by Caleb Carr
“But you do grow still, now,” Rendulic says, as soothingly as he can manage. “Raban’s medicines make you so—you must allow them to do their work.”
“Yet I would not have it so, Rendulic—I would remain awake, to be with you, to lie with you, to be the wife I once was—”
“We are none of us what we once were,” Rendulic answers with a small smile, putting a hand to her brow and using his fingers to comb the long, moist strands of her black hair back on her head—and pretending, for the moment, that he cannot see that the ulcerations in the skin of the neck, as well as the lumps beneath the surface of the chest, are daily growing larger.
Wiping at drops of sweat that have appeared on her brow without being aware of the movement, Chen-lun answers, “The night is so warm—all nights seem so warm, this year; yet not so warm as the nights we passed in this bedchamber, when first we were betrothed.”
“Indeed, wife,” Baster-kin says, moving to get to his feet. “And if you are a calm and obedient patient, that warmth may someday fill this chamber once more …”
Chen-lun looks suddenly alarmed at the thought of Rendulic’s leaving. “You return to your duties, my lord?”
“I do,” Rendulic replies, now standing and releasing her hand. “With the greatest reluctance … But you must have peace, my lady; and the enemies of this kingdom never cease to plot against us.”
Chen-lun’s countenance grows a bit more pleased. “They say you have dispatched an army against the Bane, at last?”
“We have, wife,” Rendulic answers, surprised at the question. “And with Kafra’s aid,” he says, stepping away and toward the door, “their defeat and your recovery will come at one and the same time. And then, we shall indeed know happiness, once more. Therefore, be calm—and sleep, my lady; sleep …”
Chen-lun only nods for a moment; for the drugs she has been given are by now overwhelming her senses. “But do you never wonder, Rendulic?” she murmurs weakly, as Ju appears again, to neaten her bed coverings. “If all that we have endured in the years since has not been a result of it—of sending a second child to the Wood? She was so young … and had been so beautiful … Loreleh …”
Standing in the doorway, Rendulic Baster-kin watches as his wife is overcome by slumber: a far more dangerous slumber than she, or Ju, or anyone, save her husband and Healer Raban, knows. And he can feel his own features harden as he replies silently, Yes, Loreleh was beautiful—until she was no longer …
Finally free of his duties of state and family, Rendulic Baster-kin leaves his wife’s bedchamber, pulls a pair of black leather gauntlets from his belt, and strides purposefully toward the great staircase of the Kastelgerd, pausing briefly when he passes a large mirror. Satisfied with the image before him, he proceeds, pausing once more behind the first column of those that run from the front edge of the gallery to the ceiling it shares with the great hall, and peers downstairs:
She is here, he realizes, as two figures come into view at the base of the grand staircase; actually here, within these walls …
Rendulic Baster-kin finds that his blood runs faster and hotter as he begins his descent, and the fine, healthy woman in the gown of green comes into clearer view. In her arms she holds a cloak, of the same color that she was accustomed to wearing when she and Gisa were treating him; and one that (as Baster-kin did not know then, but is aware now) he could insist she cast off, if he were to be scrupulous about Kafran law. For it is the dark blue-green cloak with which healers of the old faith, in Broken and surrounding kingdoms, identified themselves to the people. Of course, it could be pure coincidence that Lady Arnem favors this color; but ignorance of the God-King Saylal’s deep strictures against any hint of the old ways among his people is no excuse for flouting them …
“Lady Arnem,” his lordship calls, in as courteous yet commanding a tone as he can manage, still pulling on his impressive gauntlets; although he fears that his voice betrays too much excitement, when he does say the name, and he tries hard to calm both his heart and his voice as her face—that face about which he has wondered for so many years—turns up to meet his gaze.
By Kafra, he declares to himself in the half-light; how beautiful she still is …
“I hope you will forgive my delay in greeting you,” he says, still worried about the tone of his voice. “Unavoidable matters of state and household …” Reaching her, he takes her hand, kissing it more lightly than he would like.
