by Caleb Carr
From the Wildfehngen, Arnem soon learns how matters truly stand within the stockade: although its gates are open, the men within can give no explanation for what has taken place in Esleben, beyond that already offered by the town elders. As for the commander of the garrison (the sole person, Arnem believes, who may be able to shed true light on the mysterious goings-on in and about the town) he remains barred within his quarters, not, it seems, because of disloyalty or disobedience, but because of illness. This information only makes the sentek more determined to immediately spur the Ox on toward the stockade and greater insight; but before he can depart, Visimar catches his arm, speaking to him as earnestly as he can, while keeping his voice very hushed:
“If the garrison commander is ill,” the cripple says, “you must determine the nature of that illness before you approach him. Remember, Sixt Arnem—we have but two goals, now: to get away from here without incident, and to ensure that your own men do not take any of the town’s forage or food supplies with them. Nothing in Esleben is to be trusted.”
“I shall attempt to remember all such points,” Arnem replies, his various frustrations becoming more apparent in his angered words. “But I will be given a clearer understanding of what is taking place here—whatever this commander’s condition.” Once more preparing to speed away, the sentek suddenly catches sight of something ahead, a sight that finally brings some sort of relief to his face. “Well. There’s one worry eased: Niksar seems to have escaped the town unscathed …”
Niksar is riding at a good pace toward Arnem and Visimar, and the sentek urges the Ox out a short distance to intercept him. “Well met, Reyne,” he says, acknowledging his aide’s salute. “But before you give voice to the understandable indignation that I detect upon your face, tell me: you weren’t, by any chance, offered any hospitality—say, any sustenance—while you were in the town, were you?”
Niksar scoffs. “Unlikely, Sentek. They were only too happy to be rid of me, when I said I had to report to you. I doubt they would have let me eat so much as the grass upon the ground, as at least my horse did.”
Arnem studies his aide’s mount. “You’re certain that’s all he ate? No loose grain that might have been scattered about, for instance?”
Niksar looks puzzled, indeed. “None, Sentek. Why, what’s happened?”
“We’ll explain as we enter the stockade,” Arnem says, resuming his progress toward the small stronghold’s gates. “It’s a tale you may have to employ all your imagination to credit, as well as your newfound trust of our friend here.” Arnem indicates Visimar. “But do credit it, Reyne, and make certain the men understand that no forage, no grain goods of any kind, are to be consumed in or taken away from Esleben. And, for an even fuller understanding of just what is happening, I’m afraid we’ll need the garrison commander, who’s evidently ill and barricaded away in his quarters. Hear me, now, Niksar …” Arnem draws alongside the younger soldier. “I know you won’t like the charge, but once we’re in the stockade, help the old man get up the stairs in the quadrangle, will you, while I go on ahead? I must, at the very least, begin questioning this man as quickly as possible.”
“Sentek?” Niksar says, perturbed; for he can now see that his commander’s manner indicates more than mere annoyance. A profound anxiety of spirit is present, as well. “Of course, but I—”
“Questions later, Reyne,” Arnem says. “I want some answers, now …”
Yet with damnable stubbornness, still more disturbing questions await the sentek when he, Niksar, and Visimar reach and enter the garrison stockade. By now, the first of his long-range scouts have returned from the east, and the news they bring from those towns closer to Daurawah, as well as the rumors issuing from farmsteads within sight of the walls of that sprawling riverfront town itself, are vague and grim. Unrest, varying in degree, has taken hold of the laborers, merchants, and elders of other communities along the way to Broken’s principal port; and, perhaps most worrying of all, the scouts have heard that disorder of a far worse variety has taken hold inside Daurawah itself. If such is the truth, it is an unusually alarming fact for Arnem, both professionally and personally: the governing of the port has for several years been the responsibility of one of the sentek’s oldest friends in the army of Broken, Gerolf Gledgesa, with whom Arnem had faced the Torganians at the Atta Pass, and to whom the new chief of the army had hoped to pass the command of the Talons when he himself was so tragically elevated to Yantek Korsar’s post. But if Gledgesa has allowed matters in Daurawah to deteriorate to such a point, the appointment of his old comrade—always, like Arnem himself, a controversial figure within the army—will be out of the question. The full possible consequences of the scouting reports from the east are plain, then: but none is more ominous than the notion that, even if the Talons can avoid violent encounters with the subjects of the eastern kingdom, those same subjects will continue to surrender the food and forage which the soldiers require for their march against the Bane only grudgingly, if at all—and the men will be able to accept such supplies only if they are found to be untainted. Thus, Arnem may be forced to plan his campaign anew, calculating time, now, as a powerful ally of the Bane, rather than of his own force: ever one of the worst advantages that a commander can concede to his enemy.
