north once more; and Isadora waits for the whole of the
The Talons draw crowds all the length of the Celestial Way. The Second and Third districts are nearing the end of a long day of hectic bartering: trading stalls are being stored for use the next day, while the proprietors of shops within the buildings along the avenue are closing up early to avoid damage from the frantic spectators — and also to get a look at the parade. The soldiers’ behavior becomes steadily more serious and precise the farther north they progress; and when they arrive at the Temple steps, they find the Grand Layzin, robed in white, under a canopy held by shaved priests. The men receive their blessing from the God-King, read to them by the Layzin; but this pious show is for the good of the citizenry, more than it is to the taste of the troops. It is only when the Layzin returns to the Temple and Lord Baster-kin appears on his own black mount that the soldiers feel once again free to fully absorb the ecstasy of patriotism that is consuming the citizenry.
As the troops march back down to the Eastern Gate, they once again pass under the watchful eye of their commander, as well as of Baster-kin. Citizens begin to shower the troops with flower petals, and Arnem agrees with both Baster-kin and the other merchant councilors who, all on foot, soon collect about them: the men are in fine form, and their morale seems appropriately high. When the last of the troops have passed by, Arnem salutes Lord Baster-kin, for whose presence he has been genuinely grateful; and Baster-kin continues to speak with the air of confidential trust that he established the night before.
But is it in that same sense of trust that he delivers his final remarks to Arnem? Or does something more perverse lie behind them?
“Oh, one thing more, Arnem—” The Merchant Lord spurs his black mount alongside Arnem’s grey. “I thought you’d like to know — the ceremony went off well. Korsar was a model of discipline to the end.”
All the joy of the review drains out of Arnem; and he looks down the Celestial Way and over the walls of the city, to the line of Davon Wood, where his friend and commander is almost certainly hanging still, perhaps in wretched agony. “You — you had reports, my lord?”
“I went myself,” Baster-kin replies simply. “It seemed the thing to do. At any rate, I thought you’d like to know that he met his end well. Now — fortune go with you, Sentek. Return victorious!” Baster-kin’s heels dig into his mount, and he trots easily off in the direction of the Merchants’ Hall.
Arnem does not proceed; and Niksar grows concerned.
“Sentek?” Niksar says. “It’s time.”
“Yes,” Arnem answers slowly. “Yes, of course, Niksar,” he adds, forcing himself out of a moment both dazed and pensive. “We go — but Niksar? If you happen to see that old madman we encountered last night — bring him to my attention, will you? I’ve a feeling he’s in the crowd.”
“Of course, Sentek. But, if you like, I can take care of him myself—”
“No, no, Reyne. Simply point him out …”
As it turns out, Arnem does not need any help from Niksar in finding the old man. When the column of men begins to pass through the Eastern Gate, the sentek and his aide are still bringing up the rear. Arnem can see that Niksar has been somewhat unnerved by the mention of the apparitional heretic; and the commander attempts to calm his aide’s restless thoughts with pleasant conversation.
“Your brother serves in Daurawah, does he not, Reyne?” the sentek says. “Under my old friend Gledgesa?”
Niksar brightens. “Aye, Sentek. He is a full linnet, now, though I can scarcely believe it. All reports of his service are excellent.”
“You’ll be happy to see him. As shall I. A fine lad.”
“Yes,” Niksar says with a nod. “And surely
It is Arnem’s turn to smile. “True. But Gerolf Gledgesa is much like the immutable stone of these walls, Reyne. I expect him to be exactly as—”
Arnem goes silent as he glances toward the Eastern Gate. It is the briefest flash of fabric, but unmistakable enough for the sentek’s ever-watchful eyes to mark it: that same garment. The old, faded robe, which was once, no doubt, kept clean and without rips or wrinkles by the careful work of young acolytes, although not such acolytes as are found in the High Temple. The man stands beyond the regular army guards at the gate, staring into Arnem’s eyes. How long he has been there, the sentek cannot say, any more than he
Arnem reins the Ox in, near the spot where the old man stands. Niksar appears increasingly disturbed by the meaningful but silent looks that his commander and the old cripple are exchanging, and finally calls out:
“You, there — guard! Remove that old heretic—”
Arnem holds an arm out, and orders: “No — stand easy, soldier!” He turns to his aide. “No need for that, Reyne,” he goes on, as they are enveloped by a hail of rose petals tossed from the tops of the guard towers on either side of the gate. Arnem would indeed be hard-pressed to say why he is about to carry out a most peculiar plan: was it Baster-kin’s mention of Yantek Korsar’s mutilation, and the peculiar shadow that it threw over Arnem’s previously proud mood? Or was it his wife’s confusing insistence that he take her pagan clasp, which is even now pressing against his ribs? The sentek has no answers, but he proceeds with his scheme:
“Niksar,” he says, still quietly. “Tactfully instruct that guard to let the old man through. Then I want you to ride ahead, and get one of the spare mounts from the cavalry units.”
“Do as I say, Reyne,” Arnem insists gently. “I shall explain later.”
Niksar shakes his head in exasperation; but he is too used to following Arnem’s orders not to realize when the sentek is in earnest. He pushes his mount through to the gate, and has the guard snatch the mad, aged vagrant from the crowd. The old man smiles at this, although he must work his staff quickly to coax his wooden leg to keep pace with the soldier. Niksar tells the “heretic” to go to the sentek, while he sets off at a gallop to fetch the horse Arnem has commanded be brought.
As he stands before the new chief of the army of Broken, the old man’s lips once again curl into that slight, knowing smile; and, to his no more than mild surprise, the sentek returns the expression.
The old man’s smile widens. “You
“‘Anselm’?” Arnem nods judiciously. “‘The Helmet of God,’ eh? An ambitious name. No matter. You were once a follower of Caliphestros.”
“I was first among his acolytes,” Anselm declares, discreetly but firmly.
“Yes — all the better,” Arnem answers, as Niksar comes back leading a riderless horse behind his own. “Niksar,” Arnem says, with subdued cheerfulness. “Meet a man called Anselm. Anselm, my aide, Linnet Niksar.”
The old man inclines his head, as Niksar declares, “I’ve no need to know the names of heretics, Sentek.”
“Oh, but you do need to know this one,” Arnem replies; and then he looks back down at Anselm. “Can you ride, old man?”
“Sentek!” Niksar blurts out. “You cannot — if word spreads—”
“But word will not spread.” Arnem’s tone has the ring of finality, and he stares into Niksar’s eyes, exuding uncompromising purpose. “You will see to that, Niksar. You’re no longer a spy, you’ve been told as much. Now, you act only in the interests of the men. And this will, I believe, serve those interests.” The sentek looks at Anselm. “Well?”
“I can ride, Sentek,” the old man says. “Perhaps you will even wish to explain my missing leg by saying that I was a cavalryman maimed in battle.” Arnem smiles and nods agreement. “But, whether I ride or walk, the course that we must now travel was determined when you found me last night: there can be no question but that I shall go