by Caleb Carr
Some ten enormous, powerful attendants from the High Temple, all armed with terrible, seven-foot sacred halberds, well-kept blades that reflect enough firelight upon their gathering for Baster-kin to realize that these are not attendants that he has ever seen before. Their smoothly shaven heads also reflect the light of the gate that will soon collapse in flame—and they wave the Merchant Lord toward the Path of Shame.
“Rendulic Baster-kin,” one of them states, in a tone as impressive as is his long, gilt-edged black tunic. “Your presence is required by the God-King Saylal, as well as by the Grand Layzin. And I suggest we move with haste, ere what was entrusted to you as one of the impregnable portals to the sacred city comes crashing down about our heads.”
“The God-King?” Baster-kin repeats; and for the first time, this supremely powerful man feels the same terror he knew as a boy, when called into the angry presence of his tempestuous father; but, now as then, he attempts initial defiance. “Why do you not address me by my proper title?”
“You no longer have either title or rank,” the attendant replies, a strange joy in his eyes. “But you have been granted that rarest of gifts—a journey to the Inner City.”
Baster-kin’s very guts fill with dread; but he will not show this collection of fearsome priests the same terror he once allowed his father to witness. He somehow finds the strength to draw himself up to his full height and attempt his haughtiest posture, and then says simply, as he points along the military pathway, “Very well, then—lead on, that I may finally perceive the visage of my most gracious and sacred sovereign. For I have no reason to fear an audience with him, having only ever served his will.”
As the former lord steps forward, however, several of the sacred halberds cross to prevent him. “Not that way,” says the same attendant, his voice answering pride with disdain. “You shall ascend the Path of Shame.”
The Merchant Lord is momentarily taken aback. “But the Path of Shame has been walled off from the rest of the city.”
The attendant nods. “True—and the God-King would ask you about that. As it is, an opening has been made in your illegal barrier. Wide enough to allow our coming—and our going. Shall we, Rendulic Basterkin?”
“My ‘illegal barrier’?” Baster-kin echoes; while silently he realizes, So that is to be the way of it … But aloud he utters not another word, as he begins what he is all too certain will be his final walk through the streets of the great city.
Soon, however, he is detained: a small group of elderly military veterans—one of whom he vaguely recognizes, as the old soldier hobbles upon a crutch of truly fine workmanship—step out from the Arnem home, near the head of the Path of Shame. The men surround a woman, the lady of the house, Baster-kin can easily see: she for whom, and yet in spite of whom, he has undertaken so many of his recent endeavors. The Lady Isadora Arnem. With her eldest son close by her side, she walks out of the family’s garden door; and while both mother and son appear more gaunt than when he last confronted them, they are far more healthy than the greater number of those citizens past whom it is now Baster-kin’s destiny to walk, in other districts of the city.
“My lord,” comes Isadora’s unfailingly kind yet strong voice that instantly reminds Baster-kin of the strangest and, in their way, happiest days of his life. “Rendulic,” she continues, taking what would seem an unheard-of liberty; yet none of the royal and sacred attendants so much as makes a move to either prevent her approach or upbraid her manner. Isadora looks to the man who leads the increasingly ominous group. “May I, Attendant?” her ladyship continues.
The man fills his face with a facile smile. “Of course,” he replies. “The God-King would have us show every deference to the family of the great Sentek Arnem, out of consideration for the perfidious confusion that has somehow come to dominate the kingdom’s treatment of that great man, and of all those he holds dear.”
Baster-kin merely nods bitterly, glancing at the attendants again, and then fixes his gaze on Isadora once more. His words, however, are yet addressed to his escort. “Please inform the Lady Arnem that I have nothing to say to her at this time.”
But before the leading attendant can respond, Isadora has stepped forward, with a sweetness of urgency to which only a man whose heart has been embittered over long years of loneliness and disappointment could fail to respond. “Rendulic, please, you must try—” Isadora says, unsure of what message she is attempting to communicate. Nor can Baster-kin comprehend her meaning or aspect: would she have him escape? he wonders. Unlikely. Or is it that she has finally been reminded, if only for a moment, of what he has remembered vividly for so long: the closeness they shared when he was but a sickly youth and she a maiden, apprenticed to the cronish healer who aided him?
