The Legend of Broken

his scarlet tunic — an angular object, suspended from his neck on a thin silver chain, which reflects the light of a torch set in a sconce on the nearest of the nave’s columns. Soon, Arnem is able to see by that same light that the object is a key of some sort; and, after he has lifted the chain over his head and taken this key in hand, Baster-kin stops before a marble initiation font,† a basin almost three feet wide with a base some five feet square. A small, circular piece of brass‡ is mounted to the bottommost section of the base, and when Baster-kin slides this aside, Arnem can see a finely worked keyhole, also of brass. The Merchant Lord kneels, inserts the key, and turns it, producing clicks: the working of some inner mechanism.

Getting to his feet again, Baster-kin declares, “What I am about to show you, Sentek, are things of which you must never speak to anyone — not even to your wife.” Arnem is somewhat taken aback by this reference to Isadora, to whom Baster-kin has only been introduced (so far as her husband knows) very briefly, during a few official ceremonies; yet there is a vague air of familiarity about this latest statement that the sentek does not care for, and even more ominously, that he fears. Two things alone can be responsible for it, Arnem calculates: ordinary lust, which would be both insulting and ill-considered, and is therefore unlikely; or, full knowledge of Isadora’s past — her past, and her activities — which would be less likely, yet far more dangerous … “I have your word that you will maintain such silence?” Baster-kin presses.

“Of course, my lord,” Arnem answers. “But I assure you—”

“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it,” Baster-kin says quickly; and then he looks away, scowling and annoyed, it seems to Arnem, at his own awkward choice of words. “My apologies. It’s simply that, given what we have just observed …”

“Yes, my lord,” the sentek answers, relieved at the credible statement of contrition. “I understand.”

“You are now to learn things you must know, if you are to lead our army — and I think you will appreciate the need for secrecy, once you’ve seen them.” Baster-kin signals to the priests at the Temple doors.

The pair rush to him, seeming to Arnem to require no spoken instruction. Both physically powerful young men, the priests pivot the heavy marble font on the point of its brass locking mechanism, revealing a spiral stone staircase that leads down into utter darkness. The priests stand back, and Baster-kin takes the nearby torch from its sconce.

“These tunnels run between the most important structures in the city,” the Merchant Lord explains, leading the way down the steps. “Particularly those that would be crucial during time of siege.” As soon as Arnem’s head is below the level of the Temple floor, the priests above rotate the font back over the hole, and its locking pivot mechanism makes a rather sharp snapping sound.

Thus sealed into the narrow staircase, Arnem is unable to keep from thinking that this descent into the bowels of the city is not a propitious start to his new command …

But, as he reaches the bottom of the steps, the sentek finds a large, vaulted chamber, which offers immediate relief from the cramped stairway. Branching off are perhaps half a dozen roomy tunnels carved through the solid stone, and the chamber itself is filled to brimming with sacks of grain, sides of salt-dried beef and pork, piles of root vegetables — and, finally, enough weapons, Arnem estimates, to arm half a khotor.

“We try to replenish the food supplies regularly,” Baster-kin announces, his voice uncharacteristically enthusiastic as he moves the torch about the chamber to reveal all of its remarkable contents, “and we do what we can to prevent moisture from rusting the weapons.”

“It almost surpasses comprehension,” Arnem says, his eyes following the torchlight. “But who instituted this practice?”

Baster-kin shrugs. “It has gone on for many generations, certainly — it was likely part of the original plan of the Mad King himself. I had the full system of tunnels and chambers mapped, when I assumed my office, and created an inventory of their contents — enough to secure the city for months, at the very least, should we face a siege.”

Still inspecting the chamber, Arnem finds one thing glaringly absent: “And water?” he asks. “I see no cistern.”

