The Legend of Broken

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‡ 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.”

Shouting? thinks Arnem. It was screaming, and well he knows it — unless he did not believe my report. What’s he playing at?

“Beyond that,” Korsar concludes, “I confess that I have seen little, inside the walls or out, that would indicate a desperate state of affairs.”

“The Bane have learned new ways,” Baster-kin says, eyeing Korsar more critically. “They behave more like the deadly vermin that they are with each day’s passing — we chase them into one hole, and they strike from any of a dozen others.”

Korsar makes no reply, but cannot keep a glint of dismissal from his aged eyes; and if I can catch that look, Arnem realizes, then how much more quickly can Baster-kin?

And, to be sure, Baster-kin reacts with an expression of distaste — or is it regret? — and a disappointed shake of his head. Striding down the wooden walkway that spans the pool, the Merchant Lord descends to the soldiers, but with none of the grace that marked the Layzin’s approach.

“May I ask what these ‘new ways’ are, Eminence?” Korsar says, his voice carrying a hint of continued skepticism. “There was mention of sorcery, in your summons …”

“A necessary ruse,” the Layzin replies, “to mask the true nature of the danger from those who have witnessed its effects.” The Layzin sighs heavily, deep distress revealing itself ever more in his face and voice. “It was, in fact, poison, Yantek. We do not yet know from which woodland creature they extracted the substance, but its effects are”—the sacred head bows, and the gentle shoulders slacken—“fever — painful sores throughout the body — all … horrifying …”

Korsar’s eyes go wide with what Arnem hopes the others will not recognize as disbelief. “Poison?” the yantek repeats. “In the Inner City?”

“Yantek Korsar forgets,” Baster-kin declares, “that my own Guard patrol the entrances to the Inner City.” Seemingly incensed by Korsar’s skepticism, Baster-kin steps but inches from the yantek. “And it was they who were struck down by those misshapen little heretics.”

“The poison,” interrupts the Layzin, placing a hand gently on Baster-kin’s chest and guiding him a few steps away, “was introduced into a well outside the Inner City gates. Near a military post. We must suppose that the Bane hoped that some of the tainted water would find its way inside, or that, once loose, the illness would spread like plague — for its effects are similar to that worst of all afflictions …” The Layzin’s voice grows soft, and his delicate eyes fill with dread. “Broken is nothing without the God-King, Yantek. I need not remind you that Saylal has not yet been blessed with an heir, and should the line that began with the great Thedric—”

“With Oxmontrot,” interjects Korsar, causing no little surprise throughout the room: the Layzin is not a man to be interrupted like any other, and he is even less one to be corrected on questions of state and faith. But Yantek Korsar persists: “Surely Your Eminence remembers?”

“Oxmontrot?” Baster-kin repeats. The Merchant Lord is indignant, at both the suggestion and at Korsar’s interruption; but he controls his resentment, and calmly presses: “Oxmontrot was a