The Broken Man

by Brandon Jones

  The man facing Montiel, similarly red-faced and angry, wore a Carter’s Deferate robe and was holding his ground admirably in the face of Montiel’s rage.

  Part of Josen, a large part of him, wanted nothing more than to turn around and ride back down the hill. Josen had no desire to step in the middle of whatever it was the two men were raging over, but his sense of responsibility—mixed with a healthy portion of dread—won out, and he urged his horse forward.

  “What do you want me to do?” Josen heard the bulky Carter say. He would be the one in charge of releasing the seed and overseeing its distribution across the Oak lands.

  “Stop loading up the starving seed!” Montiel said. “God’s tears, Vimelle, I’ve said it a dozen times now. Real simple. Just stop. Give us time to get this sorted out.”

  “We can’t,” said Vimelle. “You know how this works. We have to get it all out today. Besides, I don’t make these kinds of decisions,” he pulled at his Deferate’s robes to emphasize his point. “This is Allotment stuff. I don’t make Allotment decisions. We’re here to check the seed and make sure everyone gets what they were promised. That’s it. We stop when the paper tells us to,” he said, hefting a green, fist sized bag of ceral seed and a notebook. “Your paper says three hundred seventy thousand bushels. That means our boys still have a hundred thousand left to load. Get out of our way and let us do our job.”

  Josen’s heart stopped.

  “What did you say?” he said, as he dismounted. Vimelle and Montiel turned to look at Josen, only now noticing him. “What did you say our Allotment shows?”

  “Three seventy and change … sir,” the man said, giving Josen a tiny nod of respect. It was less than he deserved as a Reverate, but Josen decided to ignore it. “Allotment is at ninety-two percent—three hundred and seventy thousand bushels and then some, just short of three seventy-one—approved by Arch Steward Berden himself.”

  “Ninety-two percent! That’s way too much—”

  “All I know is what this paper says,” Vimelle said with a shrug.

  “No, Berden agreed to sixty percent—”

  “Look, son—” Vimelle began.

  “Reverate. Not son. Reverate Oak.”

  “I’ve already explained it twice,” he continued as if Josen hadn’t spoken. “Once to your sister, once to the leathery bastard.” He gestured toward Montiel. “I don’t have time to go over it again. All I know is what’s on this piece of paper. I do what I’m told. Now, like I said, we’ve got a lot of seed to check and load, so…” He turned and walked away without waiting to see how Josen reacted, bellowing instructions at the men loading the carts. Anger Josen had been ignoring flared to life in his chest—at being scolded like a child by Reverate Shanwick, at Berden’s haughty dismissal, at his dinner being interrupted. And now this. It was childish, but Josen didn’t care. He was sick of being treated this way. He wasn’t about to let Vimelle go, not without a little respect and a lot of explanation.

  “Hey,” Josen said. He grabbed Vimelle’s shoulder—thickly muscled from a lifetime of handling oxen and loading carts—and pulled him back around. “I deserve an explanation—”

  Vimelle glared at him and jerked away. “Don’t touch me,” he said, and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Spoiled little prick kids, think they own the—”

  Josen snapped. He pulled Vimelle back around by the shoulder again and planted his fist in the Carter’s nose.

  His bandaged right fist.

  Josen realized too late—one, terrible, long, unstoppable instant before his fist connected—his terrible mistake. The pain took his breath away and Josen felt something pop in his hand for the second time today as it slammed into Vimelle’s face. The big man stumbled back, blinking in stunned surprise. Blood streamed out of his nose, across his mouth and into his beard. And he grinned.

  Vimelle charged. He lowered his head right into Josen’s gut, knocking the air out of him and throwing him to the ground. Josen had been in back alley fights and scrums, but this was something different. As his head bounced off the hard-packed dirt, Josen realized he had started a fight he couldn’t win—not without resorting to lethal tactics. Vimelle outweighed him, outmuscled him, and had hundreds of loyal workers all across the hilltop ready to jump to his aid at a moment’s notice. Before the first punch even landed, Josen knew there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t make this even worse than it already was. Josen tried to cover his face, to protect himself as best as he could, but Vimelle just pulled his arms out of the way with one hand and punched him squarely in the face with the other, twice in quick succession, once in the nose, once on his jaw.

