The Legend of Broken (6 page)

Again the agèd lips curl grimly. “The unholy are often cunning. But should you not be concerned about something else?” The old man pauses, but Arnem says nothing. “I am
here,
Sentek—is it not against the laws of Broken for exiles to return to the city without permission? Have I been granted such?”

With the old man’s words making ever less sense, and his infernal tapping growing ever more relentless, Arnem approaches him one last time. “If you have endured the
Denep-stahla,
friend, then you have been given trouble enough for one lifetime—and ample reason for your madness. Leave the city—we will forget this encounter.”

But the old man only shakes his head slowly. “You will try, Sentek. But do not trust my word alone. Wait for another voice to sound, this night—to sound more times than it ever has before …”

Arnem tries to dismiss this latest riddle by lifting a stern finger; the movement is awkward and ineffective, however, and becomes instead a simple signal to Niksar. The two men move speedily down the Celestial Way once more. In the distance, however, they can still hear the steady tap of the old man’s staff against his makeshift wooden leg, prompting Niksar to say, a bit nervously, “Well—an attempt at murder and an insane heretic. Not the best of omens for this council, Sentek.”

“Have any officers been attacked in this area?” Arnem asks, wanting to forget the old man and, above all, hoping Niksar will not ask why the peculiar character believed Arnem might remember him.

“There have been a few incidents, but most have occurred within the Fifth District itself. It’s the newcomers—young people from the villages along the Meloderna, for the most part—who continue to pose the problem. They’re coming in increasing numbers, and when they arrive …”

“And when they arrive, they find no priests of Kafra handing out gold on the streets. They find they have to work, just as they did at home.”

“But most know nothing of the kinds of work to be found here,” Niksar says, nodding. “And so they pass their days begging, and their nights in taverns. Or at the Stadium.”

“They ought to pass them in the barracks,” Arnem declares. “A few years of campaigning would take the idiocy out of them.…”

Turning off of the Celestial Way, Arnem and Niksar enter a street that leads directly to the Fourth District, home to Broken’s army—and also Arnem’s only true sanctuary, of late, being as his own house is relentlessly filled with such turmoil as only a petulant youth doing hourly battle with his mother can generate. As soon as the two officers see the district’s massive pine palisade ahead, they quicken their march; and they grow visibly relaxed as they near an enormous gate flanked by square sentry towers, which, like the palisade, are constructed of mighty pine logs, neatly hewn, notched, and joined which, where upright, are narrowed to sharp points.
†
Together, these elements form an awe-inspiring main entryway to a world unlike all other parts of Broken, one that, no matter how often Arnem passes through it, has an exhilarating effect on his spirit. The groan of the iron-banded gate as it opens, the steady rhythm of booted feet on the upper walkway, the smell of horse dung and hay from the stables, and the eternal pall of dust raised by the ceaseless drilling of the city’s soldiers: these are finally enough to take Sixt Arnem’s mind from matters of family and faith, and to fix it on the calling that is his terrible passion:

“Kafra’s stones, Niksar,” Arnem says, as he puts a fist over his heart in salute to a sentry. “A war would do this kingdom good!”

The Fourth District of Broken is a series of open drilling and training quadrangles, each bounded on all sides by low wooden barracks. The quarters of the Talons are hard by the eastern gate of the city, traditionally the first point of attack, as the eastern face of the mountain is easiest to ascend (although even that approach presents a devilish set of problems). Yantek Korsar, as commander not merely of the Talons but of the entire army, keeps his headquarters and personal residence near this same gate, so that his gruff manner and eternal vigilance can be sensed by any soldier, no matter how humble. After passing through drilling courts where linnets bark orders at night patrols, keeping them moving and ready to respond to any sudden threat, Arnem and Niksar enter a wide, empty parade ground, at the end of which rises a log structure higher than the barracks around it. Making quickly for this building, the two officers bound onto its wooden stairs, Arnem’s doubts and concerns having transformed into the anticipation that he always feels with a new commission. The city
must
be in real danger, he allows himself to think; it is the only explanation that makes the list of worthies called to the Sacristy this night comprehensible. He shall get the “true” war he craves, a war that a professional soldier can be proud of, and one that will begin to finally purge the city of that mischievous idleness, the effects of which he himself witnessed only moments ago.

