by Caleb Carr
“That is enough, Master Dalin.” Nuen’s tone is not impertinent, and she executes a small, deferential motion toward Isadora, one that might seem insignificant, by Broken standards, but which the lady of the house knows would be a sign of extreme respect in Nuen’s marauder tribe. The servant emphasizes her meaning by placing the stew pot on a table and moving more speedily than a horse on the open steppe to take Dalin by the back of his shoulders with real force. She leans down, her ordinarily thin eyes narrowing in her broad face so much that they are scarcely discernible, and murmurs, “Would you behave like a teasing, disrespectful brat in front of your mother?”
It is far from the first time that Isadora has been deeply grateful to Nuen (whose own son, but a year older than Golo, marched off with Sixt Arnem’s khotor the day before, as skutaar to the sentek himself), but the act is no less appreciated for its reliability. “Thank you, Nuen,” Isadora says, trying with all the composure she can collect to keep her temper; then, scowling at each of her younger children in turn, she declares, “And now, all three of you—upstairs. If you mind me, I may be persuaded to let Nuen tell you marauder stories.”
Even Dalin’s face brightens a bit—for there are no legends or histories, even in the city library, that can match the excitement of Nuen’s terrifying tales of storied battles and rivers of blood, of men who ride their small horses so fast and so hard that they can, it is said, cook meat between their own naked thighs and the backs of the animals, and most famously, tales of the skulls of their fallen and executed enemies piled as high as mountains—and the fact that they are related by such a deceptively docile teller only seems to increase their power to excite, no matter how many times they are repeated.
Aware of how restless such stories will make the younger children during the night, but also aware that her ladyship has, at the moment, larger problems with which she must grapple without the children asking too many questions, Nuen turns to Isadora, arching one of her long, thin eyebrows and making only one inquiry of her own: “My lady is certain?”
Sighing at the inevitability of her own night’s lost sleep, Isadora nods. “Yes, Nuen,” she says. “I would appreciate the help, just now …”
The three youngest children turn eagerly to the stairs, Golo and Dalin quickly disappearing up them. Only Gelie, as she passes Isadora, pauses to comment upon the mystery of her mother’s having donned her best green gown and her small but lovely golden necklace, as well as her having applied the poppy-dyed paint that beautifies her lips, and the lines of black galena that make her eyes appear even larger and more mysterious than they actually are. But Anje quickly steps in to take her sister’s hand. “You and your questions come with me, little empress,” Anje tells her sister. “You can hear all about it when Mother gets home, and if you don’t hurry, you will lose your chance to learn of new marauder horrors …”
Isadora’s pride in her elder daughter swells once again, making her realize how soon an appropriate suitor for the maiden will have to be found: a suitor, that is, who will allow her to establish a household that will, Isadora is certain, be more sensibly supervised than this one in which she has grown up. These thoughts are confirmed when Anje looks at her mother a last time, aware that Isadora has not revealed all of her plans to her, but accepting that she has good reason for withholding them. The maiden barely whispers the words, “Be careful, Mother,” before chasing Gelie up the stairs; and for a moment, Isadora’s admiration becomes melancholy at the notion of how close she is to losing the daughter she has come to depend upon so …
Finally, Dagobert alone is left standing before her; and Isadora’s features suddenly darken, although perhaps not as much as she might wish or intend. “Do you have any idea, Dagobert,” she begins, “what your father would say and do, were he here to see you in that costume?”
But Dagobert holds his ground admirably: “I imagine he would be pleased, Mother, that I have followed his instructions so closely.”
Pausing to consider the entire matter, Isadora at length asks, “And when, pray, did you two concoct this scheme?”
“Yesterday, as he was leaving the house. He pretended to have forgotten Yantek Korsar’s baton, the baton of the army’s supreme commander, and went to fetch it. When he returned with it, he also handed me the note.”
“Very clever …” Isadora pauses, silently rebuking herself for having been taken so off-guard; but then she nods in defiance. “All right, then,” she says, without enthusiasm. “You shall come, if that is how it must be. But wait in the garden, while I fetch my healing kit from the cellar.”
