The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  Keera feels anger grip her spirit at what she thinks her brother and Heldo-Bah have done. Arriving at the tree, she throws the pair’s sacks to the ground, causing Heldo-Bah to loose a dog’s high cry of surprise and alarm; but he quickly caresses the bag, opening it and finding that its contents are safe.

  “I thought we understood each other!” Keera lectures, infuriated by the sight of Welferek’s motionless, bloody body. “No more killing!”

  “Save your scolding, sister,” Veloc answers; and for the first time, Keera notices that he is using his gutting blade, not to torment Welferek, but to cut bandages from a length of Broken broadcloth that he has unwound from one of his leggings. “He’s not dead.”

  Heldo-Bah spits once before rejoining Veloc in binding the wounds on Welferek’s arms. “Though he’ll wish he was dead, when he wakes and remembers all this: the damned idiot fainted—dead away!”

  Keera is still not certain of what she is seeing. “Fainted?” she asks. “And what could you two do to make an Outrager like this one faint?”

  “I did nothing,” Veloc protests, glaring at Heldo-Bah.

  “You—? Did nothing?” Heldo-Bah groans mightily. “You did nothing less than persuade him that I would carry out the threat!”

  “Threat?” Keera demands.

  Heldo-Bah turns to her, his face a mask of unjustified persecution. “I would not have done it, Keera, I swear to you—it was only to loosen his tongue! I cut his breeches open, put my knife against his stones, and told him that I would certainly geld him if he didn’t tell us—”

  Keera nods. “Those were the girlish screams I heard?”

  “I drew not one ounce of blood!” Heldo-Bah stamps his feet in protest. “As soon as the blade was on his manhood, he screamed like an ill-used sow, and down he went. He struck his head on that rock there.”

  Glancing at a sizable lump on Welferek’s head, Keera examines the ground beneath it, and finds the rock in question. Heldo-Bah, meanwhile, waits for a further rebuke—and is surprised when none comes. “Then,” Keera continues, “he told you nothing about Okot?”

  With uncharacteristic suddenness, both Veloc and Heldo-Bah become utterly somber; and as Heldo-Bah undertakes the job of binding Welferek’s arm wounds, Veloc takes his sister aside.

  “He was nearly unconscious, when he spoke the words, Keera.” Veloc is as grave as Keera can remember him ever being: further cause for worry. She waits an instant, then slaps her brother’s shoulder.

  “And—?”

  Veloc’s brown eyes stare directly into Keera’s blue, knowing what effect his next statement will have: “He spoke of—of plague. In Okot …”

  The word is nonsense to Keera, at first; but with Veloc’s continued hard stare, she allows it as a possibility—and is so stunned that she forgets even to breathe, for an instant, and then must hurry air into her body with a panicked gasp. “Plague? But—we have never—”

  “No. The Wood and the river have shielded us,” Veloc agrees.

  “Which may mean,” Heldo-Bah says quietly, with what might pass for tact, “that our luck has held too long. And has now run out …”

  Keera can say nothing for a moment. When she regains her composure, her mind fastens on practicalities. “Strap your sacks on, both of you,” she says, noting Welferek’s bound hands. “I’m going to wake him.”

  “We’ve tried, Keera,” Heldo-Bah says. “It’s like asking a log to get up and dance. The man’s past distraction.”

  “We are going to wake him, damn you,” Keera begins to shout. “I want to know what he’s talking about—there has never been plague in Okot!”

  The shrillness of her voice has apparently succeeded where all Heldo-Bah’s and Veloc’s efforts failed. Welferek’s head tosses and he murmurs nonsense for a moment. He then opens his eyes, looking at the foragers, but clearly unsure if he is seeing them.

  “Plague—in Okot …” Welferek looks down at his bound hands, then at the forest around him, as if these and all other sights are new to him. “There is plague in Okot …”

  Keera rushes to the man, fastens her powerful hands onto the chest of his tunic and pulls him into a sitting position; then she slams him back against the oak tree. “What are you talking about, Outrager?” she shouts. “What plague?”

