the railing that runs the length of the gallery’s edge and offers a commanding view of the marble-floored entryway below, Baster-kin observes as the same servant halts, runs back down the stairs to fetch a large kettle filled with hot, steaming water, and resumes her speedy errand. When she reaches the top of the stairs once more, she catches sight of the lord of the Kastelgerd, and attempts to bow deeply, a task made difficult by the many burdens she bears. Baster-kin waves the woman off, detecting that the heated water contains a new infusion. Such is all he needs to tell him that Healer Raban’s first medicinal doses were not, in fact, sufficient to quiet Lady Baster-kin, a fact that, while unsurprising, rouses the master of the house’s ire. He makes ready to follow the servant, and to sternly chastise Raban for his half-measures: Nothing, he had warned his household servants throughout the previous two days, not a single detail must be allowed to affect or disturb my meeting with Lady Arnem, on the night I have appointed for it to take place. If this order required an increased amount of Healer Raban’s medicines to calm his lordship’s wife, then so be it; but instead, Raban has erred on caution’s side, and the consequences of that caution become even more apparent when the maid opens the door to her lady’s chamber.

Lady Baster-kin was removed to this luxurious but nonetheless remote location when her screaming fits became uncontrollable and unpredictable enough to cause her husband to worry that she might be — indeed, almost certainly would be — heard by strollers on the Way of the Faithful; whereas, facing the inner courtyard of the Kastelgerd and her husband’s solitary tower, she would torment none but his lordship — a punishment that Baster-kin has more than once wondered if he has not deserved …

“No! I will not swallow another drop, lest it be my husband’s hand that places it upon my lips! Rendulic! Tell him—”

But then the door closes again, and the screaming becomes stifled, although no less frantic. The sound strikes fear deep into Baster-kin’s heart, particularly when he hears footsteps coming from below: with great speed, he again moves behind one of the marble columns at the gallery’s edge, and peers out to see who approaches. He breathes with no little relief when he spies not Lady Arnem but his most trusted servant and counselor, Radelfer, walking alone to the stairway, having come from the library that opens off the southern side of the building’s great entry hall. Baster-kin walks out to the open area at the top of the staircase and waits for his faithful seneschal, a tall man who still exudes power, even though his shoulder-length hair, his close-clipped beard, and the tone of his skin have all gone quite grey through his many years of service to the Baster-kin family.

“I told that fool Raban to make his doses strong enough, this evening,” Baster-kin says, as the older man falls in beside him and they begin to walk up the hallway of the northern wing. “Has her screaming been audible in the library?”

“Portions of it, my lord, but only if one knew what to listen for,” Radelfer answers. “Which I did. But Lady Arnem took no heed.”

Baster-kin laughs humorlessly. “None that she told you of, at any rate,” he scoffs. “She is far too wise to intrude in such matters, when worries about both her son and her husband have brought her here. I assume those are her reasons for calling?”

“Yes,” Radelfer replies carefully. “Although she has other information to impart — things that she would not tell me. Some business of great importance having to do with the Fifth District.”

“Ah, yes,” Lord Baster-kin answers ambiguously. “Come, come, Radelfer — what business in the Fifth District is ever of great importance?”

“I only convey the message that she related, my lord,” Radelfer says, still watching his former charge carefully as the pair reach the thick door into the bedchamber that has been the source of the evening’s disturbances.

“Is it a ploy, Radelfer, do you think?” Baster-kin asks. “To strengthen the plea she makes concerning her son?”

“I would not say so,” Radelfer answers calmly; all the more calmly, given that he is lying. “She is little changed: Guile is no more her art now than it was years ago, and her concern has an unquestionably genuine quality to it.” He affects greater confusion when his master does not immediately reply. “My lord? Are you aware of some matter in the Fifth District that she may have stumbled upon?”

Baster-kin eyes the man. “I, Radelfer? Nothing at all. But tell me — you say she is little changed?”

“So it appears to my eyes, lord,” Radelfer replies. “But remember — I have ever been a poor judge of women.”

Baster-kin laughs. “You had judgment enough to know that both she and her mistress could help me, in my youth, when the rest of Broken’s healers proved useless.”

“Perhaps,” Radelfer replies. “But in my own life, that judgment has been less discerning.”

“Many are the great philosophers who know the world well, yet almost nothing of themselves …,” says the master of the Kastelgerd. Then he weighs the matter at hand silently. “Very well — return to her, Radelfer. Engage her further in conversation, lest she detect our larger purpose. When you are certain all sound from Lady Baster-kin’s chamber has been quieted, bring her to the base of the stairs.”

“Why not keep her safely in the library—?” Radelfer asks.

“I do not have time, now, Radelfer, to explain in greater detail,” Baster-kin replies. “Have her there when all is silent — that is my wish.”

Radelfer watches his lord disappear into the bedchamber, arching a brow as he realizes: Yes — have her there, so that when you descend, you may look all the more impressive. You are as you were, Rendulic, at the mere thought of encountering her: a lovesick boy in search of admiration …

The seneschal’s manner changes only when he has descended the grand stairway once more, and is alone; or, rather, presumes he is alone. A whispering voice calls from the shadows beneath the stairs, startling him: “Radelfer …?”

The seneschal turns and sees a black-robed man step out from the darkest shadows in the great hall. “Klauqvest!” Radelfer whispers in surprise. “You should not be here — you risk discovery. There is much activity in the Kastelgerd tonight.”

“Well do I know it,” Klauqvest answers, “but Lord Baster-kin bade me issue several private commands to Healer Raban, which I have just done.”

“In truth?” Radelfer takes a moment to turn to the ever-troubling matter of relations between Rendulic Baster-kin and Klauqvest: If my lord wishes so passionately that this pitiable young man remain hidden, the seneschal asks himself, then why does he also insist upon employing him in ways that risk further discovery of his existence? Dispensing with such unanswerable queries, Radelfer asks aloud, “And are you on your way back to the cellars, then?”

“Not quite,” Klauqvest replies.

“I should reconsider that statement, lad, and get below at once, if I were you. Best to be safe, whatever your—” Radelfer pauses to choose his words carefully. “Whatever your lord and master’s willful ignorance of the risk.”

“I shall,” Klauqvest says quickly, “but as Raban is already here, I wondered if you could not—coax some of his medicines out of him, for I failed in the attempt. I do not seek them for myself, but for Loreleh.”†

“Your sister?” Radelfer draws closer still to the bandaged face. “Is she ill?”

“Less ill than in pain,” Klauqvest says. “But ask her yourself.”

A third timid voice, that of a young maiden, now joins the discussion from a spot even further back in the shadows beneath the stairs. “Hello, Radelfer.”

“Loreleh?” Radelfer moves further into the shadows, and as his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, he finally discerns the form of a girl whom he knows to be fifteen years old. Her face and most of her form are lovely: pale skin, wide, dark eyes, and luxuriant tresses of dark hair lightly tinted with red, all atop a fine form. The only suggestion of imperfection in this beauteous image is a rough-hewn cane that Loreleh carries in her left hand, which directs the observer’s eye to the awkward angle at which the foot on that side of her body is articulated at the end of the leg, and to the heavy, specially cobbled boot that covers that extremity: the girl is clubfooted.‡

“Are you both mad, then?” Radelfer continues. “To be out of the cellars when so much activity consumes this household?”

“I am sorry, Radelfer,” Loreleh replies. “And please, do not blame my brother. I forced him to bring me.”

Radelfer smiles through his alarm and skepticism. “Forgive my saying that I doubt if such coercion was either necessary or used.”

“Oh, but it was,” Loreleh replies naïvely, as Radelfer and Klauqvest exchange a knowing glance. The maiden then smiles at them both as she drags the clubbed foot a few steps closer to the seneschal. “But do not suppose that I make this request for medicine for myself, alone: Klauqvest has been suffering too, due to how many tasks our — that his lordship has demanded he undertake, these last few days.”

“Loreleh, I’ve told you, I am well enough,” Klauqvest protests, in an exhausted, weakening voice that belies his words. “We must address your pain first—”

“Just as you always do,” Radelfer says, as he kneels to examine Loreleh’s left foot, which is yet covered by the unique boot. Finding nothing, he begins to delicately undo the boot’s buckles and laces. “Loreleh, did you fall or twist the foot in some way?”

“No,” Loreleh answers quickly; but her brother puts one of his bandaged, claw-like hands atop her head.

“Loreleh,” he admonishes gently. “It will defeat our purpose if you insist upon bending facts simply to preserve your foolish pride …”

Loreleh submits. “Very well, brother,” she murmurs. “I did trip and fall,” she continues, to Radelfer. “Two days ago. And so, when we heard that Raban would be coming on another errand …”

“Yes, I see,” Radelfer replies, by now studying the denuded foot. It is horrifically misshapen and turned inward, certain parts having grown too large for the shortened shin above it; in addition to which, it bears the deep crimson and plum shades of recently acquired bruises. “It must pain you badly. With its additional bones, there is far more to break and to bruise than in your right foot …” The considerate manner in which Radelfer utters this last statement almost makes the ugly mockery of a woman’s delicate foot that is in his hands sound less a source of shame than an object demanding compassion, an attitude for which Klauqvest and Loreleh are clearly grateful, as they have been throughout their lives, during all of which Radelfer has been more benefactor than servant.

“I will offer you a bargain,” Radelfer says, standing. “If you will get back to the cellars as quickly as is possible, the pair of you, I shall secure generous amounts of Healer Raban’s medicines, before he departs, and bring them to you as soon as I am able. Fair?”

Unable to stand on the toes of her feet and reach Radelfer’s cheek, Loreleh contents herself with taking his one hand in her two and kissing it: an action that plainly embarrasses the seneschal. “Now, now — none of that,” he says quickly.

“But we are once more in your debt,” Klauqvest whispers. “You go beyond the bounds of service, as you have ever done for us. And so we ask only that you yourself take care, Radelfer, on so dangerous a night.”

Attempting to shrug off such sentiments, Radelfer motions in the direction of a hidden door beneath the grand stairway. “Go, I beseech you. Lest we all be exiled to Davon Wood …”

And, as he says these last words, he hears but does not quite see the stairway portal in the shadows open, then close again. When he is sure all is safe, he turns and directs his steps toward the thick door to the Kastelgerd’s library, on the opposite side of the great hall. Striding across the hall’s marble floor purposefully, he shakes his head, recalling Klauqvest’s words in a whisper:

“‘So dangerous a night …’” And then he muses silently: A dangerous night, indeed. And may the gods let it pass quickly — for tonight the Moon throws shadows of an equally dangerous past ever longer across this great house …

{iv:}

Within the bedchamber in the north wing of the Kastelgerd, meanwhile, Rendulic Baster-kin has entered. He quietly closes the door behind him, yet remains close to the doorway, trying to take in the scene before him as if it were new; but all elements within are as they have been for the last few days, as well as during crises of similar intensity and duration that have struck every few Moons over the last several years: the upward arching of his wife’s body with the worsening of her fits; the desperate restraining efforts of Lady Baster-kin’s own marauder maidservant; the maidservant’s obvious discomfort with so freely laying hands upon her mistress, even if it is required; the vapors that rise from the infusions and tinctures of Healer Raban’s treatments as they are mixed and brewed and fill the chamber with strange aromas; and, finally, the various and increasingly sharp scents of Lady Baster-kin’s body, which bring to any visitor’s nose the biting tinge of bitter pain, as well as of deep confusion and fear.

Lord Baster-kin cannot keep his thoughts from journeying back to the early and happy days of his marriage to the marauder princess called Chen-lun,† an event that he had dreaded, until his father had returned from the East, the princess and her small retinue riding beside him. Chen-lun could sit a mount as well as any Broken cavalryman, and the treaties that Rendulic’s father carried in his personal coffers would benefit not only Broken, but the Baster-kin family; and, while Chen-lun could not have been less like the one maiden ever to have captured Rendulic’s heart (the low-born, golden-haired healer’s apprentice from the Fifth District called Isadora), the scion of the Baster-kins — fresh from his panther hunt in Davon Wood — had soon found that this made no difference. The eastern princess was well versed in such amorous skills as would make any young man’s head swim. And — although Rendulic’s father had succumbed to his pox soon after his return to Broken, without ever speaking another word to his son — the new Lord Baster-kin had only become more deeply enamored of his young bride, all the while. He quickly got the wife his father had selected for him with child, before even the dying man had made his journey to Kafra’s paradise …

Remaining by the bedchamber door for several moments more, and calling to the fat-faced, richly robed Raban, Baster-kin informs the healer that he himself will approach the bed only when the patient has in fact been calmed The healer nods obsequiously, and then returns by reverse steps to a table by the bed. He quickly prepares and administers to the tormented woman before him a powerful, crude mixture of several of his drugs: opium, Cannabis indica, and, finally, ground and properly brewed wild hops‡ from the mountainside. The effect of this combination is swift: within moments, Lady Baster-kin’s pain and seeming madness finally begin to subside, although, in her face, there is no greater apprehension of the events about her than there had been moments before.

A quieted chamber and household is what Rendulic Baster-kin has repeatedly demanded of Raban this evening. Only when the Merchant Lord is sure the effect is not temporary does he slowly approach his wife’s bed. He orders Raban and the healer’s apprentice out of the room, but exempts Chen-lun’s personal servant from this command: he has learned over the years of his marriage and especially of his lady’s illness that even attempting to order the ever-silent attendant from her mistress’s presence, particularly during such crises as this one, has no effect, and indeed can lead to unspoken yet dangerous confrontations. The woman, who is called simply Ju,† has been Lady Baster-kin’s shadow‡ since long before the striking, black-eyed princess came to Broken. A dark, silent form, lithe of shape and movement (just as was her mistress, before illness struck and began laying long siege to her body), Ju seems ever to keep one hand on the pommel of a large dagger, its scabbard stitched into a belt drawn round her waist.

Only the most warlike marauders, of the regions to the east and northeast of Broken, carry such blades; and the weapon is not merely ornamental, especially in one such as Ju’s hands. Upon those few occasions when Baster-kin has seen her wield it, she has demonstrated admirable skill at the close quarters for which it was designed. He therefore treats the woman with far more respect than he would any common Broken noblewoman’s handmaiden, just as Ju plainly appreciates the fact that, difficult as her mistress’s long illness has been for Baster-kin, his lordship has neither ignored his wife, nor failed to allow whatever healers she desires to treat her, doubt though he may their abilities. Then, too, this strongest Merchant Lord in the history of the Baster-kin family has never lost his temper when Chen-lun, in the grip of fever and pain, has assaulted her husband with maddened fantasies, uttering indictments that Ju knows are often more than unfair.

But finally, and most importantly, Baster-kin and Ju share one terrible secret: the reason that their lady lies so grievously ill upon the bed between them. Ju knows that, in truth, her lady has been truly fortunate to have been tied to so unexpectedly decent a husband, whatever his occasional manifestations of pained disgust at the sickness that long ago destroyed the intimate world that once gave the pair not only pleasure, but unexpected solace, and which now separates them, both physically and as true man and wife, forever …

Chen-lun, too, knows how hard her husband struggles to relieve her pain and cure her disease without revealing the secret of its cause and destroying her name in the kingdom she adopted as her home upon their marriage. Indeed, if the full facts were known, they would likely ruin her even among her own people; and the knowledge of her lordship’s faith inspires the initially happy (if still feverish) attitude that she takes toward him, once she is indeed certain that her perception of his tall form emerging from the shadowy entryway to the bedchamber is more than the mere effect of illness or drugs.

“Rendulic,” she whispers, attempting a smile and some sense of composure; but her face and body offer living testament to the torment she has endured during the hours leading to this meeting.

For his part, Baster-kin does what he can to disguise the various forms of despair, masked by disappointment, that the progression of her disease causes deep in his soul. He tries to concentrate his attention upon her black eyes, which once shone in enchanting harmony with the long sheets of her utterly straight black hair as it fell across her skin and his own during the short time that they found joyous pleasure in each other’s embrace. That all too short a time …

The wedding of the newly invested Rendulic, Lord Baster-kin, to the exotic Chen-lun had seemed an entirely brilliant occasion. Only weeks after the ceremony — weeks during which the upper floors of the Kastelgerd were often heard to echo with the sounds of swordplay, in addition to bursting crockery destroyed by flying arrows, as Chen-lun (raised to be a most capable warrior, it should be recalled, in her own tribe) and Rendulic punctuated their long bouts of lovemaking with athletics of a wholly different order — the new lady of the Kastelgerd was declared by the family’s healers to be unquestionably with child; and a mere seven Moons later, the couple’s first son, a golden-haired boy that they agreed to call Adelwülf,† was born. The new scion appeared to be nothing if not a confirmation that Kafra had approved the match of an eastern princess and a loyal new leader of the kingdom over which the golden god had long ago elected to shower his radiance—

And then had come, almost as quickly, another son …

Later pressed by the family’s healers to recall his wife’s physical condition at the time of this child’s conception, Rendulic Baster-kin had replied that if some sign of disease or divine disfavor had in fact been present, he had not detected it. Certainly, the conception had taken place very soon after Adelwülf’s birth, perhaps unwisely soon; but Chen-lun had not experienced any signs of illness until the later stages of her carrying of the creature — and those had not seemed sufficient to explain the thoroughly misshapen condition of the boy; the mass of pustules and ill-formed bones that seemed to mar every part of his skin and body, and worse, to grow only more numerous and offensive during its first weeks and months of life.

The then-obscure Healer Raban had stepped forward to suggest to young Lord Baster-kin — who every day grew more desperate for an explanation that would remove not only some part of the revulsion engendered by merely gazing at the child, but the terrible sense of guilt he felt when he remembered his own sickly youth, and then gazed upon this fruit of his loins — that the child might not be a Baster-kin at all; that, much as his lord- and ladyship may have passed every night together, throughout the period during which the monstrous child was thought to have been conceived, there were nonetheless alps† living in the forests of Broken’s slopes who could make themselves undetectable to men of true virtue. Worse still, there were stronger and more artful such creatures inhabiting Davon Wood: enemies of Broken that might well have made the journey across the Cat’s Paw and up the mountain, if they were certain that a member of a Broken noble house had taken to wife a woman who was, by both blood and nature, less innately virtuous than a daughter of the Kafran kingdom would have been …

At first, this notion enraged Rendulic Baster-kin, causing him to seize Raban by the throat and then use the flat of his short-sword to drive the healer from the Kastelgerd. Mysterious as the origins of the infant’s vile condition might be, Baster-kin was by now determined to discover them — for he was a man who had had some experience of the strange and painful paths down which it was sometimes necessary to walk, in order to find true cures for seemingly magical or divine ailments. And he had an advisor who was well practiced at traveling such paths with him, at this moment as at an earlier point in his life: the man he had made seneschal of his household shortly after taking the rank of Merchant Lord, Radelfer. In all the years since the seeming end of his preoccupation with Gisa’s young apprentice from the Fifth District, Rendulic Baster-kin had never asked his old friend and guardian to find either the maiden or the crone; but now, the young lord did beseech Radelfer to undertake that journey, in the interests, not of his earlier infatuation, but of both his wife and his second child. It was, after all, a near-certainty that he would wish to father more children; and if Chen-lun was, for reasons of this world or any other, unfit to allow him to do so successfully, it was necessary that Baster-kin know.

Radelfer disliked the notion, without question; but he understood the importance of the matter, both to his former charge and to the clan he served. It was never wise for a house of such importance to rest all its hopes upon one heir alone; and so, departing alone at nightfall of the next day, Radelfer ventured into the Fifth District.