At the top of the stairs, a sentry must move with great agility to bring his right fist to his chest while using his left hand to get a nearby door open in time for the bustling Arnem and Niksar to pass through it without incident. Both officers return the salute without breaking stride; and once inside, they find Korsar’s enormous frame seated at a broad table, his weathered face and full white beard suspended over a parchment map of the kingdom: an encouraging sign, Arnem thinks—

But when Korsar looks up, the sentek needs only a brief glance to realize that Niksar’s earlier assessment was disturbingly accurate: although the oldest and most experienced commander in Broken, Korsar’s deep blue eyes—the right bent by an ancient scar across his brow—bear an unmistakable sense of doom, augmented by resignation.

“You’ve precious little to be excited about, Arnem,” the yantek says, standing and rolling his map. “It looks as if it’s the Bane, after all.”

As he lifts his fist to his chest in salute, Arnem notices that Yantek Korsar has donned his finest armor, meticulously worked leather embellished with elaborate silver embroidery. “But why all the secrecy, Yantek?” Arnem asks. “And at this hour? We saw torches in the Wood not long ago, and heard screaming—have Outragers gotten into the city?”

“So it seems,” Korsar replies, as a pair of aides fix to his shoulders a deep blue cloak edged with the fur of a Davon wolf, one that the yantek himself killed during a foray into the Wood many years ago. “And they’re growing extraordinarily audacious—to say nothing of powerful!”

“Yantek? What are you saying?”

“Only that they’ve tried to murder the God-King, Arnem. Or so say the Layzin and Baster-kin.”

Korsar’s flippancy is as unsettling as what he relates, and Arnem feels his own confidence draining still more. “The God-King? But how?”

“How
does
one murder a god?” Yantek Korsar picks up the foot-long wood and brass baton—topped by a small, sculpted image of Kafra with the body of a panther and the wings of an eagle—that is the emblem of his rank and office,
†
and taps Arnem’s shoulder with it. “Sorcery, my boy,” Korsar goes on, smiling for the first time; but the smile quickly transforms into a frown of skeptical distaste.
“Sorcery …”

With a startling flood of nerves such as he has rarely experienced in battle, Arnem suddenly recalls the identity of the mad old man in the street.
But it can’t be,
he thinks;
I myself saw him die …

“What in the name of all that’s unholy is wrong with you?” Korsar has paused to study Arnem; and what he finds is not much to his liking.

Arnem quickly attempts to recover his wits. “Only the activity we observed in the Wood, Yantek,” he says swiftly. “Just before your orders arrived: should we not suspect some connection to all of this?”

“I doubt it.” Korsar says, still unsatisfied with the sentek’s explanation of his peculiar mood.

The two men have known each other since Arnem’s earliest days in the army of Broken, and Korsar knows that since those days he has played something of the role of father to Arnem, who began his life in the Fifth District as an impoverished orphan; or rather, he has always said that he is an orphan. Korsar suspects that Arnem’s mother and father simply abandoned him, or sold him into some menial servitude that young Sixt cleverly escaped—for he had been a boy with a gift for planning all manner of troublesome behavior, and an even greater talent for organizing other rootless children to participate in the same. Whatever the truth of his origins, it was this life of mischief, and not any youthful sense of patriotism, that led to Arnem’s enlistment in the army, as a means of escaping arrest for a long list of petty crimes. But Arnem found that military life suited him, and he soon brought himself to Korsar’s attention when, during a battle that took place in a river valley beyond the Meloderna,
†
he was the only man in his
khotor
to stand fast against a charge of eastern marauders. Arnem’s brave action inspired fleeing soldiers to emulate him, and prevented the collapse of the center of Korsar’s legion: Arnem had revealed himself to be both brave and a gifted leader, although it was only in subsequent years, when he demonstrated newfound loyalty to the kingdom, that the path to his present high rank opened. But Yantek Korsar has never forgotten the troublesome youth he once knew, and he is always quick to detect evasiveness on the younger man’s part.

