The Broken Man Page 13

  Unlike the Lower City, the Upper city was made of mostly permanent buildings, high quality inns and restaurants and shops of all sorts. The Upper City felt more or less like the wealthy portion of any of the Passbound Cities. The Lower City was something else entirely. The Lower City sat right on the floodplain and had to be remade at the beginning of every new season. Every year workers and vendors of all types would pour into the Lower City, setting up rickety shops and temporary stalls, and the empty, open plain immediately surrounding the Upper City would become an impossible maze of ever-shifting commerce.

  In the next six weeks, Vale—or Josen, she supposed—would become an employer to somewhere between eighty and ninety thousand field workers, depending on the result of today’s meeting with Reverate Fairhill, and that didn’t take into account the small army various repair teams and other hangers on that would flood the Basin to take advantage of the field workers’ every need and whim—from coopers to brewers, physicians to tanners.

  But for the time being, it was empty. Across the vast, nearly flat basin, Vale watched as the Alegora Mountains—more worn looking than the ones surrounding Ceralon—were slowly enveloped by a bank of deep grey storm clouds, one of the last storm systems that would bring rain to the Basin and the mountains beyond before the dry season began.

  Vale’s attention was drawn away from her musings by a rider ahead of them, pacing his horse back and forth across the road. They were close enough to the estate house now that she could see it in the distance. Who would be on the road waiting for them?

  “What in hell’s bleeding hands?” Montiel said, wondering the same thing.

  “That looks like Ban’s horse,” Sam said, pulling up next to Vale and Montiel.

  And indeed it was. As soon as he saw them, Ban Barret—one of Montiel’s senior assistants—trotted his horse towards them, a dour look on his face.

  “What the starving hells, Barret?” Montiel barked before Barret could say anything. “What are you doing, worrying your horse around like that? You’ll wear the starving thing out before the season even starts. Aren’t you supposed to be down on the plain doing something useful?”

  “I’m sorry, Montiel. I … I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of Reverate Fairhill’s men delivered this to me,” Barret said, producing an envelope and handing it to Montiel with a wince. “He said that if Reverate Oak wasn’t willing to make time to meet with Reverate Fairhill, Fairhill couldn’t be bothered with meeting with, um… anyone else.”

  “Ah. That’s what he said?” Montiel asked as he scanned the letter.

  “More or less,” said Barret.

  Vale felt nauseous. “Wait,” she said. “How did Fairhill even know Josen wouldn’t be here today?”

  Barret shrugged. “Didn’t say. He just handed me the envelope and told me it had our arability numbers in it.”

  Vale swore.

  “God’s holy toes,” Montiel said. “That’s a kick in the balls. Barret, you read this?”

  Barret looked uncomfortable but nodded.

  “What?” Vale said, trying unsuccessfully to pull her horse up close enough beside his to read. “What does it say?”

  Montiel handed over the report, which Vale scanned quickly. There were dozens of numbers—various readings and measurements from each of the main outposts on the Oak estate—but Vale soon found the one she was looking for. Arable Land: 128,250 acres. She did some quick math in her head. That was roughly…

  “Eighty percent,” she said, a grin breaking out on her face. That was fantastic. “Montiel, can you believe it? Eighty percent!” That would mean hiring additional workers—her preseason hires wouldn’t be able to work all that land, but she could make it work...

  The Fieldmaster shook his head. “Look further down, Vale.”

  Confused, she did. There as a lengthy paragraph, explaining the findings of the surveyors, and then a shorter paragraph that began In conclusion… Vale skimmed to the bottom, reading aloud: “due to an expected unreliability of the Reverate Steward in question, and the subsequent susceptibility of his holdings to mismanagement, the suggested allotment of ceral seed allotment would allow for the planting of 68, 900 acres.”

  She stopped, stared at the number unable to comprehend what it was saying. “What does that mean? They suggest sixty-eight thousand acres? That’s nowhere near our arable land. Not even half!”

