The Legend of Broken (15 page)

Yet none of this explained the special anger that Heldo-Bah reserved for those “blessèd” men back in Okot who were periodically chosen by the Priestess of the Moon for entry into the Outragers. Heldo-Bah would often speak of that hatred, first to Veloc and, later, to Keera, when she began to slip away from her tracking duties and join her brother and the friend they had known since childhood on their increasingly infamous forays across the Cat’s Paw. After Keera married Tayo (a young tanner and butcher who made good use of the game that Keera hunted) and gave birth, in rapid succession, to three children, her participation became more limited, as was natural; but on occasion, she would still find herself drawn into the many arguments with the Outragers that Heldo-Bah and Veloc indulged in wherever they went; and if apprehended, she shared their terms of foraging. Yet through all these years and the many adventures and punishments that the three experienced together, neither Keera nor Veloc ever learned the reason behind Heldo-Bah’s hatred for the knights, which rivaled even his loathing of the Tall.

A sharp scream suddenly interrupts the monotonous roar of the
Ayerzess-werten,
along with Keera’s remembrances, and causes the tracker to bolt upright from her seat on the rocky lip of the crag. Is it a cry of pain, Keera wonders, or merely of terror? Not that it is of consequence; she has no intention of returning to the spot until her companions call for her. Keera has seen enough of death and blood and strange events, this night, and she will be happy to get home to the good-hearted Tayo and their three playfully obstreperous children: two boys who have, thankfully, taken after their father, and a girl, the youngest, who, just as thankfully, is much like her mother. Keera sits again, listening to the pre-dawn chatter of birds that are nested close by the
Ayerzess-werten
and chiding herself for having once again gotten mixed up in trouble between Veloc and Heldo-Bah and a group of Outragers, and thus securing for herself a place on this term of foraging. She does not seriously believe that either she or Veloc will ever so associate themselves with Heldo-Bah’s troublesome ways as to earn lifetime terms of foraging, as he has already done; but such consolation does not free her of the shame and heartache of being absent from her children. How would she feel, she sometimes wonders, if the situation were reversed? If her children ran away, even for a short time, leaving her naught to do save await their return? Keera cannot imagine life without the little creatures of her flesh, who have already begun to learn to hunt, and hunt properly: with respect for the Wood, for the spirits of the game, and finally for those other, far less visible spirits that lurk in the forest. How could she ever exist without the companionship of those pieces of herself?

A bad churning in her stomach, a cold rattling up her spine: the mere notion has frightened Keera more seriously than any of the night’s other peculiar events. She remembers, too, that she has not yet reasoned out any adequate explanation for the many soundings of the Voice of the Moon, but has been left with the shapeless dread of some sort of attack on Okot. With these considerations in mind, she decides to brave the short screams that continue to emanate from the direction of the oak, and begins to gather up all her party’s goods, ready to tell her brother and Heldo-Bah that she will continue on her way home immediately, whether they accompany her or not. The weight of her bag so customary as to be unnoticed, she seizes the other two sacks and easily lifts what would be a taxing load even for a strong Bane man, then races round the crag and heads directly for where Veloc and Heldo-Bah—both with gutting blades in hand—kneel to some urgent task. A few more steps, and Keera can see that the Outrager Welferek is no longer held to the tree by Heldo-Bah’s knives: he is lying on the ground between his two captors, looking quite dead.

Keera feels anger grip her spirit at what she thinks her brother and Heldo-Bah have done. Arriving at the tree, she throws the pair’s sacks to the ground, causing Heldo-Bah to loose a dog’s high cry of surprise and alarm; but he quickly caresses the bag, opening it and finding that its contents are safe.

“I thought we understood each other!” Keera lectures, infuriated by the sight of Welferek’s motionless, bloody body. “No more killing!”

“Save your scolding, sister,” Veloc answers; and for the first time, Keera notices that he is using his gutting blade, not to torment Welferek, but to cut bandages from a length of Broken broadcloth that he has unwound from one of his leggings. “He’s not dead.”