Tonight, the yantek has no time to draw Arnem out, and instead leads the way back through the door and then to the stairs as fast as he can manage. Arnem follows, and then Niksar, along with one of Korsar’s aides. The latter pair stay a few steps behind, so that they cannot overhear the older men’s conversation; but they are still close enough to be of use. “It seems,” Korsar continues, as they descend to the parade ground, “that the attempt was initiated some few days ago, although I’m not certain how. I’m not certain about many things, if the truth be known, Arnem.”

“But you consider what little explanation you have been given far-fetched?” the sentek asks quietly; and he is disturbed when his commander makes no similar effort at discretion.

“My opinion doesn’t much matter.” An additional pair of guards—regular army pallins—fall in as they reach the far side of the parade ground. “Lord Baster-kin accepts it, and the Grand Layzin has embraced it zealously—”

Arnem smiles. “Which does not tell me what you believe, Yantek. With respect.”

“Demons take your respect, Sixt,” replies Korsar, affection bleeding through his gruffness. “All right—do I believe that the Bane attempted to kill the God-King, His Radiance, Saylal the Compassionate?” Korsar shrugs carelessly. “They
want
him dead, certainly. But this …”

“You find it unlikely,” Arnem says. In reply, Korsar tilts his head and lifts a skeptical brow, causing Arnem to venture: “And I agree, Yantek. The Bane have shown great audacity, at times, but never—”

“Be careful, Arnem.” Yantek Korsar takes Arnem’s forearm, clutching it hard as he gazes at the district’s main gate. “Mind how quickly you follow my example, tonight. It may not be wise …”

It is an inexplicable comment, one to which Arnem can form no response during the few moments that it takes the group of men to reach the gate; then, just as he recovers his wits enough to ask Yantek Korsar to explain his true meaning, half a dozen soldiers emerge from the darkness outside the Fourth District, and quickly intercept Korsar’s party. The newcomers’ armor is like that worn by troops of the regular army; but each, on his upper arm, wears a wide, finely worked brass band, its surface beaten into the semblance of a smiling, bearded face.…

Arnem is surprised to find that Yantek Korsar is neither shocked nor irritated by this intrusion by Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. There has long been bad blood between Broken’s army (especially the Talons) and the Merchant Lord’s troops, an animosity fueled by the fact that, although they wear the same armor as any
khotor
in the kingdom, the Guard train and are quartered in the First District, under the personal supervision of the Merchant Lord. This apparent slight—the implication that the regular army and the Talons are inadequate for the protection of the Merchants Council—is not one that any soldier, much less the proud Korsar and his lieutenants, could suffer without resentment, and there have been occasional brawls between the two forces. Arnem has always been inclined to view these as meaningless mischief, for he believes Lord Baster-kin to be above such trivial rivalries; yet there have been times when even Arnem has found the Guard insufferable, and he quickly realizes that this is going to be one such.

A young linnet of the Guard—typically tall and well-proportioned, with curling, carefully arranged black hair, paint accenting his eyes, and an arrogant manner—steps in front of the detachment.
†

“Yantek,” this man says, with a tone to match his manner; an impression that is deepened when he offers Arnem, his superior in both rank and experience, nothing more than a quick nod. “Sentek. His Eminence and His Grace have ordered us to escort you to the Temple.”

“Did they also order you to ignore deference to rank, Linnet?” Arnem barks harshly. “I very much doubt it.” The linnet smiles, at this, and half-heartedly covers his heart with his right fist. The rest of his men do the same, with a similar impertinence; and Arnem is about to strike the linnet a resounding blow, when Yantek Korsar stays his hand.

“Calm yourself, Arnem,” Korsar says, with plainly false cordiality. “No doubt this is only for our own safety.”

“No doubt, sir,” the linnet of the Guard replies, with equal duplicity.