The Broken Man

by Brandon Jones

  Lady Stonelowe didn’t look up as Vale shut the door forcefully behind her. She kept moving her hand in methodical circles until the warm wooden desktop almost glowed. The heady scent of rich oils filled the room, and Vale prepared several biting replies to the inevitable desk-related parable. She didn’t have the patience and would not be patronized further.

  “What the starving hells is wrong with you?” Lady Stonelowe asked without preamble. She didn’t even look up.

  Vale blinked. She opened her mouth, then shut it, unable to retrain her thoughts.

  “That’s wasn’t rhetorical,” Stonelowe said. “What are you doing in my office?” She did look up now, fixing Vale with a cold stare. Her grey eyes stood out sharply against her deep red uniform, which she wore without adornment—not even an indicator of rank. The message was clear: Lady Stonelowe the woman was the symbol of her own power. Any affectations would distract from that.

  “Where else was I supposed to find you?” Vale asked.

  “I don’t know why you would want to find me at all.”

  Vale stared at the woman, mouth agape. She hadn’t expected this meeting to be pleasant, but this … She didn’t even know what this was.

  “I came to …” She hesitated. “I just wanted to say—”

  “Spit it out, Valencia. I have a dozen small crises in each of the Passbound cities clamoring for my attention, and two or three legitimate ones that might even merit it. I’m busy managing the police force for the civilized world, so don’t waste more of my time than you have to.”

  “I’m here to apologize,” Vale blurted. “So… I’m sorry.” Now that it was out, she wasn’t sure where to go, what to say next. So she didn’t say anything. She met Lady Stonelowe’s iron gaze, doing her best to match the intensity she saw there. The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity, like Stonelowe was waiting for something more. When Vale didn’t provide it, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips like an irritable, disapproving tutor—God’s tears, what a moron this little girl is.

  “For what, exactly, are you apologizing?”

  The woman was impossible. Did she really need Vale to come out and say it?

  “I won’t be able to be much help with … with what we discussed before. With Josen back … Well, there isn’t much I can—”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m sure you can figure something out. You’re a smart girl.”

  Vale paused. Did she mean don’t worry about it, you’ll figure some way to bounce back, or did she mean…?

  “I’m sure you will find a way to make good on our deal,” Stonelowe said.

  Well, that answered that. And opened up a whole new box of unpleasant questions.

  “And how do you propose—”

  “I don’t care,” Stonelowe said with a snarl. She threw her polishing rag into a corner and turned to face Vale, drawing herself up to her full height for the first time since Vale walked in. She pursed her mouth distastefully. “You came to me, begging for me to intervene when your husband was rotting in a Chessian prison. You agreed. Didn’t work exactly like you thought it would? Staving hells. Welcome to life, little girl. Figure it out. There’s the door.”

  Part 3: At the End of the Rope

  Chapter 19

  “God’s tears, Josen, this stuff itches like starvation,” Akelle whispered loud enough to hear over the gentle lapping of water against the barge.

  “Don’t scratch at it,” Josen said. He resisted the urge to scratch at his own nose, checking the time on a pocket watch instead. Josen pursed his lips and gave a dismayed groan. They were fifteen minutes behind schedule. Josen did some quick math in his head—not his strong suit, but he could manage this. If they were fast, he could still be back in time.

  Damn this busy Reverating nonsense. Someone was always demanding his time, ready to inform him that it was his duty to oversee this ceremony or that writ of purchase. Between the clerks and the scribes, union bosses for the field workers and the livestock overseers, lobbyists from the Ladies of the Archon and every city in the Passbound Union, finding time for Josen’s personal interests and hobbies was near impossible.

  He glanced over at Akelle, whose hand was inching towards his face. “Don’t.” Josen swatted at Akelle’s hand. Akelle jerked away and almost lost his balance into the water before catching himself.

  “Fine,” Akelle said, rubbing his hand on pants instead. “I mean, what’d they make the starving thing out of?” he asked, pointing at his false nose. “It can’t need to be like this.”

