by Caleb Carr
“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 is aware 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 farfetched?” 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 on the part of 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 subordinates, 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.
Korsar turns to Arnem: an expression of warning is in the old warrior’s blue eyes, despite the smile beneath them. “Apparently, things have reached so desperate a state that you and I need nursemaids. And pretty nursemaids they might be, were they actually the women in whose manner they paint themselves.” The Guardsmen bristle as one at this; but Korsar only smiles and holds up his hands. “A poor attempt at humor, Linnet, I apologize—we see so little true fashion in the Fourth District that we become awkward in its presence. Please, take no offense. Rather”—the yantek points to the Celestial Way, keeping his eyes on the leader of the Guardsmen—“escort us, if you will. Yes, by all means, escort us …” With a wave of his hand and a nod, Korsar dismisses his own men, so that only Niksar—now looking as troubled as he did when he first appeared on the southern wall to fetch Arnem—remains. The Guardsmen encircle their charges, and the party marches on in the direction of its hallowed destination: the High Temple of Kafra.
For what seems a long interval, Yantek Korsar is silent; and when he begins to speak again, his words are cause for further concern in both Arnem and Niksar. The yantek offers more mocking comments on the possibility of the Bane having attempted the life of the God-King, sentiments that Sixt Arnem shares and might have echoed, mere minutes ago; but now his mind and heart are in turmoil. The identity of the old lunatic in the street (a realization so fraught with evil possibilities that Arnem dares not speak the man’s name aloud, even to Korsar), as well as this detachment of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, combine to make the yantek’s air of caustic dismissal seem ill timed. No, Arnem suddenly realizes; it is more than that—it is careless. Carelessness: a trait that even Korsar’s enemies among the younger leaders of the city—who have never known the perils of war, and who see little in Yantek Korsar save an old man of sacrilegiously ascetic habits—have never accused him of exhibiting. Yet the yantek seems consumed by it, even though the Guardsmen are plainly committing every deprecating word to memory. Whatever the case, Korsar’s mood quickens his pace along the Celestial Way, so that the younger men must rush to match his speed.
When the group passes into the First District, the yantek’s behavior changes yet again: his stream of cynicism seems to be exhausted, and Arnem, trying hard to focus on duty rather than doubt, hop
es that his commander has finally realized that he should do the same. But a mere glance at Korsar’s face offers no such assurance. As the yantek silently casts his scarred, seasoned gaze at the splendid stone residences of Broken’s wealthiest nobles and merchants—structures known as Kastelgerde, which rise to two and even three stories in height, and are built from the blocks of granite cut from the mountain to create the seamless expanse of Broken’s outer walls—unmistakable disgust emerges through the grey beard and under the long, tangled eyebrows.
“Observe, Arnem,” Yantek Korsar says, and Arnem studies anew structures that he, like his commander, disdains. Disdains, not merely for their size, but for the statues of their illustrious forefathers with which the various merchant clans have filled their gardens: all are rendered with legs of exaggerated power and idealized features that Arnem finds absurd. “You didn’t see much of this as a boy, did you, Sixt? Not really the style, in the Fifth District.”
“The people of the Fifth find their own ways to obey Kafra, Yantek,” Arnem replies. “And I can assure you that, though humble, they are equally—enthusiastic.”
Korsar’s broad chest heaves with a lone laugh that betrays no true merriment. “Yes. I suppose that everyone in this city, even the miserable souls of your district, must find some way to perpetuate the dream of a god that loves them for both their avarice and their cruelty.”
“Yantek?” Arnem whispers urgently; but Korsar ignores the younger commander’s concern, forcing Arnem to try to draw the yantek into a safer discussion. “The society that venerates achievement and perfection also venerates hope and strength, Yantek—your own life demonstrates it. Only consider your actions in my case. In what other kingdom would a commander elevate a man with my past to the command of a noble legion?”
Korsar laughs: once again, without humor. “Dutifully recited, Arnem.” Then, to the linnet of Baster-kin’s Guard, the yantek adds, “I trust you take note of the sentek’s piety, Linnet! As for me—” Yantek Korsar coughs up a smattering of phlegm, and spits it hard onto the cobbled avenue; and with it seems to go, finally, the last of his defiance, and his voice is transformed from a deliberate bellow into a resigned murmur: “I can see neither hope nor true strength in any of it. Not anymore …”
“I don’t take your meaning, Yantek,” Arnem says. He has known Korsar to be irascible and moody since the death of his wife; and he has known him to take great chances as a commander, as well; but he has never seen him court personal disaster in so fatalistic, so defeated, a manner.
“You will understand, Sixt, my friend,” Korsar replies, in an ever more melancholy tone. “All too soon, I fear.”
Arnem says nothing, but is deeply alarmed, for all his silence: Korsar’s words are uncomfortably close to those the sentek heard from the apparitional old man he met on his way to the Fourth District …
The detachment, keeping a brisk pace, is now approaching the High Temple, which stands atop the mountain’s highest formation of granite; and as they do, the sounds of the Stadium beyond that sacred structure grow louder. Some of the hundreds of voices are frantic with enthusiasm, while others cry out in desperation; and occasionally the crowd, which can number in the thousands when the Stadium is full, breaks into wine-slurred song. But these chants always fall back, after only a few repetitions, into the deep, disorganized moaning that attends so many disappointed hopes. Yantek Korsar seems to grow sadder, on hearing these sounds: even his sarcasm can find no voice strong enough to rise above the roars of the three-tiered stone oval.
