“Is it not a pretty thing?” rumbles Great-Uncle. Rasce feels the words rather than hears them, the vibrations running through his thighs, his spine, echoing around inside his helmet.
He would never disagree with Great-Uncle, but the city below strikes him as singularly ugly. From this altitude, it feels as though he could reach out and pick up the whole city with one hand. The factories of the alchemists resemble intricate machines, stained with oily clouds of smoke, embedded in a fruiting mass of streets and tenements that sprawls inwards along the track of a mostly buried river. As Great-Uncle circles down, the light of the waning sun reflects off some canal or an exposed stretch of water, making the city flash like a signal-glass. In other places, the city’s scarred by recent wars. The fortress of Queen’s Point lies in ruins; out in the bay, nothing remains of the old prison at Hark except blasted, fire-blackened stone.
There are jewels here, too. Cathedrals and palaces up on Holyhill. The sullen lump of the Parliament atop Castle Hill – ugly to look at, but valuable. And directly below, their destination – the great shining pearl of the New City. An unlikely beauty, a district of marble domes and spires, of boulevards that shimmer in the sun and alleyways like frost on the veins of a leaf.
Conjured, the Dentist told him, through some alchemical accident, a whole city springing up overnight.
Nearby, is another district, equally unnatural these days. The roofs of Ishmerian temples rise like shark’s fins through the purple gloom that hangs over what some call the Temple district, but in the staccato language of the Armistice is officially the Ishmeric Occupation Zone. Just like the New City is termed the Lyrixian Occupation Zone, and a swathe of the city from the edge of Holyhill to the north-eastern suburbs is the Haithi Occupation Zone. IOZ, LOZ, HOZ.
Abbreviations serve to sweep away the strangeness and the shame, neat boxes to categorise the unthinkable. The city escaped destruction and conquest only by inviting all its prospective conquerors in to share the prize. Like a woman, offering herself to the victors – take my body, do what you wish with me, only spare my children.
Or, in Guerdon’s case, spare my vital alchemical factories, spare my mansions and palaces. Spare my markets and my unfettered access to the arms trade, spare my wealth. The city’s found safety by balancing itself on a knife edge.
Is the city a pretty thing? Rasce considers the question. He’s seen many cities from the air, and many of them were glorious. He’s seen temples like blossoming flowers of crystal, stepped ziggurats of obsidian, golden-roofed longhouses where heroes feasted. He’s seen prettier places – but when the dragon was done with them, they were all ash. Guerdon’s an ugly place from the air. A great misshapen stone beast, rent by many wounds, that has crawled down to the shore to die – but even from this height he can see the thronged streets, the busy docks.
He can smell the money. Sense the power.
It is not a pretty thing, but that is not why the dragon desires it.
A rumble of disquiet runs through Great-Uncle’s titanic form as they pass the Temple district, and the clouds writhe in response. Cloud Mother’s monstrous offspring hide there. Rasce feels the dragon’s displeasure in his bones.
“We should fly over the HOZ,” says Rasce, “and dismay them.” A tube carries the sound of his voice to Great-Uncle’s earpiece. Otherwise, he’d have to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard from the dragon’s back.
“Not today,” rumbles Great-Uncle. “No provocations. We’ve had enough war. Now for business.”
Enough war. Rasce tugs at the unfamiliar badge on his flying armour – the sigil of the Lyrixian Army. Twenty years ago, they’d have been the ones shooting at Great-Uncle.
They descend towards one of the domed structures in the New City. Another dragon – Thyrus – patrols the air over the New City, banks towards Great-Uncle as they circle lower. The face of the Ghierdana rider on Thyrus’ back is hidden by her mask, but Rasce can imagine her scowl. He grins back at her.
A Lyrixian banner flutters in the breeze from the sea, then gets blown the other way, buffeted by the wind from Great-Uncle’s massive wings as the dragon lands on a plaza. Lyrixian soldiers guard the perimeter of this military enclave. Great-Uncle stalks through a hole blasted in the side of the dome, his movements suddenly clumsy and heavy now that he’s on the ground. Dragons are meant to soar.
