The Broken Man

by Brandon Jones

  Alia turned back to him, expression still afraid, but her eyes were confused, and a little sad.

  “Sometimes the skin tears open,” Jamis said, not knowing why he was telling her. “If I’m not careful. If I lift heavy things or stretch them too far. Or when I rub.”

  Alia flinched, but she didn’t look away this time. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Why do you keep doing it?”

  Jamis shrugged. “The rub fixes them too—heals the skin. But it feels like fire at first. Then it feels good, like the world goes warm and soft, like I’m made of light and power. It makes me stronger. I heal faster. It feels like I’ll never be sad or empty again.”

  But rub lies. The emptiness always came back, always bigger than before. He tried to fill that hole with revenge, but even that was complicated now. Riveran said he needed Jamis, but he hadn’t pulled Jamis from the canal.

  “He’s using you,” Alia said. “You know that.”

  “He doesn’t use me,” Jamis said, too quickly.

  Alia smiled, her eyes still sad. “I know how it feels—”

  “Don’t,” Jamis said. He didn’t need her pity. She wasn’t like him. But she didn’t stop.

  “Feramos asked me to hurt people too. I know how it—”

  “I said don’t,” Jamis said, surging to his feet.

  “It took me too long to realize that wasn’t what I wanted, and I was in over my head. You don’t want this either.”

  Two long strides took him to her side, and he stared down at her, hands shaking. “What else would I do?” he asked, voice pleading and angry.

  “Leave,” Alia said. “Let me go. Walk out that door never look back. Never let anyone control you ever again.”

  Jamis looked at her, and she stared back. Then the door creaked. Jamis pulled the gag up around Alia’s face and placed it back in her mouth.

  “Good,” Riveran said, looking from Alia to Jamis. He crossed the room to Jamis, retrieving a large bag of rub from an inner pocket. “Use all of it, as quickly as you can. It’s nearly time.”

  Jamis stared at the bag in Riveran’s hand. He didn’t take it. He didn’t move. It had been hours since his last rub; Jamis wanted it so badly.

  “Well?” Riveran asked, impatient.

  “Nothing,” Jamis said. He took the bag.

  * * *

  Josen lay flat on the floor of his stone cell, nibbling at the last little bit of his ceral bread. He tried breaking the bread into something else—bread made of wheat or barley—but it reverted too quickly. He couldn’t eat it fast enough to do him any good. So he ate the bread knowing it was useless.

  At least he was full. The Archonites were clearly not interested in letting the Vault prisoners die of lack of food or water—a mixed kindness. But what they did intend to do with him was a mystery. Shouldn’t he get a trial of some sort? He was a Reverate, after all. They couldn’t lock him away forever, pretending he didn’t exist. People would miss him. Surely his family would see that he wasn’t just left here to waste away. Vale would do something. Surely…

  Another man tried the leap on day eight—or maybe nine? Josen had a hard time keeping track. He stopped sitting at the edge of his cell, feet dangling over the side, stopped making notches there. Sitting there, staring at the edge of freedom… It was too much. He didn’t want to kill himself, but there were moments when the jump didn’t look so impossible.

  Late on day eight—or nine—another of Josen’s neighbors threw himself at the ocean. Best as Josen could tell from his perch ninety feet above, the man hit a mere ten feet short of the edge. It was impressive. Most jumpers didn’t make it any closer than about twenty, based on the collection of blood smears on the rooftop below.

  There was a note baked inside his bread ration the next morning. Tori taken hostage, jungle rub camp east of Kendai, going to rescue her. It was signed “Gutter Lord.”

  Josen thought that sounded important, but thinking was difficult. Almost impossible at times.

  The wailing and moaning coming from the neighboring cells grew steadily worse until day nine. Two more jumped on day ten. Josen decided to call it day ten. It felt like a day ten.

  Neither of them made it. The second jumper bounced when she hit, her body cartwheeling into the ocean.

  Things were quieter after that.

