by Caleb Carr
Or so he finds it comfortable to believe, for the moment…
In this way, he soon grows to feel that he can presume—humbly, of course—to voice the most critical question of all: “My lord, if I may ask—you have said that this campaign will have a goal far greater than the destruction of the Bane. What might that goal be?”
As he begins to answer this question, Baster-kin guides the way from the tunnel through which they have been traveling into a secondary, steadily widening passageway, one that soon opens out onto a large staircase leading up to a formal doorway, into which is set a series of stout oak boards, banded to form a door by thick straps of iron.
“Let me answer that question with another, Sentek. Herwald Korsar believed that the Merchants’ Council arranged this campaign simply to make ourselves richer. But am I right to suppose that you do not?”
Arnem does not hesitate. “You are correct, my lord. If all you desired was greater wealth, there are far more efficient ways to gain it.”
“Precisely,” Baster-kin judges, further pleased by Arnem’s answer. “Given the amount of blood, effort, and riches we will have to put into taking the Wood and destroying the Bane, it hardly makes sense as a business undertaking—the expedition will likely not pay even its own costs. But there are deeper questions involved.”
As they pass the halfway point of the staircase, Arnem’s attention is diverted when he hears water flowing, seemingly inside the mass of stone beneath the steps. “The sewers?” he asks. “Are we really so low?”
“We are lower still,” Baster-kin replies. “The city’s sewer system in fact runs above these tunnels. Look there …”
Arnem has reached the top of the steps, and sees that, indeed, one section of Broken’s extensive (and pungent) sewer system runs beneath the landing at the top of the steps, then into an opening above the tunnels he has just left. “It really was a fantastic vision, that of the Mad King,” Baster-kin muses in appreciation.
“In truth,” Arnem agrees. “And fortunate that he worked in solid stone—for what else could have survived intact for all these ages?”
Baster-kin only nods thoughtfully—perhaps (or so Arnem supposes) even a little worriedly. “Indeed,” his lordship murmurs, and then he suddenly returns to business once more: “However, as we were saying: the destruction of the Bane will likely be an undertaking that will not even pay its own cost. Certainly not in the short term.”
Arnem’s eyes squint a bit. “And so—why undertake it now?”
“Arnem,” Baster-kin says, as he pulls the large key over his head again, “when was the last time you were in those areas of the kingdom that lie between this mountain and the Meloderna?”
“It must have been—well, some time ago, my lord. It’s the irony of the soldier’s life—we join to serve, but also for adventure; yet most of our time is spent in endless drilling and preparing for events that we hope will never come to pass. In the meantime, the world goes by.”
“Well—be that as it may, Sentek, you shall have the chance to see some of that world again, and soon.” Baster-kin approaches the oak door at the top of the stairs, fits the key into another brass hole much like that in the initiation font, and prepares to turn it. “You will need to gather supplies for your men, and forage for your horses. And when you do, you will see that matters have—changed, in much of the kingdom. There is no reason for me to elaborate now”—Baster-kin gives his key a quick turn, at which a locking mechanism inside the oak planks gives out clicking sounds almost identical to those that Arnem heard in the Temple—“but we face grave dangers, Sentek. Dangers made all the more deadly because so few of our citizens either see or concern themselves with them.” Pushing the oak door once, Baster-kin leads the way into the chamber beyond.
Arnem follows, and finds himself in yet another large space with a high and vaulted ceiling—but this one is more familiar. It is the cellar of the Merchants’ Hall, which Arnem has been in before. The cellar walls are bare stone, and the vaulting above supports the long, planked floor of the spacious Hall, gathering place of Broken’s most powerful citizens, where they sit in council, enjoy meals, and, in honor of Kafra, often spend late nights away from their families in the company of young ladies whose names they scarcely know. Such entertainment is apparently being played out this very night, to judge by the sounds of laughter, breaking glass, and men’s and women’s voices that echo through the floor.
