Jamis, Epalli, and Riveran wound their way through the busy streets of the Lower City, taking the long way from the Basin Pass to Reverate Berden’s manor. The buildings here—and building was a generous term—were all fragile, impermanent things. Jamis thought most of them looked in danger of falling over at the first stiff breeze.
The streets were full of bustling people and the occasional thundering carriage moving far too fast. The first several such vehicles had alarmed Jamis, but no one else seemed to pay them any attention, though they did allow them plenty of room. In this part of the Lower city, the streets followed the general lines and curves of the various small canals—no more than ten paces wide—flowing through the city, carrying water out into the ceral fields for irrigation.
Jamis could recall wanting desperately to visit the Ceral Basin back when he had still been Deferate Carle, but he could barely remember why. It was odd to be here, to see men and women in Carter robes hurrying in this direction and that. Most would be preparing for first harvest and pilgrimage.
That had been Jamis’ most earnest desire once—to be a part of the journey from Ceral Basin to Ceralon without the aid of the Pass. It was the sacrifice the Faceless God required in return for the blessing of edible ceral. When the grain left this basin, it was hard and unpalatable. Raw ceral could grind millstones to dust, but over the course of the pilgrimage, God softened the ceral so that when it arrived in Ceralon to make its way through the passes to the Ceral Bound Cities, the grain was edible, fit to provide much-needed food for millions. It was the highest calling of a Carter, their most important duty alongside maintaining and regulating the Passes.
It was such a self-sacrificing, romantic cause. Jamis could only vaguely remember being inspired by the idea that he would one day be a part of such a cause.
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He let the rub tear at the flesh of his fingers, enjoying the pain and the gentle wash of numbness. He knew Riveran was using him, hated him for it, but he would let himself be used if the meant getting revenge. He would do his part when it came.
Then maybe he would kill Riveran too. He hadn’t decided yet.
Jamis stopped. He pulled up so suddenly that the people behind him nearly ran him over. Something caught his attention, something at the edge of hearing that he recognized, that drew him like iron to a lodestone. Jamis turned his head, swung it this way and that, trying to recapture whatever it was. The rub-induced numbness sharpened into a painful tingle, and his body tensed, his heart pounding. Riveran and Epalli, a dozen paces ahead, finally noticed Jamis was no longer with them, but…
There. On the other side of the street, just past Riveran and Epalli, standing with a woman Jamis didn’t recognize and a teenage boy he did. It was him. The man who ruined Jamis’ life—made him an addict, a murderer, a wretch.
Jamis took a step forward, his vision narrowing until all he saw was his tormentor. He was here. How could he be here? He was here. He just stood there, haggling with some merchant, laughing at something the boy said, as if he couldn’t feel the blood on his hands, the way he had torn Jamis’ world apart.
He laughed. How could he laugh? How could he…
Jamis snarled and leapt forward, pushing his way through and around people without any thought. People yelled after him, but he paid them no mind. Nothing mattered but closing the space between him and his tormentor, closing his hands around the man’s neck, watching as his eyes bulged and his legs thrashed and…
The sound of screaming horses broke Jamis’ reverie. Jamis turned his head and watched, as if in slow motion—a teamster sawing on the reigns of his team, the horses bearing down on Jamis, trying to bring their load to a halt or change direction or anything but run him down, the attached cart behind them swinging back and forth out of control.
Jamis moved too late. The horses missed, but the cart swung wide, caught Jamis in the side with a violent, crushing collision. The impact lifted Jamis from his feet, threw him into flimsy shacks lining the street. His head collided with a pole, sending him careening into unconsciousness.
* * *
Josen’s head whipped around at the sound of screams from people and horses. The cart slid out of control as it tried to stop, then slammed into the poor moron who had run heedless into the road. The man was thrown with such force that he crashed through the insubstantial street stalls, carrying wood and cloth and merchandise into the canal at the back of the shops.
“Bleeding hands!” Akelle said, ducking as shrapnel bounced around them. “What was that?” he yelled. Apparently, he hadn’t seen it. It happened so fast.
