The Broken Man

by Brandon Jones

  Josen took a slow breath and decided to ignore Vale’s tone. He couldn’t blame her for the bitterness. The timing of his own unannounced return would no doubt seem suspicious at best. If circumstances were reversed, Josen was sure he would react more or less the same: cheated, demoted, betrayed. She deserved a little patience.

  “If you call me Reverate Oak again, I’m going to order Sam to throw a bucket of ice water at you.” There were some things that didn’t merit any patience. “Sam, you’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m not stepping anywhere near this,” Sam said still not looking up from his book.

  “Fair enough,” said Josen.

  “Fine, Josen. Where were you today?” Vale asked.

  “Ludon. I had business—”

  “Wait,” Vale said, interrupting him. “Wrong question. I don’t actually care where you were or what you were doing. You missed Allotment.”

  “God’s tears, Allotment was today?” That was bad. Allotments were a delicate business—it was one of the first things his father had taught him about running the estate. A good allotment depended as much on politics as on the actual amount of useable, farmable land. “How did it—”

  “Not good.”

  Josen swore.

  It had been decades since the Church had taken a Reverate’s stewardship outright, but Josen was old enough to remember the slow and steady financial bleeding of Steward Reverate Amistor. A series of low Allotments lead to a series of desperate, foolish financial risks, lead to empty coffers at the Amistor estate, then riots when it turned out he had no money to pay his workers at the end of a season. The rioters had not been gentle with Amistor when they finally got a hold of him. His body wasn’t found until the following week, and Reverate Shepherd had been granted Stewardship the following season.

  That was twelve years ago.

  As a general rule, the Church avoided that kind of incident—preferring stability over volatility—but history was full of exceptions. If the Church felt a family was no longer suited to fulfill their obligations as Stewards of a ceral estate—usually dues to sever incompetence or instability—they weren’t shy about manipulating events to favor their own interests.

  “Indeed,” Vale said, her mouth tight.

  “I’m sorry Vale, I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Vale said, slamming her pen down to the table. Ink splattered across her notes. “How could you? You could have asked, but who does that kind of thing anymore?” Vale looked down at her papers, now about half unreadable with splattered ink, and pushed them away with a disgusted sigh.

  “Look, I don’t want to fight you, Vale. How bad was it?”

  Vale sighed again and rubbed at her eyes, leaving black ink smears on her face. She looked like she might launch back into a full-frontal attack but took a deep breath and decided better. Instead, she explained how Fairhill had changed the meeting time without warning, how their Allotment would allow them to plant on less than half of this year’s arable land.

  Josen swore again, long and loud. “What does that do to us?” he asked, not bothering to even begin calculations in his head. Vale had a far better head for numbers than he did.

  Vale shrugged. “With luck? We might be able to break even.” She glanced down at her papers again and grimaced. “With a lot of luck. Montiel’s people had us projected at seventy percent arability, absolute minimum, which means I’ve already I over hired by close to thirty thousand workers. Thirty thousand people we have to pay who make us no money.”

  “Can we buy any of the contracts out?” Josen asked.

  “Maybe some, but…” Vale trailed off, looking at her papers. “I don’t know. It could be really bad.”

  Josen stood silent, utterly unsure of what to say. There was nothing really to say. Nothing he could say would make this better. Except maybe…

  “Who’s Arch Reverate this year?” Josen asked, breaking the silence.

  “Of the Stewards? Berden. He has one season left. Any reason?” Vale asked.

  “Let’s go have a chat,” Josen said.

  “What?” Vale asked, then confusion became understanding. She stood up, something near to panic on her face. “N0,” she said—practically shouted. “That is a really, really terrible plan.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Josen said, turning to walk out of the office.

  “Wait!” Vale said, following. “Berden has been waiting years for a chance like this. He’s probably the driving force behind this. If we give him any opening, if we show any more weakness, he’ll bury us. We have money saved to ride this out—”

  “He can’t take any of our seed away, right?” Josen asked.

