Tragic Providence Read online

  Pylas made his way into town, navigating through more and more pedestrian traffic, until finally entering the First Bank of Pine. Once inside the doors, barred against the noise of the streets, Pylas paused and took a deep breath. He was aware of some of the bank’s customers eyeing him critically, which only made him grin. He felt the door behind him open again and knew that it was Silestry so he proceeded to the reception desk.

  “I have business with Mr. Felps,” Pylas said to the attendant.

  The attendant cocked his head and sniffed importantly. “Mr. Felps, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Felps is a very busy man. Surely your business can be done with a teller if at all.”

  “Mr. Felps will want to see me.”

  “I’m sorry, official donations are made to Board-designated charities monthly.”

  “Listen to me,” Pylas said, losing a measure of his patience. “Despite my appearance—and your opinions—I have a sizable sum of money held here in your bank. I will see Mr. Felps today, whether you choose to cooperate or not, but if you persist with this air of superiority, you will have to explain to Mr. Felps why a quarter of his institution’s net worth is heading to another bank.” Pylas nodded over his shoulder. “The chief constable is standing just inside the doors. Call him over if you wish. Or treat me like the customer I am and do your job.”

  The attendant glanced at the chief constable, recognized him. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “One moment, sir.” This last he nearly spat and then he was retreating through a low swing-door to the area behind the main counter.

  Pylas saw Felps at a desk and watched the two confer for a moment before Felps rose and passed through the swing-door. Halfway to Pylas, Felps veered towards another desk, spacious and unoccupied and of expensive wood, gesturing for Pylas to join him there. They both sat down opposite each other.

  “How can I help you?” Phelps said.

  “Mr. Phelps,” Pylas said reaching his hand across the desk to shake. “It’s been several months since we last met.”

  “Do I know you?” Phelps said, hesitant to take the proffered hand.

  Pylas reached under his poncho, produced his glasses, put them on.

  “Yes, sir. You most certainly do. From what I understand, you’ve known three generations of Criers.”

  Felps stared with furrowed brow, attempting to see through the beard, the waves of hair obscuring the young man’s face. Suddenly his eyes widened.

  “Pylas Crier.” He hissed in a surprised whisper. “Is it really you? We all feared you dead.”

  “It’s me, Mr. Phelps. And I almost was.”

  Phelps scanned the interior of the bank, came across Silestry, who acknowledged Felps’s probing glance with a reassuring nod. Phelps took a deep breath.

  “I want to you to help me draw up a will,” Pylas said. “I know you performed this service for my father.”

  “Yes, and speaking of which—”

  Pylas shook his head. “I would like to relinquish my right to any monies left to me on condition.”

  “That can be arranged. Your own personal accounts easily match your father’s holdings.”

  “That much?”

  “Rats in the Walls has been good to you.” Felps frowned, lowered his eyes. “And bad to you, I should think.”

  Pylas pursed his lips. “I was naïve.”

  “Pine,” Felps said, whispering again to counter his sudden fervor, “is a better place for your naïveté.”

  “We’re hoping to make it better still.”

  “Indeed,” Felps said. He raised his arm and snapped his fingers. “Hostead!”

  Hostead popped up from one of the desks behind the main counter like a small animal from its hole. He saw that Felps was with a customer. He gathered together a number of items and went to join them.

  Over the next few hours, for which Silestry was as patient as a corpse, they proceeded to draw up a will for Pylas Crier. His assets, except in case of criminal conviction, were to be unassailable and inaccessible without proof of identity to be provided by his thumbprint produced in person. His assets were to remain in holding until withdrawn by himself or upon his death, unequivocally proven. In case of his death, twenty-five percent of his assets was to go a special fund administered to the Pinese Constabulary. The remaining seventy-five percent was to go to a children’s charity he’d wanted to support, a decision based in part on what he knew of Wil Parish’s childhood. All of his father’s money was to be released to the same charity—already a contingency in case of no heirs—in regular disbursements, the condition being that Pylas, or his appointed agent, had indefinite and unlimited review rights over how the money was being used. Corruption had a way of flourishing in Pine.