  In the cold of the night Josen broke the threadbare linen blanket into wool—still threadbare, but warmer. He woke up every few hours, suddenly cold beneath the reverted linen blanket and repeated the process. He did this for nearly a week before discovering that he could break the air around him, making it warmer. But he couldn’t do it while he was sleeping. Still, if he stayed awake to keep warm at night…

  An odd thought nagged at the back of Josen’s mind. He couldn’t pin it down. It had been two days since the last jumper, five since the note, and he had thrown himself into kind of manic study of his breaking, scratching notes into the walls and floor of the cell, breaking the surface layer into clay to make the writing easier.

  Breaking the linen blanket into wool was simple, required very little power. Breaking linen blanket into glass was harder—not to mention entirely useless. Breaking the stones into glowing stones stretched Josen to the edge of the amount of power his weakened body could handle. Why?

  Josen sat at the edge of his cell overlooking the ocean and stared at the roof below. What would it feel like? Falling, wind rushing, that moment of weightlessness, stretched out longer than any fall before, he wondered. He considered, for what must have been the hundredth time, breaking his way out of prison. Literally. Breaking the wooden cell door into a rotten version of itself and kicking it down would take next to no effort at all, but he couldn’t fight his way out of the prison. Even at his best—and starved as he was, he was far from his best right now—he was an alley scrapper, not a real fighter.

  Breaking energized him, cleared his mind temporarily. It never lasted long, but he felt stronger—more alive. The feeling was as addicting as the power itself.

  Josen played a game with his water dish, trying to break the air below it into something stiffer, more resistant. Some days he was sure he could see the dish hesitate.

  He spoke to Grandpa Markise on the particularly bad days. Josen could see him some days. Grandfather Markise stopped when Josen spoke to him, listened. Josen told him everything. He talked about running away after his death. He talked about how he had failed: at becoming a famous thief, at saving his family, at making Grandfather proud. Grandfather Markise watched in silence as Josen spoke, never replying.

  Josen concentrated, directing the energy into the air just below the dish. He impressed his will on that air, willing it to become something impossible—willing it to become solid.

  That was the trick, Josen realized in one his manic bursts of clarity. Breaking was all about will and imagination. Breaking some things was simple. He could turn the water in his cup to milk, to alcohol, to sand. He could see the water, understand it. Nature had done all the imagining for him. Making the change in his mind, from water to milk, was simple. Making the mental change from water to sand was more difficult and reverted faster. Making the mental change from air to what Josen could only describe as stiff air was impossible.

  Almost.

  Josen released the cup. It hesitated only a moment before dropping to the stone floor of the cell. But the cup had hesitated. He was almost sure of it.

  Josen stared down at the prison below him, at the ocean beyond. Maybe he could make the jump, all the way to the ocean. Maybe he couldn’t. Would that be so bad? Josen leaned out over the edge and looked down. Maybe he could. He leaned out further…

  In a bout of paranoia, Josen scraped away the notes on the walls and rewrote them in a code language he formulated on the spot. He wrote for hours before realizing his “code” was gibberish and erased most of it as well.

  He started dreaming with his eyes open. He dreamed of people he knew, and some he did not. He dreamed of dead men. He dreamed of his father.
He dreamed of bloody Shep and Deferate Parose. They never said anything at all. They just stared with disappointed, accusing, dead eyes.

  Most often he dreamed of Grandfather Markise. Grandfather Markise, younger than Josen remembered him, paced around the cell, looking at the notes Josen had etched into the stone. “A man is a fool if he is blind only because he will not open his eyes,” Grandpa Markise said.

  Josen recognized it as one of Grandfather’s favorite sayings, something said by some long-dead king. He said it often in those waking dreams.

  “You are a fool, Josen,” Grandfather Markise said.

  Josen wept.

  * * *

  Akelle crouched at the edge of a jungle clearing east of Kendai, watching. It was four days since Akelle bribed the baker to slip a note to Josen—well, to all of the prisoners in the Vaults, since he had no way of knowing which loaf of bread would go to which prisoner. There would be five very confused prisoners in the famous Vaults of the Finger, but Josen would definitely get the note.

