Tragic Providence Page 3

  Jay shrugged. “We all help where we can.”

  “Mr. Jay, I don’t mean to presume, but I have a considerable fortune and am aching to spend it.”

  Jay cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “While I did fight for money in my younger days, I’m not a killer for hire.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to suggest that you were. My apologies. I’m all alone now. I have no family. My life has become a highly sought commodity. Will you take me as your student? Teach me your Divine Pattern Fist? I can pay you any amount.”

  “So that you can become a killer?” Jay said.

  Pylas’s face flushed with suppressed rage. He pursed his lips and blinked away hot tears.

  Jay sighed and relaxed his posture somewhat.

  “Listen to me, Pylas Crier, you have been through an ordeal, subjected to both physical and emotional trauma. You need time to heal. Don’t let thoughts of revenge boil away your humanity before your life really gets started.

  “You have lost your family, but I assure you, you are not alone. We’re never truly alone. The constable is a good man and doesn’t take friendship lightly. Nor do I. I have sworn to keep you safe. Some might call that a guarantee.” At this he shrugged. “I do strive to keep my promises. Besides, Silestry hints that your book is doing far more to combat the Sachs family than the constabulary is able to. Words—ideas—are powerful, sweeping forces, Pylas Crier. Fists are the punctuation marks in the greater narrative, lacking any transformative power of their own.”

  “Maybe,” Pylas said. “But words brought knives into my home and did little to defend me or my family against sharpened blades. Am I to depend on charity indefinitely, for every moment of every day and every night hereafter?”

  This silenced and visibly sobered Jay. After a moment, he gathered himself. “No one enjoys such perfect security.”

  “No, you’re right. But most everyone in Pine enjoys the illusion of such security with nothing ever to suggest the truth. But the occasional victim knows and realizes just how helpless and fragile he really is.

  “Words may be powerful, but they are also a beacon to violence while providing no protection against it.”

  “Education is protection of a sort,” Jay said, but he lowered his eyes when he said it, perhaps not convinced of his own argument.

  Pylas snorted.

  Jay attempted to smile reassuringly. “We will have much time to talk further. You should get some rest. There’s a com-cast set on the bedside table. Perhaps some music will do you good.”

  Pylas kept quiet and nodded, thankful, despite being rebuffed, for all that Jay was doing for him and afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he opened it.

  • • •

  Two days later, Pylas was out of bed and walking around, though he was under Brit’s strict supervision. The large courtyard house played host to Jay’s students during the day, but their training, while within the walls, was done outside of the house proper. Pylas found a window from which he could watch the courtyard unobserved and was able to convince Brit that he could be trusted alone for the time it would take to make his breakfast. For several days at around that time, he sat before the window, watching the students, watching Jay. Even if Jay wouldn’t teach him, he might still learn.

  1.3 DIVINE PATTERN

  On his eighth night at Jay’s residence, after everyone had gone to bed, Pylas checked his bandage, dressed in clothes that had been provided to him, and snuck out to the empty courtyard, which was lit only by the moon and stars. There, he attempted to emulate the students he’d been watching for the past four days. This first time, he sought only to go through the partial routine he’d memorized, to get his body familiar with the movements while hopefully not reopening his wound.

  He’d followed instructions and hadn’t, until now, gone outdoors, but being out on the flagstones, under the starry sky, he couldn’t help remembering his arrival. The memory was fuzzy because of the circumstances, but his surroundings evoked anew the terror and sense of helplessness he’d felt. He never wanted to feel that way again, so rather than be cowed by those intrusive feelings, he used them, bent them to his will, transformed them into drive.

  He lost count of how many times he’d done the routine. His guts ached and he was dripping with sweat, exhausted. That was enough for tonight.

  He snuck into the bathhouse off of the main house, removed his clothes, hung them to air. His bandage was wet, but not with blood. He carefully removed that, too, and washed himself. The puckered mouth of the wound was still red and open only superficially—it hadn’t bled at all for several days now. He still didn’t understand how Jay had managed to close the wound and repair the internal damage, but didn’t dwell on it, either. Not yet, anyway.

  When he was finished, he realized that he didn’t have a clean bandage to reapply. If he was going to make a habit out of this, he would need to prepare better. He shook his clothes. They were mostly dry. He dressed, entered the house, and returned to his room, and was asleep within minutes.

  • • •

  The next morning, Pylas explained away the missing bandage to Brit, saying that he’d slept fitfully, and that it had come off during his tossing and turning. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Medicine and a new bandage were applied.

  As the day progressed, Pylas became more and more nervous about his nighttime activity being discovered. He was a guest and under Jay’s protection, and didn’t know how Jay might react to it. He hadn’t done anything wrong per se, except maybe take excessive advantage of Jay’s hospitality. In some way, too, he was stealing from Jay, who hadn’t agreed to teach him. Pylas didn’t like that. He had money in abundance, but money wouldn’t repay what might be considered a betrayal of trust.