Not very far down the Path of Shame, as it happened, Radelfer encountered a fellow veteran of the Talons, and learned that Gisa was in fact living, not in the small house near the southwestern city wall in which she had tutored and raised the orphan Isadora, but in the latter’s very fine home nearby. Isadora, it seemed, had become a bride, herself, only a few years earlier, marrying one of the most promising young officers in the Talons, a man that Radelfer had only met once or twice during his years of service: Sixt Arnem.

Finding that Arnem was on guard duty atop the city walls that night, but that Gisa and Isadora were at home and willing to receive him, Radelfer next learned that his luck would not carry him very much farther: both women were adamantly unwilling to involve themselves again in the affairs of the illustrious Baster-kin family. However, Gisa did suggest a solution that seemed, as Radelfer made his way back to the Kastelgerd, ever more adequate to Rendulic’s dilemma.

Gisa knew of only one healer in Broken whose knowledge rivaled or surpassed her own; and, now that her former patient had become Rendulic, Lord Baster-kin, he had every right to call upon that illustrious figure’s talents and resources. She was referring, of course, to the Second Minister of the realm, the foreign-born scholar called Caliphestros. Provided the God-King Izairn was amenable, Caliphestros could hardly refuse the appeal for assistance; indeed, everything that Gisa knew of the man suggested that such a request would appeal to his scholar’s vanity. With this seemingly sound plan formulated (and truly relieved that there would be no risk of Rendulic ever crossing the path of the crone’s former apprentice again, having seen that the maiden Isadora had by now grown into a truly beautiful woman who had thus far mothered no fewer than three irrepressibly healthy children), Radelfer reentered the Kastelgerd in fine spirits, and relayed the substance of Gisa’s suggestion to a very curious young lord.

{v:}

Radelfer determined, when making his report that night to his master, to deny ever having seen any member of the Arnem family; and he was quickly given reason to be glad that he had taken such a decision, when Rendulic Baster-kin made it apparent, through a succession of ill-disguised questions, that he had used a series of disreputable spies from what was now his Personal Guard to discover just whom Isadora had married and when, just where she was currently living, and even that Gisa was a part of the Arnem household: all facts that, if the young lord’s soul had been truly healed, he could have told Radelfer before the latter’s departure.

Such considerations, however, were quickly set aside, that the delicate arrangement of a visit from the Second Minister of Broken to the Merchant Lord’s Kastelgerd might be arranged. From the first, and despite the advice of his trusted old advisor and friend, Rendulic Baster-kin proved resentful, even combative, concerning the entire affair: never mind the fact that it was he who was requesting a service of the Second Lord, under conditions of secrecy so strict that most of the household staff, as well as Chen-lun’s healers, were successfully kept unaware of the proceedings. It gradually became clear that the success or failure of the meeting depended on the reactions that these two men — now the two highest secular officials of the kingdom — would have to one another. Both possessed pronounced characters and the same strong unwillingness to suffer argument from any person they dubbed a fool. Radelfer steadily lost his early enthusiasm for the meeting, the more he considered the idea, realizing that, while there was a chance that Caliphestros’s visit to the Kastelgerd Baster-kin would offer the young lord and his wife a way out of the present dilemma, it was at least as likely that the meeting would end in most calamitous failure.

Radelfer’s concerns ultimately proved well grounded. A most discreet, late-night visit from the Second Minister of the realm was soon arranged; and on the appointed night, at the appointed hour, a plain litter appeared at the Kastelgerd’s lowest and most hidden entrance. Scorning the protection of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, Lord Caliphestros arrived with no more significant protection than his litter bearers, men who were less servants than acolytes, it seemed to Radelfer. Humbly introducing himself to the Second Minister — whose long beard, scholar’s black skullcap, and silver and black robes of state did not disguise the fact that, while of an age that matched Radelfer’s own, this Caliphestros was also in nearly as vigorous health — Radelfer remarked that, while he could see that the two bearers had good sword arms and fine blades at their sides, they nonetheless seemed a very limited party of protection with which to go abroad in the city at night. To this, Caliphestros replied that, having calculated from the Merchant Lord’s petition that the fewer persons — particularly servants — that knew of the meeting, the better for all involved, he had brought only two of his stronger assistants. Radelfer could find no flaw in his reasoning and, ushering the litter bearers into the gardens that led up to the Kastelgerd Baster-kin’s somewhat overawing main entrance, the seneschal asked the men to wait there, among the tastefully arranged fruit trees, flowers, and few pieces of statuary, promising that food and wine would be brought to them. The two men expressed thanks, after which Radelfer led Caliphestros, not further up the terraced grounds to the main entrance to the Kastelgerd, but down, through a long tunnel that eventually ended in one of the building’s more remote cellars.

As the builders of the Kastelgerd had spared no effort or expense in either the design or execution of the building, so the cellars that they had constructed beneath the palatial home were wondrous and extensive creations in their own right. There were many long-since-forgotten chambers and hallways below the residence of Broken’s most powerful merchant clan, places unknown even to the Kastelgerd’s servants, Radelfer explained: some were even outside the ken of the present master of the house, since so many generations of secretive lords (such as Rendulic Baster-kin’s own father) had needed discreet places in which to conduct their less than noble personal affairs, and had destroyed all records of their locations.

Caliphestros followed as Radelfer, having lit a small torch, led the way up narrow, winding stone steps that opened out into a shadowy remove below what proved the main staircase of the reception hall. Radelfer held his dim torch close enough to the illustrious visitor that he might read the Second Minister’s reaction, when he saw the great hall for the first time, lit by the Moonlight that streamed through high windows in the western wall that faced the gardens of the Way of the Faithful. What he saw in those aging features was less awe than fascination, of a type that the seneschal found pleasing. Wandering into the center of the hall, Caliphestros glanced about as if to make certain that no witnesses were anywhere nearby; and Radelfer, assessing the older man’s expression, quietly announced:

“This night, I have instructed all servants to remain within their quarters, Minister, unless called for, using Lady Baster-kin’s distress as my ploy. Meanwhile, members of my own household guard are stationed at various positions throughout the Kastelgerd, to make certain that the orders are obeyed, discretion is ensured, and no miscreants can take advantage of the lack of general activity to attempt any crime or mayhem.”

Caliphestros smiled, amiably and knowingly. “Yes, Radelfer — I have heard talk of your ‘household guard,’ as have the God-King and the Grand Layzin. Veteran soldiers, assembled quietly from the moment you became seneschal of the Kastelgerd? It almost seems you oppose, even distrust, the activities of the Personal Guard of the Merchant Lord … But fear not. We all — Izairn, the Layzin, and I — share your disdain for that force’s increasingly troublesome behavior. Indeed, I have yet to meet a soldier or veteran of the regular army who does approve of those effeminate, violent louts — and rightly so.”

As soon as Caliphestros had satisfied himself that there were indeed no ordinary servants stirring in the great residence, he placed his hands upon his hips, and nodded: less, again, impressed than he was interested. “I have heard stories of the interior of this greatest of all the Kastelgerde—yet only being here can make one understand the endless gossip.” He glanced about the hall once more. “It is truly a structure worthy of kings …”

“I am glad to hear you say so, Minister,” came the unexpected voice of Rendulic Baster-kin in reply; and Radelfer realized with some distress that his master must have been listening from the gallery above, for he was now midway down the great stairs. “And to dismiss such idle talk with such excellent dispatch,” the young lord continued, slowly descending the steps to the hall below — a carefully arranged bit of theatrics, Radelfer silently observed, one that would become habitual, in future years. “It gives me all the more pleasure in welcoming you into my home — and thanking you for coming under such … unusual circumstances.”

“Unusual, but understandable,” Caliphestros replied, bowing slightly — although not nearly so deeply, Radelfer knew, as Rendulic Baster-kin would have preferred. “If your wife’s and your son’s conditions are indeed as critical as I have been led to believe, it is of great doubt that Broken’s own healers would be equal to the task of diagnosing and determining any true cure that might exist. Except, of course, for the truly capable Gisa — who recommended my services, I understand, as a consequence of having had some past business with your lordship …?”

“How very knowledgeable you are, Minister Caliphestros,” the Merchant Lord replied. “Which is as well, for the situation seems now to worsen by the day. And so I trust that you will take no offense if I forgo further niceties by asking you to cast your no doubt expert eyes on the troubled members of my family at once?”

He held what appeared to be an inviting hand out toward the stairs: but the gesture was in truth less welcoming than redolent of his intention to demonstrate his greater status and his supreme power in his own household and kingdom. Second Minister Caliphestros seemed incapable of being cowed, however, especially by one so young, and only smiled, joining Rendulic Baster-kin on the stairs and walking with him up and toward the bedchamber then still shared by the master and mistress of the Kastelgerd. Radelfer followed some few steps behind: where, he knew, the increasingly confident and bold young man had also expected Caliphestros to walk. Sensing the onrush of some unidentifiable crisis, just as he had once been able to smell the coming of battle during his years as a Talon, the seneschal prepared for it by reaching instinctively for the hilt of a fine raiding sword that had for all his career as a soldier been at his side, but was now gone: in its place, he found only a small jeweled dagger that had become his sole weapon of defense when he became a glorified domestic servant …

Shown first into the chamber where Lady Chen-lun lay, Caliphestros had needed even less time than Gisa would have, Radelfer observed, to reach some unspoken conclusion concerning her condition, one that even so experienced a healer and scholar had found shocking. And, once his examination had been completed, he asked to see the stricken child immediately, and was taken to a distant, cramped nursery.

If the great scholar’s expression on examining Lady Chen-lun had been one of shock, his countenance on studying the infant was overwhelming sadness. The child had not yet been named; but the latest Lord Baster-kin had already and bitterly taken to calling him “Klauqvest” (with a cruelty, it seemed to Radelfer, which all too closely resembled that of Rendulic’s own father) because of the child’s fingers and toes, the bones of which had appeared malformed at birth, and were quickly growing ever more fused, like some crawling, shelled sea beast. Asking only a few questions as he examined the boy — whose pain was the true cause of his unending wailing, explained Caliphestros, rather than any fault of character or desire to irritate his parents — the Second Minister next inquired as to how the child was receiving sustenance: for his mother certainly neither wished nor was in any condition to nurse him. Rendulic Baster-kin explained that he had attempted to find a decent wet nurse, but that all such had been too terrified by the prospect. Finally, a drunken hag from the Fifth District had been discovered, who would take on the task, provided she was liberally paid and constantly supplied with wine. When Rendulic Baster-kin had asked Caliphestros if such was a fatal mistake, and in any way the cause for the child’s worsening condition, the Second Minister had replied that, while never a particularly sound notion, the use of a drunken hag as a wet nurse, in this particular case, was unlikely to make a dramatic difference: if she at least provided milk, that was preferable to slow starvation — although the latter might, ultimately, have been the more merciful course.

These words caused the Merchant Lord to stiffen noticeably. “And what does the minister mean by such a statement? Are the tales I have heard true, then, and is this — this child the result of unnatural relations between my wife and some spirit, some alp from Davon Wood?”

Caliphestros could only laugh weakly, as well as grimly. “Yes, such a tale is what the Kafran healers would doubtless have arrived at, sooner or later. Absurd as it is, it would be better than the truth, which they would be too unnerved to tell you …”

Rendulic Baster-kin had been standing by the small window in that small chamber in which there were few comforts, as far from the crib of his infant son as it was possible for him to position himself; but when this statement by the great scholar Caliphestros caused him to turn, Radelfer needed no more than little light to see that his face was already filling with, at once, greater sorrow, rage, and malice than he had ever seen the young man exhibit.

“‘The truth’?” Lord Baster-kin softly murmured. “You claim to know the truth, Minister — the same claim for which you mock Broken’s own healers?”

“My lord,” Caliphestros replied; and there was now genuine emotion, true sympathy, in what had before been the face and voice of an impassive man of science. “We can none of us declare, with absolute certainty, that we know ‘the truth.’ But I must tell you: never, in all of the thousands of afflicted souls that I have observed, have I ever heard a plausible argument made for the interference of magical or divine forces so childish and petty as elves and alps, demons and marehs,† unless the sufferers’ healers themselves were too terrified or too ignorant — or, as in most such cases, both — to admit that they did not know the true cause of the illness, and required some inexplicably persecutory intervention by such creatures behind which to hide their ignorance.” Caliphestros could see that his words were causing the Merchant Lord’s rage only to rise. “It gives me no pleasure to say this, but—”

Rendulic Baster-kin looked up, his eyes having become deep-set, malevolent weapons of their own. Caliphestros took a deep, steadying breath. “My lord — your father, I have heard from certain healers, was a victim of the pox. Is that so?”

Rendulic nodded quickly; Caliphestros had just given voice to the very nightmare that, of late and near every night, woke the Merchant Lord in sweats both hot and cold. “It is so …”

“Then,” the Second Minister continued, “it is necessary that I tell you that both your wife and this child may well be displaying signs of the pox, as well: your wife, only intermittently, but your son … The disease, I suspect, has cast the very form of his being. And it will only become worse as the years go on — although with care he may live, even if both you and he will wonder from time to time if such has truly been a blessing.”

Rendulic Baster-kin stepped back as if struck hard. “But—” He had begun to grasp at any other conclusion that his mind could formulate. “Our first son — Adelwülf — he is the very model of health and virtue!”

“And conceived when the disease had scarcely taken root in the Lady Chen-lun,” Caliphestros answered earnestly, “as well as born during a period when it had, for a time, retreated. There are many of us who have studied this illness, my lord, who have come to call the pox by another title: the ‘Great Imitator,’† for its ability to mimic other ailments, until the terrible truth becomes undeniable. And such may be the case here — it may be that what we have called ‘the pox,’ in the case of your father, your wife, and your son, may be some other disease. But to be safe, my lord — you must not attempt to conceive a child with your wife, until she is healthy once more, and for an extended period of time. You yourself appear to have escaped, as has your eldest son — that at least argues for, not the pox, but a pox-like disease. And it ensures you at least one healthy heir. But you must not risk your safety again, or the safety of a future child. You are simply too important to this kingdom.”

But it had already become clear that Rendulic Baster-kin saw only the worst in his predicament: Radelfer watched his young friend and master turn back to the window, as the Merchant Lord said, in a soft, bitter voice, “Even from beyond the pyre, he strikes at me …”

Radelfer rushed quickly to the young lord’s side. “Did you not hear the minister, my lord? It may be some other illness, there may have been no such attempt to curse your life at the last—”

“I knew him, Radelfer,” Rendulic quietly continued, shaking his head to deny his seneschal’s protest. “It would be precisely his perverse idea of — of immortality: to poison his descendants for generation after generation … And so, whether he knew it or not, I would stake my life that he believed he was planting the seed of the plague in us all …” Without fully turning back about, the Merchant Lord tried to speak with as much composure as he could muster: “My … thanks, Lord Caliphestros. We have, at least, solved one mystery, I believe: the condition of that”—he tossed his head in the direction of the crib—“that thing that was to be my son. And now, I must ask you to give me a measure of time alone. Radelfer will see you out, and arrange all payments.”

Caliphestros nodded. “No payment is necessary, my lord — and let us pray that I am wrong, as all healers are, on occasion. I shall take my leave, then, offering only my deepest sympathy — and my most emphatic advice that you heed my words, which are not mine alone, but the sum of knowledge gained by most learnèd men far outside the frontiers of this kingdom …”

Not waiting for an answer, Caliphestros moved quickly to the nursery door, where Radelfer intercepted him even more speedily. “Can you find your way back out, Minister?” the seneschal whispered. “I–I confess that I am afraid to leave my lord alone with either this child or his wife, after what you have said.”

Caliphestros nodded. “You are right, Radelfer, to take such precautions. Of course, I can look after my own departure. But you must continue to try to make him see that, even if his child and his wife have been so abominably cursed by his own vicious father, he must care for them, and not turn to the punishments which I know are first in the minds of all Broken nobles, when they are presented with such imperfection and perfidy.”

Radelfer nodded, urging the minister further along the hallway. “You speak of the mang-bana?”† Radelfer asked. “I confess, it is my own fear — for my master is, as you have witnessed, a young man of enormous passions, capable of reason one instant, and of …” The aging soldier did not seem able to complete this thought, bringing Lord Caliphestros’s hand to his shoulder.

“You are wise, Seneschal,” he whispered, “and your master is fortunate to have had your steadying influence. Remain here, if only as a kindness to my own conscience.” Caliphestros looked into the nursery a last time. “For the mang-bana may be the least of what will occur to him, once he has brooded on the subject at length. And with that — I fear I must bid you farewell …”

As Caliphestros moved more rapidly than Radelfer would have thought his silver and black robes would have permitted down the grand staircase and toward the front entrance of the Kastelgerd—for it mattered not if any servant heard those doors open and close, now — he heard the child within the nursery begin to wail once more, his torment rising again, and looked in to see his master moving toward the crib.

“My lord?” the seneschal asked carefully. “Are you well?”

The young lord shook his head. “Evil has been done, and there must be blame. There must be—punishment …” As Rendulic continued to stare at the wailing child, he held out a desperate hand. “Do you know — I would comfort him, had I any idea of how to do it. Simply to be touched, said the great scholar of the Inner City, to be taken up and swayed, gently rocked to expel the air and vomit in his stomach, all that a child requires, this the child finds agonizing. And so — I cannot … I cannot bring myself to offer him such ordinary comforts, if it is at the cost of such severe pain. We must have a drunken bitch of a wet nurse to do it, for his cries will mean naught to her ears and heart, or whatever machine passes for her heart, until the inevitable day …” And then another thought, altogether different, occurred to Rendulic Baster-kin, and he looked to Radelfer:

“And yet, what if the great scholar who has just left us is wrong? What if this disease will resolve itself before the child must be left to the Wood? Or, worse yet, after he is thus outcast? Weigh the matter carefully, Radelfer — why should we pay that man Caliphestros greater heed than we do our own healers? He said himself that these are all issues of debate, of opinion — and has he arrested the deterioration of the God-King Izairn? No. Why, then, Radelfer? Why heed him …?”

The seneschal wished to utter the simplest reason why: that Rendulic Baster-kin knew himself, from personal and bitter experience, that Broken’s Kafran healers were fools, and that Caliphestros, while he could not stop the inevitable progression of the God-King Izairn’s decline, had at least softened that march of mortality. But, ultimately, the seneschal found that calming his lord was far more important than proving this point: and so, as soon as the drunken wet-nurse appeared, wiping grease from her mouth with the same filthy sleeve that she would shortly use to wipe the face of the unfortunate infant in the crib, Radelfer guided the somewhat stunned Merchant Lord from the room.

And as they went, Rendulic Baster-kin made only one sensible statement: “I can prove it, Radelfer — you think me near-mad, at this moment, but I can prove my assertion …”

“My lord?” Radelfer replied, wishing simply to get the master of the house abed.

“Another child,” Rendulic Baster-kin replied; and at that, Radelfer was forced to pause in the hallway.

