The Legend of Broken (9 page)

The sumptuous main room, off of which are located more intimate chambers, is a repository for those holy instruments—chalices, bowls, plates and icons—as well as the various knives, axes, halberds, arrows, and spears, that came into use when Oxmontrot’s pragmatic goal of banishing unfit and infirm citizens of Broken to Davon Wood was legitimized by the liturgy of the Kafran faith. The practical then became the sacred, and the tenets that resulted quickly became the unquestioned social and spiritual laws of Broken. Since then the Sacristy has provided at least a nominally accessible location from which religious and civic wisdom can be dispensed to various representatives of the populace. In addition, appeals to Broken’s ever-remote royalty may be made through the Sacristy, provided there is no expectationof gratificationor even reply.

The Sacristy’s trappings reflect this portentous unity of spiritual and secular purpose. The stone walls are finely finished with glittering, durable mortar
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that has been sand-ground to an alluringly smooth finish, one that, like so many aspects of the Temple and the Sacristy, is nearly irresistible to human touch. Over these walls, between large panels of exquisite tapestries woven by unrivaled artisans, hang the richest fabrics ever brought up the Meloderna by Broken’s intrepid river traders: deep vermilion silks, crisp white and gold cottons, and rich burgundy wools. These drapes conceal no apertures in the building’s walls, for no such openings exist: the concern for secrecy that is the very essence of the Broken’s ruling tradition is too great to allow any such. Instead, the sumptuous draperies frame an astounding series of creations, whose effect is best appreciated during the daylight hours, as well as on nights like this one, when the Moon shines bright: the glowing results of another of the proudest achievements of Broken’s artisans, their preservation of the ancient process of manufacturing glass—glass of almost any color, and, in the case of structures such as the Sacristy, any thickness. Into secure settings of translucent alabaster are mortared thick, rounded blocks of tinted glass, created in the expansive, well-guarded studios of such craftsmen as have disappeared from almost every society that surrounds Broken.
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The Sacristy is thereby bathed in wondrous light that vividly supports the priests’ claim to the near-divinity of the chamber. Most importantly, this effect is achieved with no reduction of the privacy of the chamber’s business.

First among the ministers who conduct that business, and second in power only to the God-King and his immediate family, is the Grand Layzin, the human vessel and instrument through whom the will of Kafra and the God-King are made not only known, but comprehensible, to the mortal citizens of Broken. The furnishings within the Sacristy clearly emphasize this: at the northern end of the chamber rises the Layzin’s dais, which runs the width of the Sacristy and is supported by granite arches which lead down into a wide entryway to the catacombs, out of which emerge the ethereal sounds of the Oxian chanters. The almost equally well-appointed furnishings before the dais (provided not only for superior citizens such as the members of the Merchants’ Council, but for anyone who has business with the Layzin) are all oriented toward that superior level, coming to an end in a deep reflecting pool cut into the floor of the Temple: a serene spot which is both protective and intended to heighten the sense of separation between the Layzin and ordinary supplicants.

Upon the dais itself (the rear wall of which is covered by an enormous curtain), an expansive sofa occupies the left side, its cushions echoing the richness of the room’s draperies and tinted glass. In the center of the space is the elaborately carved gilded chair from which the Layzin casts his serene reflection into the pool below. Two less ostentatious seats are positioned to either side of this near-throne, and are reserved for the First and Second Wives of Kafra, the highest ranking and most beautiful of the priestesses. One of the two is present now, and she sits utterly motionless in her chair, her long legs visible through slits in her black gown and her abundant golden hair falling freely onto her well-formed body. Occupying the remaining space on the right-hand side of the dais are a chair and gilded table covered with books, scrolls, and writing: communications from royal officials throughout the kingdom. Behind this, at a scribe’s desk, sits a shaved priest, who records all words spoken in the Sacristy.

