by Caleb Carr
“I should hope not,” Isadora replies. “For this ‘insurrection,’ as your own eyes can tell you, is largely one of children.”
“I have determined as much,” the man answers, nodding. “And will report it to the other commanders of our other regular legions, who will doubtless wish, like me, to know more of just why we have been dispatched here.”
“And your immediate instructions?” Isadora presses.
“Are simple enough: citizens of the district may exit the city through the South Gate, but no one is to be allowed to enter the city through it. Nor to interfere with the completion of the wall at the head of the Path of Shame.”
“You realize,” Isadora replies, “that your actions could be seen as those of enemies, Gerfrehd—not of fellow subjects.”
The sentek is slow in answering, finally doing so with a rather inscrutable smile. “I am aware of as much, my lady. Just as I am aware that yours could be seen as the actions of rebellious subjects, rather than loyal ones.”
But for Isadora, after a lifetime of close contact with soldiers, the smile is not difficult to understand at all; and she holds out a hand to the children that surround her aging veterans, standing at their best approximation of attention. “Well, Sentek—I say again, here are your ‘rebellious subjects.’ There will be little glory in subduing them.”
At this, Sentek Gerfrehd almost seems to chuckle quietly, and he replies, “No, my lady. Any more than there is such glory to be had fighting alongside the Merchant Lord’s Personal Guard.”
“And so?” Isadora asks. Her boldness in speaking thus to a sentek of the regular army has made many of the terrified adults about her ashamed of their fear, and they begin to move forward to surround her and stand by their children.
“And so we will wait, my lady,” Sentek Gerfrehd calls. “For we take our orders, as you know, from the God-King, the Grand Layzin, and your husband, in such order. The merchants are not our masters.”
Isadora nods once, approvingly. “And so we, too, will wait, Sentek,” she says. “And see what actions your superiors force upon us.”
“It would seem we await the same things, then, my lady,” Gerfrehd replies.
“Indeed,” Isadora states; and with that, she nods and moves away from the wall, subtly leaning upon Dagobert for support, and offering as much encouragement to those around her as she can.
But that effort is mitigated by one question that will not leave her mind, as she walks back to her home, despite the fact that she cannot voice it to the citizens around her: yet as she looks above those citizens, above even the soldiers on the wall, and, soon, from the safety of her second-floor bedroom, toward the edge of Davon Wood, as it becomes faintly visible in the far distance, she murmurs:
“And what orders or signs will you, my husband, understand as offering the same evidence that matters are far from correct or well at home, and require your return to put them right …?”
{xi:}
SOON AFTER ORDERING the city’s masons to work through the night to finish the work of sealing the Fifth District off from the rest of Broken by walling in the gateway at the head of the Path of Shame, Lord Baster-kin orders his litter to return to his Kastelgerd, while he and Radelfer journey humbly afoot to the High Temple. Radelfer waits without as his lordship enters the Sacristy, for it is here that Basterkin must brief the Grand Layzin on the most recent developments concerning what are in fact his own and the Layzin’s plans for the seemingly ill-fated Fifth District: plans that represent the second part of a long-schemed strategy to reassert and ensure the kingdom of Broken’s strength in the years to come. (The Layzin is unaware of Baster-kin’s private intentions concerning Isadora Arnem, which the Merchant Lord considers every bit as important to the health of the state as the destruction of both the Bane and the Fifth District.)
The intelligence that the Merchant Lord brings to the Layzin is encouraging: the prospect of besieging the Fifth has brought out in his Guard an unexpected enthusiasm, if not discipline, particularly now that the regular army is in disarray, with its commander and elite troops gone and no standing orders from Sixt Arnem that might interfere with Basterkin’s plots in place. The Guardsmen’s enthusiasm has been further enhanced by the Merchant Lord’s having revealed, prior to his departure from the Fifth District gate for the High Temple, a written order giving both the sealing of the wall and the ensuing siege of the district royal sanction, sanction demonstrated by the appearance of the God-King’s personal seal upon the document. And, now that he effectively controls all official correspondence flowing in and out of the city (including and especially Isadora Arnem’s), Baster-kin believes that no future orders contradicting this rare and extraordinary royal edict can or will be received by the commanders of the home khotors of the regular army; and they will therefore have no choice but to obediently (if, in some cases, less than enthusiastically) support the undertakings of Merchant Lord’s Guard. In the eastern provinces, meanwhile, the Talons will be at first weakened and then destroyed by the illness that is being carried down Broken’s mountain and toward the Meloderna, first by Killen’s Run, and then by the Cat’s Paw: an illness that Baster-kin believes he has coerced Isadora Arnem, by using the lives of her children as a weapon, into working with Kafran engineers to eradicate within the city, thereby eliminating it throughout the kingdom (although that eradication will, tragically, occur too late to change the fate of the Talons and their commander).