“But my lord, we have just heard—”

“An opinion,” the young master replied, with the fire of inspiration in his eyes. “The great Lord Caliphestros said as much, himself. Well — I have formed my own opinion: if my wife and I can conceive another child, one that resembles Adelwülf rather than that horror we have just left, then, then I shall know the truth. And then there shall be punishments enough to slake even my wrath …” Walking unsteadily, Lord Baster-kin moved toward the bedchamber where Lady Chen-lun now lay alone, attended constantly by the marauder woman Ju. “Fetch Raban back here,” Rendulic Baster-kin said, pausing by the chamber’s door. “Send for him. I would have my wife well enough, at least, to conceive, and he shall accomplish it, if he wishes to live. Tell him that I have determined his tale of the alp from Davon Wood having invaded this house and violated my wife to be correct. We shall have a priest to purge this Kastelgerd, and protect it from such beings in the future. And then …”

{vi:}

The Lady Chen-lun’s health did improve sufficiently for childbearing, for the most part because of Healer Raban, or so the lord and lady of the house believed; in reality, it was because of liberal reliance on various instructions which Lord Caliphestros had, Radelfer later learned, left behind with the marauder woman Ju, the only person in the great house who knew what had actually transpired between her mistress and Rendulic Baster-kin’s father, and therefore the only person, as well, who knew the truth of Caliphestros’s statements concerning Chen-lun’s illness.

The birth of a baby girl brought immediate joy into the home of the greatest of Broken’s ruling secular families, joy that lasted half a dozen years unabated. The beast-child Klauqvest remained exiled to the maze-like cellars of the Kastelgerd, along with a new and kindly nursemaid. By Kafran rites, Klauqvest should have been exiled to Davon Wood, a fate he escaped only because of the increasingly vexing nature of his brother, Adelwülf. While still a young boy, that publicly acknowledged scion of the clan Baster-kin had become so much the delight of the women of the household, and had learned how to use their adoration to achieve his every young desire, that he had grown spoilt and intellectually lazy, facts that often irritated his father; yet Klauqvest paid undivided attention to learning and development of the mind, achievements that were ever made clear to Rendulic Baster-kin by Radelfer. A taste and talent for knowledge could not, however, overcome the utter disgust his lordship felt upon simply looking at the boy; and so it was that the youngest child of the group (who believed Adelwülf to be her only sibling) became the joy of the family, embodying enough of both qualities — loveliness and true quality of intellect — to make her father constantly proud.

Early in her life this happy creature exhibited a joyous, almost ethereal talent and taste for dancing about the halls and rooms of the Kastelgerd; and yet this inclination did not cause her to ignore the studies that she was tasked to undertake early, and that she would need, should she ever in fact find herself leader of the clan Baster-kin. In addition, she was undeniably lovely, with beautiful, thick hair and the wide, dark eyes that made visitors — especially male visitors — innocently indulge her with gifts; although her father was delighted when she sometimes informed these acquaintances, quite earnestly, that she had not achieved enough that day to merit reward, and put off acceptance of such tokens. Thus did Baster-kin become ever more certain that, even if his eldest son became a useless wastrel, his daughter would never do so, and the clan would be secure. Keeping all this in mind, and still feeling most fortunate that the legacy of illness and despair that his father had intended to inflict upon Rendulic’s children had not, in two of three cases, materialized, the lord of the Kastelgerd had determined that he would name his young daughter Loreleh. When he explained to his wife the well-known myth of the beautiful spirit who was to be the child’s namesake, a siren said to stand on a large, rocky protrusion in the storied river Rhein,† drawing river sailors to their crashing doom with her irresistible beauty and peerlessly beautiful voice, the yet superstitious Chen-lun believed the tale to be true. She found it a recklessly impertinent name to give a child who had, only by divine grace, escaped the terrible fate that had befallen the now-unmentionable creature that had emerged from her womb, and whom, Chen-lun believed, her husband and Radelfer had long ago left in the wilds of Davon Wood. Whatever god or gods one worshipped, she pleaded with Rendulic, why tempt them by flouting such a myth?

Rendulic Baster-kin was only mildly irritated by his wife’s continued clinging to marauder ignorance; for had not all his prayers to Kafra been rewarded by the lovely girl’s birth? The golden god had forgiven and rewarded the Baster-kin family, after punishing it for sins that Rendulic did not wish to mention, he told Chen-lun. And, in the end, Chen-lun’s guilt over the “sin” of which her husband had spoken forced her to submit to his reasoning. In addition, their daughter’s beauty, as well as her affinity for singing and her almost spirit-like ability to dance — both not only displayed from an early age but quickly developed by tutors of such arts — even convinced her mother, after a time, that her husband might have been right: his golden god Kafra just might have been more powerful than all other deities. And so, Loreleh became the child’s name; and if Adelwülf represented the clan Baster-kin’s public hopes, so Loreleh represented its private pride, joy — and security.

In all this, Rendulic was encouraged and comforted by an exceptional Kafran priest (whose name has been lost to history, with his eventual elevation to Grand Layzin); and among the many subjects upon which the two maturing men found they agreed completely was a fundamental disdain for the Second Minister of the realm, whose advice to Lord Baster-kin had been so foully wrong. In addition, the priest, although he could speak only in pieces of the matter, indicated that the God-Prince Saylal had been given good reason not only to rebel against, but to find moral fault with Caliphestros — particularly so far as his royal sister, the Divine Princess Alandra, was concerned.

This maiden had evidently fallen under the Second Minister’s influence and become his disciple, not only of in matters of healing, but in the study of all of Nature’s wonders: and the perfection of and delight in the human form that Kafran tenets idealized seemed to hold no place in such learning. Rendulic Baster-kin urged the priest to tell the young God-Prince that, should the day ever come that he or his sister might need “practical” assistance (for it remained clear that their father, the God-King Izairn, was wholly in the thrall of Caliphestros’s undeniable intellectual refinement and power), he could depend upon the full weight of the clan Baster-kin being brought to bear in support of his cause …

Here, then, was a portrait of a family that seemed to have righted the ship of its fate long ago; and yet on this night, the Merchant Lord kneels at the bedside of his wife to find that her ailments of mind and body are only worsening — and becoming, to him, ever more repellant.

Yet how can we have reached such a pass? Lord Baster-kin wonders, for an instant uncertain if he has murmured the words aloud. What was our sin? We lived pious lives; and when the God-King finally died, we followed the will of his son, Saylal, not only in ensuring the investiture of a new Grand Layzin, but by working for and bringing about the downfall, exile, and mutilation of that blasphemous minister, Caliphestros, and his acolytes, as well. Where, then, was the grievous error? Why should we have been so reduced?

But Baster-kin knows full well the individual steps that have led his family to this crisis, and he feels, in some private portion of his heart, enough pity to want to sit — for a time, at any rate — by Chen-lun’s side, to comfort and above all quiet her. At the same time, however, he inwardly knows his true practical reason for visiting his wife: in his heart, he has grown — until only the last day or two — to despair of any hope for the future of the clan of which he remains chief; indeed, of which he may well be the last unchallenged leader. And there might be justice, if I were to suffer that ignoble fate, he muses. But the recent news from the provinces has brought something like hope, if a dark sort of hope, to the Kastelgerd’s master; and so, as Baster-kin watches the pompous but well-bribed Healer Raban gather his calming and palliative drugs, he makes sure the greedy, ambitious Kafran man of “medicine” also conceals the additional ingredients that Baster-kin has contracted with Raban to slowly mix into her ladyship’s medicines. The healer then silently leaves the room, leaving his lordship to glance again at his wife, still writhing upon the bed, and then at Chen-lun’s sole remaining personal servant, the marauder woman Ju, who, as always, stands as if made of stone in the shadows of one corner of the room, comprehending few of the words, but much of the behavior, of the people of Broken. And, as he goes to his lady’s bedside and waits for her to acknowledge him before taking her hand, Baster-kin silently determines:

Nay, I can no longer lie to myself about these things; for if condemning my second son to the near-perpetual darkness usually suffered only by prisoners in dungeons, as I did when Klauqvest became a youth wise enough to be of use as an advisor, was an act made more bearable by Kafran tenets, I cannot help but wonder if the order concerning my third child has not placed me beyond the pale of any true forgiveness or peace. And even if it has, what of my “merciful” intentions toward my wife: am I so certain that they are the righteous course?

And who is there who could argue with the man’s doubts on these subjects? For Baster-kin broods, in the first instance, upon his long-ago yet constantly remembered order that Radelfer take his daughter Loreleh — that same Loreleh who was once the greatest joy of her father’s life, but who had begun, late in her childhood, to show tragic signs of the onset of physical deformities all too close to Klauqvest’s — into the deadly wilds of Davon Wood, and abandon her there. The mang-bana had been forced upon the girl that Baster-kin saw as his greatest hope simply because the city and kingdom were aware of her, and could see the deformity growing. As for his second cause of self-torment, Baster-kin struggles over the deadly course he has lately embarked upon regarding his wife: a woman who, he has been told, no longer has any hope. Yet even if he counts his deadly plans for her a mercy, will his god judge them thus, as well?

“Rendulic,” Lady Chen-lun says, seeing him at her side, and then feeling his touch on her own hand. “I heard Raban,” she almost whispers. “Speaking in the hallway. Someone said that you might not come, but Raban said that you must; and I knew you would. But — here is the strangeness of it, Rendulic—” Her eyes suddenly grow wide with emotion and she arches her back in torment as she says more urgently: “I knew who he was speaking to; I knew the second voice! It seemed I did, at any rate — and it was him—our child, Rendulic. But it cannot have been; I know this, husband, for I know that you saw to his exile; I know that he is no more, that he was taken by the Wood. And so, it must have been … someone else …”

“Calm yourself, my lady,” Rendulic Baster-kin says softly, holding her right hand tighter. “It was but Radelfer, whom I earlier ordered, as I ordered all of the household staff, to speak in whispers, so that you will not be disturbed.”

Nodding her head nervously, wishing to preserve this moment of peace and affection, Chen-lun responds, “Yes, husband. No doubt it was just as you say. Would that you could always command my mind to be so still …”

“But you do grow still, now,” Rendulic says, as soothingly as he can manage. “Raban’s medicines make you so — you must allow them to do their work.”

“Yet I would not have it so, Rendulic — I would remain awake, to be with you, to lie with you, to be the wife I once was—”

“We are none of us what we once were,” Rendulic answers with a small smile, putting a hand to her brow and using his fingers to comb the long, moist strands of her black hair back on her head — and pretending, for the moment, that he cannot see that the ulcerations in the skin of the neck, as well as the lumps beneath the surface of the chest, are daily growing larger.

Wiping at drops of sweat that have appeared on her brow without being aware of the movement, Chen-lun answers, “The night is so warm—all nights seem so warm, this year; yet not so warm as the nights we passed in this bedchamber, when first we were betrothed.”

“Indeed, wife,” Baster-kin says, moving to get to his feet. “And if you are a calm and obedient patient, that warmth may someday fill this chamber once more …”

Chen-lun looks suddenly alarmed at the thought of Rendulic’s leaving. “You return to your duties, my lord?”

“I do,” Rendulic replies, now standing and releasing her hand. “With the greatest reluctance … But you must have peace, my lady; and the enemies of this kingdom never cease to plot against us.”

Chen-lun’s countenance grows a bit more pleased. “They say you have dispatched an army against the Bane, at last?”

“We have, wife,” Rendulic answers, surprised at the question. “And with Kafra’s aid,” he says, stepping away and toward the door, “their defeat and your recovery will come at one and the same time. And then, we shall indeed know happiness, once more. Therefore, be calm — and sleep, my lady; sleep …”

Chen-lun only nods for a moment; for the drugs she has been given are by now overwhelming her senses. “But do you never wonder, Rendulic?” she murmurs weakly, as Ju appears again, to neaten her bed coverings. “If all that we have endured in the years since has not been a result of it—of sending a second child to the Wood? She was so young … and had been so beautiful … Loreleh …”

Standing in the doorway, Rendulic Baster-kin watches as his wife is overcome by slumber: a far more dangerous slumber than she, or Ju, or anyone, save her husband and Healer Raban, knows. And he can feel his own features harden as he replies silently, Yes, Loreleh was beautiful — until she was no longer …

Finally free of his duties of state and family, Rendulic Baster-kin leaves his wife’s bedchamber, pulls a pair of black leather gauntlets from his belt, and strides purposefully toward the great staircase of the Kastelgerd, pausing briefly when he passes a large mirror. Satisfied with the image before him, he proceeds, pausing once more behind the first column of those that run from the front edge of the gallery to the ceiling it shares with the great hall, and peers downstairs:

She is here, he realizes, as two figures come into view at the base of the grand staircase; actually here, within these walls …

Rendulic Baster-kin finds that his blood runs faster and hotter as he begins his descent, and the fine, healthy woman in the gown of green comes into clearer view. In her arms she holds a cloak, of the same color that she was accustomed to wearing when she and Gisa were treating him; and one that (as Baster-kin did not know then, but is aware now) he could insist she cast off, if he were to be scrupulous about Kafran law. For it is the dark blue-green cloak with which healers of the old faith, in Broken and surrounding kingdoms, identified themselves to the people. Of course, it could be pure coincidence that Lady Arnem favors this color; but ignorance of the God-King Saylal’s deep strictures against any hint of the old ways among his people is no excuse for flaunting them …

“Lady Arnem,” his lordship calls, in as courteous yet commanding a tone as he can manage, still pulling on his impressive gauntlets; although he fears that his voice betrays too much excitement, when he does say the name, and he tries hard to calm both his heart and his voice as her face — that face about which he has wondered for so many years — turns up to meet his gaze.

By Kafra, he declares to himself in the half-light; how beautiful she still is …

“I hope you will forgive my delay in greeting you,” he says, still worried about the tone of his voice. “Unavoidable matters of state and household …” Reaching her, he takes her hand, kissing it more lightly than he would like.

And, in an instant, he realizes that his plan, his great hopes and secret arrangements, will be far more magnificent than even he had dared dream. She has aged, without question; the maiden who was just reaching the height of her charms when he knew her so many years ago has matured, as the mother of five should, and wears small amounts of face paint to hide this fact.

“My lord,” Isadora says, bending her knees and dipping her body in a most graceful manner, then standing again to face him. “I can only imagine, given all that is happening, how busy you must be — and I thank you for taking the time to see me.” Then she smiles: it is the same radiant smile that she possessed as a maiden, that much has not been changed by the intervening years. And she even laughs gently, quietly, just once, and but with what he takes for affection. “Forgive me,” she says. “It is — a shock, that is all. But a happy one. To see, so closely, that you have become—”

“The man you hoped, I trust,” Rendulic replies, pleased with the control of his own spirits and voice, the sense of careless good cheer, that he now achieves, and offering Lady Isadora his arm. “For you were instrumental in that formation. And so if you are not pleased”—he turns his head to one side in mock severity—“you must look to yourself, I fear.”

“No, no,” Lady Arnem replies, taking his arm and tossing her head lightly, so that those still-golden tresses float away from her head, as if they are wisps of some magic, celestial fire. “No displeasure. I am impressed, that is all, and that credit you must give to yourself. And to Radelfer”—she indicates the seneschal, who walks several paces behind them—“who always guarded your safety, as well as my own. And, in addition to all his other services,” she continues, more unsteadily, yet hopefully, “he has put my fears to rest, concerning any difficulty that there might be upon our meeting.”

“I should not have thought that you would have required Radelfer for such assurance,” Baster-kin replies. “But that is only one of many things that we can and ought to discuss …” Ever more delighted that the meeting is going so well, Rendulic adds quickly, “Among them your own concerns about your family, I understand. Come — let us return to my library, where we can determine all.”

Lady Arnem, however, stops before the imposing doorway to the silent library, and her face suddenly turns far more grave, as she looks to Rendulic Baster-kin. “Although I have been much impressed, my lord, by that chamber and its contents during the time that I have awaited your arrival, may I suggest that we instead discuss all such matters as we proceed to the remarkable and alarming discovery that I have made along the southwest wall of the city? For I believe that I can say, with no exaggeration, that there is no precedent for either it, or for the danger it may pose to the safety of Broken itself.”

Baster-kin’s smile shrinks, but not out of displeasure: he had expected the former nurse and healer’s apprentice who had played the key role in his own recovery as a youth to speak immediately of his recent communication concerning her son, and of her worries concerning his entrance into the royal and sacred service; yet instead she has spoken, first and, apparently, most urgently, of the safety of the city, as he would expect the best of patriots to do. So impressed is he by this unexpected arrangement of priorities, that he is immediately inclined to oblige her request — just as Radelfer, when Lady Arnem originally told him her story, had thought his master would be.

As for Lady Arnem herself, she in fact is most vitally concerned with her son Dalin’s fate. But when Isadora followed the woman Berthe to her squalid home deep in the Fifth District earlier this evening, to determine the nature and cause of her husband’s illness, she not only discovered a danger to the city: she found a tool with which to sway and, if necessary, coerce the Merchant Lord into delaying any determination concerning Dalin, at least until Sixt returns from his campaign …

“I see,” Lord Baster-kin at length replies, in slow appreciation of what he believes is taking place. “Your husband’s faithful nature and service would seem to have healed much of the anger bred by the fate of your own parents that I recall your expressing, so many years ago. Commendable, Lady Arnem. Radelfer?” The Merchant Lord turns toward his friend and counselor, still seeing, to his amazement, that Radelfer’s expression of amused disbelief is yet present. “Have a litter brought round at once, Seneschal, for Lady Arnem and myself. We must determine just what it is that has roused such creditable alarm in her spirit. And assemble four or five of your most able men, as well. It has become difficult enough to get the supposed Merchant Lord’s Guard to even enter the Fifth District, much less to rely on them for protection.”

“I shall be pleased to accompany you in your litter, of course, my lord,” Isadora Arnem says. “Although I have my own outside, manned by two of my family’s guards, as well as my eldest son, whose father insists he accompany me on any nocturnal business I may need to conduct in his absence.”

A telling look of disappointment passes across Lord Baster-kin’s features, but he is quick to replace it with somewhat forced enthusiasm: “Splendid! I shall be pleased to meet the scion of what I understand to be quite a large and spirited family.” Rendulic regrets the statement almost at once; for he has betrayed a long-standing interest in the clan Arnem that he had not wished the Lady Isadora to think existent. And, equally unfortunately, he need not turn to sense that Radelfer has detected the same concern in his lordship. “Your son may follow in your litter, then, while, perhaps with Radelfer walking beside for safety’s sake, you and I use the time in my own conveyance to investigate the full range of your concerns — safely surrounded by a larger number of guards.” As Lady Isadora nods gratefully, Baster-kin turns to Radelfer. “Well? You have your orders, Seneschal …”

{vii:}

When Lord Baster-kin emerges from his Kastelgerd at Isadora Arnem’s side, they pause for a moment at the top of the wide stone stairs that lead down from the building’s portico to see Dagobert — in his father’s armor and surcoat — engaging in harmless but instructive and quietly amusing swordplay with, by turns, the family’s two bulger guards, who, in their black-haired and bearded enormity, make a particularly unlikely sight, here at the terminus of the Way of the Faithful.

“That is your eldest?” Lord Baster-kin asks, regarding Dagobert with an admiring, almost wishful aspect.

“Yes,” Lady Arnem replies, surprised at how kindly his lordship seems as he watches the scene below him. “Wearing his father’s old armor, I fear, according to the pact that he made with my husband concerning my safety in the city.”

“Why ‘fear’ such a thing?” Baster-kin asks. “It shows every admirable virtue, for one of his age. Does he frequent the Stadium?”

“No, my lord,” Isadora answers uncertainly. “His father’s influence again, I fear — Dagobert would rather spend his free hours in the Fourth District, among the soldiers.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Baster-kin replies. “Too many of our noble youths forgo their duties in the army for the false thrill of playacting in the Stadium. May I meet him?” His lordship starts down the stairs, then pauses, again offering Isadora his arm.

