by Caleb Carr
Again assuming the absurd pose of the orator, Veloc asks, “My lord? I fear I do not understand you—what school of history?”
“Yes,” Caliphestros says, plainly entertained. “History is, among many other things, a long war, Veloc—a war between factions, each of which is as fanatical as any army. So—are you an annalist, for example, like the great Tacitus? Or perchance you seek moral lessons in the lives of great men, as did Plutarch.” Reading utter consternation in the handsome Bane’s features, the old man tries not to laugh aloud, and queries further, “No? Perhaps you admire the books of the estimable Bede, from across the Seksent Straits. He was once a friend of mine—although I do not know if he yet lives.”
“I know none of these names, lord.” Veloc’s mask of pride, now undercut by confusion, grows naught but sillier. “And I must ask—what has history to do with books?”
“Ah,” noises Caliphestros. “So you speak the tales of history, do you, Veloc?”
The handsome Bane shrugs. “What else should a true historian do, my lord? Were history to be recorded in books, why … How should we know who put it there? Or where it originated, and what part is fact, what legend, and what mere myth? Only spoken knowledge, handed down through the generations from wise man to pupil, over and over, can offer us such integrity—should any of our number speak lies, his fellows will likely catch him at it, whereas the lies of a man who writes books will long outlive him, with no one left to tell of his deceptions!”
Stroking his beard slowly, Caliphestros studies Veloc for a few silent moments. “He is either more intelligent than he sounds and appears,” the old man muses quietly, “or wholly unaware that he has grazed a deep truth. And I am not certain which I find the more disconcerting …” Coming out of this reverie, Caliphestros fixes his grey gaze on Keera again. “And so, my sharp-eyed girl—you saw something in Stasi’s face, before we were interrupted. I believe so, at any rate.”
“I may be wrong, of course, lord,” Keera carefully murmurs. “But—it is a thing I have noticed, a thing that certain animals, even though they be as different as man to panther, can sense in each other. The loss—the death—of a loved one. Loved ones.”
Caliphestros’s brow ripples suddenly with profound sorrow. “You have lost children?”
“Not—yet,” Keera answers softly. “But … my husband. The only man I have ever loved.” She nods quickly, without turning, in the direction of her companions. “Loved, that is, as a wife should—with affection, admiration, and—”
There follows a pause, which Caliphestros fills for the modest Keera: “And desire, my girl. Eh?” At a quick nod from her, the old man elaborates: “There is no shame in it, Keera, nor embarrassment, save for those who have never known such love. Was it the illness that has struck your people?”
Keera’s lips tremble, much as the old man’s did, only an instant earlier; and in her desperation to maintain her dignity, she lets the fact that Caliphestros seems to already know of the plague in Okot pass. “He—he was taken, just a few days ago. The pestilence has come to several parts of the town we call Okot. Two of my children are also—” Keera fights back the tide of weeping that is rising in her breast and throat; but a lone tear finally escapes, to fall heavily upon her cheek, and drift down it.
The panther sets her pointed, tufted ears sharply forward, and picks her proud head up. But her green eyes fix, not on the forest about the camp, but on what seems to be Keera’s face. Or is it her throat? Veloc and Heldo-Bah ask each other with quick, worried glances. Then, leaving Caliphestros on his perch, and in one almost impossibly agile movement, the panther almost pours herself from the elm to the ground, upon which she begins to walk softly toward the Bane female.
As Heldo-Bah covers his face in panic and horror, Veloc quickly lifts his short bow over his shoulder and nocks an arrow, all his pompous, foolish posturing vanishing as he executes the expert motion. He then draws the bow, aiming at the panther’s chest.
“Keera!” he cries. “Move aside—run, I have no shot!”
“Lower your bow, historian!” Caliphestros orders, raising an arm and outstretching a hand in seeming threat. “Such foolhardy aggression can only anger, not harm, both my companion and myself!”
