The Broken Man

by Brandon Jones

  Instead of stepping back and looking for the next candidate for rescuing, Montiel helped guide the last animal to the water’s edge. The ox was hesitant to enter the angry water, but with Montiel at its side coaxing it, one hand on the rope, the big beast leapt into the water with much less hauling on Josen’s end. But Montiel didn’t let go. He leapt into the water right alongside the big ox, hand locked tight to the same rope Josen held in his own hands.

  Josen was so surprised that he nearly let go of the rope. He felt it slip for just a moment in his gloved hands. What was Montiel thinking? The fieldmaster struggled to keep his head above water as he and the ox were dragged downstream even and Josen and the others heaved to drag them across.

  A sharp crack and a scream broke the air behind Josen. Josen stumbled over a man lying prone in the mud and lost his grip on the rope. Time seemed to slow. The man in the mud clutched at his leg, his ankle dangling at an unnerving angle, mouth open in a scream drowned out by raging water and rolling thunder. The men in front of Josen were jerked off their feet, no match for the unexpected change in force, not with wet rope in their hands and two inches of mud under their boots. They couldn’t hold the rope, and the rope whipped away downstream, ox and Montiel still attached.

  “No!” Josen screamed. He was on his feet and chasing the receding rope before he had time to think. “Montiel, hold on!” Josen sprinted as fast as his exhausted body would allow, the mud under his feet breaking to solid earth with each step. The muscles in Josen’s leg spasmed, unwilling to continue to endure any further abuse. Josen stumbled and managed to turn his graceless collapse into a desperate lunge. The rope was being sucked into the river, disappearing into that dark, wet rage when Josen’s fingers locked around the last visible foot.

  The world lurched as Josen was wrenched into the water with the last bit of rope. The torrent thrashed him, but Josen gripped the rope with both hands, desperate to somehow get to Montiel, unsure of what good he could do if he somehow managed it. Josen’s world was water, surging and swallowing relentlessly, spinning endlessly.

  He was going to die. His lungs burned, and he couldn’t tell up from down. Something crashed into his side, nearly breaking his grip on the rope. He wouldn’t be able to help anyone because he was going to die. He clutched desperately at the length of rope in his hand, his only connection to anything solid, anything that felt even remotely real.

  Josen felt something firm underneath his feet and pushed hard, shooting himself briefly to the surface of the water. He sucked in a great breath before he was torn back under. Montiel was still attached to the other end of this rope. He had to be. Josen pulled himself hand over hand down the length of the rope, lungs already burning again he tumbled through the watery darkness.

  The rope jerked to a halt, and Josen lost his grip. Josen flailed desperately after it but was carried away too fast. He was going to die.

  Josen suddenly slammed into a huge mass of unmoving, coarse hair, and the air exploded from his lungs, but he caught hold of something. He clawed his way to the surface by the water, coughing and sputtering. The ox was swinging in the current, water cresting over and around it as it was held in place by the rope.

  Josen followed the rope with his eyes to where it was tangled in a mass of debris lodged in the bank. The ox was limp and lifeless, whether from drowning or a broken neck, Josen couldn’t tell and didn’t care. He pulled himself toward the animal’s head, reached the tangled rope holding its horns. There! A hand, tangled in the rope and the animal’s horns.

  It wasn’t moving.

  Desperately, Josen tugged on Montiel’s arm, trying to free his hand, but had no leverage. He had to free Montiel quickly. Montiel was unconscious, and there was no telling how long it had been since he had gotten a good breath, if he was managing to get any air at all through all the water that rushed and splashed around his face. It had to have been too long.

  Josen grabbed Montiel around the shoulders with one arm and wrapped a hand around the rope between the ox’s horns, breaking the rope weak and rotted. The burst of energy gave him the strength to break the rotted rope. Everything lurched as the rope gave way and Montiel’s hand came loose, and the river swept them away.

