“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 you will be happy to see Sentek Gledgesa? For it must have been years—”
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 can say why he indulges a perverse idea:
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.”
“Sentek?” Niksar says in astonishment, keeping his own voice low. “He’s mad, and a heretic, what can you possibly—”
“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, agèd 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.
“Visimar.” Arnem holds the Ox steady. “Unless I am mistaken.”
The old man’s smile widens. “You must be mistaken, Sentek — for the man you mention is long dead. Indeed, you, as part of the military escort for the priests of Kafra, were present at his mutilation. I am called Anselm—now …”
“‘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 with you.” Anselm approaches the horse, then glances about for assistance.
Arnem calls out to the nearby guard: “You. Get this man mounted.”
The guard makes objection with a sour face; but he knows well enough to follow orders, and quickly forms a sling with his hands. Anselm puts his one good leg into the guard’s palms.
“Thank you, my son,” Anselm says. “Now, if you would only help me swing this gift from the God-King over the beast …” The guard — too humiliated to even make sense of this remark — lifts the old man, then roughly seizes the wooden leg and pushes it across the horse, evidently causing the old man some pain; but it is not enough to diminish the latter’s pleasure at the moment. “And, if I should at any time complain, or slow you, Sentek,” the cripple says to Arnem, getting his one foot into the waiting stirrup, “I hope you will tell me. I’ve no desire to burden this mission more than it already has been.”
“Nor shall you.” As their horses start through the gate, Arnem turns a serious face to Anselm. “For your role will be that of a mad fool, brought along to coax good fortune out of our smiling god. You agree, I trust?”
“You have my word, Sentek. Now — shall we see what Fate has prepared for us below the mountain?”
Arnem nods, and, with Niksar unhappily bringing up the rear, these last three members of the column head out through the Eastern Gate.
The men eventually wheel right, heading toward the southern and fastest, if not the easiest, route up and down the mountain. (They could not very well have used to Southern Gate for their exit, for it guards the far less than glorious Fifth District.) In making this move, they are brought to and over a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, where Arnem, accompanied by Anselm and Niksar, rides ahead to take up a waiting position and keep a careful eye on his men as they cross, knowing that Niksar’s uneasiness about allowing the old man to travel with the column will at first be shared in the ranks. Yet by showing, from the outset, that Anselm travels at his invitation, Arnem knows that he can counteract this. Indeed, if all goes well as the sentek hopes, Anselm may soon be perceived as just the bringer of good fortune in the field that he has mentioned. For soldiers are a superstitious lot, and a wise commander makes that instinct work for rather than against him—