Keera, who has been staring into the eyes of the beast, only nods and holds the splayed fingers of one hand out behind her. “It’s all right, Veloc. Put the bow away …”
{ii:}
“I WILL NOT PUT IT AWAY,” Veloc says, raising his outstretched bow arm to take aim, now, at Caliphestros. “If I cannot hit the animal, old man, then you will suffer for it, unless you truly have charms that can stop an arrow!”
Caliphestros sighs once. “I should hardly be much of a ‘sorcerer,’ if I did not, historian.” The old man seems no longer concerned, now that Veloc’s arms have moved, despite the arrow’s threatening his own life. Seeing this, Veloc’s draw on his bow begins to relax. “You have some little bit of your sister’s wisdom, then,” the old man goes on. “Good. For you have nothing to fear, in this …” He keeps the same hand held out, but turns the palm upward as he indicates Keera and the panther.
As he allows the draw on his powerful bow to ease further, Veloc stares in bewilderment at the masterful huntress who is approaching Keera: remarkably, there is no malice or hunger in the animal’s expression, and her body betrays no hint that she is stalking. Although confused and a little uneasy, Keera stands her ground well; and when her face is level with the panther’s, there being but a few feet between them, she can see that the cat means her no harm.
“You have a way with creatures, I see, Keera—and they with you,” Caliphestros says quietly. “Yes … a great gift. I know only one other like you …” But the old man can speak no more of the matter, apparently; and his jaw sets, trembling just enough to indicate a battle raging inside him.
The panther’s nose, deep red and looking as tough as hide, nonetheless is delicacy itself when it moves to a spot just a few inches from Keera’s face—close enough for the Bane tracker to hear the surprisingly gentle sniffing and whistling sounds, as well as the short, ever so short breaths of air, that escape from it.
Having found the precise spot on Keera’s face where the single tear fell, the white panther sniffs ever more delicately at the small trace of salt and moisture that remain; and then she reveals her rough, pink tongue. Even as her breath speaks of the kills she has made only recently, the barest tip of that long organ licks the tear and its track gently away from Keera’s face …
Keera trembles throughout her body; but the quivering calms as trust grows along with it, and the beginning of a bond is formed. When the tracker starts to lift a hand, she glances up at Caliphestros, as if to ask his leave to touch the creature.
“I think you will be safe, now,” the old man answers, reassured by Stasi’s actions that he has been right to trust these three Bane, and especially this young Bane woman.
Keera, meanwhile, runs one small hand along the panther’s arching, solidly muscular neck, and then her fingers move up to scratch behind the animal’s ear. At that, the panther begins to purr once more, and to lick Keera’s face with less delicacy, yet more delight.
“It would seem,” Caliphestros says, “that Stasi has understood you precisely, Keera.”
“ ‘Stasi,’ ” the Bane woman murmurs, smiling in friendship and still caressing and scratching the panther’s head and neck. “What does it mean?”
“It means that she is a creature of rebirth,” Caliphestros replies. “Of resurrection—as you will soon discover …” He laughs affectionately when he sees the panther put one paw to Keera’s left shoulder and the other on her right, keeping most of her weight on her hind legs, and still delicately cleaning the Bane woman’s face, and then her neck and hair: precisely as she would if Keera were a cub of her own. In the midst of this seemingly impossible moment, only Veloc continues to look momentarily alarmed, but Caliphestros dismisses the Bane’s brotherly concern with a wave of his hand. “
You need not fear, Veloc,” he calls. “She is only making a new friend—and a new friend who doubtless offers far more amusement than the sole companion she has had these ten years.”
“Ten years?” Heldo-Bah echoes. “You have been in that cave with this beast for ten years? Scant wonder you’re mad, old man.”
“Heldo-Bah!” Veloc scolds.
“Oh, calm yourself, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah replies. “If he could have transformed us into toads, he would have done so when you threatened to kill him.”
“You suppose yourself as cunning as you are repulsive, eh, forager?” Caliphestros calls to Heldo-Bah. “Well, I warn you—put aside any belief that, simply because I am not all the things that fearful, ignorant men say, I am therefore wholly without—arts …” Heldo-Bah’s expression changes with its characteristic speed, back to youthfully apprehensive; but Caliphestros’s next words are calculated to put him, as well as the other two Bane, more at their ease: “Although there is no reason that those who shall now become our common enemies in Broken need ever learn anything I have told or will tell you about either my ‘arts’ or their limits.”