  With his high-powered monocle, Hostead matched and confirmed Pylas’s thumbprint, making everything legal and binding.

  Pylas’s last request was for discretion. His family was dead. An attempt had been made on his life as well. In a week, there would likely be no more reason for pretense, but until then, both Felps and Hostead were asked to keep this visit to themselves. In parting he chastised the reception table attendant, suggesting that more training or more suitable duties for him might benefit the bank and its customers.

  Felps apologized. Pylas shook hands with him and Hostead and took his leave.

  • • •

  “Do you think they’re ready?” Silestry asked on the eve of the one-month target date.

  Jay didn’t answer right away. Finally he shook his head and shrugged, but not to answer Silestry’s question. “I’ve never seen anything like it. They both learn faster than I can teach them. Have you ever heard of Farsenkals?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “He’s a who. Jango Farsenkals believes that some individuals are genetically predisposed to have more potential than the rest of us.”

  “That’s not new. Some people make better soldiers, some better doctors.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about off-the-scale potential. Like Haemmish and Surinda.”

  Now Silestry shook his head. “But Teacher, those are stories, myths. No one can rope the sun or split mountains.”

  No, no one could do those things. But time had a funny way of exaggerating things. Jay now wondered if the legendary Haemmish and Surinda hadn’t been real people, the very sort that Farsenkals was now studying. If Silestry had passed the Leaf test, he would have understood, but Jay knew that pointing this out would offer no positive contribution to his argument.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Jay said.

  Jay thought back to when he’d offered to teach Pylas, the words he’d used: Can your body do what the mind insists it must? Even if what is required seems contrary to the limits of the human form?

  When Jay had said them, the words hadn’t been empty, but the scale he’d envisioned had been dictated by his own experience up until that point.

  “In answer to your question, Aren: yes, they are ready.”

  What he didn’t say was that they’d in fact become quite dangerous, that they would soon surpass him in every way. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he couldn’t help feeling that he was caught up in an ordered whirlwind that was pretending at chaos. That frightened him. He had seen what might be considered divine in the Leaf, and he realized that all things were possible in infinity, but what seemed to be taking shape from the whirlwind was will, intent, design. He was having a hard time convincing himself that circumstance and luck alone had brought Pylas Crier to his door, but wasn’t sure he wanted to see the face, if there was one, of what might be orchestrating events.

  1.6 INTO MOTION

  The room smelled clean and of perfume, with not a trace of the sweat and musk that usually resulted from the business conducted there. Gossamer curtains in pale pink framed the bed, which occupied one wall, and danced before the open window, allowing a comforting breeze to pass through.

  Clad only in a pair of black pants, Wil Parish sat in
a chair, his elbows on its arms, his hands supporting his chin. He was staring at Fera, naked on the bed. She sat bent-backed and cross-legged with her hands in her lap—not to hide anything, as the two were well-past modesty—but in an attitude of resignation.

  Wil sighed. “It’s your choice, Fera. You can go to another brothel if you want, or you can start over.”

  “Everything will change,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, yes it will.”

  “And you’re not afraid of being found out?”

  “I’m counting on it.” He looked over his shoulder to the window, prompted by a sound outside, down below. “In less than an hour, there won’t be any confidence to betray. Everything is already in motion.”

  “Damn you, Wil Parish.”

  “Fera, I was damned the day I was born and have been climbing up out of hell ever since.”

  “Why do you have to be so nice? To me? To all of us?”

  “Well, a few of you, anyway.” He shrugged. “I like you, Fera. I’ve told Mila, Sami, Jeska, and Cady the same thing. I picked my favorites, but I couldn’t pick just one of you because I knew this day was coming. You can spread the word, or you can keep it to yourself, but this place is being shut down.”

