The Broken Man Read online

  “Fifty?”

  Josen nodded.

  Akelle swore under his breath. “What’s in the box?”

  “And God did see and did sorrow at the hunger of his people.”

  “He’s wearing it,” Josen said, nodding toward Deferate Parose. “We’re stealing his robe.”

  “With compassion in his hands, God opened the heart of the mountain and placed a door therein. ‘By this shalt thou feed my people.’ And again, with mercy in his hands he opened the mountainside and placed many doors therein. ‘By my word shalt thou feed all the world.’

  “What? Why?” Akelle asked.

  “I don’t know. Because Saul said that’s what the job is.”

  “But why would anyone want to steal a Deferate’s robe?”

  “And through the doors Josithane did see all the world, and he did marvel exceedingly.”

  Josen shrugged. “Because they’re paying us lots of money.”

  “No, moron. Why have us steal it? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just make one?”

  “They can’t be faked.”

  “This, my children,” continued the Reverate, “is the mission of the Church, to feed all the world. But not just with God’s gift of ceral, but with the gift of his words. ‘By my word shalt thou feed all the world.’”

  “Why can’t it be faked?”

  “I don’t know,” Josen said. “That’s just what they say. What’s with all the questions?”

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It doesn’t need to. We just need to do it.”

  “Fine,” Akelle conceded.

  “So...?” Josen said, prompting.

  “So what?”

  “So get to scheming, little mastermind,” Josen said.

  “Just the robe?” Akelle asked, looking thoughtful. Josen nodded. “Tell me about Deferate Parose.”

  * * *

  “His wife is quite the art enthusiast,” Josen explained between bites of velvini. “Particularly drawn to the late Ante-Aluvarin painters, and the immediate pre-modern—”

  “What’s your point?” Tori asked. Josen would have thought that coming up with a solid plan in advance would make her happy, but she had been irritated since the moment she sat down.

  Josen frowned and took another bite of his velvini. The dish, native to Pomay, was one of Josen’s favorites, and Horman’s was one of the only places in Ludon that served it right—with rice noodles instead of ceral. It wasn’t cheap—Pass tariffs were prohibitively high on any grain besides ceral—but velvini just wasn’t the same without rice noodles.

  Tori, however, didn’t seem to agree. She picked at the velvini, took a bite and grimaced. “I have no idea how you eat this stuff,” she said. Like most people, she was far more used to the thick, course texture of ceral. “It’s all slimy.”

  “I like it,” he said with a shrug. “Besides—”

  “I know, I know. You’re too good for ceral like the rest of us common folk.”

  Josen shook his head. He wasn’t averse to ceral—it had its own particular importance in Josen’s diet—but he had to fill most of his diet with other types of foods. On a diet of mostly ceral-based foods—the diet of more than half of the people in the Passbound cities—Josen would literally starve to death. His body refused to process ceral as food.

  “The point,” Josen said, attempting to reroute the conversation, “is that we know Lady Parose is feeling rather put out that she wasn’t invited to the private viewing of the Yllamis exhibit in Sefti night after next.”

  “How do you know?”

  “By listening. You’ve been watching the house for the past week too. You’ve noticed how anxious she gets when post is delivered, how irritable she gets after.”

  Tori pursed her lips. “But that’s just it. It’s been one week. We’ve done a week’s worth of surveillance, and we still aren’t sure if Parose has more than the one house-guard. We don’t know if the Reverate’s midnight trips down to the kitchen are habitual, or just the result of stress this particular week. We don’t—”

  “You’re right,” Josen said. “But I can guarantee us an empty house two nights from now. That’s our window. Besides, since when do we ever go into a job knowing everything?”

  Tori pursed her lips but didn’t answer.

  “Right,” Josen said. “We always have to make things up as we go—adapt as we work. It’s not just what we do, it’s what we do best. Better than anyone else. I’m sure that’s why Saul was comfortable handing this off to us at all.”

  “I still say something is up,” she said. Her gaze was hard, her eyes unyielding.