As all these possibilities mount, the sentek’s temper shortens: “Akillus!” Arnem calls angrily, when he finally reaches the center of the quadrangle and spies the chief of scouts laughing nearby amid his own men and several members of the garrison. As Arnem dismounts, the sentek’s young skutaar, Ernakh (sole child of the Arnems’ nurse and housekeeper, Nuen), appears to take the reins of the Ox, thinking to inquire how long his commander anticipates remaining in Esleben, so that he may determine how much to refresh the steed, as well as whether or not Arnem himself will require quarters. But the black-haired, intuitive youth divines from the briefest study of Arnem’s manner that the Talons will not be staying long in this place, despite the sentek’s deliberately vague answers on the subject; and Ernakh leads the Ox off to be watered at a trough near the garrison well, so that he will be ready (if not entirely rested) for the force’s departure, which may, the young skutaar correctly believes, come at any moment. Akillus, meanwhile, hurries along to Arnem, his smile vanishing.
“I understand, Akillus,” the sentek says, “that the commander of the garrison is unable to report due to illness—have you determined if this is true?”
“Yes, Sentek,” Akillus answers, saluting so firmly that his chest resonates with the impact of his fist. “He is shut tightly away in his quarters, above.” Akillus points to the northwestern-most doorway of a dozen such on the fort’s upper level, above which the parapet encircles the structure. Another walkway runs the full length of the fort’s upper level outside the doors of these rooms, guarded by a railing of cut timbers: all workmanship characteristic of Broken’s sappers and engineers. “He says he will not come out, and will speak only with you alone.”
“Indeed?” says Arnem, letting out a weighty sigh. “Well, then—his secrets had better be as remarkable as his behavior, or I’ll have the hide off his back. And the elders will have his neck. For now—spread the word, Akillus: the men must be ready to resume the march at any moment.”
“Aye, Sentek!” says Akillus, never questioning the surprising order; instead, he simply runs to his horse and mounts the animal with his usual, seemingly effortless motion.
Watching carefully, in order to weigh the reactions that Akillus receives from the men as he relays these orders through the clusters of soldiers, Arnem is suddenly startled by a horse snorting, not far behind his head: turning, he once again finds Visimar atop his mare, and accompanied by Niksar. Two skutaars appear to tend to the men’s mounts, and to help the old acolyte to the ground. Once he has been handed his familiar walking staff, Visimar finds, in addition, that he is being offered a ready and supporting shoulder from Niksar, who follows Arnem’s earlier order with a mixture of obedience and emerging compassion. Th
e sentek is thus allowed to rush up the stockade stairs with a speed that, if not enthusiastic, is purposeful; and when he first sets foot on the walkway above, he quickens his pace still more. Only when he gets within an arm’s length of the officer’s doorway does a sudden apprehension shoot through his bones and prickle his skin, taking nearly all the determination out of him in an instant. It is not a feeling that he can define, but it is one that he must obey: and when he finally raps at the door, he does so but lightly, not knowing whence this hesitation has come.
“Linnet?” he calls, scarcely loud enough to be heard. Then, suddenly, he is made aware of the reason for his wariness: a smell, or rather a stench, the blunt stink of human sweat, waste, and decay, of filthy garments and bedding—in sum, the stink of mortal illness …
“Linnet!” Arnem states with more authority. “I order you to open this door.”
The man within tries to answer, but his words are soon choked off by a fit of moist coughing. When the attack subsides, Arnem hears a weak voice, one that, clearly, was once strong, and with the unmistakable inflections of an officer who, although young, is accustomed to command:
“I am sorry, Sentek—I cannot obey you,” the voice says. “But it is not out of impertinence, for I have known you for nearly all of my life, and there is no soldier, indeed no man, that I respect more. But I cannot risk your …” The voice trails off; it has, for the moment, no strength left.
And during the pause, Sentek Arnem realizes that, beneath the distortions of sickness, he knows the voice well: it belongs to the younger brother of his own aide, who is—or once was—as vibrant and ideal an example of Broken virtues as is Reyne.
“Donner?” Arnem murmurs, as quietly as he can. “Donner Niksar?”
A noise of assent from the chamber’s occupant quickly dissolves back into terrible coughing. “Forgive me for not opening the door, sir,” the younger Niksar brother says, after his fit has subsided. “But you mustn’t come in here—not now. I haven’t let the rest of them in since the pallin died. I first detected the symptoms in myself within hours of his death; and, while it is possible that my men have already been affected by the sickness, they may also have escaped, and I won’t allow the mess that is coming out of me—that I have become—to somehow endanger them …”
Just then, Arnem hears Niksar struggling up the stairs with Visimar, and the sentek grows ever more anxious. “Donner, your brother is with me, surely you will wish to talk with him—”
“No, Sentek, please!” comes the desperate reply. “I fear I have only enough time to tell what I must: of these damnable town merchants, with their elders and their plots and poisons …”
Arnem’s eyes widen. “You think the townspeople tried to poison you, Donner?”
“I realize that it sounds like madness, Sentek. And it may well be. But I’ve good reason to believe it. We meant to interfere with certain of their schemes to remedy their trade difficulties, you see, while at the same time, one of our men had what they considered the cheek to actually court one of their daughters. Their rage was becoming deadly—indeed, as you may have seen, some of them actually seem to be mad …”
Arnem is struck by each part of this statement, but none more so than the last—for he remembers well the looks on the faces of some of the townspeople when he entered Esleben. “But, Donner,” he says, “what are you doing in Esleben? And what ‘plans’ of theirs would you have spoiled?”