  Of course, Josen couldn’t do anything from his cell in Ludon, but Akelle wanted him to know anyway. Akelle wanted Josen to know that he was taking care of things out here.

  It was six days now since he discovered this rub camp. Once Akelle tracked Tori to Kendai, it hadn’t been hard to discover where she might have gone. Akelle asked questions in the right circles, sometimes about Riveran, sometimes about Aboran. Turned out the rub camp east of the city was a well-known secret. A man named Epalli ran a rub camp for Aboran, and Epalli frequently employed local boys to run product and supplies for him. The only people who didn’t know seemed to be the Ladies. Either that, or they were on the take.

  Akelle had watched the camp for days. The clearing was sizable—maybe half a mile across. There were half a dozen sheds placed at regular intervals around the edge of the clearing, and two larger central buildings. He was almost certain they were keeping Tori in one of the central buildings, probably the smaller of the two. He had checked some of the outer sheds, but they were only filled with equipment and stockpiles of raw ceral. Akelle didn’t have any idea why they would keep any of that around, but he didn’t care at the moment. Tori wasn’t in the sheds.

  If she was here at all—and Akelle was sure she was—then she was in one of the central buildings. Probably the one with all the guards surrounding it every moment of the day—one guard stationed at each corner of the building plus one more at the door, rotating every hour as near as Akelle could determine. But Akelle had a plan. Akelle always had a plan.

  After one last look over the clearing in the middle of the jungle, Akelle retreated back into the forest, retracing his steps until he found his pile of precisely arranged, mostly dry wood. He retrieved a jug of oil and poured it on the base of the woodpile as he walked around it, four steps on each side. It was a lot of wood. It had taken him most of four days to gather. He had done his best to find wood that could burn, and he felt like he did a pretty good job, considering how often it rained here. He had even scavenged a few truly dry pieces and carted them all the way here from the city, but the jungle was a wet enough place that he wasn’t going to take any chances. The oil would burn hot and help the fire start quickly. He wanted the fire to be sudden and alarming, not a drawn-out, guttering curiosity.

  Akelle bent to light the oil, then paused. Something caught his attention—a sound at the edge of hearing that wasn’t the normal sound of the jungle at night. Akelle had grown up here in Kendai, had spent enough of his childhood exploring the jungle to feel the subtle shift. He tensed, glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of something even in the dark.

  There. A light bobbed through the trees. Several lights, flickering torches in the distance, moving from the direction of the city toward the rub camp. A resupply. Akelle had seen several of those in the days he spent watching to camp. His plan didn’t include them. They didn’t often stay long, so he wouldn’t have to wait long until they left.

  But he had already poured the oil. The wood was dry, but it wouldn’t absorb the oil well. Even now the oil was slowly dripping away, falling uselessly into the wet dirt.

  Akelle swore under his breath and moved away from the wood pile, removing himself from the temptation. It would be stupid not to wait. Rash. He could afford to wait a little longer.

  A shout drew his attention back toward the edge of the jungle. The resupply party had stopped, their torches no longer bobbing through the trees as they ran. He wasn’t close enough to make out words, but Akelle could hear raised voices.

  A sudden, sharp cry of pain split the air. Then silence. The silence stretched, and Akelle held his breath. Bleeding hands, what was going on? There was no reason for a supply team to stop at the edge of jungle, not for this long. Even if one of them was hurt for some reason, they would want to get to the farm proper to…

  The torches began moving quickly again, almost frantically, back toward the city.

  Akelle grinned in the darkness. He had no idea what might have happened, but this was the best-case scenario. Akelle slipped back to his wood pile as the resupply team’s torches disappeared into the jungle.

  Akelle lit the fire and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. It wasn’t a huge fire. Okay, Akelle admitted to himself, it was kind of huge. It had to be big enough that it would be impossible to miss in the darkness, but not so big that it was likely burn the jungle down. He had at least thought that part through. Akelle wasn’t one to burn down entire swaths of jungle as a distraction. That was Josen’s kind of thing.