  “Noted. But I think the simplicity is the beauty of it. We have all the information we need. We know we can get Deferate and Lady Parose out of the house in an informal situation—meaning the Deferate will leave his robe behind.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Almost positive.”

  “Josen, that’s not—”

  “Look, we’re a forged invitation shy of pulling our most important job yet.” Josen produced an official looking invitation—a perfect copy of one Akelle had intercepted three days earlier—and slid it toward Tori. “Are you going to walk away from this because it looks too easy?”

  Tori looked from the piece of paper to Josen and back, shaking her head slowly. “Josen, you’re impossible. You know that, right?”

  Josen grinned, and Tori’s serious demeanor softened.

  She picked up the invitation and examined it closely. “These are good,” she admitted grudgingly. “Tomorrow night?”

  Josen grinned. “I knew you’d come around.”

  Chapter 5

  Josen stood at the edge of the alley, looking out at the moonlit street where Deferate Parose’s house stood. “Akelle?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Did you bring any food?” Josen looked down at his young friend, chagrined.

  “Ceral?” Akelle asked, then swore under his breath when Josen nodded. “Really?” he asked, pulling out a small packet of ceral crackers. “Aren’t you supposed to eat this stuff, like, a couple hours before?”

  “Been busy,” Josen said, stuffing the crackers into his mouth. It was true, if not a good excuse. He and Tori had spent the day watching the Parose house and their neighbors, looking for any last details that might prove important to the night’s work. The only active thing he had done that day was teasing the keys off of Parose’s assistant butler—simple pickpocketing.

  “You’re going to end up with a fantastic headache. You know that, right?”

  “If everything goes to plan, I won’t have to break anything,” Josen said, taking a quick swig of the water Akelle handed him.

  Akelle gave him a flat look.

  “Right, I know,” Josen said. “Nothing ever goes perfectly to plan.”

  “That too,” Akelle said. “But the dirty look is for eating all my crackers.”

  Josen looked down at the empty paper in his hands, realizing he had eaten all of them, then shrugged.

  “Get out of here,” Akelle said, giving him a half-playful shove. “And don’t come back without that starving robe. Don’t get caught.”

  Josen winked. “Never.” He donned his hat—a fashionable, simple walking hat—and crossed the street casually, as someone who had no intention of doing anything even remotely illegal might. He barely heard Akelle climb up the side of the building where they had been hiding, working his way up to the balcony overlooking the street. The house was owned by an elderly couple, both hard of hearing, both heavy sleepers. On a street corner as it was, the balcony provided an excellent vantage for a lookout.

  Tori appeared beside Josen a moment later, emerging expertly from the shadows on the other side of the street. She took his arm and they walked together as if they were just arriving home from a late social visit.

  “Why, hello my lady,” Josen said. “Pleasant night, yes?”

  “Stuff it,” Tori said, tugging at the dress she wore as pa
rt of her disguise for the night. “Is this necessary?” she asked, indicating the dress.

  “Yes.”

  Tori pursed her lips and grunted softly. Josen had already explained to her—multiple times—the necessity of the dress. She understood, agreed even, but apparently felt the need to voice her protest one last time. “I just … I don’t like it.”

  “I know. You brought watchers?”

  “Hale and Winder, same as always. They’re on the south side of the house. You?”

  “Akelle is watching from a balcony, a few houses northeast.”

  Tori let out a slow breath. “Okay. Good so far.”

  “Relax. This is the easiest job you’ll ever do.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  The Parose house was silent and dark. Empty—hopefully. Lady Parose had been so pleased at receiving her invite to the Yllamis exhibit that she had given the staff the evening off while she and the Deferate were in Sefti.

  The Parose house was small by some standards—particularly in Ceralon or Sefti—but was modestly large for Ludon. It was a tall two-story building with high ceilings and a rooftop garden perfect for entertaining in Ludon’s mild summers. Brick the color of wet rust covered the building.

