by Caleb Carr
“Perhaps, Niksar—perhaps,” Arnem replies; then, after consideration, he adds, “Although I can but hope that you understand how wary we must be of even considering such conclusions. I do realize that we have not yet found a common thread that runs through all that we have seen, experienced, and felt. But the suggestion that such a thread is treachery on the part of the Merchant Lord—I am not at all certain of as much. The officers and men of the Guard share more than enough perfidy and cowardice to explain what has happened—and we must, I fear, leave matters at that. At least for the moment.”
At this rebuff from his commander, Niksar—his brother’s death still fresh in his thoughts—rides further south alone for a moment, while Arnem and Visimar grow silent once again, Visimar studying the commander of the army of Broken for some few moments before quietly asking, “When did you last sleep, Sentek? Properly, that is?”
“When did any of us?” Arnem replies, not sharply, but still with some irritation. “The men need to establish a schedule of watches and rest, the horses need some similarly sustained hours of feeding, or at least of grazing on decent grass such as will fill out their bellies, and sleep, to say nothing of grooming … And Kafra’s stones, the skutaars look as though they will all be felled by exhaustion at any moment. Can I rest before I know that all of these—men, animals, youths—are safe enough from either fatigue or pestilence to undertake their task? Tell me how, sorcerer’s acolyte, and I shall put my head to my bedroll as fast as any man who marches with us. For of one thing I am certain—” The cool, steady eyes scan the southern riverbank, and Davon Wood beyond it. “The Bane have been watching all that we have been through. From afar, perhaps, but … They are out there, and know at least a little—and likely far more—of our troubled state.”
It is not until hours later, when daylight is growing golden with late afternoon, that Arnem is informed that the first of the scouts—not surprisingly, the ever-reliable Akillus—has been sighted rushing at a great speed back to the Talons’ camp.
Indeed, by the time Akillus’s mount thunders across the Plain and reaches Arnem, the lately returned Niksar, and Visimar, Akillus is still riding so hard that he overshoots the three, and must circle back, bringing light laughter from the sentek, his aide, and his advisor—until they see the grave expression upon the rider’s face.
“Akillus,” Arnem says in greeting, when the scout finally reins up alongside the other three men and their horses. “Something, I gather, is too important for you either to wait for this evening’s council, or to wash off the mud of your long ride before you make your report.”
Looking down at the dried brown splashes that cover his flesh, tunic, and armor, Akillus does not laugh or so much as smile in the manner that he so often displays, even in the most dangerous or embarrassing situations—which is Arnem’s first hint that the scout has gathered intelligence from his mission which is sinister, indeed. “You have seen something, then,” Arnem says. “Along the riverfront?”
“I—I was not alone in seeing it, Sentek,” Akillus answers unsteadily. “Every scout, regardless of whether he was in a party that went upriver or down, glimpsed the like.”
“Well, Akillus?” Niksar says, his face again attaining some of the gravity it exhibited at Esleben. “What is it that you have seen?”
“A scene to rival Daurawah?” Visimar asks, anxiously and knowingly.
“Aye,” Akillus replies, “just so—but far greater in scale, although I would not have thought such possible.” Finally looking up at his commander, Akillus bravely attempts composure, and states, “You would think that some sort of battle had taken place upon the river, Sentek, save that we have never known the Bane to use ships, nor to attack the river traders. And certainly, the number of unarmed women and children among their dead does not speak of a conflict—not a formal one, at any rate. But they are all there together, along with the missing patrols of Baster-kin’s Guard; the dead of every age and both sides, and those not quite dead, as well—although they wished us to grant them death, so painful were their conditions.”
“ ‘Conditions’?” Visimar repeats. “You mean, they displayed signs of both of the sicknesses that we have witnessed: on the one hand, the rose fever—”
“And the fire wounds, as well,” Akillus continues, “which have spread among the animals seen by the scouts further upstream. Sentek, the Cat’s Paw has become a river of death, from one end to the other!”
