The Broken Man Page 16

  A part of him even felt sorry for the boy. He was nothing but a product of his upbringing, exactly what society raised him to be. He was no worse than many of his clerical colleagues; only younger and inexperienced at hiding his entitled arrogance. But that wouldn’t save the boy. He was a tool, only useful as long as Berden controlled him.

  Berden blew out a long breath and massaged his hand. There was a certain irony in using something corrupt as a cleansing agent—an irony Berden did not especially appreciate. It wouldn’t keep him from using Josen, though, or anyone else who proved useful.

  Berden glanced at a painting of the Faceless God. God stood with arms outstretched, proffering food to a people dying of hunger. Some turned away, as if blinded by the light radiating from God, while others seemed drawn to it. As with all depictions of God, the face was featureless, but Berden always imagined a look of sorrow there—sorrow because in order to save some, He must necessarily destroy others. The sorrow of knowledge and responsibility. Berden knew that sorrow.

  Berden glanced up as Vandi let herself into the room. She took a seat facing Berden, eyeing the mess as she did. “Looks like I missed all the fun,” she said, giving Berden a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. Her Jurdish accent was ever so slightly exotic. Berden enjoyed the sound of her voice. It was one of the reasons he had hired her.

  “How did they look?” Berden asked.

  Vandi answered without hesitation. “The woman, Vale, she looked as if she had sat in the mouth of a water-dragon and was relieved she hadn’t been eaten.” This was the other reason Berden hired her—the far more important reason. Vandi’s large brown eyes weren’t just captivating, they were sharp and observant. She could read people as well as anyone Berden had ever met and was pretty enough that people didn’t mind being observed by her. She was an invaluable tool. “The other one, the pretty one,” she smirked, ignoring Berden’s disapproving frown, “he looked for all the world like he slayed the water-dragon with nothing but his charming smile.” She grinned and sighed in a way that seemed somehow predatory.

  “Perfect,” Berden said. Epalli’s information was solid—make Josen feel like he’s being clever, and you can lead him by the nose. Berden relaxed a bit more. He had a long way to go before his work was done, but it was a relief to be well and truly underway.

  “Did you give them what they wanted, then?” Vandi asked.

  “What they wanted?” Berden mused, a little smile playing across his lips. “No.”

  “Then what made the cute one so happy?” she asked.

  “The ‘cute one’ is Reverate Josen Oak, and you’ll keep your hands to yourself around him,” Berden said. He tried to sound stern but couldn’t manage it. He was feeling too good to be truly annoyed. “I’m not giving them what they want. I’m giving them what they asked for.”

  Chapter 18

  Josen could hear the rain slapping at his bedroom window as he opened the door, glad he had made it all the way home before the clouds had decided to empty themselves on the mountain valley. He removed his jacket and threw it onto the bed, freezing mid motion. Tori stood one leg out his window, eyes locked on him, a look of amused annoyance on her face. Josen swore softly as his heart began beating again, fiercely against his chest.

  “God’s tears, Tori, what are you doing?”

  “I sat in my room waiting for almost three hours for you to come find me, and the moment I decide I can’t wait any longer, you show up,” Tori said, shaking her head as she climbed back in the window and shut it behind her.

  Josen pulled a green tinged bottle from a wall mounted liquor cabinet—a new addition to his room—and poured two fingers worth in the bottom of a pair of glasses before sitting on the edge of his bed. Tori accepted the glass and settled into the overstuffed chair next to Josen’s bed.

  “You’re leaving?” Josen asked

  “I have to.”

  Josen nodded.

  “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”

  “You were just going to leave? In the middle of the night, with nothing but a note on my desk to say why?”

  Tori laughed. “Josen, I can barely write my name. All the note says is, ‘I left. You know where to find me.’ Even that much took me five minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because not everyone had their own personal tutor growing up. Don’t give me that look, rich boy,” she said to Josen’s glare. “You know why. How long do you expect me to stay here? I don’t know what to do with any of this. That’s not your fault, but I’m a thief, not a socialite.”

