by Caleb Carr
“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. But if the townspeople have laid siege to the garrison for so long, then the missing man almost certainly means the elders in Esleben have deliberately kept the situation from their rulers. An evil indication, thinks Arnem, with another apprehensive 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, even as he allows his soldiers to defile our daughters, planting wasting disease with as little care as they do their seed. 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 publicly 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 their town 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 service in the defense of the realm 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 that any objection he might raise 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:
BRING THE CRIPPLE, AND SHOW THIS NOTE TO NO ONE,
SAVE NIKSAR—WHO WILL
SURELY ENJOY IT.
{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. “This time, however …” 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. Nevertheless 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, a young man 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 she 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 one detail 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 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 cr
ipple 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—there is something incorrect about it all, Elder …”