Isadora walks swiftly to a door beneath the staircase, one that leads to the cool confines of the house’s lowest chamber, where the family’s supplies of wines, oils, herbs, root vegetables, and meat are stored. It is a place that the children are forbidden ever to enter—since it is here, too, that Isadora keeps her supplies of the ingredients for her medicines, and where she mixes those concoctions. Ignorant tampering with such dangerous things, the Arnem children have been taught since birth, could result in sickness and death; and so, unruly troop that they often are, they obey this one household stricture without question.
None of which means that they have not experienced great curiosity about the place; and in recent months, the inquisitiveness of the two oldest Arnem offspring has become most pointed. There are many reasons for this, the most important among them being the continual remarks by children outside the Fifth District about Isadora’s having been raised by a witch. And, although the studious Anje has carefully determined that the crone Gisa was nothing like so malevolent a being, she has also become convinced that Gisa was an adherent of the old religion of Broken. This proposition has been supported by investigations undertaken by the sharp-eared Dagobert, who has several times laid his head upon the flooring of the hall on the house’s main level to gain clues about what transpires below. For while the walls of the cellar are composed of the same raw stone from which most of the rest of the city was carved, the ceiling is nothing more than the bottom of the thick plank flooring of the hall above. These planks are softened and sealed, during the winter, by carpets and skins; but at the first hint of warmer weather, all such coverings are removed, laying bare the floor.
It is thus free of coverings this evening, making it an unusually propitious moment for Dagobert to risk putting an ear to the cracks between the floor planks, in order to see if his mother is merely collecting the bottles and earthen jars of secret mixtures that have maintained her reputation as a healer, or if she is not also about some other work: work hinted at by mysterious recitations, pieces of which Dagobert has more than once heard.
One phrase is common to all of the statements Isadora makes when alone in the cellar, a phrase that, from the first, did not seem to concern medicine—or at any rate, not medicine specifically. Rather, it always seemed an appeal to a deity, one whose high office was and is apparently that of Allsveter: the “All-father,” a title that, as Dagobert and Anje have discovered during their studies, was often given to the chief of the old gods of Broken, a being called Wodenez, whose image the children have seen displayed upon a silver clasp with which their mother often fastens her cloak: a clasp that Isadora has consistently explained was simply a dying gift from the woman who raised and taught her, the supposèd “witch,” Gisa.
And again this evening, with the younger children upstairs struck silent by Nuen’s tales of marauder ferocity, Dagobert hears this phrase through the flooring of the hall; this, and one more, one that, although voiced in his own Broken tongue and clearly not the name of any entity, contains some secret that makes it every bit as strange as the other:
“Tell me, great Allsveter,” the Lady Arnem seems to plead, as cool, dank air brings her words through the cracks in the floor to her son’s ears, “what can all this mean? Why are such great spirits consumed by fever, which is precisely the element over which they have mastery, even as they dwell in and near cooling water? What unnatural forces create so
terrible an illness, which the runes say portend great danger to this city? What sense can there be to so strange a riddle: how shall water and fire conquer stone?”
Dagobert lifts his head, utterly confused; but before he has time to puzzle with his mother’s last words, the gentle sounds of final preparation—vials and bottles being capped and replaced in their shelves—carry up from below; and, at the first step of his mother’s feet upon the stone stairs that are carved into one wall of the cellar, the youth is up, has taken hold of the pot of stew that Nuen has left steaming on the floor, and is out the door of the house, calming his nerves and pacing upon the terrace in what he hopes is a confidently expectant manner.
