The Legend of Broken

prejudices: First, against the irreligious Nature and Lessons of such tales, with their Obscure and Vulgar Vices and their effective glorification of a kind of barbarism, all of which have been made the more offensive by the manner in which vain but clever men such as M. Rousseau† have popularized them; and, Second, against the ultimately unverifiable Nature of the tale, particularly the ambiguity concerning both the identity of the narrator and the time at which he composed the thing.‡ It seems to me that if we follow the only “logical” (a gross torturing of the word) paths in trying to determine any such identity, we are left with absurd choices: Was he a lunatic prophet, raving in the manner of the founder of this “kingdom of Broken”? Was he an equally implausible and tormented memoirist, “recalling” details of which he could not possibly have been in possession? Or was he, as seems most likely, simply a fatuous contemporary swindler, someone who had you, personally, in mind as the victim of his scheming — a plan which evidently succeeded, given your purchase of the manuscript?

For these and still more reasons, I ask you finally to think, now, of your own life, and its Parallels to this tale you have unearthed: such shared themes as Competing Religions, young men’s difficult relations to strict and sometimes Cruel Fathers, and the manner in which a forcedly Solitary Life can agitate one’s interest in perverse hedonism.† To most of your friends, and certainly to me, all these things make your attraction to this “legend of Broken” more than understandable; but these are the private circumstances of your life, which never should (and with wisdom never will) affect the Larger Publick’s conception of you as a Great Man of History, one who I remain proud to call colleague, nor of your masterwork, which, like your fame, will never be equaled or diminished — unless you yourself so detract from it, through such compromising fascinations as this.

— EDMUND BURKE TO EDWARD GIBBON,

February 4, 1791

3:{i:}

Still more discoveries await the Bane and their Guest,

as they make for the Den of Stone …

The journey to Okot of the party led by Yantek Ashkatar and Caliphestros (the latter traveling, as ever, atop Stasi), with Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah close behind, had fast become a much more crowded procession than might have seemed necessary, once the column started south through the long, wide portion of Davon Wood that lay between the Cat’s Paw and the northernmost settlements of the Bane’s well-hidden central community. Word of the newcomers’ approach had spread among Ashkatar’s surprisingly numerous force; and it seemed that nearly every Bane officer or soldier wanted to get a look for her- or himself at the mutilated old man and the powerful beast atop whose back he rode, not as master, but as one half of a strange and mystical whole.

Not until the remainder of the night — or, more properly, of the earliest morning — of their first meeting has passed, does interest among the soldiers in the activities of the foraging party and Lord Caliphestros begin to wane; and this is only because the “sorcerer” continues to insist upon the peculiar practice of stopping every few hundred yards or so to dig (or rather, to have some few of Ashkatar’s soldiers dig) another in the series of holes in the Earth, in order to discover the nature of the ground or the rock beneath the surface of their route, and particularly of any and all signs of water. The old man still exhorts the digging parties not to make use of the small, clear underground pools and streams they find for drinking, or even for washing; and Heldo-Bah, of course — exempted from this labor by his part in finding and enlisting the aid of Caliphestros (although Keera and Veloc choose to assist in the effort) — cannot resist the opportunity to torment the toiling soldiers at every turn.

“You know,” he says at one hole in which Bane warriors dig, his mock earnestness particularly infuriating, “you people really should consider yourselves lucky. Fighting the soldiers of the Tall, or digging a hole for this ancient madman? I, personally, would take the latter, upon every possible occasion. As to what he looks for, why bother asking? He does not look to see your guts spilled upon Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, which should be reason enough, in itself, for obedience. And so, dig — dig, and be happy in your digging!”

As the work goes on, and early evening descends upon the forest, the northernmost huts of Okot begin to take shape in the scant, glowing light of the rising Moon. Ashkatar — curious about the digging from the start, but unprepared to question Caliphestros’s orders — finally forces his own uneasiness down his gullet, and approaches the white panther and the grey-bearded man who sits upon her shoulders, the latter patiently and carefully studying the work of one group of soldiers in the newest hole before him.

“My lord Caliphestros?” Ashkatar asks, as he goes down on one knee before the panther.

“Hmm?” Caliphestros replies, drawing himself out of some deep reverie and turning slowly. “Oh. Please — Yantek Ashkatar, do not feel the need to bow before me, nor before Stasi. I know, and she knew long before I did, that you are not a lesser tribe of men and women — quite the contrary. I pray you, then, speak freely, and as an equal.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Ashkatar replies, standing and assuming his far more characteristic position of proud command. “I only wished to know if you might be willing to share with me the purpose of all this activity concerning the water. For we are consuming much time, and my men were prepared for a fight, when you happened upon us: as I am sure you know, it is difficult to keep troops, particularly inexperienced troops, in a state of such readiness under any circumstances; and this obscure labor is sapping them of it. The goal behind all your searching, then, must be vital, indeed—” But Ashkatar is interrupted, at that moment, by two or three diggers in the newest pit, who make up one of several alternating crews that have by now become conversant with the aged sorcerer who directs them. The interruption comes, at first, in the form of a whistle and then a low moan, at which Veloc shoots his filthy face and head up and over the lip of the hole. “There it is again, Lord Caliphestros — that occasional smell that reminds us of the fecal pits that the Groba fathers and the healers in the Lenthess-steyn have us dig and then slowly bury with lime outside Okot—” Veloc instantly silences himself when he suddenly notices his commander standing next to Caliphestros. “Ah! My apologies, Yantek Ashkatar — I did not see—”

“Veloc,” Ashkatar says sternly, “do you really think that it is appropriate to speak about fecal pits to Lord Caliphestros, whether I am present or not?”

Caliphestros himself steps in to settle the problem, as, on a rock some distance away, Heldo-Bah roars with triumphant, almost childlike laughter. “Please, Yantek,” the old man says, “it was I who told these diligent men and women — including my old friend Veloc — that they must be free with their language when addressing me, as it will be the quickest way of determining just what we are dealing with, in these waters that flow beneath Davon Wood.”

“I see,” Ashkatar replies; but, not yet settled in his mind, he cracks his whip once hard and shouts, “And you can stop your idiot’s laughing, Heldo-Bah, at once! I grow sick to death of it.”

“My apologies, Yantek,” comes Heldo-Bah’s only slightly less giddy response. “But, truly, I have not observed so comical a scene since — well, I cannot recall the last time I did!”

“Doubtless it was the last time you attempted to fornicate with a woman who was not blind!” Ashkatar shouts, forgetting his own decorum in the presence of Lord Caliphestros. The whip, too, snaps again, but this second time is one too many for Stasi, who begins to growl uneasily, making such moves as she would if preparing to spring upon some one of these little men. Seeing her unrest, and then watching Caliphestros almost magically calm her, Yantek Ashkatar takes a deep breath, turning to his guest. “I am — appalled, my lord, by my own behavior. Please find it in you to pardon me.”

“I will pardon it readily,” Caliphestros replies, with a gracious and respectful nod. “But do be careful with that whip of yours, in Stasi’s presence, Yantek. Memories in panthers — as in most animals, every bit as much as in humans — remain most vivid when they are associated with tragedy and loss; and when she hears that particular sound, especially when it comes amid other noises and sights of armed men, she is reminded of just so tragic a loss — that of her children.”

“‘Children’?” Ashkatar repeats, somewhat confused.

“Yes. For they were as much her children as human offspring are to those that have them. And Stasi lost all of hers — three to death, one to capture. It was, so far as I know, the last great panther hunt conducted by those you call the Tall in Davon Wood — that of the young man who would one day become, and yet remains, Lord