Baster-kin looks up. “Yes, they are at their favorite form of worship yet again,” the Merchant Lord says, with frowning disgust. “Fools. But”—Baster-kin leads Arnem to the far side of the torch-lit cellar—“the Layzin approves of their pursuits, as does the God-King. Revels in the Hall, and games in the Stadium, without respite—and men like you and I to tend to the state in the meantime, eh?”
From out of the half-light, a large opening in one end of the cellar is illuminated by both Baster-kin’s torch from below and the steadily if slowly progressing light of dawn from above, both sources of illumination revealing a massive stone ramp that leads to the avenue above. “And now, Arnem, having seen many of our secret strengths, you must be told of our equally shrouded weaknesses: and the largely unrecognized truth, Sentek, is that the present actions of the Bane—even this poisoning attempt—represent less of a threat to both our safety and our commerce than does the very fact of their existence.” And then another of his lordship’s strange moments of seeming uncertainty, even discouragement, grips him: “We are not, as a people, inclined to concern ourselves with what takes place beyond our own frontiers; it is a tendency that develops among superior societies. But some of us must keep such watch. And I tell you, Sentek—we have no reason to feel easy about the world beyond Broken. Indeed, we will, in the months to come, be pressed by would-be conquerors as never before.”
“But—why, my lord? Since the Torganian war—”
“A great victory, certainly—but your stand at the Atta Pass was eight years ago, Arnem. And during that time, traders have taken tales back to their peoples, tales of how the mighty kingdom of Broken cannot effectively control a population of misshapen, dwarfish exiles. We begin to appear weak, despite all that you and the army have done. Think on it, for a moment—what conclusion would you draw, in their place? Bane traders come and go in Daurawah almost at will. They meet foreign traders, there, and tell them of our weakness, and of how our own citizens breed too fast, for a kingdom our size. Not that they need be told—any foreigner with eyes can see for himself, in Daurawah, how farmers’ and fishermen’s second and third sons every day give up their families’ vital forms of work and come to Broken to seek easy fortunes. We must have new land to clear and work, our enemies can see that, as well—and they are well aware of the only region where we can secure such territory with relative ease. But instead, we allow the Bane to survive, even to attack our people.” Baster-kin’s voice has continued to decrease in volume, Arnem notices, even though he and the Merchant Lord are seemingly still alone. “In short, Sentek, I must tell you that there is much truth to these tales. Oh, not that the Bane represent a direct threat—that’s nonsense, of course. But no one knows better than you do, that fewer and fewer young men willingly enter the regular army, and that those who do are increasingly from the Fifth District—men hungry only for regular pay. And I will not even touch upon the difficulty I have in securing good men for my Guard—only look at the specimens I had escort you to the Temple tonight. Bullies, degenerates, near-idiots, some of them; yet better candidates …” Baster-kin’s eyes stare off at the stone ramp that appears, from his vantage point, to lead up to the peaceful, early morning sky. “Better candidates pass their hours competing and gaming in the Stadium—at best.”
“Aye, my lord, it is so,” Arnem answers, uneasy at Baster-kin’s latest change in mood, and feeling, as well, the uncertainty that nearly always plagues him when talking of weighty state affairs. “But what of that same Fifth District? Surely, if we need new space in the city, we should cleanse a
nd restore it. It was not always such a sinkhole, after all—”
Baster-kin smiles. “Spoken as a patriot, and a man loyal to his district. I applaud the thought, Arnem—but you do not understand the difficulty of such an undertaking. For the act of rehabilitation will be, politically, not simply in the doing—we shall need your men, and especially yourself, home to do it. If the people are to believe in the rewards with which Kafra blesses the faithful and diligent, they must also see how he punishes those of faint heart and will; and punish them we shall. Severely enough that the eastern marauders, the Torganians and the Frankesh to the south, and, perhaps most ominously of all, the Varisians to the north with their longboats, will remember the forceful respect we have always made them pay us.” Seeing that Arnem is disturbed by such harsh talk about his home district, Baster-kin assumes a reassuring air: “Fear not—nothing will be done without your presence and approval. These are the facts, however, with which we are faced, Arnem, and I enjoy them even less than you do, make no mistake. Yet we have it in us, I believe, to remedy all these situations. So be bold, and be swift. The quicker you destroy the Bane and take control of as much of the Wood as we require, the greater the legend of your conquest will grow within and without the kingdom, and the sooner you can return home to consolidate matters here. That should suffice to convince all would-be enemies that, if they choose a fight with us, they make a very poor decision.”