Wishing to believe the latter, Baster-kin would have her speak no more, a wish granted, at that instant, by the sound of the last of the South Gate being shattered by an enormous, wheeled ram, the building of which has been the object of the fevered work of the Bane warriors during the hours leading up to the assault. The gate crashes to the ground, and then the loud clanging of the gate’s fiery-hot iron bands being pulled away with chains and hooks from the now open portal into the city by the fearless warhorses of the cavalry units of the Talons resounds throughout the streets of the Fifth District.
But Baster-kin never turns from the countenance of the woman before him. “Do not trouble yourself on my account, my lady,” he says, with what seems genuine concern. Finally, he turns away for an instant, to glance at the sky. “For in this matter, as in so many things, today, the wind has blown in your family’s favor …” He turns back to her once more. “Do not question it—for all the good that could be said between us was said long ago …”
And then Baster-kin’s face suddenly darkens, and becomes a mask of all the evil he has done in the name of his golden god and the same God-King who has now, apparently, abandoned him; the change in his features is startling enough to take young Dagobert—who had thought the Merchant Lord’s resignation and conciliation genuine and even honorable—by such surprise that he quickly grasps the hilt of his father’s marauder sword and moves in front of his mother. Smiling just slightly in a cruel manner, his lordship keeps his eyes fixed on Isadora’s. “Besides,” he says quietly, “I am not dead, yet. Not quite yet …”
Without ever softening his look of lethal intent, Baster-kin turns and indicates to the attendants that they may continue onward. Isadora is left to watch him disappear through the widening hole that has been created in the wall at the head of the Path of Shame—by the same masons who built the structure—before losing sight of him for what she hopes, for her children’s sake if not her own, will be the last time.
“Mother?” Dagobert asks, sighing with relief. “He seemed almost—a man, like any other, for an instant. I even felt sorry for what those attendants from the High Temple seem bent on doing to him. But just as quickly, he grew—evil …”
Putting her arms around her son’s shoulders, Isadora declares, “Evil … I am not at all sure that we poor humans can ever comprehend that word, or know its qualities, my son …” A sudden shudder runs through her body, and then she declares, “Now, Dagobert—Kriksex, all of you—we must make ourselves ready for the sentek’s arrival. If I am any judge, he—”
And just then comes the sound of thundering hooves, moving up the Path toward the Arnem house and growing closer by the instant. Veterans and the sentek’s wife and son alike prepare for the approach of Broken’s greatest soldier, who has so precipitously been restored to his former glory—though he himself still knows it not.
Just as the group step further into the Path to await the arrival of Sixt Arnem and his triumphant force, however, Isadora, Dagobert, and their surrounding guardians are forced to move back again at a sight far more apparitional and fast moving than the sentek’s cavalry:
It is the legendary white panther of Davon Wood, speeding up and toward the same hole in the wall through which Lord Baster-kin h
as been taken. The animal requires no guidance: it is all that the legless old man who sits astride her can do to remain there. Nor will she require any direction, from god or man, when the pair dash up the Celestial Way, moving toward the city’s Stadium …
7.
WHEN THE ADVANCE RIDERS of the Talons’ cavalry come within view of the Arnem house at last, both Isadora and Dagobert cannot determine what precisely it is the soldiers are about: for their relatively slow pace does not match the immense noise that they have been producing, while the first six horsemen pull between them, by way of ropes attached to the pommels of their saddles, some crude yet fearsome wheeled device. Isadora is also somewhat surprised, after having carefully listened to as many of the shouted messages that earlier passed between Rendulic Baster-kin and his Guardsmen during the attack on the South Gate as she could safely manage, to see that no Bane warriors accompany her husband’s soldiers; but, as she will soon learn, the Bane, after smashing through the glowing, bound towers of burnt or burning wood that were once that same “impregnable” portal with their prodigious, expertly constructed ram, have refused to advance any farther. As ever, they do not trust that some group among the God-King’s subjects will not attempt to chastise them for taking part in the assault upon the city, and have decided to wait outside its walls until Sentek Arnem can assure them absolutely that the Tall will not seek such vengeance upon the tribe of outcasts for whose destruction the citizens of the city had until lately clamored—and may, in their hearts (for all the Bane know) still wish. With this consideration in mind, Ashkatar has granted control of the wheeled battering machine to Arnem, for use against the wall at the head of the Path of Shame, which the sentek has every reason to believe still stands intact. Ashkatar and his warriors, in the meantime, withdraw back into the stands of trees on the high slopes of the mountain, to await word that it is indeed safe for them to set foot within the city. Only Visimar and the three foragers with whom he has become fast friends will brave the question of just who holds what power within the granite walls of Broken before the issue has seemingly been decided; and even they move with great caution.