  Montiel nodded and spat. “Aye. It means someone smells blood.” He sighed hoarsely, rubbing at the back of his neck with a hand. “Between your Reverate father’s death and Josen’s sudden reappearance… Someone wants to take advantage.” Montiel pointed at the report in Vale’s hands. “They’ve cut us off at the knees.”

  “Bleeding hells,” Vale said.

  “And sagging buffalo tits,” agreed Montiel.

  “What do we do?”

  The Fieldmaster shrugged. “Ah. We’ll have to take a loss this season; nothing we can do about that. Do our best to have a quiet, successful, uncomplicated season. Give the Church as little reason as possible to think we aren’t up to task. And keep a close eye out for trouble.”

  “Trouble? Like what?”

  “Ah. I have no idea. But whoever it is has their eye on our estate, they won’t stop at arranging this insulting allotment. They’ll be wanting to make us look as incompetent as possible.” Montiel spat again and looked back toward the Basin Pass. “What did you say Josen was doing today?”

  Chapter 15

  “So, this is your idea of laying low?” Tori asked as they rolled out the Ludon side of the pass. The three of them—Josen, Akelle, and Tori—were riding comfortable toward the opposite side of Ludon where the Finger was situated on the coast of the Avarelle Ocean.

  “I’m sorry,” Josen said, “what exactly did you have in mind? I didn’t realize we had a long list of options to choose from.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Tori said. “This is working out great for me and Akelle so far. This is the most comfortable mortal peril I’ve ever been in, but how does becoming Reverate help us keep a low profile?”

  “I don’t know,” Josen said. “Going back home seemed like the safest option.”

  “Sure,” Tori said, “and we appreciate that. But was taking the Reveratecy a good idea?”

  “What else was I supposed to do? We could have slipped out the window in the middle of the night. But then what? We’re back to running for our lives with nowhere to go.” Josen sighed and rubbed his temples.

  “I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation,” Akelle said, giving the pair of them a disbelieving look. “This is the best thing to ever happen to us! If it wouldn’t be completely counterproductive, I would kill Josen for not bringing me back home with him years ago. I mean really, why do we steal at all?”

  “The challenge,” Josen said at the same time Tori said, “To survive.”

  “Right,” Akelle said, pointing to both of them. “Except it’s only fun if you’re not constantly on the edge of starvation. Now we don’t ever have to worry about the sheer survival part ever again. Thieving doesn’t have to be about satisfying some crime boss or filling our stomachs or finding enough money to have a place to live. We can thieve when we feel like it, because we feel like it, and then go back home and sleep in giant feather beds at night because Josen has a butler and mountains of gold to take care of all the tedious stuff for us!”

  Josen and Tori both stared at Akelle, who had worked himself up more than a little bit as he spoke.

  “You just really like your bed,” Tori said after a moment.

  “I don’t ever want to sleep on anything else ever again,” Akelle said. “But seriously. Give it some thought. A thief with the resources and freedoms of a Reverate? There’s a lot of advantages in that.”

  Josen opened his mouth to tell Akelle that being a Reverate came with a wagon full of disadvantages as well, when their carriage slowed, then came to a stop. He thrust his
head out the open window.

  “What’s happening, Lyona?” he called to the driver.

  “Cart overturned ahead,” she said. “About thirty, forty yards up. Looks like it will be a bit before they get it cleared.”

  Josen swore and started gathering up his things. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  “Can’t we back up and go a different way?” Akelle asked.

  “We’re boxed in. The carriage isn’t going anywhere,” said Josen. “Not for a while, at least.” He stepped out and gave instructions to Lyona to catch up when she could.

  “Is this a good idea?” Akelle asked as he and Tori fell in beside Josen. “I seem to remember fleeing this city with some haste yesterday.”

  “The Finger is less than half an hour’s walk from here,” Josen said over his shoulder. “We’ll be fine.” Tori and Akelle followed close behind as they picked their way through the streets of Ludon. The crowds were heavier than normal for mid-afternoon, but Josen and Tori methodically made their way toward the coast and The Finger, Ludon’s prison-by-the-sea. “We walk in, get a feel for the situation, and hopefully convince the good ladies of the Archon that Saul doesn’t really belong in their jail.” Josen patted his jacket and the purse secured inside jingled with the sound of heavy coin. “Apply silver liberally to, um… lubricate the process. Repeat as needed.”

