by Caleb Carr
“Oh?” Taankret says, still unconvinced. “And how have you been able to learn these suppos facts, Visimar?”
“Through methods and messengers that, again, you shall scarce credit, ere you see proof of them,” comes the cripple’s answer. “But be assured of this: no ‘sorcery’ or otherworldly power has been employed.”
Taankret’s demeanor softens. “True enough, old man—for if you truly possessed such powers, you would likely have used them in our, or at least your own, defense before now.”
“I am glad to hear you apply such logic to our predicament, Linnet,” Visimar answers, relieved. “There is much I could and would have done to aid your brave comrades, were I what the Kafran priests claim. But I, like my master, can nonetheless use the knowledge and abilities we do possess, to help our cause—and so I beg you, receive this flag of truce, and let us speak with the party that approaches.”
“That, we shall do,” Arnem announces; and yet, despite his decisive words, his manner appears genuinely perplexed. “What troubles me most immediately, however, is this single wagon that approaches from Broken. Pallin!” The young trooper who has brought the information straightens up, once more fearful of another berating. “You know nothing further of what this conveyance carries, and why?”
“No, Sentek,” the pallin answers. “Our information was only—”
At just that instant, another young scout enters the tent, as respectfully as some apparently momentous news will allow. He spots Akillus and, despite being covered in dust that has become mud by its mixture with horse and human sweat, moves to his commander at once. They exchange a few apparently astonishing pieces of information, and then Akillus dismisses the man quickly.
“Sentek,” Akillus says, “I have now learned the identities of those in the wagon, which evidently departed Broken with the greatest secrecy.” Akillus pauses, steeling his nerve. “It is your own children, Sentek.”
“My—own …,” Arnem whispers. And it takes him many moments more before he can continue: “All of them? Without their mother?”
“The scout counted but four,” Akillus says, his heart now heavy with the pain he has inflicted on the man he most admires in all the army; indeed, in all the world. “And your wife is not with them. In fact, their guardian, the driver of the wagon, is perhaps the most peculiar choice it would be possible to imagine. It is the seneschal of the Kastelgerd Basterkin, Sentek—the man Radelfer. And, as I say, he displays no threat toward the children. Rather the opposite. He seems to be protecting them.”
Looking up suddenly, Arnem tries as best he is able to regain his composure. “Well—we face a crucial meeting, gentlemen; and my own diffaculties must be left out of it.” His voice grows stronger, and he stands. “Each man to his command, and quickly, but be certain that each of your men understands that he is both ordered and obliged to observe the formal terms of truce, until he receives my personal order releasing him from those duties.”
Arnem’s officers all stand to attention, salute smartly, and depart the tent. The sounds of commands being shouted and units being marshaled begin an ever-louder but always ordered chorus, outside the tent, as Visimar remains behind to study Arnem’s continuing reaction to the momentous intelligence he has received. Finally, Sixt Arnem murmurs only, “Kafra’s stones …,” and almost immediately afterward stands and shouts: “Ernakh!” Before the briefest instant has passed, the skutaar appears from Arnem’s private quarters in the rear of the tent, and presents himself to his lord with almost as much bearing as the officers who have just departed. “You heard all that has taken place?”
“Aye, master,” Ernakh replies, eager to serve.
“Then ride north to meet the wagon,” the commander says, “and guide it here—directly here, to the rear of my tent. The children know and trust you, and even if this seneschal does not, their trust will bring about his compliance. Am I clear?”
Nodding rapidly, Ernakh salutes, then runs out of the tent to his waiting horse.
Turning to Visimar after the boy has departed, Arnem says, “Well, cripple—here is a development about which neither your master nor his faithful birds could have warned us.”