Arnem has weighed Baster-kin’s points, and found most of them sound; on only one or two counts does he feel the need for more details, plainly spoken, and so he determines to ask—
But as he does, a sound rises up to challenge the din of the reveling merchants above: it is a scream even more arresting than that Arnem heard earlier atop the city walls—a scream of undiluted agony.
Arnem instinctively draws his short-sword, and steps before the Merchant Lord, half-suspecting that an attack of some kind is under way. But Baster-kin only mutters under his breath, and then says aloud:
“Do not be alarmed, Arnem. It is likely of no consequence. But my Guard were able to lay hands on at least one of the Bane assassins who poisoned the well outside the Inner City. It would appear I am needed—”
Arnem, in a moment of revulsion, cannot help but touch Baster-kin’s arm, as the latter starts away: “An Outrager?”
Glancing at Arnem’s hand briefly and indulgently, but with indignation enough to make the sentek remove it immediately, the Merchant Lord replies, “Not such as you or I would recognize—a trader, to judge by appearances. Of that smaller stature, and with neither the clothing nor the arms peculiar to the Outragers and their absurd ‘knighthood.’ ” Baster-kin sighs, looking across the chamber half-heartedly. “Every day, the exiles grow more clever—and more deadly …” He starts away, saying only, “I will be but a few moments—but you must allow me to …”
“My lord!” Arnem calls, intending to keep his words and their tone subdued, but failing singularly. “It was my understanding that the God-King Izairn had suspended all such coercion.”
“He did,” Baster-kin says. “But only on the advice of his Second Minister, the sorcerer Caliphestros. Our present monarch, having allowed the torture of the acolytes of Caliphestros after the sorcerer’s banishment, has continued the practice.” Pausing in attempted sympathy, Baster-kin nods. “I know how you soldiers feel, Arnem—you believe that physical torment produces unreliable results, designed to please the tormentor. And that it puts your own men at risk of revenge, should they be captured by our enemies.”
“Indeed, my lord,” the sentek answers confidently. “The Bane did not create their ‘Woodland Knights’ until we had tortured enough of what we thought dangerous men and women of their tribe who came to the city to trade—and, I must remind you, no act of treachery was ever proved against any of them. Not until—”
“Until this attempt to murder the God-King?” Baster-kin interjects, his voice even, but his words pointed. “You don’t consider that a remarkable exception?” Arnem gazes downward, realizing that his last words may have defeated his cause. “And who knows how many other examples, in earlier years, were not the first stirrings of similar plots? Plots that we exposed early enough to save a Guardsman’s or a soldier’s life? I remind you, Sentek, that it was Oxmontrot himself—he to whom you and your men look for inspiration and with such admiration—who made the practice of torture, not only acceptable, but required, when examining persons of humble or even of consequential status; and that he did so in imitation—as was so often his habit—of the Lumun-jani. It is a policy with which even I, who do not share your martial admiration for our founding king, can find no fault.” Seeing that his words, while persuasive, are not yet convincing, Baster-kin presses: “Think of the matter just as the Lumun-jani have done for so long, Arnem: without both the threat and the practice of torture, who knows what additional lies such prisoners would concoct? What incentive does a man who would poison a city well have to speak the truth, save the prevention or cessation of agony?” Confusion replaces stubborn disagreement in Arnem’s features, and Baster-kin returns to him. “It is not as though we conduct the practice in the manner of the eastern marauders or the Varisians, Arnem. There is no joy in it, for myself or for the men I have trained in its use; but we have learnèd minds in this city that have made a study of the business. And so …”
Baster-kin strides to the area from which the scream emerged, and pounds on what must be a door, from the sound of it—although Arnem can see no such details, in the darkness at the far end of the cellar. Then a long shaft of light appears: the space between a door that is opening and its frame, leading into yet another chamber, another corner of the world within the mountaintop that Oxmontrot may have built, but over which Lord Baster-kin has made himself master. The shaft of light remains visible only for a moment, but it is long enough for Arnem to detect both more cries of pain from beyond, and the Merchant Lord’s controlled, chastising voice, speaking indistinctly, but with intent. Then, the shaft of light disappears soundlessly, at which Baster-kin returns, as quickly as he departed.