  “Cam and his girls are geniuses. I don’t care what they used to make the noses; they look as real as anything I’ve ever seen.” Which was good. Josen had gone to a lot of trouble—and spent a fair bit of money—to find the best. Personal time wasn’t the only rare commodity since taking on the Reveratecy. Anonymity was harder to manage too. “We have to be more careful now.”

  “How are we doing on time?” Akelle asked.

  “We’re late. We’ll have to work fast.”

  Akelle swore. “This better work out better than the Hanzi job,” Akelle said. The job itself had gone well, but they hadn’t been able to find a willing buyer for the diamonds. Everyone seemed strangely skittish to work with freelancers at the moment.

  “It will,” Josen said. They had a buyer lined up and ready. It was one of the reasons they had picked this job.

  “I know,” Akelle said, not sounding convinced. “We’re nearly there.” Akelle nodded for Josen to follow him around the rows of open fish barrels to the back of the barge where a thin, grimy man was guiding the boat.

  “We gettin’ close, sir?” the bargeman asked. Josen hadn’t asked for his name.

  “We are. Sixty or so paces on the right,” Josen said, pointing.

  “Aye, taking her starboard.”

  “Aye,” Josen replied stoically

  The bargeman gave him a strange look, somewhere between confused and afraid he was the butt of some joke.

  “Aye,” Josen said one more time, just for fun. He grinned broadly. It wasn’t a word he got to say often. Of course, that was likely the ceral speaking—he had eaten a whole ceral loaf, determined to give himself as much breaking time as possible tonight. Eating that much ceral always made him over-excited, less controlled.

  Josen took a deep breath. He needed to be careful, not flippant. The bargeman may not have been the captain of a grand ship sailing the wide ocean, but there was no need to antagonize him. He handed the man a heavy purse, swallowing the urge for one last aye.

  “Which building is it where I’m dropping you exactly?” asked the bargeman.

  “Number forty-one,” Josen said, pointing again.

  This section of Chessia’s canals was lined on the right side by a row of nearly identical two and three-story red brick buildings, each with their own small dock leading onto the water. The businesses along Chessia’s various canals were uniquely suited for ocean trade and tended to carry exotic wares from places well outside the reach of the Passes, like fine silks and spices from Venland, furs from Sheruna, and items carved from the black forests of Gath.

  This particular canal—the Efora—was unique for its focus on export rather than import. Where many of the other canal shops showed off a wide variety of exotic wares, Efora’s shops displayed the finest and most expensive wares from the Passbound cities, to be shipped across the sea and sold as luxury items to wealthy foreigners. Of course, they were happy to sell those same expensive wares right here as well. Josen knew the street front side of these buildings made for a spectacular sight—displaying some of the most expensive and elaborate wares a person could find anywhere—but from the back, in the dark, they were impossible to tell apart unless you knew the number.

  “Forty-one,” the bargeman said as if thinking. “That’s Mr. Gennio’s place, ya? Where he makes the whiskey?”

  “His distillery is out at his country estate,” Josen said. “Somewhere outside of Belfia. But he sells it here.”

 
“Got it. Ain’t never tasted Gennio whiskey. Too fancy for my blood. This here does me fine,” the bargeman said, producing a flask from inside his limp jacket and taking a swig. He offered it to Josen and Akelle, but Josen declined. The smell, even at arms’ length, reminded Josen of mineral spirits and sour bread. He had no desire to put it anywhere near his face. Akelle started to raise an eager hand but pulled it at a look from Josen. “As ye wish,” the bargeman said. “Yer missin’ out, though.” He grunted, then put the flask away with a drunken flourish and returned to guiding the barge. “Here’s yer stop. Begone, ye thankless scoundrels. Get yerselves offa my boat.”

  Josen and Akelle obliged, hurrying around the fish barrels to the front of the barge as it pulled even with dock forty-one. Josen grabbed a dock post and swung up as Akelle did the same behind him. The barge boat continued to slide past, having slowed not at all. Josen straightened and nodded to the bargeman. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly. He tossed down another bag of coins, which the bargeman caught and disappeared. “Go get drunk and forget all about this.”