Keera glances up at the old man. “You speak of our undertaking a ‘common’ endeavor against Broken, my lord. If you have been listening to our argument for any length of time, you know that we have come to ask for your help against the Tall, who, it seems, have at last determined to destroy our tribe, through methods as horrible as they are cowardly. Do your words mean that you intend to give us such assistance?”
“Give?” Caliphestros puzzles with the word for a moment. “Certainly, we shall make common cause, Keera. But please—let us undertake further discussion in the home I share with Stasi, or rather, the home which she has kindly shared with me these many years.” Making a few clicking, whistling noises, Caliphestros attempts to summon the panther, who by now is on her back upon the forest floor, allowing Keera to softly caress her belly. “Come, Stasi!” the old man calls out. “We have much to do, and you must first get me out of this tree …”
Gathering up his various crutches, which have been hidden among the branches of the elm, Caliphestros waits until the panther bounds back to the tree and up into its branches. She positions herself so that the old man can easily regain his customary position astride her back, just behind her enormously powerful shoulders, and then she carefully bears him back down to the ground.
“My compliments, Lord Caliphestros,” Veloc says. “You have trained the animal well.”
“And you,” the old man answers, settling more comfortably onto Stasi’s back, now that the astounding pair are on the ground, “are an ignorant ass, Veloc, if you believe that so proud and strong-willed a being as a Davon panther—and most especially this Davon panther—can be ‘trained’ by such feeble creatures as men. Every step, every decision she takes, she determines for herself. There are no masters or servants, here, Veloc—remember that, if you want to survive the great undertaking upon which we now embark.”
Heldo-Bah releases a scoffing grunt in the direction of his friend. “You bootlicking fool …” He then lifts his chin toward Caliphestros’s crutches. “What are those mechanisms you have, old man?” he asks, even a little haughtily, now. “They don’t bespeak any great wizardry.”
As he straps himself onto his platform and single “leg,” then uses his crutches to get upright and stand free of Stasi’s support, Caliphestros eyes Heldo-Bah just menacingly enough to emphasize his next point: “I may in fact be old, forager, and half the man I once was; but I do not stink to the Heavens, nor do I assume pompous airs with new acquaintances whose true powers I have not yet divined, and whose help I desperately need. Therefore—call me anything save ‘my lord,’ from this point onward, and you’ll know the less friendly things that a ‘sorcerer’ and a panther can do …”
Hobbling to the spot where Keera stands and appearing momentarily concerned, Caliphestros lifts one hand from a crutch and quickly points at Veloc and Heldo-Bah. “I have much equipment and other supplies, Keera, that must make the trip to Okot with us—but I believe that you and your brother can manage what Stasi and I cannot.” Pausing, the old man speaks in greater confidence. “Is it really necessary that we let the fool, there, live? Or, if we must let him live, can we not send him ahead of us to Okot?”
“He will complain, my lord,” Keera answers. “But he has the ability to carry both delicate and weighty goods. And, in the event that we meet any scouting parties come out from Broken, or our own Outragers …”
Caliphestros nods, not impressed, but acquiescent. “I see—a man of violent talents, is he? And looks the part. Very well, then. Let us at least get a good meal into our bellies, while I pack the necessary supplies, and then a few hours’ sleep upon goose down, before we begin. Bane foragers, if I am not mistaken, prefer to travel by night, as does Stasi. And so, we shall depart when the Moon is well up. We have a most important errand to attend to before we make for Okot.”
“Goose down and good food?” says Heldo-Bah. “I like you better already, O Lord and Mighty Caliphestros!”
He is about to clap a good-natured hand on Caliphestros’s shoulder; but the old man turns, making the foolish forager as stone with but a glance. “Touching my person, along with sarcasm, is to be included among those things in which you indulge only at peril of your life, Heldo-Bah.” Looking away once more, the old man murmurs, “An absurd name—I can but assume that the person who gave it to you intended it as a grim jest.”