Thus, to hear Baster-kin tell it, this evening has been full of developments that offer hope to his kingdom, his ruler, and his faith—as well as to his clan, although this bit of triumphant news the Merchant Lord must continue to keep private. But open expression of any such triumph is unnecessary: the Merchant Lord has so much encouragement to offer the Grand Layzin, as he stands upon the latter’s dais in the Sacristy and explains in detail just what all the commotion within the city signifies for Broken’s royal retinue, as well as for its most eminent citizens, that he quickly assumes an almost heroic aspect, one that he feels he must temper:
“It had been my hope, Eminence,” Baster-kin ultimately declares, with false regret, “that if I gave Lady Arnem an honest account of how the pestilence that both she and we have discovered to be at work in the Fifth District, as well as locations as far east as Daurawah—a sickness that remains, almost certainly, the work of the Bane—she would urge her husband to return home at once, in order both to organize a defensive force to take the place of Sentek Gledgesa’s doomed Ninth Legion and to oversee the cleansing by fire of the Arnem family’s portion of the city. Yet such remains her strange allegiance to her district, as well as her bizarre apprehension that the priests of Kafra are purchasing or simply abducting its children, that she places the safety of its residents—for in truth, one could not call them citizens—above any concerns for her husband. To be frank, I believe that she has grown used to a position of power in the district, and will not surrender it until she is sharply reminded of what she owes to both the God-King and to Broken itself. In short, she can be brought back to a useful life, Eminence, of this I am certain, but not until she has been thus humbled.”
“And you are willing to undertake the task of forcibly returning her to the path of obedience and faith, my lord?” the Layzin says, removing the clasp that holds his golden hair at the back of his neck. “The God-King would not demand it of you, for you have already been tireless in stemming the waves of misfortune that have descended upon our people.”
“I suspected such royal and divine generosity, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies, working hard to keep his eagerness to “humble” Isadora Arnem from becoming plain. “Yet the woman is too important to this undertaking, she possesses too many strengths and gifts, to allow less than careful treatment—I know this from the experience I myself had with her as a youth. And so, I will undertake it. In the case of the Talons, however …” Baster-kin holds his arms aloft in seeming helplessness, piling deception upon deception. “Their laudable zeal to contin
ue their campaign to destroy the Bane, despite my most recent warnings to Yantek Arnem of the newfound dangers they face—warnings that have still yet to be answered—confirm the tragic irony that they are men condemned by their own zeal. They will die soon, if they are not in fact dead already; and so, I believe we must look to our commanders within the city to train a new force for the East, and proceed with our plans to reward them, as well as any senior officers of my Guard who may distinguish themselves in the action to come, with new Kastelgerde and smaller homes within a rebuilt Fifth District.”
The Layzin passes a hand through his loose-flowing hair. “It seems that there is no problem to which you have not turned your considerable energy, my lord.”
For a moment, as he realizes he may achieve all for which he has long schemed, Baster-kin’s heart feels a passion it has done without for many years; yet he knows that, for the sake of those schemes, he must control such joy. “It is little enough, Eminence,” he says evenly. “Given the manner in which our God-King and his ancestors have always favored the clan Baster-kin.”
“Perhaps so,” the Grand Layzin replies; and the softness of this response makes it seem as though his thoughts are distracted in some obscure manner. For an instant, Baster-kin fears this distraction may betray dubiousness, perhaps even a comprehension of his own shielded designs regarding Isadora Arnem. But the Layzin’s next statement lays such fears to rest: “Above all, we must ensure that any attempts at communication between the good Yantek Arnem and his wife are intercepted, for theirs is the sole partnership that might rouse truly popular following within the city and the kingdom.”