“I had formerly been serving under your old comrade, Sentek Gledgesa, in Daurawah,” young Donner Niksar replies, his voice now so hoarse as to suggest razor-like knives lacerating the back of his throat. “Until he sent me here. The last garrison commander had been caught concluding deals with those river raiders who have been bringing their grain up the Meloderna and into the rivers that feed it, including the Cat’s Paw. This was Moons ago, Sentek Arnem, midwinter … Before there was any report of disease. Without informing anyone, Sentek Gledgesa called the garrison commander to Daurawah, executed him on his own authority, and dispatched me to take his place. He seemed to know you would be coming, and with you, Reyne; and that you would both believe me, more readily than his other officers.”
“But how did this lead to the business of this pallin, and the girl from the town?”
“That story began to unfold soon after I arrived here,” young Niksar goes on; and it seems that he has found a way in which to speak for longer periods of time, if he keeps the volume of his voice low, making it necessary for Arnem to put his ear directly to the wooden door. “Sentek Gledgesa knew that the commander of the garrison was guilty of the crimes with which so many had charged him; what he could not determine was what part, if any, the elders of Esleben were also playing in the grain scheme. And despite my taking command, the foreign grain continued to make its way upriver in the raiders’ ships, while neither my men nor I could prove the elders of Esleben were involved—yet such did not demonstrate their innocence. Then this business concerning the pallin and his maiden was uncovered in early spring, just as we began to hear of the fire wounds in Daurawah. They were already burning dozens, perhaps hundreds of bodies, every week, all dead from what the commander was confident, by then, represented a foul new way our enemies had devised to weaken our power—I had by then learned otherwise, however. For the maiden had mentioned to her pallin that the town elders meant to take the matter of the raiders into their own hands, and he reported as much to me. I wrote to Sentek Gledgesa, telling him of the plot—” His words having come too fast, Donner begins to cough terribly again.
“Slow, now, son,” Arnem says, in a voice he hopes is soothing. “Are you trying to say the elders of Esleben meant to oppose the foreign traders?”
“It was after the winter rye had been harvested …” Arnem hears Donner Niksar pouring water into his tormented mouth. “The merchants in Broken—they continued to offer payment that enticed the pirates, being far lower than anything the farmers and millers of Esleben were accustomed to receiving. Soon, the elders of Esleben decided that, so long as those long ships were allowed to race up and down the rivers, they would feed their grain to their own people and animals, rather than accept such low prices from merchants who were meant to protect Broken’s own commerce, not betray it. They then began to do just that, hoping it would bring notice from the Merchants’ Council or even the Grand Layzin and the God-King. It did not, but almost immediately, the girl became ill. Even to myself, the timing of it all seemed—odd … And the rage among the townspeople was implacable. I offered to meet with them alone, to show the army’s goodwill and freedom from further involvement in the illegal trading that was cheating them of the rightful payment. I was invited to sup with their elders’ council, so long as I did, indeed, come alone—which I did …”
Arnem’s heart sinks at this news: for he realizes that, alone among the garrison, Donner Niksar had broken what Visimar has told the sentek must be tainted bread with the people of Esleben, unknowingly condemning himself to a hideous death …
Suddenly, a small sound of triumph from across the walkway reaches Arnem’s ears, and he turns to see that Visimar and the sentek’s weary aide have reached the top of the wooden stairway. Arnem waves to the pair urgently to slow their advance. Both are confused, but Arnem cannot concern himself with it: he must hear Donner out, before Reyne does so and, very likely, is driven to violence by his brother’s condition.
“Donner, we haven’t much time—your brother approaches.”
“Reyne?” the younger Niksar gasps. “Delay him, Sentek, please—although there are certain things I must tell him, to ease my family’s burden …”
“And you shall,” Arnem says, a still greater feeling of wretched responsibility settling on his heart. “But first, you must complete your tale—what can the trysting of the pallin and a town maiden have had to do with all these other matters?”
Donner Niksar spits; this time as much in disdain as because of sickness. “Nothing, Sentek.” And instantly, Arnem recalls Visimar’
s words concerning the dead soldier: a victim, not a murderer … “The notion that we were all protecting one lovestruck member of our company simply offered the ever more unreasonable elders and their followers an easy illustration of their grievances and simple justification for their desire for vengeance: the merchants in Broken were in league with the raiders, and the army was protecting the whole lot, for payment and for the right to occasionally defile virginal country maids …” Catching his breath and taking some more water, Donner says, “Were I able to, now, I’d laugh. Kafra knows I did then. But I did try to explain the truth to them, Sentek, to make them see the absurdity of what they were asking me to believe, when we met. But they were beyond explanations, by then—at least, explanations that made any sense …”
“Yes,” Arnem replies. “I have encountered them in that mood.”
“Then you know how full of mad rage they can become—” Donner murmurs, before another coughing fit overtakes him. As he listens helplessly, Arnem thinks of one last hope to offer:
“Listen to me, Donner—I have with me a rare man of medicine, who has seen this sickness before. It is possible that he can help you.”
“I fear I am well beyond any such aid,” comes the plaintive, gasping answer.