by Caleb Carr
Suddenly, Rendulic Baster-kin notices that another figure has appeared in the room: unannounced, remarkably, by any knock or other request for admission to the chamber. In a silent, eerie manner, this figure makes its entrance through a door opposite that to the terrace. He is clad in a black hooded robe of the lightest cotton; but what should be the exposed parts of his body—the hands, feet, and face—are wrapped in white cotton bandaging, continuous save for narrow slits that reveal the eyes, nostrils, and mouth. The brief opening and closing of the door to the high tower room brings the shrieking voice below all the more clearly into Baster-kin’s sanctum, and he hears the cruelly suffering woman shout distinctly, “What is it …? No! I will not, I have told you, unless my husband comes and puts the cup to my lips himself, I will not …!” Then, as the black-clad figure closes the iron-banded oak door, the sound fades somewhat, and Baster-kin sighs in relief, before turning back to the table, obscuring Lady Arnem’s note with his hands, and leaning upon the maps and correspondence as if he had been studying them closely.
“Well?” the Merchant Lord says quietly, in a strangely uncertain tone: disdain is present, and brusqueness, too, but something else tempers these harder sentiments, creating an opening for both tolerance and—what is it? Affection? Surely not.
The voice that speaks in reply, although it attempts discretion, is helplessly unpleasant: words poorly enunciated, accompanied by bursts of spittle that escape from one corner of the mouth, and the sound itself hoarse, grating, and displeasing. “My lord,” it announces, “the infusion is being administered. The crisis should soon pass, says Healer Raban—although it would pass the quicker, he begs me inform you, should you yourself administer the drugs, and wait by her side as they take effect.”
Baster-kin only grunts in ridicule—but it is ridicule prompted by the thought of the traditional Kafran healer called Raban, and not by the messenger who brings it, that much is clear. He continues to stare at the map before him. “I trust you told that idiotic butcher that I am far too busy with matters of state to undertake a nurse’s work?” Baster-kin’s head remains determinedly still, but out of the corners of his eyes he nonetheless catches, by the light of torches held in iron sconces on the walls, a brief glimpse of the black robes and hood, as well as the white bandaging carefully wrapped around the near-useless hands, their fingers bound as one to oppose each thumb. The creature’s feet, as his lordship can more easily see without moving his head, are similarly bandaged, and shod only in soft leather sandals lined with thick lamb’s wool; but this is all Baster-kin will even glance at, for he has plainly seen this strange vision, in all its detail, before. He needs, above all, to avoid the bound face, in which the two azure eyes and the mouth are visibly surrounded by bits of deteriorating flesh marked by moist, pus-filled sores and leathery cracks in the visible skin. And yet, the voice that emerges from this pitiable human wreckage speaks, not with an air of criticism, nor even with a servant’s obsequiousness, but in a tone much like Basterkin’s: with a certain familiarity, even intimacy.
“I told Raban as much,” the voice explains. “But he bid me warn you that, if you cannot find a moment to visit with her, he will not answer for her behavior when the effects of the drugs subside.”
Baster-kin draws in a deep, weary breath. “All right. If we can make some greater sense of this business with Arnem, I shall do as Raban requests. But if not, you must simply tell my lady’s charlatan to administer more of his cursèd drugs …”
“Raban says he has already treated her with as high a dose as he considers safe. Any more, he says, and her heart will slow so that death will draw near, and perhaps overtake her.”
A part of Baster-kin would like to give voice to the passionate but silent response that is plain on his face: that it might be better for all concerned (and particularly for him) if such death did write an end to the unfortunate woman. But then duty and, perhaps, some trace of true concern abolish all such thoughts and set the jaw once more. “Very well,” is all that he answers quietly.
“There is more,” says the black-clad figure. “Lady Arnem is here, once again. As she said she would be …”
“What?” Baster-kin finally looks up at the peculiar man opposite him. “But she was not to arrive for another hour. Does Radelfer know that she is here? Has he placed her somewhere—?”
