“Right,” Josen said. While the emotional trauma of watching a frightened girl die from a rub overdose was no small thing, her death posed little of an immediate problem for Josen and Tori. He was no stranger to death. Difficult as it was, haunting as the pleading in that girl’s eyes had been, Josen would get over it. He would have to. No, the more immediate problem was in the cause of the girl’s death and the ramifications.
A certain amount of unsavory behavior was to be expected in nearly any city in the Passbound Union. With the obvious exception of Ceralon, the criminal underground in the Passbound Cities was eclectic and thriving. Most legal activities were irritations, a housefly buzzing in the corner of the room that could be mostly ignored by the citizenry at large. That wasn’t to say that the Ladies of the Archon didn’t have their hands full policing Ludon, filling prisons and gallows alike with the unwary and unlucky, but that was of little concern to those in positions of wealth and power. A healthy criminal underground was, in some ways, beneficial even, allowing the quality to indulge their various vices in discreet and detached fashions. The quality of Ludon—the Clergy and the moneylenders, the prosperous merchants and business owners—were happy to go about their lives in blissful apathy, as long as the criminality remained a peripheral irritation.
Which meant it was in the interests of those who made their livelihood in the periphery to maintain a certain level of self-regulation—to exercise restraint as to the nature and timing of their less-than-legal activities and to intervene when restraint was lacking in one of their fellows. To be specific, killing one of the young and wealthy—even indirectly through rub overdose—wasn’t just sloppy business. It was dangerous for every pickpocket and conman, every dealer and crime lord in Ludon.
And Saul’s information pointed at Aboran, whoever he was, as the current overreaching zealot. The girl Josen watched die tonight totaled four such deaths in three weeks. Three of those deaths occurred within easy walking distance of the Verolius. So Josen and Tori, at the behest of Saul, spent their evenings sitting and observing the loud, trendy lounge, watching for some indication this Aboran was indeed involved in the sloppy dealing.
“Starving idiots,” Tori said under her breath. “If they had half the brains the Faceless gave an oyster—”
“They were barely more than kids,” Josen said, feeling the need to defend them despite agreeing mostly with Tori. He tugged at his collar, trying to convince some of the heat trapped inside his jacket to dissipate without success. “It’s the starving dealers. They’re the real problem.”
“Saul’s going to lose it when he hears,” Tori said.
Josen’s eyes drifting back to the group that had caught his eye earlier. What was it about them? “So, we bring him a bit of good news to chase down the bad taste.”
“Except we don’t have any good news.”
“Minor detail,” Josen said, waving his hand, still focused on the group across the room. Not the whole group, he realized. Just one of them. “Easily remedied.” A man in the grey jacket. Wearing a grey jacket.
“Josen,” Tori said, tone wary. “We’re here to observe. We’re watching, not—”
“Got it,” he said as he stood up. “Hold this for me?” He handed her his cup.
“Josen, don’t—”
But he was already gone.
Chapter 2
The young man in the grey jacket was mostly unextraordinary. He was balding at an unfortunate rate and he was a little on the tall side—a few fingers taller than Josen. But despite a head both more elevated and less laden with hair, the young man looked absolutely ordinary. He was vaguely handsome, but not striking; conversational, but not overbearing. His clothes were tasteful, but neither fine nor worn.
Josen watched him move about, socializing and smiling and buying drinks for himself and conversation partners, never remaining with one group for more than a few moments. Nothing about that was odd.
But he was wearing his jacket. Like its owner, it was unremarkable, except that it was being worn. Despite the fug, the sticky stale indoor heat coming from too many people laughing and breathing and perspiring in close indoor company, it was being worn.
Josen made a mental note to remove his own jacket should he ever find himself in this situation again, wandering hands or no. He could keep his toys directly on his person.
