Tragic Providence Page 2

  Large, animate shadows from various positions along the walls, dislodged themselves from their places, and the room closed in on him. Or seemed to.

  “This is what happens when the rats come out of the walls, Mr. Crier,” one of the shadows said.

  Pylas was momentarily and inappropriately stunned by the gestalt power generated by the man’s words and the scene that immediately preceded them. He was quite sure, though, that the thug hadn’t intended to be poetic.

  “Mr. Sachs sends his regards. He wanted you to fully understand the seriousness of your mistakes. Before, that is, you get what they got,” the shadowy figure gestured towards the carnage on the floor. “Your new wife would be lonely in hell if you failed to join her.”

  Pylas was still detached, like a spectator at his own funeral. He was cold, numb to the threat, but not ignorant of it. He registered a total of six men in the darkness, four of them clearly armed with long, curving blades. If the other two were armed, their weapons were out of sight and would require precious seconds to bring to bear.

  Pylas screamed at the top of his lungs and charged one of the men he hoped was weaponless. He drove his shoulder into the man’s chest with satisfying results, but felt something sharp pass between his ribs. He managed to take advantage of his momentum, swinging the man around, and earning a chance for flight.

  Gripping his ribs through his soaked shirt, Pylas ran. He ran back down the hall, through the front door, across the courtyard, and out the main gate. His breath was coming fiercely and his side burned. He wanted to cry out, but couldn’t make a sound. Who would be able to hear him at this hour and respond before his six pursuers had finished the job they’d started with the rest of his family, anyway?

  He shook his head clear of that thought and ran, his breath coming in white plumes in the night air, now grown chill.

  1.2 GOVAN JAY

  Pylas could hear the six men behind him. Of course they weren’t giving up. He wasn’t either, but where could he go? He was certain they would overtake him before he could get anywhere near the constable’s office. Indeed, he could feel the strength pouring out of him from the hole in his side.

  His mind was remarkably clear, considering what he’d seen and what he was experiencing, but being able to think through problems and scenarios had always been his strong point. There would be time later for suffering—he wasn’t so naïve to think he could do more than postpone it. But now a solution—one depending largely on luck—occurred to him. He turned down a side street and focused every part of his being on putting as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers.

  He ran hard for two full minutes until he came to a large, walled estate. It was, in fact, the martial arts school run by Govan Jay.

  At the gate, Pylas swallowed hard, gathered his breath, and cried out as he beat his fists with ebbing strength against the stout wooden doors.

  “Help! Please help! Men are chasing me!”

  The six men arrived and formed a semi-circle around Pylas, pinning him up against the gate.

  “It’s over. There’s nowhere for you to go and no one’s going to help you.”

  Pylas briefly glanced over his shoulder and noted with a ridiculous sense of disappointment that only a few of them showed any sign of exertion from the chase. He continued to batter the gates with his fists, crying out all the while, and did not hear the sound of the lock working.

  The gate swung in and Pylas toppled forward, falling prone at the feet of a little man standing just within. Pylas looked up and made eye contact with his savior. Almost imperceptibly, the man nodded, putting Pylas immediately at ease.

  “Walk away, old man,” the one in charge said.

  One of the other thugs began shaking his head, fear or some other realization dawning on him.

  “I don’t think you want us coming in there,” the boss continued.

  “Oh?” the little man inside said, picking Pylas up and resting him upon his left shoulder. “Should I be afraid of you?”

  “You’re pretty nervy. I suppose you’re used to being shown some respect. You won’t get any from us. Now drop the sack of bones and walk away or find out why you shouldn’t open your door to strangers in the middle of the night.”

  “But, Raff. . . that’s Govan Jay,” the one shaking his head said.

  “I’ll ask you once to leave,” Govan Jay said. “If any of you step one foot onto my property, I’ll cripple you. Isn’t that what they call me behind my back? Crippler Jay? Well it isn’t for nothing, I assure you.”

  Raff snorted. “I don’t care who you are or what you’re called. An old man like you against six of us? Armed? Come on,” he said gesturing to the others.

  Only one hesitated, the one who had identified Jay.

  Just as Raff completed his step, Jay’s hand flashed out and there was an eruption of dark liquid from the thug boss’s knee. Raff’s leg buckled, bending sideways at the destroyed joint, and he continued down to the ground where his chin hit with a splintering crunch.

  Even with a full grown man on his shoulder and one hand to keep him there, Jay showed nothing of his age. He was grace personified, avoiding the falling blades and driving his deadly fist unerringly home again and again. He made good on his promise. The five men who had entered the gate all lie upon the ground either unconscious or moaning in agony. The sixth man, the only sensible one among them, ran.

  • • •

  “Jemmy,” Jay said over his shoulder, “com-wire the constable. Tell him we are in need of his services.”

  An aged little man, who’d come out of the house, nodded and returned inside, leaving his wife, who’d come with him, to await instructions.

  “Brit,” Jay continued, not making her wait at all, “bring the medicine, some water, clean towels, and a sheet.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jay,” she said and hurried after her husband.