  Josen shook his head. He hadn’t even begun to think about any of that.

  “What about whoever, whatever, is after us?” Josen didn’t even know how to describe it—the threat, whatever it was chasing them—let alone give it a name or face.

  Tori didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I don’t think they were ever after us,” she said finally. “Not really. No one ever did anything to directly harm us. They spooked us when they could have easily killed us. I think… I think it was all a ruse to get Saul out in the open. To kill him.”

  “You don’t think he jumped, do you?”

  Tori shook her head. “Not even two days in the Vaults? It wouldn’t take much to fake a death that way. One little shove, and Saul becomes just one of the thousands who didn’t make the leap. No one suspects a thing.”

  “Except you. Hardly effective.”

  “I don’t think they expected us to find out so soon. If that day had gone just a little different, we could have ended up in Sefti, waiting for weeks before we realized Saul wasn’t coming.”

  “Aboran?” Josen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tori said with a sigh and a shrug. “Probably. I have to find out. I have to know.”

  “I can’t come with you,” Josen said softly, not looking her in the eye.

  “I know,” she said. “Thus, the note. And the window. I really do prefer doors.”

  “I’ve made a mess of things here,” he said. “And disappearing now would only make it worse. Someone is pushing my family, waiting to see if we’ll crumble. I don’t think they would stay standing for long if I left.”

  “What was your plan, then? When you brought us here in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t have time to sit down and hammer out a plan. This was the only place I knew we would be safe. We were out of options, and this was my last resort.”

  “Last resort?” Tori asked. “Josen, do you have any idea what you have here? Look around you. Do you know what every street urchin, roof crawler, and street thug in Ludon have in common? They don’t have a choice. No one does it for fun. Some learn to enjoy it, but it’s not the same. They don’t have family who cares. They don’t have money for food or a dry place to sleep unless they pick pockets or break bones or whatever else they get payed to do. They do it because they are desperate.

  “You are the only thief I’ve met not driven by desperation. It makes you different. I didn’t understand it for a long time. I get it now. You always had a fallback plan—a soft bed, a family to come home to. The only things you could lose were cheap to you anyway. Replaceable.”

  “That’s not fair,” Josen said. “This,” he gestured broadly, “is nothing but money and stuff. I ran away because none of that made sense to me. I still don’t get it. I ran away because I wanted something simple. Take what I need to live. Find someone to trust, someone who cares about me because of who I am, not because of my Father’s name. Make a name for myself. Make people respect me.”

  “You became a thief so people would respect you?” Tori asked. “Do you hear yourself?”

  Josen shook his head—not because he didn’t understand the irony, but because he didn’t know how to make Tori understand. She never knew Grandpa Markise, never felt the glowing joy that came from his approval, the sense of belonging. She couldn’t understand the warm feeling of his hand on her shoulder, the soft, whispered I’m proud of you Josen only ever
heard from his grandfather. She never heard Grandpa Markise when he talked about his respect for Dania’s brilliance, for Shade’s courage, for Thorne’s absolute dedication. Isn’t it odd? Grandpa Markise had often mused. Odd that the most honorable people I have ever had the privilege of knowing were the most notorious thieves of our age? What does that say about the rest of us?

  “Yes,” Josen said finally. “I hear myself.”

  Tori didn’t reply. The two of them sat in silence for a long while, enjoying the cool burn of the liquor and the steady rhythm of rain on glass.

  “I’ll miss you,” Josen said, breaking the silence.

  “I know,” Tori said. “You know where to find me,” she said. “Come see me some time.” Tori placed a quick kiss on his cheek and left without another word.

  Josen stood up long enough to pour himself another glass, then slumped into the chair Tori had just vacated, head resting on a hand.