  Akelle slid into the little burrow he had dug for himself just before the trees abruptly ended and clearing began. He pulled the woven mat of leaves and grass over himself, listening as voices and footsteps approached. Lots of voices. Men yelled and called to one another, moving past Akelle and further into the jungle toward the fire.

  Akelle waited as long as he dared, then counted to fifty after that, before emerging from his hidey hole. He slid the mat back slowly, doing his best to make as little noise as possible as he moved out of the forest and into the open fields. The sound of a fight broke out behind him. That was unexpected, but he didn’t slow. His plan was working perfectly.

  Akelle grinned and ran faster.

  * * *

  Josen ran on a constant stream of ceral energy now. It was the only thing that allowed him to even approach something resembling reality. He paced his cell, note in hand—the same one he found baked into his bread several days ago. He wasn’t sure how many. He had lost himself for a time and was only barely holding at bay the abyss of starvation and madness even now.

  But this note was important. It meant something important. Tori was in trouble. How? Why was she in Kendai, and why did Akelle think she needed his help?

  Josen’s right leg buckled suddenly, for no apparent reason, and he collapsed to the stone. He swore softly under his breath. This was not what he needed. He needed his body to be strong, steady, and reliable.

  But he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in two weeks. He was pretty sure it had been two weeks. Josen stretched his legs, massaging the muscles as he did. It didn’t matter if his body was ready or not. The longer he waited, the sicker and weaker he would get. Tonight was the night, and there was no turning back.

  The sun sank below the horizon, buried by the calm blue of the ocean while Josen stretched and massaged his legs. As soon as the sun disappeared completely, he ate the last of bread he was saving. It wasn’t much, but it helped calm his nerves. He was an absolute lunatic, and he knew it. But he was a lunatic who was out of options. He felt his well of ceral grow as he ate, swelling just a little bit more with each bite. He drank the last of his water and placed the bowl back next to the slot in the door. He might not be back in time to put it there later.

  He glanced out the open side of his cell, out into the darkening dusk. It was probably dark enough now. It would have to be.

  He stood as far away from the open end of the cell as he could get, pressed up against t
he wall by the door. Three steps. He could do that. Josen shook his legs, one at a time, knowing he was stalling. That was okay. He was probably about to die.

  Before he could think too much about what he was about to do, he sprinted toward the open side of the cell.

  Josen leapt out into space. He wanted to scream—nearly did—as his feet left the hard stone of his cell. He rose for a moment that felt like an eternity. It was an amazing feeling—weightless and free. It was wonderful, but he had to focus, had to be certain if he wanted to live.

  He focused on the air just below his foot, the world moving in slow motion around him, and impressed his will on it. He willed it to be solid. More than that, he knew it would be—knew that when he put his foot down…

  Josen stepped in midair. His left foot found purchase on something solid for a fraction of a second, just long enough to propel him further up and out—away from the Finger rising up out of the ocean, further toward the edge where the lower prison dropped off into the ocean—a fraction of a second of solid air. Excitement thrilled through him, and he struggled to keep his focus on breaking a second step beneath his right foot as his leap crested.

  His right leg flailed in empty space.

  Time rushed back in on him. Any sense of triumph at the first step was ripped away and Josen’s breath caught as he fell, the sudden speed terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. The lower prison shot up to meet him. Too fast. He had needed that second step. He wasn’t going to make it. Josen tried desperately to break the air beneath him, to get any kind of a forward push. He felt the air tense around him in bursts, but he was moving too fast.

  I’m not going to make it, I’m not going to… he thought, panic rising as wind whipped at his hair and ragged clothes. A short scream burst unbidden from his chest even as the world seemed to speed back up. He fell past the edge of the prison and slammed feet first, screaming, into the cold ocean.

  Water exploded around him, the waves breaking the surface of the water the only thing softening the blow. Josen flailed uselessly, his body afire from the impact, before regaining his senses and swimming toward the surface. His heart raced as he broke the surface and gasped in a breath, a huge smile splitting his face in the dark.