  Lights exploded in Josen’s vision, then blackness rolled in, carrying him to the edge of unconsciousness, threatening to toss him over. Josen rolled over and groaned, holding his face. God’s tears, that was not the right shape for a nose. He felt something warm and wet on his face, then on his hands. His nose was bleeding. Something firm hit him in the side of the head and bounced off—not hard, but he flinched away, regretting the quick movement immediately. Vimelle laughed distantly.

  “Have some more, you little shit,” Vimelle said, his voice retreating.

  Josen opened his eyes to see the little green bag of ceral seed sitting just in front of his face. It had a dark, wet spot on it now—his own blood or Vimelle’s, he couldn’t tell.

  “Josen! Josen, are you okay?”

  He pushed the bag away, then held it, squeezing it tightly in his uninjured hand, the hard seeds digging into his skin through the thin bag, their sharp edges a welcome contrast to the foggy pain radiating through his head. He felt someone take his arm, help him to his feet. Vale. She had blood on her clothes. Oh, right—he was bleeding. Was he bleeding that much?

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Vale said.

  Josen nodded, unable to organize enough of a thought to form words.

  “Back to the estate?” someone asked close by. Oh, someone else was helping him on his other side. Montiel.

  “No,” Vale said. “Home. Ceralon. I think he should get out of the Basin for a few days.”

  * * *

  “You’re joking,” Berden said, laughing aloud as Vandi gave her report. But he didn’t stop planting. Using a staff, he punched a hole through a thin, stiff outer crust of dirt and into the moist, flood-softened earth beneath. It was one of the many miracles of the Ceral Basin. The land didn’t need to be plowed like the heavy clay soil of Pomay or Chessay. With the limited window of time available for growing ceral, it was a good thing too. They never would have been able to plow and still have the time to plant and harvest everything. As it was, the last carts of second harvest grain were almost always gathered in the rain, as the rivers began to swell again.

  He dropped a pair of seeds expertly into the hole, then dragged a foot over the top to close it up. Berden made sure to spend at least a few hours every week working the fields himself. There was something about working the earth with his own hands, a connection to the land that couldn’t be had any other way. As Berden saw it, it was part of his duty as a Steward to know his land, to actually care for it. Unlike his fellow Stewards, who preferred to sit back and let other men do all the work.

  “He got into a fistfight with the Carter?” Berden asked. Punch, drag, plant, punch, drag, plant; smooth and easy. He stepped forward and punched another hole, dragging his foot gently over the hole he had just made, covering the seeds even as he planted two more, handling them carefully so as not to prick himself on the sharp edges. It was an easy, mindless motion. A good one for thinking. It was relaxing.

  “From what I heard,” Vandi said, “‘fistfight’ is over-generous.” Berden laughed again. Vandi walked slowly next to him as he planted. “It sounded like the young Reverate started the altercation with a surprise punch, and Deferate Vimelle proceeded to beat him senseless.”

  It was better than Berden could have dreamed. The news made the day’s earlier setback—his inability to secure patrol rights
for the Ladies of the Archon—seem less vexing. Which hadn’t been his fault anyways. The Ladies were supposed to have already secured a third vote, supposedly from Josen, of all people. No, that failure was not Berden’s, but it didn’t make him look forward to seeing Lady Stonelowe anymore.

  “Where is he now?” Berden asked.

  “Ceralon,” Vandi said. “To let things cool off for a few days, I would suspect.”

