The Legend of Broken

husband of her children?”

“I realize that you may have thought as much impossible, Radelfer,” his lordship says. “But here is a fact that life has never taught you: set any obstacle between a mother and the safety of her young, and you will always gain an advantage — even if that obstacle be her own husband’s fate.” He glances briefly outside the curtains of the litter. “Are we passing back through the district wall at the head of the Path of Shame?”

“Aye, lord,” Radelfer says, suddenly less confused than he is worried.

“And all the elements that I called for are in place?”

“The crews and their masters are assembled, along with detachments of your Guard to oversee their labor; which, I presumed, was to take place in the Fifth—”

“I know what you presumed, Radelfer. But now know my order: they are to close and seal the gateway.”

“My Lord? I do not understand—”

“Nor need you, Seneschal. For my part, I must go to the High Temple at once, and assure the Grand Layzin that what was planned begins to take shape.” Baster-kin sighs heavily: with weariness, to be sure, but to an even greater extent with satisfaction …

At the base of the southwestern wall, meanwhile, as soon as Baster-kin’s litter has disappeared, Isadora feels her legs go a bit weak; and from somewhere in the alleyway, her eldest son rapidly appears to support her. “Mother!” he calls. “Are you unwell?”

His mother makes no reply, at first, but takes a few silent moments to control the rate of her breathing, knowing that if it races as quickly as her heart, she will likely faint. In this state does Kriksex find her, as he rejoins mother and son; and his face, too, fills with concern. “Lady Arnem!” he calls out, struggling with his crutch as quickly as he can. “What has taken place? All seemed to go just as you had planned!”

“Just so, Kriksex — it seemed to,” Isadora gasps. “But I have ever been able to sense the soul of that man, and the conclusion was too abrupt, his departure too swift and sure — no, he has not done with us, this night …”

The woman Berthe, having observed her ladyship’s distress, has rushed to fetch a small, well-worn chair from a friend’s nearby house. “My lady!” she calls, as she stumbles out the doorway of the house with the stick of furniture; she also exhibits the self-possession to immediately dispatch her eldest daughter with a pitcher to the wells at the head of the Path of Shame, where the girl can fetch clean water for the brave woman who seems to have brought the beginnings of dignity to the Fifth District.

Meanwhile, as Lady Arnem waits for this relief, Kriksex stands over one of her shoulders, having guessed that negotiations with Lord Baster-kin will be protracted and producing a rough map of the manner in which he intends to deploy the main body of their veterans during the coming interval. Dagobert looks over his mother’s other shoulder at the scrap of parchment, while the rest of the men who have guarded Lady Arnem’s party hold their torches aloft in a semicircle, to illuminate the study and the subsequent discussion that takes place—

And then the moment that had seemed, to all save Isadora, to offer some kind of hope, is shattered by a child’s voice: it is Berthe’s daughter, who screams in alarm …

Down the alleyway the girl comes, followed, strangely, by the bulger guards, Bohemer and Jerej, whose expressions are not altogether devoid of the horror that fills the young girl’s face; and as the three draw closer to the group beneath the wall, the child’s words become distinct, although they seem to make little sense:

“Mother!” she cries. “Men are at the wall—they are closing it! We will be trapped!”

Weeping, and spilling water from the pitcher she so nobly attempted to fill, the girl throws herself into Berthe’s arms, handing what little water remains in the vessel to Dagobert.

“It’s true, my lady,” Jerej says, catching his breath. “Masons lay stone as fast as it can be brought to them, protected all the while by the Merchant Lord’s Guard.”

“The good Lord Baster-kin,” Bohemer adds, bitter sarcasm in his voice. “He must have had most of the city’s masons assembling, even as we were distracted here.”

Dagobert looks down in alarm. “Mother …?”

But his mother is already murmuring in reply: “So that was his meaning—‘by way of the city walls …’” Then, never one to allow a moment of crisis to stun her for long, Isadora looks up, encouragement in her features. “But it must make no difference. It is must be treated as a sign that we are have struck close to the hearts of those who have committed the various outrages within this district.”

Having done what she can to embolden those around her, Isadora takes a few steps off on her own, and is allowed to do so by her comrades, who sense her exhaustion. Looking up at the city wall once more, she whispers:

“Forgive me, Sixt. But we who have remained in our homes must see this business through to its end — just as you, beloved husband, must safely navigate the dangers you face on your campaign …”

She is about to issue more commands aloud to those who stand about her; but then sounds still more alarming than the screaming of Berthe’s child echo through the streets: it is the hard pounding of leather-soled boots against the granite of the walkway atop the walls, and then the voices of soldiers calling out orders to their men. Moving back from the wall, Isadora and the others look up, their men with torches spreading out so as to cast light in a wider upward arc—

And they are there. Not men of the Merchant Lord’s Guard, this time, but soldiers of the regular army, their cloaks of rich blue and their numbers forming a near-continuous line atop the wall. In addition (and most frighteningly, for the residents below), they bear regular-issue Broken bows. Before long, an almost ritual wail begins to rise from many men and women in the streets and houses below — but not from the local children, who flock to aging, stoical veterans, rather than to their near-panicked parents, and who try as best their young hearts will allow to adopt the old soldiers’ dispassionate demeanor.

“You men above!” Isadora calls to the soldiers, with real authority and effect. “You know who I am, I daresay?”

“Aye, Lady,” says one particularly wide, bearded sentek, who needs not shout to be heard. His face is well lit by the torches his own men carry, and it is vaguely familiar to Isadora. “You are the wife of Sentek — or rather, Yantek—Arnem, our new commander.”

“And you are Sentek—”

“Gerfrehd,”† the man replies. “Although I can understand your unfamiliarity with it. For as my cloak indicates, I serve in the regular army. But rest assured: you are well known to me, my lady.”

“Good,” Isadora calls back. “And, while I do not expect you to disobey orders that doubtless bear the Grand Layzin’s seal, I do think you owe me, as wife of your commander, an explanation of your appointed task.”

“Certainly, Lady Arnem,” replies Sentek Gerfrehd. “We have been told of insurrection in the Fifth District — but we do not come to engage in any precipitate action.”

“I should hope not,” Isadora replies. “For this ‘insurrection,’ as your own eyes can tell you, is largely one of children.”

“I have determined as much,” the man answers, nodding. “And will report it to the other commanders of our other regular legions, who will doubtless wish, like me, to know more of just why we have been dispatched here.”

“And your immediate instructions?” Isadora presses.

“Are simple enough: citizens of the district may exit the city through the Southern Gate, but no one is to be allowed to enter the city through it. Nor to interfere with the completion of the wall at the head of the Path of Shame.”

“You realize,” Isadora replies, “that your actions could be seen as those of enemies, Gerfrehd — not of fellow subjects.”

The sentek is slow in answering, finally doing so with a rather inscrutable smile. “I am aware of as much, my lady. Just as I am aware that yours could be seen as the actions of rebellious subjects, rather than loyal ones.”

But for Isadora, after a lifetime of close contact with soldiers, the smile is not difficult to understand at all; and she holds out a hand to the children that surround her aging veterans, standing at their best approximation of attention. “Well, Sentek — I say again, here are your ‘rebellious subjects.’ There will be little glory in subduing