  The front door unlocked with the second key Josen tried, swinging open on well-oiled hinges. Smiling, he dropped the keys behind the bushes that flanked the doorway and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Epalli lifted his lamp, surveying Josen’s apartment. It was a nice place, for what it was—a pair of rooms, a small sitting area and kitchen. It was simple and utilitarian for the most part. He could respect that. Epalli was a big man and liked his living spaces a little roomier than this, but Josen’s place felt good. It was almost a shame that Epalli was here to break it.

  “Well, would ya look at that,” one of the men said—the one with the long, hooked nose—as he stepped toward the mantle over the fireplace. Epalli didn’t remember his name. There were four of them: Hook Nose, Long Hair, the Short One, and the Other One. Redhands worked in teams like that—addicts and handlers in pairs.

  “That’s fancy,” Hook Nose said. He reached a hand, palm pink and glossy with scar tissue, and plucked a small, elaborately carved frame off the mantel, a rough oil painting of a single delicate flower set inside. The scarred hands marked him as one of the rub users—an addict with just enough control to make conscious use of breaking that was an effect of the drug.

  “The painting is worthless,” Epalli said, moving closer to Hook Nose to get a better look at the other items arranged on the mantel—an Oberine painted porcelain kettle, several small paintings like the one the man held, a small crystal statuette that Epalli didn’t recognize specifically, and more. Josen seemed to have a good eye for expensive art. “The frame, however, is worth at least six hundred lite gold. Maybe seven and a half or eight, with the right buyer.”

  Hook Nose dropped the frame as if it had burned him. Epalli’s hand lashed out faster than his bulk suggested, catching the frame before it hit the floor.

  “Careful, Ames!” the Other One said. Ames. So that was his name. “We could sell that…”

  He trailed off, staring openmouthed at Epalli, who had taken the frame both hands and began twisting slowly. Epalli felt the wood creak and moan in his hands, watched it strain and bend, right to the breaking point. Then it snapped.

  “Blood famine,” the Short One said. “What… I mean, didn’t you just say—”

  “Get to work,” Epalli said. “Take it apart. All of it. Aboran was clear. We need to be ready to start as soon as we get word.”

  “But, what about this stuff?” hook nosed Ames asked, gesturing to the items on the mantel. “I mean, can’t we keep one? You know, for some extra coin?”

  “No.”

  A quiet tension filled the room, the men glancing at each other, at Epalli, at the items on the mantel, even their dim, rub addled minds able to grasp the fact that just one those items was worth more than they would make from every job they would do the rest of their lives.

  Epalli sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Fathers’ gods, he really shouldn’t have told them how much the frame was worth. That kind of thing was memorable, and memorable things turned into stories shared over drinks or a game of copper toss too often.

  He would probably have to kill them.

  “Do what he says,” Long Hair said. He looked each of the other three hard in the eye. “Now.” All three nodded and began taking the room apart.

  Epalli stood back and watched as the four men carefully destroyed everything in the room. There was no smashing, no throwing, no violent or uncontrolled motions at all. It was an odd sight. They pulled, ripped, and twisted things until they no longer held together, then set them to the side, careful to keep all the pieces near each other. There was a hypnotic kind of beauty to the destruction, like the careful work of a surgeon’s hands. The deconstruction was methodical, deliberate, and discordant. Epalli watched Hook Nose—he had already forgotten the man’s name—place the crystal statuette on the floor and put his foot on it, wincing and grimacing as he applied his weight until he heard it begin to pop and crack.

  Eppalli sighed again. He would have to kill them. He didn’t mind the killing—that was just a matter of stopping the moving parts from moving—but the cleanup involved in properly disposing of bodies was tedious. He had hoped to just supervise tonight. Well, he couldn’t always have it the way he wanted. He had a long, thin dagger that would do the job nicely. Epalli had designed the dagger to slip easily between ribs or up under the sternum to find a person’s heart. Less blood that way. At least that was the idea.