He approached the young man slowly, pausing as often as he could without drawing attention. He went the long way, along the edge of the room, keeping a discreet eye on the man the entire time. The man in the grey jacket moved to yet another group, swapping gossip or small talk or whatever a person could talk about at such short intervals. Josen stopped and ordered another drink, waiting in an inconspicuous nook to watch his target. The man’s conversationally animated hands moved in a precise pattern, Josen realized, the pattern repeating every minute or so. Very interesting.
The young man’s newest group of interest was made up of four particularly lovely young ladies, and he seemed enthusiastic about whatever it was they were talking about. Good. He was less likely to notice Josen coming.
Josen paid for his drink and moved again—still without a plan—working his way closer to the four young ladies and their peculiar conversation partner.
The man repeated the hand signal again, left hand dropping behind his back in a fashion designed to look natural. Either he has a sincerely weird tic, or …
There. A figure rushed past the man, jostling him. They were good. Josen spared the briefest of glances at the passing figure—a garishly dressed man with pale Seftish skin—but he forced himself to stay focused on his target. They were very good—Josen might have missed the exchange if he hadn’t been watching for it, but he would have to trust that Tori had noticed the exchange as well and would keep an eye on the other man.
Josen concentrated on his mark, running through scenarios as he moved within six yards. Josen watched the man slip something in his right breast pocket, whatever he had just been passed.
Two steps closer, three steps from the target, who was turned a quarter away, his left backside facing Josen. At this angle, that type of jacket and pocket …
One step. Josen stumbled that last step straight into the back of the man in the grey jacket.
Josen nearly knocked the jacketed man over, his hand slipping expertly into the breast pocket. Josen’s drink, a full cup of vivid red wine, tumbled out of his hand as he grasped at the jacketed man, sloshing across three of the four young ladies in the immediate vicinity. His other hand came up empty.
“Oh, God’s tears,” Josen said past the shocked and dismayed squeals, slurring his words. He pretended to attempt to right himself on the jacketed man, lost his grip, and let himself nearly fall again, reaching again into the pocket he thought he had seen the man slip his mysterious missive into. Again, he came up empty.
“Hey!” yelled the jacketed man, shoving Josen to the side. “Starving hells,” he swore, looking over his clothes to see if Josen had spilled anything on him.
“I’m sorry,” Josen said, pulling himself mostly upright—successfully this time. “I’m…” He paused, pointing to the cup now rolling to a stop on the floor under a pair of girls with stained dresses. “That was…” He trailed off, as if unsure of what he was going to say.
“Your fault entirely,” the jacketed man said, bristling. “You babbling, starving, drunken moron, and I expect—”
“Expensive,” Josen said, interrupting the man.
“What?”
“That,” Josen pointed at the cup again, “was expensive.” Josen swayed on his feet, closing his eyes briefly as if to collect himself.
“It was what?”
“Expensive. And you,” he jabbed a wavering finger at the jacketed man, “tripped me.” Josen yelled the last words, his voice ranging high and out of control.
“No,” the young man said, caught somewhere between outrage and the desire to avoid making a scene. “Look, look you miserable, starving… You can’t seriou
sly—”
“You are an oaf,” Josen said, stepping forward, putting his face uncomfortably close to the jacketed man’s reddening one. “A bloody-handed, fish-faced son of back-alley—”
The jacketed man must have had a deep-seated insecurity about his parentage or physical resemblance to fish, as his reaction was even more violent than Josen anticipated. His fist crashed into Josen’s forehead, just above his left eye. Josen grunted and stumbled back, pain blossoming across his face. He looked for a long moment at the jacketed man, who held his right wrist against his body as he stared back at Josen. Hot blood rolled across Josen’s eyebrow and down his face.
Josen grinned and charged.
He drove through the man, picking him up and slamming him onto a nearby table. Drinks and playing cards flew everywhere. A few well-placed shoves and weak-but-well-timed swings at innocent onlookers had the desired effect of sending the entire room into chaos. Within seconds the air was filled with a cacophony of equal parts fighting and wails from those trying to escape it. With any luck, no one would remember where the fight started or who had been involved.