Rasce dismounts. His own limbs are stiff and sore after the long flight. He, too, has become a creature of air and fire, not lumpen earth. He stretches, feeling the ache in his limbs. He’s young and strong, but only mortal. Many generations of his ancestors have ridden on Great-Uncle’s back, and they’re all gone now, while Great-Uncle remains.
Inside the dome, both dragon and rider shuck their military trappings. Lyrixian soldiers help Rasce out of his heavy breathing mask, strip off his flight armour. They remove, section by section, the armoured barding that protects Great-Uncle’s belly from anti-aircraft fire. They unhook the empty webbing that recently held alchemical bombs. The soldiers are nervous in the presence of the dragon; Great-Uncle puts up with their hesitant fumbling for as long as he can, but the dragon’s impatience wins out. He rips the last of the barding off, then stomps off towards the exit.
An officer – Major Estavo, Rasce recalls – hurries up, stammering something about a report on the bombing raid. A folder of documents clutched in his hand – damage reports, maybe, or proposed targets for the next sortie. He starts to salute, then catches himself. Rasce and the dragon are still criminals in the eyes of the Lyrixian state – it’s just that one of them is a criminal who can tear a warship in half or incinerate an army from above, which makes the dragons vital to the war effort. For the duration of the war, there’s a truce between the authorities and the Ghierdana families.
“Great Taras—” begins Estavo, addressing Great-Uncle by name.
“My nephew will deal with that,” rumbles Great-Uncle without stopping, and Estavo’s not stupid enough to stand in the path of the dragon. He turns helplessly to Rasce.
“I’ll report to you later, sir,” says Rasce, smirking at the “sir”. Both the major and Rasce know that this is all an absurdity, a wolf pretending to solemnly consult with a sheep. “Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.” He dumps his damaged helmet in Estavo’s arms and follows Great-Uncle out.
There’s business to attend to first.
Long ago, the priests say, the people of Lyrix were wicked and sinful. They were greedy and gluttonous, lustful and wrathful. They lied and cheated, blasphemed and murdered. The gods grew angry, and they took the sins of the people, and from those sins were born the dragons – creatures made to be divine scourges, to turn sin into redemptive suffering. But instead, the dragons went to the worst of the worst, the criminals and pirates of the Ghierdana islands, and said, “Are we not alike? We are both hateful in the eyes of others. Let us be one, and show those bastards.”
And in their way, the dragons did scourge the people of Lyrix, and reminded them of their sins, and drove them into the loving arms of the gods. But they made a profit while doing so.
The street outside is too narrow for Great-Uncle to pass easily. His wingtips cut grooves in the walls on either side. Children run after the dragon, picking up pebbles dislodged by his wings for good luck. Great-Uncle grunts in amusement, and deliberately leans into one wall, sending a cascade of plaster tumbling down for them to collect.
Rasce ducks under Great-Uncle’s foreleg and jogs along by the dragon’s head so the two can converse.
“Estavo will want us to fly south again within the week. How long will this business take?”
“That, nephew, depends on you. There is work that needs doing, here in the city. But wait until we are in private.” Great-Uncle has claimed part of the New City as his temporary residence while in Guerdon; everyone in that compound is Ghierdana or Eshdana, sworn to the service of Great-Uncle or one of the other dragon families. There are three other dragons in Guerdon – no, two, now that Viridasa has gone
south – but none of them are half so glorious or mighty as Great-Uncle.
“We should press the advantage, while the Ishmerians are in disarray.” Ever since the death of the Ishmerian goddess of war, the once-mighty Sacred Empire of Ishmere has faltered. Lyrixian forces have pushed back on many fronts. Rasce doesn’t give much of a damn about the fortunes of those Lyrixian forces – if pressed, he’d admit to a mild preference that Lyrix triumph over its rivals, that the gods of his homeland cast down the temples of Ishmere and all the rest, but that’s more a preference for familiar food, familiar devils. Lyrix can go to hell with the rest; it’s the fortunes of the Ghierdana that matters. Victory opens up new ways to grow the dragons’ hoard.
