The Legend of Broken (10 page)

Shouting?
thinks Arnem.
It was screaming, and well he knows it—unless he did not believe my report. What’s he playing at?

“Beyond that,” Korsar concludes, “I confess that I have seen little, inside the walls or out, that would indicate a desperate state of affairs.”

“The Bane have learned new ways,” Baster-kin says, eyeing Korsar more critically. “They behave more like the deadly vermin that they are with each day’s passing—we chase them into one hole, and they strike from any of a dozen others.”

Korsar makes no reply, but cannot keep a glint of dismissal from his agèd eyes;
and if I can catch that look,
Arnem realizes,
then how much more quickly can Baster-kin?

And, to be sure, Baster-kin reacts with an expression of distaste—or is it regret?—and a disappointed shake of his head. Striding down the wooden walkway that spans the pool, the Merchant Lord descends to the soldiers, but with none of the grace that marked the Layzin’s approach.

“May I ask what these ‘new ways’ are, Eminence?” Korsar says, his voice carrying a hint of continued skepticism. “There was mention of sorcery, in your summons …”

“A necessary ruse,” the Layzin replies, “to mask the true nature of the danger from those who have witnessed its effects.” The Layzin sighs heavily, deep distress revealing itself ever more in his face and voice. “It was, in fact, poison, Yantek. We do not yet know from which woodland creature they extracted the substance, but its effects are”—the sacred head bows, and the gentle shoulders slacken—“fever—painful sores throughout the body—all … horrifying …”

Korsar’s eyes go wide with what Arnem hopes the others will not recognize as disbelief. “Poison?” the yantek repeats. “In the Inner City?”

“Yantek Korsar forgets,” Baster-kin declares, “that my own Guard patrol the entrances to the Inner City.” Seemingly incensed by Korsar’s skepticism, Baster-kin steps but inches from the yantek. “And it was they who were struck down by those misshapen little heretics.”

“The poison,” interrupts the Layzin, placing a hand gently on Baster-kin’s chest and guiding him a few steps away, “was introduced into a well outside the Inner City gates. Near a military post. We must suppose that the Bane hoped that some of the tainted water would find its way inside, or that, once loose, the illness would spread like plague—for its effects are similar to that worst of all afflictions …” The Layzin’s voice grows soft, and his delicate eyes fill with dread. “Broken is nothing without the God-King, Yantek. I need not remind you that Saylal has not yet been blessed with an heir, and should the line that began with the great Thedric—”

“With Oxmontrot,” interjects Korsar, causing no little surprise throughout the room: the Layzin is not a man to be interrupted like any other, and he is even less one to be corrected on questions of state and faith. But Yantek Korsar persists: “Surely Your Eminence remembers?”

“Oxmontrot?”
Baster-kin repeats. The Merchant Lord is indignant, at both the suggestion and at Korsar’s interruption; but he controls his resentment, and calmly presses: “Oxmontrot was a low-born heathen, Yantek. And, although we owe him gratitude for the founding of this city, he had, by all accounts, lost his mind, by his life’s end.”

But Korsar holds his ground calmly: “And yet he is still respected as the father of this kingdom. Or does my lord deny as much?”

The Layzin casts a glance of mild admonishment at Baster-kin, and turns back to Korsar, placing another pale, smooth hand on the yantek’s wrist. He smiles gently, at which Baster-kin’s tone seems to genuinely soften: “I do not deny it, Yantek. But Oxmontrot was unfortunate enough to have died without ever accepting Kafra as the one true god; thus, great leader though he was, he cannot be considered of the divine lineage.”

Korsar shrugs carelessly. “As you say, my lord. But he was a devout man, in his way.”

“He was a
Moon worshipper,
just as the Bane are!” Baster-kin exclaims, losing his momentary self-control. “Are you truly attempting to say—”

“My lord …!”

The Grand Layzin of Broken has been forced to raise his voice, if only slightly; but it is enough to make the shaven priests suddenly remember urgent tasks to be performed in adjoining chambers, while the men of the Guard shrink into the Sacristy’s furthest shadowy corners. Arnem would join them if given the chance; but he must stand his ground and support Korsar—provided it does not lead to further inexplicable flirtations with blasphemies that, quite aside from being provocative, are unnecessary.

