Baster-kin nods slowly: he is the image of a man whose fondest dream is coming unraveled — yet not in such a way that it takes him entirely off-guard. “And the plague …?” he asks quietly.
“If you bring what I ask, and the city’s builders do as I ask, I can control the plague here; and then, in time, it will die at its source—wherever that might be.”
“Yet you know full well where it is,” Baster-kin says.
“Do I? Perhaps.” As Isadora continues, her boldness returns: “One thing is clear: for all your theatrical torturing of that Bane, you are not certain. Yet I shall not speak of it: there will be no need, if the priests do as I say.”
“And if they do not?”
“If they do not, my lord …” Isadora lifts an arm, indicating the whole of the city. “There are forces within these walls that have ever wanted only direction and leadership, to put their plight to the ears of power. And they have that ability. Some among the kingdom’s powerful may have thought they were eliminating such a capacity by way of this plague; but they have, in fact, only given it greater force …”
{x:}
Lord Baster-kin holds his ground in the face of this confident threat: threat, a variety of behavior that he has never before seen Isadora Arnem exhibit. Of course, that particular part of his mind that has always been prepared for threat from any quarter had said she might turn to it, this night. And so he feels no danger in admiring her strength for a moment, for he believes there is no reason to fear her demands and warnings — he has already calculated his response, which he now elaborates in statements that are perhaps even more shocking than were hers:
“Are you sure, Lady Arnem, that such men as these”—he indicates the streets about him—“can hope to defend this district against my Guard, whatever the shortcomings of that latter organization?”
“I never said as much,” Isadora replies. “But I have sent dispatches to my husband that indicate the state of affairs in this city, and, when he returns to us, not only the Talons, but the whole of the Broken army — of which you have placed him in charge — will be more than enough to rescue the fate of the Fifth District.”
“It would be,” the Merchant Lord agrees. “It is perhaps unfortunate, therefore, that by the time he returns, the Fifth District will no longer exist, at least in its present form, while its residents will either have fled the city or have been killed.” Baster-kin pulls his gauntlets from his hands with deceptive lack of concern. “That is, of course, assuming that your husband ever does return to the mountaintop.”
Isadora’s face goes helplessly pale; for she has known for most of her life that this is not a man who gives voice to idle threats. “Ever does return …?” she echoes, before she has had time to select her words more carefully. “Has my lord heard of some misfortune that has befallen the Talons in the field?”
“I may have,” Baster-kin replies, moving closer to her as he senses his ploy is succeeding. “But first, consider this: without your husband — who may, for all any of us know, be dead already — the Talons will not act against the God-King and his city; and without the Talons, the regular army will make no attempt to similarly intervene against the destruction of any part of their homeland. Then, failing any such intervention, the Fifth District will be cleansed by fire, and remade as a fit home for truly loyal citizens of Broken, citizens willing to give their wholehearted devotion to the God-King.”
Isadora’s sudden uncertainty consumes her for a long moment; but then she almost forces her confidence to return, in just the manner that her former mistress, Gisa, would have exhorted her to do: “My lord — you know full well the nature of plague. Whether it comes from a god or from man’s poison, from the Bane or from the mountain itself — for who knows what other cracks in its stone summit have appeared or shifted, over the years? — such pestilence can and must spread, if treated only through ignorance and superstition, as it will be, should you leave it attended to by Kafran healers alone.”
“Any other healers, particularly in the Fifth District, being somehow beholden to you,” Baster-kin replies. “There is no reason to deny it, Lady Arnem, my own inquiries have proved as much, over these last many weeks. But this is no reason for you to concern yourself.” To Isadora’s repeated look of silent consternation, the Merchant Lord delightedly takes a few steps forward, and places her hand upon his own. “You and your children need feel in no danger. I shall personally take you out of the district, and offer you shelter in the Kastelgerd Baster-kin. As time passes, the memory of this place, like your memory of your husband and your children’s memory of their father, will fade, and you shall envision a new future, a future devoid of squalor, poverty, and all the other ills of this place.”
Isadora nods slowly. “A future much like the one you imagined for us long ago, when I attended to your megrem in your family’s lodge at the base of the mountain; but now your father is no longer alive to object to the scheme, nor has Radelfer the power to prevent it.”
“Do not think me so entirely selfish, my lady,” Baster-kin replies; and there is a note of genuineness in his voice that even Isadora cannot deny. He places his second hand atop the one of hers that rests on his first. “I know how information travels among communities of healers in this city; I know that you must be aware of the … shortcomings of my own sons, and of their origins. Do not deny it, I beg you. But neither you nor I are past the age of bearing new children. Children who could take the name of Baster-kin, and bear it into another generation — a generation during which they could ensure the continued greatness of my clan, by assuming the leadership of this city and kingdom.”
Isadora shakes her head slowly, then finally whispers, “You are mad, my lord …”
Remarkably, Baster-kin only smiles. “Yes. I anticipated such a response from you, initially; but when the fires begin to blaze in the district, and when word comes of spreading disease among the Talons, and the citizens of these neighborhoods begin to either die or flee — will I seem so mad, then? When the safety of your children is at terrible risk, and you have but one way to save them — will this plan seem like such lunacy to you?”
Instinctively drawing her hand back in a sudden tug, Isadora looks at the man who, she suddenly realizes, is indeed still very much the boy she once treated for a crippling, maddening illness; and she shakes with the realization, not that his mind may be disordered, but that his power and his strange logic may make him frighteningly correct. “Your entire premise proceeds from two assumptions, my lord,” she says, not so haughtily as she would like to. “First, that my husband will, in fact, die—”
“Or may be dead already,” Baster-kin replies.
“And second,” Isadora continues, a deep shudder making itself visible in her body, much to the Merchant Lord’s satisfaction, “that the disease that is making itself manifest in the strangely recurrent stream of water at the base of the southwestern wall will suddenly and simply disappear.”