  Light slowly reenters Welferek’s eyes; he recognizes Keera, at last, and then the other two; but precisely who they are and why he is among them is obviously still a mystery. “Do not—return. They’re dying—so many are dying.” He gasps once, then lifts his arms, oblivious to the pain of his wounds, and puts his bloody, bound hands to either side of Keera’s chin, as if he somehow understands her urgency. “Do not return!” he shouts. “There is plague in Okot—there is plague in Okot!”

  Keera snatches his hands and tears them from her face. Standing, she turns to see that Heldo-Bah and Veloc have fixed their sacks to their shoulders. “We go—now,” she orders. “Cut him loose—his own men may still be about. If they do not find him, he can make his own way, or be eaten by panthers, I don’t care. I will lead.”

  Veloc touches her arm as she passes. “Keera, we don’t know—”

  “No,” she replies. “We don’t. And we won’t find out here. Now run, damn you both!”

  And, in the time it takes for Welferek’s bobbing, slowly clearing head to right itself, the three foragers disappear once again into the deep forest, leaving no trace of their encounter save the Outrager’s bandaged wounds and the lump on his head.

  Arnem learns many secrets of his city, and of the perils it faces …

  WALKING UP THE CENTER AISLE of the Temple nave, Sixt Arnem has remained a respectful half-step behind Lord Baster-kin, not wishing to presume to equal rank, yet unsure of just what his position has become. He has been named the new commander of the army of Broken; that idea alone would require time for the sentek to take in. But beyond this, he has been unsure of just what Baster-kin needs to tell him concerning the coming campaign against the Bane, and why, if the matter really was and is so urgent, the Merchant Lord has said nothing at all, to this point. Evidently Baster-kin wishes to converse in a place more shielded than the Sacristy of the High Temple; but as to where such a place might be, the sentek can hazard no guess.

  As Arnem has continued to follow his lordship through the nave, he has noticed that the east and west walls of that central part of the structure have begun to come to life: the deep indigo illumination of early dawn has begun filtering through tall, wide windows in each of the walls. These windows, like those in the Sacristy, consist of panels of colored glass; but, because secrecy has never been a consideration in the public congregation hall, the panels in its windows were originally made far thinner, which had allowed for them to be leaded together to form enormous patterns of profound complexity that have never failed to awe the many worshippers who, on high holy days, abandon their smaller district temples and stream up the Celestial Way to the High Temple.

  Now, as Baster-kin approaches the building’s enormous brass doors, which are tended by two priests unfamiliar to Arnem, the Merchant Lord pauses, exchanging a few words with these men outside of Arnem’s hearing. The priests nod obediently, then stay where they were as Basterkin signals to Arnem, telling him to follow into the far eastern corner of the nave. As he obeys this signal, Arnem sees Baster-kin reach for something within his scarlet tunic—an angular object, suspended from his neck on a thin silver chain, which reflects the light of a torch set in a sconce on the nearest of the nave’s columns. Soon, Arnem is able to see by that same light that the object is a key of some sort; and, after he has lifted the chain over his head and taken this key in hand, Baster-kin stops before a marble initiation font, a basin almost three feet wide with a base some five feet square. A small, circular piece of brass is mounted to the bottommost section of the base, and when Baster-kin slides this aside, Arnem can see a finely worked keyhole, also of brass. The Merchant Lord kneels, inserts the key, and turns it, producing clicks: the working of som
e inner mechanism.

  Getting to his feet again, Baster-kin declares, “What I am about to show you, Sentek, are things of which you must never speak to anyone—not even to your wife.” Arnem is somewhat taken aback by this reference to Isadora, to whom Baster-kin has only been introduced (so far as Arnem knows) very briefly, during a few official ceremonies; yet there is a vague air of familiarity about this latest statement that the sentek does not care for, and even more ominously, that he fears. Two things alone can be responsible for it, Arnem calculates: ordinary lust, which would be both insulting and ill-considered, and is therefore unlikely; or, full knowledge of Isadora’s past—her past, and her activities—which would be less likely, yet far more dangerous … “I have your word that you will maintain such silence?” Basterkin presses.