  In a calm, commanding voice, Jay spoke to Pylas. “You’ve been stabbed. This is going to hurt, but you’re going to live.”

  Pylas nodded. Sweat beaded his brow, his breath came in strained puffs.

  Jay tore away Pylas’s shirt. Blood obscured the wound, but Jay was experienced with such injuries. He focused for a moment upon it, the air growing heavy as he did so. He sighed, and Pylas thought he might have heard him say something, but his consciousness was beginning to drift.

  Brit arrived with everything she’d been asked to bring. Jemmy was with her. Jay soaked a towel and wiped away as much blood as he could. He dipped his hand into the medicine jar and spread the sticky mixture onto the wound.

  “Jemmy, fetch the stretcher. I’ll need your help in a moment.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jay.”

  “Brit, prepare a bed,” Jay said. Without a word, she moved quickly back into the house.

  Jay pressed his hands down onto either side of the cut, manually closing it. The air grew heavy once again. Blood continued to bubble up through the coat of medicine for only a few more moments.

  Jemmy came back with the stretcher, placed it on the ground, and watched as Govan Jay continued to work a miracle. It wasn’t the first time, but it was still a sight to behold.

  “Get the sheet ready, Jemmy. I’m going to hold him up.”

  Jemmy saw what Jay wanted and folded the sheet into a long strip. When Jay raised Pylas up, Jemmy was quick, carefully wrapping the sheet around Pylas’s middle, cinching the makeshift bandage as tight as he could. Jay lowered Pylas gently down onto the stretcher, so that his own weight kept the sheet in place. No red rose up through the fabric to mark the location of the wound. Each man took one end of the stretcher, raised it evenly, and walked Pylas into the house, both ignoring the other broken figures spread and sprawled upon the courtyard stones.

  • • •

  When Pylas awoke, he was in an unfamiliar room. A dull ache radiated through his guts, but he thought he’d gotten off easy if this were the extent of the pain he could expect from a stab wound. Looking around the room, he almost didn
’t notice the constable dozing in a chair next to the door. When he recalled the circumstances that had brought him to this place, tears began to well in his eyes. His mother. His Father. Aya. His bright future had been laid out so clearly. He and the constable had talked about the possible consequences of Rats in the Walls, and he’d understood them intellectually, not as grim reality. Shame and despair fell upon him like a blanket of hot lead, burning him, crushing him. Though he longed for human contact, he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  And nor was it necessary. The constable started, woke, eyed the door with singular attention, then shifted his scrutiny to Pylas. He rose instantly on seeing that Pylas was awake and approached the bed.

  “Pylas. Thank heaven you’re all right.”

  Pylas turned to the constable and stared at him for a moment through tear-stained eyes. “Maybe not heaven,” he stammered out.

  The constable bowed his head and nodded. “I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now, but I have to tell you: last night was only the beginning.”

  “The beginning?”

  “From what I’ve seen and what I know, I’m guessing that you were the true target and the only one to survive. That might tend to frustrate.”

  “Okay, but why kill. . . everyone else?”

  The constable sighed. “To send a message? To cover intent? Had they been successful, it might have just looked like a particularly gruesome home invasion. It happens sometimes.”

  Pylas shook his head. “No. They were waiting for me. They figured it out.” He sat up suddenly, regretted it, composed himself. “Volume Two?”

  “Is still safe. For now.”

  “What do you mean ‘for now’?”

  “I plan on destroying it. It can hurt too many people if it’s discovered.”

  “You can’t do that,” Pylas said. “All the proof is in there. Besides destroying it would accomplish little. No one would know and no one would care. Sachs would just keep coming. There wouldn’t be anything more or less tangible than before and you would no longer have the means to break Sachs down. Just keep it safe.”

  The constable pursed his lips. “Damn it, Pylas.”

  “So what do we do? Besides not destroy Volume Two?” Pylas said, staring at the ceiling.

  “Like you said, they’re coming for you now. I don’t know how public they’ll be, but you’ve just become a source of income for a number of competing killers.”

  Pylas stared at him, still waiting for an answer to his question.

  The constable sighed. “Govan Jay has agreed to let you stay here while we sort through what’s left of your house and pursue a case against Sachs.”

  “What about the men who chased me?”

  “Those who can still talk, won’t. Lucky for all of us, we picked up the runner on a weapons charge before he could get too far into the city. We’re keeping him in isolation, which means that Sachs has no direct knowledge that you’re here. He may or may not be able to figure it out. We may or may not be able find anything linking back to Sachs, but this is going to be a lot harder now that they’re looking for you.”

  “Shouldn’t it be easier? I mean, they’re creating multiple opportunities for us.”

  “Us?” The constable shook his head, exasperated. “Finding something on Sachs isn’t hard. Finding something that enables us to impose First Order Justice is something else. It’s a race, Pylas, and I don’t know if any of us has the strength or stamina to outrun Sachs. Losing the race means losing your life.”

  This sobered Pylas.

  “Look, with Jay’s treatment, you’ll make a full recovery within a month. If you promise not to leave the premises—for any reason—Jay and I can guarantee your safety. Can you do that? Can you promise me?”