And, in an instant, he realizes that his plan, his great hopes and secret arrangements, will be far more magnificent than even he had dared dream. She has aged, without question; the maiden who was just reaching the height of her charms when he knew her so many years ago has matured, as the mother of five should, and wears small amounts of face paint to hide this fact.
“My lord,” Isadora says, bending her knees and dipping her body in a most graceful manner, then standing again to face him. “I can only imagine, given all that is happening, how busy you must be—and I thank you for taking the time to see me.” Then she smiles: it is the same radiant smile that she possessed as a maiden, that much has not been changed by the intervening years. And she even laughs gently, quietly, just once, with what he takes for affection. “Forgive me,” she says. “It is—a shock, that is all. But a happy one. To see, so closely, that you have become—”
“The man you hoped, I trust,” Rendulic replies, pleased with the control of his own spirits and voice, the sense of careless good cheer, that he now achieves, and offering Lady Isadora his arm. “For you were instrumental in that formation. And so if you are not pleased”—he turns his head to one side in mock severity—“you must look to yourself, I fear.”
“No, no,” Lady Arnem replies, taking his arm and tossing her head lightly, so that those still-golden tresses float away from her head, as if they are wisps of some magic, celestial fire. “No displeasure. I am impressed, that is all, and that credit you must give to yourself. And to Radelfer”—she indicates the seneschal, who walks several paces behind them—“who always guarded your safety, as well as my own. And, in addition to all his other services,” she continues, more unsteadily, yet hopefully, “he has put my fears to rest, concerning any difficulty that there might be upon our meeting.”
“I should not have thought that you would have required Radelfer for such assurance,” Baster-kin replies. “But that is only one of many things that we can and ought to discuss …” Ever more delighted that the meeting is going so well, Rendulic adds quickly, “Among them your own concerns about your family, I understand. Come—let us return to my library, where we can determine all.”
Lady Arnem, however, stops before the imposing doorway to the silent library, and her face suddenly turns far more grave, as she looks to Rendulic Baster-kin. “Although I have been much impressed, my lord, by that chamber and its contents during the time that I have awaited your arrival, may I suggest that we instead discuss all such matters as we proceed to the remarkable and alarming discovery that I have made along the southwest wall of the city? For I believe that I can say, with no exaggeration, that there is no precedent for either it, or for the danger it may pose to the safety of Broken itself.”
Baster-kin’s smile shrinks, but not out of displeasure: he had expected the former nurse and healer’s apprentice who had played the key role in his own recovery as a youth to speak immediately of his recent communication concerning her son, and of her worries concerning his entrance into the royal and sacred service; yet instead she has spoken, first and, apparently, most urgently, of the safety of the city, as he would expect the best of patriots to do. So impressed is he by this unexpected arrangement of priorities, that he is immediately inclined to oblige her request—just as Radelfer, when Lady Arnem originally told him her story, had thought his master would be.
As for Lady Arnem herself, she in fact is most vitally concerned with her son Dalin’s fate. But when Isadora followed the woman Berthe to her squalid home deep in the Fifth District earlier this evenin
g, to determine the nature and cause of her husband’s illness, she not only discovered a danger to the city: she found a tool with which to sway and, if necessary, coerce the Merchant Lord into delaying any determination concerning Dalin, at least until Sixt returns from his campaign …
“I see,” Lord Baster-kin at length replies, in slow appreciation of what he believes is taking place. “Your husband’s faithful nature and service would seem to have healed much of the anger bred by the fate of your own parents that I recall your expressing, so many years ago. Commendable, Lady Arnem. Radelfer?” The Merchant Lord turns toward his friend and counselor, still seeing, to his amazement, that Radelfer’s expression of amused disbelief is yet present. “Have a litter brought round at once, Seneschal, for Lady Arnem and myself. We must determine just what it is that has roused such creditable alarm in her spirit. And assemble four or five of your most able men, as well. It has become difficult enough to get the supposed Merchant Lord’s Guard to even enter the Fifth District, much less to rely on them for protection.”