  Josen swam desperately, struggling to keep his grip on Montiel while keeping his own head above water. The water flung him toward the bank, and Josen grasped desperately for anything to hold onto. Someone had spotted them. Josen could see people running with towards them with ropes, but the river was relentless. The raging channel of water narrowed, and the bank turned suddenly into a wall of muddy earth as they were sucked into the gorge.

  Josen reached for the bank, grasping at the wall of earth as they were dragged past, feeling the earth soften in a trail behind his fingers as he unconsciously broke it, his body desperate for anything it could do to save him. At the realization, Josen dug his hand further into the wall, breaking the earth in an effort to make a place for a handhold or anything else he could use to keep himself and Master Montiel from being sucked further into the churning, raging chasm.

  With a cry, Josen slammed his hand at the wall with all his strength, breaking the earth into a sloppy, loose mess like wet concrete. The broken earth yielded to Josen’s arm, closing around it past the elbow. The broken earth reverted to a stiff, unyielding wall and jerked Josen to a halt in an instant. Josen cried out as something tore in his shoulder, but he didn’t let go, using the jolt of breaking energy to keep his grip on Montiel.

  “I’ve got you,” Josen said to the unconscious Fieldmaster. He could hear people close, no doubt with ropes to help pull them out of the gorge. He held Montiel on top of himself to keep the man’s head out of the water. “I won’t let go.”

  Interlude: Jamis, Alia, Vale

  Jamis

  “No,” said Jamis, feeling the weight of the bag in his hand as he picked it up off the desk. He was coming down off a high, and the bag was light. Far too light.

  Grand ignored him—or maybe didn’t even notice. He looked flustered as he sat behind the desk, searching for something in the many drawers.

  Jamis felt his lips curl into a snarl. He was tired of working for Grand, tired of the games and runaround. Nothing was ever simple with Grand. Well, the jobs were simple—nothing more than basic intimidation. His job was to look menacing while he did some kind of visible, obvious breaking like turning a wooden club into iron, then glass. It was ultimately harmless. He had never so much as brandished the club at anyone yet, but breaking made people nervous, and made things like negotiations and collections go more smoothly.

  The first time had been simple enough—a bag of rub for one simple job, just like Grand said. But every time after, it got a little more complicated. He could have the rub, but half now and half later, at some arbitrary time of Grand’s choosing. He could have his rub, but Grand had spilled it on the dirt floor, and Jamis would have to pick it up if he wanted it. The rub was mixed with sand, with spicy Pomish grass peppers, was soaked in vinegar or horse urine. None of it altered the efficacy of the drug—or kept Jamis from even considering rejecting it—but he was growing tired of being toyed with.

  Jamis eyed the bag, sniffed it warily, then pocketed it. Besides being light, it seemed innocent enough. He pulled a short length of thin rope out of the same pocket and began wrapping it around a hand then unwinding it, winding it around the other as he did. It was a habit he had picked up in the last several weeks working for Grand. It kept his hands busy, kept them from shaking.

  “This isn’t what you promised,” Jamis said again. “Not even a quarter. This isn’t what we agreed on.”

  Grand continued the slow, methodical search of his desk without looking up. Jamis wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and frankly didn’t care. Not at the moment.

  “Grand! Are you listening to me?” Jamis slammed a hand down on the desk. Grand didn’t even glance up, but his fingers did stop moving and a look of irritation crossed his face. Good, Jamis thought. At least I have his atten
tion. “Where is the rest of my rub?” Jamis asked slowly.

  “God’s tears, Jamis, sometimes I wonder about you. Was that not a bag of rub that you just stuffed in your pocket?”

  “Where is the rest?” Jamis repeated slowly. “We had a deal.”

  “What can I say, Jamis?” Grand said wearily, resuming his search. “I’m a repugnant person. I even lie, on occasion.”

  “Not good enough. I need the rest of it.” Jamis wound the rope tighter.