  “Aye.” And he was gone.

  Josen checked a pocket watch as he walked to the back doors of Alfie Gennio’s whiskey shop. “Thirteen minutes to first patrol,” he said to Akelle as he considered the doors—massive iron-bound oak slabs, as imposing as they were impressive.

  Josen could see Akelle rethinking their schedule in his head. He swore quietly. During the early morning, the Ladies patrolled waterside Efora in thirty-minute intervals, so their schedule was already timed down to the minute. It might be the deep dark of early morning here in Chessay, but it was coming up on midmorning in the Basin, and Reverate Oak had important meetings he couldn’t afford to miss.

  “We could skip the theatrics, go straight through the door,” Akelle offered.

  Josen shook his head. Akelle was right; the doors would be simpler. Imposing as they were, they didn’t pose any obstacle for Josen. Though they didn’t have a visible lock for Josen to exploit—designed to be opened only from the inside—he could rot the wood until a child could push through or break the hinges into water and remove them whole.

  However, either of those options would effectively ruin the doors. In the morning, when one of Gennio’s poor employees found the wrecked door and the empty storeroom, there would be no question of what had happened or how the barbarically unimaginative thieves gained entrance. The brute force approach would have an effect, just not the one Josen wanted. He was setting the tone for the rest of his thieving career with this job. He was setting the foundation for a legacy.

  Josen moved passed the doors, stopping at the window only a few paces away. “We still have time, but we have to be fast,” he said, motioning toward the bag Akelle was carrying. Akelle produced a shallow bucket, several masonry trowels, and a stiff-bristled brush. The window was simple, a small square hole in the wall covered by an iron grate, its purpose more to let the musty cellar breathe than for lighting.

  “No kidding,” Akelle said, glancing up the canal—the direction the Ladies’ patrol boat would be coming from in a few minutes. “If we get caught, I’m blaming it all on you. I’m an impressionable youth and such.”

  Josen touched the mortar between the bricks around the window, tracing the lines and breaking as he went. “Akelle, you’re a terrible person,” Josen said. He focused on the feel of the mortar becoming soft and lose under his finger as he traced between bricks, breaking it back into its wet, workable form.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Akelle said, stepping in beside him, pulling the now-loose bricks free. “I can’t help it. I’m a product of the shameful company I keep. Like I said, I’m very impressionable.”

  Josen grunted but couldn’t keep up the banter as he worked. They moved quickly, Josen breaking the mortar while Akelle worked behind him, removing the bricks and scraping the wet mortar into the bucket. The breaking was simple—wet mortar was so similar to dried mortar that it didn’t take much mental exertion or significant power. But there was a lot of mortar. Breaking always gave Josen a feeling of strength and energy, as well as enhancing his senses, but he was accustomed to those sensations coming in quick bursts. However, he couldn’t afford to break the entire wall of mortar in a single burst. He was no mason, but he didn’t think the structure could withstand such a sudden change. And he couldn’t mentally single out a short section of mortar to break just that length. He had tried in preparation for this heist. As far as he could tell, that failure had less to do with the limitations of breaking than the limitations of his own understanding.

  Regardless, the constant trickle of power he was using to break was building a sort of pressure in his body. He could feel his muscles tensing, his sense of touch growing more acute, the lapping of water against dock and boat growing more distinct. His brain was struggling to keep up with the extra information.

  He shook his head and released the magic as he pulled his hand away, feeling all of the tension drain out of him. It was a relief, but he felt almost numb, his legs and arms weak and watery. He massaged his aching right hand, then stuck his index finger in his mouth. It was raw from being dragged across the rough mortar. Josen rolled his shoulders and sighed as he stepped away from the window to give Akelle space to remove more bricks. His finger tasted like grit and ash.