His mother soon approaches him, and, with her black box of medical supplies snug beneath one arm, she passes by the youth without a word, her moments of preparation in the cellar seeming to have reconciled her little if at all to her son’s secret arrangement with his father. Dagobert follows uneasily, as Isadora leads the way quickly back to the door in the garden’s southern wall, which she pulls open in a swift motion, further revealing the strength that she possesses at moments of anger and peril. Darkness has fallen entirely, and, with the Moon as yet unrisen, all light on the Path of Shame is supplied by torches and fires fueled by whatever the drunken residents can scavenge or steal. The sounds of mindless laughter have become noisier and more numerous, by now, as well as more insistent, forcing those engaged in equally senseless arguments to shout their meaningless indictments and insults at each other.
Close by the doorway to the Arnems’ garden, the family’s modest litter has been made ready. Its light wooden frame and simple bank of cushioned seats are draped with heavy wool, despite the unseasonable warmth of the air, which would usually call for cotton. Such coverings provide plain, effective privacy for passengers within, and the frame offers comfort without luxury, being light enough, with one or two occupants, to be carried by two strong men lifting thick, twelve-foot bearing poles that slip under brackets on each side of the conveyance. In the Arnems’ case, this bearing is done by two enormous, black-bearded men, each of whom wears light, weathered armor—predominantly leather, but reinforced, at vital points, with simple steel plates—and both of whom give the constant impression of filth, despite the fact that they bathe regularly.
“Good evening, my lady,” calls the giant at the front of the litter, Bohemer, in a respectfully jovial manner; then he nods at the youth, who has never looked more like the champion of his clan. “Master Dagobert,” he adds, with a smile scarcely visible through his thick beard.
“Lady Arnem,” adds the somewhat less powerful man to the rear, Jerej, who speaks through a slightly thinner mat of hair; then he, like his tribesman, offers a knowing grin to Dagobert, which the youth returns with a proud smile of his own—for to be admitted as a fellow by these two is an honor, indeed.
None of which alters the fact that such acknowledgments are, at the moment, unwise: the already displeased Isadora quickly and rightly suspects that the men have been given advance warning by her husband and son of their plans for Dagobert’s participation in such nighttime adventures, and her temper snaps. She glares angrily at each in turn, fairly striking them with her words: “Silence—all of you!” Isadora knows that Bohemer and Jerej are as ferociously loyal to the Arnem family as is the good Nuen; but she also knows that they, like her husband, no doubt took satisfaction from the notion of bringing Dagobert fully into the ranks of men with this plan. And while she is grateful that they will be present to support her son as the little group descends into the dangerous streets surrounding Berthe’s home, she has no intention of revealing as much. Instead, she shakes her head with strained self-possession, and helps Berthe into the litter, taking her own seat as quickly as possible. “All right, then,” Isadora proclaims from within the litter. “You know our destination—proceed!”
“Aye, Lady Arnem!” Jerej replies, as he and Bohemer lift the litter in one well-practiced motion that scarcely jostles the women.
“Master Dagobert—?” Bohemer asks quietly; though not so quietly that Dagobert does not take more pride and confidence from the increased camaraderie. “Perhaps you will lead us, to the left and just ahead?”
Dagobert nods with still more enthusiasm, keeping his marauder sword unsheathed just enough to expose its guard, so that it can be quickly brought to bear. His eyes search the crowds ahead intently, as though he were a soldier of great experience, able to distinguish the first sign of threat. Soon the party is moving southwest along the Path of Shame, not as wealthy intruders, but as persons of consequence who are of as well as in the district: persons whose business must, in short, be respected.
“I will say, young master,” Bohemer tells Dagobert, still confidentially, “that I’m pleased you’ve paid close attention to the lessons your father has given you—because I’d stake a Moon’s wages that we’ll need your sword arm, before this business is done. If not in the poorest part of the city”—Dagobert turns, to find Bohemer speaking with genuine intent—“then in the wealthiest …”
An unnoticed departure, a daunting purpose …
AFTERNOONS IN OKOT have never been known for their brightness, given the near-impenetrability of the forest ceiling, even where small clearings have been made for huts. In part, this is because of Davon Wood’s remarkable power to reassert itself; but just as much, it is by design of the Bane themselves. Any significant break in the Wood’s vast expanse of treetops would be visible from the walls of Broken, and so care is usually taken to ensure that the sunniest of middays elsewhere is no more dazzling than a moderate twilight in the forest. But there has never been an afternoon quite so dark as this one. It has passed with more deaths, more pyres, and the burning of more huts, all of which have created a cloud of hot, heavy smoke blotting out the sun: the plague still shows no sign of relenting.