They ran to the edge of the canal, slipping between a pair of undamaged stalls to the water’s edge, more onlookers following close behind. Ruined goods, chunks of wood and torn cloth bobbed lazily in the water in irreverent indifference to the violence seconds before.
“God’s tears,” Alia said, pointing. “There.”
Josen saw.
A limp hand protruded from underneath mostly whole cloth, what was left of a red and yellow striped awning.
“Poor fool,” Josen said. He hoped it had been quick. Drowning seemed like a terrible way…
The hand thrashed.
Josen leapt into the water, not even considering his own weakness until after his feet left the ground. This is becoming a weird habit, he thought as he swam through the canal water toward the person trapped beneath the red and yellow fabric. Several other splashes sounded behind Josen, but this was easy compared to his swim after Montiel weeks earlier. The water was lazy and warm, and Josen reached the man easily.
Josen pulled the fabric off the man and thrust his head up out of the water. The man coughed weakly as Josen towed him back to the side of the canal, letting the people on the shore help in dragging both of them out of the water. The others in the water were gathering what they could of the floating merchandise—some to save, some seeing an opportunity to get something free.
Josen rolled the soggy man onto his side and pounded his back. The man coughed and vomited canal water, but miraculously looked fine otherwise. Josen could hear two men pushed their way through the crowd of onlookers behind him, calling after their fortunate friend.
“Are you okay?” Josen asked, feeling foolish for the question but not knowing what else to say. “Does anything feel broken?”
The man looked up at Josen, the emotion on his face surprisingly intense and absolutely unreadable.
“Is he alive?” someone said.
“Yes,” Josen said, patting the soggy man on the shoulder as he turned. “I’m sure he needs to see a physician, but…” Josen froze. He looked up to see Saul standing over him, a wide Jurdish man behind him, both of them staring wide-eyed at Josen. Recognition, then the barest hint of a startled surprise lit across Saul’s face before he managed to school his expression into a neutral concern.
Josen stood. His mouth clenched tight, and a well of emotions threatened to wash him away into stuttering incoherence. He had played the moment out in his mind a thousand times since waking after the night at the Basin Pass. He had never imagined it like this.
He met Saul’s silent stare for a long moment. The closest onlookers pressed back into the crowd, sensing the sudden, dangerous tension humming in the air between Josen and Saul.
The man at Josen’s feet coughed again and rolled over, trying to get to his feet. Josen took the man under the arm, helping him up.
“Reverate Oak,” Alia said, appearing at his elbow. She emphasized the title, glancing nervously between him and Saul, as if she thought it could protect him.
Josen nearly laughed at the thought.
“They can take care of their friend,” Alia said, taking his arm.
He didn’t move.
“Let’s go,” Alia said, pulling gently, her voice pleading. “Please, Josen.”
Josen took her hand and turned his back on Saul.
Part 5: How the Night Ends
Chapter 35
“Jose
n, she needs to know,” Akelle said. “I can’t believe you’re even considering not telling Tori. This is… I mean, Saul is…” Akelle trailed off, blowing out a breath in exasperation at his utter inability to find the words. “This is huge.”
“I know, I know,” Josen said, adjusting his formal robe of office for the hundredth time in the last few minutes. He was stalling. Josen couldn’t imagine Saul would care how Josen looked, but he also couldn’t imagine Saul looking anything less than effortlessly immaculate. He tugged on his robe again, then gave up. It would have to do. The starving robe never looked good on anyone.
“I don’t even know how to respond to this, Akelle,” Josen said as they walked out of Josen’s rooms. A carriage was waiting, ready to take them to Reverate Berden’s manor for the Midsummer Gala. “I can’t even wrap my head around it. I want to at least talk to him before we say anything to Tori.”
“We tell Tori!” Akelle said. “That’s how we respond. Then we take turns kicking his teeth in while the other two hold him down.” Akelle mimed the action, kicking an imaginary Saul repeatedly.