Josen crouched low, watching the swell of violence that had swallowed the jacketed man. That had worked better than expected. He was lucky the people in this room had reached a critical mass of intoxication, allowing him to create such a scene with relative ease. There was nothing worse than trying to start a bar fight to cover up a quick body search only to find yourself in a room full of sober pacifists.
A hard, booted foot suddenly caught Josen in the knee, dropping him instantly. He tried to turn as he tumbled to the wooden lounge floor, to determine if the attack was intentional, only to have the hard, pointed toe of a woman’s boot drive into his kidney.
He fell back, groaning and coughing, but the kicks came more earnestly, falling fast and fierce. They came from all directions at once. None of them were particularly powerful, but what they lacked in power, they made up for in persistence and impeccable aim. Josen tried to stumble to his feet, to escape, but a well-aimed kick to his nose sent him back to the floor in a spray of blood.
“Our dresses,” said a voice in his ear, “were expensive too.” Josen blinked stupidly, dazed and trying to make sense of what the voice was saying. He looked up at the four women who had been talking to the jacketed man, three of whom had bright red stains across the front of their dresses. They kicked again, one last time for good measure, then strode away through the chaos of the fight untouched, no one willing, even drunk as they were, to involve them in the brawl.
Feeling like he had been trampled by a buffalo, Josen groaned and rolled over—right into the unconscious body of the jacketed man. He had no idea what had happened to the man, but he didn’t stop to question his good fortune. Josen rolled him over and rifled through his pockets. Some coin—not as much as Josen expected—a list of names, a folding knife, and some needle and string. None of it was what he was looking for.
How was there nothing in the breast pocket? Josen had watched the man slip something in there. He felt at the jacket by the breast pocket and noticed something slightly stiff. He reached into the pocket again and—
Stupid, he realized, feeling the false lining give way to a more thorough search. The handoff had been professional. Josen should have assumed he was careful in other ways as well. He pulled out two small pieces of paper, eyes scanning them quickly. One was a coded message of some sort. That would go to Saul.
The other was bank note—Josen grinned—worth fifty heavy gold marks. There was no name specified, only stating that the money was to be disbursed to “the bearer.” That was easily half a year’s earnings for a prosperous business owner and close to triple what a skilled laborer would make in a year.
Josen pocketed both pieces of paper and abandoned the unconscious jacketed man. Best to be far away when he woke up. He picked his way through the brawl as best he could while trying to staunch his bleeding nose and the cut above his eye, mostly failing.
Despite the blood, Josen smiled as he stumbled out of the Verolius. A single bouncer at the door was happy to let him go. Every patron who hobbled out on their own was one less they would have to toss out.
Despite looking like a fantastic mess, despite dozens of sore parts that were no doubt bruising spectacularly, despite the fact that he had no doubt ruined his good pair of pants, Josen grinned and hummed to himself as he wandered back home the long way, pockets full of another man’s things.
Chapter 3
“Seriously, Josen?” Akelle said. “Seriously? First you send me home after the Pátince job like I’m some kind of errand boy. Now you won’t even take me with you to see Saul? That’s crap!”
“What do you want me to do?” Josen asked, stifling a yawn as he pulled his boots on. Gingerly. God’s tears, he was sore. And tired. It was a rare morning that saw Josen up in time to see the sunrise for any reason, let alone the morning after getting sucked into an epic bar fight—even one he had started.
“I think I’ve been pretty starving clear! Let me come with!”
“You know I can’t,” Josen sighed.
“No, I don’t.” Akelle threw up his hands and turned to rummage through the cupboards. “You could. I mean, you’ve been working for Saul for how long now?”
“A year and—”
“A year and a half!” Akelle said over top of him. “A year and a half of We’ve got to play it safe, Akelle, and We can tell Saul as soon as I finish this job, Akelle, and The timing just isn’t right, Akelle. Well, I say the time is right. Today. This morning. And why don’t we have any starving food?” Akelle stood in front of their small set of cupboards, doors thrown wide open to reveal nothing but empty shelves. “I mean, are we suddenly short on money or something?” He glared at Josen, who had to stifle a laugh.