  “Well, you’re in luck… There you are,” Grand said, a wide, triumphant grin spreading across his face as he turned an envelope over in his hands. He slipped the envelope into his inner jacket pocket and looked up at Jamis. “I have another job for you. Right now, in fact. What do you say?”

  “Double. What you owe me, plus double.”

  Grand waived his hand as if to waive away the mundanity of boring negotiations. “Fine. Double plus,” he agreed. “Whatever you want. But I’m going now. Are you coming?”

  Jamis followed Grand across the city, into the Aplezzo district on the hill—a far more affluent area of Sefti than any of Grand’s jobs had taken Jamis before. The houses were large stone-faced affairs with elegant gardens and long, meandering walkways. The street glowed with the soft yellow light of intermittent lamp posts driving back the darkness. Jamis wasn’t aware that Grand did business with people like this, though it wasn’t surprising. He wasn’t sure Grand could do surprising at this point.

  Grand turned up one of the long walkways and led Jamis to the front door of a very fine home—not to a side window or back door. The front door.

  And Grand knocked. Jamis took it back. Apparently Grand could surprise him.

  “Welcome, sirs,” a serving man said as he opened the door, his voice heavy with the local, rustic Sefti accent. He invited them into a brightly lit entryway with polished white tile reflecting light from an expansive chandelier hanging high overhead. “The master has been expecting you.”

  That sounded ominous, but Grand nodded and refused the man’s offer to take his coat. Jamis followed suit.

  “Very well,” said the man. “Make yourselves comfortable. The master will be with you shortly.”

  Jamis looked around the stark white entryway, wondering how they would make themselves comfortable. There was nowhere to sit, no furniture of any kind except for a long, ornamental cherry table along one wall. Jamis pulled the length of rope out of his pocket and began winding and unwinding it.

  He expected Grand to say something, to explain where they were or what he expected Jamis to do, but he didn’t say anything. Not so much as a word or a nod. Jamis might as well not have been there at all. Grand stared silently ahead, eyes unfocused.

  “Is there, um,” Jamis started to ask, but it was hard to think when he was coming down off a high. He needed more rub. He should have used the little bit Grand had given him before coming on the job. His thoughts tended to get slow and tangled right before he sobered up completely. “I mean, should I be doing a specific thing?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know what you want—”

  “God’s tears, Jamis, shut up. Do what you always do. Speak again, and I swear I will pour your rub into wet concrete and let you chip it out one starving flake at a time.” Grand closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Jamis clenched his teeth but said nothing. God’s tears, but he was tired. Tired of the games, of Grand’s weird religious sort of self-described evil. He was tired of feeling stuck in a game he didn’t understand. He was tired of not getting what he wanted. Grand had been right all those weeks ago: Jamis didn’t want the rub. Well, he did, but that wasn’t what he really wanted. It was a distraction.

  He wanted revenge. Jamis felt the rope change to smooth silk cord as he wound it around his hand tight enough to cut off blood flow. He imagined it around Grand’s neck.

  “I appreciate you coming to see me, Grand.”

  Jamis looked up to see a striking, tall, middle-aged man descending the stairs. His hair and short beard were equal parts black and steely grey, so that it almost blended into a single color. His pale green grey eyes danced with a genuine mirth, as if he was privy to some grand truth no one else could understand. He was dressed simply, white shirt untucked and half unbuttoned, but he still gave off an air of… Jamis couldn’t find a word for it. It wasn’t intimidating, at least not in the traditional sense. His face was hard, despite his eyes, but he didn’t look particularly violent or cruel. He had a sense of absolute certainty, as if he had already watched this scene a thousand times in his mind, and living it was only the inevitable finally manifesting itself.

  The man stopped on the final step of the staircase so that he stood above Jamis and Grand, looking down at them. “I trust you have a very good reason for coming in the middle of the night,” he said.

  Grand took the envelope out of his jacket and set it on the cherry table next to him. “You’ve been gone a long time, Riveran. I only just heard you had come back to us,” Grand said. “Come to give you something.”