“I have taken the liberty of consulting Radelfer,” the slurring, spitting voice answers, “and it was our decision that he show Lady Arnem into the library, and keep all its doors firmly closed. I have also suggested to him that he might entertain her, for they are known to each other, and they seem to have genuine affection for one another. His service in the Talons also coincided, it seems, with at least some of the sentek’s early years in those ranks—they may have known one another then. And if any room is safe from the cries coming from the north wing, it is the library, particularly if conversation is taking place. Finally, Lady Arnem has been informed that her early arrival cannot be expected to have more than a slight effect upon your own urgent schedule.”
Baster-kin looks uneasy at this statement: another uncommon reaction to draw from him. “And how did she receive all this information?” he asks.
“I would not report that she was pleased,” the spectral figure responds. “But as I have said, she trusts Radelfer, and that trust induces her to make every effort to manifest understanding and respect. All should yet be well—or so I would hazard.”
A shadow of gratitude quickly passes over Baster-kin’s face. “Very wise, Klauqvest,” he says, suddenly and imperiously. “There remain moments when I am reminded why I spared you the fate of the Wood—and yet, when you have so little contact with properly formed persons, how is it, I wonder, that you can be so deft at dealing with them?” The rhetorical question, and the sentiment beneath it, is not meant to be as cruel as it sounds; and if it is received as malicious, the man Klauqvest exhibits no sign of it. But then, beneath so much bandaging, as well as the wafting black robe, it would be nearly impossible to distinguish one response from another …
Baster-kin shifts the position of several maps on the table, affecting a control of his own passions that is, for one who knows him as well as this Klauqvest apparently does, plainly transparent: the coming of Isadora Arnem has disordered his confidence. “And does she offer any explanation for the liberty she takes by arriving so early?” the Merchant Lord inquires.
“No, but I suspect you know the reason,” replies the moist, scratching voice. “Or, at least, the greater part of it.”
Mildly annoyed by the familiar tone of this comment, Baster-kin forgoes reprimand or argument, and proceeds directly to the source of the trouble: “The dispatch of my messages to her home,” he murmurs, nodding slowly.
“Yes, my lord,” Klauqvest replies. “Although there are other points to be considered, as well.” The master of the Kastelgerd glances up in mild surprise. “She has, it appears, received some further communication from her husband. And, while she would say nothing precise to Radelfer on the subject, I formed the impression, as I listened outside the library door, that these latest messages touched upon the same subjects as did the sentek’s latest dispatches to your lordship.” Klauqvest holds a bandaged hand—one that is more like the extremity of a shelled sea creature than it is like a man’s, as his name unkindly suggests—toward a series of lines lightly drawn on the most detailed of the maps of the city and kingdom. “Am I to assume, then, that your lordship intends to accede to Sentek Arnem’s request for emergency provisioning of his troops at the encampment he intends to establish near the river?”
Whether it is the course of the questioning being pursued by Klauqvest, or simply the man’s voice, that has grated too long on the patience of the Merchant Lord, he suddenly slams a hand down upon the table. “You are to assume nothing!” And yet, as soon as he has lost his temper, Baster-kin makes an obvious effort to regain it—another strange action by this man who usually cares little or nothing for the feelings of
his minions. “You have informed me of her presence, Klauqvest,” the master of the Kastelgerd states, through tightly set teeth. “Well and good. Now, with darkness upon us, I suggest you attend to your original task within the passageways beneath the city, and complete your inventory, continuing to pay special heed to both the quantity and condition of the grain stores, as well as the integrity of the sewers. And, given that your appearance forbids your playing any more open or constructive role in the life of this city and kingdom at this crucial hour, I should think you would be anxious to do so.”