The Bane healers have assured the Groba that by morning this will change; and, as if determined to make good on their hopeful prediction, they continue, at twilight, to toil without pause in the Lenthess-steyn, as fearlessly as they have done from the start. And yet, by the time the sun begins to touch the western mountains, the only apparent effect of all this determination is that the plague claims still more of these martyrs to knowledge and compassion. Their passing seems to go scarcely noted by their colleagues, who labor on in the most secluded chambers of the honeycomb-like caves, cutting the dead to pieces, trying to uncover some clue as to the origin of the disease’s horrific symptoms. They have devised, by now, several mixtures of the herbs that they grow in their gardens with extracts from various poisonous flowers brought back by the foraging parties, and each concoction serves to ameliorate some one from among the several torturous effects of the disease: the sores, the racking cough, the fever, swelling, and pain. But there is still little hope of preventing death itself. The pestilence remains a mystery, wholly unlike anything that the healers have ever treated with their potions and poultices; and with the healers’ frustration comes renewed conviction on the part of the Groba and the Bane tribe generally that the plague is the result of sorcery. In the face of this conclusion, still more of those struck by the disease ignore the healers and the Lenthess-steyn altogether and, while they still have the strength to walk, choose to end their lives as did the family that Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah observed earlier: by wandering through the forest (ever observed by parties of Outragers), praying that distancing themselves from stricken Okot may bring salvation, and, upon finding that it does not, submitting themselves to the comparatively swift end of the Cat’s Paw.
By nightfall, pyres are burning all along the south side of the river. From a high hill just west of Okot, the three foragers—so much more than foragers, now!—can see the smoking glow of these funereal flames forming an ever-longer chain across the dark landscape, as well as the smaller lights of torches near the pyres and the river. One large mass of torches has assembled on the rocky summit of the Lenthess-steyn, and is creeping northward: a lum
inous, coiling sign that Ashkatar’s army of warriors has come together in full assembly, and is beginning to march.
Before leaving Okot, Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah gathered at the hut that all three had once called home to prepare for their journey. The parents of Keera and Veloc—called Selke and Egenrich—knowing that their two children and their former ward represented what might be the last hope of the Bane, welcomed the three as if they had left home but yesterday, and, in the case of Heldo-Bah, gave no sign of any lingering resentment or disappointment; for in truth, they felt none. Taking little Effi into their care, Selke and Egenrich pledged to keep her safely away from the most dangerous parts of the village, and to continue to refuse her persistent requests to visit her brothers; in addition, they further pledged, when pressed by their daughter, to take care of all three children, should Keera never return—and should her boys survive. As they watched the three prepare for a journey so riddled with dangers that it was unnecessary even to speak of them, preparation steadily became the sole subject of conversation: the foragers emptied their sacks of all the precious goods collected during the term of the most inscrutable Moon ever to rise over Davon Wood, and refilled them with all manner of implements, of foodstuffs—and of weapons, especially. The three were given their pick of all the arms forged or captured by their tribe, and each took only the best sword, arrows, bow, and knives on offer. They then slipped out of Okot undetected, lest any great hope be attached to their mission by their fellow Bane; hope that might ultimately prove cruelly and tragically vain. The hill on which they now stand is the last spot from which the tribe’s village and its outlying settlements can be seen, and all the foragers stare back somberly, knowing that it may be their last glimpse of home.
“They say that Ashkatar has brought together a greater force than was expected,” Veloc murmurs, his right hand gripping the hilt of a freshly honed Broken short-sword, and his dark eyes gleaming with the flames of the distant fires. “Women warriors as well. Hundreds, in all. What is his plan? To attack?”