  Tori rolled her eyes. “You,” she said, giving him a less than gentle shove from behind, “are going to get us arrested for… something.” Her eyes darted around in sudden suspicion. “Or mugged,” she said.

  “Or both,” Akelle suggested.

  “Not funny,” Tori said, now looking pointedly forward. “We have a tail. About ten strides straight behind, not bothering to be clever about it.”

  Josen stopped and turned, pretending to look for something he dropped. A figure wearing a dark gray cloak, hood up to conceal her face despite the warm morning. Josen felt annoyed amusement as the figure tried, in vain, to pretend not to watch the three of them.

  “He’s marking us for someone else. It’s the only reason he would be that careless,” Tori said, her eyes flashing from building to alley to building, looking for the other half of the team. Akelle glanced around nervously as well.

  “Nothing so complicated,” Josen said, turning back around and continued working his way through the crowd. “Come on. I’d like to be having dinner with Saul in an hour.”

  “What about our tail?”

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  Tori stopped and gave him a pointed look. “In the last twenty-four hours we have had one friend killed and another arrested—”

  “It’s a stretch to call Shep a friend,” Josen muttered, but Tori continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

  “We’ve been chased by Archonites, Protectors, and ambushed an unknown someone who is either stupid or strong enough to keep a redhand on retainer.”

  “Or both,” Akelle said.

  “Don’t you think any of that merits a little bit of caution on our part?”

  “It’s my little sister,” Josen said. “Claret. Not the Archon, not the Church, and not some kind of secret underground redhand mafia.”

  Tori looked relieved and annoyed at the same time. Akelle looked both relieved and… vaguely embarrassed.

  “God’s tears,” Tori said. “What is she thinking? She’s lucky we didn’t punch a hole in her neck just to be safe. Though I suppose it explains the cloak. Wool even, it looks like.” Nestled in the mountains, Ceralon’s spring was cool and crisp. Ludon, situated on the coast as it was, tended about twenty humid degrees warmer than Ceralon.

  “First of all, she’s seventeen, so she’s probably not thinking. Second, everything she knows about tailing comes from books. Third, I’m sure it’s wool. Poor, stupid kid,” Josen said endearingly.

  “Even you were never this bad,” said Akelle. “And you were pretty bad.” Akelle glanced back at Claret, not bothering to be discreet himself this time.

  “I had odd hobbies growing up.’” Josen slowed and looked around. Both the buildings and the people were thinning out as they got closer to the grassy rise leading to The Finger. Only a few people continued up the winding road. “Either way,” Josen continued, “we should put an end to this little game. She’s drawing attention, and she’s going to get herself into trouble. Akelle, sneak around back. We’ll give her a little scare.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Akelle said. They walked a few more steps forward before he disappeared from Josen’s side. He was slippery and quiet in a crowd—Josen might not have even noticed him leave if he hadn’t been watching for it. Josen tugged on Tori’s sleeve, and the two of them hunched and blended into the crowd, effectively disappearing from Claret’s view. They moved to a discreet vantage point where they could watch Akelle do his work, ready to swoop in and rescue his little sister when Akelle was done with her.

  Josen caught a glimpse of Akelle for the barest half of a second. Akelle snatched Claret’s purse with enough of a jostle to make her notice. Claret stumbled and turned, patting at her cloak, but by the time she realized what happened Akelle was gone, like a raindrop into a lake.

  “Impressive,” Tori whispered.

  Josen nodded. A quick analysis of the buildings along street told Josen where Akelle would pull Claret aside—an alley narrow enough to be dark even on a sunlit afternoon—and he and Tori moved toward it, unafraid of being spotted by his now rattled teenage sister. Sure enough, as Claret stumbled past the alley, still fumbling at her cloak as if her coins might have relocated themselves to her left armpit, Claret’s feet were kicked expertly out from underneath her, and she disappeared into the shadowed alleyway.