  “Well, no—”

  “Then he can’t make it worse. I’m going. Are you coming?”

  * * *

  Josen and Vale were forced to wait nearly forty minutes in Berden’s sitting room before they were escorted up to his office by a tall Jurdish woman probably a few years older than Josen and not entirely unattractive. Josen had never visited Berden at his home, and he was surprised by how small and unassuming it was. Not that, by most standards, it was anything nearing small; but small for one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the Passbound Union.

  The inside of the house was modest. Bright white walls and muted grey-blue furniture came together in harsh lines and hard angles, as if the color had been systematically drained from the house. Even the decorations were plain—unadorned wooden frames and the occasional sun-bleached painting.

  The decor was plain to the point of artistry, Josen realized as he and Vale were led through the house. Unassuming was the wrong word for it. The plainness was designed to draw attention to itself. The utter lack of anything polished or embellished or colorful was, in its own way, as much of a statement as any room trimmed in gold and velvet. With few exceptions, the decorations were religious—paintings depicting the Faceless God, various holy artifacts and symbols, and passages of scripture written in calligraphy adorned the walls and sat on tables. The whole house screamed, “Look, and tremble before my superior humility.”

  Sanctimonious bastard, Josen thought.

  “Reverate Berden is right through this door,” the Jurdish woman said as they came to a halt. “He is expecting you. If you will excuse me, Reverate.”

  Josen smiled at her and nodded his thanks as she bobbed a curtsey and returned a coy smile, brilliant white against her flawless skin.

  “Excuse me, Reverate,” Vale mimicked in a high, mocking tone as soon as the woman was out of earshot.

  “What?” Josen asked.

  “You always … Never mind.”

  “Okay. Congratulations, by the way.”

  “What?” Vale said, caught off guard by the sudden conversational pivot.

  “You and Kalen. Seems like a nice guy. You should introduce us properly soon.”

  “No,” Vale said.

  “No, you won’t introduce us?”

  “No, I will not be charmed. You cannot just bury this all in smiles and compliments and—”

  “Fine,” Josen said. “No charming. How about we go inside and talk to Berden?” He nodded at the door they still stood next to, still unopened. Josen hoped it was soundproof. “We can continue this conversation later. If you want.”

  “Not really,” Vale muttered under her breath.

  Josen knocked twice, then pushed to door open into Berden’s study without waiting for an answer. He thought he could hear Vale still muttering about bad ideas under her breath, but Josen ignored her. He’d created this mess. He would fix it.

  Berden sat behind a desk piled high with papers, writing furiously. The room was surprisingly cramped—the large desk took up most of the room. There was just enough room for a pair of small chairs directly in front of the desk and a small bookshelf to Berden’s right. Josen thought the whole thing felt unnaturally—almost comically—cramped.

  Berden didn’t look up when they came in. His pen continued to move wit
h barely a pause, his head bowed in concentration. When Josen and Vale didn’t immediately sit, he paused long enough to point at the pair of chairs in front of his desk before resuming whatever it was he was working on. They sat, Josen’s knees resting against the front of the overlarge desk.

  Content for the moment to wait, Josen looked around the room, taking it in. It was different from the parts of the house he had seen. The obligatory religious decorations were scattered around the room—a painting in the bookshelf, calligraphy scripture on the wall facing the desk, various symbols worked into the trim—but the room felt… off. The heavy, dark wood of the desk especially felt out of place in the stark white room—a glaring spot of chaos marring the otherwise calculated order.

  Josen adjusted himself in his seat and grinned, feeling abruptly at ease as he recognized this for what it was—plain old intimidation-style manipulation. He hadn’t even noticed the unsettled feeling until it was gone. He had been nervous about getting himself into territory he didn’t understand—the petty games and subtle double meanings of closed-door politics. But this was a power play, and an amateur one at that. The desk was overlarge to be intimidating. The chairs he and Vale sat in were short-legged, giving the impression that the desk and the man seated behind it loomed over them. Josen was unimpressed, but he was in comfortable territory.