  What was he doing? Even having already made the decision to stay, he felt pulled in opposite directions. The desire to run away in a mad quest to avenge Saul, to fire back at their phantom tormentor, was beyond tempting.

  But he had also made a mess for his family—first by leaving, and again by coming back. He couldn’t leave them to fall apart if staying gave him a chance to hold them together.

  He was surprised to realize how much he really had missed Vale and Claret and Mother, how much Father’s death hurt. They were Josen’s responsibility now. He didn’t want to see them hurt, not if it was in his power to protect them. For all that they didn’t—couldn’t—understand him, Josen’s family loved him, and he them.

  But that did little to assuage to the feeling that he was betraying Saul’s memory.

  “Oh, good,” Akelle said as he opened Josen’s door and walked in without knocking. “You’re still awake. I need a favor.”

  Josen stared at Akelle flatly, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “If Claret ever asks about when you and I met, I saved your life.”

  “You what?”

  “I saved your life. From a not unsizable gang of murderous-looking ruffians.”

  “Wait,” Josen said, trying to catch up with his young friend. “Was I there for this?”

  “Just go with it. I practically did anyway.”

  “You followed me out to the fields hoping to see Dariki drown me in the rice paddies.”

  “And to take your boots after Dariki killed you.”

  “That doesn’t help your cause. Why would I tell my sister that?”

  “That may be more or less the story I told her when she asked me how I knew you.”

  “You told her you saved my life.”

  “Uh… Yes. What was I supposed to tell her?”

  “‘The truth’ springs to mind.”

  Akelle gave Josen a flat stare.

  “Okay, not the truth truth, but at least something closer to the truth. There’s a lot of open space between what happened and whatever complete nonsense you apparently made up.”

  “Maybe,” Akelle said, not listening anymore. He was idly wandering the room, poking at Josen’s things. “Either way, I’d really appreciate it if you… What’s this? ‘I left; you know where to find me.’” Akelle turned back to Josen, holding up Tori’s note accusatorily. “Where are you going? And why—”

  “I’m not going anywhere. That’s Tori’s note.”

  “She left?”

  Josen nodded.

  “Where? Why?”

  So Josen explained. Akelle moved his fidgeting to the bed as Josen recounted the conversation, her theory about Saul’s death, and her decision to return to Ludon.

  “So, we’re staying?” Akelle asked when Josen finished.

  “More or less. We’ll move to the Basin soon for the ceral season, but I’m stuck until I can find an exit strategy that doesn’t include letting my family’s legacy burn down around me. I think we’re stuck playing by the rules for a while.”

  “Why?”

  The simple question took Josen aback. He tilted his head and stared at Akelle, who just smiled back at him, a mixture of mischief and pure glee lighting up his face.

  “Because… I don’t know,” Josen said slowly. “I’m a Reverate now. I’m stuck in a glass room where everyone can see me.”

  “We can’t do the Josen style, make it up as we go, and hope everything works out kind of rule breaking. Flailing like that in your glass house will just get you cut up.”

  “Glass room.”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” Akelle said, adjusting himself on the bed. “No flailing. But if we’re careful, well, they keep diamonds in glass cases.”

  “I feel like we’re mixing metaphors,” Josen said. “And who is they?”

  “I feel like you’re getting hung up on details. Ultimately, this trouble with your family comes down to money, doesn’t it?”

  “More or less.”

  “So, let’s add some extra income. Let me put together a couple of jobs—two or three with a nice fat payoff. You want to help your family? This is the most direct way to do it. You can play nice Reverate while everyone is watching, and we’ll rob them blind the moment they turn their backs. What do you say?”

  Josen grinned.

  Interlude: Jamis, Alia, Vale

  Jamis

  “I’m here to see Grand,” Jamis said as confidently as he could manage. The guard looked him over suspiciously, and Jamis couldn’t blame him. He knew he must look a mess—clothes worn and filthy, his dark hair hanging loose in greasy clumps around his shoulders. After six weeks sleeping in an alley, he could no longer smell himself, but he could imagine.

