With a startling flood of nerves such as he has rarely experienced in battle, Arnem suddenly recalls the identity of the mad old man in the street. But it can’t be, he thinks; I myself saw him die …
“What in the name of all that’s unholy is wrong with you?” Korsar has paused to study Arnem; and what he finds is not much to his liking.
Arnem quickly attempts to recover his wits. “Only the activity we observed in the Wood, Yantek,” he says swiftly. “Just before your orders arrived: should we not suspect some connection to all of this?”
“I doubt it.” Korsar says, still unsatisfied with the sentek’s explanation of his peculiar mood.
The two men have known each other since Arnem’s earliest days in the army of Broken, and Korsar knows that since those days he has played something of the role of father to Arnem, who began his life in the Fifth District as an impoverished orphan; or rather, he has always said that he is an orphan. Korsar suspects that Arnem’s mother and father simply abandoned him, or sold him into some menial servitude that young Sixt cleverly escaped — for he had been a boy with a gift for planning all manner of troublesome behavior, and an even greater talent for organizing other rootless children to participate in the same. Whatever the truth of his origins, it was this life of mischief, and not any youthful sense of patriotism, that led to Arnem’s enlistment in the army, as a means of escaping arrest for a long list of petty crimes. But Arnem found that military life suited him, and he soon brought himself to Korsar’s attention when, during a battle that took place in a river valley beyond the Meloderna,† he was the only man in his khotor to stand fast against a charge of eastern marauders. Arnem’s brave action inspired fleeing soldiers to emulate him, and prevented the collapse of the center of Korsar’s legion: Arnem had revealed himself to be both brave and a gifted leader, although it was only in subsequent years, when he demonstrated newfound loyalty to the kingdom, that the path to his present high rank opened. But Yantek Korsar has never forgotten the troublesome youth he once knew, and he is always quick to detect evasiveness on the younger man’s part.
Tonight, the yantek has no time to draw Arnem out, and instead leads the way back through the door and then to the stairs as fast as he can manage. Arnem follows, and then Niksar, along with one of Korsar’s aides. The latter pair stay a few steps behind, so that they cannot overhear the older men’s conversation; but they are still close enough to be of use. “It seems,” Korsar continues, as they descend to the parade ground, “that the attempt was initiated some few days ago, although I’m not certain how. I’m not certain about many things, if the truth be known, Arnem.”
“But you consider what little explanation you have been given far-fetched?” the sentek asks quietly; and he is disturbed when his commander makes no similar effort at discretion.
“My opinion doesn’t much matter.” An additional pair of guards — regular army pallins — fall in as they reach the far side of the parade ground. “Lord Baster-kin accepts it, and the Grand Layzin has embraced it zealously—”
Arnem smiles. “Which does not tell me what you believe, Yantek. With respect.”
“Demons take your respect, Sixt,” replies Korsar, affection bleeding through his gruffness. “All right — do I believe that the Bane attempted to kill the God-King, His Radiance, Saylal the Compassionate?” Korsar shrugs carelessly. “They want him dead, certainly. But this …”
“You find it unlikely,” Arnem says. In reply, Korsar tilts his head and lifts a skeptical brow, causing Arnem to venture: “And I agree, Yantek. The Bane have shown great audacity, at times, but never—”
“Be careful, Arnem.” Yantek Korsar takes Arnem’s forearm, clutching it hard as he gazes at the district’s main gate. “Mind how quickly you follow my example, tonight. It may not be wise …”
It is an inexplicable comment, one to which Arnem can form no response during the few moments that it takes the group of men to reach the gate; then, just as he recovers his wits enough to ask Yantek Korsar to explain his true meaning, half a dozen soldiers emerge from the darkness outside the Fourth District, and quickly intercept Korsar’s party. The newcomers’ armor is like that worn by troops of the regular army; but each, on his upper arm, wears a wide, finely worked brass band, its surface beaten into the semblance of a smiling, bearded face.…
Arnem is surprised to find that Yantek Korsar is neither shocked nor irritated by this intrusion by Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. There has long been bad blood between Broken’s army (especially the Talons) and the Merchant Lord’s troops, an animosity fueled by the fact that, although they wear the same armor as any khotor in the kingdom, the Guard train and are quartered in the First District, under the personal supervision of the Merchant Lord. This apparent slight — the implication that the regular army and the Talons are inadequate for the protection of the Merchants Council — is not one that any soldier, much less the proud Korsar and his lieutenants, could suffer without resentment, and there have been occasional brawls between the two forces. Arnem has always been inclined to view these as meaningless mischief, for he believes Lord Baster-kin to be above such trivial rivalries; yet there have been times when even Arnem has found the Guard insufferable, and he quickly realizes that this is going to be one such.
A young linnet of the Guard — typically tall and well-proportioned, with curling, carefully arranged black hair, paint accenting his eyes, and an arrogant manner — steps in front of the detachment.†
“Yantek,” this man says, with a tone to match his manner; an impression that is deepened when he offers Arnem, his superior in both rank and experience, nothing more than a quick nod. “Sentek. His Eminence and His Grace have ordered us to escort you to the Temple.”
“Did they also order you to ignore deference to rank, Linnet?” Arnem barks harshly. “I very much doubt it.” The linnet smiles, at this, and half-heartedly covers his heart with his right fist. The rest of his men do the same, with a similar impertinence; and Arnem is about to strike the linnet a resounding blow, when Yantek Korsar stays his hand.
“Calm yourself, Arnem,” Korsar says, with plainly false cordiality. “No doubt this is only for our own safety.”
“No doubt, sir,” the linnet of the Guard replies, with equal duplicity.
Korsar turns to Arnem: an expression of warning is in the old warrior’s blue eyes, despite the smile beneath them. “Apparently, things have reached so desperate a state that you and I need nursemaids. And pretty nursemaids they might be, were they actually the women in whose manner they paint themselves.” The Guardsmen bristle as one at this; but Korsar only smiles and holds up his hands. “A poor attempt at humor, Linnet, I apologize — we see so little true fashion in the Fourth District that we become awkward in its presence. Please, take no offense. Rather”—the yantek points to the Celestial Way, keeping his eyes on the leader of the guardsmen—“escort us, if you will. Yes, by all means, escort us …” With a wave of his hand and a nod, Korsar dismisses his own men, so that only Niksar — now looking as troubled as he did when he first appeared on the southern wall to fetch Arnem — remains. The guardsmen encircle their charges, and the party marches on in the direction of its hallowed destination: the High Temple of Kafra.