Heldo-Bah spits once before rejoining Veloc in binding the wounds on Welferek’s arms. “Though he’ll wish he
was
dead, when he wakes and remembers all this: the damned idiot
fainted
—dead away!”

Keera is still not certain of what she is seeing. “Fainted?” she asks. “And what could you two do to make an Outrager like this one faint?”

“
I
did nothing,” Veloc protests, glaring at Heldo-Bah.

“You—? Did nothing?” Heldo-Bah groans mightily. “You did nothing
less
than persuade him that I would carry out the threat!”

“Threat?” Keera demands.

Heldo-Bah turns to her, his face a mask of unjustified persecution. “I would not have done it, Keera, I swear to you—it was only to loosen his tongue! I cut his breeches open, put my knife against his stones, and told him that I would certainly geld him if he didn’t tell us—”

Keera nods. “Those were the girlish screams I heard?”

“I drew not one ounce of blood!” Heldo-Bah stamps his feet in protest. “As soon as the blade was on his manhood, he screamed like an ill-used sow, and down he went. He struck his head on that rock there.”

Glancing at a sizable lump on Welferek’s head, Keera examines the ground beneath it, and finds the rock in question. Heldo-Bah, meanwhile, waits for a further rebuke—and is surprised when none comes. “Then,” Keera continues, “he told you nothing about Okot?”

With uncharacteristic suddenness, both Veloc and Heldo-Bah become utterly somber; and as Heldo-Bah undertakes the job of binding Welferek’s arm wounds, Veloc takes his sister aside.

“He was nearly unconscious, when he spoke the words, Keera.” Veloc is as grave as Keera can remember him ever being.

Keera waits an instant, then slaps her brother’s shoulder.
“And—?”

Veloc’s brown eyes stare directly into Keera’s blue, knowing what effect his next statement will have: “He spoke of—of plague. In Okot …”

The word is nonsense to Keera, at first; but with Veloc’s continued hard stare, she allows it as a possibility—and is so stunned that she forgets even to breathe, for an instant, and then must hurry air into her body with a panicked gasp. “Plague? But—we have never—”

“No. The Wood and the river have shielded us,” Veloc agrees.

“Which may mean,” Heldo-Bah says quietly, with what might pass for tact, “that our luck has held too long. And has now run out …”

Keera can say nothing for a moment. When she regains her composure, her mind fastens on practicalities. “Strap your sacks on, both of you,” she says, noting Welferek’s bound hands. “I’m going to wake him.”

“We’ve tried, Keera,” Heldo-Bah says. “It’s like asking a log to get up and dance. The man’s past distraction.”

“We are going to wake him, damn you,” Keera begins to shout. “I want to know what he’s talking about—there has never been plague in Okot!”

The shrillness of her voice has apparently succeeded where all Heldo-Bah’s and Veloc’s efforts failed. Welferek’s head tosses and he murmurs nonsense for a moment. He then opens his eyes, looking at the foragers, but clearly unsure if he is seeing them.

“Plague—in Okot …” Welferek looks down at his bound hands, then at the forest around him, as if these and all other sights are new to him. “There is plague in Okot …”

Keera rushes to the man, fastens her powerful hands onto the chest of his tunic and pulling him into a sitting position, then slams him back against the oak tree. “What are you talking about, Outrager?” she shouts. “What plague?”

Light slowly reenters Welferek’s eyes; he recognizes Keera, at last, and then the other two; but precisely who they are and why he is among them is obviously still a mystery. “Do not—return. They’re dying—so many are dying.” He gasps once, then lifts his arms, oblivious to the pain of his wounds, and puts his bloody, bound hands to either side of Keera’s chin, as if he somehow understands her urgency. “Do not return there!” he shouts. “There is plague in Okot—
there is plague in Okot!
”

Keera snatches his hands and tears them from her face. Standing, she turns to see that Heldo-Bah and Veloc have fixed their sacks to their shoulders. “We go—
now,
” she orders. “Cut him loose—his own men may still be about. If they do not find him, he can make his own way, or be eaten by panthers, I don’t care. I will lead.”