  God’s tears, six weeks? Is that all? It felt like a lifetime. A pair of lifetimes. After Jamis had accidentally helped the false Deferate escape, ordering the detention of two very real Protectors in the process, Jamis was given a small bag of silver, a single Passage voucher, and an unceremonious dismissal from the Clergy. Thank you for your dedication and years of service, Jamis Carle. We would like to never see you again.

  With nowhere to stay—he had been living in housing set aside specifically for Clergy—and unable to face his family, Jamis used his voucher on Passage to Sefti, rented a cheap room in a cheap part of town, and gone looking for a job.

  As it turned out, six years of training in the Seminary failed to equip him with any useful skills outside the Clergy. There were no jobs to be had, at least not for an ex-member of the Clergy who preferred not to explain why he was no longer with the Clergy. Less than three weeks after arriving in Sefti, Jamis had to choose between eating and paying for his room.

  The rub dealer found him that first night, sleeping under a pile of trash in an alley. He practically gave the first bag away, and Jamis wanted nothing more than to forget. The feeling was like nothing he had ever imagined—the searing pain as the rub’s sharp edges ripped the skin from his hands, then bliss as his whole body went warm and soft and the world floated away, the smell like alcohol and cedar and midwinter frost. He stopped eating, then started stealing to buy more, but no high was ever as good or as cheap as that first bag.

  “Downstairs,” the guard said, bringing Jamis back to reality. He had apparently decided Jamis didn’t look like too much of a threat.

  Jamis made his way down the stairs and opened the door to a small, mostly bare room, with only a table and two chairs for furnishing. Two men sat in those chairs, seated across from each other, and there was no question which was Grand.

  The first thing Jamis noticed about Grand was how clean he looked: hair combed carefully back, jacket pressed and laundered, not even a hint of dirt under his fingernails. Jamis hung his head in shame as he extended the coins in a shaking hand toward the man named Grand. He stared through the dark, lank hair hanging between him and Grand, acutely aware of his own filth. He worried at his lower lip, then stopped when he noticed what he was doing.

  He forced himself to take slow, measured breaths. This would work. He had checked the coins from a
dozen angles. They looked right to him.

  It would work. It would work. It had to work.

  “I want you to think,” Grand said without looking up, “for a moment about what you really want.” His eyes were locked the man across from him, eyes so dark that Jamis could barely tell where iris and pupil met.

  “Rub,” Jamis said immediately.

  “I said think, not vomit the first thing that comes to mind.”

  “I, uh—”

  “Think.”

  What did he want? It was a good question. Beyond this immediate moment, he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

  No, that was a lie. He wanted to kill a man, the man who had pretended to be a Deferate, who got Jamis expelled from the Clergy. He had thought the man was in trouble, was trying to help.

  Jamis would kill him. That was a promise.

  But that was a goal so completely beyond his current reach he could barely manage to catch a glimpse of it in the few moments he managed to stumble into lucidity—the mostly involuntary moments between his rub binges. He had no idea who the man was, where he was, or how to go about killing him if Jamis ever found him.

  Jamis hated him. He hated him with every fiber of his being. He would find him, and he would destroy him. He swore it. But he needed to get a hold of himself first. He would be more careful with the rub this time. He wouldn’t use it all in one sitting this time, wouldn’t use it all to forget the embarrassment, the shame. He would make it last, work himself off it. He just needed a little more, so he could start quitting.

  Grand played a card calmly, added another to his hand. But he didn’t say anything more. Jamis’s glanced at Grand’s beady eyed opponent, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide a smug grin at Grand’s card choice.

  Jamis tried to be patient. He really did. It was one of the virtues his teachers at the Seminary worked incessantly to instill in all the Acolytes. Jamis had been a patient man, once. But his arm was beginning to tremble, and Jamis couldn’t stop it. The effects of his last bit of rub were fading quickly.