Baster-kin smiles just perceptibly: what he had taken for skepticism was in fact the Layzin’s tacit approval, as he could not have asked for an order more in keeping with his own plots. “Rest easy, in that regard, Eminence,” he says. “All correspondence of any kind is interrupted at the city gates by my agents—our control of all aspects of life within Broken is as complete as we could wish for.”
With these words, Baster-kin takes note of the sudden appearance of a Wife of Kafra from behind the drapery at the rear of the dais. The young woman, if judged by her nubile body, has only recently been elevated from novice to the higher order of priestess: and she arrives so quietly (as do all such young priests and priestesses within the Sacristy) that she seems to materialize out of the very air in the chamber. But her gown of the sheerest green-golden fabric makes plain the very real feminine perfections beneath it, confirming Baster-kin’s impression, not only of her youth and inexperience, but of her almost intoxicating physical reality. As the girl hands an evidently much-needed goblet of light wine to the Layzin, the Merchant Lord cannot help but turn away from her, as if to even feel lust for anyone save the object of his complex plans would be a betrayal.
“Will you take some wine, my lord?” the Layzin condescends to ask.
“Your Eminence is kindness itself,” Baster-kin says. “But this night yet holds crucial tasks for me to undertake: if, for example, we are to send one khotor of my Guard in the place of the Talons to destroy the Bane, I must find and enlist a new set of officers for the task—for those who now command those troops are hardly adequate to the task. And the best place to recruit such young men, who must be both versed in combat and sprung from families who are wealthy enough that we need feel no compunction about requiring them to offer their male offspring for service, will be in the Stadium, where my own son spends a great deal of his time, as do the grown sons of so many noble houses.”
The Layzin considers the matter, and then nods approvingly. “Yet another sound plan,” he judges. “But surely you could first grant yourself an hour or so during which to pursue some purely selfish diversion? For example, I saw the look that came into your face when this young servant of Kafra entered the Sacristy. Why not enjoy her flesh for a time, before entering the Stadium and reminding the young men of Broken’s wealthiest households of their duty—a thankless task if ever I heard of one? After all, the continued failure of Kafra to grant the God-King Saylal with an heir weighs heavily upon my own thoughts—yet I can assure you, having done all I can do, this day, to try to entreat a change in the royal fortunes, I know that I must attend to my own needs, later this night, lest I go mad with vexation.”
Lord Baster-kin returns a conspiratorial smile that has entered the Layzin’s features, and allows himself to glance again at the body of the young Priestess of Kafra that is so scarcely hidden by her sheer robe. “And in your case, the reward is richly deserved, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies, still playing the part of slavish servant, never wishing the Layzin or his creatures to suspect that his own desires can be satisfied solely by the one woman who will offer him (as she did when he was a boy) true peace; and that he will achieve that peace once more when he has so arranged matters that both he and Isadora Arnem are free to bind their lives as he believes they should have been bound so many years ago. “But for a far humbler servant such as myself, neither time or energy must be diverted, for the First Khotor of the Guard must be ready to march out of the city as soon as possible.”
“Is it that she is a girl?” the Layzin says, seemingly incredulous that Baster-kin will not take the opportunity to enjoy the physical pleasures that can be offered only by the denizens of the High Temple and the House of the Wives of Kafra. “For this one has a brother, just within, a youth her equal in unspoiled beauty, if this evening your tastes run—”
But Baster-kin is already shaking his head, effectively disguising his own peculiar sense of revulsion at this latest offer. “There will be time enough, as I say, for servants such as myself to take our ease and our pleasure, Eminence,” he replies. “For now, duty must be our master.”
The Layzin sighs and smiles, surrendering his argument as he offers his pale blue ring for the Merchant Lord to kiss. Baster-kin does so, trying hard, now, to keep his eyes from the young priestess; then he turns to finally leave the Sacristy, moving as quickly and forcefully as is his seemingly eternal habit.
Not until an attendant has closed the Sacristy door tightly after the Merchant Lord departs does the Layzin speak again. Apparently without guests, now, he dismisses the young priestess, who vanishes back through the curtain at the rear of the dais, and then leans back against his sofa, tilting his head toward that same drapery.
“You heard all, Majesty?” the Layzin asks.