And it’s glorious to be up there, on dragon-back, to have the strength and the fire at his command. To point at a temple, or a fortified guard tower, or a formation of infantry on the ground, and to know that he could destroy them all with a snap of his fingers. Who cares who the enemy is when you wield that much power?
It’s glorious to be Chosen of the Dragon.
“In my way, nephew,” says Great-Uncle. “And in a time of my choosing. But now, I must speak with Doctor Vorz.”
Vorz. The Dentist, some call him. As Great-Uncle’s physician, he’s responsible for removing a tooth from the dragon’s maw whenever a new member of the family comes of age and wins their knife. More than that, though, he’s Great-Uncle’s counsellor – the one member of the inner circle who’s not a member of the family. He’s only Eshdana, bound by oath instead of blood. He can never be Chosen of the Dragon. Maybe that allows him to speak more honestly to Great-Uncle; maybe it’s the knowledge that he’s reached the zenith of his possible ambition and can never rise higher.
There’s always a counsellor, whispering in Great-Uncle’s ear. When Rasce was a young boy, it was a former pirate queen from the Hordinger coast, tattooed and savage. She ate seal blubber, and grease dripped from her lips as she talked to the dragon. The family hated her, and she slipped from a clifftop and died when Rasce was five. After the Hordinger came Marko – no, after the Hordinger was that old priestess, the one who knitted burial shawls, and after her was Marko, everyone’s friend with his easy grin, making deals and slapping backs, mopping his flushed forehead in the summer heat of the island. Always someone useful to Great-Uncle, some skill or connection that the family could not provide.
And then one day Marko was gone, and in his place was Vorz. The Dentist, with his leather bag of physician’s instruments, his collection of potions and philtres. A renegade alchemist, it’s said, exiled from Guerdon’s alchemists’ guild for unspeakable experiments. Grub-pale skin, face like an undertaker. Never raises his voice above a whisper or a hiss. He dresses all in black like a priest and walks as if moving too quickly he would tear his ill-made body apart. Rasce’s seen that sort of play-acting before, beggars and con men affecting divine stigmata or the ravages of sorcery, hinting they’ve paid some terrible physical price for ultimate power. Most of the time, it’s just an act, a way to suggest they’ve got access to supernatural abilities while also getting out of actually having to do anything.
Most of the time. The way Great-Uncle uses Vorz suggests the man has some genuine power.
And even if Vorz is just a man, Great-Uncle demands privacy. Rasce slaps Great-Uncle’s scaly shoulder and peels off. Conversations with Vorz are tiresome, anyway – like talking to an accounts ledger. The man’s got no fire in his soul.
The crowds do not part for Rasce.
Back home, no one would dare stand in his path. Everyone would make way for the Chosen of the Dragon. Back home, men would come up and greet him, shake his hand, seek his blessing. Women would watch him, whisper about him, the young prince of the Ghierdana. Back home, all know he has the dragon’s favour.
Here, as soon as he steps out of Great-Uncle’s shadow, he’s lost. Oh, a few know him, but only as one of the Ghierdana. They don’t know how high his station; they do not see the significance of the dragon-tooth on his hip. He’s anonymous in this crowd. Earthbound, no longer soaring.
He pushes through the crowd, and instead walks the twisted streets of the Ghierdana enclave in the New City. He wants to feel the wind on his face again. There are many spires and towers in the city, rising like frozen waterspouts or icicles towards the clashing clouds. Yellow fumes from the alchemists’ factories, the natural slate-grey of Guerdon’s skies, and, over the IOZ, weirder clouds – living spawn of the sky goddess, trailing tentacles like jellyfish over the rooftops, plumes of incense from the temples, ephemeral staircases and citadels that fade into empty air. There must be a way up somewhere, but the New City’s absurdly confusing, a labyrinth of bridges and walkways, stairs and arcades.
Rasce finds a stairway that seems to lead up to the level above, but it peters out before it reaches it. The whole New City is unfinished; the miracle that made it ran out before it was done. Cursing, he hurries back down the steps.
“Cousin. Are you lost?”