  When most of the contents of the room were laying in well-ordered pieces—Long Hair and the Other One had removed the mantel from over the fireplace and were working with a hammer and wedge to split the heavy wood—the two addicts, Hook Nose and the Short One, broke off and approached Epalli.

  “We, um…” the Short One started. “That is, it is…” He blinked forcefully, almost violently, and scrubbed repeatedly at his nose with the back of his hand, though Epalli couldn’t see that it was running.

  Epalli watched him warily. He had been told that both men had themselves under control—as much as a rub addict could be, at least. They wouldn’t be any good to him otherwise. But this one…

  The Short One shook his head and tried to start again, but Hook Nose stepped forward with a sidelong look and cut him off.

  “We need it.” Hook Nose cleared his throat, and then again, but held Epalli’s gaze firmly, hand extended. “The rub. It takes a few moments to… to start working.”

  Epalli looked between the two men, as if considering. He had, of course, already made his decision. In fact, he had been ready to give the men the drugs five minutes ago. He was surprised they held out as long as they had, but it wouldn’t do to appear to give in too easily.

  “Fine,” he said, holding out a pair of small pouches, each with a precise lite eighth of rub inside. The addicts took them eagerly, almost reverently.

  As the furniture was no longer usable, the pair of them sat on the floor as they opened their pouches. Judging by the way the Short One dropped where he stood, he wouldn’t have bothered with a chair even had one been available. After laying out a blood spattered, crumpled piece of paper to catch the droppings, the man poured out a small handful of the light, brittle drug on his palm—two dozen or so bits almost like small, dried flower petals. They were delicate, Epalli knew, but delicate like thin shards of glass.

  The short one tightened his hand around the rub petals, and a small drop of blood gathering at the base of his palm as he worked his hand, massaging the drug inside. His eyes rolled back in his head as the drug went to work. He lifted his fist lifted to his nose in what looked like an almost involuntary reaction, inhaling the fumes released as petals broke apart. When the fumes were spent, he placed his hands over the crumpled paper and worked them together, rubbing them as if to warm them.
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br />   Epalli knew how it worked—at least in theory. He had never tried the vile stuff, despite the potential usefulness of the effects. Some men were better at controlling it than others, but rub always, inevitably, destroyed the men who used it. Always.

  He glanced at Hook Nose, who was leaned back against the wall, tears streaming down his face as he rubbed his hands together, working the addictive toxin into his bloodstream. His hands were a ragged mess of blood and crushed rub petals. He brought the mess up to his face and inhaled with a shudder, leaving a smudge of blood on either side of his chin. He poured more into his palm.

  Epalli looked away. The man had at least three more doses if he kept them all about the same size. Behind him, the short one began moaning. Epalli had no desire to watch any of it.

  About halfway through what sounded like the third dose, there was a gentle knock at the door. Epalli turned listened to the rhythm, discerning the message. It was time to start.

  “Time to begin,” Epalli said, turning back to the redhands. The addicts looked up, eyes distant, but their handlers were attentive. “Put it back together. It needs to last three quarters of an hour, as exact as you can manage. Start with the mantel.”

  The handlers helped their addicts climb to their feet, eyes distant but not entirely unaware. The handlers handed their charges a damp rag each, which they used to wipe the blood off their hands, revealing soft pink scar tissue beneath. Epalli couldn’t help but marvel at the fascinating qualities of the drug. Moments before, these men’s hands had been torn to ragged shreds. Now, though not exactly whole, they were no longer giant open sores.

  The Short One went straight to the pile of what had been priceless artifacts decorating Josen’s mantel, picking out the pieces of the porcelain Oberine kettle. He stared at the pieces, as if they held some fascinating mystery. Maybe they did for him.

  The pieces shifted, flowed back together to remake the kettle, whole and unblemished. The Short One smiled, then put the remade kettle gently back on the floor, and Long Hair handed him the remnants of another art piece they had destroyed moments before. Just like the kettle, it too remade itself back into a small ornate locket as the Short One gazed at the shattered pieces.