  Berden grinned at the dirt, unable to help himself. Vimelle behaved exactly as expected. The man had a reputation for being unreasonable, so Berden had pulled a few strings to ensure he would oversee Josen’s seed distribution this year. But a full-blown fistfight—or whatever he should call Vimelle’s manhandling Josen … Josen could have no idea how neatly he had sealed his own fate. When he came crawling to Berden expecting redress, as he would no doubt have to, the matter would already be settled. The seed would be distributed, and there was no putting it back in the silos once it was taken out for planting. The Carters would have those long locked up. If Josen tried to make an issue of it, he would succeed only in making himself look more like a petty child, and Berden could plead innocence—simple misunderstanding. Oh, you meant you wanted a sixty percent allotment total? I thought you were asking for an additional sixty percent. I’m afraid there is nothing we can do now. The seed has been released, and there’s no un-releasing it. No, I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do for you. Best of luck making certain this doesn’t lead to complete financial ruin. Berden’s grin widened at the imagined conversation. Punch, drag, plant.

  “What next, sir?” Vandi asked.

  “Next? I have thirty thousand acres left to plant by in the next two weeks, including twenty acres I want to plant myself. I have canals to dredge, equipment to repair, workers and animals to organize, planting maps to finalize, and fences to mend. For starters. As for Josen Oak…” he trailed off as he reached the end of a row, straightened his back, feeling it pop as he twisted and stretched to work out the stiffness, and smiled. He took a deep breath of the fragrant, earthy air. What a beautiful day it was. “I think I have given him enough rope, don’t you? Let’s step back and see how long it takes him to hang himself.”

  “And Epalli? Will he be satisfied?”

  Berden suppressed a shiver. God’s tears, why did she have to bring him up when Berden was having such a pleasant day?

  “Satisfied? I don’t know. But Josen is primed to fail spectacularly. Let’s hope Riveran is ready to take over when he does.”

  Chapter 23

  “Apologies, Reverate,” Master Roetu said, unwrapping the bandages on Josen’s hand. “What exactly did you say you did to your hand?” He looked up at Josen, clear white eyes standing out stark against his dark Jurdish skin. Kafele Roetu had been the Oak family surgeon as long as Josen could remember, stitching cuts and mending broken bones since Josen was a child. Josen found his gaze oddly comforting. Roetu had already cleaned and bandaged Josen’s cuts and bruises from his fight with Deferate Vimelle. Josen had been surprised when Roetu asked if he wanted him to take a look at his hand. A cut on the back of his head required six stitches, and his nose had needed to be re-set—God’s tears, that had hurt. In comparison, his hand felt positively splendid. He had forgotten all about it.

  “I thought I might have broken it, but it’s feeling better. It got caught between two barrels this morning while I was working,” Josen said. He had rehearsed the lie in his head all day, knowing the question would come eventually. It was close enough to the truth. “I heard something pop when it happened.”

  Master Roetu looked back down to Josen’s hand, mouth flat. “I see,” was all Roetu said.

  After a moment inspecting Josen’s hand, both visually and with his own gentle hands, Roetu stepped away to rummage through his bag sitting on Josen’s bed. Josen relaxed back in his chair. “You are sure the popping sound came from your hand, and not from the barrels in question?” Rotue asked.

  Josen thought about it for a moment. “Fairly sure. It happened fast.”

  Roetu frowned slightly as he lifted Josen’s hand again, this time with a bandage in hand. He prodded gently at Josen’s hand again, frown deepening, before beginning a wrap above his wrist, stabilizing the hand.

  “Is something wrong?” Josen asked. It was never a good sign to see a surgeon frowning at a part of your body.

  “No, not wrong. Well, not bad wrong. Just strange. Your hand is healing well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can feel a fracture along bones in your hand,” Roetu said, pointing. “Here and here. But based on the swelling, and way the break is healing, it looks more like you broke it three, maybe four weeks ago.”

  “That can’t be right. Maybe I didn’t actually break it?”

  Master Roetu shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But not particularly worrying as long as it is healing wall. And it is. It is healing nearly as well as if I had set it myself.” He placed the extra bandages back in his bag and pulled out a smaller, paper sack. Josen recognized it immediately.

  “Candy?” Roetu offered, holding out the bag for Josen, who laughed.

  “Aren’t I too old to be bribed with candies?”

  “Are you saying no?” Roetu raised an eyebrow.