“Steady, Linnet,” Arnem says, quietly. “And you could find no one free of disease?”
“But one,” Akillus replies. “A young member of the Guard, wandering alone. Strangest of all, he was as terrified of the possibility that we might be his own comrades as of the thought that we might be the Bane. He says he was left behind by the main force, to keep watch over those of Lord Baster-kin’s cattle that his detachment usually guards, in the northern part of the Plain—but when the hour grew late, and then an entire night passed, he went to see what progress his comrades had made, and found—just what we have found. He is half-mad with fear.”
“You have him in camp?” Visimar says, alarm bleeding through his words.
“Just outside,” Akillus replies. “He appeared to be untouched by disease, but after what we have seen …”
“Wise, Akillus.” Arnem breathes in relief, glancing at Niksar. “As ever.”
“But—” Visimar is still puzzling with an earlier statement. “ ‘What progress his comrades had made’? Which comrades? And in what endeavor?”
“An ambitious one,” Akillus replies. “Involving far more than the usual patrols on the Plain. A full khotor of Guardsmen, it seems, were dispatched from the city while we were on our way here from the east, tasked with entering the Wood before we would be able to, and destroying any and all Bane that they discovered.”
Arnem reins the nervous Ox to a stunned halt. “What?”
“Aye, Sentek,” Akillus replies. “Most strange, as I say—for this was to be our mission, we all knew that. But apparently, Lord Baster-kin—”
“Baster-kin sent them?” Arnem says, again looking to Niksar, but now with an aspect of apology. “But why? Why send us to finally destroy the Bane and then send his own men to do the job separately?”
“Because,” Visimar murmurs discreetly, “it was not anticipated that the Talons—and especially you, Sentek—would survive their trip east. Baster-kin is attempting to use the terrible events in those provinces as a path by which he may consolidate his control over all instruments of force in the kingdom: in order for the regular army to become his instrument, the Talons and their commander would have to be removed, and what tidier way to make this removal seem accidental—or better still, the work of the Bane—than to deliberately send them into that portion of the kingdom that is rife with disease?”
Akillus has evidently seen enough along the river to find Visimar’s explanation plausible: “Indeed, Sentek. To judge by what this Guardsman has said—and you may ask him about it, yourself—it was the tenor of your own reports that made the Merchant Lord believe that he must send men more … personally loyal to both himself and the God-King to undertake the conquest of the Bane, in the event that we either never reached the Wood, or chose not to attack once we did.”
Niksar says nothing, but casts his commander a look that says he, too, has reached the same conclusion.
“And there is more, Sentek,” Akillus says, his voice now growing even more uneasy. “It would seem—according to this young pallin—well, it would seem that rebellion has broken out in the Fifth District of the city.”
Again, a look which indicates that Visimar already knows the answer to his own question enters his face as he asks, “Aye? And who leads this ‘rebellion,’ Linnet?”
Appearing more reluctant than ever, Akillus says, “Perhaps it will be better if you question this man yourself, Sentek …”
“I am questioning you, Akillus,” Arnem replies, quietly but darkly. “Who leads this ‘rebellion’?”
“He says—” And finally Akillus simply utters the words. “He says that it is Lady Arnem, Sentek. Supported by veterans from throughout the district, in addition to—well, in addition to your eldest son.”
This news, again, does not come as such to Visimar; but Niksar draws back in no little shock. “Sentek Arnem’s wife and son? Hak—this is nothing but malicious gossip, being spread by members of the Guard.”
“Such were my thoughts, Niksar,” Akillus replies. “But the boy does not seem to have been in the Guard long enough to have quite become—infected by their behavior.”
“But—Sentek! The Lady Isadora and Dagobert?” Niksar questions, bewilderment in his every word. “What can have led them to such actions?”
