by Caleb Carr
Small wonder, then, that—even as the mother of five children who would be safer elsewhere—Isadora continues to insist on maintaining her family’s residence in this place. Certainly, that decision has joined neatly with her husband’s similar desire to remain in the neighborhoods of his youth; yet Isadora knows that Sixt would ultimately move the family to whatever part of the city she might choose, if she firmly insisted. But no; for Sixt, but above all for Isadora, who knew love and safety as a girl and a young woman only from persons scorned by Broken’s rulers and most powerful citizens, and who rejected all of the fundamentals of Kafran faith and society as a result, the assiduous continuance of her own and her family’s lives well out of the view of Kafran priests and their agents has continued to be the chief priority for how and where the family lives …
Isadora’s thoughts having remained fixed on her husband, her faith, and her children and home, during this walk, the sharp tug at the hem of her cloak is a shock, when it comes. She stops, to find in the dirt of the street a drunkard, much like the many who lie snoring in similar spots up and down the Path; but this fellow is awake, and his bony, filthy hand is capable of a firm grip. He grins, then drops his jaw to release the stench of cheap wine; and when he begins to laugh, the shaking of his body wafts the foul odor of his clothing far enough to reach Isadora’s nostrils.
“Please, lady,” the man chortles. “A few pieces of silver?”
Isadora does not hesitate to answer: the situation is not new to her. “I have little enough silver. If you seek work, come to my door, or to any good citizen’s, and ask for it. But I’d bathe, first.” She tries to move on—but also takes the precaution of unsheathing a small knife that she keeps hidden inside the sleeve of her cloak at all times.
It is well that she does so: for the man refuses to release her. “Work, lady?” he says bitterly. “And what work do you do for your silver, eh? This is a rich enough city to meet the needs of one lost soul!”
“Release my cloak, or lose your fingers.”
The man ignores the threat. “Too fine a lady to be wandering in the Fifth District all alone,” he says, attempting to pull her down with real force. “Maybe I don’t need silver, after all. Not so much as I need—”
Isadora would indeed slice a finger from the offending hand, were it not for the fact that the butt end of a spear catches the drunkard squarely in the chest, knocking him flat on the street and leaving him gasping hard for air. Isadora, surprised, turns to find Linnet Niksar, spear in hand.
Niksar kicks at the drunkard, hard enough to get him to his feet. “Go on, now—don’t make me use the other end!” he calls after the fleeing man. Then he softens his voice. “Your pardon, my lady,” he says, bowing quickly but gracefully. “I hope I didn’t startle you. Your husband dispatched me to escort you, as the hour grows late—”
“Thank you, Niksar,” Isadora says, “But I assure you, I was perfectly capable of handling the situation.” She returns her knife to its hidden sheath. “He was only a drunkard who wanted a lesson.” Niksar bows once again in deference, and Isadora’s aspect softens. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Reyne. I confess that I’m not in the best of spirits, at the moment.”
Niksar smiles, making sure the drunkard is retreating. “I’m afraid there are many more of them,” he says. “And they grow more restive every day. They seem to have it in their heads that silver grows in this city. We ought to let them have a term in the army …”
Isadora smiles. “You sound remarkably like my husband, Reyne. Speaking of whom, we’d best hurry along.”
“Yes, my lady,” Niksar replies, matching Isadora’s impressive pace.
Within moments Isadora and Niksar have entered the Fourth District, which is alive with action: two full khotors of regular army troops have been brought in from their camp on the mountainside, to defend the city in the absence of the khotor of the Talons. Hundreds of soldiers are milling about on the training and parade grounds, some slinging packs onto their broad backs, some undoing them and smiling, happy to be able to spend some time in the city barracks, rather than sleeping on the ground outside the walls. Spearheads and swords are sharpened, horses are made ready, and everywhere there is the laughter and shouting of men preparing for duty, at home as well as in the field.
A few of the men take note of Isadora’s arrival, and soon word is spreading about the camp, producing a healthy effect. If Amalberta Korsar had been beloved as the mother of the Broken army, Isadora Arnem is adored as the object of its collective amorous (but always respectful) sentiments. By the time she has reached the steps to her husband’s quarters, on the far side of the southernmost drilling ground, crowds of men from a wide variety of units have begun to assemble before the pine log structure, the differing colors of their tunics and trousers—blue for the regular army, wine red for the Talons—for once causing no competition. They have come together for the happy work of sending off the men who are being readied to march—Broken’s five hundred finest soldiers (and luckiest, say the men who must stay behind); and each man hopes to get a glimpse of Isadora, as well as a chance to hear Arnem’s words of encouragement for the coming campaign. To the west, the sun is just beginning to set, sending the warm light of a spring afternoon to break through the dust kicked up by all the busy preparations: no one could ask for a better setting from which to begin the hard work ahead.
