The Legend of Broken

though he and the Merchant Lord are seemingly still alone. “In short, Sentek, I must tell you that there is much truth to these tales. Oh, not that the Bane represent a direct threat — that’s nonsense, of course. But no one knows better than you do, that fewer and fewer young men willingly enter the regular army, and that those who do are increasingly from the Fifth District — men hungry only for regular pay. And I will not even touch upon the difficulty I have in securing good men for my Guard — only look at the fools I had bring you to the Temple tonight. Bullies, degenerates, near-idiots, some of them; yet better candidates …” Baster-kin’s eyes stare off at the stone ramp that appears, from his vantage point, to lead up to the peaceful, early morning sky. “Better candidates pass their hours competing and gaming in the Stadium — at best.”

“Aye, my lord, it is so,” Arnem answers, uneasy at Baster-kin’s latest change in mood, and feeling, as well, the uncertainty that plagues him when talking of weighty state affairs. “But what of that same Fifth District? Surely, if we need new space in the city, we should cleanse and restore it. It was not always such a sinkhole, after all—”

Baster-kin smiles. “Spoken as a patriot, and a man loyal to his district. I applaud the thought, Arnem — but you do not understand the difficulty of such an undertaking. For the act of rehabilitation will be, politically, not simply in the doing — we shall need your men, and especially yourself, home to do it. If the people are to believe in the rewards with which Kafra blesses the faithful and diligent, they must also see how he punishes those of faint heart and will; and punish them we shall. Severely enough that the eastern marauders, the Torganians and the Frankesh to the south, and, perhaps most ominously of all, the Varisians to the north with their longboats,† will remember the forceful respect we have always made them pay us.” Seeing that Arnem is disturbed by such harsh talk about his home district, Baster-kin assumes a reassuring air: “Fear not — nothing will be done without your presence and approval. These are the facts, however, with which we are faced, Arnem, and I enjoy them even less than you do, make no mistake. Yet we have it in us, I believe, to remedy all these situations. So be bold, and be swift. The quicker you destroy the Bane and take control of as much of the Wood as we require, the greater the legend of your conquest will grow, and the sooner you can return home to consolidate matters here. In addition, our actions will speak all the more loudly to those who surround this kingdom, if they are as speedy as we plan and hope. No one of them will doubt that, if they choose a fight with us, they make a very poor decision.”

Arnem has weighed Baster-kin’s points, and found most of them sound; on only one or two counts does he feel the need for more details, plainly spoken, and so he determines to ask—

But as he does, a sound rises up to challenge the din of the reveling merchants above: it is a scream even more arresting than that Arnem heard earlier atop the city walls — a scream of undiluted agony.

Arnem instinctively draws his short-sword, and steps before the Merchant Lord, half-suspecting that an attack of some kind is under way. But Baster-kin only mutters under his breath, and then says aloud:

“Do not be alarmed, Arnem. It is likely of no consequence. But my guard were able to lay hands on at least one of the Bane assassins who poisoned the well outside the Inner City. It would appear I am needed—”

Arnem, in a moment of revulsion, cannot help but touch Baster-kin’s arm, as the latter starts away: “An Outrager?”

Glancing at Arnem’s hand briefly and indulgently, but with indignation enough to make the sentek remove it immediately, the Merchant Lord replies, “Not such as you or I would recognize — a trader, to judge by appearances. Of that smaller stature, and with neither the clothing or the arms peculiar to the Outragers and their absurd ‘knighthood.’” Baster-kin sighs, looking across the chamber half-heartedly. “Every day, the exiles grow more clever — and more deadly …” He starts away, saying only, “I will only be a few moments — but you must allow me to …”

“My lord!” Arnem calls, intending to keep his words and their tone subdued, but failing singularly. “It was my understanding that the God-King Izairn suspended all such coercion.”