What seems a long moment of silence passes between the two men: the gaze within Klauqvest’s eyes, whatever the state of the flesh surrounding them, remains clear and fixed upon Baster-kin’s own, in as close an expression of defiance as anyone would dare attempt before the Merchant Lord; and yet, for all the rage evident in his quivering jaw, Baster-kin neither continues his outburst nor calls for assistance. Rather, and remarkably, it is his eyes that break off the engagement first, as he flings several pieces of clearly unimportant parchment from the table, and then allows himself to sigh in something oddly like contrition. But the look in Klauqvest’s gaze never changes, as he waits for silence to return before declaring:
“Very well, then, Father—”
It is the unfortunate creature’s first misstep; and his eyes reflect vivid awareness of the error. Baster-kin looks back up as if scalded; and then, his eyes displaying less triumph than profound blending of sadness, disappointment, and anger, he strides about the table and stares hard into the strange man’s eyes. Klauqvest is fully as tall as the Merchant Lord, although he soon shies away from the older man a bit, and, as if anticipating a blow, stoops to take a few inches from that height.
“I shall see to my wife,” Baster-kin says, in an even tone. “As well as to greeting the Lady Arnem. You will remain here, for a time, before returning to those passageways beneath the city that are your only fitting home. I want answers to all my questions—” He waves a hand at the maps and charts upon the table, then draws a step or two closer to Klauqvest, who retreats yet more. “And never forget—I let you live solely to devise such answers, when it became clear that your mind was the only part of your body that Kafra had saved from your unholy origins. Yet, in so doing, I may have worsened the madness that was planted in my lady when you entered this world, and she saw, not only your true lineage, but evidence of the curse that Kafra had placed upon her soul. So never let that word escape the vile tangle that passes for your mouth.”
Klauqvest’s head finally bends in defeat. “Of course. Allow me only to apologize—my lord.”
“Keep your apologies.” Baster-kin turns toward the door, but then catches himself, in the manner of a hunting animal that has found one last way to torment his wounded prey. “But, since you mention the word—I need not ask, I suppose, just where my true son is, right now?”
“As you say—an unnecessary question,” Klauqvest responds simply. “Just as I hardly need reply that he is in the Stadium, with his fellow paragons of Kafran virtue …”
Baster-kin nods, releasing a long, dissatisfied sigh; and then he says, with continued severity: “I shall attend to him, and to the fools with whom he associates, and I shall do it soon—for upon his fate rests the only hope that Kafra has mercifully granted for the preservation of this house, this clan, and this kingdom. And you are to remember that the Wood is ever ready to receive you—as it received that misshapen creature, your sister—should you overstep yourself, should your mind cease to be of use, or, finally, should you choose to communicate with the world outside this tower and above the passageways beneath this Kastelgerd and city.”
And with that, the Merchant Lord strides out of the room, dragging the heavy oak door closed and slamming it resoundingly.
Alone in the tower chamber, Klauqvest allows his bandaged hands to drift across the documents upon the table for a moment, although he can lift them with only his thumbs and the collected fingers of each hand. Then he leans over, closely studying the maps. His movements remain slow and careful as he takes the further liberty of walking around four of the eight sides of the table, and then standing in the spot that belongs to the lord of the Kastelgerd, and sitting in the simple military camp chair that Baster-kin himself is accustomed to using. Trying to fit himself to the feel of the hard wooden arms, and the tight leather that is drawn across the seat and back of the frame, Klauqvest soon finds that his raw, painful skin will not allow it. He stands, continuing to study the maps—And as he leans over them, a droplet of some salty bodily fluid falls from the exposed portion of his face onto the parchment sheets; a droplet that Klauqvest quickly wipes away, before it can leave any hint of having existed.
Satisfied with what he sees on the detailed charts, Klauqvest moves from the table to one of the tapestry panels, studying the scene it depicts: the dramatic moment before handsome young Rendulic Baster-kin—spear in one hand, dagger in another—killed what would forever be known, throughout Broken, as “his” panther. The composition and needlework are admirable, endowing the young merchant scion with features of exaggerated courage, and giving the young panther—whose body had, in reality, already been studded with and crippled by arrows—an aspect of equally heightened ferocity and power. Klauqvest then glances down from the tapestry to the hide and head that have lain, for as long as he has lived, on the floor of the chamber; and, with pain so severe that he very nearly cries out, he leans over to stroke the beast’s lifeless head with one bandaged hand, and what seems great tenderness.