  She bowed her head. “I know about your sister,” she whispered. It was almost a confession.

  He pursed his lips, rubbed his chin with his fingers. “Then you know one of the reasons I’m doing this.”

  She nodded, which set loose a tear into her lap.

  He sat up with sudden, unprecedented speed, crossed the small distance between them, and embraced her. She held on fiercely.

  “Don’t die, Wil Parish,” she hissed through tears.

  • • •

  In less than five minutes, Wil was dressed and down below Fera’s window. A series of narrow alleys crossed the block, most of which was owned by Skeet Brasso, to converge in the center where the backs of Brasso’s properties created a wide, walled courtyard of sorts. There were tables and chairs spread out with signs of past carousing, all partially protected from the elements by spiderweb laundry lines and eves jutting from the surrounding buildings. Brasso’s restaurant was opposite the brothel, with the back of the kitchen mostly open to the courtyard. It was late, the restaurant was closed, and kitchen staff was just finishing up, preparing to leave for the night.

  Brasso sat alone at one of the courtyard tables with a pipe in hand and three plates of hot food arrayed before him. Several lamps where hung from wires stretched between buildings to provide imperfect lighting, so it took Brasso a moment to notice the silent Parish.

  “Wil, what are you doing here? I thought that you’d be out with the others tonight. It’s a big job.”

  “I had some things to finish up.” Wil started towards Brasso.

  Brasso eyed the brothel, grinned.

  “Worst thing I ever did, was give you privileges there. I suppose you’ve paid your way, though. We don’t see you much during the day, anymore,” Brasso said.

  “I’ve been training pretty hard.”

  “So I hear. So, tell me, why Govan Jay’s school and not our man Kurdam’s?”

  Wil shrugged. “It’s nothing against Kurdam, but come on Mr. Brasso, it’s Govan Jay.”

  Brasso threw his head back, laughing. “Well, you say it’s nothing against Kurdam, but Kurdam may not see it that way.”

  “I’ve gotten pretty good, you know.”

  Brasso looked at him skeptically. “Is that so?”

  “Care to try me?”

  Now Brasso narrowed his eyes, his aspect becoming slightly sinister. “You were always pretty good with a knife, but your smarts are where your real value lies. You’ve been at that school for how long now?”

  “A few months.”

  “A few months. Uh huh. Wil, the day I can’t beat you is the day I retire.”

  Wil grinned good-naturedly in spite of the grave look on Brasso’s face.

  “Then what harm could come from a friendly match? Let me show you what an asset I’ve become.”

  “All right. If you get hurt, you’ll get no wages for downtime.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Brasso put his pipe down, stood, and walked with Wil to the open area away from the tables and chairs. Brasso had trained at Kurdam’s school, in the Fire and Ice Fist, but Wil hadn’t seen him practice in years. He didn’t fail to notice that Brasso kept the knife in his belt.

  Brasso was aggressive, which wasn’t surprising for one of Sachs’s lieutenants, and despite not having practiced the Fire and Ice Fist in years, he was still dangerous. He was also quite a bit bigger than Wil, and not as slow as his size might have suggested.

  A practitioner of the Fire and Ice Fist was a specialist in manipulating the nerves of his opponent, alternating between inflicting searing, agonizing pain, and debilitating, rhythm-disrupting numbness. During his training in Divine Pattern, Wil had become light and extremely agile, but should one of Brasso’s heavy punches land, he had to be able to take it, so he girded himself with the Pillow Jacket, opening up his Pattern to be more flexible and tolerant of physical trauma. He spent the first few moments gauging Brasso’s ability, evading, sometimes only narrowly, each of Brasso’s strikes.

  “Come on, Wil,” Brasso shouted. “You didn’t ask me to dance. Show me what you’ve got.”

  Wil seemed to stop. A grin formed upon his lips.

  Brasso threw a punch that would have shattered Wil’s face, but Wil raised his left hand, almost casually, to direct the blow harmlessly to the side of his head. With his right hand, he jabbed a thumb punch into Brasso’s throat.