  Despite his worry, no mention was made of anything amiss resulting from his little excursion. Brit asked him several times what the frown on his face was all about, but Pylas merely covered it up with a smile and told her it was nothing, focusing all the more on the students and the continuation of the routine he’d begun to practice. That Jay hadn’t spoken more than a word of greeting to him since their first exchange bothered Pylas, adding to his guilty conscience, but how could Jay not understand? Even if given the opportunity to talk, it wouldn’t do to repeat the request, not when so much had been done for him. What else could Pylas say to convince him when it seemed as though he’d already made up his mind?

  • • •

  Pylas snuck out each night thereafter, learning the routine to the end and practicing it countless times. He was careful, always making sure he had a fresh bandage and clean clothes to wear after washing. Several times he thought he felt a pair of eyes on him, but every time he stopped to investigate he found nothing.

  He learned, to his surprise, that exercise agreed with him and felt that it was more than merely speeding his already miraculous recovery. The bandage was no longer really necessary, and the ache inside had diminished steadily since he’d started his nightly outings.

  On his fifteenth night at Jay’s, Pylas once again sensed the eyes upon him. This time he was sure of their presence. He stopped what he was doing, and confident of his new strength and vigor, spoke a word of challenge that carried easily over the dark, empty courtyard.

  A shadow flashed like a flutter of black wings, and before he could discern any tangible shape, someone was before him, launching a barrage of half-seen blows.

  Momentarily overwhelmed by the speed and power of the other, Pylas stumbled backward as he struggled to master his panic. All grew quiet for him as his focus narrowed. He’d taken a glancing blow to the chin, which almost knocked his glasses from his face, and one to his left shoulder, but he could see the blows coming now and was strangely equipped to counter them. Adrenalin surged through him, dulling the pain radiating through his head and shoulder, and spurring him on. After twenty seconds of interaction with his black-clad assailant, Pylas understood his uncanny facility: he was unconsciously using the movements of the routine.
For a brief instant, he convinced himself that he’d become an expert practitioner of the Divine Pattern Fist. He knew what was coming, knew the appropriate counter, and knew how to attack as a follow-up.

  It seemed his assailant knew, too, though. And knew better.

  The man in black stepped up his pace, delivering an invisible flurry of strikes that peppered Pylas mercilessly, or so Pylas thought as he careened to the courtyard paving stones.

  Lying there panting, Pylas realized that he wasn’t seriously hurt. He pressed his fingers to various spots that throbbed and prickled with paresthesia, wincing at each developing bruise. The man in black stood over him for almost a minute without speaking, without moving. Pylas, certain of the other’s ability to kill him at any moment, likewise didn’t move. Finally, the other pulled away the black cloth concealing his face and made Pylas gasp.

  “Mr. Jay!”

  Govan Jay reached down and helped Pylas to a sitting position.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Jay said.

  Pylas shook his head. “I-I’m so sorry, Mr. Jay. You’ve been nothing but generous and I’ve taken so much more than was offered. I’ll see about new accommodations immediately. It won’t erase what I’ve done, but I will make sure that you are amply compensated for all you’ve provided.”

  Jay snorted. “Don’t be foolish. How am I to know the extent of what you’ve taken? You’re not going anywhere until I’ve a full accounting.”

  Pylas swallowed hard.

  “Are you hurt?” Jay said, his tone softening somewhat.

  Pylas shook his head with nervous conviction.

  “Your recovery has gone faster than expected.”

  “That’s thanks to the care you’ve provided.”

  Jay cocked his head. “Maybe.” He turned the thought over in his head for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me, about teaching you.”

  Pylas’s eyes brightened. He sat up straighter, rose to his feet.

  “It’s not just about punching and kicking.” Jay tapped his index finger to his temple. “The mind is all-important. The mind dictates, the body executes. Can your body do what the mind insists it must? Even if what is required seems contrary to the limits of the human form?”

  These words awakened something inside Pylas. They resonated within him, causing a chill to race the length of his spine, spread out across his back, and continue, consuming him whole like cold fire, until his very fingertips were tingling with what he thought might be genuine current. His attention returned and his face hardened into unconquerable resolve.

  “Yes,” Pylas said.

  Jay narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips. His head may have moved in a barely perceptible nod, or it may not have.

  “You must understand. I’m not offering to teach you to turn you into a killer. Every man has a right to defend himself and his loved ones.”

  “And ideals?”

  “Those, too. Sometimes.”

  Pylas nodded, noting Jay’s hesitancy.

  “Why do you want to learn Divine Pattern? Be honest.”

  Pylas lowered his eyes. “When I asked you the first time, it was for revenge. If words and ideas are to have any impact, they must be supported by real strength. Words are useless without action. If my words, which I can’t and won’t take back, make me a target, I don’t want to be a burden or a liability to someone else who may die uselessly in my stead defending my voice. I want the means to back my voice, to be able to defend my own life and those important to me. I don’t want to become a killer Mr. Jay, but I have seen death at its ugliest, and I won’t stop short of killing to prevent that ugliness from happening again.”

  “In the end,” Jay said, sighing, “all of us become killers of one sort or another. The thoughtful killer is perhaps the most tortured, but also the most dangerous. I will teach you all I know of Divine Pattern.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jay! I will be your most devoted student.”