“I — of course, my lord.” Isadora then calls out: “Dagobert! If I may interrupt your clowning about—” And, at the sound of her voice, the guards take up their positions at the litter, standing at most respectful attention when they see whom their mistress is with. Dagobert, for his part, sheathes his marauder sword, does his best to order his armor, surcoat, and hair, and then climbs the stairs as her mother and her host descend them, so that the three meet somewhere in between top and bottom; her son’s every move, Isadora observes, seems modeled on her husband’s, as if he would live up to the responsibility of wearing his father’s kit now more than ever.

“Dagobert,” Isadora says evenly, “this is Lord Baster-kin, who has asked to meet you.”

Dagobert snaps his body absolutely rigid, and then, to his mother’s profound shock, brings his right fist to his breast in sharp salute. “My lord,” the youth says, just a little too loudly to reflect true ease with either the gesture or the situation.

“I appreciate your respect, Dagobert,” Lord Baster-kin says, continuing to escort Isadora down the stairs. “But you may rest easy. I am not quite the fearsome beast that some make me out to be. You do your father’s armor justice, young man — how long until we can expect to see you actually in the ranks?”

Dagobert turns his eyes, ever so briefly, on his mother, and then faces the Lord of the Merchants’ Council again. “As soon as I am of age, my lord. My father would have me train and serve for a time, and then take a junior position on his staff.”

Isadora’s eyes widen with anger: this is another fact of which neither her husband nor her son has bothered to inform her.

“Excellent, excellent.” Baster-kin catches sight of his own, much larger and grander litter approaching, carried by four of Radelfer’s youngest household guards. “Have your men fall in behind my litter, Dagobert,” Baster-kin says. “For if there is trouble in the deeper parts of the Fifth, I would have my men face it first — I can always find more guards, or my seneschal can, while your family seems”—Baster-kin gives the bulger guards a slight smile—“quite attached to these apparently capable men …” At that, Dagobert watches his mother and the Merchant Lord step through the rich fabric that curtains the well-cushioned seating of the litter.

Within that larger and far more comfortable means of transport, his lordship does his very best to play the pleasant and concerned host, grateful for Isadora’s help in the past and now concerned with whatever threat to Broken it is that she has discovered along the southwest wall of the city. She will offer no specifics, saying that the sight of the mysterious occurrence will speak far more eloquently than any description she can give. She is also very clearly anxious to first discuss what arrangements the Grand Layzin and the Merchant Lord are making for the resupply of her husband’s force of Talons, which she insists must be carried out before he is headstrong enough to commence an attack against the Bane without all the supplies he needs. For his part, Rendulic Baster-kin offers comforting statements, one after another, assuring Lady Arnem that if the other merchants of the kingdom will not support the attack, he himself will authorize use of the central amounts of supplies that are contained in the vast array of secret storage supplies that lie beneath the city.

Isadora is genuinely mollified by all these assurances, believing, for the moment, that Rendulic Baster-kin’s boyhood romantic preoccupation with her has transformed into a deep sense of adult gratitude, something she had not expected; but Radelfer, as he walks beside the litter, is growing increasingly uneasy, a feeling that began when his master and Isadora met in the Kastelgerd; for the extent of Rendulic’s disingenuousness has gone far beyond playacting during this meeting, and smacks more of a man who believes he can use the present difficulties to some advantage. But what “advantage” that might be, Radelfer has yet to determine.

The party’s journey into the worst part of the city begins when they pass through the gateway in the stone wall that separates the Fifth District from the other, more respectable parts of Broken; and their further trip toward what is certainly the most terrible neighborhood in that already vile district begins as well as any such undertaking can be expected to, primarily because the mere sight of Lord Baster-kin’s litter — common enough in the other districts of the city, but remarkable here — followed by Isadora’s well-known conveyance, signals to even the most addled minds and depraved citizens along the Path of Shame the beginning of momentous events in the Fifth. The presence of so many armed guards, meanwhile, provides a seemingly absolute check against the inclination to mischief that is always rife among the more enterprising, if criminal, souls who lurk in the darkest recesses of the district, particularly as one moves away from its stone boundary and toward the dark shadows cast by the city walls. This inclination toward thievery and murder is one that runs as deep in such minds as does their fellow residents’ appetite for dissipation, fornication, and the production of filth, all amply revealed in the gutters and sewer grates of the Fifth’s every street. These sickening rivulets are the source of a stench that every minute grows ever more offensive, and the pieces of refuse that block those streams and prevent their serving their purpose become steadily larger and more hideous. Among these terrible sights one can find objects so sickening and foolish as to seem remarkable: sacks of vegetables and grains, rotted and worm-ridden enough that not even starving souls will touch them; enormous piles of every form of human refuse and waste, bodily and otherwise; and, most horrifying of all, the occasional cloth-bound package that bears the unmistakable, bloody shape of a human infant, either miscarried close to its time or disposed of in the simplest manner possible, and perhaps mercifully so: for it will be spared, first, the privations of the Fifth District, and later, entry (by no choice of its own) into the increasingly mysterious service of the God-King in the Inner City, where, even among the residents of the Fifth, the seemingly inexhaustible need for young boys and girls is the subject of steadily greater, if quiet, speculation …

“It seems strange to me,” Lord Baster-kin says, glancing through the break in the curtain on his side of the litter as he holds the edge of his cloak to his face, blocking as much as possible the stench rising from the gutters close beneath the litter, “that, after all we went through in a very different sort of place than this—”

“If you mean your lordship’s lodge below the mountain,” Isadora comments, “it was indeed a lovely spot, particularly in comparison to so much of this district.”

“And yet you choose to live here still?” Baster-kin queries.

“Like me, my husband was born here,” Isadora answers. “And wished, as he wishes, to remain.” Now it is her turn to glance outside, with an air of some slight despair that Baster-kin finds oddly encouraging. “I do not know that I could have lived my entire life in this part of the district, which was my home until I met him.”

“I cannot pretend to comprehend how dismal a place it must have been for a child,” Baster-kin says slowly. “Nor why you and your husband would have chosen to stay — particularly now, when the sentek has been promoted to the leadership of the whole of the Broken army, and you could live in any part of or residence in the city that you might choose to request of the God-King.”

“Look about yourself once more, my lord,” Isadora says. “Many of these people are victims of their own perfidy and vice, but many others are merely unfortunate victims of circumstances that made this district an inevitable home. Citizens, for example, whose ill fortune is not the result of dissolution or of ill intent, but of the loss, many years ago, of the head of their family to war, or of a limb of that family elder to those same conflicts. It is a cruel and unjust truth, my lord, that many Broken soldiers, having left the army and returned to the district, are unable to find work that would allow them to leave, while some cannot even afford shelter, here, and so haunt these streets night and day, begging and stealing, many of them, and forming a new sort of army: an army of ghostly reminders of the occasionally cruel ingratitude of kings.”

Baster-kin holds up a mildly warning hand. “Be careful, my lady, with the words you choose,” he advises earnestly.

“All right, then — of the ingratitude of governments,” Isadora says, with an impatient nod of her head. “Then, as well, there are workmen — masons, builders — who have suffered crippling injury during the continual construction of this city’s and its kingdom’s houses of government, worship, and wealthy residency, and who are similarly left with no choice but to bring their families here, to the Fifth. You shall meet some such men when we reach our destination — but I ask you now, do not such people deserve at least one capable and honest healer to assist them, and does that not justify my staying and trying to help?”

“They deserve more than that, Lady Arnem,” Baster-kin replies. “And the worst residents of this district deserve certain things, as well — and, before long, all shall receive them, you have my word.” Despite the apparent charity and condescension embodied in these statements, it occurs to Isadora that there ought to be a sharp difference in quality between Lord Baster-kin’s first and second uses of the word “deserve.” She has no time to dwell upon the subject, however, as Baster-kin suddenly draws the curtains of his litter wider apart. “By Kafra, where can we be? A place of rare evil, if even the stars offer little light.”

“We approach the southwest wall, the shadow of which grows ever longer,” Isadora replies. “Deeper into the district than even I will venture, any longer — although I did as a child. It was my happy habit, then, to investigate most such neighborhoods, sometimes at foolish risk. But I learned much …”

“No doubt.” Lord Baster-kin looks to Lady Arnem and studies her face for a moment. And that, he muses, is what will make you such a superb judge of what this city and this kingdom will require, in the months and years to come …

“And one thing I learned, above all,” Isadora says, completing her thought. “There are at least some citizens in this district who recognize that the original planners of the city—”

“‘Planners’?” Baster-kin interrupts, a little less enthusiastically than he has sounded, to this moment: “You mean the planner, don’t you? For there was but one — Oxmontrot.”

Isadora deflects the man’s critical tone with a charming smile. “Forgive me, my lord,” she says; and Baster-kin, of course, cannot help but do so. “My husband has told me of your great dislike for the founder of the kingdom, and I did not wish to tread upon your sensibilities. But, yes, Oxmontrot, whatever his other faults, preached habits of personal and public cleanliness — if you will remember, my mistress and tutor was wont to speak of them, during our time together, by the name the Mad King originally gave them: heigenkeit.† Yet how could the Mad King”—and here Isadora ventures to actually touch Baster-kin’s gloved hand and laugh lightly for effect, seeing that she is drawing her companion in—“particularly as he was, for all his wisdom, apparently going mad even then — how could he have known that what were, in his time, necessary and rigorous policies, such as the creation of the Fifth District for his agèd and injured soldiers and laborers, would one day become of far less concern to his heirs? Heirs who, having become divine and removed to the inviolable safety and sanctity of the Inner City, were forced to depend all the more on advisors, too many of whom — unlike yourself — were district officials and citizens with less than sound or honest ends in mind, and who thereby helped to create, unintentionally, of course, this — this disgrace that we see about us now?”

“Admirably expressed, Lady Arnem,” Baster-kin says, turning to look again on the street about him, so that his true enthusiasm for both the thoughts and their speaker will not become obvious in his face. “I doubt if I could have put the matter any better, myself.” At that, he searches their immediate surroundings again, as if suddenly more surprised by their appearance than he is by Lady Arnem’s thoughts. “By Kafra,” he murmurs, “I do believe that this neighborhood is actually taking on an even more dismal aspect …”

Dissatisfied to see and hear that her brief outburst of opinion and feeling has apparently had so little effect, Isadora also looks outside: Is it possible, she thinks, that he truly has lost the deep, the consuming affection that he had for me, however childish, when he was but a youth? For, ironically, much as she had once feared that boyish and diseased form of devotion — a sickness that Gisa had called obsese†—she had been depending upon some part of it still being alive, in order for her plan of this evening to succeed. But she remains calm, knowing that she has another stratagem in mind with which to achieve the same goal.

{viii:}

The two litters stop before what is undoubtedly the worst of several abominable houses on a block of the street lying in closest proximity to the southwest wall. Baster-kin’s imperious bearing upon stepping out and into the midst of the human traffic that fills the neighborhood about them cannot help but suffer some small diminishment, as soot-encrusted groups of residents and indigents immediately begin to gather about his own and Lady Arnem’s litters; but the quick drawing of no less than eight well-oiled blades, ranging from the shortest (Dagobert’s marauder blade) to the imposing length of Radelfer’s raider sword, soon persuade these crowds to, if not disappear, at least to move farther off. It is with some sense of quickened purpose that Isadora, Dagobert, Lord Baster-kin, and Radelfer’s guards head toward the miserable hovel that can scarcely be called a house, while the bulger guards remain behind to protect the litters.

So strange has been, first, the ghostly gathering round of the neighborhood’s residents, and then their sudden dispersal, that those in the visiting party who have not yet been to the neighborhood are visibly shocked when a ravenous, maddened hound bursts forth from behind a large piece of half-burnt, unidentifiable wooden furniture that had simply been flung from the house into the yard before it at some past date. The beast bares its enormous teeth while hurtling toward one of the shorter of Radelfer’s men, its bestial and unending threats, along with its scarred but pronounced muscles, momentarily creating the impression that the chain by which he is secured will give way; an impression that causes more than one guard to raise his blade.

“Do not!” comes Baster-kin’s sharp order; but this stay is ordered only when it has become clear that the chain will not in fact break, strong as the animal may be. “Are you children, that you need a good Broken short-sword to fend off a chained dog?” Baster-kin angrily asks Radelfer’s men, and Isadora is gratified to see that the question is not posed to impress her, but is in fact a genuine sentiment. The scarred beast retreats and grows calmer when Isadora tosses him a bit of dried beef she has brought for the purpose; and she then urges the men behind her through the front doorway of the house, after having taken hold of the table that blocks it.

“Spare yourself, my lady,” Radelfer says, deftly stepping in front of her. A hint of his youthful strength, which must have been considerable, is offered by the manner in which he effortlessly picks the heavy, unwieldy slab of wood from the ground and quickly shifts it to one side. “I meant no insult,” Radelfer adds with a smile, remembering that the young Isadora was always loath to have men perform tasks for her that she was capable of undertaking, herself. “But I must precede my master into this dwelling, as it is, so why not make one task of two?”

Isadora does no more than nod proudly to this logic, casting his action in a different light: “You at least speed our visit, Radelfer — in a neighborhood such as this, to be remarked upon is unremarkable: the silence now surrounding us shows that many are waiting to discover our purpose, and if we can achieve it and be away before they have gathered again, all the better.” The group forms four parties — Radelfer and two of his household guard to the fore, Isadora, Lord Baster-kin, and a proud Dagobert next, and finally, Radelfer’s last two men, their eyes ever on what and who follows behind.

The squalor within is no great shock to Isadora, who long ago grew used to such sights, during her childhood with her parents and Gisa. The hovel’s floor is granite strewn with Earth and dust; a sack filled with hay evidently does for a bed for some five terrified children across the chamber, while the sack before the fire is occupied by their ailing father, with the oldest of the children using a filthy, moistened cloth to wipe at his forehead. The woman who lives there, Berthe, quickly rushes to Isadora, terrified by the sight of the men around her, and most especially by the gaze of Lord Baster-kin, which has gone harder, not softer, at the unpleasant sight of these impoverished surroundings.

“Apologies, my lady,” Berthe whispers. “I had intended to try to order affairs here at least somewhat less offensively—”

“Lady Arnem — what is it that you have brought me here to see?” Baster-kin asks imperiously. “For I am acquainted with failure and disgrace, in nearly all their forms.”

Isadora gives Berthe a sympathetic smile and clutch of one arm, then urges her back to her husband’s side. As the woman goes, Isadora turns a gaze to match Rendulic Baster-kin’s own on him. “Such harshness is hardly necessary, my lord, given the circumstances that are plain enough, here.”

Berthe has returned to the duty of wiping her husband Emalrec’s feverish brow. He gives off the powerful stenches of rotted teeth and food, human waste, and sweat; but none of this slows Isadora, who urges the Merchant Lord on. “Come then, in the interest of the kingdom, if no other,” she says, at which Baster-kin covers the lower portion of his face once more with the edge of his cloak, and watches as Isadora pulls away the light, filthy shirt that covers the groaning Emalrec’s neck and trunk, just enough to reveal his chest. “It is all right, Berthe,” Isadora says, seeing that the woman’s terror has only grown. “These men will do him no harm, I promise you …” Picking up the barest end of a candle that is seated in a shard of pottery nearby, Isadora indicates the patient’s exposed skin to Lord Baster-kin—

And he need see no more. Not wishing to spread his concern about the house or the neighborhood, he urges Isadora toward the back of the next room, and even manages a smile for the huddled, filthy children, as he passes them by to a rear entryway. Further along, there is a small square outside, a long-lifeless patch of Earth shared by three houses. A latrine — its walls long since fallen away, and its four-holed granite bench concealed, now, only by near-useless curtains suspended from similarly degraded ropes and poles — stands in the center of this yard, the holes in the bench leading directly down to the city’s sewer system.

Dismal as this picture is, however, Lord Baster-kin’s mind is still fixed on what he saw in the room. “I do not pretend to be an expert such as yourself, Lady Arnem,” he says quietly, not even wishing his household guards to hear the words. “But, unless I am a badly mistaken, that man is stricken with the rose fever.”

“You are remarkably well informed,” Isadora answers. “Not many could detect its markings so accurately — or so quickly.”

“Thank you; but returning to the illness—” Baster-kin’s face is now a mask of pure responsibility. “It spreads among people, particularly in areas lived in by such large numbers of people, as fast as the Death, even if more survive it than do that worst of all illnesses.”

“Quite true,” Isadora answers, now becoming a little coy: a dangerous game to play, at a moment such as this.

“And am I right in suspecting that you have some insight into the method of its spread, on this occasion, my lady?” Baster-kin asks.

Isadora continues her bit of playacting, praying that her fear does not bleed through it: “There are theories, of course, but there are always theories, from healers. All we can be certain of is, if that man is stricken by it, it will soon appear in many, perhaps most, houses in this neighborhood: quite possibly in this district. And from there …”

“But what of your theory?” Baster-kin asks, in considerably less pleasant or patient a tone.

Isadora urges Baster-kin farther back, into the small, dusty yard. “My lord,” she begins, “you knew my mistress Gisa and, unless I am very much mistaken, you knew her to be, whatever her private beliefs on the subjects of the spirit and religion, a healer without equal in this city.”

“You are not wrong,” Baster-kin answers. “Gisa knew her place in this kingdom, and never sought to advance herself past it, nor to betray its fundamental laws.”

“So, then,” Isadora continues, drawing a deep breath. “You would be inclined to believe suggestions that originated with her?”

“You were a wise and kind minister of her cures,” Rendulic Baster-kin says. “But I was ever aware that the cures were hers. And so, yes, I would be inclined to believe her, and now, you, above nearly every other pretender to the office of ‘healer.’ But what has any of this to do with matters in this house, and this district?”

“First”—Isadora works hard to still the tremor in her voice—“allow me to show you an extraordinary display of patriotism further from this house and these Plumpskeles …”†

“Lady Arnem!” Rendulic Baster-kin calls, as she begins to walk even further from the house, down a narrow pathway that his lordship, his eyes having grown accustomed to the darkness, can now see leads to an only slightly wider alleyway beyond. “I would rather you remember yourself, as I am sure your husband would, than to revert to the behavior and language of this—place …!”

“Why, Lord Baster-kin,” Isadora says without turning, and now smiling just a bit: for she has rattled this supremely confident man. “Do not tell me that this situation unnerves you? But come …” Then, in a supreme bit of theater, Lady Isadora holds her own arm out, to wait for the now-familiar resting perch of his lordship’s own. “Time and plague bear down upon us …”

Baster-kin obliges without answer; and as he does, Isadora’s steps become easier.

The alleyway into which Isadora leads her “guest” eventually terminates in the mighty edifice of the city’s southwest wall, which looms over everything beneath it. Confronted by the dark mass before him, the Merchant Lord pauses at the alleyway’s head, and says, “You pile mystery upon mystery, my lady — and to what end? I have already said, I would be inclined to believe you in this matter.”

“To believe is hardly to witness,” Isadora calls. “Come, my lord. You need not wait for your men — for we shall have guards enough, upon our brief journey …”

Before it can reach the great edifice near its terminus, the narrow alleyway down which the pair walk leads into that broad military path that runs about the entire base of all the walls of Broken, and is kept constantly free of any form of congestion so that the soldiers of the city may always move freely to and along that critical route to their positions. Thus, the alleyways adjoining it must be kept as dark and clear as the greater path itself. These highly secluded spots in a very questionable neighborhood, when used by persons not of the army, are places where transactions of an illegal nature take place: the buying and selling of stolen goods, unlicensed whoring, or, as ever and perhaps most common of all, robberies and murders.