Rising, and relieved to do so without mishap, Klauqvest steps away from the remains of the panther and toward the chamber’s eastern door, which leads out onto the old parapet. He opens the door, looks up at the sky, and sees that the Moon has begun to rise. Staring at that wisp of white in the rich blue of the southeastern twilight, Klauqvest then turns and looks back inside the chamber, at a bronze relief that hangs there:
It depicts the smiling, omnipresent face of Kafra, which—unusually, for such pieces—is set atop a muscular yet lithe young body, clad in naught save a loincloth: a body, Klauqvest knows, that was modeled on Rendulic Baster-kin’s own, in the days that followed that same panther hunt that dominates all decoration in the chamber. It is the sort of unusual yet impressive image that would bring sighs of admiration and reverence from most of Broken’s citizens, should they ever be permitted to see it; but from this black-robed outcast, only scratching, misshapen sounds that might pass for some sort of laughter emerge. Klauqvest’s hooded, bandaged head turns from the Moon to the image of Kafra and back again several times; and then he lets his eyes rest on the relief, as his laughter dies away.
“Smile all you like, golden god,” Klauqvest says, fluid again rising in his throat to obscure his words. “But that deity”—he lifts a hand to indicate the rising Moon—“is having the best of you, outside these walls. And it has only begun to wax …”
{iii:}
OUT OF THE STAIRCASE that connects his private tower to the hallway of the Kastelgerd’s upper story, Rendulic Baster-kin quickly emerges, moving to the top of the broad central stairway of the residence—one of many deliberately overawing aspects of the building that visitors encounter upon entering through the structure’s high, heavy front doors. From above, his lordship sees a short, strong woman dressed in a plain gown of deep blue and bearing a towel that has been soaked in water, as well as a clay pitcher filled with the same liquid. Baster-kin suspects that the healer’s servant has been moving repeatedly up and down the stairs between the kitchens to the rear of the great hall and the second-story bedchamber in the north wing, wherein lies the stricken lady of the house, all of the evening. Standing by the railing that runs the length of the gallery’s edge and offers a commanding view of the marble-floored entryway below, Baster-kin observes as the same servant halts, runs back down the stairs to fetch a large kettle filled with hot, steaming water, and resumes her speedy errand. When she reaches the top of the stairs once more,
she catches sight of the lord of the Kastelgerd, and attempts to bow deeply, a task made difficult by the many burdens she bears. Baster-kin waves the woman off, detecting that the heated water contains a new infusion. Such is all he needs to tell him that Healer Raban’s first medicinal doses were not, in fact, sufficient to quiet Lady Baster-kin: a fact that, while unsurprising, rouses the master of the house’s ire. He makes ready to follow the servant, and to sternly chastise Raban for his half-measures: Nothing, he had warned his household servants throughout the previous two days, not a single detail must be allowed to affect or disturb my meeting with Lady Arnem, on the night I have appointed for it to take place. If this order required an increased amount of Healer Raban’s medicines to calm his lordship’s wife, then so be it; but instead, Raban has erred on caution’s side, and the consequences of that caution become even more apparent when the maid opens the door to her lady’s chamber.
Lady Baster-kin was removed to this luxurious but nonetheless remote location when her screaming fits became uncontrollable and unpredictable enough to cause her husband to worry that she might be—indeed, almost certainly would be—heard by strollers on the Way of the Faithful; whereas, facing the inner courtyard of the Kastelgerd and her husband’s solitary tower, she would torment none but his lordship—a punishment that Baster-kin has more than once wondered if he has not deserved …
“No! I will not swallow another drop, lest it be my husband’s hand that places it upon my lips! Rendulic! Tell him—”