  Josen and Tori were only three breaths away, and they rounded the corner into the alley a few seconds later, Josen with a sly grin on his face. “Claret, you really shouldn’t—”

  Josen stopped cold at the sight of naked steel held tight across Claret’s throat. The shadows made it difficult to make out more than a few details—the large, hairy arm and pudgy fingers holding the knife; matching fingers latched onto Claret’s hair; the knife itself covered in black grime; the look of white terror on Claret’s exposed face. Shivers of fury shot through Josen’s chest, but he forced himself into a rational analysis of the situation.

  To Claret’s credit, she didn’t scream or cry for help. Only a few silent tears ran down her face—though her silence was more likely from shock than quick thinking. Josen was grateful either way. There were few better ways to get your throat cut than to call for the Archon with steel already at your throat.

  “Wrong alley, friend,” said the man with the filthy knife. His voice had the raw, wet sound of a sick man, and his hands shook. He licked his lips and blinked deliberately.

  Tori snarled wordlessly, but Josen held her back, his own hand trembling with anger held at bay by the thinnest of margins. His eyes never left the man with the knife.

  “I don’t have any money,” Claret said in soft, frightened voice. “I promise! Someone else already stole—” Her voice cut of as the man pulled the knife tighter and dragged her back a few steps.

  “Leave it, Claret,” Josen said. “He’d open you up for your boots.”

  “I said piss off!” the man said, desperate eyes full of madness flicking back and forth between Tori and Josen. His hands shifted and tightened on the knife.

  Josen’s eyes had adjusted enough to see that those hands were an angry, raw pink, like the inside of a person’s mouth. The hands of a rub addict. The man’s hands didn’t so much shake as they fidgeted—trembling, adjusting and readjusting. Josen couldn’t see it, but he knew they would be cracked and weeping as well. They probably felt like they were on fire.

  Josen caught a flicker of movement back behind the addict, and he opened his mouth to stall. “Be reasonable, friend,” he said. He reached into his own jacket, eliciting a hiss from the dirty man. “Easy,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “I’m pulling
out a purse. Coin.” The man looked confused.

  “Ain’t robbing you,” he said.

  “I know. This is even better. What if I pay you not to rob the girl either?” Josen bounced the purse noisily to give his hands something to do that wasn’t rash and violent. Understanding finally glowed dimly in the addict’s eyes.

  “Josen,” Tori whispered.

  “Toss it here,” he said, letting go of Claret’s hair to extend a raw, swollen hand.

  “Don’t. There’s nothing keeping her safe once you give him the money,” Tori said.

  Josen watched the darkness without taking his eyes off the man holding Claret—holding his little sister. The burning compulsion to rush blindly forward rising and swelling in his chest.

  “The whole thing?” Josen asked instead, pretending surprise. “Surely she’s not worth that much to you.”

  “She’s not worth nothing to me. Give it now, or I cut her.”

  Josen watched the man wordlessly for just a moment longer, as long as he dared.

  “Now!” the addict screamed.

  He gave Claret a meaningful look, silently begging her to trust him. He shrugged and tossed the purse in a high arc toward the greasy man, praying that he had bought enough time.

  The addict released Claret and threw up both of his raw, fidgety hands to catch the purse. Akelle flashed from the darkness like a falcon’s shadow and kicked hard at the back of the man’s legs, forcing him to his knees. Josen caught Claret as she stumbled away and fell. Josen’s heavy purse hit the alley floor at the same time Akelle pressed his own knife to the man’s exposed throat, fingers laced through the man’s grimy hair just as he had held Claret moments before. Akelle’s knife was a bright silver in sharp contrast to the addict’s grimy one. Akelle pressed hard enough to produce a bright line of scarlet at the knife’s edge.

  Claret gasped and clutched at Josen. Whatever had been keeping her hysteria at bay moments before vanished, and loud, gasping sobs wracked her body.