Arnem himself is far too confused to make any reply; and so it is for Visimar to say, “If I am not mistaken, they have been left no choice, faced with just the sort of death and disease that we have seen, and having now heard still more of …”
“Aye, Sentek,” Akillus answers. “The cripple is right about that much. They say that plague is loose in the district, and that, when Lady Arnem’s appeals for help to Lord Baster-kin and the Grand Layzin went unanswered, rebellion was the result.”
“Such—would not be a unique cause of such events,” Niksar says, still puzzling with the report, but at the same time provoking a scowl from Arnem, who tries to maintain the evenness of his voice, even as he answers with no little anger:
“It would be unique if it involves my family, Niksar …” The young aide can only swallow hard; and then, working hard to regain his full composure, Arnem continues, “But let us leave this subject, for now, until we have this Guardsman before us. What of the rest of this business? Dispatching a khotor of Baster-kin’s own men into the Wood—he gave you no further details of what lay behind this action?”
“He gave us such details as he believes he knows,” Akillus replies. “Which were precious few. The most important being that the men from the city and the patrols on the Plain together rushed headlong across the Fallen Bridge, apparently, as soon as the khotor arrived. Which means, it would seem, at night.”
All the faces of Akillus’s audience darken: for such would be almost inconceivably foolish arrogance. “Nay,” Arnem whispers. “Even the Guard cannot have been so stupid.”
“But were, it seems,” Akillus replies. “You can imagine the result. The force was cut to pieces by the Bane, and their wounded, along with their dead, thrown to the mercies of Hafften Falls and the Ayerzess-werten; although most of those wounded had their suffering ended by the dauthu-bleith before their bodies were thus dispensed with.”
“Sentek,” Niksar asks, both genuinely bewildered and attempting to repair some of the ire brought out of his commander by his last remark. “What can it all mean?”
“I am not in the least certain, Reyne,” Arnem replies, “and I suspect that we shall all remain uncertain, until we have a chance to question this Guardsman. And so—lead us to him, Akillus, and then get to my tent, and tell the officers that this evening’s council will be delayed some little time. Or perhaps longer …” Arnem looks ahead in the darkening evening. “For I fear this story may take some time to tell …” The sentek is about to spur the Ox on up the incline of the Plain, when Akillus says:
“There is yet another fact that I suspect you will find accounts for this man’s terror, Sentek.” Arnem pauses, and Akillus rides up beside him. “Although it is a difficult tale to credit. He claims …” And once more, Akillus finds it difficult to choose his words carefully.
“Well?” Arnem demands. “Out with it, Akillus.”
“Yes, sir,” the scout replies, finally dispensing with any attempt at tact: “Apparently, last evening, while looking for any trace of his comrades, the Guardsman came across a most extraordinary sight lit by the Moon: the First Wife of Kafra, sister to the God-King himself, moving north toward Broken through the Plain—without a stitch of clothing upon her, and leading a large male Broken bear by a golden cord. The animal behaved as if it were no more than an obedient dog. The lad said that he knew her features because the Guard has sometimes been called upon to accompany her out of the city and down the mountain.”
Arnem looks to each of his companions in turn, finding comprehension only in Visimar’s face. “It is indeed possible, Sixt Arnem,” the cripple says. “For my master maintained that he knew only one person who could so enthrall such beasts—and my master, you must recall, was an expert in understanding those same creatures. But the sister of the God-King Saylal—Alandra, she was called—had a more mysterious, even unsettling, ability to reach them.” Visimar clearly knows more of this tale, but he withholds it, waiting for a time when he will be able to speak to Arnem alone.