  “Of course, my lord,” Arnem answers. “But I assure you—”

  “Perhaps I should not have mentioned it,” Baster-kin says quickly; and then he looks away, scowling and annoyed, it seems to Arnem, at his own awkward choice of words. “My apologies. It’s simply that, given what we have just observed …”

  “Yes, my lord,” the sentek answers, relieved at the credible statement of contrition. “I understand.”

  “You are now to learn things you must know, if you are to lead our army—and I think you will appreciate the need for secrecy, once you’ve seen them.” Baster-kin signals to the priests at the Temple doors.

  The pair rush to him, seeming to Arnem to require no spoken instruction. Both physically powerful young men, the priests pivot the heavy marble font on the point of its brass locking mechanism, revealing a spiral stone staircase that leads down into utter darkness. The priests stand back, and Baster-kin takes the nearby torch from its sconce.

  “These tunnels run between the most important structures in the city,” the Merchant Lord explains, leading the way down the steps. “Particularly those that would be crucial during time of siege.” As soon as Arnem’s head is below the level of the Temple floor, the priests above rotate the font back over the hole, and its locking pivot mechanism makes a rather sharp snapping sound.

  Thus sealed into the narrow staircase, Arnem is unable to keep from thinking that this descent into the bowels of the city is not a propitious start to his new command …

  But, as he reaches the bottom of the steps, the sentek finds a large, vaulted chamber, which offers immediate relief from the cramped stairway. Branching off are perhaps half a dozen roomy tunnels carved through the solid stone, while the chamber itself is filled to brimming with sacks of grain, sides of salt-dried beef and pork, piles of root vegetables—and, finally, enough weapons, Arnem estimates, to arm half a khotor.

  “We try to replenish the food supplies regularly,” Baster-kin announces, his voice uncharacteristically enthusiastic as he moves the torch about the chamber to reveal all of its remarkable contents, “and we do what we can to prevent moisture from rusting the weapons.”

  “It almost surpasses comprehension,” Arnem says, his eyes following the torchlight. “But who instituted this practice?”

  Baster-kin shrugs. “It has gone on for many generations, certainly—it was likely part of the original plan of the Mad King himself. I had the full system of tunnels and chambers mapped, when I assumed my office, and created an inventory of their contents—enough to secure the city for months, at the very least, if need be.”

  Still inspecting the chamber, Arnem finds one thing glaringly absent: “And water?” he asks. “I see no cistern.”

  Baster-kin nods. “It has never been a consideration—we have always had an abundance of water, from the various spring-fed wells throughout the city, many of which are connected through fissures in the stone summit of the mountain, out of which Broken’s walls were carved. That is why we take this matter of the poisoned well so seriously: I’ve long had a suspicion that the Bane knew how much we would depend on the resources that lie within the city walls, during a crisis, and that they might send Outragers to make some brazen attempt to pollute them—as they now have. I can’t even be sure that killing the God-King was their primary purpose—it might have been merely a fortunate secondary result. As it turns out, since the damage seems confined to the one well, it suits our purposes more than theirs …” The Merchant Lord thrusts his hands into a grain sack, examining its contents carefully, as he continues to speak contemplatively: “I’m having every other well watched, as we speak, of course, in the event that they try again—or, worse yet, that the poison should find its way into other reserves at some future date. But for now …”

  Baster-kin becomes even more inscrutable, for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he examines his handful of grain; and Arnem finds himself, while impressed, a little confused. “My lord?” he says. “You seem perturbed, rather than relieved. If I may say so. Do you fear the grain stores have also been tampered with?”

  “Not yet,” Baster-kin replies, his mind clearly wrestling with the thought. “But we must be ever-vigilant …” Shaking himself, he turns to the sentek once again. “You and I, however, are not farmers, to vex ourselves with such matters—and yet now it is you who look uncertain.”

  “Well—perhaps not uncertain,” Arnem answers quickly. “But—in the Sacristy, earlier, you did make it sound as though the Bane’s sole purpose was to assassinate—”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Baster-kin replies, waving the fact off with one hand as he replaces the grain. “As I say, the event has as yet served our purposes far more than theirs: particularly yours and mine. The Layzin’s energies are—overtaxed, as you saw; and the version of events I relayed to him, and thus to the God-King, was not incorrect. I merely laid more emphasis on certain details than on others, in order to make the case as simple to comprehend as possible. I trust you can see that?”