How strange then, that each doorway of this particular alley leading to the imposing southwest wall of the city — a wall which is easily twice or three times as high as the largest of any of the shacks below, and still bears the clear marks of enormous, long-handled chisels and wedges — is apparently guarded, by two long lines of sentry-like men on either side of the passageway: not particularly young or healthy men, but men, most of whom are wan with age, sometimes supported by canes or crutches, yet all still possessing an essential military demeanor that cannot be manufactured; and, oddest of all — to Lord Baster-kin’s eyes, at any rate — it is the single most agèd and crippled of these figures, a thin, balding wisp of a man with a crutch, who is at the head of the alley, and in apparent control of the rest. He holds a Broken short-sword in his free hand, while staring at the Merchant Lord with a peculiar smile.

Blows and wounds seem entirely possible, although it is not clear between whom — instead, however, the ancient man on the crutch sheathes his blade, and hobbles toward Isadora and Lord Baster-kin.

“Lady Arnem,” Baster-kin murmurs quietly, to Isadora’s further satisfaction, “what, in the name of all that is holy, have you led me into …?”

{ix:}

“Well, Linnet Kriksex,”† Lady Arnem says happily, before she can answer Baster-kin’s question, “so you have made good on your promise.”

“Aye, Lady Arnem!” the old soldier answers, in a voice that is as rough as a large piece of stone being dragged across a quarry floor. “We were not certain when to expect you, but I told the men that your return was promised, and that it would take place. The wife of Sentek Arnem would never offer assistance and forget the pledge, I said!”

“Well done, Kriksex,” Isadora answers. “And now allow me to present Lord Rendulic Baster-kin, master of the Merchants’ Council and first citizen of the city and kingdom of Broken.”

Kriksex takes one or two steps toward Baster-kin, who, in a rare moment of humility, rushes to meet the hobbling old fellow more than halfway between them.

“My lord,” Kriksex says before delivering a sharp salute. “Linnet Kriksex, your lordship! Pleased to be of assistance to my kingdom, once again.”

“Kriksex?”

Another voice has joined the conversation, this one Radelfer’s; and Baster-kin and Isadora turn to see the seneschal stepping forward from his guard detail. “Is it really you?”

Kriksex looks past the great Lord Baster-kin, his face going first blank, and then joyous with recognition. “Ah, Radelfer, you have truly come!” he cries out, again flailing the crutch about as he moves quickly to meet what is apparently an approaching comrade. “So the stories were all true, and you did indeed remain with the clan Baster-kin!”

The two older men embrace, although Radelfer is careful with the seeming sack of bones and scars that was once his own linnet.

“But how are you still alive, you bearded, ancient goat?” Radelfer laughs. “It was enough that you survived the campaigns we undertook as young men, but — to find you here, among all this strange business, with what appears your own small army — it seems incredible!”

“Radelfer,” Lord Baster-kin says, not sternly, but rather with the tone of one who has had enough mysteries, for one night. “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain to me just who this man, who these men, are, and what they are doing seemingly guarding a decrepit alleyway, for no apparent purpose.”

“Your pardon, my lord,” Radelfer says. “This is Linnet Kriksex, who commanded my fauste when I joined the Talons, many years ago. And a more faithful servant of the realm you would be hard-pressed to find.”

“Indeed?” Baster-kin asks, looking at Kriksex and not quite sure of the explanation. “And I suppose this is the basis for your authority over these other assembled men, Kriksex, who also look to be veterans of various campaigns?”

“These are loyal men, my lord,” Kriksex replies, “here to protect the God-King’s name and laws in this district. An able core of veterans keeps the residents in this neighborhood free of both crime and vice. But the ominous occurrence that appeared again recently, the — the riddle that I showed Lady Arnem a few nights ago — went, I fear, beyond the power of men to either create, or to control. And so we determined that we must keep the situation exactly as we have periodically found it — spring is usually the most common time — until we determined whether or not we could persuade someone of greater consequence than ourselves to inspect it. My lady’s visit here was by chance; but then, Kafra be praised, you agreed in short order to accompany her back!”

Baster-kin looks up and down the alley with an uncertain expression, as he follows the agèd veteran. “I fear you confound me, Kriksex,” Baster-kin answers.

“The smell tells much of the tale, my lord,” he says. “But if you will only follow me to the southwest wall, I believe the peculiarity will become apparent quickly enough. It will be preceded by a worsening of that same stench, in all likelihood, one noticeable above even the usually delightful aromas of the Fifth.”

Baster-kin takes a deep breath, holding his forearm out to Lady Arnem once again. “My lady? May I assist you, as we follow this good man, that I may see what the difficulty is?”

“Your attention is much appreciated, my lord,” Isadora answers, placing her hand upon his lordship’s arm; she signals to Dagobert, who steps forward and moves on his mother’s free side further down the alleyway and through the lines of veteran soldiers, each of whom salute in turn.

Kriksex maintains the lead of the guard detail that surrounds the three important visitors, and he often turns to watch the intrepid Lady Arnem with his same smile, no less genuine for its lack of teeth. As the moments mount, however, he seems to find some emotion uncontainable, and he lags back a few feet to whisper toward Lord Baster-kin’s left ear: “Is she not a fit lady for Sentek Arnem, my lord? Fearless!”

Baster-kin nods, making his way into the deeper darkness. “Indeed, Kriksex,” he agrees, in an equally quiet voice that Lady Arnem — who is increasingly engaged by those she passes by, despite young Dabobert’s attempts to keep her way clear — cannot overhear. “A finer woman could not be found in all of Broken. But, for now — to the business at hand. For, unless I am losing both my sense of smell and my mind”—the noble nose wrinkles, and a sour expression consumes the face—“Something — perhaps many things — seem to have died, hereabouts …”

“Aye, Lord — many things, if we judge by that stench,” Kriksex says. “And yet you will find neither rot nor offal to explain it; only a seemingly ordinary, even innocent source …”

It takes but a few minutes to reach the southwest wall of the city; but before the interlopers have done so, Lord Baster-kin’s disgust only grows. “Kafra’s great holiness. You say there are no dead bodies in this area?”

“Several citizens have died in recent days,” Kriksex replies. “But they are not the source of it, for their bodies were burned by the district priest, according to all proper rites and methods, eliminating their remains as a cause. Young, they have been, most of them, as have been the others who have recently died in the district.” Lord Baster-kin casts a quick glance at Isadora; for he knows that the rose fever attacks the young before all others. “A terrible pity and waste, it has all been,” Kriksex continues. “But no, my lord — what you smell is a more inexplicable thing, and yet still, the cause will appear simple enough — nothing more than a small stream of water.”

Yet that seemingly innocent statement is enough to make Baster-kin pause for a moment. “But there is no water that flows above ground in the city — even the gutters that empty into the sewers are moved by collected rain. Oxmontrot saw to as much, to keep his people safe from the evils that open water of unknown origin can bring.”

“Just so, my lord,” says Isadora, who by now is standing on the pathway that runs at the base of the massive wall. From somewhere behind Baster-kin, a group of torches seem to simply appear, carried by Kriksex’s men, and they light the scored city wall, as well as the pathway beneath it; and when the noble Lord Baster-kin turns, he sees that by now every alley and nook, every window and rooftop of any house that offers any kind of a view of what is happening in this place has filled with the faces and jostling bodies and heads of curious citizens of the neighborhood, who must, by now, have heard who their visitors are. This eerie scene is, for a man such as Baster-kin, a glimpse into another world, almost into the mouth of Hel itself, and he has no wish to prolong it any more than he need do.

“Lady Arnem?” he calls out, in a somewhat unnerved voice, turning to notice that she has seemingly disappeared. “Lady — Linnet Kriksex!” the Merchant Lord demands, and Kriksex immediately lends him guiding aid:

“My lady is farther up along the wall and the stream, my lord,” the hobbling soldier says, appearing as from the darkness and pointing. “In the same area that interested her when first she came here, where the water first appears.”

Baster-kin nods, hurrying along to where Lady Arnem crouches. There, a delicate trickle of odoriferous water does, indeed, seem to spring from the base of the massive city wall itself: a trickle that soon grows, and that should, according to Oxmontrot’s plans for the city, have been intercepted and fed into the underground sewer system long before it ever reached this open spot. It appears to run some hundred or hundred and fifty yards, hugging tight to the wall, until it finally disappears as suddenly and inexplicably as it now bubbles up beneath the lord and lady.

“How can this be?” Baster-kin asks incredulously.

“I have been puzzling with that since being shown it,” Lady Arnem says, inspiring his lordship’s momentary admiration — for he had truly believed that her ends in this journey had only to do with her husband and her second son’s service in the House of the Wives of Kafra. Now, however, it would appear that patriotism numbers among her motives. “And yet,” she continues, “its appearance is not the most disturbing part of the matter.”

“No, my lady?” he says, mystified.

“No, my lord,” she replies, shaking her head. “There is this matter of its coming and going, especially during the rains. And there is also this …” With which, she opens her hand, and holds it up to the torchlight.

The Merchant Lord sees several objects that have an all too familiar appearance; and, looking behind him to see the same crowding faces and bodies, Lord Baster-kin places himself between Lady Arnem and the citizens, holding his elbows square so that his cloak drapes her revelation.

Isadora notes this movement with satisfaction — his worry is real indeed.

“Are those …?” His lordship begins to ask the question, but he cannot finish it: whether out of worry over the crowd or his own concern over what she holds, Isadora cannot say.

“Bones,” she replies, in a pointed whisper. “Taken from the bed of this — whatever it may be, stream, spring, or something wholly new.”

“Yet — so small,” Baster-kin says with a nod. “What variety of bones, then, my lady? Have you been able to determine? Some seem not even human—”

“And they are not.”

“Yet others — they would seem—”

“Almost from a Bane, a few of them,” she says. “And yet they are not.”

“No?”

“No. They originated with our own people’s children; such bones are far different than those of grown Bane men and women. And there are these, here,” she continues. “The several that are not human — first, the bones of small but powerful forest cats: again, not young panthers, but their adult cousins, the Davon wildcats. These others, however, are simply the smaller bones of the larger panthers.”

“Lethal Davon cats, all,” Baster-kin nods. “And you believe all the bones came from this running ditch?”

“I know it,” Isadora replies. “For you may find more, if you wish, by digging deeper. The more you do so, in fact, the more you will discover. Yet these objects certainly do not originate here — nor does the water. We have the opinions of the residents as to where they may come from, but the accounts conflict, and the source of each will swear to the accuracy of his or hers, no doubt expecting to gain some small favor — wine, silver, food, anything — for in many households, you will find small mouths to be fed, as we have just encountered in young Berthe’s. And yet those children shall not linger in such houses long — for their parents are also, like the stricken Emalrec, only too ready to sell them, and far too hopeful of doing so.”

“Sell them?” Baster-kin echoes, in some disbelief, yet remembering who it is that speaks, and knowing her reliability.

“Indeed, my lord. A grave crime that has been regularly committed.” Isadora begins to walk slowly along the bank of the strange little streambed that she has been investigating, dropping the bones she holds, and then producing both a small block of soap and a similarly small skin of what appears clean water from beneath her cloak. She offers them to Baster-kin first. “My lord? I would recommend it.”

Baster-kin looks at her, with both a smile and a sharp eye. “You seem quite prepared for this eventuality, Lady Arnem — and I appreciate the gesture, although I do not understand it.”

“Suffice to say that, if my mistress were alive and with us, she would insist that you do it.”

“Inscrutable, at times, she most certainly was that — though never wrong, that I knew of,” Baster-kin says, cupping his hands for water, then lathering them with the rough block of soap. “But the various subjects — the rose fever, this water, these bones, the possibility of such serious sacrilege as buying and selling children — what can they have to do with one another?”

“I have not had as long as I would like to consider it, since this particular proof appeared,” Isadora answers, as she begins to walk south again. Having reached a safe bit of shadow along the wall, she turns to his lordship, her face full of purpose. “But, as you have asked the question: all I can say with certainty, now, is that I have seen certain things with my own eyes, and heard enough stories to allow me to tell you that the children we speak of are not disappearing into slavery, nor outside of the city.” She turns, attempting to meet Baster-kin’s gaze full on, reminding herself that this man was but a boy, once, a boy whose weaknesses she knew only too well, and hoping that those weaknesses have not changed.

Gisa had taught Isadora to be rigorous in the exercise of her mind, never to guess or to gamble — but how could one form a considered opinion, when one had only incomplete facts? The method did not exist; at moments, inevitably, every living soul had to gamble. Her husband had taught her that by his example, over and over again, with his exploits in the field — and she had even seen Gisa take risks, although the crone would have denied it, especially on occasions when a life hung in the balance …

And with this final thought in mind, Isadora Arnem now looks north, and takes one deep breath: “The course of the stream would seem to indicate that it originates somewhere to the north — this is what concerns me most …”

Baster-kin, too, turns north; and then, after several moments, his face goes pale. “Lady Baster-kin, even the suggestion of such a thing is heresy … You cannot possibly think that this disease could originate from within the Inner City? Why should it not come from the sewers?”

“It runs above the sewers, my lord. In addition,” she asks quietly, “was there or was there not a recent attempt on the life of the God-King? One involving the poisoning of a certain well just outside that same Inner City? And is the Lake of a Dying Moon not the only standing water source in that direction?”

Baster-kin’s face fills, not with anger, initially, but with shock, and then concern. “Lady Arnem, I must warn you: there are only a few persons who know the details of this matter. And yet, since you seem to now be one of them — I assure you, plague can be as much the work of sorcery as of more ordinary paths of disease. And the men of my guard who died of that sorcerous poisoning had symptoms far more horrible than the ordinary rose fever that your seksent in that house exhibits.”

“Your pardon, my lord,” Isadora says. “But, among many other uncertainties, we do not yet know what kind of symptoms that man may ultimately exhibit.”

“You think—” Baster-kin is further shocked. “You think both could actually be victims of the same attack?”

“You captured one of the Bane assassins,” Isadora says, holding Baster-kin’s eyes with her own. “And tortured him for days on end. You would have a greater idea of the extent of the danger than I — whatever their means, they could well have released plague of some sort, rather than simple poison. And then there are further aspects to consider, concerning such an explanation.”

“Which are?” As she has been expecting, a sudden hardness finally enters his lordship’s features; but she presses on:

“Which are,” she breathes, “to begin with, the fact that many mothers I have spoken to in this district — including young Berthe in there — have seen at least one or two of their children sold to priests and priestesses from the First District, who are accompanied by those creatures who claim your patronage and name: Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. Indeed, so lucrative is the trade that certain particularly useless men — such as Emalrec, the man you have just seen on the bed in that house — have begun to depend on the birth and sale of such children as a substitute for honest labor. And now, for his sins, perhaps, the rose fever visits him. Strange, is it not?”

Isadora tries to maintain her composure as his lordship’s features only harden and darken further: “Lady Arnem — even if such were the case, you and I cannot pretend to understand the workings of the Inner City, of the royal and sacred family, or of their priests and priestesses. You know these truths.” He draws closer to her. “And yet you pretend to be mystified by all of it. But you know the answers, do you not, to the secret of that water, to the poisoning and the rose fever and the plague, to how it all touches upon these royal and sacred persons?”

“Yes, my lord. I believe I have determined all these answers. Some you may suspect — and some would shock you. But all would work to the unrest of this district, and perhaps the whole of the city, were they to become widely known. For the Inner City cannot contain or feed so many children as are taken, to say nothing of the wild beasts that they are said to have captured. Nor does disease simply appear as an act of any god. Plague, be it of poisonous or ordinary origins, has broken loose in this city, to threaten all citizens. This district is not the cause — it is the victim.”

Baster-kin now takes a step away from Isadora. “And yet, you — you, with all this knowledge, have not yet made as much known, even in this district — have you?”

Isadora breathes deeply. “No. Not yet …”

“And in fact, you will remain silent,” Baster-kin says, nodding. “For a price.”

“Yes,” Isadora finally says. “A price. Perhaps too heavy for the rulers of this kingdom to pay, and certainly beyond your power alone to grant. But you can carry the message: for I would have it stated — in writing, atop the royal and sacred seal — that neither my children, nor any others, will, in the future, be required for the royal and sacred service, save those that go of their own will. Without payment to their parents, and without the escort of Guardsmen who wander the streets under your name.”

Baster-kin nods slowly: he is the image of a man whose fondest dream is coming unraveled — yet not in such a way that it takes him entirely off-guard. “And the plague …?” he asks quietly.

“If you bring what I ask, and the city’s builders do as I ask, I can control the plague here; and then, in time, it will die at its source—wherever that might be.”

“Yet you know full well where it is,” Baster-kin says.

“Do I? Perhaps.” As Isadora continues, her boldness returns: “One thing is clear: for all your theatrical torturing of that Bane, you are not certain. Yet I shall not speak of it: there will be no need, if the priests do as I say.”

“And if they do not?”

“If they do not, my lord …” Isadora lifts an arm, indicating the whole of the city. “There are forces within these walls that have ever wanted only direction and leadership, to put their plight to the ears of power. And they have that ability. Some among the kingdom’s powerful may have thought they were eliminating such a capacity by way of this plague; but they have, in fact, only given it greater force …”

{x:}

Lord Baster-kin holds his ground in the face of this confident threat: threat, a variety of behavior that he has never before seen Isadora Arnem exhibit. Of course, that particular part of his mind that has always been prepared for threat from any quarter had said she might turn to it, this night. And so he feels no danger in admiring her strength for a moment, for he believes there is no reason to fear her demands and warnings — he has already calculated his response, which he now elaborates in statements that are perhaps even more shocking than were hers:

“Are you sure, Lady Arnem, that such men as these”—he indicates the streets about him—“can hope to defend this district against my Guard, whatever the shortcomings of that latter organization?”

“I never said as much,” Isadora replies. “But I have sent dispatches to my husband that indicate the state of affairs in this city, and, when he returns to us, not only the Talons, but the whole of the Broken army — of which you have placed him in charge — will be more than enough to rescue the fate of the Fifth District.”

“It would be,” the Merchant Lord agrees. “It is perhaps unfortunate, therefore, that by the time he returns, the Fifth District will no longer exist, at least in its present form, while its residents will either have fled the city or have been killed.” Baster-kin pulls his gauntlets from his hands with deceptive lack of concern. “That is, of course, assuming that your husband ever does return to the mountaintop.”

Isadora’s face goes helplessly pale; for she has known for most of her life that this is not a man who gives voice to idle threats. “Ever does return …?” she echoes, before she has had time to select her words more carefully. “Has my lord heard of some misfortune that has befallen the Talons in the field?”

“I may have,” Baster-kin replies, moving closer to her as he senses his ploy is succeeding. “But first, consider this: without your husband — who may, for all any of us know, be dead already — the Talons will not act against the God-King and his city; and without the Talons, the regular army will make no attempt to similarly intervene against the destruction of any part of their homeland. Then, failing any such intervention, the Fifth District will be cleansed by fire, and remade as a fit home for truly loyal citizens of Broken, citizens willing to give their wholehearted devotion to the God-King.”

Isadora’s sudden uncertainty consumes her for a long moment; but then she almost forces her confidence to return, in just the manner that her former mistress, Gisa, would have exhorted her to do: “My lord — you know full well the nature of plague. Whether it comes from a god or from man’s poison, from the Bane or from the mountain itself — for who knows what other cracks in its stone summit have appeared or shifted, over the years? — such pestilence can and must spread, if treated only through ignorance and superstition, as it will be, should you leave it attended to by Kafran healers alone.”