The sharp-eyed Kriksex can soon explain to Lady Arnem that the Talons’ riders move slowly and noisily because of their unusual burden, a device the like of which the ag veteran has beheld many times before. Moments after receiving this explanation, Isadora and Dagobert are relieved of their greatest anxiety when, moving at the fast pace with which the Talons’ mounted contingents are more typically associated, not only the khotor’s commander, but his aide and several of his scouts appear from behind the riders that work to pull the great ram through the now-softened surface of the Path of Shame. Having glimpsed the dismantling of the barrier at the Path’s head soon after entering the city, Arnem has determined that Lord Baster-kin’s treachery has been found out by the God-King and the Grand Layzin; and the sentek cannot, thereafter, be prevented from proceeding with all haste to his home, where he receives the cheers of the veterans who surround his wife and son. But his own eyes are fixed on those of his lady, most immediately, and then on the image of his son, who wears the armor Sixt entrusted to him before departing, and carries the best of the sentek’s marauder swords. Like Dagobert himself, both blade and armor have plainly seen combat of some sort in recent days, a fact that causes Arnem no little concern; however, he is yet the leader of a force that must be prepared for still more treachery of the kind that has haunted his men since they first began their march. Thus, before obeying his deepest passion and rushing to his wife and son, he cries out over his shoulder:
“Akillus! Inform the advance force that they may abandon the ram, and see to the safety of their own families, if they wish. It would seem the issue has been settled, and that the day is ours—but they must yet be wary of any attempts by the Merchant Lord’s Guard to either attack our units or commit some other murderous outrage in their efforts to escape the city and the God-King’s justice.”
Then, at long last, Arnem leaps from his saddle and hurries to embrace Isadora, holding one arm free to draw Dagobert close to him. Tears of joy and relief well quickly in the eyes of both the commander’s wife and his scion; and it requires all the discipline that the sentek can muster not to himself weep before his men. On closer inspection, however, Arnem is unable to prevent his own happiness from being curtailed by unpleasant surprise at the somewhat drawn aspect of both his wife’s and his son’s features. Isadora, who is as ever able to comprehend her husband’s thoughts, puts a hand to his face and, smiling more gently, says, “It is nothing, Sixt—we shared what food stores we had with those most in need, that is all. Nor have we suffered as much as have many …”
Arnem kisses his lady with a passion augmented by pride at her bravery, and then turns to his son. “And you, Dagobert?” he says, tightening his grip on his son’s shoulder. “It seems to me that my old armor and marauder sword saw more than ornamental use.”
“Your son took his place among us, Sentek,” Kriksex answers, seeing that Dagobert is too modest to boast in front of the collection of brave veterans who surround his parents and himself. “When defense of the district was necessary.”
Arnem’s expression becomes suddenly ambiguous. “And were you forced to kill, my boy, during these actions?”
“I—” Dagobert’s face, too, becomes a mask of uncertainty. “I did what we were all forced to do, Father. I cannot boast of it, for it was …” The youth’s voice trails off, and his eyes turn toward the ground. “It was necessary—and terrible. Nothing less—or more …”
Arnem leans down to meet Dagobert’s eyes intently. “And that is war, young man,” he says quietly. “For you are no longer to be counted a ‘boy’—by myself or anyone else. That much is plain …” Standing and turning to the old veteran who rests upon his crutch, Arnem speaks aloud once more: “And you are Kriksex—a few wrinkles cannot disguise that much. I know that you will forgive the concern for my family that prevented my greeting you at once, Linnet. But do not doubt my awareness of how very much I am indebted to you: for my wife made it clear in her letters to me that you have spared no effort to ensure their safety.”