“And most of my life has been just such, my lord,” Heldo-Bah replies, at which Caliphestros cannot help but chuckle. He has never suffered fools with grace; but those who, in some deep recess of their souls, know the extent and truth of their own foolishness, can often be a different matter, and he begins to suspect that Heldo-Bah is one such.
Keera speaks with continuing respect, but boldly. “But, my lord, what errand could be so important as to keep us from making directly for Okot?”
The old man reaches into the tunic that he wears beneath his robe, and draws out what seems a collection of flowers wrapped about a shining stick. He urges the confused Keera to approach, but she hesitates: along with her companions, she can see the mysterious gleam of gold among the blossoms and greenery, and Keera knows that sorcerous charms and spells can be cast with far humbler elements than gold and such wildflowers as these. At further and more insistent coaxing, however, the tracker finally draws close to Caliphestros—and is amazed to find that he is clutching a golden arrow precisely like those that the three foragers saw in the body of the dead soldier at the Fallen Bridge, and that around this arrow are entwined strands of moss, as well as the stems and petals of several particularly remarkable and renownèd flowers. The first are tightly formed bundles of yellow-green, their general form like the smallest of fir tree cones, but their texture and color far more vivid and full of life; the second is a small, star-shaped flower of the lightest yellow that grows in ample bunches; and last, there is a group of large, full but delicate flowers on thick stems, with shell-like purple petals and yellow anthers in a tight bunch at their cores.
Keera points first at the arrow. “But—that is—”
“Yes,” says the old man, nodding, “taken from a body that, to judge by the look on your face, the three of you came upon, and recently. The moss that my—my messenger fetched up with it grows on the rocks and the trees above the Cat’s Paw, particularly at those spots where the natural bridges lie, for there, the rock formations are most interspersed with soil to give the trees life enough to grow so tall. I suspect, in this case, that the arrow was taken near what your people call the Fallen Bridge.”
Keera nods. “Yes,” she murmurs, looking back to her brother, and seeing that he and Heldo-Bah are exchanging worried expressions.
“You need not fear it,” Caliphestros tells Keera of the arrow. “The disease of the victim cannot linger upon it, certainly not since I cleaned it in a solution of lye and quicklime. Take it, then, and tell me what the flowers tel
l you …”
Keera grasps the shaft of the arrow, her body tingling; but the sensation stops, and her face grows puzzled, as she studies the flowers. “These two are no mystery.” She indicates the smaller flowers: the clustered yellow-green, and then the yellow stars. “The first are mountain hops, which we cultivate in the Wood for trade to the Tall. They use it to brew a special beer, a drink which drives their young men mad: they drink it in the Stadium in Broken, whether they participate in or merely watch the games there—and they crave it so desperately that we have been able to trade sacks of the hop flowers for instruments that our own healers require. These prettier blooms,” the tracker continues, her finger trembling only slightly as it points to the star-shaped flowers, “are woad, which can be used to make blue dye, but also as a medicine for growths, especially inside the body. Only if the healer is wise, however, and knows the amount to employ.” Caliphestros’s pleasure at Keera’s knowledge remains evident—and yet, she notices, something in his expression also indicates that he has expected no less from her; and so she attempts to speak with more confidence: “But these purple flowers—they are meadow bells, and they are not found in Davon Wood, nor along the Cat’s Paw, nor indeed anywhere, save the most fertile vales and plains. In Broken, they grow only in the Meloderna valley, that I have ever heard.”
“And their properties?” Caliphestros adds.
“They have many,” Keera answers. “To ease the pains of women, and to ensure healthy births; indeed, to ease all pains of the stomach and the abdomen, as well as those of the bones, especially the spine; and to treat the most serious fevers.”
“All true,” says Caliphestros. “A formidable medicinal flower, especially given its delicacy and beauty. Now observe the stems of each plant—what do they tell you?”
Keera carefully studies the stems. “They were taken with a blade, certainly,” she answers. “The hops and woad you might have gathered yourself, my lord, here on the mountain—but how did you come by the meadow bells? And the arrow, as well?”