And again this evening, with the younger children upstairs struck silent by Nuen’s tales of marauder ferocity, Dagobert hears this phrase through the flooring of the hall; this, and one more, one that, although voiced in his own Broken tongue and clearly not the name of any entity, contains some secret that makes it every bit as strange as the other:
“Tell me, great Allsveter,” the Lady Arnem seems to plead, as cool, dank air brings her words through the cracks in the floor to her son’s ears, “what can all this mean? Why are such great spirits consumed by fever, which is precisely the element over which they have mastery, even as they dwell in and near cooling water? What unnatural forces create so terrible an illness, which the runes†† say portend great danger to this city? What sense can there be to so strange a riddle: how shall water and fire conquer stone?”
Dagobert lifts his head, utterly confused; but before he has time to puzzle with his mother’s last words, the sudden sounds of final preparation — vials and bottles being capped and replaced in their shelves — carry up from below; and, at the first step of his mother’s feet upon the stone stairs that are carved into one wall of the cellar, the youth is up, has taken hold of the pot of stew that Nuen has left steaming on the floor, and is out the door of the house, calming his nerves and pacing upon the terrace in what he hopes is a confidently expectant manner.
His mother soon approaches him, and, with her black box of medicinal supplies snug beneath one arm, she passes by the youth without a word, her moments of preparation in the cellar seeming to have reconciled her little if at all to her son’s secret arrangement with his father. Dagobert follows uneasily, as Isadora leads the way quickly back to the door in the garden’s southern wall, which she pulls open in a swift motion, further revealing the strength that she possesses at moments of anger and peril. Darkness has fallen entirely, and, with the Moon as yet unrisen, all light on the Path of Shame is supplied by torches fueled by whatever the drunken residents can scavenge or steal. The sounds of mindless laughter have become noisier and more numerous, by now, as well as more insistent, forcing those engaged in equally senseless arguments to shout their meaningless indictments and insults at each other.
Close by the doorway to the Arnems’ garden, the family’s modest litter† has been made ready. Its light wooden frame and simple bank of cushioned seats are draped with heavy wool, despite the unseasonable warmth of the air, which would usually call for cotton. Such coverings provide plain, effective privacy for passengers within, and the frame offers comfort without luxury, being light enough, with one or two occupants, to be carried by two strong men lifting thick, twelve-foot bearing poles that slip under brackets on each side of the conveyance. In the Arnems’ case, this bearing is done by two enormous, black-bearded men, each of whom wears light, weathered armor — predominantly leather, but reinforced, at vital points, with simple steel plates — and both of whom give the constant impression of filth, despite the fact that they bathe regularly.
“Good evening, my lady,” calls the giant at the front of the litter, Bohemer, in a respectfully jovial manner; then he nods at the youth, who has never looked more like the champion of his clan. “Master Dagobert,” he adds, with a smile scarcely visible through his thick beard.
“Lady Arnem,” adds the somewhat less powerful man to the rear, Jerej, speaking through a slightly thinner mat of hair; then he, like his tribesman, offers a knowing grin to Dagobert, which the youth returns with a proud smile of his own — for to be admitted as a fellow by these two is an honor, indeed.
None of which alters the fact that such acknowledgments are, at the moment, unwise: the already displeased Isadora quickly and rightly suspects the men have been given advance warning by her husband and son of their plans for Dagobert’s participation in such nighttime adventures, and her temper snaps. She glares angrily at each in turn, fairly striking them with words: “Silence—all of you!” Isadora knows that Bohemer and Jerej are as ferociously loyal to the Arnem family as is the good Nuen; but she also knows that they, like her husband, no doubt took satisfaction from the notion of bringing Dagobert fully into the ranks of men with this plan. And while she is grateful that they will be present to support her son as the little group descends into the dangerous streets surrounding Berthe’s home, she has no intention of revealing as much. Instead, she shakes her head with strained self-possession, and helps Berthe into the litter, taking her own seat as quickly as possible. “All right, then,” Isadora proclaims from within the litter. “You know our destination — proceed!”
“Aye, Lady Arnem!” Jerej replies, as he and Bohemer lift the litter in one well-practiced motion that scarcely jostles the women.
“Master Dagobert—?” Bohemer asks quietly; though not so quietly that Dagobert does not take more pride and confidence from the increased camaraderie. “Perhaps you will lead us, to the left and just ahead?”
Dagobert nods with still more enthusiasm, keeping his marauder sword unsheathed just enough to expose its guard, so that it can be quickly brought to bear. His eyes search the crowds ahead intently, as though he were a soldier of great experience, able to distinguish the first sign of threat. Soon the party is moving southwest along the Path of Shame, not as wealthy intruders, but as persons of consequence who are of as well as in the district: persons whose business must, in short, be respected.
“I will say, young master,” Bohemer tells Dagobert, still confidentially, “that I’m pleased you’ve paid close attention to the lessons your father has given you — because I’d stake a Moon’s wages that we’ll need your sword arm, before this business is done. If not in the poorest part of the city”—Dagobert turns, to find Bohemer speaking with far more genuine intent—“then in the wealthiest …”
1:{xvii:}
An unnoticed departure, a daunting purpose …
Afternoons in Okot have never been known for their brightness, given the near-impenetrability of the forest ceiling, even where small clearings have been made for huts. In part, this is because of Davon Wood’s remarkable power to reassert itself; but just as much, it is by design of the Bane themselves. Any significant break in the Wood’s vast expanse of treetops would be visible from the walls of Broken, and so care is usually taken to ensure that the sunniest of middays elsewhere is no more dazzling than a moderate twilight in the forest. But there has never been an afternoon quite so dark as this one. It has passed with more deaths, more pyres, and the burning of more huts, all of which have created a cloud of hot, heavy smoke blotting out the sun: the plague still shows no sign of relenting.
The Bane healers have assured the Groba that by morning this will change; and, as if determined to make good on their hopeful prediction, they continue, at twilight, to toil without pause in the Lenthess-steyn, as fearlessly as they have done from the start. And yet, by the time the sun begins to touch the western mountains, the only apparent effect of all this determination is that the plague claims still more of these martyrs to knowledge and compassion. Their passing seems to go scarcely noted by their colleagues, who labor on in the most secluded chambers of the honeycomb-like caves, cutting the dead to pieces, trying to uncover some clue as to the origin of the disease’s horrific symptoms. They have devised, by now, several mixtures of the herbs that they grow in their gardens with extracts from various poisonous flowers brought back by the foraging parties, and each concoction serves to ameliorate some one from among the several torturous effects of the disease: the sores, the racking cough, the fever, swelling, and pain. But there is still little hope of preventing death itself. The pestilence remains a mystery, wholly unlike anything that the healers have ever treated with their potions and poultices; and with the healers’ frustration comes renewed conviction on the part of the Groba and the Bane tribe generally that the plague is the result of sorcery. In the face of this conclusion, still more of those struck by the disease ignore the healers and the Lenthess-steyn altogether and, while they still have the strength to walk, choose to end their lives as did the family that Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah observed earlier: by wandering through the forest (ever observed by parties of Outragers), praying that distancing themselves from stricken Okot may bring salvation, and, upon finding that it does not, submitting themselves to the comparatively swift end of the Cat’s Paw.