  “Time?” Akelle said, a moment later, stepping back to admire their work. The outer layer of bricks around the window were gone now, creating the beginning of a three-foot-wide opening, but they still had another layer of wall to remove. Akelle wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.

  Josen checked his watch. “Two minutes.”

  “Into the water, then?”

  Josen sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Best not push our luck.”

  Akelle pulled a pair of tube reeds out of his bag, handing one to Josen. Josen took it and followed Akelle to the edge of the dock, shuddering as he lowered himself into the water. The water of the Arathos River that flowed through the Efora was nauseatingly warm. The rivers—or mountain streams, at least—in Ceralon were never really warm enough for swimming, and the two great rivers of the Ceral Basin—which, while slow and the perfect temperature for swimming, were filled with aggressive water dragons and ceral adders. He hadn’t done much swimming as a child.

  Josen took a deep breath, and submerged himself in the water, pulling himself about a foot down one of the dock’s support poles to make sure he was completely out of sight. Water filled his ears and nose—starving hells, he hated that feeling—but there was nothing to be done. He could hear the gentle splashing of the patrol boat now and felt Akelle pull himself down the pole next to him. Akelle tapped him on the arm three times, their simple pre-established signal: patrol boat sighted. Josen tapped back once in acknowledgement. Josen took a deep, slow breath through the reed as he began counting in his head, making sure to keep the reed clenched in his teeth.

  And he waited.

  This was Josen’s least favorite part of any job. No matter what he was stealing, there were always some few moments when he was obliged to slip out of sight while an unwelcome set of eyes wandered past. Sometimes it was tense. Tonight, it was just monotonous. Josen tried to relax as he listened and counted, until the patrol boat passed overhead and then slipped far enough down river that he could no longer hear the splash of the barge pole.

  The inner wall seemed to go faster, Josen continuing to break the mortar while Akelle continued to dismantle the wall. The tense, restless feeling quickly returned as Josen used a steady stream of ceral power. He did his best to ignore it. They worked in silence, moving as quickly as possible until the hole was big enough for Akelle to crawl through—plus a sizable stack of bricks and a large iron grate leaned against the wall.

  “That should work,” Josen said.

  “Right,” Akelle said. “Help me up?”

  Akelle stepped on Josen’s thigh, then in his cupped hands to get into the enlarged window. They could have made the hole larger, opened it down lower than
shoulder height, but time was at a premium.

  Akelle’s wriggling legs vanished seconds later, followed quickly by the sound of him hitting the floor with a grunt.

  “Okay in there?” Josen asked.

  “Yeah,” Akelle said. Josen could hear him brushing himself off. “Starving hells, it’s dark in here. And musty. Yick, it smells like rat piss and sour—”

  “Stop your whining and get the door.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll open the door. How are we on time?”

  Josen dug his watch out of a waterlogged pocket and wiped beads of water from the face to get a better view. “Um… Wow, we were fast. Fifteen minutes still. We might be able to roll all the barrels down the dock in that time… Oh, hells.”

  “Josen—”

  Josen swore again, cursing himself six ways for his idiocy, shoving the watch back in his pocket.

  “You took your watch into the water, didn’t you?” Akelle’s voice echoed through the window. “Didn’t you!”

  “Shut it.” The watch had been Grandpa Markise’s. What was he thinking? “I didn’t even—”

  Josen cut off at the gentle sound of a splashing bargepole.

  “Get inside,” Akelle whispered urgently. “Quick!”

  Josen turned and started to pull himself up and through the hole in the wall, Akelle heaving on Josen’s shirt, trying to pull him in through their enlarged window, the sound of water lapping against the patrol boat getting closer by the second. Far too close. The window was high enough, small enough that there was no way Josen would be able to slip into the shop discreetly, not in time. Not before…

  “Hey there!” shouted a woman’s voice from up the canal. Yellow light spilled over Josen and he stopped scrambling. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Josen turned toward the voice and the light, a pair of shadows he could only assume were the Ladies in the patrol boat, not twenty yards from dock forty-one. Seeing no other option, Josen walked toward them, down to the end of the dock.