As for the sentek, he has turned his face up to the sky. “Kafra’s stones,” he murmurs. “What is happening, in this place …?” Suddenly, Arnem spurs his great mount forward: “Well—we shall not find out here,” he says, urging the others on, obviously desperate to learn what lies behind the incredible stories that he has heard—and how much danger his own family is truly facing …
Caliphestros, Ashkatar, and the Bane foragers at last reach Okot …
IT IS WITHOUT DOUBT true that the sight of the legless sorcerer Caliphestros riding into the Bane town of Okot on the shoulders of the famed white panther who had long roamed the mountains southwest of Okot, inspiring both respect and fear in the tribe of outcasts, would ordinarily have caused astonishment bordering on panic in the central square. But their arrival in Okot on this occasion, however, had been preceded a full half-day by Ashkatar’s messengers, who had already warned the tribe that the plague that had struck their people was not the result of magic or a curse inflicted by the Tall, but was a poison contained in the water of the wells on the northern side of the community. This warning had almost immediately arrested the progress of the disease, and even lessened its terrible impact. No secret had been made of the fact that it was Caliphestros who determined the details of this problem and its solution—although, as the old man insisted on saying from the moment he reached even the most outlying parts of Okot, there were no divinations or visions involved in his calculations, but rather purely scientific investigations. Such was an explanation that was difficult for many Bane to understand, although most in the town remained grateful, whatever the degree of their comprehension; it was not until the returning heroes and their guests made their way through the crowds gathered at the town’s center and entered the Den of Stone to meet with the Groba, as well as with the Priestess of the Moon and her attending Lunar Sisters and Outragers, that they were met with anything like stern or skeptical questioning.
Ashkatar led the way through the long, dark stone passageway, with its carved reliefs of important moments in Bane history, which Caliphestros paused to admire: not for their accuracy, in every case, but for the skill of their execution. Veloc, meanwhile, used the time to quietly urge Heldo-Bah not to rouse the ire of the Priestess of the Moon, a sentiment echoed by Keera, who rejoined her friends only when she had made certain to quickly dash to her parents’ home after first arriving in Okot. There she had discovered to her wild joy that all of her children were well or recovering, little Effi having been reunited with her brothers, Herwin and Baza, after the boys were released from the Lenthess-steyn following a quick recovery—a recovery made possible by the information brought by Ashkatar’s runners.
“Beautiful carvings, are they not, Lord Caliphestros?” Ashkatar asked the old man, indicating the walls of the passageway.
“Indeed,” Caliphestros answered, attempting scholarly detachment as Keera passionately embraced Stasi out of both joy and gratitude, not daring to do the same to the panther’s companion. “Most residents of Broken,” the old man continued, “would think them quite beyond the abilities of your tribe’s artisans.”
“Yes,” Veloc agreed, his voice growing more hushed as the group approached the entrance to the Den of Stone. “Of course, the tales most o
f the reliefs tell are as much nonsense as the great tapestries in Broken. But they are no less attractive to look at.”
Caliphestros laughed, briefly and quietly. “Is there any part of the city on the mountain that you have not dared enter, Veloc? You haven’t, for example, penetrated the Inner City, I trust?”
“Oh, no, of course not, no,” Veloc quickly replied.
“Although, based on the form of that First Wife of Kafra,” Heldo-Bah added, “the woman you called Alandra, I rather regret that we did not …”
Keera quickly noticed, even through her joy, that Caliphestros not only failed to reply, but displayed the same pained expression that he did when the woman’s name was first mentioned at the outset of their woodland journey: pained, and something else as well. “Heldo-Bah, you imbecile!” she hissed. “Have you no sense of—”
Further discussion was cut short, however, when the three foragers, along with the rest of their party, heard the sharp voice of the Groba Father:
“Yantek Ashkatar! The Groba invites you and your esteemed guests to enter!” And then the Father added, in far less enthusiastic words that Veloc knew referred to himself and to Heldo-Bah: “Along, I suppose, with the rest of your party …”
Veloc had expected that the faces of the Groba, the Priestess of the Moon, the Lunar Sisters, and the Outragers would likely display suspicion when Caliphestros and Stasi, accompanied by Ashkatar, the foragers, and their guiding Elder, entered the Den of Stone: but the handsome forager had not expected that the ten faces before him, which had always been supremely confident when dealing with the likes of himself, Keera, and Heldo-Bah, would be so full of uneasiness bordering on fear when the party made their entrance, a reaction that delighted both himself and Heldo-Bah.