Veloc touches her arm as she passes. “Keera, we don’t know—”

“No,” she replies. “We don’t. And we won’t find out here. Now run, damn you both!”

And, in the time it takes for Welferek’s bobbing, slowly clearing head to right itself, the three foragers disappear once again into the deep forest, leaving no trace of their encounter save the Outrager’s bandaged wounds and the lump on his head.

Arnem learns many secrets of his city, and

of the perils it faces …

Walking up the center aisle of the Temple nave, Sixt Arnem has remained a respectful half-step behind Lord Baster-kin, not wishing to presume to equal rank, yet unsure of just what his position has become. He has been named the new commander of the army of Broken; that idea alone would require time for the sentek to take in. But beyond this, he has been unsure of just what Baster-kin needs to tell him concerning the coming campaign against the Bane, and why, if the matter really was and is so urgent, the Merchant Lord has said nothing at all, to this point. Evidently Baster-kin wishes to converse in a place more shielded than the Sacristy of the High Temple; but as to where such a place might be, the sentek can hazard no guess.

As Arnem has continued to follow the his lordship through the nave, he has noticed that the east and west walls of that central part of the structure have begun to come to life: the deep indigo illumination of early dawn has begun filtering through tall, wide windows in each of the walls. These windows, like those in the Sacristy, consist of panels of colored glass; but, because secrecy has never been a consideration in the public congregation hall, the panels in its windows were originally made far thinner, which had allowed for them to be leaded together to form enormous patterns of profound complexity
†
that have never failed to awe the many worshippers who, on high holy days, have abandoned their smaller district temples and streamed up the Celestial Way to the High Temple.

Now, as Baster-kin approaches the building’s enormous brass doors, which are tended by two priests unfamiliar to Arnem, the Merchant Lord pauses, exchanging a few words with these men outside of Arnem’s hearing. The priests nod obediently, then stay where they were as Baster-kin signals to Arnem, telling him to follow into the far eastern corner of the nave. As he obeys this signal, Arnem sees Baster-kin reach for something within his scarlet tunic—an angular object, suspended from his neck on a thin silver chain, which reflects the light of a torch set in a sconce on the nearest of the nave’s columns. Soon, Arnem is able to see by that same light that the object is a key of some sort; and, after he has lifted the chain over his head and taken this key in hand, Baster-kin stops before a marble initiation font,
†
a basin almost three feet wide with a base some five feet square. A small, circular piece of brass
‡
is mounted to the bottommost section of the base, and when Baster-kin slides this aside, Arnem can see a finely worked keyhole, also of brass. The Merchant Lord kneels, inserts the key, and turns it, producing clicks: the working of some inner mechanism.

Getting to his feet again, Baster-kin declares, “What I am about to show you, Sentek, are things of which you must never speak to anyone—not even to your wife.” Arnem is somewhat taken aback by this reference to Isadora, to whom Baster-kin has only been introduced (so far as her husband knows) very briefly, during a few official ceremonies; yet there is a vague air of familiarity about this latest statement that the sentek does not care for, and even more ominously, that he fears.
Two things alone can be responsible for it,
Arnem calculates:
ordinary lust, which would be both insulting and ill-considered, and is therefore unlikely; or, full knowledge of Isadora’s past—her past, and her activities—which would be less likely, yet far more dangerous …
“I have your word that you will maintain such silence?” Baster-kin presses.

“Of course, my lord,” Arnem answers. “But I assure you—”

“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it,” Baster-kin says quickly; and then he looks away, scowling and annoyed, it seems to Arnem, at his own awkward choice of words. “My apologies. It’s simply that, given what we have just observed …”

“Yes, my lord,” the sentek answers, relieved at the credible statement of contrition. “I understand.”

“You are now to learn things you must know, if you are to lead our army—and I think you will appreciate the need for secrecy, once you’ve seen them.” Baster-kin signals to the priests at the Temple doors.

The pair rush to him, seeming to Arnem to require no spoken instruction. Both physically powerful young men, the priests pivot the heavy marble font on the point of its brass locking mechanism, revealing a spiral stone staircase that leads down into utter darkness. The priests stand back, and Baster-kin takes the nearby torch from its sconce.