Josen shook his head. Saul wasn’t innocent in all of this—there was no denying that—but Josen wasn’t ready to think of Saul as an enemy. Not yet.
“Stay close tonight,” Josen said. “I don’t expect Saul to try anything at the party. But if things go weird, I want you to find Tori and tell her everything.”
* * *
The scene at Reverate Berden’s Midsummer Gala was as unadorned as Reverate Vasture’s Planting Gala had been ostentatious. The small ballroom was warm and pleasant, dressed in light painted woods and creamy marble, but beyond the addition of the absolute necessities—tables filled with food and chairs lining the walls—Berden made only the barest of concessions to the party he was obligated to host. The guests were similarly conservative in their dress and manor, less than a hundred people gathered in groups of four or five, all talking quietly amongst themselves. A few more intrepid souls had taken to the beautiful rose-marble dance floor, set lower than the rest of the room by a few feet. A small orchestra provided the music.
The somber atmosphere suited Josen’s mood. He wasn’t here to socialize or wander. He hoped to find Alia here, to spend a few moments with her before confronting Saul, but Saul was the reason Josen was here tonight.
“Josen!” came Vale’s familiar voice only moments after he had stepped into the ballroom. She rushed toward him, leading a haggard-looking Kalen by the arm. The smile on her face was equal parts relief and pure joy at having her husband back with her and safe.
“Vale, how are you?” Josen asked.
“Better,” Vale said. “I’m doing better now.” And she looked better. It made Josen sick that she had waited so long to tell him the truth, to ask for his help in rescuing Kalen, but he was glad she had. Of course, voting to allow the Ladies of the Archon a patrol contract in the Basin made him sick as well—a few were even at the party tonight, flaunting their newly acquired jurisdiction—but the smile on Vale’s face made it feel worth it.
“Reverate Oak,” Kalen said, “I can’t tell you how grateful—”
“There’s no need,” Josen interrupted. “And call me Josen, please. You look like you could use some rest.”
Kalen nodded, but Vale spoke. “We’re only making a quick appearance,” she said. “We’ll head back to the estate soon.”
“You should go home,” Josen said, “to the house in Ceralon. Take a few days. Better yet, go spend a few nights in Kendai on the beach, or in the cabin in Pomay Father used to take us to.” He wasn’t sure what Saul intended or what the outcome would be, but he doubted Vale would be able to help regardless. Better for her to be further from the center of conflict. “You both deserve a break.”
Vale looked at him, the confusion clear in her eyes. “Just the estate tonight,” she said. “But we appreciate your concern. I’ve been preoccupied the last few days,” she said, giving Kalen’s arm a squeeze. “I should probably stick around and make myself useful. How are you holding up? You look less like you’re ready to pass out at any moment.”
She was referring to Josen’s recovery from his involvement in the Great Ovine Heist, as Akelle jokingly referred to it. She hadn’t asked Josen how he managed the whole messy deal, or why Abbahim had found him unconscious on the ground at the Basin Pass, and Josen had stayed gratefully silent. She was better off not knowing.
Josen shrugged and grinned a tired grin. “I’m well enough,” he said. “I’ll be fine as long there are no more big surprises. You didn’t find anything weird in my pockets when Abbahim brought me home, did you?” he asked with a halfhearted laugh, recalling the conversation he had with Vale at the last gala about another time someone had needed to cart his unconscious body around.
“Not funny,” Vale said, but she grinned a little.
Kalen looked lost. Josen would let Vale explain if she wanted to. He bid Vale and Kalen a good evening and began to make a slow circuit of the party, hoping Saul had yet to make his appearance. Josen had no doubt he would be here tonight. Whatever his precise end goal was, if he was styling himself a Deferate he was in the Basin to be seen, not to work from the shadows. Josen felt their confrontation looming, but there was one more person he wanted to see first.