  Arnem knows that much depends upon the nature of his answer to this seemingly harmless question: he is being invited into a conspiracy, of sorts—one with a noble purpose, perhaps, but with consequences that belie its innocent tone. And so he accepts without detailing his complete opinions: “Yes, my lord,” he says simply.

  “Good. Fine.” The Merchant Lord is clearly pleased. “But come—I am expected at the Merchants’ Hall. Or rather, beneath it …”

  Arnem studies Lord Baster-kin’s face as they begin to move quickly along one of the many tunnels out of the storage area, soon passing into and out of another vaulted stone chamber. The sentek can see that the Merchant Lord’s evident concern for the city, which so often seems obnoxiously zealous in the company of others, somehow assumes a vastly different and more appealing quality, when one is allowed to view its private, even secret, manifestations: its careful inspections and judgments of the materials necessary for the public good in a time of crisis.

  “Was Yantek Korsar aware of all this?” Arnem asks, still quite amazed at the extent, not only of the underground maze of expertly carved chambers and tunnels, but of the amount of supplies that are hoarded away in them, and kept replenished for use at any time.

  “He was,” Baster-kin replies, speaking in an odd manner: not out of harshness or rancor, but rather with something oddly like sad admiration. “But we were under the impression that you knew he was …”

  Arnem needs no explanation of this statement: Baster-kin is plainly referring to Niksar’s role as a spy. But he does not say so at once: “No, my lord—the yantek never shared such knowledge with me,” he says. “In addition, another commander might wonder at how you can be so knowledgeable about what confidences the—” He is on the verge of saying “the yantek” again, but catches himself, remembering the Merchant Lord’s admonition against such in the Sacristy “—what confidences Herwald Korsar and I exchanged.”

  Baster-kin nods, appreciating the gesture. “Another commander would have done a great many things far differently than you have, Sentek. For instance, you’re aware that Linnet Niksar spies for us; you’ve been aware of it for some time. I know it, the Layzin knows it, and the God-King knows it. Yet you have m
ade no protest.” When Baster-kin glances back to find Arnem still more dumbfounded, he laughs once sharply—a rare and remarkable event. It produces a sound that is too sudden, too ill practiced to be pleasant: how much worse would the effect be, Arnem wonders, if it happened in a room full of dignitaries? Yet here, in private, the awkwardness of the laughter can be overlooked, and the sentiment behind it valued. “You needn’t look so shocked, Sentek,” says Baster-kin, his voice becoming businesslike once more. “We knew you were aware of Linnet Niksar’s role, as I say, but we also knew that you neither held it as a mark against your aide, nor ceased to place your full trust in him. Thus we, in turn, were given additional reason to trust you. That counted for a great deal, I don’t mind telling you, with both the God-King and the Grand Layzin. You’re an exceptional man, Arnem, and an even more exceptional commander. I’m sorry for Korsar, I truly am—but his time had long since passed, even before he gave voice to heresy and treason. No, this moment belongs to you, Sentek—make the most of it. Continued trustworthiness would be a fine first step, along those lines, and if eliminating the pretense with Niksar will help, we can easily arrange it.”

  Still unaccustomed to such collegiality from his lordship, Arnem simply says, “It will help both Niksar and myself, Lord Baster-kin; I thank you.”

  The sentek’s attitude toward Baster-kin is transforming: Arnem has always respected the Merchant Lord, but now, to walk with him in these secret passageways and learn their equally secret purpose, to talk to him as an equal about the inner workings of the kingdom, and to gain deeper insight into how this man, who is the very embodiment of Broken power, thinks, as well as into how he manipulates even the supreme authorities of the great kingdom for their own good and preservation … It is enough to deeply humble anyone, much less a man who was once a troublesome youth from the Fifth District—and Arnem is humbled, indeed: where there had been only sadness for his old friend Korsar not long ago, there is now a profound sense, not only of humility, but of Fate. Fate, which has chosen Arnem to lead the mighty army of Broken in a cause that will bring greater security to the subjects of Broken, and greater safety to the God-King. Yes, humility and Fate: these are the forces driving Arnem’s actions.