“I shall be pleased to accompany you in your litter, of course, my lord,” Isadora Arnem says. “Although I have my own outside, manned by two of my family’s guards, as well as my eldest son, whose father insists he accompany me on any nocturnal business I may need to conduct in his absence.”
A telling look of disappointment passes across Lord Baster-kin’s features, but he is quick to replace it with somewhat forced enthusiasm: “Splendid! I shall be pleased to meet the scion of what I understand to be quite a large and spirited family.” Rendulic regrets the statement almost at once; for he has betrayed a longstanding interest in the clan Arnem that he had not wished the Lady Isadora to think existent. And, equally unfortunately, he need not turn to sense that Radelfer has detected the same concern in his lordship. “Your son may follow in your litter, then, while, perhaps with Radelfer walking beside for safety’s sake, you and I use the time in my own conveyance to investigate the full range of your concerns—safely surrounded by a larger number of guards.” As Lady Isadora nods gratefully, Baster-kin turns to Radelfer. “Well? You have your orders, Seneschal …”
{vii:}
WHEN LORD BASTER-KIN EMERGES from his Kastelgerd at Isadora Arnem’s side, they pause for a moment at the top of the wide stone stairs that lead down from the building’s portico to see Dagobert—in his father’s armor and surcoat—engaging in harmless but instructive and quietly amusing swordplay with, by turns, the family’s two bulger guards, who, in their black-haired and bearded enormity, make a particularly unlikely sight, here at the terminus of the Way of the Faithful.
“That is your eldest?” Lord Baster-kin asks, regarding Dagobert with an admiring, almost wishful aspect.
“Yes,” Lady Arnem replies, surprised at how kindly his lordship seems as he watches the scene below him. “Wearing his father’s old armor, I fear, according to the pact that he made with my husband concerning my safety in the city.”
“Why ‘fear’ such a thing?” Baster-kin asks. “It shows every admirable virtue, for one of his age. Does he frequent the Stadium?”
“No, my lord,” Isadora answers uncertainly. “His father’s influence again, I fear—Dagobert would rather spend his free hours in the Fourth District, among the soldiers.”
“Count yourself lucky,” Baster-kin replies. “Too many of our noble youths forgo their duties in the army for the false thrill of playacting in the Stadium. May I meet him?” His lordship starts down the stairs, then pauses, again offering Isadora his arm.
“I—of course, my lord.” Isadora then calls out: “Dagobert! If I may interrupt your clowning about—” And, at the sound of her voice, the guards take up their positions at the litter, standing at most respectful attention when they see whom their mistress is with. Dagobert, for his part, sheathes his marauder sword, does his best to order his armor, surcoat, and hair, and then climbs the stairs as her mother and her host descend them, so that the three meet somewhere in between top and bottom; her son’s every move, Isadora observes, seems modeled on her husband’s, as if he would live up to the responsibility of wearing his father’s kit now more than ever.
“Dagobert,” Isadora says evenly, “this is Lord Baster-kin, who has asked to meet you.”
Dagobert snaps his body absolutely rigid, and then, to his mother’s profound shock, brings his right fist to his breast in sharp salute. “My lord,” the youth says, just a little too loudly to reflect true ease with either the gesture or the situation.
“I appreciate your respect, Dagobert,” Lord Baster-kin says, continuing to escort Isadora down the stairs. “But you may rest easy. I am not quite the fearsome beast that some make me out to be. You do your father’s armor justice, young man—how long until we can expect to see you actually in the ranks?”
Dagobert turns his eyes, ever so briefly, on his mother, and then faces the Lord of the Merchants’ Council again. “As soon as I am of age, my lord. My father would have me train and serve for a time, and then take a junior position on his staff.”
Isadora’s eyes widen with anger: this is another fact of which neither her husband nor her son has bothered to inform her.