“These tunnels run between the most important structures in the city,” the Merchant Lord explains, leading the way down the steps. “Particularly those that would be crucial during time of siege.” As soon as Arnem’s head is below the level of the Temple floor, the priests above rotate the font back over the hole, and its locking pivot mechanism makes a rather sharp snapping sound.

Thus sealed into the narrow staircase, Arnem is unable to keep from thinking that this descent into the bowels of the city is not a propitious start to his new command …

But, as he reaches the bottom of the steps, the sentek finds a large, vaulted chamber, which offers immediate relief from the cramped stairway. Branching off are perhaps half a dozen roomy tunnels carved through the solid stone, and the chamber itself is filled to brimming with sacks of grain, sides of salt-dried beef and pork, piles of root vegetables—and, finally, enough weapons, Arnem estimates, to arm half a
khotor.

“We try to replenish the food supplies regularly,” Baster-kin announces, his voice uncharacteristically enthusiastic as he moves the torch about the chamber to reveal all of its remarkable contents, “and we do what we can to prevent moisture from rusting the weapons.”

“It almost surpasses comprehension,” Arnem says, his eyes following the torchlight. “But who instituted this practice?”

Baster-kin shrugs. “It has gone on for many generations, certainly—it was likely part of the original plan of the Mad King himself. I had the full system of tunnels and chambers mapped, when I assumed my office, and created an inventory of their contents—enough to secure the city for months, at the very least, should we face a siege.”

Still inspecting the chamber, Arnem finds one thing glaringly absent: “And water?” he asks. “I see no cistern.”

Baster-kin nods. “It has never been a consideration—we have always had an abundance of water, from the various spring-fed wells throughout the city, many of which are connected through fissures in the stone summit of the mountain, out of which Broken’s walls were carved. That is why we take this matter of the poisoned well so seriously: I’ve long had a suspicion that the Bane knew how much we would depend on the resources that lie within the city walls, during a crisis, and that they might send Outragers to make some brazen attempt to pollute them—as they now have. I can’t even be sure that killing the God-King was their primary purpose—it might have been merely a fortunate secondary result. As it turns out, since the damage seems confined to the one well, it suits our purposes more than theirs …” The Merchant Lord thrusts his hands into a grain sack, examining its contents carefully, as he continues to speak contemplatively: “I’m having every other well watched, as we speak, of course, in the event that they try again—or, worse yet, that the poison should find its way into other reserves at some future date. But for now …”

Baster-kin becomes even more inscrutable, for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he examines his handful of grain; and Arnem finds himself, while impressed, a little confused. “My lord?” he says. “You seem perturbed, rather than relieved. If I may say so. Do you fear the grain stores have also been tampered with?”

“Not yet,” Baster-kin replies, his mind clearly wrestling with the thought. “But we must be ever-vigilant …” Shaking himself, he turns to the sentek once again. “You and I, however, are not farmers, to vex ourselves with such matters—and yet now it is
you
who look uncertain.”

“Well—perhaps not uncertain,” Arnem answers quickly. “But—in the Sacristy, earlier, you did make it sound as though the Bane’s sole purpose was to assassinate—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Baster-kin replies, waving the fact off with one hand as he replaces the grain. “As I say, the event has as yet served our purposes far more than theirs: particularly yours and mine. The Layzin’s energies are—
overtaxed,
as you saw; and the version of events I relayed to him, and thus to the God-King, was not incorrect. I merely laid emphasis on certain details over others, in order to make the case as simple to comprehend as possible. I trust you can see that?”

Arnem knows that much depends upon the nature of his answer to this seemingly harmless question: he is being invited into a conspiracy, of sorts—one with a noble purpose, perhaps, but with consequences that belie its innocent tone. And so he accepts without detailing his complete opinions: “Yes, my lord,” he says simply.