“Any other healers, particularly in the Fifth District, being somehow beholden to you,” Baster-kin replies. “There is no reason to deny it, Lady Arnem, my own inquiries have proved as much, over these last many weeks. But this is no reason for you to concern yourself.” To Isadora’s repeated look of silent consternation, the Merchant Lord delightedly takes a few steps forward, and places her hand upon his own. “You and your children need feel in no danger. I shall personally take you out of the district, and offer you shelter in the Kastelgerd Baster-kin. As time passes, the memory of this place, like your memory of your husband and your children’s memory of their father, will fade, and you shall envision a new future, a future devoid of squalor, poverty, and all the other ills of this place.”

Isadora nods slowly. “A future much like the one you imagined for us long ago, when I attended to your megrem in your family’s lodge at the base of the mountain; but now your father is no longer alive to object to the scheme, nor has Radelfer the power to prevent it.”

“Do not think me so entirely selfish, my lady,” Baster-kin replies; and there is a note of genuineness in his voice that even Isadora cannot deny. He places his second hand atop the one of hers that rests on his first. “I know how information travels among communities of healers in this city; I know that you must be aware of the … shortcomings of my own sons, and of their origins. Do not deny it, I beg you. But neither you nor I are past the age of bearing new children. Children who could take the name of Baster-kin, and bear it into another generation — a generation during which they could ensure the continued greatness of my clan, by assuming the leadership of this city and kingdom.”

Isadora shakes her head slowly, then finally whispers, “You are mad, my lord …”

Remarkably, Baster-kin only smiles. “Yes. I anticipated such a response from you, initially; but when the fires begin to blaze in the district, and when word comes of spreading disease among the Talons, and the citizens of these neighborhoods begin to either die or flee — will I seem so mad, then? When the safety of your children is at terrible risk, and you have but one way to save them — will this plan seem like such lunacy to you?”

Instinctively drawing her hand back in a sudden tug, Isadora looks at the man who, she suddenly realizes, is indeed still very much the boy she once treated for a crippling, maddening illness; and she shakes with the realization, not that his mind may be disordered, but that his power and his strange logic may make him frighteningly correct. “Your entire premise proceeds from two assumptions, my lord,” she says, not so haughtily as she would like to. “First, that my husband will, in fact, die—”

“Or may be dead already,” Baster-kin replies.

“And second,” Isadora continues, a deep shudder making itself visible in her body, much to the Merchant Lord’s satisfaction, “that the disease that is making itself manifest in the strangely recurrent stream of water at the base of the southwestern wall will suddenly and simply disappear.”

“As it will,” Baster-kin answers confidently. “For you yourself have told me that you know the secret to making it thus disappear. And make it vanish you shall — shall, that is, if you wish your children and yourself to escape the inferno that will soon engulf this district.”

And with another shudder of recognition, Isadora realizes that she has been, at least for the moment, outwitted, and that Rendulic Baster-kin has at long last gained the upper hand he longed for as a youth.

“None of these are propositions or notions that you can attempt to address now, my lady,” Baster-kin says, turning to signal the very curious Radelfer, and ordering him to bring the litter they arrived in to the spot where he stands. “And so, wait. We have both, it seems, cast our dice on gambits of extraordinary stakes — results over the next few days, or even weeks, alone will allow us, and particularly you, to come to any heartfelt decisions. Bearing that in mind”—as his litter bearers and his seneschal rush to where he stands, Baster-kin notices a new, stronger element of doubt creeping into Isadora’s features—“we shall, indeed, wait …” Pulling back the curtains of his litter, Rendulic smiles in a manner that Isadora has not seen since he was a youth. “But as you wait, think of this — your husband is a great soldier, who was perhaps always destined to die in the field, one day, campaigning against Broken’s enemies. And, should that death have already come, or were it to come now, would you truly have wished or wish now that your children perish amid what is a necessary and unstoppable change within this city? Is your loyalty to the squalor where you spent your own childhood really so extreme that you would allow that? I leave you with those questions, my lady — and with a quick demonstration, soon to come, of the God-King’s deep commitment to not only remaking Davon Wood, but to restructuring the Fifth District. My thanks for your guidance, and for your explanation of what is, I have no doubt, causing the deaths within the city walls.” He turns to his seneschal, who had expected that, by now, his master would be overcome by frustration, rather than strangely calm, even serene. “We go,” Baster-kin declares. “And Radelfer will maintain contact with you, my lady, in the event that you should require anything during the days to come — although that contact will have to be initiated, of course, by way of the city walls.”

“The city walls …?” Isadora says, increasingly confused.

“My meaning will become clear very soon,” the Merchant Lord replies. “Good night, my lady.” Baster-kin then vanishes into his litter, leaving Isadora none of the defiant — almost naïvely defiant, it seems now — satisfaction that she had thought the statements with which she had first presented her onetime patient would bring.

Radelfer turns to Isadora briefly, as confounded as she that he finds no expression of quiet triumph upon her face. Although he cannot say the words aloud, being too close to his lordly master, Radelfer would ask Isadora why this is so: why do her features not reflect the same expression that he had already perceived in Kriksex’s, the silent pledge that, When next we meet, we shall be on the same side of the storm that rises …?

Given this strange aspect upon Lady Arnem’s face, when Radelfer turns and sees Kriksex offering a final and distant salute of comradeship, the seneschal, suspecting that the kind of devious manipulation of which he knows Rendulic Baster-kin to be a master is at work, can only return the gesture half-heartedly. Then he suddenly begins to bark harsh orders at his household guards, who move at a near-run in order to get their master safely back out of the squalor of the Fifth District. But the seneschal does not move so quickly that he fails to notice that Kriksex’s men keep their blades drawn, as the Merchant Lord’s party passes: suspicion yet reigns — indeed, has been heightened — between the two groups of veterans, although neither can say why …

“And so, my lord,” Radelfer murmurs quietly, attempting a gambit of his own, “did my Lady Isadora fulfill your expectations?”

“Not yet,” comes Baster-kin’s surprisingly friendly reply. “But she is close.”

“Indeed, my lord?” Radelfer answers quickly. “Close to abandoning both the district of her birth and the husband of her children?”

“I realize that you may have thought as much impossible, Radelfer,” his lordship says. “But here is a fact that life has never taught you: set any obstacle between a mother and the safety of her young, and you will always gain an advantage — even if that obstacle be her own husband’s fate.” He glances briefly outside the curtains of the litter. “Are we passing back through the district wall at the head of the Path of Shame?”

“Aye, lord,” Radelfer says, suddenly less confused than he is worried.

“And all the elements that I called for are in place?”

“The crews and their masters are assembled, along with detachments of your Guard to oversee their labor; which, I presumed, was to take place in the Fifth—”

“I know what you presumed, Radelfer. But now know my order: they are to close and seal the gateway.”

“My Lord? I do not understand—”

“Nor need you, Seneschal. For my part, I must go to the High Temple at once, and assure the Grand Layzin that what was planned begins to take shape.” Baster-kin sighs heavily: with weariness, to be sure, but to an even greater extent with satisfaction …

At the base of the southwestern wall, meanwhile, as soon as Baster-kin’s litter has disappeared, Isadora feels her legs go a bit weak; and from somewhere in the alleyway, her eldest son rapidly appears to support her. “Mother!” he calls. “Are you unwell?”

His mother makes no reply, at first, but takes a few silent moments to control the rate of her breathing, knowing that if it races as quickly as her heart, she will likely faint. In this state does Kriksex find her, as he rejoins mother and son; and his face, too, fills with concern. “Lady Arnem!” he calls out, struggling with his crutch as quickly as he can. “What has taken place? All seemed to go just as you had planned!”

“Just so, Kriksex — it seemed to,” Isadora gasps. “But I have ever been able to sense the soul of that man, and the conclusion was too abrupt, his departure too swift and sure — no, he has not done with us, this night …”

The woman Berthe, having observed her ladyship’s distress, has rushed to fetch a small, well-worn chair from a friend’s nearby house. “My lady!” she calls, as she stumbles out the doorway of the house with the stick of furniture; she also exhibits the self-possession to immediately dispatch her eldest daughter with a pitcher to the wells at the head of the Path of Shame, where the girl can fetch clean water for the brave woman who seems to have brought the beginnings of dignity to the Fifth District.

Meanwhile, as Lady Arnem waits for this relief, Kriksex stands over one of her shoulders, having guessed that negotiations with Lord Baster-kin will be protracted and producing a rough map of the manner in which he intends to deploy the main body of their veterans during the coming interval. Dagobert looks over his mother’s other shoulder at the scrap of parchment, while the rest of the men who have guarded Lady Arnem’s party hold their torches aloft in a semicircle, to illuminate the study and the subsequent discussion that takes place—

And then the moment that had seemed, to all save Isadora, to offer some kind of hope, is shattered by a child’s voice: it is Berthe’s daughter, who screams in alarm …

Down the alleyway the girl comes, followed, strangely, by the bulger guards, Bohemer and Jerej, whose expressions are not altogether devoid of the horror that fills the young girl’s face; and as the three draw closer to the group beneath the wall, the child’s words become distinct, although they seem to make little sense:

“Mother!” she cries. “Men are at the wall—they are closing it! We will be trapped!”

Weeping, and spilling water from the pitcher she so nobly attempted to fill, the girl throws herself into Berthe’s arms, handing what little water remains in the vessel to Dagobert.

“It’s true, my lady,” Jerej says, catching his breath. “Masons lay stone as fast as it can be brought to them, protected all the while by the Merchant Lord’s Guard.”

“The good Lord Baster-kin,” Bohemer adds, bitter sarcasm in his voice. “He must have had most of the city’s masons assembling, even as we were distracted here.”

Dagobert looks down in alarm. “Mother …?”

But his mother is already murmuring in reply: “So that was his meaning—‘by way of the city walls …’” Then, never one to allow a moment of crisis to stun her for long, Isadora looks up, encouragement in her features. “But it must make no difference. It is must be treated as a sign that we are have struck close to the hearts of those who have committed the various outrages within this district.”

Having done what she can to embolden those around her, Isadora takes a few steps off on her own, and is allowed to do so by her comrades, who sense her exhaustion. Looking up at the city wall once more, she whispers:

“Forgive me, Sixt. But we who have remained in our homes must see this business through to its end — just as you, belovèd husband, must safely navigate the dangers you face on your campaign …”

She is about to issue more commands aloud to those who stand about her; but then sounds still more alarming than the screaming of Berthe’s child echo through the streets: it is the hard pounding of leather-soled boots against the granite of the walkway atop the walls, and then the voices of soldiers calling out orders to their men. Moving back from the wall, Isadora and the others look up, their men with torches spreading out so as to cast light in a wider upward arc—

And they are there. Not men of the Merchant Lord’s Guard, this time, but soldiers of the regular army, their cloaks of rich blue and their numbers forming a near-continuous line atop the wall. In addition (and most frighteningly, for the residents below), they bear regular-issue Broken bows. Before long, an almost ritual wail begins to rise from many men and women in the streets and houses below — but not from the local children, who flock to aging, stoical veterans, rather than to their near-panicked parents, and who try as best their young hearts will allow to adopt the old soldiers’ dispassionate demeanor.

“You men above!” Isadora calls to the soldiers, with real authority and effect. “You know who I am, I daresay?”

“Aye, Lady,” says one particularly wide, bearded sentek, who needs not shout to be heard. His face is well lit by the torches his own men carry, and it is vaguely familiar to Isadora. “You are the wife of Sentek — or rather, Yantek—Arnem, our new commander.”

“And you are Sentek—”

“Gerfrehd,”† the man replies. “Although I can understand your unfamiliarity with it. For as my cloak indicates, I serve in the regular army. But rest assured: you are well known to me, my lady.”

“Good,” Isadora calls back. “And, while I do not expect you to disobey orders that doubtless bear the Grand Layzin’s seal, I do think you owe me, as wife of your commander, an explanation of your appointed task.”

“Certainly, Lady Arnem,” replies Sentek Gerfrehd. “We have been told of insurrection in the Fifth District — but we do not come to engage in any precipitate action.”

“I should hope not,” Isadora replies. “For this ‘insurrection,’ as your own eyes can tell you, is largely one of children.”

“I have determined as much,” the man answers, nodding. “And will report it to the other commanders of our other regular legions, who will doubtless wish, like me, to know more of just why we have been dispatched here.”

“And your immediate instructions?” Isadora presses.

“Are simple enough: citizens of the district may exit the city through the Southern Gate, but no one is to be allowed to enter the city through it. Nor to interfere with the completion of the wall at the head of the Path of Shame.”

“You realize,” Isadora replies, “that your actions could be seen as those of enemies, Gerfrehd — not of fellow subjects.”

The sentek is slow in answering, finally doing so with a rather inscrutable smile. “I am aware of as much, my lady. Just as I am aware that yours could be seen as the actions of rebellious subjects, rather than loyal ones.”

But for Isadora, after a lifetime of close contact with soldiers, the smile is not difficult to understand at all; and she holds out a hand to the children that surround her aging veterans, standing at their best approximation of attention. “Well, Sentek — I say again, here are your ‘rebellious subjects.’ There will be little glory in subduing them.”

At this, Sentek Gerfrehd almost seems to chuckle quietly, and he replies, “No, my lady. Any more than there is such glory to be had fighting alongside the Merchant Lord’s Personal Guard.”

“And so?” Isadora asks. Her boldness in speaking thus to a sentek of the regular army has made many of the terrified adults about her ashamed of their fear, and they begin to move forward to surround her and stand by their children.

“And so we will wait, my lady,” Sentek Gerfrehd calls. “For we take our orders, as you know, from the God-King, the Grand Layzin, and your husband, in such order. The merchants are not our masters.”

Isadora nods once, approvingly. “And so we, too, will wait, Sentek,” she says. “And see what actions your superiors force upon us.”

“It would seem we await the same things, then, my lady,” Gerfrehd replies.

“Indeed,” Isadora states; and with that, she nods and moves away from the wall, subtly leaning upon Dagobert for support, and offering as much encouragement to those around her as she can.

But that effort is mitigated by one question that will not leave her mind, as she walks back to her home, despite the fact that she cannot voice it to the citizens around her: yet as she looks above those citizens, above even the soldiers on the wall, and, soon, from the safety of her second-floor bedroom, toward the edge of Davon Wood, as it becomes faintly visible in the far distance, she murmurs:

“And what orders or signs will you, my husband, understand as offering the same evidence that matters are far from correct or well at home, and require your return to put them right …?”

{xi:}

Soon after ordering the city’s masons to work through the night to finish the work of sealing the Fifth District off from the rest of Broken by walling in the gateway at the head of the Path of Shame, Lord Baster-kin orders his litter to return to his Kastelgerd, while he and Radelfer journey humbly afoot to the High Temple. Radelfer waits without as his lordship enters the Sacristy, for it is here that Baster-kin must brief the Grand Layzin on the most recent developments concerning what are in fact his own and the Layzin’s plans for the seemingly ill-fated Fifth District: plans that represent the second part of a long-schemed strategy to reassert and ensure the kingdom of Broken’s strength in the years to come. (The Layzin is unaware of Baster-kin’s private intentions concerning Isadora Arnem, which the Merchant Lord considers every bit as important to the health of the state as the destruction of both the Bane and the Fifth District.)

The intelligence that the Merchant Lord brings to the Layzin is encouraging: the prospect of besieging the Fifth has brought out in his Guard an unexpected enthusiasm, if not discipline, particularly now that the regular army is in disarray, with its commander and elite troops gone and no standing orders from Sixt Arnem that might interfere with Baster-kin’s plots in place. The Guardsmen’s enthusiasm has been further enhanced by the Merchant Lord’s having revealed, prior to his departure from the Fifth District gate for the High Temple, a written order giving both the sealing of the wall and the ensuing siege of the district royal sanction, sanction demonstrated by the appearance of the God-King’s personal seal upon the document. And, now that he effectively controls all official correspondence flowing in and out of the city (including and especially Isadora Arnem’s), Baster-kin believes that no future orders contradicting this rare and extraordinary royal edict can or will be received by the commanders of the home khotors of the regular army; and they will therefore have no choice but to obediently (if, in some cases, less than enthusiastically) support the undertakings of Merchant Lord’s Guard. In the eastern provinces, meanwhile, the Talons will be at first weakened and then destroyed by the illness that is being carried down Broken’s mountain and toward the Meloderna, first by Killen’s Run, and then by the Cat’s Paw: an illness that Baster-kin believes he has coerced Isadora Arnem, by using the lives of her children as a weapon, into working with Kafran engineers to eradicate within the city, thereby eliminating it throughout the kingdom (although that eradication will, tragically, occur too late to change the fate of the Talons and their commander).

Thus, to hear Baster-kin tell it, this evening has been full of developments that offer hope to his kingdom, his ruler, and his faith — as well as to his clan, although this bit of triumphant news the Merchant Lord must continue to keep private. But open expression of any such triumph is unnecessary: the Merchant Lord has so much encouragement to offer the Grand Layzin, as he stands upon the latter’s dais in the Sacristy and explains in detail just what all the commotion within the city signifies for Broken’s royal retinue, as well as for its most eminent citizens, that he quickly assumes an almost heroic aspect, one that he feels he must temper:

“It had been my hope, Eminence,” Baster-kin ultimately declares, with false regret, “that if I gave Lady Arnem an honest account of how the pestilence that both she and we have discovered to be at work in the Fifth District, as well as locations as far east as Daurawah — a sickness that remains, almost certainly, the work of the Bane — she would urge her husband to return home at once, in order both to organize a defensive force to take the place of Sentek Gledgesa’s doomed Ninth Legion and to oversee the cleansing by fire of the Arnem family’s portion of the city. Yet such remains her strange allegiance to her district, as well as her bizarre apprehension that the priests of Kafra are purchasing or simply abducting its children, that she places the safety of its residents — for in truth, one could not call them citizens — above any concerns for her husband. To be frank, I believe that she has grown used to a position of power in the district, and will not surrender it until she is sharply reminded of what she owes to both the God-King and to Broken itself. In short, she can be brought back to a useful life, Eminence, of this I am certain, but not until she has been thus humbled.”

“And you are willing to undertake the task of forcibly returning her to the path of obedience and faith, my lord?” the Layzin says, removing the clasp that holds his golden hair at the back of his neck. “The God-King would not demand it of you, for you have already been tireless in stemming the waves of misfortune that have descended upon our people.”

“I suspected such royal and divine generosity, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies, working hard to keep his eagerness to “humble” Isadora Arnem from becoming plain. “Yet the woman is too important to this undertaking, she possesses too many strengths and gifts, to allow less than careful treatment — I know this from the experience I myself had with her as a youth. And so, I will undertake it. In the case of the Talons, however …” Baster-kin holds his arms aloft in seeming helplessness, piling deception upon deception. “Their laudable zeal to continue their campaign to destroy the Bane, despite my most recent warnings to Yantek Arnem of the newfound dangers they face — warnings that have still yet to be answered — confirm the tragic irony that they are men condemned by their own zeal. They will die soon, if they are not in fact dead already; and so, I believe we must look to our commanders within the city to train a new force for the East, and proceed with our plans to reward them, as well as any senior officers of my Guard who may distinguish themselves in the action to come, with new Kastelgerde and smaller homes within a rebuilt Fifth District.”

The Layzin passes a hand through his loose-flowing hair. “It seems that there is no problem to which you have not turned your considerable energy, my lord.”

For a moment, as he realizes he may achieve all for which he has long schemed, Baster-kin’s heart feels a passion it has done without for many years; yet he knows that, for the sake of those schemes, he must control such joy. “It is little enough, Eminence,” he says evenly. “Given the manner in which our God-King and his ancestors have always favored the clan Baster-Kin.”