  “You may at that. My only condition is that you never lose sight of why you now set out to learn it. Forget your reasons, as you’ve explained them to me, and I’ll take it all back.”

  Jay stared into Pylas’s eyes to make his point. Pylas took it, swallowed back the awe and fear inspired by the import of Jay’s meaning. He had no doubt that Jay could take it all back—with one mortal blow.

  “You’ve been watching me all along, haven’t you?” Pylas said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Nothing you’ve done since coming here has escaped my attention, or Brit’s, for that matter. I must apologize for being unavailable for so long, though. I’ve been having a difficult time making up my mind about you. Your resolve is commendable, and I hope, telling.”

  “You won’t be disappointed, Teacher.”

  “We shall see. From today onwards, you are not to shave or cut your hair. Your practice in the evenings will be done without your glasses.”

  “Without my glasses?”

  “I want you comfortable practicing without them. You’re to start formal training tomorrow one hour after the evening meal. You will train with me every day at that time for three hours and then go promptly to bed. Eventually, you will mix with the other students during the day here in the yard. We shall hide you in plain sight, as it were, as a new student, which as Constable Silestry tells it, you should appreciate. I expect, by then, that you’ll have some capacity to defend yourself, not that you’ll be solely responsible for your own protection.”

  Pylas nodded. “How often do you get new students?”

  Jay shrugged. “Depends. Right now caution is prudent but also potentially counterproductive. It would be suspicious and invite speculation if I were to turn everyone away. Since you arrived, I’ve taken on two new students. One has good reflexes and is quick to learn, but neither has any substantial experience, which is what I would expect if Sachs were sending out feelers. By the time it happens, assuming nothing drastic has occurred, I don’t expect your introduction to be cause for speculation.”

  “I see.”

  “In the meantime, I have another task for you during the day, which you may find meaningless, tedious, and arduous all at once, though it is only the latter for those who can see.”

  Pylas didn’t understand the last part, but nor was he slow to agree.

  “And speaking of Constable Silestry, he will be stopping by tomorrow to give you an update on how things stand with the Sachs family.

  “Now go clean up and get some sleep.”

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  • • •

  “Pylas, you look. . . just fine.” Silestry glanced at Jay, who pursed his lips and shrugged.

  They were in one of the courtyard house’s inner sitting rooms, spacious and well-furnished.

  “I feel fine,” Pylas said. “Actually, I feel better than fine.”

  “And you say he’s been exercising half the time he’s been here?” Silestry said to Jay.

  Jay nodded. “He’s got a good memory for the forms. He’s motivated, of course, but I suspect some other mechanism at work.”

  Silestry looked at him expectantly.

  “Well, of course he means his skills as a healer. Right, Teacher?”

  Jay pulled at his chin, smiled enigmatically, but said nothing.

  Pylas was satisfied, but Silestry was not. He didn’t pursue the question, though.

  “See me before you leave,” Jay said to Silestry. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. Pylas, after the constable has gone, I’ll explain your new daytime training.”

  Pylas nodded and Jay exited the room.

  “I don’t have a lot of information for you,” Silestry said. “We’ve been keeping the men who attacked you and your family sequestered, but unfortunately, we haven’t gotten any confessions from them. Their guilt in your assault is certain. Blood work has connected a number of their weapons to. . .” Silestry bowed his head, unable to verbalize his thought. “The media has been at your house every day. T
ila Barto in particular demands to know exactly what’s happened to you and what we’re doing about it.”

  Pylas snorted, shook his head. “Tila. . . And what are you doing, Constable?”

  “We’re looking for you. Your whereabouts are currently unknown, but given the nature of the crime scene, there’d be no reason to hide your body alone, so we believe that you’re alive somewhere, maybe hurt. No ransom demand suggests that the killers don’t have you, but there’s no way to be sure. The constabulary has made you its highest priority.

  “It’s mostly true, of course, but the example The Corpse sets for his men can only go so far. It’s just a matter of time before one or another decides that money is more important than justice. Money is threatening from two fronts: the media and Sachs both.”

  “So we wait until someone has a lapse of character?”

  “It’s always been a waiting game and nearly all crime is due to a lapse of character. Luck in that regard is tenuous at best and eventually runs out, but before it does in this case, we’ll milk Volume Two so that prosecution is Sachs’s only option. All of our resources, those we’ve said are dedicated to finding you, are focused on that purpose. We will keep you safe, Pylas. And we will have First Order Justice. The days of Sachs doing as he pleases in and at the expense of Pine are done. ”

  Pylas smiled wanly. “Thank you, Aren. I realize that it’s dangerous for you and your men, but I appreciate you moving forward with Volume Two.”

  “It’s the least we can do. I think I told you before, we chose this life. You didn’t.”

  “Some might argue that.”

  Silestry shrugged. “Crafting a world where a righteous man can say what’s on his mind without fear of reprisal is a worthy goal.”

  Pylas felt the words sink into him with profound weight. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “So Jay’s agreed to teach you. Show me what you’ve learned.”

  “Here?”