  Pylas shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere else to go. Not now, anyway. But why is Govan Jay willing to put himself in this position? I realize I may have guilted charity out of him last night, but moving forward?”

  “Pylas, you may not see it right now, but you are indeed blessed. You ran to the one place, in all of Pine, maybe in all the world, where you’d find safety from Sol Sachs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know the rumors about Sachs’s right arm?”

  Pylas nodded.

  “They’re true. He hasn’t got one. You know who he has to thank for that?”

  “Jay?”

  The constable nodded. “They have history. A long, long time ago, Govan Jay was Chief Constable of Pine. He couldn’t stand the politics involved, though, so left to pursue a purer fight. He went on to become Crippler Jay, but despite his notoriety, he always supported the constabulary. Every officer on the payroll, going back three generations, has had some training from Jay.”

  “You?”

  “Me. Jay is one of the good guys. I wouldn’t have suggested it before, but it might be a good idea to bring him in on our secret, especially in light of his willingness to help. He should know exactly what he’s getting himself into.”

  “I suppose that’s fair. Aren?”

  The constable frowned, not used to hearing his name spoken by Pylas.

  “Yeah, Pylas, what is it?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, if not for me—”

  Pylas shook his head, silencing the other. “You are exactly one half of what I have left in the world.”

  “Damn it, Pylas.” Aren Silestry frowned again. “The Jardin analog—do you think he’s safe?”

  Pylas hesitated for a moment then shook his head again. “I don’t know. The book was and is high-profile. Jardin is, by nature, invisible, hidden in plain sight.”

  “I’ll be honest, Pylas. I don’t know what to do about him. I don’t think I want to know who he is. I don’t want to call attention to him and get him killed, too.”

  “Do you think Jay can train me to punch arms off?”

  Silestry snorted. “You?”

  Pylas winced, holding back a fresh wave of tears. “Why? Because I wear glasses and write books? You might be surprised what a little conviction born of losing almost everything can do.”

  The other bowed his head, nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Maybe. If anyone can, it’s him.

  “Pylas, I wanted to make sure I was here when you woke up, but I can’t stay. I need to head over to. . . to. . .”

  “Yeah, I understand,” Pylas said.

  “Also, I’ll need to be careful about my comings and goings. The school is being constantly watched by men I trust, all of them out of uniform. We need to maintain the mystery of your whereabouts as long as possible. I’m not sure when I’ll see you again, but you’re in good hands with Jay.”

  “Thanks again, Aren.”

  Nodding hesitantly, Silestry backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

  For the moment immediately following Silestry’s departure, Pylas was fine, but the emptiness of the room and its oppressive silence soon bore down on him, overwhelming him. He was very, very alone. The tears came again, blurring his vision and transitioning him once more to sleep.

  • • •

  Pylas awoke to a greyed woman jostling him with one hand and trying press a spoon between his lips with the other.

  “There now, Mr. Crier, you’ve got to eat,” she said. “It’s already gone two days.”

  Pylas held his ribs and tried to sit up against the pillow so he could better receive the food.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome. Such a tragedy, what’s happened. Jemmy and I lost our boy, but we still had each other. Poor, poor boy, you are.

  “Mr. Jay will see you healthy and strong again in no time. The other wounds, though. . .”

  Pylas tried to smile away her concern, but only managed to grow teary.

  “Oh, now look what old Brit’s done. I’m sorry, Mr. Crier.”

  He shook his head and blinked his eyes hard to clear them. “Please, call me Pylas.”

  “Sure I will, and cal
l me Brit. Now eat up.”

  Pylas did.

  “Could I speak with Govan Jay?” Pylas said.

  “I should think so. He’ll be glad to see you’re awake. I’ll go fetch him.”

  Brit gathered her things onto a tray and exited.

  A dusky lamp lit the room. Pylas looked to the curtained window and could see no light diffusing through. Night.

  Images of his family home painted with blood, black in the shadows, and strewn with pieces of his parents, his new wife filled his mind. Tears threatened but were checked by growing anger.

  Sol Sachs.

  Pylas had written Rats in the Walls to help lift a friend out from the morass of circumstance, to give him another chance at life he might not have had otherwise. He’d also written it because he could. It had been described as a contemporary fable. He preferred to think of it as a feat of literary engineering, succeeding gloriously on two fronts, one public and one private. Justice, though a meager, piecemeal result of his endeavor, had never been his true motive or intention, except as a means to help his friend. But now he saw how naïve he’d been, how near-sighted, how intoxicated with pride for his intellectual achievement. He had to make sure that Volume Two remained safe until all its potential was exhausted. Sol Sachs would fall.

  A succession of light knocks preceded Govan Jay’s entrance. His face was squarish and weathered. His iron gray hair was combed back in smooth waves. He wore a long tunic of dully shimmering gold and held his hands behind his back.

  “How are you feeling,” Jay said.

  “Remarkably well, considering.”

  “It’s lucky you found me.”

  “So says Constable Silestry. I can’t thank you enough for your intervention and your hospitality.”