  Josen grinned and fished a few of Roetu’s signature hard ceral candies out of the bag. They were exactly how he remembered them—the color of burnt caramel and a similar taste, but more earthy. They were delicious. They tasted like being ten again.

  “That’s what I thought,” Roetu said. “You never once turned down one of my sweets. Besides, they’re important—a vital part of my healing magic,” Roetu said with a grin and a wink, popping a few of the candies in his own mouth. “Here, let me give you one last quick look-over.”

  “Thank you, Master Roetu,” Josen said, leaning forward so Roetu could check the stitches on the back of his head. The aged man’s fingers worked deftly, pausing on each of Josen’s various wounds. “I appreciate the care—and the candy—but you don’t have to do the whole ‘healing magic’ bit anymore. I think I’m old enough that I don’t need to be tricked into letting you work on me.”

  “A trick?” Roetu asked as he moved from examining Josen’s head to his nose. “When have I ever tricked you?”

  Master Roetu finished his examination without comment, apparently satisfied with what he found because he didn’t make any adjustments. He stepped back, looking at Josen—a more serious, faraway look on his face now, and more than a little puzzled.

  “Is everything okay?” Josen asked.

  Roetu seemed to come back to himself, smiling kindly. “Yes, yes. Forgive an old man his reminiscing. Everything is fine. I believe Master Montiel and your sister are waiting for you in the study. I won’t keep you any longer. But I will want to look at that hand again in a few days. Come see me sooner if the pain worsens significantly.”

  Josen nodded. “Of course. Is there anything else, Master Roetu?” Josen asked when he continued to hesitate.

  “No,” Roetu said standing at the door having already gathered his bag. “I will see you again soon then.” He was smiling, but his eyes were still puzzled. “Good luck with your sister.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Josen alone in his room.

  Josen leaned back in his chair, doing his best to relax without aggravating any of the sore parts. It was difficult—there were a lot of sore parts.

  “God’s tears, I thought he’d never leave,” Akelle said.

  Josen nearly jumped out of his skin as Akelle stepped out of the closet.

  “Weird guy, all dreamy and I remember when you were a boy; here, have a candy!”

  “Gah! Akelle, what the hell?” Josen said. “Were you in there the whole time?”

  “Yup. The whole time. It was a tight fit. Your closet’s not designed to fit two people. Not that I’m complaining,” he said, grinning.

  “Two?”

  “Akelle, you starving little lech,” Tori said, unfolding her taller b
ody out of the closet less gracefully than Akelle had. “The closet has plenty of space, he says.”

  “Tori? You… What is going on?” Josen asked. “Why were either of you climbing out of my closet?”

  “Well, it would have been weird if we had stayed in there,” Akelle said, straight-faced. “And I don’t think the three of us would have fit at all. But don’t get me off topic. That Roetu guy was weird.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and Master Roetu is one of the kindest … You know what? Never mind,” Josen said, trying to regain his balance. Master Roetu said the concussion might make it hard to think for the next day or so. He wasn’t kidding.

  “Let him be, Akelle,” Tori said. “I just came to talk. Akelle said we could wait for you here. We didn’t expect you to have company, and we didn’t figure you wanted to explain me to the doctor, so we hid.”

  “In the closet.”

  “Sound familiar?” Tori asked, a mischievous grin on her face.

  Josen laughed, remembering their close call on the Parose Job. “Yeah, I suppose it does. You look well, Tori,” he said. And she did. It took him a moment to put his finger on it, but she looked…

  “Less like I sleep in the gutter part time?” Tori laughed. She grinned widely and spread her arms as she turned in a slow circle. Josen hadn’t noticed immediately because of the company he had been keeping recently, but Tori’s clothes were new and well made. Fashionable even, though they tended towards the practical end of fashion. They were far nicer than what he was used to seeing her in.

  “Yeah,” Josen said dumbly. “The clothes suit you.”

  She smiled again and made a mock curtsey at him. He laughed. It was good to see her again, to be reminded of less complicated days. Bleeding hands, that had only been a few months ago. It seemed so much further—a distant memory of a half-remembered dream, when he didn’t have to worry about things like Basin politics or ceral seed allotments.