“I apologize, Sentek,” he says. “I had thought we were finished with the man. Evidently not. He confirmed the poisoning plot, but we have been trying to ascertain if he has any further information that might be of use—the location of more Outragers in the city, most importantly.”
Indicating the door in the darkness, Arnem says only: “So that chamber is where such—work is carried out?”
“Yes,” Baster-kin replies, not entirely comfortably. “Along with several more beyond it. Our own, more worldly ‘Sacristy,’ if you will. With its own sacred implements …”
Arnem feels a passing urge to renew the two men’s philosophical debate—but there is no purpose, he realizes. Clearly, both Baster-kin and his Merchants’ Council, having extracted the information concerning the poisoning of the well through torture, will not listen to arguments against such techniques. All that the sentek feels now is a sudden need to be gone.
“My lord,” he says, “I have much to prepare, and little time. Therefore, with your permission—”
“Of course, Arnem. My thanks for your patience. And if it is agreeable to you, I think that a parade and departure in the late afternoon will show your men off to their greatest advantage in front of the citizens.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Would you like my Guard to escort you home?” Baster-kin asks, with seeming earnestness. “I don’t imagine you need it, but—”
“You are correct, my lord. I do not. And so …”
“Yes. Until tomorrow. Try to get some rest. It will be an exhausting business—these public affairs always are. I’d ask you to come upstairs, where I fear I must make a brief official appearance, but I very much doubt that you’d enjoy it …”
“No, my lord,” Arnem agrees quickly. “And my wife will be waiting.”
“Ah, yes. Your wife. I understand that you have been—lucky, in that regard.”
Agai
n, there is something in Baster-kin’s tone, when he speaks of Isadora, that Arnem both dislikes and fears; but by now, the new commander of the army of Broken is too weary and baffled to pursue the matter, and so answers simply, “Indeed I have been, my lord. These many years.”
“Yes,” Baster-kin murmurs. “Fortunate, indeed. Speaking of which, we haven’t had a chance to discuss your—family situation.” Serious purpose fills Baster-kin’s face. “It is one of the effects of your great success. Were you a less consequential man, perhaps we might have let it go … But, as you are not, the matter will have to be resolved soon, Arnem.”
“And I have no doubt that it will be,” the sentek replies.
Baster-kin seems to realize he can ask only so much, at so rare a moment. “Yes. Time enough for such matters to be settled upon your return. Which I do not doubt will be triumphant. But keep it in your thoughts.”
“It rarely leaves them, my lord,” Arnem answers, starting up the stone ramp toward the light of earliest dawn. “And so, by your leave, I will bid you good night.”
Baster-kin says nothing, only lifts a hand in acknowledgment; but when Arnem reaches the top of the ramp, he looks back down into the cellar, watching the Merchant Lord’s movements—
And he is not entirely surprised to see that Baster-kin does not, in fact, take the stairs leading up, in order to make his appearance in the Merchants’ Hall; rather, he goes back to the doorway of the room where the Bane Outrager, Arnem is sure, continues to be tortured.