As Arnem and Korsar enter, they notice quickly (for both men are very familiar with this chamber) that the collection of messages from outside the city on the Layzin’s table is unusually large. They acknowledge this fact to each other silently, in the manner of soldiers who have often had to communicate without words in the presence of authority, quickly determining that wach has drawn the same conclusion from what they see:
Something dire troubles this city—indeed, the entire kingdom of Broken—tonight …

For Arnem, such is far more encouraging a sign than it is, evidently, for Yantek Korsar, whose features have lost even their sardonic skepticism, and now reveal only hard determination to face the matter at hand.
But what matter is it?
Arnem asks himself; for if the threat to the kingdom is not the Bane, surely the supreme commander of the army will not be disappointed. His mockery of Arnem’s desire for a glorious campaign aside, the yantek would actually relish, Arnem believes, facing an adversary other than the exiles.
Why, then, does the yantek’s face grow so ashen …?

Atop the dais, two men stand at the table on the right, making their way through the reports at a hurried pace, but in hushed tones. The first looms large over the table, and is possessed of considerable strength, to judge by his broad back and shoulders. These last are covered by a cloak of rich brown fur, edged in pure white flecked with black: the seasonal pelt of the hermit stoat, known across the Seksent Straits as “ermine.”
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The second, seated man is, for the most part, obscured by the first; but Korsar and Arnem can see that his hands are moving papers about on the table with a speed seldom displayed in the contemplative stillness of the Sacristy.

The two priests leading Arnem and Korsar walk to the edge of the reflecting pool, while the detachment of Baster-kin’s Guard take up positions by the doorway—a fact that Arnem finds ominous. But he nonetheless follows the priests, as does Korsar; and when the commanders have also reached the edge of the reflecting pool, one priest delicately calls to the men above:

“I beg your pardon, Eminence, but—”

The broad-shouldered man turns with uneasy speed, and steps to the side of the gilded table. Although graced with angular, handsome features, he scowls out harshly from beneath a bristling shock of auburn hair, the set of his jaws revealing little patience with distraction. Only the light, hazel-grey eyes hint at any gentleness, and even that is overwhelmed by condescension that could easily be mistaken for contempt. A tunic of loose-fitting scarlet wool does little to hide his physical strength, and the overall impression is one of enormous pride that can be supported physically or intellectually, depending on the opponent.

This is Rendulic Baster-kin, Lord of the Merchants’ Council of Broken, scion of the oldest trading family in the kingdom, the embodiment of Broken’s heritage and worldly status, and, although past forty, an impressive testament to those physical ideals that all of Kafra’s followers strive to attain, but only the most devout achieve.

Behind him, standing in marked but not unpleasant contrast, is the Grand Layzin.
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He is a man who possessed a name, once, just as he likely possessed a family; but when his service to Kafra, as well to the God-King, progressed from simply devoted to so shrewdly capable as to be deserving of authority, both the name and the past life it signified (which the Layzin, like all such children, had forsaken on entering the royal and sacred service) were excised even from official records. Any citizen who now speaks of either can rely on arrest for sedition, a charge punishable by ritual death. The near-divinity of the Layzin’s person is among Broken’s eternal mysteries, and although it must remain—like his image in the reflecting pool—ineffable and intangible, it must also be (again like that reflection) undeniable. After all, a man who, alone in a kingdom of many tens of thousands, can move freely between the sacred world of the Inner City and the vividly material realm of Broken’s government and commercial affairs, asserting authority in both realities, must have
some
spark of the divine in him. And yet the Layzin himself never claims as much; indeed, he forgoes personal arrogance, embodying instead an earnest holiness, as well as a compassion that not only stands at considerable odds with his near-absolute power, but has also been the source, during his fifteen years of executing the God-King Saylal’s will, of both his enormous popularity and of the conviction held by the God-King’s subjects that, while the Layzin may not be entirely divine, neither is he wholly mortal.

As Arnem and Korsar approach the reflecting pool before the dais, both Baster-kin and the Layzin offer further evidence of their complementary natures: Baster-kin puts his hands to his hips in impatient irritation, while the Layzin stands from his chair and smiles generously, honestly pleased to see these two men who have so often risked their lives for Broken and its God-King. Still young (somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years of age, Arnem would guess), the Layzin lacks the overbearing physical power of Baster-kin. His features are far more delicate, and he clothes his slender body not in animal hides, but in layers of white cotton covered by a brocade mantle
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of gold thread woven into pale blue and soft green silk, a fabric at once heavy enough to mask his stature and delicate enough to accentuate his gentle manner. His hair is golden and straight, and it is his custom to gather it at the base of his skull with a golden clasp, letting it fall freely to his shoulders and beyond. His blue eyes and clean-shaven face radiate warmth, and the smile he offers Arnem and Korsar is sincerity itself.