“Good. Fine.” The Merchant Lord is clearly pleased. “But come—I am expected at the Merchants’ Hall. Or rather, beneath it …”

Arnem studies Lord Baster-kin’s face as they begin to move quickly along one of the many tunnels out of the storage area, soon passing into and out of another identical vaulted stone chamber. The sentek can see that the Merchant Lord’s evident concern for the city, which so often seems obnoxiously zealous in the company of others, somehow assumes a vastly different and more appealing quality, when one is allowed to view its private, even secret, manifestations: its careful inspections and judgments of the materials necessary for the public good in a time of crisis.

“Was Yantek Korsar aware of all this?” Arnem asks, still quite amazed at the extent, not only of the underground maze of expertly carved chambers and tunnels, but of the amount of supplies that are hoarded away in them, and kept replenished for use at any time.

“He was,” Baster-kin replies, laughing in an odd manner: without harshness or rancor, but rather something oddly like sad admiration. “But we were under the impression that you
knew
he was …”

Arnem needs no explanation of this statement: Baster-kin is plainly referring to Niksar’s role as a spy. But he does not say so at once: “No, my lord—the yantek never shared such knowledge with me,” he says. “In addition, another commander might wonder at how you can be so knowledgeable about what confidences the—” He is on the verge of saying “the yantek” again, but catches himself, remembering the Merchant Lord’s admonition against such in the Sacristy, “—what confidences
Herwald
Korsar and I exchanged.”

Baster-kin nods, appreciating the gesture. “Another commander would have done a great many things far differently than you have, Sentek. For instance, you’re aware that Linnet Niksar spies for us; you’ve been aware of it for some time. I know it, the Layzin knows it, and the God-King knows it. Yet you have made no protest.” When Baster-kin glances back to find Arnem still more dumbfounded, he laughs once sharply—a rare and remarkable event. It produces a sound that is too sudden, too ill practiced to be pleasant: how much worse would the effect be, Arnem wonders, if it happened in a roomful of dignitaries? Yet here, in private, the awkwardness of the laughter can be overlooked, and the sentiment behind it valued. “You needn’t look so shocked, Sentek,” says Baster-kin, his voice becoming businesslike once more. “We knew you were aware of Linnet Niksar’s role, as I say, but we also knew that you neither held it as a mark against your aide, nor ceased to place your full trust in him. Thus we, in turn, were given additional reason to trust
you.
That counted for a great deal, I don’t mind telling you, with both the God-King and the Grand Layzin. You’re an exceptional man, Arnem, and an even more exceptional commander. I’m sorry for Korsar, I truly am—but his time had long since passed, even before he gave voice to heresy and treason. No, this moment belongs to
you
, Sentek—make the most of it. Continued trustworthiness would be a fine first step, along those lines, and if eliminating the pretense with Niksar will help, we can easily arrange it.”

Still unaccustomed to this side of his companion, Arnem simply says, “It will help both Niksar and myself, Lord Baster-kin; I thank you.”

The sentek’s attitude toward Baster-kin is transforming. Arnem has always respected the Merchant Lord; but now, to walk with him in these secret passageways and learn their equally secret purpose, to talk to him as an equal about the inner workings of the kingdom, and to gain deeper insight into how this man, who is the very embodiment of Broken power, thinks, as well as into how he manipulates even the supreme authorities of the great kingdom for their own good and preservation … It is enough to deeply humble anyone, much less a man who was once a troublesome youth from the Fifth District—and Arnem is humbled, indeed: where there had been only sadness for his old friend Korsar not so very much earlier, there is now a profound sense, not only of humility, but of Fate. Fate, which has chosen Arnem to lead the mighty army of Broken in a cause that will bring greater security to the subjects of Broken, and greater safety to the God-King. Yes, humility and Fate: these are the forces driving Arnem’s actions.

Or so he finds it comfortable to believe, for the moment …

In this way, he soon grows to feel that he can presume—humbly, of course—to voice the most critical question of all: “My lord, if I may ask—you have said that this campaign will have a goal far greater than the destruction of the Bane. What might that goal be?”

As he begins to answer this question, Baster-kin guides the way from the tunnel through which they have been traveling into a secondary, steadily widening passageway, one that soon opens out onto a large staircase leading up to a formal doorway, into which is set a series of stout oak boards, banded to form a door by thick straps of iron.