Above the Talons’ quadrangle and drilling ground, Isadora finds her husband in close council with the leaders of his khotor and their staffs, some ten men, in all, gathered around a rough-hewn table upon which sit half a dozen maps. Each of these men snaps to glad attention when their commander’s wife enters, busily saluting and bowing, laughing, rolling maps to be slipped into leather cases, and thanking Isadora for once again making the trip to their district, as well as assuring her of how much it will mean to their men.
As his aide delivers Arnem’s wife to him, the sentek calls out: “Thank you, Niksar. And now, gentlemen, if you will all join your units, I need a few moments with my wife, who wishes to remind me, I’ve no doubt, of how an officer in the field ought to conduct himself.”
Well-meaning if somewhat lusty mumbling to the effect of, “Certainly, Sentek—a difficult duty, but an urgent one,” goes around the group of departing officers, causing a ripple of equally good-hearted laughter to pass through the small crowd. Arnem scolds the men as he follows them to the door and closes it tight. He then pauses as he turns to his wife, raising his brow and widening his eyes, as if to say, What’s to be done, they are good soldiers, and good men, at heart …
“You are as popular as ever, as you can see,” Sixt says aloud, moving over to embrace his wife, who leans back against the table. “And they’re right—it means an enormous amount to the men.”
“So long as I serve a purpose of some kind,” Isadora answers.
Arnem tightens his arms around her, putting his lips close to her cheek. “Do you feel your life has no purpose, wife?”
“A purpose for children,” she answers softly, turning her head so that her lips meet his. “And I suppose that will have to do. For now …”
What man can truly know the heart of a woman who allows her lover or husband to pursue his destiny, even unto death? And what woman can understand the passion that such trust builds in men? To be sure, there is neither any woman, nor any man, whose heart achieves such mutual trust more flawlessly than does the honest soldier’s and his equally selfless wife’s; and no more instructive instance of their mutual generosity than these times of departure, when the full reality and weight of what may transpire during the days to come, in the home as well as in the field—when just what sacrifices each will incur for the honor and safety of the other—are brought home with a terrible yet magnificent poignancy. And, in the few minutes they have to themselves, both Arnem and Isadora indulge those passions, without removing all or even most of their clothing: for they know the maps of each other’s bodies as well as Arnem knows those more tradi
tional charts that were laid out on his table but moments ago. Indeed, they now know them so well, and can satisfy their mutual desire so greatly and knowingly, that they forget, if only for a time, the admiring groups of soldiers who guard their privacy with ferocious loyalty—even as those men continue to make respectful yet enviously ribald remarks to one another, in the most discreet and hushed voices …
But in the wake of these transcendently private moments, more immediate and devilish questions intrude, as they must, on the sentek and his wife:
“You’ve had no word from the Grand Layzin?” Isadora whispers; and it need not be said of what “word” she speaks.
“No,” Arnem says, keeping his head at rest on her shoulder. Their gentle intimacy has drawn a soft moistness to the surface of her flushed skin, which makes the more delicate and deliberate fragrances of both her body and the wildflower extracts with which she scents herself more potent; and he breathes all the aromas in deeply, knowing how long these last exposures may have to sustain him. “But I assume the ritual took place,” Sixt continues. “Some sort of word would have come, if it had not.”
Isadora sighs, her eyes welling. “The poor man,” she whispers.
Arnem, too, feels an enormous weight press down on his heart. “Yes. Although they may be right, Isadora, he may simply have lost his mind—certainly, I’ve never heard him talk that way before …”
“Mad or no,” Isadora answers, “he was our friend, to say nothing of a great man to whom they owed much. How can they have treated him so? And how can we be sure that the same fate will not befall you, should you fail to please them?” Her eyes search Sixt’s desperately. “We know so little of it all—the Layzin, the God-King, the priests … I understand their need to preserve ‘the divine mysteries,’ but how should we know, husband, if those mysteries were no more than disguises for terrible lies?”
“We likely would not, my love,” Arnem answers simply, recalling his own, similar thoughts. “But—I would be more concerned, had Basterkin not taken me into his confidence as he did. I tell you, Isadora, I’ve never seen the man like that. Direct, yes, he’s always been direct, even rude, but—he honestly seemed concerned. About us. He’s an odd man, no question, and often shows his concern in peculiar ways, but—so long as I succeed, and please the God-King, I honestly don’t think we have true cause for worry. In fact, I would guess that he will try to protect all of you, while I am gone—certainly he takes an interest in your well-being.”
They have too little time before Arnem’s departure, as it is, for Isadora to enter into a discussion of why else Baster-kin might take an interest in her and their children. So she gently turns Sixt’s head to force his eyes to stare into the small oceans of her own. “Let us pray that you are right …” And then she concocts what she conceives to be a helpful lie: “I’m sorry if I sound less trustful than you, Sixt. I suspect the Merchant Lord strikes a good many people as strangely secretive, but that does not mean, as you say, that he does not intend to be of assistance, while you are gone.”