Baster-kin nods. “It has never been a consideration — we have always had an abundance of water, from the various spring-fed wells throughout the city, many of which are connected through fissures in the stone summit of the mountain, out of which Broken’s walls were carved. That is why we take this matter of the poisoned well so seriously: I’ve long had a suspicion that the Bane knew how much we would depend on the resources that lie within the city walls, during a crisis, and that they might send Outragers to make some brazen attempt to pollute them — as they now have. I can’t even be sure that killing the God-King was their primary purpose — it might have been merely a fortunate secondary result. As it turns out, since the damage seems confined to the one well, it suits our purposes more than theirs …” The Merchant Lord thrusts his hands into a grain sack, examining its contents carefully, as he continues to speak contemplatively: “I’m having every other well watched, as we speak, of course, in the event that they try again — or, worse yet, that the poison should find its way into other reserves at some future date. But for now …”

Baster-kin becomes even more inscrutable, for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he examines his handful of grain; and Arnem finds himself, while impressed, a little confused. “My lord?” he says. “You seem perturbed, rather than relieved. If I may say so. Do you fear the grain stores have also been tampered with?”

“Not yet,” Baster-kin replies, his mind clearly wrestling with the thought. “But we must be ever-vigilant …” Shaking himself, he turns to the sentek once again. “You and I, however, are not farmers, to vex ourselves with such matters — and yet now it is you who look uncertain.”

“Well — perhaps not uncertain,” Arnem answers quickly. “But — in the Sacristy, earlier, you did make it sound as though the Bane’s sole purpose was to assassinate—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Baster-kin replies, waving the fact off with one hand as he replaces the grain. “As I say, the event has as yet served our purposes far more than theirs: particularly yours and mine. The Layzin’s energies are —overtaxed, as you saw; and the version of events I relayed to him, and thus to the God-King, was not incorrect. I merely laid emphasis on certain details over others, in order to make the case as simple to comprehend as possible. I trust you can see that?”

Arnem knows that much depends upon the nature of his answer to this seemingly harmless question: he is being invited into a conspiracy, of sorts — one with a noble purpose, perhaps, but with consequences that belie its innocent tone. And so he accepts without detailing his complete opinions: “Yes, my lord,” he says simply.

“Good. Fine.” The Merchant Lord is clearly pleased. “But come — I am expected at the Merchants’ Hall. Or rather, beneath it …”

Arnem studies Lord Baster-kin’s face as they begin to move quickly along one of the many tunnels out of the storage area, soon passing into and out of another identical vaulted stone chamber. The sentek can see that the Merchant Lord’s evident concern for the city, which so often seems obnoxiously zealous in the company of others, somehow assumes a vastly different and more appealing quality, when one is allowed to view its private, even secret, manifestations: its careful inspections and judgments of the materials necessary for the public good in a time of crisis.

“Was Yantek Korsar aware of all this?” Arnem asks, still quite amazed at the extent, not only of the underground maze of expertly carved chambers and tunnels, but of the amount of supplies that are hoarded away in them, and kept replenished for use at any time.

“He was,” Baster-kin replies, laughing in an odd manner: without harshness or rancor, but rather something oddly like sad admiration. “But we were under the impression that you knew he was …”

Arnem needs no explanation of this statement: Baster-kin is plainly referring to Niksar’s role as a spy. But he does not say so at once: “No, my lord — the yantek never shared such knowledge with me,” he says. “In addition, another commander might wonder at how you can be so knowledgeable about what confidences the—” He is on the verge of saying “the yantek” again, but catches himself, remembering the Merchant Lord’s admonition against such in the Sacristy, “—what confidences Herwald Korsar and I exchanged.”

Baster-kin nods, appreciating the gesture. “Another commander would have done a great many things far differently than you have, Sentek. For instance, you’re aware that Linnet Niksar spies for us; you’ve been aware of it for some time. I know it, the Layzin knows it, and the God-King knows it. Yet you have made no protest.” When Baster-kin glances back to find Arnem still more dumbfounded, he laughs once sharply — a rare and remarkable event. It produces a sound that is too sudden, too ill practiced to be pleasant: how much worse would the effect be,