  Back from where? Jamis wondered. Grand and Riveran obviously knew each other, but they didn’t seem friendly.

  “I see,” Riveran said. “And what is that?” he asked, glancing at the envelope.

  “A retirement gift.”

  Riveran was silent a long moment. Jamis caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to see a wide Jurdish man standing only a few yards away, in the mouth of a nearby hallway. The man smiled at Jamis. His teeth were yellow and crooked. Jamis broke the silk into a fine woven steel that bit into his hands.

  “I’m flattered,” Riveran finally said into the tense silence. “But you have been misinformed. I am far from retired.”

  “Right. It’s one of those conditional kind of gifts—”

  “A bribe,” Riveran said.

  “An ugly word,” said Grand. “But the name is trivial. More important by far would be the contents of a certain safe full of jewels—mostly diamonds and sapphires—worth an ungodly sum. The envelope has the location and the combination. All yours, if you want it. The only condition—”

  “Is my retirement,” Riveran said.

  Grand looked annoyed at having been interrupted twice now, but he only clenched his jaw and nodded. “Not even a real retirement. I don’t expect you to just sit around and do nothing.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Do whatever you want. Just stay out of rub.”

  Riveran worked his mouth for a moment, then looked away from Grand without answering. He looked at Jamis, eyes somber and swimming with thoughts. “What is your name, son?”

  Jamis opened his mouth to answer, but not before Grand’s words hissed out low and dangerous.

  “Do not ignore me, Riveran. I am not a boy. I am a bad man, and you would—”

  “So you’re fond of saying,” Riveran said. His eyes never left Jamis. “What do you think?” he asked, the question directed at Jamis. “Is claiming something enough to make it so? Is Grand a bad man because he says so?”

  “No.” The word came out hesitantly, but it was suddenly clear to Jamis. Grand’s loud insistence on his own depravity only revealed the small, petty man he was. He was a bully of addicts and hopeless men. He was cruel, but not evil. He was too insignificant to be evil.

  “Jamis, if you say another word, I will cut off your bleeding hands,” Grand said, glancing back over his shoulder at him for the barest second. Jamis bit his tongue and flexed his hands. The coarse, reverted rope chafed against his rub-tender palms.

  The Jurdish man took a threatening step at Grand but pulled up short when Riveran raised a calm hand. He was still looking at Jamis. “More talk,” Riveran said. Then he looked back at Grand. “So many words. They mean nothing. Get out of my house, Grand.”

  “You’re a fool, old man,” Grand snarled as he snatched the envelope from the table. “Don’t forget. I came to you, offered you—”

  Grand stop
ped, confused, then surprised. He tried to look down at the piece of braided steel suddenly sticking out of his neck, just above his collarbone, but his head didn’t move like it should have.

  Jamis let the steel revert to rope before pulling it out of the back of Grand’s neck. Grand didn’t cough or wretch blood. He didn’t even turn to look at Jamis. He just collapsed to the floor, twitching as he simultaneously drowned and bled to death.

  Jamis stared down at Grand’s lifeless body, cold rage washing through is veins. He was done with words, done telling himself what it was he did or didn’t want. It was time to do something about it. He broke the rope again and it crumbled into ash, falling apart in his fingers and mixing with the blood.

  “Starving hells,” Jamis said, reality rushing in on him. The cold rage shifted in a heartbeat to bright panic. He looked down hands and was surprised to see Grand’s blood. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it wasn’t his. “Oh hells hells hells,” he said, as he tried to wipe the blood from his hands.

  “That played out nicely,” Riveran said with an appreciative frown. He stepped off the stairs and walked to Jamis. “You barely look high at all, son. When was your last rub?”

  “What?” Jamis asked, looking up from his hands. The blood wasn’t coming off. It only smeared and spread. “My what?”

  “Your last rub. The last time you took the drug.”

  “I don’t remember, exactly.” He had just killed a man, and Riveran was quizzing him about rub? “It’s been… I don’t know. Hours. Four or five, maybe?”