“No, Sentek,” Visimar replies, having felt it expedient, some few days before the evening on which this evening’s council of war took place, to tell the commander the truth of Caliphestros’s remarkable avian allies, so that Arnem might know just how the old man was receiving messages from his onetime teacher. “My master had a remarkable ability to communicate with creatures other than men, when I served him. And I would wager that ten years in the wilderness have done nothing save add to it. But as to why this lone wagon should be coming—at such speed, and with the passengers and driver it bears—no creature, I suspect, be it man, bird, or other, could or can guess. Not until its arrival …”
“You may be right,” Arnem says, pulling back the rear entrance to the end of his tent and gazing into the dark northern landscape. “Certainly, I cannot yet say—but before this night is done, I will determine what, by Hel, is taking place here …”
The initial and extraordinary meeting of enemies and friends in the camp of the Talons, and the arrival of unexpected guests …
THE VISITORS WHO WALK under a broad white banner of truce stop in a wide line some fifty paces from the southern entrance to Arnem’s main camp; and at this distance, the Talons—who have prepared themselves for a fight, if a fight is to be offered—can discern that their opponents are not so many in number as was first reported; it was merely the order of their march that made them appear so impressive, as well as certain almost unbelievable participants in it.
At their center, the legless “sorcerer,” Caliphestros, rides astride the shoulders of the most legendary animal, not only in Davon Wood, but in Broken, as well: the famed white panther, who escaped the last of the great Tall panther hunts, that of the present Lord Baster-kin. On this astonishing pair’s right, proudly holding no more seemingly lethal weapon than an impressive whip, is a man that Visimar knows to be Yantek Ashkatar, commander of the Bane army. Yet no khotor or even fauste of troops encircle this renowned leader for his protection: only a dozen of what any experienced soldier can see are his senior officers walk behind him, and all keep their weapons sheathed. At the end of this side of Caliphestros’s apparent escort are three more faces, the male pair of which the Talons know only too well: they are the ever-troublesome, ever-enraging, yet ever-formidable Heldo-Bah, as well as the handsome but heavily resented Veloc, who has cuckolded more than a few Tall soldiers who now stand safely behind their spiked ditch, as well as their hastily but expertly constructed palisade. The female figure at the end of this wing, meanwhile, is the renowned tracker Keera, looking not only wise, but also impressive, even formidable, and therefore, perhaps unexpectedly, like the perfect anchor for the left side of the assembly.
On the opposite side of Caliphestros and the white panther are, first, a group of humbly dressed, elderly and bearded men who exude wisdom, and must, Visimar therefore reasons, be the Groba Elders, and then less than a fauste of Bane warriors, male and female, whose swords are sheathed and who, it can only be supposed, are the Elders’ only official escort.
For long moments, this delegation must remain where it stands, for Sixt Arnem is still within his tent, awaiting the arrival of the cart that carries his children from the north before he will join the conference: it being always best to know the true disposition of one’s own countrymen and allies before attempting to negotiate with one’s enemies. This being the case, it becomes the duty of Niksar and Visimar to play chief emissaries, and to depart by foot from their camp to greet their visitors, followed by Taankret, Bal-deric, Weltherr, Crupp, Akillus (who feels it only right to stay in his saddle, in order to balance the scales of the meeting just a bit), and a few other linnets, all of whom have been placed under the strictest orders to bring only minimal weapons, and to keep even these sheathed or slung so long as there is no trouble. This does not prevent Fleckmest
er and his men from keeping their arrows secretly nocked and at the ready as they observe from the bristling ditch, of course; but the master archer issues this order on his own authority, for neither Niksar nor especially Visimar believes it will in any manner prove necessary.
Nevertheless, the representatives of the kingdom of Broken (if such they truly are, any longer, after all they have heard and seen on their current campaign) approach the line of Wood-dwellers and their allies cautiously, particularly when they see the utterly fiendish expression on Heldo-Bah’s face, try as the gap-toothed forager may to exhibit his most somber behavior. When the two lines of opposing representatives are some ten paces apart, Niksar holds his hand up, and all become still where they stand. Searching the group before him, Arnem’s aide says, not without some admiration:
“I see no Outragers among you—a gesture, I wonder, or a deception?”
