The Legend of Broken (64 page)

The Merchant Lord sees several objects that have an all too familiar appearance; and, looking behind him to see the same crowding faces and bodies, Lord Baster-kin places himself between Lady Arnem and the citizens, holding his elbows square so that his cloak drapes her revelation.

Isadora notes this movement with satisfaction—his worry is real indeed.

“Are those …?” His lordship begins to ask the question, but he cannot finish it: whether out of worry over the crowd or his own concern over what she holds, Isadora cannot say.

“Bones,”
she replies, in a pointed whisper. “Taken from the bed of this—whatever it may be, stream, spring, or something wholly new.”

“Yet—so small,” Baster-kin says with a nod. “What variety of bones, then, my lady? Have you been able to determine? Some seem not even human—”

“And they are not.”

“Yet others—they would seem—”

“Almost from a Bane, a few of them,” she says. “And yet they are not.”

“No?”

“No. They originated with our own people’s children; such bones are far different than those of grown Bane men and women. And there are these, here,” she continues. “The several that are not human—first, the bones of small but powerful forest cats: again, not young panthers, but their adult cousins, the Davon wildcats. These others, however, are simply the smaller bones of the larger panthers.”

“Lethal Davon cats, all,” Baster-kin nods. “And you believe
all
the bones came from this running ditch?”

“I know it,” Isadora replies. “For you may find more, if you wish, by digging deeper. The more you do so, in fact, the more you will discover. Yet these objects certainly do not
originate
here—nor does the water. We have the opinions of the residents as to where they
may
come from, but the accounts conflict, and the source of each will swear to the accuracy of his or hers, no doubt expecting to gain some small favor—wine, silver, food, anything—for in many households, you will find small mouths to be fed, as we have just encountered in young Berthe’s. And yet those children shall not linger in such houses long—for their parents are also, like the stricken Emalrec, only too ready to sell them, and far too hopeful of doing so.”

“Sell them?”
Baster-kin echoes, in some disbelief, yet remembering who it is that speaks, and knowing her reliability.

“Indeed, my lord. A grave crime that has been regularly committed.” Isadora begins to walk slowly along the bank of the strange little streambed that she has been investigating, dropping the bones she holds, and then producing both a small block of soap and a similarly small skin of what appears clean water from beneath her cloak. She offers them to Baster-kin first. “My lord? I would recommend it.”

Baster-kin looks at her, with both a smile and a sharp eye. “You seem quite prepared for this eventuality, Lady Arnem—and I appreciate the gesture, although I do not understand it.”

“Suffice to say that, if my mistress were alive and with us, she would insist that you do it.”

“Inscrutable, at times, she most certainly was that—though never wrong, that I knew of,” Baster-kin says, cupping his hands for water, then lathering them with the rough block of soap. “But the various subjects—the rose fever, this water, these bones, the possibility of such serious sacrilege as buying and selling children—what can they have to do with one another?”

“I have not had as long as I would like to consider it, since this particular proof appeared,” Isadora answers, as she begins to walk south again. Having reached a safe bit of shadow along the wall, she turns to his lordship, her face full of purpose. “But, as you have asked the question: all I can say with certainty, now, is that I have seen certain things with my own eyes, and heard enough stories to allow me to tell you that the children we speak of are not disappearing into slavery, nor outside of the city.” She turns, attempting to meet Baster-kin’s gaze full on, reminding herself that this man was but a boy, once, a boy whose weaknesses she knew only too well, and hoping that those weaknesses have not changed.

Gisa had taught Isadora to be rigorous in the exercise of her mind, never to guess or to gamble—but how could one form a considered opinion, when one had only incomplete facts? The method did not exist; at moments, inevitably, every living soul
had
to gamble. Her husband had taught her that by his example, over and over again, with his exploits in the field—and she had even seen Gisa take risks, although the crone would have denied it, especially on occasions when a life hung in the balance …

And with this final thought in mind, Isadora Arnem now looks north, and takes one deep breath: “The course of the stream would seem to indicate that it originates somewhere to the north—this is what concerns me most …”

Baster-kin, too, turns north; and then, after several moments, his face goes pale. “Lady Baster-kin, even the suggestion of such a thing is heresy … You cannot possibly think that this disease could originate from within the Inner City? Why should it not come from the sewers?”