Trying to explain Korsar’s melancholia to himself, Arnem returns to thoughts of the yantek’s wife, the foreign-born Amalberta, and especially to memories of her death. The couple had endured a childless marriage for many years; for so long, in fact, that the yantek had resigned himself to Amalberta’s being barren—until, at the remarkable age of thirty-seven, she conceived, safely carried to term, and delivered herself of a son. Amalberta’s joy was great, although perhaps not so great as that of her husband, whose pride took a particularly martial form, inspiring his planning and successful execution of that same campaign against the eastern marauders during which the conduct of young Sixt Arnem first came to his attention. Arnem has always felt that the yantek’s championing of his own interests was due in no small part to Korsar’s new paternal instincts, which the sentek believes had so welled up over the years that, once loosed, they could not be confined to one object of affection. Whatever the truth, the first ten years of the child Haldar’s life were the most important of Sixt Arnem’s, as well: for it was largely through the example of the yantek’s family that the talented soldier from the Fifth District came to know a side of Broken that had been remote to him, as it was to most who hailed from that part of the city—a side that prized faithful service, and valued perfect affection as much as perfect appearance. Thus, for Arnem as for many soldiers, Haldar Korsar became a symbol: as much a breathing talisman as a boy. It seemed natural and good when, at the age of twelve, Haldar announced his desire to enter military service as a skutaar, which would require him to serve a linnet selected by his father, and to live within the Fourth District. After this term of service, which would conclude with his own elevation to linnet, Haldar would naturally assume a position of importance somewhere in the army, and carry on his father’s work—
But such had not been the will of Kafra. At the coronation of the God-King Saylal (a ceremony during which the new monarch was never actually seen by anyone save his priests, though he had full view of the large audience inside the High Temple), Haldar, along with two or three other youths and young ladies, was noticed by the Divine Personage amid a children’s chorus composed of the offspring of Broken’s most successful families; and priests soon arrived at the Korsar’s door, to announce that the boy had been selected for service to the God-King. Honor though such selection was, the thought of losing forever a child whose arrival had been so long delayed was a mortal blow for the yantek and his wife; and there were those who said that Amalberta’s heart began to wither the day she saw her son disappear forever through the gates of the Inner City. By this time, Arnem had married, and fathered the first of his own children, also a son: he could scarcely imagine having such a scion as Haldar snatched away so young, no matter the spiritual rewards that a life of service in the Inner City might bring. Yantek Korsar was a creature of duty, and eventually learned to exist, if not truly live, with the loss; not so Amalberta, who, after several years of trying to make a life without the boy who had become her life’s purpose, as well as her solace when Korsar was campaigning, seemed to simply surrender her will to live. Korsar, frantic over his wife’s steady decline, begged the Grand Layzin to release Haldar from divine service; but his requests were consistently refused, the last disappointment proving too much for Amalberta, whose heart quietly ceased to beat when the yantek brought her word that there was no hope of their ever being a family again.
Having been at the yantek’s side during this ordeal, Arnem developed a deep fear of the day when he would be asked by the priests of Kafra for one of his own children; and now, with that request finally made, the sentek finds that it has brought a distressingly deeper understanding of the twin burdens that Korsar has carried for so many years. The loss of Amalberta, his one truly intimate companion, following hard on the loss of the boy who had embodied his hopes for a meaningful legacy, seemed to shrink Korsar’s world: it was then that the yantek abandoned his own house (one of the more modest dwellings in the First District) and went to live in his headquarters, plainly intending to do nothing more than continue attending to the work of keeping Broken safe, until his worries as a commander would exhaust and destroy him.
But now Arnem must wonder, given the yantek’s strange behavior, if the business of Broken’s safety is all that Korsar has been pondering, during his long nights pacing those quarters that were never meant to be a home.
The small detachment of soldiers at last reaches the wide granite steps of the High Temple.
At the foot as well as the top of these steps burn enormous bronze braziers, throwing their golden light onto the massive granite façade and the twenty-foot columns of the Temple. Given this setting, made all the more awe-inspiring by the time of night, the sentek feels that he is following Korsar into something more complicated than a council of war—a feeling confirmed when the yantek throws a heavy arm around Arnem’s neck, and urgently whispers:
“I meant what I said, Sixt. Whatever happens inside, you’re to stay out of it. The army will need you now, as never before.”
“You sound as though you expect to be relieved, Yantek.”
“That is certainly among the things that I expect,” Korsar replies, grunting. “But it will hardly be the most important. No …” Korsar takes his arm from the sentek’s neck, looking out over the city, and smiles: not in the false manner that has marked him thus far tonight, but in the manner of … Arnem gropes for words, and remembers Niksar’s earlier statement: Like a man who senses Death hovering nearby, yet makes no move to elude it.
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, Sixt,” Korsar continues, with something that is strangely like anticipation in his voice, “I will never see the sun set over the western walls of this city again …”
The Bane foragers witness a disordering of Nature, before the Moon summons them home …
“LIES! LIES, LIES, AND STILL MORE LIES!”
“You dare question my honor again?”
Keera splays her small, slender fingers over her face, as Heldo-Bah and Veloc rail at each other. It is remarkable, the tracker thinks: the shag steer stew has been in their stomachs for less time than it took to remove the pot from the fire, yet they are ready for more senseless bickering …
“There is no end to it,” is all that Keera has the patience to murmur aloud, as she stares through the dark, dense tangle of vegetation that surrounds their camp, alert for any sign of movement. Having led her party south of the Fallen Bridge at a good pace, Keera has decided that it is safer to allow Heldo-Bah to enjoy some of his precious beef now than it would be to attempt the journey back to Okot with him complaining every step of the way. She has found a fortunate site for their meal: a small clearing surrounded by thick ferns and briars, and sheltered by fir trees which obscure the light of their fire, if not its smell. As her companions continue to argue, she begins to wish that she had been less thorough: if they were not so well-concealed, she would have good reason to tell both men to keep their mouths shut. As it is …
