“We likely would not, my love,” Arnem answers simply, recalling his own, similar thoughts. “But — I would be more concerned, had Baster-kin not taken me into his confidence as he did. I tell you, Isadora, I’ve never seen the man like that. Direct, yes, he’s always been direct, even rude, but — he honestly seemed concerned. About us. He’s an odd man, no question, and often shows his concern in peculiar ways, but — so long as I succeed, and please the God-King, I honestly don’t think we have true cause for worry. In fact, I would guess that he will try to protect all of you, while I am gone — certainly he takes an interest in your well-being.”
They have too little time before Arnem’s departure, as it is, for Isadora to enter into a discussion of why else Baster-kin might take an interest in her and their children. So she gently turns Sixt’s head to force his eyes to stare into the small oceans of her own. “Let us pray that you are right …” And then she concocts what she conceives to be a helpful lie: “I’m sorry if I sound less trustful than you, Sixt. I suspect the Merchant Lord strikes a good many people as strangely secretive, but that does not mean, as you say, that he does not intend to be of assistance, while you are gone.”
“Indeed,” Sixt replies hopefully. Then he studies his wife’s face again, his hands gently moving over and beneath her cloak and gown, which have already been disarrayed by their encounter. “Who would ever have thought,” he murmurs, in amazement that is only partially affected, “that such great wisdom could come from so pretty a head …”
Isadora stings his cheek with the flat of her hand, just hard enough to let serious intent show through her playfulness. “Pig. Never let your daughters hear that sort of talk, I warn you …” Then she adds, even more earnestly: “Above all, we must decide what his posture regarding Dalin truly is.”
“I’ve told you, Isadora,” Arnem replies quickly; for on this matter, he believes he has read Baster-kin’s words accurately. “If the men and I do carry this business off, they will suspend the order — I truly believe it.”
“They did not suspend it for Korsar’s boy,” Isadora replies doubtfully, turning away from Sixt as her eyes again grow perceptibly mournful. “However great the services the yantek performed …”
“True,” Arnem answers. “And yet, I think that our situation is different — in fact, he nearly stated as much, although, as you say, one in his position will never reveal his true intentions, about this or anything else. But certainly, ours is a more serious case — else why should he have taken me into his confidence as he did?”
Isadora turns her face to his again, feeling the bristle of his beard as it passes her cheek, and tries with all her soul to smile. “And so — I must simply wait for you to succeed, and all will be well?”
“That is the matter entire,” Arnem answers, returning her smile. “And have I ever disappointed you?”
She puts a hand to his mouth and presses hard, laughing softly. “I despise your soldierly conceit, and always have.”
Pulling her hand from his face, Arnem protests, “There is no conceit in trusting the abilities of the Talons.”
“Ah. I see …”
“It is plain truth, wife! My officers — following my example, perhaps — have made those young men into a mechanism: my sole responsibility is to set it in motion, then stand away and observe its working.”
“Hak!” Isadora scoffs, as loudly and rudely as she can manage. “As though you could stand away from anything involving those men …”
“Besides—” Ignoring his wife’s cynicism, Arnem stands, arranging his armor and the clothing beneath it. He then picks up his cloak and hands it to Isadora. “Five children later is no time to be telling a husband what you do and do not despise about him.”
“Well — your children believe your nonsense, at any rate.” Isadora stands and straightens her own garments, before she sets to fixing the silver eagle’s claws of Sixt’s cloak in place on his wide shoulders. “They hope and trust, as one, that you will thrash the evil Bane, and come home soon.” Uncontrollably, her arms go around the sentek’s neck in a moment of earnestness. “As do I …”
“Do they?” Arnem chuckles. He then holds Isadora at arm’s length, that he may consume the sight of her in solitude one last time — and catches sight of the silver clasp fixed to her gown. “Oh, wife …” He touches the clasp, understanding, as do most in Broken, what it signifies. “Must you wear that thing? There is always the chance that some one of my superiors will learn of your past and your … opinions. It cannot help our cause.”
“It could,” Isadora replies coyly, knowing that it will irritate her husband. But then, with greater seriousness, she declares, “Come, now — it’s only a meaningless keepsake, Sixt. I’ve only ever really trusted two people in my life, since my parents were killed: you”—She pokes her husband hard in the throat, just above his armor—“and Gisa. Am I not allowed that much?”
“Just see that you don’t wear it while I’m gone,” Arnem answers. “We need no further trouble from the priests — and if you seek to explain any peculiar behavior on Baster-kin’s part, his spies reporting that you wear such barbarian idols would more than serve the purpose. Who knows how much of this business with Dalin is spurred by such talk?”
“I don’t intend to wear it while you’re gone,” Isadora replies, undoing the clasp. “I’m giving him to you.”
“To me?” Arnem groans. “What in the world am I to do with such a thing? Other than make my men doubt my sanity?”
“Keep it close, husband,” Isadora says, finding a small pocket in the soft padding of his gambeson, beneath both his leather armor and his mail. “For my sake. I don’t like the notion of this war, Sixt — and, whatever you may have thought of Gisa and her religion, this token has always brought me something more precious than luck.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The god it depicts, as you know, traded one of his eyes for wisdom. Such is what it has always brought me, and you shall need all you can muster.”
“You know full well, Isadora,” Arnem protests, “that I have never said a word against Gisa …” He pulls the clasp out and studies it. “But her kindness and her skill as a healer were separate from her faith.”
“She would have argued against such a conclusion.”
“Perhaps. But I can’t very well wear it, that’s certain. I could be stripped of my rank, and much worse, simply for possessing such a thing.”
Isadora presses a finger to his mouth. “Do you suppose I don’t realize that? I do not ask that you wear it.” She secures the clasp in his pocket. “Just take it and keep it, hidden but close. As quietly as you can — if that’s possible.”
“Insults, now?” Arnem shrugs. “Very well, I submit. But I don’t know what good a half-blind old man and two ravens are likely to do me.”
“It’s not your place to know — just let it be, and see what occurs.”
Arnem nods, and then the pair catch each other’s eyes: the hour has arrived, and they both know it.
“Come,” he says, taking her in his arms again. “We must address the men. You’ve always been their favorite — and yes, I’ve always been unhappy about that fact, if such pleases your vanity.”
“It does,” Isadora replies, kissing her husband deeply just once more; then she whispers into his armor, so quietly that he cannot hear: “You will be back.” She feels again for the clasp. “He will see to it …”