He found Alia making similar laps around the room, eyes searching the crowd for someone Josen hoped was himself. He cut across the main part of the room, apologizing to those he jostled, to intercept her. The look of joy and relief on Alia’s face when she saw him made his heart soar. Josen regretted the time he didn’t have to spend Alia. Even the time he did spend with her seemed to be interrupted every time—like their walk through the Lower City the other day. Seeing her now, her cheeks dimpled with a wide grin, her dark hair dancing in the ballroom’s soft light, Josen longed to know her better, longed for the kind of quiet moments alone with her that would make it possible.
“You look amazing,” he said as they drew close.
Alia’s grin broadened, but her eyes only paused on him briefly. “Thank you.” Her gaze flitted around the room. Now that he was closer, she looked drawn and stressed. She looked happy to see him, but also worried. More than worried. She looked nearly hysterical beneath a thin veneer of calm.
“Are you okay?” Josen asked.
“Yes,” she said too quickly, eyes still scanning the room. “No. I don’t… can we talk?”
“Sure.” Her gaze paused too long, and Josen turned to see what had caught her attention. He watched a pair of men engaged in a conversation with a small knot of Ladies of the Archon. One of the men gestured to the dance floor. He was rebuffed, and the Lady in question turned back to her companions, cutting the men out of their circle of conversation. Foolishly undaunted, the man reached for the Lady, presuming he could be more convincing up close. Josen winced for him before the touch even landed.
The Lady, a petite blonde woman with pretty eyes, turned calmly at the touch, pivoting as she took a hold of his hand in both of hers and twisted. The man dropped to a knee with a cry of shock and pain, arm twisted and wrist locked tightly in the Lady’s delicate hands. Without releasing the wrist lock, the Lady bent and whispered something in the man’s ear. Blood drained from the man’s face, and…
“Josen.” Alia took his hand, turning him back to her. Her face was pale and somber, her calm veneer cracking. “Please? I need your help.”
“Anything,” Josen said, concerned. “What—”
“Not here.” She glanced around the room again. “Can we go someplace quiet?”
Josen led her out a side door and out into one of the many secluded gardens surrounding Reverate Berden’s estate home. She released Josen’s hand and walked around the edges of the garden, peering into bushes and around statues nowhere near large enough to hide a person. Josen watched, equal parts concerned and confused.
“What’s this all about?” he asked when she finished her thorough search of the garden. She must have deemed it satisfactory, because she did
n’t leave.
“I…” she hesitated, closed her mouth and wouldn’t meet his eyes, all her urgency left behind having crashed headlong into a wall of hesitancy. Tears welled up in her eyes. They sparkled in the moonlight until she wiped angrily at them, then flung watery traitors to the ground. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine,” Josen said, confused. He took her hands, held them in his. “I know this hasn’t gone the way either of us wanted, but I still want to get to know you better. I’m sorry I’ve been—”
“No! Josen, this isn’t about you. You’re busy. You’ve been so good to me. Your entire family has been good to me. This is about me. Josen, I… I’m not who you think I am.”
“I’m still learning—”
“No. Remember when you asked if I knew any Revolutionaries—if I could get in contact with someone who you could talk to? I… I messed up, Josen. I work for Feramos. I have been since before we met.”
Alia’s hands fell from Josen’s suddenly slack hold. Pain flooded her face—pain, anger, regret, confusion collided and ran together—and tears flooded her eyes anew. Josen tried to take her hands back, but she pulled away, stepped back, and covered her face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything,” she sobbed, turning away from him.
“What are you saying? That you’ve been burning down barns?” Josen asked, unable to keep the confused hurt from his voice. “Poisoning cattle?”
“I didn’t want to! I—”
“You didn’t want to? What does that mean?” Josen could feel himself losing his temper. Was no one who they seemed? “What did you want?”
“I wanted to help! I thought I could do something… I was wrong. Josen, I was wrong. What Feramos wants, what he asked me to do, it doesn’t help. It just hurts different people. I didn’t ever mean to hurt anyone.” Her voice grew small. “Please believe me.”
The Broken Man Page 34