The voice that responds is filled with a languor to make the Layzin’s own seem energetic, by comparison. Yet there is pride in the voice, too, and an easy tone of authority:
“I heard all,” the voice states, not without comprehension of Basterkin’s loyalty and self-denial, but without any apparent admiration for either. “And I recall a saying of my mad ancestor’s: ‘Easy lies the master whose hounds’ teeth are sharp, and their bellies empty …’ ”
“Saylal,” the Layzin says in toying admonishment. “You must not call his lordship a hound, O Brother of God …”
“Must I not?” the voice replies.
“No,” the Layzin replies. “You must not. Even if his manner does, at times, suggest something of the sort. But his ideas on how to protect you, Gracious Saylal, have almost a profundity to them …”
“You misunderstand me, Most Loyal of the Loyal—I have known clever dogs, in my life. Very clever dogs. As has Alandra, of course …”
“Alandra makes her dogs clever, Sire,” the Layzin adds. “Though not so clever as her cats. But the comparison with a mortal is unfair.”
“Hmm,” the voice behind the curtain grunts. “Well, I know this—even the cleverest of dogs would not refuse such beautiful young creatures as the two of you have sent me. And I would have them both now, before my regal sister returns from the Wood and tries to snatch them away to be her own playthings.”
“It is fortunate, then,” the Layzin replies, “that I was able to rely on Baster-kin’s unending sense of duty and self-denial to make certain the pair would be intact. But we owed him at least the offer of su
ch flesh. Yet, Saylal, now that we have the girl intact, I beg you, if not for the dynasty, then as a boon to ease my mind, fix your energies first upon her.” The Layzin’s face and voice suddenly grow more solemn. “But are you truly ready, Holy Majesty, for another attempt?”
“These gifts from my Divine Brother Kafra make me ready, I believe.”
“I see …” The Layzin claps his hands twice, at which another attendant in a black robe edged in red appears from one of the side doors of the chamber. “Summon the Sacristan,” the leader of the Kafran faith calls out, making sure that the curtain behind him is fully closed. “Have him open the vestry and prepare my robes of fertility, and his own.”
“Of course, Eminence,” the attendant replies.
“And you may see to the honing and polishing of the thinnest and smallest of the sacred blades yourself, before he blesses them—quickly! The organs must be harvested while the blood is hot, and before the opium has begun to lose its effect. I shall speak the prayer of succession myself, as we begin …” Leaning toward the curtain once more, the Layzin asks, “How long will you require, Majesty?”
“Not long,” struggles the reply. “If, that is, you assist me, old friend …”
“Yes, Divinity,” the Layzin answers; and then, to the attendant, he calls urgently: “Be quick, and get the Sacristan!”
“Eminence!” the attendant says in compliance, rushing from the room; and only then does the Layzin himself hurriedly disappear behind the curtain.
And, before another day has passed, the often foul yet seemingly mystical stream of water beneath the southwestern wall of the Fifth District will run a little higher, a little faster—and its stench will carry a little farther than it did on the night before …
{xii:}
THE ORIGINAL PURPOSE of Broken’s Stadium, promulgated by one of Oxmontrot’s more thoughtful descendants, had been to demonstrate that those who piously followed the tenets of the Kafran faith would be rewarded not only with wealth, but with health and vigor, as well. Yet over the years a change has taken place at the northern extremity of the city: the two worlds, Temple and Stadium, have grown apart. The Kafran faithful say that this separation is the result of a rebirth of the consuming taste for gaming that was so dominant among the tribes that made up Broken’s first citizens. Others more quietly assert that the capture of many of the fiercest, most impressive beasts in Davon Wood—panthers, bears, wolves, and wildcats—and their repeated torment by the athletes of the Stadium has angered the old gods of Broken, who are punishing the city as a whole and thus calling into question Kafra’s long-asserted supremacy. Certainly Oxmontrot himself, a worshipper of the old gods, never intended for such noble creatures to be trapped, safely secured by heavy chains to concrete posts rising out of the sands of the arena, and made to serve as opponents that can do little or no harm to the children of Broken’s merchant nobility; and in this Lord Baster-kin shares the Mad King’s feelings. But his disdain cannot stem the rising popularity of such displays among the future heads of the kingdom’s ruling clans: in ever-increasing numbers they come, day and night, not only to display their prowess in the arena, but to indulge in what are, to the Merchant Lord, the even more mindless and loathsome activities that take place in the endless rows of benches and private stalls that surround that sandy stage: gambling, of course, but also drinking to excess, as well as fornication that has no bearing on the arrangement of marriages or the strengthening and preservation of clans.