Akelle had grown a head and a half since Josen had met him in rice paddies of Kendai—almost six years ago now. Josen had worked those rice paddies during one of his short-lived resolutions to give up thieving. He had made such a poor farmer that the fieldmaster had threatened to drown him in the paddy if ever saw Josen again. Akelle had showed up hoping to steal Josen’s shoes. Starving little plague rat.
“We’ve been busy,” Josen said, “and you eat more food than a herd of Jurdish elephants.”
“I don’t eat like a herd of elephants. Maybe a herd of lions.”
“Lions don’t… Never mind. Saul is on edge with the whole Aboran thing. I know you don’t want to hear it, but this really isn’t a good time to introduce you.” Josen slipped into his jacket and made his way to the door, a sick, nervous ball forming in his stomach. “Why don’t you go buy some food while I’m out?”
Akelle grumbled under his breath, something about being “a starving errand boy,” but didn’t object any further, for which Josen was grateful. Even if Saul hadn’t been worked up over Aboran, Josen wasn’t sure how he would react to Josen’s role in the previous night’s events. As it was… today was not the day for testing the bounds of Saul’s tolerance.
Still, Akelle deserved better.
“Tell you what,” Josen said as he walked over to the mantle, admiring the collection of stolen items he and Akelle had collected there, including the book they had stolen from the Pátince. “We need to refill our purses soon anyway. What if we take a trip to one of our fences this afternoon, after I get back? We can offload a few of these.”
“Finally!” Akelle said, his face lighting up like Jurdon at night. “Who are you thinking? Travish here in town? Or are you thinking we should go see Verichia? I vote Verichia. We haven’t been to Sefti in ages.”
“Verichia is still too old for you,” Josen said. “Three months hasn’t changed that.”
“Come on,” Akelle scoffed. “I’ve grown at least an inch since then,” he said, grinning and wagging his eyebrows.
“I was thinking Jurdon,” Josen said, choosing to ignore the comment.
“Wait,” Akelle said, smile vanishing. “You don’t mean—”
/> “Madame Junishu,” Josen said, nodding.
“No way. She’s crazy.”
“She gives the best payouts—”
“I can’t stand the way she rubs her pudgy hands all over my face.”
“It’s not that weird. She’s blind. Besides, it’s been too long since we’ve fenced through her.”
“Because she’s crazy,” Akelle said.
“Come on, Akelle, we have a reputation to keep up. We don’t want people thinking the Broken Man has gone quiet.”
“Fine,” Akelle said, his finger leveled at Josen. “But if she kisses me on the mouth again, I’m going to lose it.”
Josen grinned. “All right. I’d better go. Pick out our take—not the Pátince book, but four or five others. Maybe the Oberine kettle and a couple of the Pallouve frames. We have, what, three of them?”
“Yeah. They’ll sell nicely as a set. What about the sketches? The A’tachi notebook.”
“No, keep that one. I’ve got to go.”
“Fine. If Saul kills you, I’m still going to sell your boots,” Akelle said.
Josen shook his head and grinned as he closed the door.
“Hey,” Akelle called from inside.
Josen cracked the door open just wide enough to stick his head in.
“Don’t get caught,” Akelle said, grinning.
Josen grinned back. “Never.” He left.
He had distinguished himself quickly in Saul’s organization thanks in large part to the deft fingers and budding criminal genius of his young partner. Working his way into Saul’s criminal organization had been one of the best things they had done here in Ludon. Allying themselves with an important crime boss like Saul kept Josen and Akelle from being run out of the city by any number of other criminal factions in the city—which had been a problem in the past.
As Josen worked his way into Saul’s good graces, he had begun to earn more interesting and important assignments—his recent jobs with Tori were evidence of that. Even the Aboran job, dull as it seemed, was an important one, one that showed a lot of trust from Saul. Josen owed it to Akelle to introduce him to Saul, but he would be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss having Akelle as a sort of secret weapon.
The Broken Man Page 3