“It runs
above
the sewers, my lord. In addition,” she asks quietly, “was there or was there not a recent attempt on the life of the God-King? One involving the poisoning of a certain well just outside that same Inner City? And is the Lake of a Dying Moon not the only standing water source in that direction?”

Baster-kin’s face fills, not with anger, initially, but with shock, and then concern. “Lady Arnem, I must warn you: there are only a few persons who know the details of this matter. And yet, since you seem to now be one of them—I assure you, plague can be as much the work of sorcery as of more ordinary paths of disease. And the men of my guard who died of that sorcerous poisoning had symptoms far more horrible than the ordinary rose fever that your
seksent
in that house exhibits.”

“Your pardon, my lord,” Isadora says. “But, among many other uncertainties, we do not yet know what kind of symptoms that man may ultimately exhibit.”

“You think—” Baster-kin is further shocked. “You think both could actually be victims of the same attack?”

“You captured one of the Bane assassins,” Isadora says, holding Baster-kin’s eyes with her own. “And tortured him for days on end.
You
would have a greater idea of the extent of the danger than I—whatever their means, they
could
well have released plague of some sort, rather than simple poison. And then there are further aspects to consider, concerning such an explanation.”

“Which are?” As she has been expecting, a sudden hardness finally enters his lordship’s features; but she presses on:

“Which are,” she breathes, “to begin with, the fact that many mothers I have spoken to in this district—including young Berthe in there—have seen at least one or two of their children sold to priests and priestesses from the First District, who are accompanied by those creatures who claim your patronage and name:
Lord Baster-kin’s Guard.
Indeed, so lucrative is the trade that certain particularly useless men—such as Emalrec, the man you have just seen on the bed in that house—have begun to depend on the birth and sale of such children as a substitute for honest labor. And now, for his sins, perhaps, the rose fever visits him. Strange, is it not?”

Isadora tries to maintain her composure as his lordship’s features only harden and darken further: “Lady Arnem—even if such were the case, you and I cannot pretend to understand the workings of the Inner City, of the royal and sacred family, or of their priests and priestesses. You know these truths.” He draws closer to her. “And yet you pretend to be mystified by all of it. But you know the answers, do you not, to the secret of that water, to the poisoning and the rose fever and the plague, to how it all touches upon these royal and sacred persons?”

“Yes, my lord. I believe I have determined all these answers. Some you may suspect—and some would shock you. But all would work to the unrest of this district, and perhaps the whole of the city, were they to become widely known. For the Inner City
cannot
contain or feed so many children as are taken, to say nothing of the wild beasts that they are said to have captured. Nor does disease simply appear as an act of any god. Plague, be it of poisonous or ordinary origins, has broken loose in this city, to threaten
all
citizens. This district is not the cause—it is the victim.”

Baster-kin now takes a step away from Isadora. “And yet, you—you, with all this knowledge, have not yet made as much known, even in this district—have you?”

Isadora breathes deeply. “No. Not
yet …
”

“And in fact, you will remain silent,” Baster-kin says, nodding. “For a price.”

“Yes,” Isadora finally says. “A price. Perhaps too heavy for the rulers of this kingdom to pay, and certainly beyond your power alone to grant. But you can carry the message: for I would have it stated—in writing, atop the royal and sacred seal—that neither my children, nor any others, will, in the future, be required for the royal and sacred service, save those that go of their own will. Without payment to their parents, and without the escort of Guardsmen who wander the streets under your name.”

Baster-kin nods slowly: he is the image of a man whose fondest dream is coming unraveled—yet not in such a way that it takes him entirely off-guard. “And the plague …?” he asks quietly.