“Indeed,” Sixt replies hopefully. Then he studies his wife’s face again, his hands gently moving over and beneath her cloak and gown, which have already been disarrayed by their encounter. “Who would ever have thought,” he murmurs, in amazement that is only partially affected, “that such great wisdom could come from so pretty a head …”
Isadora stings his cheek with the flat of her hand, just hard enough to let serious intent show through her playfulness. “Pig. Never let your daughters hear that sort of talk, I warn you …” Then she adds, even more earnestly: “Above all, we must decide what his posture regarding Dalin truly is.”
“I’ve told you, Isadora,” Arnem replies quickly; for on this matter, he believes he has read Baster-kin’s words accurately. “If the men and I do carry this business off, they will suspend the order—I truly believe it.”
“They did not suspend it for Korsar’s boy,” Isadora replies doubtfully, turning away from Sixt as her eyes again grow perceptibly mournful. “However great the services the yantek performed …”
“True,” Arnem answers. “And yet, I think that our situation is different—in fact, he nearly stated as much, although, as you say, one in his position will never reveal his true intentions, about this or anything else. But certainly, ours is a more serious case—else why should he have taken me into his confidence as he did?”
Isadora turns her face to his again, feeling the bristle of his beard as it passes her cheek, and tries with all her soul to smile. “And so—I must simply wait for you to succeed, and all will be well?”
“That is the matter entire,” Arnem answers, returning her smile. “And have I ever disappointed you?”
She puts a hand to his mouth and presses hard, laughing softly. “I despise your soldierly conceit, and always have.”
Pulling her hand from his face, Arnem protests, “There is no conceit in trusting the abilities of the Talons.”
“Ah. I see …”
“It is plain truth, wife! My officers—following my example, perhaps—have made those young men into a mechanism: my sole responsibility is to set it in motion, then stand away and observe its working.”
“Hak!” Isadora scoffs, as loudly and rudely as she can manage. “As though you could stand away from anything involving those men …”
“Besides—” Ignoring his wife’s cynicism, Arnem stands, arranging his armor and the clothing beneath it. He then picks up his cloak and hands it to Isadora. “Five children later is no time to be telling a husband what you do and do not despise about him.”
“Well—your children believe your nonsense, at any rate.” Isadora stands and straightens her own garments, before she sets to fixing the silver eagle’s claws of Sixt’s cloak in place on his wide shoulders. “They hope and trust, as one, that you will thrash the evil Bane, and come home soon.” Uncontrollably, her arms go around the sentek’s neck in a moment of earnestness. “As do I …”
“Do they?” Arnem chuckles. He then holds Isadora at arm’s length, that he may consume the sight of her in solitude one last time—and catches sight of the silver clasp fixed to her gown. “Oh, wife …” He touches the clasp, understanding, as do most in Broken, what it signifies. “Must you wear that thing? There is always the chance that some one of my superiors will learn of your past and your … opinions. It cannot help our cause.”
“It could,” Isadora replies coyly, knowing that it will irritate her husband. But then, with greater seriousness, she declares, “Come, now—it’s only a meaningless keepsake, Sixt. I’ve only ever really trusted two people in my life, since my parents were killed: you”—She pokes her husband hard in the throat, just above his armor—“and Gisa. Am I not allowed that much?”
“Just see that you don’t wear it while I’m gone,” Arnem answers. “We need no further trouble from the priests—and if you seek to explain any peculiar behavior on Baster-kin’s part, his spies reporting that you wear such barbarian idols would more than serve the purpose. Who knows how much of this business with Dalin is spurred by such talk?”
“I don’t intend to wear it while you’re gone,” Isadora replies, undoing the clasp. “I’m giving him to you.”
“To me?” Arnem groans. “What in the world am I to do with such a thing? Other than make my men doubt my sanity?”
“Keep it close, husband,” Isadora says, finding a small pocket in the soft padding of his gambeson, beneath both his leather armor and his mail. “For my sake. I don’t like the notion of this war, Sixt—and, whatever you may have thought of Gisa and her religion, this token has always brought me something more precious than luck.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The god it depicts, as you know, traded one of his eyes for wisdom. Such is what it has always brought me, and you shall need all you can muster.”
“You know full well, Isadora,” Arnem protests, “that I have never said a word against Gisa …” He pulls the clasp out and studies it. “But her
kindness and her skill as a healer were separate from her faith.”
“She would have argued against such a conclusion.”
“Perhaps. But I can’t very well wear it, that’s certain. I could be stripped of my rank, and much worse, simply for possessing such a thing.”
Isadora presses a finger to his mouth. “Do you suppose I don’t realize that? I do not ask that you wear it.” She secures the clasp in his pocket. “Just take it and keep it, hidden but close. As quietly as you can—if that’s possible.”
“Insults, now?” Arnem shrugs. “Very well, I submit. But I don’t know what good a half-blind old man and two ravens are likely to do me.”
“It’s not your place to know—just keep it close, and see what occurs.”
Arnem nods, and then the pair catch each other’s eyes: the hour has arrived, and they both know it.
“Come,” he says, taking her in his arms again. “We must address the men. You’ve always been their favorite—and yes, I’ve always been unhappy about that fact, if such pleases your vanity.”