The Groba Father turns to Caliphestros, indicating that the latter will be best suited to speak for their delegation, and the legless old man says, “A gesture, I assure you—for none you see here have any great affection for that particular group of the Moon priestess’s servants.” Turning quickly to his onetime acolyte, Caliphestros cannot repress a smile, tinged with sadness as it may be. “Well, old friend—the years have been as kind to you as they have to me, I see.”
Visimar returns the smile. “But have not swayed my loyalties, master,” he says. “I am glad to see you, in whatever condition.”
“And I you, rest assured,” Caliphestros replies. “But what of Sentek Arnem? Surely we cannot proceed without him.”
“No,” Niksar says, his eyes even more transfixed by the white panther (as indeed are all those of the officers of Broken) than they are by the man who was Second Minister in their kingdom when most of them were children and a heretical sorcerer by the time they became young men. “But he should not be long. He has received new intelligence from Broken that may affect this parley. From the seneschal of the clan Basterkin himself.”
Caliphestros’s eyes go suddenly wide, and a smile of an entirely different sort—one that unnerves Niksar, who knows nothing of the infamous outcast’s past dealings with the Merchant Lord and his servants—makes its way into his features. “Radelfer?” the old man asks. “Is this true, Visimar?”
“I myself have not seen him, master,” Visimar replies. “But while we wait for the sentek’s arrival, he suggested that we might pass the time with preliminaries.”
“Well?” Heldo-Bah suddenly queries, falling flat upon his back. “Who’s for knucklebones?”
“Heldo-Bah!” the Groba Father says. “There are protocols to be followed!”
“Well, Father,” the troublesome forager replies, bringing himself up on his elbows. “I’m simply saying, if we’re going to sit out here in the sun wasting time, why not cast a few rounds? What other sorts of ‘protocols’ for simply marking time do you suppose we might discover that we have in common?”
Veloc claps a hand to his forehead. “Each time I think he has reached the limits of appalling behavior,” he announces to both sides in the negotiation, “there is some new offense. And I, as his friend, must apologize for it …”
But, because no other suggestions as to how to mark the duration of Sentek Arnem’s absence are offered, the two lines of representatives continue to face each other stone-facedly for a few moments more, listening to Heldo-Bah rattle the set of bones he keeps in a sack looped to his belt, until finally, Akillus and several other Broken linnets take the forager at his word, and a game of knucklebones breaks out over the objections of both the Groba and Niksar. Yet these more senior representatives are in turn quieted, in the first instance by Caliphestros, and then by Visimar, each of whom has seen the chance for informal good relations to be opened by the game. So strange does the sight become that Fleckmester’s men, a little out of envy and a little out of greed, begin to look back toward their sentek’s tent, in an effort to see if they might not be granted permission to join in the gambling. This causes the ever more bewildered Fleckmester himself (who in truth would join in the game himself, if he could) to glance back to Arnem’s tent, as well, where, he sees, an ordinary laborer’s wagon has appeared at the back entrance.
“Eyes forward, boys, eyes forward,” Fleckmester tells the troops who man the camp’s southern fortifications, be they archers or no. “We must continue to ensure that, however things may look upon the Plain, the safety of our comrades is guaranteed. As for what is taking place in the sentek’s tent, however …” He glances at the quilted walls once more. “That is not our concern, nor is it possible for us to imagine …”
What is taking place within the sentek’s tent is, on the one hand, a wholly ordinary and domestic scene—a man being reunited with all, save one, of his children—and on the other, an extraordinary one: for the fact that Radelfer has been the children’s guide out of the city would seem to indicate that something not only unusual but, perhaps, treacherous has taken place within Broken’s walls. The seneschal of the most powerful clan in the kingdom should not have to flee like a criminal from those confines, any more than should the offspring of the kingdom’s supreme military commander: yet this appears to be precisely what has happened. Arnem’s children have already related to their father (for the greater part through Anje’s words) the tale of how their mother attempted to alert the Merchant Lord to the source of the rose fever in the Fifth District, and was met in return with ultimatums, siege, and talk of criminality. Throughout this account, Radelfer has stood at attention near the closed rear entryway of the tent without comment: Arnem knows that the seneschal, despite his current employment by Baster-kin, was once a member of the Talons; and that he must have formed, given the two posts, opinions as to what is happening. The sentek rightly suspects that Radelfer’s momentary reason for keeping sentinel is primarily to ensure the safety of the sentek and his children, as well as to prevent any besides Arnem himself from hearing the strange story told by the children.
