The Legend of Broken

of it.”

Mildly annoyed by the familiar tone of this comment, Baster-kin forgoes reprimand or argument, and proceeds directly to the source of the trouble: “The dispatch of my messages to her home, at the Layzin’s behest,” he murmurs, nodding slowly.

“Yes, my lord,” Klauqvest replies. “Although there are other points to be considered, as well.” The master of the Kastelgerd glances up in mild surprise. “She has, it appears, received some further communication from her husband. And, while she would say nothing precise to Radelfer on the subject, I formed the impression, as I listened outside the library door, that these latest messages touched upon the same subjects as did the sentek’s latest dispatches to your lordship.” Klauqvest holds a bandaged hand — one that is more like the extremity of a shelled sea creature than it is like a man’s, as his name unkindly suggests — toward a series of lines lightly drawn on the most detailed of the maps of the city and kingdom. “Am I to assume, then, that your lordship intends to accede to Sentek Arnem’s request for emergency provisioning of his troops at the encampment he intends to establish near the river?”

Whether it is the course of the questioning being pursued by Klauqvest, or simply the man’s voice, that has grated too long on the patience of the Merchant Lord, he suddenly slams a hand down upon the table. “You are to assume nothing!” And yet, as soon as he has lost his temper, Baster-kin makes an obvious effort to regain it — another strange action by this man who usually cares little or nothing for the feelings of his minions. “You have informed me of her presence, Klauqvest,” the master of the Kastelgerd states, through tightly set teeth. “Well and good. Now, with darkness upon us, I suggest you attend to your original task within the passageways beneath the city, and complete your inventory, continuing to pay special heed to both the quantity and condition of the grain stores, as well as the integrity of the sewers. And, given that your appearance forbids your playing any more open or constructive role in the life of this city and kingdom at this crucial hour, I should think you would be anxious to do so.”

What seems a long moment of silence passes between the two men: the gaze within Klauqvest’s eyes, whatever the state of the flesh surrounding them, remains clear and fixed upon Baster-kin’s own, in as close an expression of defiance as anyone would dare attempt before the Merchant Lord; and yet, for all the rage evident in his quivering jaw, Baster-kin neither continues his outburst nor calls for assistance. Rather, and remarkably, it is his eyes that break off the engagement first, as he flings several pieces of clearly unimportant parchment from the table, and then allows himself to sigh in something oddly like contrition. But the look in Klauqvest’s gaze never changes, as he waits for silence to return before declaring:

“Very well, then, Father—”

It is the unfortunate creature’s first misstep; and his eyes reflect vivid awareness of the error. Baster-kin looks back up as if scalded; and then, his eyes displaying less triumph than profound blending of sadness, disappointment, and anger, he strides about the table and stares hard into the strange man’s eyes. Klauqvest is fully as tall as the Merchant Lord, although he soon shies away from the older man a bit, and, as if anticipating a blow, stoops to take a few inches from that height.

“I shall see to my wife,” Baster-kin says, in an even tone. “As well as to greeting the Lady Arnem. You will remain here, for a time, before returning to those passageways beneath the city that are your only fitting home. I want answers to all my questions—” He waves a hand at the maps and charts upon the table, then draws a step or two closer to Klauqvest, who retreats yet more. “And never forget — I let you live solely to devise such answers, when it became clear that your mind was the only part of your body that Kafra had saved from your unholy origins. Yet, in so doing, I may have worsened the madness that was planted in my lady when you entered this world, and she saw, not only your true lineage, but evidence of the curse that Kafra had placed upon her soul. So never let that word escape the vile tangle that passes for your mouth.”

Klauqvest’s head finally bends in defeat. “Of course. Allow me only to apologize—my lord.”

“Keep your apologies.” Baster-kin turns toward the door, but then catches himself, in the manner of a hunting animal that has found one last way to torment his wounded prey. “But, since you mention the word — I need not ask, I suppose, just where my true son is, right now?”

“As you say — an unnecessary question,” Klauqvest responds simply. “Just as I hardly need reply that he is in the Stadium, with his fellow paragons of Kafran virtue …”

Baster-kin nods, releasing a long, dissatisfied sigh; and then he says, with continued severity: “I shall attend to him, and to the fools with whom he associates, and I shall do it soon — for upon his fate rests the only hope that Kafra has mercifully granted for the preservation of this house, this clan, and this kingdom. And you are to remember that the Wood is ever ready to receive you — as it received that misshapen creature, your sister — should you overstep yourself, should your mind cease to be of use, or, finally, should you choose to communicate with the world outside this tower and above the passageways beneath this Kastelgerd and city.”

And with that, the Merchant Lord strides out of the room, dragging the heavy oak door closed and slamming it resoundingly.

Alone in the tower chamber, Klauqvest allows his bandaged hands to drift across the documents upon the table for a moment, although he can lift them with only his thumbs and the collected fingers of each hand. Then he leans over, closely studying the maps. His movements remain slow and careful as he takes the further liberty of walking around four of the eight sides of the table, and then standing in the spot that belongs to the lord of the Kastelgerd, and sitting in the simple military camp chair that Baster-kin himself is accustomed to using. Trying to fit himself to the feel of the hard wooden arms, and the tight leather that is drawn across the seat and back of the frame, Klauqvest soon finds that his raw, painful skin will not allow it. He stands, continuing to study the maps—

And as he leans over them, a droplet of some salty bodily fluid falls from the exposed portion of his face onto the parchment sheets; a droplet that Klauqvest quickly wipes away, before it can leave any hint of having existed.

Satisfied with what he sees on the detailed charts, Klauqvest moves from the table to one of the tapestry panels, studying the scene it depicts: the dramatic moment before handsome young Rendulic Baster-kin — spear in one hand, dagger in another — killed what would forever be known, throughout Broken, as “his” panther. The composition and needlework are admirable, endowing the young merchant scion with features of exaggerated courage, and giving the young panther — whose body had, in reality, already been studded with and crippled by arrows — an aspect of equally heightened ferocity and power. Klauqvest then glances down from the tapestry to the hide and head that have lain, for as long as he has lived, on the floor of the chamber; and, with pain so severe that he very nearly cries out, he leans over to stroke the beast’s lifeless head with one bandaged hand, and what seems great tenderness.

Rising, and relieved to do so without mishap, Klauqvest steps away from the remains of the panther and toward the chamber’s eastern door, which leads out onto the old parapet. He opens the door, looks up at the sky, and sees that the Moon has begun to rise. Staring at that wisp of white in the rich blue of the southeastern twilight, Klauqvest then turns and looks back inside the chamber, at a bronze relief that hangs there:

It depicts the smiling, omnipresent face of Kafra, which — unusually, for such pieces — is set atop a muscular yet lithe young body, clad in naught save a loincloth: a body, Klauqvest knows, that was modeled on Rendulic Baster-kin’s own, in the days that followed that same panther hunt that dominates all decoration in the chamber. It is the sort of unusual yet impressive image that would bring sighs of admiration and reverence from most of Broken’s citizens, should they ever be permitted to see it; but from this black-robed outcast, only scratching, misshapen sounds that might pass for some sort of laughter emerge. Klauqvest’s hooded, bandaged head turns from the Moon to the image of Kafra and back again several times; and then he lets his eyes rest on the relief, as his laughter dies away.

“Smile all you like, golden god,” Klauqvest says, fluid again rising in his throat to obscure his words. “But that deity”—he lifts a hand to indicate the rising Moon—“is having the best of you, outside these walls. And it has only begun to wax …”