“Excellent, excellent.” Baster-kin catches sight of his own, much larger and grander litter approaching, carried by four of Radelfer’s youngest household guards. “Have your men fall in behind my litter, Dagobert,” Baster-kin says. “For if there is trouble in the deeper parts of the Fifth, I would have my men face it first—I can always find more guards, or my seneschal can, while your family seems”—Baster-kin gives the bulger guards a slight smile—“quite attached to these apparently capable men …” At that, Dagobert watches his mother and the Merchant Lord step through the rich fabric that curtains the well-cushioned seating of the litter.
Within that larger and far more comfortable means of transport, his lordship does his very best to play the pleasant and concerned host, grateful for Isadora’s help in the past and now concerned with whatever threat to Broken it is that she has discovered along the southwest wall of the city. She will offer no specifics, saying that the sight of the mysterious occurrence will speak far more eloquently than any description she can give. She is also very clearly anxious to first discuss what arrangements the Grand Layzin and the Merchant Lord are making for the resupply of her husband’s force of Talons, which she insists must be carried out before he is headstrong enough to commence an attack against the Bane without all the supplies he needs. For his part, Rendulic Baster-kin offers comforting statements, one after another, assuring Lady Arnem that if the other merchants of the kingdom will not support the attack, he himself will authorize use of the central amounts of supplies that are contained in the vast array of secret storage supplies that lie beneath the city.
Isadora is genuinely mollified by all these assurances, believing, for the moment, that Rendulic Baster-kin’s boyhood romantic preoccupation with her has transformed into a deep sense of adult gratitude, something she had not expected; but Radelfer, as he walks beside the litter, is growing increasingly uneasy, a feeling that began when his master and Isadora met in the Kastelgerd; for the extent of Rendulic’s disingenuousness has gone far beyond playacting during this meeting, and smacks more of a man who believes he can use the present difficulties to some advantage. But what “advantage” that might be, Radelfer has yet to determine.
The party’s journey into the worst part of the city begins when they pass through the gateway in the stone wall that separates the Fifth District from the other, more respectable parts of Broken; and their further trip toward what is certainly the most terrible neighborhood in that already vile district begins as well as any such undertaking can be expected to, primarily because the mere sight of Lord Baster-kin’s litter—common enough in the other districts of the city, but remarkable here—followed by Isadora’s well-known conveyance, signals to even the most addled minds and depraved citizens along the Path of Shame the beginning of momentous events in the Fifth. The presence of so
many armed guards, meanwhile, provides a seemingly absolute check against the inclination to mischief that is always rife among the more enterprising, if criminal, souls who lurk in the darkest recesses of the district, particularly as one moves away from its stone boundary and toward the dark shadows cast by the city walls. This inclination toward thievery and murder is one that runs as deep in such minds as does their fellow residents’ appetite for dissipation, fornication, and the production of filth, all amply revealed in the gutters and sewer grates of the Fifth’s every street. These sickening rivulets are the source of a stench that every minute grows ever more offensive, and the pieces of refuse that block those streams and prevent their serving their purpose become steadily larger and more hideous. Among these terrible sights one can find objects so sickening and foolish as to seem remarkable: sacks of vegetables and grains, rotted and worm-ridden enough that not even starving souls will touch them; enormous piles of every form of human refuse and waste, bodily and otherwise; and, most horrifying of all, the occasional cloth-bound package that bears the unmistakable, bloody shape of a human infant, either miscarried close to its time or disposed of in the simplest manner possible, and perhaps mercifully so: for it will be spared, first, the privations of the Fifth District, and later, entry (by no choice of its own) into the increasingly mysterious service of the God-King in the Inner City, where, even among the residents of the Fifth, the seemingly inexhaustible need for young boys and girls is the subject of steadily greater, if quiet, speculation …
“It seems strange to me,” Lord Baster-kin says, glancing through the break in the curtain on his side of the litter as he holds the edge of his cloak to his face, blocking as much as possible the stench rising from the gutters close beneath the litter, “that, after all we went through in a very different sort of place than this—”