“But Mother was right,” Anje declares. “The strange water under the southwestern wall of the city was the cause of the rose fever, and once the people in that part of the city stopped using it, the fever ceased to spread.”
“It’s true, Father,” says Golo. “But, instead of being rewarded for helping the people, Lord Baster-kin said the God-King and the Grand Layzin had decreed that Mother, and anyone who had or continued to assist her, should be outlaws—even Dagobert!—and that our district should be cut off from the rest of the city and destroyed.”
“Wait, now, Golo!” objects the pious young Dalin; and then he turns to Arnem. “We do not know that these orders came from the God-King and the Grand Layzin themselves, Father.”
“Your son speaks truly, Sentek,” Radelfer says, quietly but firmly, from the shadowy rear of the tent. “We know no such thing …”
Emboldened, Dalin continues: “Only Lord Baster-kin himself visited the place where the unhealthy water flowed, only he argued with Mother, and only his men played any part in cutting the district off from the rest of the city. The sentek of the regular army who usually watches over that section of the walls—Sentek Gerfrehd, he told us is his name—is a good and obedient man, with whom Mother speaks, from time to time. And he knows that he is not allowed to attack his fellow citizens of Broken, even in the Fifth District, simply because the Merchant Lord wishes it. That is a command that must first come from the God-King, and have your own approval—and it has not been given either of these things.”
“Gerfrehd,” Arnem muses quietly. “Yes, your mother has written to tell me of their conversations, and I was pleased, for I know the man well—as honorable an officer as has ever held high rank in the regular army …” The sentek then quickly and silently glances up to Radelfer, who simply nods once in return, as if to say, Yes—it is as complex and bizarre as it seems …
“Which is why I do not understand why we were forced to leave home, like common criminals,” Dalin complains.
; “Oh, most un-common, surely, Master Dalin,” Radelfer offers with a small smile, raising the sentek’s estimation of the man. “Allow yourselves that much, at least.”
But the attempt at friendly humor is lost on Dalin: “I don’t care!” he states emphatically. “I only know that I have been forced further away from my duties to the God-King.”
“Dalin…,” Sixt Arnem warns, trying not to be too stern, but having heard enough.
Young Gelie has stayed on her father’s knee since she and her siblings arrived in the tent, and now declares, as emphatically as is her custom, “Mother was doing much good for the district, Father, but the entire situation really did become frightening—Lord Baster-kin’s men built their wall so quickly, I was afraid that we would be captured forever! If it had not been for Radelfer—”
“And that is another thing,” Dalin says, not a little suspiciously. “Why should the Merchant Lord’s own seneschal have defied his orders and made himself an outlaw, simply to help Mother?”
“Oh, don’t be such a clever little brat,” Golo says. “Wasn’t it obvious that the situation was quickly becoming far more dangerous?”
“It’s true, Dalin,” Anje says, putting her hands to her hips—much as her mother might do, Arnem observes with a melancholy smile. “Even you should have been able to see that much. As to anything else, we ought to allow Radelfer, who does understand the matter fully, to explain it to Father.”
“Though one thing is plain enough already, Father,” says Gelie. “You would hardly believe how much Mother’s help and instruction, along with the work of the old soldiers, have made life better in the district.” Her young face screws up in puzzlement. “And yet, that only seemed to make Lord Baster-kin’s men angrier—you would think it would be the other way round, wouldn’t you?”
Arnem’s eyes turn up to meet Radelfer’s, and he nods. “Yes. I would, Gelie. And so …” Arnem lifts his youngest child up and sets her on the woolen floor of the tent. “There is a great table full of freshly roasted beef and vegetables in the next room, my young ones; why don’t you all go and have something to eat while Radelfer and I talk about what has happened?”