The Layzin’s ordinarily cool eyes become quite heated, as he glowers at Baster-kin. “We are not here to discuss ancient history or Yantek Korsar’s views thereof,” says the Layzin, more sternly. “The attempted assassination is the subject at hand.”

Baster-kin swallows any remaining bile when he looks into the Layzin’s eyes; then he turns his own gaze to the floor and goes down on one knee. “Yes, Eminence,” he says quietly. “I beg forgiveness.”

The Layzin passes a generous hand over Baster-kin’s head. “Oh, no need, no need, my lord. Rise, I beg you. We are all near distraction, at the thought of the Bane reaching into the very heart of this city. I am sure Yantek Korsar will forgive us.”

Korsar, too, appears humbled by the Layzin’s words, for all his defiance. “Eminence, I would not wish to appear—”

“Of course not,” the Layzin replies, again full of compassion. “But there is more news, Yantek. The God-King has reached a momentous decision—one terrible in its nature, but righteous in its purpose.”

Korsar begins to nod, almost seeming to smile ever so slightly beneath the agèd grey whiskers, before he very carefully says, “He wishes the army of Broken, led by the Talons, to undertake the final destruction of the Bane tribe …”

The Layzin’s gentle, pronounced lips part, and his face fills with surprise and approval as he brings his hands swiftly together. “There, now, Baster-kin! Yantek Korsar’s loyalty makes the solution clear to him before ever I voice it. Yes, Yantek, such is the wish of our sacred ruler, and he directs me to charge you with its execution—although the involvement of the entire army hardly seems necessary. Sentek Arnem’s Talons should be more than adequate to the task.”

The Layzin clearly expects an enthusiastic response from the two soldiers—and is disturbed when neither displays one. Korsar stares down at his boots, shifting from one foot to the other uneasily, then tugs at his beard with his right hand in a similar fashion.

“Yantek …?” the Layzin asks, mystified.

But Korsar does not answer; instead, he lifts his head, apparently growing settled in his mind, and looks into Arnem’s bewildered eyes, his message so clear that, once again, no more than silent a reminder need accompany his speedy gaze:
Remember what I told you—do not support me …

And then Korsar turns to the Layzin, putting his arms to his sides and inclining his head in deference once more. “I—” The words do not come easily, to one whose life has been obedience: “I fear that I must—
disappoint
Your Eminence.”

The proud smile that has lit the Layzin’s face disappears with disturbing abruptness. “I do not understand, Yantek.”

“With respect, Eminence,” Korsar says, steadying one trembling hand by gripping the pommel of his raiding sword
†
and grinding the tip of its long, straight sheath into the marble floor. “I suspect that you do. I suspect that Lord Baster-kin has already warned you of what my reaction to such a charge was likely to be.”

“
I
have?” the Merchant Lord asks, genuinely confused.

The Layzin glances quickly at Baster-kin, not at all pleased. “Yantek,” the Layzin says, in a hushed, deliberate manner, “you cannot refuse a commission from the God-King. You know this.”

“But I do refuse it, Eminence.” Sorrow and deep regret grip the yantek’s voice, just as his words tighten Arnem’s own chest. “Although it makes me sick at heart to say so …”

A hushed awe falls over the Sacristy, as all wait for the Layzin’s next words: “But this cannot be!” he finally cries, staggering back into a nearby chair. “
Why,
Yantek? Why should you refuse to fight the Bane, whom Kafra has made the very image of all that is unholy?”

Korsar grips the pommel of his sword hard enough to go white at the knuckles. Arnem, himself in the grip of emotions too profound to express, can see that his friend’s next statement will be his most crucial:

“It was not the golden god who created the Bane, Eminence.” Having made the break, Korsar can finally look up, strength returning to his voice: “It is we of Broken who must accept that responsibility.”

