At these words, the Layzin looks up and speaks, his voice so empty of emotion as to seem ghostly: “Do you say the poisoning attempt is a fabrication?”
“I do!” At the words, the Layzin clutches the arms of his golden seat tightly, anger casting a pall over his features. But the yantek will not be dissuaded by scowling, now that he has traveled so far down the path of blasphemy. “I’ve spent my life defending this kingdom, Eminence — I’ve killed more Bane than my noble Lord Baster-kin has ever seen. And I say that they are not a people capable of such audacity — though, Kafra knows, they should be. I say it before you all — this is merely a contrivance to establish our control over the Wood, and by doing so to allow our merchants to bring even more precious goods out of the wilderness than the Bane can carry on their small backs!”
For a moment, no one in the Sacristy is capable of speech. Arnem himself is concerned with somehow coaxing his chest to take in air, once more, and with finding something upon which to steady himself. He is aware of what has happened, of the grievousness of Korsar’s statements; but he cannot make sense of the scene, cannot grasp the reality of this moment that will shortly demand from him greater participation.
In the silence, the Grand Layzin’s face slowly softens, the rage becoming, once again, an acknowledgment of tragedy. Nor is there anything in his expression that might admit satisfaction at the exposure of a traitor; there is only regret clearly embodied in his next words:
“Yantek Korsar, I do not know if madness or treachery has driven you to this outburst — your life and your service speak against either quality, yet what else are we to think? In the name of that life and that service, however, I offer you a final opportunity to recant your outrageous statements, and mitigate the punishment that must befall you.”
But Korsar’s clear blue eyes are illuminated by defiance. “Thank you, Eminence,” he says, genuinely but unrepentantly. “I will stand by my words. Baster-kin and the Merchants’ Council have sent enough warriors to die in the cause of filling their coffers. There must be an end. Make peace with the Bane, let them keep the Wood. Let us continue to trade with them, but on terms, if not of friendship, then at least of respect. It is little enough to offer, considering what we have done to them. But I know you will refuse any such idea. And so,” placing his hands behind his back, Korsar plants his feet, “I am ready, Eminence, to face exile. No doubt Lord Baster-kin would like to escort me to the Wood himself.”
Baster-kin, the Layzin, and Arnem react to these words in unison, each displaying a different kind of shock: but all are genuine. In Arnem, the stunning blow is deepened by sorrow; in the Layzin, it is accented by bewilderment; and in Baster-kin, the effect of the yantek’s words is mitigated by something like pity.
“Exile?” the latter says. “Do you imagine exile could be considered an appropriate punishment for challenging the basis of our society?”
For the first time, Korsar exhibits surprise: “My lord? Banishment is the ordained punishment for sedition, it has always been—”
“For the weak-minded, or mere drunkards, yes,” Baster-kin continues, still astonished. “Or for any other hapless fools in the Fifth District. But a man of your standing cannot be granted a punishment equal to that of a child with a withered leg — your position demands that an example be made of you, an example that will serve as a warning to any who might be swayed by your calumnies, and tempted to repeat them. Did you not at least consider that before you indulged in this insanity?” The Merchant Lord waits for an answer; but, receiving none, he holds his arms high and then drops them in resignation, shaking his head. “For you, Yantek Korsar, there can only be the Halap-stahla …”†
A low commotion runs through the soldiers and the priests in the Sacristy, while Korsar falls as if struck into a nearby chair. For the first time, Arnem starts toward him — but years of discipline and the yantek’s own orders pull the commander of the Talons back again. Whatever his bewilderment and horror, Arnem knows that his friend has spoken nearly unprecedented treason against Broken, against the God-King and Kafra, against all that he once valued and that they both have spent their lives defending. But why? the sentek demands of himself. Why now? What has driven him to do it? And, most terrible thought of alclass="underline" Is Korsar the liar of whom Visimar spoke?
“The Halap-stahla,” Korsar breathes at length, the flame gone from his eyes and real fear in his voice. “But — not since Caliphestros—”
“Not since Caliphestros has there been such treachery,” Baster-kin declares, still astounded at the yantek’s failure to foresee the consequences of his own actions.
“The higher the position, the greater the betrayal,” the Layzin adds mournfully. “And the God-King has entrusted few in this kingdom with as much power as it has been your privilege to exercise.”
Arnem’s heart is near to bursting, as he watches Korsar’s body begin to tremble. The motion is slight, at first, but becomes ever more violent as he plainly imagines the fate that he has brought down upon himself. Yet then he calms, suddenly and strangely, and turns to Arnem, managing a half-smile of trust and affection, as if to tell the younger man that he has done well to control himself, and must continue to do so, for the sake of both Sixt’s life and Korsar’s own composure; then, just as quickly, the smile vanishes, although the yantek does grunt another of the humorless laughs that have punctuated his conversation throughout the evening.
“Well, Baster-kin,” he says, remaining seated. “I suppose you think this puts an end to it. But you are wrong, great lord …” Slowly, Korsar drags his heavy, agèd frame from the chair, to stand once more in defiance. “Oh, you may mutilate me all you wish, and call it religion — but what I have said will remain true. You are leading this great kingdom to disaster, you are exposing its guts to the blades of all the tribes that surround us; and if Kafra does not punish you, there will be another god to attend to it.”
“Yantek Korsar!” The Grand Layzin stands suddenly, holding an arm out, no longer in outrage, but in warning; and in his voice, a corresponding plea is plain: “Your crime is sufficient — I beg you not to endanger your life in the next world through further sacrilege in this one.” The Layzin then looks down the dark length of the Sacristy. “Linnet!” the Layzin calls. At this, all the soldiers of Baster-kin’s Guard move forward behind the commander of their detachment. “I almost dread to say it — however, you must take Yantek Korsar away. With dispatch.”
“It must be in chains,” Lord Baster-kin declares, with neither venom nor satisfaction, but a perfunctory air of duty. His instruction has been anticipated, for one of the shaven priests now produces a heavy set of manacles from under his robe, and lofts them over the reflecting pool to the linnet of the Guard, who, as they crash to the floor before him, appears a different man than the insubordinate mass of conceit who escorted Korsar and Arnem to the Temple. With a nod, Baster-kin directs the hesitant linnet to put the manacles on Korsar’s wrists and ankles, and make a mere prisoner of the most distinguished soldier in Broken: small wonder that the linnet — a man unfamiliar with momentous events — finds that his own hands tremble as he complies.