“Perhaps so,” the Grand Layzin replies; and the softness of this response makes it seem as though his thoughts are distracted in some obscure manner. For an instant, Baster-kin fears this distraction may betray dubiousness, perhaps even a comprehension of his own shielded designs regarding Isadora Arnem. But the Layzin’s next statement lays such fears to rest: “Above all, we must ensure that any attempts at communication between the good Yantek Arnem and his wife are intercepted, for theirs is the sole partnership that might rouse truly popular following within the city and the kingdom.”

Baster-kin smiles just perceptibly: what he had taken for skepticism was in fact the Layzin’s tacit approval, as he could not have asked for an order more in keeping with his own plots. “Rest easy, in that regard, Eminence,” he says. “All correspondence of any kind is interrupted at the city gates by my agents — our control of all aspects of life within Broken is as complete as we could wish for.”

With these words, Baster-kin takes note of the sudden appearance of a Wife of Kafra from behind the drapery at the rear of the dais. The young woman, if judged by her nubile body, has only recently been elevated from novice to the higher order of priestess: and she arrives so quietly (as do all such young priests and priestesses within the Sacristy) that she seems to materialize out of the very air in the chamber. But her gown of the sheerest green-golden fabric makes plain the very real feminine perfections beneath it, confirming Baster-kin’s impression, not only of her youth and inexperience, but of her almost intoxicating physical reality. As the girl hands an evidently much-needed goblet of light wine to the Layzin, the Merchant Lord cannot help but turn away from her, as if to even feel lust for anyone save the object of his complex plans would be a betrayal.

“Will you take some wine, my lord?” the Layzin condescends to ask.

“Your Eminence is kindness itself,” Baster-kin says. “But this night yet holds crucial tasks for me to undertake: if, for example, we are to send one khotor of my Guard in the place of the Talons to destroy the Bane, I must find and enlist a new set of officers for the task — for those who now command those troops are hardly adequate to the task. And the best place to recruit such young men, who must be both versed in combat and sprung from families who are wealthy enough that we need feel no compunction about requiring them to offer their male offspring for service, will be in the Stadium, where my own son spends a great deal of his time, as do the grown sons of so many noble houses.”

The Layzin considers the matter, and then nods approvingly. “Yet another sound plan,” he judges. “But surely you could first grant yourself an hour or so during which to pursue some purely selfish diversion? For example, I saw the look that came into your face when this young servant of Kafra entered the Sacristy. Why not enjoy her flesh for a time, before entering the Stadium and reminding the young men of Broken’s wealthiest households of their duty — a thankless task if ever I heard of one? After all, the continued failure of Kafra to grant the God-King Saylal with an heir weighs heavily upon my own thoughts — yet I can assure you, having done all I can do, this day, to try to entreat a change in the royal fortunes, I know that I must attend to my own needs, later this night, lest I go mad with vexation.”

Lord Baster-kin returns a conspiratorial smile that has entered the Layzin’s features, and allows himself to glance again at the body of the young Priestess of Kafra that is so scarcely hidden by her sheer robe. “And in your case, the reward is richly deserved, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies, still playing the part of slavish servant, never wishing the Layzin or his creatures to suspect that his own desires can be satisfied solely by the one woman who will offer him (as she did when he was a boy) true peace; and that he will achieve that peace once more when he has so arranged matters that both he and Isadora Arnem are free to bind their lives as he believes they should have been bound so many years ago. “But for a far humbler servant such as myself, neither time or energy must be diverted, for the First Khotor of the Guard must be ready to march out of the city as soon as possible.”

“Is it that she is a girl?” the Layzin says, seemingly incredulous that Baster-kin will not take the opportunity to enjoy the physical pleasures that can be offered only by the denizens of the High Temple and the House of the Wives of Kafra. “For this one has a brother, just within, a youth her equal in unspoiled beauty, if this evening your tastes run—”

But Baster-kin is already shaking his head, effectively disguising his own peculiar sense of revulsion at this latest offer. “There will be time enough, as I say, for servants such as myself to take our ease and our pleasure, Eminence,” he replies. “For now, duty must be our master.”

The Layzin sighs and smiles, surrendering his argument as he offers his pale blue ring for the Merchant Lord to kiss. Baster-kin does so, trying hard, now, to keep his eyes from the young priestess; then he turns to finally leave the Sacristy, moving as quickly and forcefully as is his seemingly eternal habit.

Not until an attendant has closed the Sacristy door tightly after the Merchant Lord departs does the Layzin speak again. Apparently without guests, now, he dismisses the young priestess, who vanishes back through the curtain at the rear of the dais, and then leans back against his sofa, tilting his head toward that same drapery.

“You heard all, Majesty?” the Layzin asks.

The voice that responds is filled with a languor to make the Layzin’s own seem energetic, by comparison. Yet there is pride in the voice, too, and an easy tone of authority:

“I heard all,” the voice states, not without comprehension of Baster-kin’s loyalty and self-denial, but without any apparent admiration for either. “And I recall a saying of my mad ancestor’s: ‘Easy lies the master whose hounds’ teeth are sharp, and their bellies empty …’”

“Saylal,” the Layzin says in toying admonishment. “You must not call his lordship a hound, O Brother of God …”

“Must I not?” the voice replies.

“No,” the Layzin replies. “You must not. Even if his manner does, at times, suggest something of the sort. But his ideas on how to protect you, Gracious Saylal, have almost a profundity to them …”

“You misunderstand me, Most Loyal of the Loyal — I have known clever dogs, in my life. Very clever dogs. As has Alandra, of course …”

“Alandra makes her dogs clever, Sire,” the Layzin adds. “Though not so clever as her cats. But the comparison with a mortal is unfair.”

“Hmm,” the voice behind the curtain grunts. “Well, I know this — even the cleverest of dogs would not refuse such beautiful young creatures as the two you have sent me. And I would have them both now, before my regal sister returns from the Wood and tries to snatch them away to be her own playthings.”

“It is fortunate, then,” the Layzin replies, “that I was able to rely on Baster-kin’s unending sense of duty and self-denial to make certain the pair would be intact. But we owed him at least the offer of such flesh. Yet, Saylal, now that we have the girl intact, I beg you, if not for the dynasty, then as a boon to ease my mind, fix your energies first upon her.” The Layzin’s face and voice suddenly grow more solemn. “But are you truly ready, Holy Majesty, for another attempt?”

“These gifts from my Divine Brother Kafra make me ready, I believe.”

“I see …” The Layzin claps his hands twice, at which another attendant in a black robe edged in red appears from one of the side doors of the chamber. “Summon the Sacristan,” the leader of the Kafran faith calls out, making sure that the curtain behind him is fully closed. “Have him open the vestry and prepare my robes of fertility, and his own.”

“Of course, Eminence,” the attendant replies.

“And you may see to the honing and polishing of the thinnest and smallest of the sacred blades yourself, before he blesses them — quickly! The organs must be harvested while the blood is hot, and before the opium has begun to lose its effect. I shall speak the prayer of succession myself, as we begin …” Leaning toward the curtain once more, the Layzin asks, “How long will you require, Majesty?”

“Not long,” struggles the reply. “If, that is, you assist me, old friend …”

“Yes, Divinity,” the Layzin answers; and then, to the attendant, he calls urgently: “Be quick, and get the Sacristan!”

“Eminence!” the attendant says in compliance, rushing from the room; and only then does the Layzin himself hurriedly disappear behind the curtain.

And, before another day has passed, the often foul yet seemingly mystical stream of water beneath the southwestern wall of the Fifth District will run a little higher, a little faster — and its stench will carry a little farther than it did on the night before …

{xii:}

The original purpose of Broken’s Stadium, promulgated by one of Oxmontrot’s more thoughtful descendants, had been to demonstrate that those who piously followed the tenets of the Kafran faith would be rewarded not only with wealth, but with health and vigor, as well. Yet over the years a change has taken place at the northern extremity of the city: the two worlds, Temple and Stadium, have grown apart. The Kafran faithful say that this separation is the result of a rebirth of the consuming taste for gaming that was so dominant among the tribes that made up Broken’s first citizens. Others more quietly assert that the capture of many of the fiercest, most impressive beasts in Davon Wood — panthers, bears, wolves, and wildcats — and their repeated torment by the athletes of the Stadium has angered the old gods of Broken, who are punishing the city as a whole and thus calling into question Kafra’s long-asserted supremacy. Certainly Oxmontrot himself, a worshipper of the old gods, never intended for such noble creatures to be trapped, safely secured by heavy chains to concrete posts rising out of the sands of the arena, and made to serve as opponents that can do little or no harm to the children of Broken’s merchant nobility; and in this Lord Baster-kin shares the Mad King’s feelings. But his disdain cannot stem the rising popularity of such displays among the future heads of the kingdom’s ruling clans: in ever-increasing numbers they come, day and night, not only to display their prowess in the arena, but to indulge in what are, to the Merchant Lord, the even more mindless and loathsome activities that take place in the endless rows of benches and private stalls that surround that sandy stage: gambling, of course, but also drinking to excess, as well as fornication that has no bearing on the arrangement of marriages or the strengthening and preservation of clans.

All of these would together represent cause enough for Baster-kin’s hatred of the Stadium. But, as always, there is a personal sentiment hidden behind his purely moral objections: for among the young men most active in the Stadium’s amusements is his lordship’s own eldest son (and his sole acknowledged child), Adelwülf. Indeed, had Adelwülf never shown any interest in the amusements that take place inside the thick, elaborately carved walls of the Stadium, Baster-kin would likely never have set foot inside it; but, given his son’s persistence, his lordship must occasionally visit the place, if only to chide the athletes and audiences, and remind them all — Adelwülf most of all — of the damage they are doing to Broken’s future by thus squandering their lives.

These occasional descents by his father are more than a mere embarrassment for Adelwülf: over the last several years especially, the Stadium has become a place in which the handsome young man’s unquenchable appetites for besting others in wrestling matches and battles of wooden or blunt-edged steel swords, facing the many chained beasts that are on offer in the cells below the sands, and finally drinking and fornicating in the stalls above the arena have grown to equal his distaste for going home to his own clan’s Kastelgerd. When he sees his father enter the Stadium, therefore, he considers it a violation, of sorts, of the only place in Broken that he thinks of as his home. For the sake of gaining stature with his associates, Adelwülf usually attempts to laugh off his father’s intrusions and patriotic rants, confidently and caustically: for he knows well the story of Rendulic Baster-kin’s famous panther hunt, undertaken when his lordship was Adelwülf’s own age, and he cannot help but find a good deal of hypocrisy in his father’s indictments. And indeed, Baster-kin has never, in his storied life, come closer to a battlefield than that single instance of blood sport; yet that one exposure was a world away from what he now views …

And, if truth be spoken, Adelwülf, this golden-haired, finely sculpted paragon of Kafran virtue, actually burns less with sarcasm, at his father’s arrival, than with shame: shame and hatred, the latter a passion born out of his enduring resentment for his father’s having driven his mother mad (or so it seems to the youth) and his sister Loreleh into exile. Adelwülf had known Loreleh only too briefly; yet during that time he had come to think of her as the only sibling he had ever known or was ever likely to know, since all awareness of Klauqvest had ever been kept from him; and a life alone in the great Kastelgerd with a lunatic mother and so arch a father had become no life at all. Loreleh had been his temporary respite; and the reasons cited for her removal had never seemed any more sound or just to Adelwülf than they had to his mother.

On this night, however, there will be no exhortations by the elder Baster-kin, and no typical complaints from the younger: for, as his lordship arrives at the Stadium gate and begins to hear the sounds made by the crowd within, he realizes that he truly needs to convince any of the young men amid that throng who possess a genuine talent for violence that they have no choice save to march alongside his Guardsmen into Davon Wood, and to participate — in commanding roles, if possible — in the final destruction of the Bane. And he believes, too, that he has finally conceived of an action that will be striking and decisive enough to shock such play warriors into becoming true soldiers. It is an action, not surprisingly, that will also play a crucial role in bringing his plans concerning Isadora Arnem to full fruition; yet despite the very real advantages it may garner, it is a measure of this the plan’s extremity that even Baster-kin himself wonders if, when the moment comes, he will possess the steadiness of purpose to carry it out …

He does not wonder for very long. As he passes under the Stadium gate and stands at the edge of the arena, his eyes and ears are assaulted by sights and sounds that are as wildly intoxicating as ever to those young men and women who either participate in or observe them. The combat that takes place in the arena is, to all present, a most splendid display of the ideals of Broken youth, power, and beauty, all the more arousing for the knowledge that it will never result in the death of a human being, but risks only the lives of those powerful woodland beasts that are brought up from the dungeon-like cells in chains. So extreme is the activity at this late hour, both in the arena and in the rows of seats that stretch into the sky about Baster-kin, that he feels his hatred begin to surge anew, and his momentary qualms to subside. Radelfer, who has followed his lord into the arena, can detect as much: he has seen this man, both as a youth and in his present middle years, with death stalking his features, and he sees as much again when Rendulic studies the Stadium crowd this night.

“My lord?” Radelfer says, the concern he felt for his master’s soundness of mind when they departed the Fifth District still very alive. “Are you well? It has already been a long night of difficult undertakings — should we not return to the Kastelgerd? You can leave the chastising of your son for tomorrow.”

“Concerning that matter, you could not be more mistaken, Radelfer,” his lordship answers. “These people must finally learn their duty, and understand the consequences of ignoring it; and they must be taught such lessons tonight.”

As soon as the crowd in the Stadium begins to take as much notice of him as he already has of it, Baster-kin is appalled to see the usual wave of petitioners moving toward him, each looking for some favor that will allow him to serve in civil government without having to undertake precisely the sort of military service for which the Merchant Lord has already selected him. At the same time, as good fortune would have it, Baster-kin sees that Radelfer has taken the precaution of ordering some eight or ten members of his household guard to report from the Kastelgerd to the Stadium, likely by runner while his lordship was in council with the Layzin. The men are arriving now — yet the only thanks Baster-kin offers his seneschal is to say:

“Have your men keep those people away from me tonight, Radelfer. My business is far too important.” He pauses, searching the various combatants in the ring before adding, “In every way imaginable …” Glancing at the supposèd acts of bravery upon the sands ever more keenly, Baster-kin at last determines: “I do not see my son exercising his talents out there — but find him, Radelfer. Bring him to me. For he has always trusted you more than he has his father. I shall await you—” Baster-kin continues to eye the arena. “There.” He points to one concrete pillar near the center of the sandy oval, to which is anchored a chain that restricts the movements of a large Broken brown bear, preventing the confused, enraged animal from injuring any of the several young men who are proving their “courage” by tormenting him with spears and swords, evidently to the crowd’s satisfaction.

As Baster-kin makes his way to the concrete pillar he has indicated and is recognized by ever more of the crowd, a strange hush falls over those participating in the various activities in the arena as well those among the audience. It is not a hush inspired by affection, of course, although it certainly contains a large measure of respect. When he nears the concrete pillar to which the brown bear is chained, Baster-kin takes aside one of the enormous, scarred Stadium attendants — the men who do the inglorious work of moving animals and racks of weapons from the arena to the scarcely lit iron cages and storage rooms below — and orders the man and his fellow workers to remove all the animals to their cages, and disarm all combatants. It is a command that would draw jeers, were it issued by any other official: but now, no voice among the assembled athletes and spectators is brave enough to express the disapproval that all feel. Such is the effect of the hard glare that the Merchant Lord moves from face to face about and above him; such is the effect he has long cultivated.

Only when his eyes settle on Radelfer, who stands outside a curtained stall that is one of a group approximately a third of the way up the Stadium benches, does Baster-kin stop studying the crowd. Then, when he takes more specific note of the expression upon his seneschal’s face — one of genuine regret for the very public family spectacle that he believes is about to take place — his lordship jumps down from the pillar’s base and, issuing a final order to one of the animal handlers, moves at a quick pace to join Radelfer before the more (if not completely) sympathetic seneschal has a chance to warn Adelwülf of his father’s approach.

When Baster-kin closes in on the stall, he begins to hear the sounds of fornication emerging from it; and when his lordship arrives, he rips the curtain away, to find his son fully engaged with one young noblewoman, the pair of them having bothered to shift their scant clothing only enough to allow him to enter her, while a second young woman laughs and holds a wineskin, alternately pouring its contents into Adelwülf’s mouth and pressing her ample breasts into that same hungry maw. At the sound of the curtain being torn, the two young women shriek, for they are able to see the man responsible; Adelwülf, however, only begins to turn, disengaging from the widespread girl beneath him as he shouts:

“Ficksel! Which of you idiots dares interrupt my amusement—?” He grows silent when he sees the figure behind him, and quickly tries to straighten his tunic as he exclaims, “Father! What are you doing here—”

“I assure you, Adelwülf,” his lordship replies, putting his fists to his hips, “I am not here for my pleasure or amusement. Our kingdom is in chaos, our bravest young men are daring death of every variety in the provinces and beyond, and you lie here throwing curses more suited to a Bane’s filthy mouth at your father while consorting with such as—these …” Baster-kin quickly nods to the two young women. “Get out,” he says to them. “I do not want to know your names, nor those of your clans — for I should have to tell them how their virtuous daughters pass their evenings, and if they have an ounce of patriotism in them, they should exile you to Davon Wood, out of the shame if naught else.”

“Just a moment, Father—” Adelwülf says, trying to recover some ground.

But Baster-kin’s fury is not spent: “Do not use that term in addressing me, just now, you useless sack of meat — I am your ‘lord,’ until I give you permission to call me anything else!”

As he tightens a simple belt around his tunic, Adelwülf keeps his blue eyes fixed on his father, with an injured intensity that would burn some sense of uneasiness, perhaps even sympathy, into most onlookers. At the very least, most witnesses could not fail to appreciate the unfortunate nature of the moment; but the hurt and anger in the son’s young eyes do nothing to soften the severity of Baster-kin’s aspect, and Adelwülf soon murmurs, “Very well—my lord,” in resignation, as he gets to his feet. Standing on the bench above the man who has tormented him in like fashion for much of his life, Adelwülf rises higher than his father, and would seem to have the physical advantage; but the air of fear that shows through his rage nullifies any such superiority of position. “Now that you have spoilt yet another of my few enjoyments in life, what would you have me do?”

Baster-kin steps up onto Adelwülf’s bench, in order to look him more closely in the eye. “What would I—” the father echoes, with more genuine anger than the younger man can possibly manage. “You really have no idea, no sense of any duty, do you, whelp? Well, then—” With frightening suddenness, his lordship lays tight, painful hold of his son’s left ear, pulling him first out of the stall, and then, stumblingly, back down the rows of benches. “Let us have it your way, for a few moments! Let us engage in the enjoyments of this foul place—clear the arena!”

Adelwülf would like to argue, but the struggle to keep from crying out at the pain in his ear and the difficulty of staying on his feet in front of his friends below are together too great an effort, and he finds himself saying only, “Father! My lord—I beg you, can we not settle this matter at home?”

“Home?” Baster-kin shouts. “You are home, whelp! Let us, then, enjoy the true entertainments that your hospitality has to offer!”