  So Josen fixed his eyes on Berden and waited, grinning, for the little farce to play itself out. Vale fidgeted next to Josen but stayed blessedly silent.

  The silence stretched—a minute, two, five. Only the sounds of pen and paper, the occasional restless twitch from Vale, and the steady sound of a wall-clock counting out the seconds to interrupt the growing silence. Josen listened to those sounds and measured them—counted and weighed and rolled each of them around in his mind while the pattern fell into place.

  The silence stretched, and Berden’s mouth drew progressively tighter. Josen tasted the individual sounds that made up the silence, sweet as honey for telling him what he wanted to know. Berden glanced up and past Vale and Josen a pair of times but said nothing and went immediately back to whatever it was he was pretending to write, lips pressed into paper-thin lines. He was going to give himself a face-cramp if he kept it up. The thought made Josen’s mouth twitch as he struggled to contain a laugh.

  Three more minutes. Josen was mildly impressed with his dedication to the bit.

  Berden snapped his pen down to the table at eleven minutes exactly—Josen suspected Berden had been counting too—and looked up to meet Josen’s eyes. Barely contained loathing danced like a fire in Berden’s eyes, hot and bright.

  “Ah, my fellow Steward,” he said, as if he only just now realized who had been sitting in his study for the past ten minutes. “And Vale. What do you want?”

  Josen felt Vale tense beside him at the slight, but she held her silence. Josen didn’t.

  “Ah, Berden,” Josen said, matching the calm, patronizing tone Berden had used. “You are an uncouth, bloody-handed son of a plague-infested goat, and I want an apology.”

  Berden stared at him, mouth agape, apparently unable to process what Josen had just said, and from a boy nearly young enough to be his grandchild. “I … you what? I beg your pardon?” Berden said when he found his tongue.

  Vale leapt in to try to salvage things. “I think what Josen was trying to—”

  “I am saying that I don’t appreciate being treated like a child. I don’t appreciate being made to wait for no other reason than to assuage your sense of superiority, or the blustery false outrage you are putting on to cover your embarrassment at being caught in the act of being a boob.” Josen stood and snatched a piece of paper off of Berden’s desk, the piece of paper Berden had spent the last eleven minutes writing on.

  “Now wait just—”

  “And the Faceless God did see plagues that did ravage the earth,” Josen read in a pompous voice over the top of Berden’s outraged noises. “And he saw the earth laid bare by them, that no green thing could stand before—”

  Berden lunged across his desk, scattering the stacks of papers across the room, and snatched the paper from Josen’s hand. Vale sat as if locked to her chair and stared, mouth hanging slightly open.

  “How dare you … You, you …” Berden stuttered, his face turning red with embarrassed anger.

  Josen straightened and looked down at Berden, painting his voice with a cold, hard rage.

  “You forget who I am, Reverate Berden. I am not a child who you must tolerate until you can dismiss me. Nor am I blind or deaf or a fool. I am Reverate Oak, chosen by the God you claim to serve, duly ordained by His servants not two days ago. And you,” Josen said, leaning over the desk as Berden retreated. “You are my Arch Reverate, chosen to represent all Stewards. You,” he poked a finger at Berden, “are my advocate before the Church, my ally and protector. When I have a grievance, I bring it to you. And how am I welcomed? With this.” Josen took part of a stack of papers from Berden’s desk and threw them at Berden. They burst apart and scattered across the room, all but a few entirely blank.

  Josen stared at Berden, waiting. And praying.

  From the long obligatory wait in the parlor and quiet flirting of the pretty servant to the cluttered desk and haggard look of concentration Berden had worn like a too-large mask, it had all been an act—a ploy to intimidate children. However, seeing it as a farce was one thing. Pulling the rug out from under Berden was something else entirely. Josen had no idea how Berden would react to having his game revealed. Josen watched as rage and embarrassment warred on Berden’s face, wondering which would win out.