“Our deepest thanks,” says the Layzin, “for answering what must appear a peculiar summons, Yantek Korsar. And you, Sentek Arnem.”

At this slight indication that the council has begun its work, the chanting in the catacombs suddenly stops.

“You are both well?” the Layzin asks.

As the two soldiers assure the Layzin that they are indeed so, the seated wife of Kafra, obeying some unspoken command, kneels before the Layzin briefly, and then departs through a doorway on the left side of the curtain behind the dais. The shaven-skulled priests disappear momentarily into another chamber, and then return carrying a sloped wooden walkway that they position over the reflecting pool, to allow the Layzin to descend to the floor of the Sacristy: an unexpected and magnanimous gesture, and one of which, to judge by the sour look on his face, Lord Baster-kin does not approve. But the Layzin moves with deft grace to face Arnem and Korsar without the advantage of physical remove, apparently most earnest in his desire to ingratiate himself with them. He holds out his slender, soft right hand, the third finger of which is encircled by a ring with a large, pale blue stone that nearly matches his eyes. Korsar and Arnem bow and kiss this ring, detecting the sweet aroma of lilac on the Layzin’s clothing.

“You’re late,” Baster-kin grunts, not to the two commanders, but to his own men, who continue to cower by the doorway. Then he looks at Korsar and Arnem. “I trust that they did not inconvenience you.”

“Not at all,” Korsar replies. “I fear it is we who have delayed them—some signs of activity in the Wood, beyond my lord’s own plain.”

Baster-kin exhibits no alarm at the statement; indeed, he scarcely reacts at all. “But I presume it was nothing?”

“We do not yet know, but we live in hope, my lord,” replies Korsar, in a blatantly disingenuous and uncharacteristic tone that surprises Arnem.

Baster-kin’s face grows somehow gloomy as his eyes study Korsar; but before more words can be exchanged, the Layzin steps in. “You will, I hope, forgive the presumptuousness of our dispatching these men of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, Yantek. But the dangers that face our city and kingdom seem to be multiplying every hour, and we frankly feared for the lives of Broken’s two greatest soldiers. Did we not, Baster-kin?”

“Yes, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies. “We did.” The man is still brusque, still very sure of himself. Yet he is genuine, too, or at least he seems so to Arnem. Unlike his commander, the sentek has never felt resentment or incomprehension in Baster-kin’s presence: the Merchant Lord’s frequent bouts of blatant rudeness strike Arnem as no more than plain honesty fired by an undeniably superior mind, one that labors tirelessly in the cause of patriotism; and this opinion is the source of the muted but genuine admiration that Arnem feels toward the most powerful secular official in the kingdom. “We have too great a need for both your talents now,” Baster-kin continues, speaking directly to Arnem and Korsar, “to see you fall prey to drunken cutthroats. Or madmen.”

Arnem’s brow arches: is Baster-kin, who has lackeys in every part of Broken, aware of what the sentek and Niksar have seen and heard tonight?

Korsar bows deeply—to the Layzin. “You honor us both, Eminence.” Rising, the yantek offers Baster-kin a small inclination of his head. “As do you, my lord. I have brought Sentek Arnem, as you wished. But I fear that I have dispatched his aide, Linnet Niksar, back to the southern wall. Should the activity in the Wood develop, we thought that it would best to have an officer that we
all
trust in charge.”

Surprise piles on surprise, for Arnem, and he again glances at his old friend: it is as close to an acknowledgment that Korsar is aware of Niksar’s role as a spy, working for the men in this room, as the old soldier has ever come; and it is a very risky thing to say. Yet Korsar seems unmindful of danger: “Not that I think it will come to anything, Eminence. A few torch lights, the Bane Horn sounding, some vague shouting—nothing more.”