A sudden chill runs through Arnem, in part because of the words that he is hearing, and in part because of how closely they resemble words that he has already heard, this night:

“Visimar …”
†
the sentek whispers, not yet willing to admit that he has so recently encountered the man; nay, not the
man:
he was a blasphemous criminal, Arnem silently declares, a mage in his own right, one who, worse yet, was the primary acolyte of Caliphestros, Broken’s most infamous sorcerer. Visimar, who pilfered corpses for his master’s rites, and who allowed his own very form to be oftentimes transformed by his master, that he might enter Davon Wood unnoticed and fetch out strange animals and herbs and crystalline rocks, all to be used in the creation of evil charms. No, Arnem will not admit to the chance meeting—or
was
it chance? And if the dead do walk the streets of Broken, what reason can Arnem have to doubt the most chilling of Visimar’s prophecies:

“‘You shall hear lies in the Sacristy tonight, but not all the men who speak them will be liars. And it will be your task to determine who disgraces that holy chamber with falsehoods.”

Arnem turns away from the other men for a moment, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You cursed old fool, Visimar,” he murmurs inaudibly, as his blood races ever more rapidly. “How am
I
to determine such a thing?”

One separate conclusion the sentek has already reached, with terrible certainty: as punishment for what he has just said, Yantek Korsar will almost surely be exiled to Davon Wood, the effective death that is meted out to those who spread sedition. Precisely as Korsar himself predicted earlier in the evening, the old commander—the man who has ever been a father, not merely to Arnem, but to the army generally—will not see another sun set over Broken’s western walls. “Kafra’s stones,” Arnem curses helplessly, momentarily forgetting his surroundings. “Kafra’s bloody
stones
 …” the sentek repeats, with the same soft desperation. “What is happening, this night …?”

The Layzin stands and, without deigning to look at either Korsar or Arnem again, quickly recrosses the walkway and ascends to his dais. Moving to its most distant point and throwing himself upon the sofa, he calls, “Baster-kin!” in a tone authoritative enough to make the strong-willed Merchant Lord turn about like a household servant. Then the Layzin orders the scribe who sits opposite him to stop recording what is said: an ominous act, and one Arnem has never before observed.

Starting toward the walkway, Baster-kin pauses to glare at the two commanders, whispering only, “I assured him, earlier, that this was
not
a possibility. You two had better prepare some explanation!” And then he spins again so quickly that both commanders are brushed by the swirling hem of his cloak, just before he marches up the walkway to face his much-displeased master.

Turning to Yantek Korsar, Arnem finds, for the first time, uncertainty in his old friend’s face; but it is an uncertainty that gives way to private amusement (remarkably ill-timed, Arnem thinks), and Korsar sighs an almost hateful laugh as he quietly pronounces:

“Clever. Yes, clever—
my lord …”

Arnem would have an explanation, and will press Korsar for one, if he must; but just then there is a commotion to the rear of the chamber. The men of Baster-kin’s Guard are assuring someone that entry is forbidden—but whoever is on the other side is having none of this explanation.

“Linnet!” Baster-kin calls out from the dais, where he has gone into close conference with the Layzin. “What’s that unholy noise?”

The linnet of the Guard strides quickly to the center of the chamber. “A soldier, sir—a mere pallin, from Sentek Arnem’s command. He claims that he has an urgent report, which the sentek himself ordered him to bring.”

“Did you so command?” Baster-kin calls to Arnem.

“Ban-chindo,” the sentek mumbles; then, as calmly as he can manage, he replies, “Yes, my lord, I did. The pallin has been watching the area of the Wood in which we earlier observed activity.”

“Well—see what he wants,” Baster-kin says, and resumes his hushed conversation with the Layzin, a heated exchange that is evidently doing nothing for the Merchant Lord’s infamous disposition.

In truth, Arnem would rather stay where he is, and use the moment to privately demand that Yantek Korsar explain his extraordinary behavior and statements; but all Korsar seems willing to offer is an additional order:

“You heard him, Sixt—go see what troubles your pallin.”

Left without alternatives, Arnem tries to make his concern plain on his face, and puts his fist to his chest in salute to his commander; but Korsar only smiles again, that infuriating expression that is almost wholly hidden by his beard, and so Arnem must stride to the arched doorway in as bad a humor as he can remember experiencing. He moves roughly past the men of the Guard, and drags the winded Pallin Ban-chindo out into the transept of the Temple.