“If you bring what I ask, and the city’s builders do as I ask, I can control the plague here; and then, in time, it will die at its source—
wherever that might be.
”

“Yet you
know
full well where it is,” Baster-kin says.

“Do I? Perhaps.” As Isadora continues, her boldness returns: “One thing is clear: for all your theatrical torturing of that Bane,
you
are not certain. Yet I shall not speak of it: there will be no need, if the priests do as I say.”

“And if they do not?”

“If they do not, my lord …” Isadora lifts an arm, indicating the whole of the city. “There are forces within these walls that have ever wanted only direction and leadership, to put their plight to the ears of power. And they have that ability. Some among the kingdom’s powerful may have thought they were eliminating such a capacity by way of this plague; but they have, in fact, only given it greater force …”

{
x
:}

Lord Baster-kin holds his ground in the face of this confident threat:
threat,
a variety of behavior that he has never before seen Isadora Arnem exhibit. Of course, that particular part of his mind that has always been prepared for threat from any quarter had said she might turn to it, this night. And so he feels no danger in admiring her strength for a moment, for he believes there is no reason to fear her demands and warnings—he has already calculated his response, which he now elaborates in statements that are perhaps even more shocking than were hers:

“Are you sure, Lady Arnem, that such men as these”—he indicates the streets about him—“can hope to defend this district against my Guard, whatever the shortcomings of that latter organization?”

“I never said as much,” Isadora replies. “But I have sent dispatches to my husband that indicate the state of affairs in this city, and, when he returns to us, not only the Talons, but the whole of the Broken army—of which you have placed him in charge—will be more than enough to rescue the fate of the Fifth District.”

“It would be,” the Merchant Lord agrees. “It is perhaps unfortunate, therefore, that by the time he returns, the Fifth District will no longer exist, at least in its present form, while its residents will either have fled the city or have been killed.” Baster-kin pulls his gauntlets from his hands with deceptive lack of concern. “That is, of course, assuming that your husband ever
does
return to the mountaintop.”

Isadora’s face goes helplessly pale; for she has known for most of her life that this is not a man who gives voice to idle threats. “Ever
does
return …?” she echoes, before she has had time to select her words more carefully. “Has my lord heard of some misfortune that has befallen the Talons in the field?”

“I may have,” Baster-kin replies, moving closer to her as he senses his ploy is succeeding. “But first, consider this: without your husband—who may, for all any of us know, be dead already—the Talons will not act against the God-King and his city; and without the Talons, the regular army will make no attempt to similarly intervene against the destruction of any part of their homeland. Then, failing any such intervention, the Fifth District will be cleansed by fire, and remade as a fit home for truly loyal citizens of Broken, citizens willing to give their wholehearted devotion to the God-King.”

Isadora’s sudden uncertainty consumes her for a long moment; but then she almost forces her confidence to return, in just the manner that her former mistress, Gisa, would have exhorted her to do: “My lord—you know full well the nature of plague. Whether it comes from a god or from man’s poison, from the Bane or from the mountain itself—for who knows what other cracks in its stone summit have appeared or shifted, over the years?—such pestilence can and must spread, if treated only through ignorance and superstition, as it will be, should you leave it attended to by Kafran healers alone.”

“Any
other
healers, particularly in the Fifth District, being somehow beholden to you,” Baster-kin replies. “There is no reason to deny it, Lady Arnem, my own inquiries have proved as much, over these last many weeks. But this is no reason for you to concern yourself.” To Isadora’s repeated look of silent consternation, the Merchant Lord delightedly takes a few steps forward, and places her hand upon his own. “You and your children need feel in no danger. I shall personally take you out of the district, and offer you shelter in the
Kastelgerd
Baster-kin. As time passes, the memory of this place, like your memory of your husband and your children’s memory of their father, will fade, and you shall envision a new future, a future devoid of squalor, poverty, and all the other ills of this place.”