  Brasso staggered backwards, clutching at his throat with one hand, while trying to maintain a potential offense or defense with the other. He tried to speak and found that he couldn’t.

  Wil moved forward, jabbed twice more with his thumb punch, striking Brasso’s solar plexus, further staggering him and taking the wind from him, and then his heart, knocking him to the ground.

  Brasso wheezed, fought for air that wouldn’t come. He gripped his chest with his left hand and managed with the other to pull the knife from his belt, brandishing it like a ward before him. His eyes darted to the mouths of the narrow alleys, to the now empty kitchen. There was no one.

  Parish turned his back on him. “Huh. Time to retire? You might think that I want to replace you. That’s often how these things work, I guess. But, no. I just want to put you out of business. You and your boss. I’d say it’s nothing personal, but that would be a lie. It’s very personal and has been for a long time.”

  Brasso’s face contorted with shock and indignation. “How. . . How long have you known?” he managed to squeeze out in a whisper.

  Parish snorted. “Brasso, when haven’t I known? Did you know that my sister’s name shows up in an old coded ledger? I say coded, but only the girls’ ages were modified, and even then, only a little. A simple substitution pattern, easy enough to figure. The constabulary thought it was very interesting. Oh, and they’ll be coming by in just a moment to talk to you about it. About that and other things.”

  “You’re done, Parish,” Brasso sputtered, his voice nothing but hollow sibilants.

  “I’m sorry,” Wil said, turning towards him, a hand at his ear to hear better. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “Even from behind bars, I give the word and you’re dead. And trust me, the word is as good as given.”

  Wil moved closer to Brasso. Brasso sprang to his feet and lunged for Wil, leading with the knife, but Wil easily took hold of Brasso’s wrist, directing the blade past him. He controlled the knife hand and brought it back around so that the point sank ever so slightly into the bruised, swollen flesh of Brasso’s throat.

  “Careful Brasso. Knives are dangerous. I learned that from the example of my father. I know he wasn’t a good man, but I still resent you a little for taking him away.”

  Wil twisted Brasso’s wrist painfully, causing the knife to drop and clang to the grou
nd.

  “I’m afraid you’re still dangerous, Mr. Brasso,” Parish said with perfect calm. He drove a vertical fist into Brasso’s solar plexus once more, causing the big man to stumble backwards.

  “I was charged with the task of subduing you. You’ll forgive me if I take a certain amount of pleasure in doing so.” Wil proceeded to jam thumb punches into several nerve centers, which robbed Brasso of his strength, his will, and finally, his consciousness.

  When Brasso hit the ground, uniformed men from the constabulary poured in from every admitting alley. Among them was Aren Silestry. From the noise now coming from various open windows, men had already entered the brothel as well.

  “Good job, Parish,” Silestry said.

  “When he comes to, ask him how my approximation of the Fire and Ice Fist was.”

  Silestry snorted.

  Wil looked up and saw Fera, the pink curtains swirling about her like clouds proclaiming her divinity. She stared down at him with a profound sadness. He smiled at her, just as sadly, kissed his fingers, and offered them up to her.

  • • •

  The evidence against Skeet Brasso was myriad. In addition to the old ledger—and the rest confiscated by the constabulary—Wil had amassed hours of damning echography: straight audio from a personal recorder, and extrapolated images from two active mic recorders placed upon the outer wall of the brothel, aiming down into the courtyard where Brasso did the majority of his day-to-day business. Wil had taken care not to be seen placing the active mics and the building’s exterior offered much in the way of camouflage, but everyone, from Brasso on down, had grown complacent. Their way of life, flaunting the law, was the norm and unchallengeable, especially from the inside. Who on the inside would jeopardize his own livelihood? So Wil’s connection to the chief constable through Jay’s school was ignored. His lingering at the brothel while his fellows were out maintaining the status quo was ignored. But now it all made sense.