  Depends on how self-important he really is. Too self-important, and Berden would miss the rebuke and feel only the attack. Not enough, and he would notice both, but fail to care about either. Josen was banking on some goodness in Berden. There was an irony in how often he depended on the goodness of other people to get him out of tight places in his time as a thief.

  “Fine,” Berden said finally, spitting the words as if they were bitter and sharp. “What do you want?”

  “A fair Allotment,” Josen said with an inward sigh of relief. Vale visibly melted back into her chair. Berden reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, glancing over the numbers there.

  “How much do you want?”

  “Seventy-five percent,” Josen said without hesitation. Seventy-five percent would seed about a hundred and ten thousand acres—a fair portion less than what Vale said was arable this year, but Josen didn’t want to push it.

  “Don’t insult me, you starving little pissling,” Berden said. “You didn’t even show up for Allotment. You can’t expect a full planting after a stunt like that, even if it wasn’t your first season.” Berden crossed his arms. “Your allotment is what, thirty percent?” he asked, consulting the paper again.

  Josen glanced at Vale.

  “Thirty-two,” she said, almost too soft to hear.

  “Sixty, then. And if you say another word, Reverate, I’ll not even do that.”

  Josen pretended to think about it for a second. Honestly, it was more than he had hoped. He nodded.

  “Good. Don’t screw it up,” Berden said. He waived a hand dismissively. “I’ll take care of the paperwork. Now leave. I’m already weary of your smug face.”

  That was fine with Josen. He gathered Vale, who resembled a cat only just saved from drowning, and helped her out the door. The pretty servant stood outside the study, anticipating their exit.

  “It’s kind of a mess in there,” Josen said as he and Vale walked past. “And Berden might be in a sour mood. Fair warning.” She gave him an irritated look but didn’t say anything.

  “Josen,” Vale said after a moment of walking through Berden’s stark home full of white walls and right angles. “You’re an idiot.”

  Josen couldn’t help but smile. “I know,” he said, not feeling any kind of remorse at all. The whole thing had been far too much fun to feel sorry about. “But it worked, right?” On im
pulse, Josen palmed a tiny statuette as he passed, slipping it into a pocket without catching Vale’s attention. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. He felt good.

  “Despite your best efforts,” Vale said. Vale was quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “How did you know? That he was wasting our time on purpose?” The question came out hesitantly, as if she didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help it.

  Josen thought for a moment, unsure of whether to show off or play dumb. In end, he couldn’t help himself. “He had the desk moved in while he made us wait,” Josen said with a shrug. “The papers too. The rest of the house was so deliberate, everything placed with manic precision. Everything but the desk. It probably belongs to his real office, one more comfortable and less harsh.”

  “I didn’t even notice …” Thunder rumbled as they stepped out the front doors and into the grey evening light, their carriage waiting for them.

  “Also, when he was writing, the pattern just kept repeating itself. The sound of pen on the paper.” Josen imitated the sound of steel-nibbed pen on paper, copying the cadence. “Same number of words before the pause, period in the same place every time. And he kept glancing past us. He was copying the scripture hanging on the wall behind us. Not even clever enough to look at the one he was copying on his paper.”

  “You could tell that by listening?” Vale sounded like she would have been surprised if she hadn’t been sucked emotionally dry.

  “Sure. We sat and listened for over ten minutes. Hard to miss.” Josen looked up at the deep, threatening clouds and pulled his jacket tighter around him. “It’s going to rain, I think.”

  “Oh. Well,” Vale said glancing up at the sky, still in shock. “Home, then? I think I need to lie down.”

  * * *

  Berden relaxed as he listened to the soft rumble of distant thunder and a pair of footsteps retreating down his hallway. He unclenched his hand under the desk. It was sore from being held tense the entire meeting. It had been all he could do to keep himself from strangling that boy. Josen starving Oak. Berden had to remember that he needed Josen—Josen was the key.