“He did,” Baster-kin says. “But only on the advice of the his Second Minister, the sorcerer Caliphestros — our present monarch, having allowed the torture of the acolytes of Caliphestros after his banishment, has continued the practice.” Pausing in attempted sympathy, Baster-kin nods. “I know how you soldiers feel, Arnem — you believe that physical torment produces unreliable results, designed to please the tormentor. And that it puts your own men at risk of revenge, should they be captured by our enemies.”†

“Indeed, my lord,” the sentek answers confidently. “The Bane did not create their ‘Woodland Knights’ until we had tortured enough of what we thought dangerous men and women of their tribe who came to the city to trade — and, I must remind you, no act of treachery was ever proved against any of them. Not until—”

“Until this attempt to murder the God-King?” Baster-kin interjects, his voice even, but his words pointed. “You don’t consider that a remarkable exception?” Arnem gazes downward, realizing that his last words may have defeated his cause. “And who knows how many other examples, in earlier years, were not the first stirrings of similar plots? Plots that we exposed early enough to save a guardsman’s or a soldier’s life? I remind you, Sentek, that it was Oxmontrot himself — he to whom you and your men look for inspiration and with such admiration — who made the practice of torture, not only acceptable, but required, when examining persons of humble or even of consequential status; and that he did so in imitation — as was so often his habit — of the Lumun-jani. It is a policy with which even I, who do not share your martial admiration for our founding king, can find no fault.” Seeing that his words, while persuasive, are not yet convincing, Baster-kin presses: “Think of the matter just as the Lumun-jani have done for so long, Arnem: without both the threat and the practice of torture, who knows what additional lies such prisoners would concoct? What incentive does a man who would poison a city well have to speak the truth, save the prevention or cessation of agony?” Confusion replaces stubborn disagreement in Arnem’s features, and Baster-kin returns to him. “It is not as though we conduct the practice in the manner of the eastern marauders or the Varisians, Arnem. There is no joy in it, for myself or for the men I have trained in its use; but we have learned minds in this city that have made a study of the business. And so …”

Baster-kin strides to the area from which the scream emerged, and pounds on what must be a door, from the sound of it — although Arnem can see no such details, in the darkness at the far end of the cellar. A long shaft of light appears: the space between a door that is opening and its frame, leading into yet another chamber, another corner of the world within the mountaintop that Oxmontrot may have built, but over which Lord Baster-kin has made himself master. The shaft of light remains visible only for a moment, but it is long enough for Arnem to detect both more cries of pain from beyond, and the Merchant Lord’s controlled, chastising voice, speaking indistinctly, but with intent. Then, the shaft of light disappears soundlessly, at which Baster-kin returns, as quickly as he departed.

“I apologize, Sentek,” he says. “I had thought we were finished with the man. Evidently not. He confirmed the poisoning plot, but we have been trying to ascertain if he has any further information that might be of use — the location of more Outragers in the city, most importantly.”

Indicating the door in the darkness, Arnem says only: “So that chamber is where such— work is carried out?”

“Yes,” Baster-kin replies, not entirely comfortably. “Along with several more beyond it. Our own, more worldly ‘Sacristy,’ if you will. With its own sacred implements …”

Arnem feels a passing urge to renew the two men’s philosophical debate — but there is no need, he realizes. Clearly, both Baster-kin and his Merchants’ Council, having extracted the information concerning the poisoning of the well through torture, will not listen to arguments against such techniques. All that the sentek feels now is a sudden need to be gone.

“My lord,” he says, “I have much to prepare, and little time. Therefore, with your permission—”

“Of course, Arnem. My thanks for your patience. And if it is agreeable to you, I think that a parade and departure in the late afternoon will show your men off to their greatest advantage in front of the citizens.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Would you like my Guard to escort you home?” Baster-kin asks, with seeming earnestness. “I don’t imagine you need it, but—”

“You are correct, my lord. I do not. And so …”

“Yes. Until tomorrow. Try to get some rest. It will be an exhausting business — these public affairs always are. I’d ask you to come upstairs, where I fear I must make a brief official appearance, but I very much doubt that you’d enjoy it …”

“No, my lord,” Arnem agrees quickly. “And my wife will be waiting.”

“Ah, yes. Your wife. I understand that you have been—lucky, in that regard.”