“Despite the many strange things we have seen of late in the Fifth District, Sentek,” Kriksex answers, “my loyalty to the Talons, to you, and to your house has remained intact. Like your son, I did my duty, and nothing more—although with no little happiness, in this case, for your lady and Master Dagobert both share your courage and your own devotion to all in Broken that is truly good and noble.”
“And for that, I shall see to it that you are rewarded by the God-King and the Grand Layzin with more than a crutch—even a well-worked crutch,” Arnem pronounces. “For it appears that our rulers were as much taken in by Baster-kin’s mad schemes as were many of us.”
“But, Sixt,” Isadora says, her joy suddenly mitigated by worry. “I do not see the rest of the children—”
Arnem turns to indicate Radelfer, who rides with the advance force of his cavalry. “Fear not, wife,” the sentek says. “Radelfer more than fulfilled the commission with which you charged him: the other children wait, fed and safe, within my tent outside the city.”
Isadora looks at the former seneschal of the clan Baster-kin, regaining her ordinarily noble outward bearing. “Thank you, Radelfer,” she says. “I, of all people, know how much your change of allegiance and your safekeeping of my children have cost you, not only in rank, but in the realization that Rendulic Baster-kin’s heart had not, in the end, survived the torment he had endured as a boy.”
“True, my lady,” Radelfer says softly, riding closer to the garden gate and nodding respectfully. “Even so, the cost was not so great as the dishonor of refusing your request would have been. And may I take a moment to add”—he turns to Kriksex—“that I am glad to find that this old comrade of mine has also managed both to fulfill his pledge to you, as well as to keep himself alive. Although I am not sure that there has ever existed a member of the Merchant Lord’s Guard who
could have put an end to such a man.”
Kriksex shrugs the one of his shoulders that does not rest upon his crutch. “There existed some few who made determined attempts, Radelfer,” he replies. “Although I am happy to say that they no longer draw breath …”
Turning about, Arnem and Radelfer both see that most of the Talons’ advance force, recognizing that their commander would as soon be alone with his family, have either taken advantage of his permission to disperse in order to attend to the safety of their own kin, or have begun the task of hunting down the remaining units of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard: men who seem to have made every attempt to disappear amongst the population of the city, for there is no sign of any organized resistance on their part. And yet, seasoned commander that he is, Sixt Arnem takes little comfort from this seeming fact, as yet—for the Guard, he suspects, will prove every bit as treacherous in defeat as the sentek has now learned that their commander has been since the beginning of the Talons’ campaign.
“I am glad to hear it, Kriksex,” Arnem murmurs, eyeing the streets. “And yet—there is something so utterly strange about what has taken place within this city, in so brief a period of time, that I cannot help but wonder if forces other than the sword have been at work.” He turns to Isadora with a slight smile. “You have not taken to conjuring, have you, wife?”
“Had I but been able,” Isadora replies, bravely returning his smile as she softly lands a fist upon his chest, “there are one or two qualities about certain people I would have changed. No, if this was magic, then it was someone else’s—for as soon as it became apparent that the South Gate would fall, orders began to be issued from the Inner City and the Sacristy of the High Temple. We still do not know the wording of most of them, but—at least half the Merchants’ Council have been arrested, and their properties confiscated. No one in the first three districts is certain, even now, of what fate may await their own families, but all citizens were ordered to remain in their homes, until the conclusion of the ‘present unpleasantness.’ Yet no statement has yet been made as to what the ‘unpleasantness’ was, or to who was responsible for it—although just a few minutes ago, I observed Lord Baster-kin being escorted to the north, by a group of armed attendants from the High Temple. And, soon thereafter, I observed a man I believe to have been Caliphestros himself, astride what could only have been the white panther of Davon Wood, making his way toward the High Temple. I might suspect the sorcery to be his, save that I learned long ago that he has never believed in or practiced the sorts of dark arts for which he was condemned. Sixt—what can it all mean? How did that poor man come to return to Broken by such remarkable means? And what of our children, now that all this has taken place—would they not now be safer here, with us, than in your camp?”