Because Adelwülf is no longer in fact a child, whatever his father’s indictments, Baster-kin’s maintaining a secure grip on his ear requires keeping a clamp-like, even violent hold on the entirety of the appendage, soon causing its skin and gristle to tear away from the skull at one spot; and, like all similarly minor cuts to the head, the wound begins to bleed profusely enough that by the time they have reached the lowest benches that surround the arena, a stream of the precious fluid covers portions of Adelwülf’s face, neck, and upper chest. Catching sight of this seemingly grievous injury, the young man loses all concern with maintaining a courageous demeanor in front of his friends:

“My lord!” Adelwülf pleads desperately, as Lord Baster-kin, again surrounded by Radelfer’s men, roughly forces his son out onto the sand of the arena, in full view and hearing of the others in the Stadium. “Please! I am bleeding, let me depart the Stadium, at the least, and spare me this humiliation before my comrades—”

“‘Comrades’?” Baster-kin replies. There seems something in Adelwülf’s appearance and pathetic manner that gives him a deep satisfaction. “You call these play-warriors ‘comrades’?” As he continues to drag his son across the now-empty arena and toward the concrete pillar on which he stood moments earlier, Baster-kin raises his voice and addresses the crowd that stands outside and above the sand-strewn oval. Few of the young men and women present have departed the Stadium, so compelling is the scene being played out before them; and this fact makes Radelfer, who has joined the ranks of the spectators along with his men, profoundly uneasy. “Do you all think of each other as ‘comrades’?” Lord Baster-kin calls to the Stadium’s crowd. “As soldiers in some peculiar conflict that neither risks nor takes any of your lives, yet is somehow of enough importance that you merit the same ranks of friendship and honor as do the young men who fill the ranks of Broken’s legions?”

For a long, very strange moment, the Stadium knows something it has rarely if ever experienced, in recent years: silence. Not a member of the crowd watching what takes place between the two Baster-kins, father and son, has the courage to venture an answer to the older man’s question, however much they may disagree with what he says. Even Radelfer is uneasy that he is about to witness a scene of violence such as his mind — never so strangely or even terribly ingenious as his master’s — is incapable of conceiving. But, although impressed by Rendulic’s ability to hold the attention of the drunken crowd about him, it is when Radelfer looks to his own household guardsmen that his uneasiness becomes simpler dread: for he sees that they, too, are struck dumb by Lord Baster-kin’s ability to keep the false warriors of the Stadium not only silent but in a state of terror; and these are men who, unlike the youths in the stands, have seen much of true violence, and have developed the ability to know when horror is approaching.

All the greater, then, is Radelfer’s admiration for Adelwülf when, seeing that his father has caused his friends, his “comrades,” to become thus silently fearful, the youth finally frees himself from his father’s grip, takes a few steps from the concrete pillar, and spits into the sand, declaring loudly:

“Yes—Father! And why should we not declare ourselves the equals of such men? What would you know of it? When have you ever faced the dangers of the arena, perils undertaken without the armor and heavy weaponry your precious legions take with them whenever they go into battle? You bully my friends and me with your position and power, but what do you know of mortal danger, as you sit in you tower and count our clan’s money, plotting new ways for other men to see to the safety of this city and this kingdom? I have endured this humiliation long enough — give me some proof that you yourself are the equal of those legionaries of whom you speak, and perhaps I will listen to more; but if you cannot, put an end to this endless dissatisfaction with those who risk their safety and honor upon these sands, as Kafra’s priests long ago taught them was a righteous way to prove their devotion to the tenets of the golden god!”

A few daring members of the crowd about the arena dare applaud this defiant and unprecedented outburst — until, that is, the Merchant Lord again turns his deathly stare upon each section of the benches and stalls. As for Radelfer, his satisfaction at Adelwülf’s daring is quickly extinguished by the strange look of satisfaction that enters his lordship’s face. There is no admiration in the gaze, no sense that Rendulic Baster-kin has finally provoked a manly response from the son who has so eternally disappointed him; rather, it is the aspect of a man whose final lingering doubts about a course of action he has been debating in his own mind have been silenced.

“Well,” Baster-kin says, in a much more even yet no less menacing voice. “Perhaps I have been mistaken, then. Perhaps all of you are more than capable of taking your place among the ranks of men who must, at this hour of need, defend our kingdom. And yet …” The Merchant Lord takes a few steps away from Adelwülf, then raises a hand to signal to the attendant with whom he had spoken earlier. “I shall require, I fear, some demonstration of courage and valor greater than words, before I can accept you”—he glances at his son, then up into the crowd—“before I can accept any of you, as actual warriors.”

A commotion becomes audible from one of the doorways that lead down to the maze of cages and storage rooms beneath the arena; and before long, the attendant and two of his fellows appear, each holding the end of a separate length of chain with one hand and a spear in the other. The three long sections of chain all meet at a common end: a heavy iron collar, one that surrounds and (from the look of the missing fur and the irritated skin beneath) has long surrounded the neck of a large Davon panther.

The animal is a female, one who has grown mature but far from defeated during many years of imprisonment within the Stadium. She attempts occasionally to lash out at one or another of the handlers, if he lets his section of chain go too slack, but has become wise enough to avoid the prodding spearheads that are thrust forward in response to these outbursts of anger. That she is unusually large is easy to determine; less so is the true color of her coat, given the filth that she has been forced to live in for so long. To one with an experienced eye, able to see through such discoloration, it would yet be possible to determine, from the parts of her body that she can and does clean with care, that the fur is unusually golden, perhaps even containing a silver or white tint that makes it catch the light of surrounding torches and braziers in an unusual way.

One identifying characteristic, however, is plain for all to see: the unusually light, even brilliant, green of the eyes, which seem to peer directly into the heart of whichever human she fastens her gaze upon.

“So,” Adelwülf says, as the animal becomes visible. “I might have known. The eldest of our panthers. It is the female that you brought from Davon Wood, years ago. Or so we are told.”

“Yes,” Baster-kin says, taking several steps toward the animal as it draws close to the concrete pillar. “And how have you treated a beast that had more heart than you possess now when she was but young? Locked her away in the cells beneath this ridiculous theater, and allowed her to be attended by such men as these — although, whatever their seksent shortcomings, they are likely superior to the useless children of wealth who surround me now …”

Adelwülf is only paying partial attention to his father’s latest tirade, for he has noticed a curious thing: the panther, always known among the Stadium’s athletes as one of the most dangerous and bloodthirsty of the beasts kept therein, seems to recognize the Merchant Lord, even these many years later, despite his infrequent trips to the place; more remarkable still, she shies away from him when he draws close. It is not the sight of any weapon that frightens her, for Baster-kin, while he keeps his right hand upon the pommel of his short-sword, does not draw it; no, whatever fear his lordship inspires is caused by his steady gaze and his voice, which seem to create in the panther’s mind the idea that the tragedy he inflicted upon her family in Davon Wood so long ago will somehow be replayed in this very different place these many years later.

“Chain the animal!” Baster-kin orders the attendants, who begin to fix their three lengths of iron links to one great loop of similar metal that is sunk deep into the concrete of the pillar. The men then dash off as quickly as they can, each pausing only long enough to catch one of the three pouches of silver coins that Baster-kin tosses to them. “And you, whelp,” Baster-kin says, turning on his son. “Select your favored weapon — for if I am any judge, you will need it, and soon …”

Adelwülf smiles at this comment, for he apparently believes he is to be tested by the Stadium’s usual standards, against a beast of great power whose chains will prevent her from doing him any real harm. Seeing this, several of Adelwülf’s “comrades” dare dash out onto the arena’s sands, each bearing a different weapon — the long spear of the southernmost tribes, the usual Broken short-sword, a single-headed axe of the northern variety — that he believes their friend must use to impress his father, not only with his own abilities, but with the prowess of all the athletes in the Stadium. Adelwülf, however, only smiles in appreciation to these young men, taking little note of their weapons; rather, he waits for one young woman in particular, a singular Broken beauty, who bears upon her upturned hands a gleaming blade of the later Lumun-jani style: longer than the short-sword by a hand or two, with a tapered blade. As Adelwülf accepts the weapon and exchanges words of affection with the woman, Lord Baster-kin walks with purpose to the edge of the arena, a look of the same unhealthy delight upon his face. He seeks out Radelfer, whose own face, his lordship is happy to see, still displays deep apprehension.

“Seneschal!” Baster-kin calls, with the same false brand of merriment. “Did you recognize our old foe from the Wood, when those pigs brought her up from below these sands?”

“I did, my lord,” Radelfer answers, with increased concern. “Although I thought the animal long since dead—”

“With her pedigree?” Baster-kin replies, chuckling slightly. “Did you really think the young of such a mighty animal as was her mother could be so easily dispatched by—” Baster-kin throws a hand in the direction at the patrons of the Stadium with obvious disgust. “By such as these? Or by my own eternal disgrace of a son? No, Radelfer — such scum as patronize this place may—may—be good enough to fight the Bane; but the greatest of all the Davon panthers? You know full well that such an idea is nonsense.” Looking once more at the concrete pillar to which the panther is secured, Baster-kin seems to brighten further. “Ah! I see my son is ready to test himself; and by doing so, to represent all these young warriors.” With a motion the threat of which is at odds with his tone of voice, the Merchant Lord quickly draws his own blade. “Let us see how he fares …”

Radelfer, now confirmed in his suspicions, dares to move to his master and lay a hand upon his forearm, in an attempt to stop the madness he believes is approaching. “My lord!” he says urgently. “I have known you since you were a boy; and I often thought that the great preoccupations of your mind had been put aside, for goals that would serve your clan better. But do you imagine that, using that lifetime of knowledge, I cannot fit the pieces of this evening’s activity into a coherent whole? I know what you intend, my lord, for yourself, for Lady Arnem, for the kingdom — and I beg you, abandon this scheme! Life may not have played fair with you, on several points, but you cannot let that justify such—”

Staring down at his arm, his expression gone back to one of utter mercilessness, Baster-kin grips his sword tight. “Radelfer,” he says calmly. “If you wish to keep that hand, and the arm above it, remove it from my person. Instantly.” As Radelfer resignedly follows this instruction, Baster-kin warns him further: “‘On several points,’ you say? Life, Radelfer, has placed such obstacles in my way as might well have stopped me from going on with it, save for a few intervening hands. It has pleased me to think you one of them — and if, now, you understand what is to take place as well as you claim, then you know full well why it must; and you know, too, that there is justice in it. All of it.” Radelfer’s face turns to the ground in resignation, and Baster-kin speaks more gently; though only slightly so: “If you cannot bear what is to take place, then return to the Kastelgerd—but leave me your men. I shall not be far behind.”

“I …” Radelfer is at a loss for what more to say, save, “Excuse me, my lord. But I will accept that offer. That boy is not the cause of your life’s travails.”

Baster-kin glances back out onto the arena. “The cause? Perhaps not. But he is merely another product of the dishonesty and disease that have cursed my existence. And I now have the chance to change all, at what I flatter myself is a profound stroke. Even the Layzin and the God-King have endorsed my undertaking. Who are you, then, to question it?” As his seneschal cannot find it in him to make further reply, Baster-kin merely says, “Go on — I shall not hold this faintness of heart against you, Radelfer, although I would have wished for more stalwart support. But go. I have business here …”

The two part, Radelfer ordering his men to remain behind and protect their lord while he himself attends to urgent matters at the Kastelgerd. The seneschal then seeks out the fastest route away from the ugly tragedy that he believes is approaching, as Baster-kin rejoins his son, whose mood has improved immensely, along with that of the crowd in the Stadium. Regaining a false, lighter air himself, the Merchant Lord endures the cheers of that crowd, which they offer when father and son stand alone on the sand with the panther once more; and then Baster-kin holds his hands aloft, indicating that he wishes to address the collected young men and women.

“It is my understanding,” he calls out, “that most of you enjoy wagering on the results of these heroic contests!” At this, the crowd cheers louder, delighted that Lord Baster-kin suddenly seems to have adopted a far more friendly attitude toward their activities — and themselves. “Good!” Baster-kin continues, as Adelwülf prepares himself for the encounter to come by going through a series of impressive but absurd motions of mock combat. “For I have a wager for all of you — at least, for the young men among you — and I am afraid its terms are not open to negotiation. Should my son triumph against the beast chained here, I will leave this building, never to return.” Now, laughter mixes with the cheers that go up from the crowd, as if Baster-kin has just made some sort of an amusing remark. His next words, however, remove all amusement from the crowd’s reaction: “But should he lose, each of you that is found, either by reputation or by my men, to have proficiency with a blade, will agree to march out against the Bane in the company of my Guardsmen within the next few days — and any who refuse will share my son’s fate.”

A hushed confusion now reigns among the benches and stalls of the Stadium, while in the arena, Adelwülf looks at his father with similar bewilderment. “Father?” he says. “My ‘fate’? And what fate is that to be?”

“Whatever fate you make it, Adelwülf,” his lordship answers, walking to the concrete pillar and leaping upon its base. Once again, he experiences no fear, for the chained panther shies away from him; he is thus free to continue, although he speaks to his son only, now: “You have ever been a disappointment to me, Adelwülf: that much you know. But you do not know all the reasons why. I am aware that you consider my treatment of your mother unjust, and more; yet let me inform you — and, perhaps, offer some additional motivation for the contest you are about to face — that I had nothing to do with your mother’s illness: that it was the result of her own degeneracy, long kept secret from me, but discovered, in the end. She is no more than a whore, boy.”

Anger enters Adelwülf’s face. “You cannot say that … Father or no, lord of the Kastelgerd or no, you cannot say such things about my mother!”

“Yes, your mother,” Baster-kin replies. “To whom you claim such devotion, yet who sees your face but once in a Moon. So let us dispense with that supposèd reason for your hatred of me. In truth, your unnatural contempt is a product of a disease, rife within your mother’s womb, that was planted there long before your birth. Yes: your mother was and remains a whore, boy, and as a result you are a lying reprobate, unworthy to call yourself my son. But fear not”—Baster-kin lowers his voice still more—“it is my intention soon to have new sons …” As Adelwülf struggles with these seemingly insane statements, his father again addresses the crowd: “I am pleased to see that you accept the terms of my wager without serious objection! You do so almost certainly because you believe this contest will be as much an unequal piece of theater as are your usual amusements — but allow me to correct that misapprehension.” Turning to his son a final time, Baster-kin calls out: “Prepare yourself, Adelwülf — let us see if you and your ‘comrades’ are as prepared for the dangers of the Wood as you believe!”

The Merchant Lord — still, evidently, unafraid of the possible dangers to himself — raises his sword high. With a sound that pains the ears of all about him, he brings his fine steel blade down upon the crude iron chains, as well as the anchor that holds them. Swiftly, the restraints break free of the concrete pillar; and then, as the chains slip through her collar, the panther finds that she is more free on the sand than she has ever been. Still utterly confused by and fearful of Baster-kin’s inscrutable actions, as well as by the blade he holds in his hand, the panther looks swiftly about for an easier object upon which to vent her rage; and there on the sand stands Adelwülf, so frozen by fear that he takes no note of the sudden cry of alarm that goes up from the crowd.

“You will finally engage this animal on equal terms, my son!” his lordship shouts; and then, still displaying reckless disregard of the panther, he leaves Adelwülf to his fate, returning to Radelfer’s men to issue a final set of orders, which proves somewhat difficult, as they, too, are so stunned by what has happened, and so certain of what must now take place, that they scarcely hear him.

“Father!” Like everyone else in the Stadium, Radelfer’s men hear Adelwülf’s cry, as he holds his sword before him and grows increasingly aware that it will now be of no use. “The animal is loose!”

“As are the Bane, whelp,” his lordship answers. “And so let us see how one of the champions of this great arena conducts himself in a true contest — surely, you are unafraid? As are your comrades? After all, in a matter of days—” Now it becomes clear that Baster-kin is speaking to the rest of the young men in the Stadium, and to his son only as a matter of form, “—days, perhaps even hours, you will assist the men of my Guard in following the Bane army through the Wood to Okot, that village for which we have searched so repeatedly and fruitlessly. And there, you shall destroy that accurséd tribe, finally opening the riches of the Wood to our kingdom, and its lands to clearing, that we may have new fields in which to grow the grain that our people so desperately need. And so — show me, Adelwülf, that such responsibilities have not been placed upon unworthy shoulders, and that you athletes can undertake it!”

The outcome of the encounter on the sand is so seemingly foreordained that Adelwülf cannot help but cry out, “Father! You have no right to do this!” as the panther begins to slowly circle him, her spine and neck lightly undulating. As she fixes her green eyes ever more tightly on Adelwülf, something that all present would swear is a true smile curls her mouth more and more; while the younger Baster-kin, for his part, simply and tremblingly continues to hold his sword in her direction all the while, almost as if there is actually a possibility that he will be able to use it to control the feelings that have grown close to panic within him.

“Well, my son? Let us see the bravery in attack that your days ahead will require — and let us see it now!”

But it is wholly unnecessary for Adelwülf to demonstrate anything at all: with the frightening swiftness and power that is common to all the great cats, the panther sees the young man begin to take his blade back in preparation for a thrust, and then she lunges forward with all the power of a bolt dispatched by a ballista. Unhindered by keepers, locks, or concrete, now, the panther bursts full force into Adelwülf’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs, the sword from his hand, and his body to the ground. All those on the benches — who have risen to stand, some trying to comfort each other — shout and scream in horror, seeming certain of the slow, agonizing death that their friend is about to be subjected to. But the panther is not so cruel as are her captors: once Adelwülf is upon the ground, she easily turns his stunned body so that he lies with his face in the sand, then quickly, without much of a sound, sinks her upper and lower canine teeth into the exposed rear of his spine at the neck, at once making all movement, especially breathing, impossible. The unfortunate Adelwülf, who has soiled himself with fear even before this moment, begins to twitch involuntarily with his death throes; and in an instant, perhaps out of habit, the seksent keepers have reappeared, to at least spare his being torn to pieces.

“Stay where you are, pigs!” Baster-kin commands them; at which the panther, evidently feeling some sense of, if not safety, at least prolonged freedom, begins to gnaw and rip at various parts of Adelwülf’s lifeless body, producing a quick, almost noiseless series of tearing sounds, so great is her power. She does this, her terrified audience notices, not out of any particular enjoyment of the meat found thereupon, but rather to desecrate this human who has, evidently, so often tormented her.

“And so, whelp …” says Baster-kin, quietly and evenly. Then he turns to the crowd behind him, raising his voice: “You young men of the Stadium — look! For this is the sort of fate that will greet you in Davon Wood, unless you steel your nerves now. My men, here, will remain behind to determine how many of you can truly be entrusted to march with a khotor of my own Guard on the Cat’s Paw — and, by order of the God-King and the Grand Layzin, should you try to escape this responsibility by acting at incompetence just as you have acted at bravery for so long, you will be executed here, and lie by my own son’s side.”

Baster-kin then steps forward toward the panther. “Seksent pigs!” his lordship calls to the keepers. “Bring new chains, and secure this animal.”

“Now? But, my lord, the beast is free, and has just tasted—”

“Do not fear it,” Baster-kin replies, his eyes still tightly fixed upon those of the panther. “As long as I am here, it would not dare turn on any who walk with me.”

The panther has finally moved away from Adelwülf’s lifeless body, and, true to Baster-kin’s pledge, she submits to being fitted with new chains, so long as Baster-kin has her fixed in his gaze. As she is led away, Baster-kin studies the young men and women in the Stadium a last time.

“You all despise me, at this instant, do you not?” he says. “For what you think I did to your ‘comrade’? Well and good. Use that hatred, then, to steel yourselves for what is to come. For I was speaking in earnest, just now: you will need every possible source of true skill and courage that you can summon, during the task that lies ahead of you. For what awaits you in the Wood is beyond your imagining …”

And, never bothering to glance at the last public remains of what he thinks his old, failed family, Baster-kin strides from the Stadium, his mind fixed on the new future he believes he has finally constructed for himself.