Vyr calls to him from the foot of the stairs. Looking at Vyr is like looking at a phantom conjured by a fortune teller as a warning about some horrible fate. Vyr and Rasce are first cousins. They’re about the same age, the same height and build. The same olive skin, the same dark hair. Even their faces are similar, though Vyr’s spent too long here under these bleak skies, and there’s something sickly about him now, the perpetual impression that he’s about to throw up and is moving cautiously to avoid upsetting a delicate stomach. And, of course, Vyr doesn’t have a dragon-tooth dagger, nor the enchanted Ring of Samara that adorns Rasce’s finger.
Vyr glances at the ring, and he can’t quite hide his envy.
And my father never brought shame on the family, like Uncle Artolo did.
“Clearly, I’ve become accustomed to flying. It all looks different from on high.”
“How goes the war?” asks Vyr.
“Like the gods are cats and the world’s a sack,” replies Rasce. “How have you been? Do you still have all your teeth, or has the Dentist been plying his trade on you?”
“Truth be told, I’ve seen little of him. I’ve been tending to our business here. I know not what he’s doing, save counting coin and brewing his elixirs,” grumbles Vyr. “The New City’s ours, every whorehouse and gambling den – but only in the New City. We’re penned up here, by the peace lines. We got the worst of the deal when they carved the city up, and there’s little enough gold to be found here. We should have demanded Serran and Bryn Avane, not here.” Vyr rambles on about problems – disputes about passes and permits, legal entanglements, a litany of names and factions that Rasce doesn’t bother following.
He yawns. Business is so dull. It’s for dull people like Vyr and the Dentist to take care of. A dragon sleeps on a bed of gold, resting and dreaming for months at a time until it’s time for action. Time to fly. “I need a bath, a cup of wine and a bed, cousin. Quickly, now.”
Vyr hurries off in the direction of the Ghierdana compound. Night’s falling, and the walls of the New City glimmer slightly, a glow rising from within. It looks like fire buried deep within the white stone, and Rasce finds it pleasing.
Rasce follows the path Vyr took, but the city’s confusing. He takes a wrong turn at some point, and finds himself back at the foot of the staircase. No – it’s one almost identical to it, as similar to the first as he is to Vyr. This staircase, though, is complete, running up to the tower entrance he desired. What a mad folly this New City is! It’s almost as though the staircase grew new steps to accommodate him.
He climbs, up and up, until he can feel the wind on his face. From this perspective, looking inland from the shore instead of down from dragon-back, the various districts of the city blend into each other, and he can’t clearly distinguish the various occupied zones from each other, can’t tell where the IOZ ends and Venture Square begins. It’s all one great urban wilderness, a jungle bristling with chimneys and church spires. A labyrinth in its own way – the rest of Guerdon may not
be as bizarre and mutable as the New City, but it’s still strange to him, and he has no desire to know it better.
It’s much better to be up here, unentangled and aloof from the city below. To soar free.
Tomorrow, though. Right now, he wants a glass of arax and a warm bed, so he descends.
At times, it seems like he hears another set of footsteps on the stairs behind him, but when he turns there’s no one there.
The next morning, Great-Uncle summons Rasce.
Back home, on Great-Uncle’s island, there is a cavern beneath the family villa. Rasce remembers playing on the cavern steps as a child, his cousins daring him to take a few more steps down into the dark, until he could see the red-golden glow from the slumbering dragon. None of them would ever dare trespass into Great-Uncle’s chamber without permission; even the head of the family would wait on the threshold until the dragon acknowledged them.
There are rumours of equally large vaults and caves below the New City, but none are accessible to the massive dragon. Today, Great-Uncle suns himself on a wide plaza. One edge of the plaza ends abruptly at a sheer drop down to the sea; armed Eshdana guards patrol the other entrances. The dragon sprawls out across a row of ruined houses, occasionally scraping his back against the rubble. Vorz the Dentist has applied some alchemical salve to the wounds Great-Uncle took in the recent raid; ugly black scabs on the golden-red magnificence of the dragon. Nearby, marring the pristine stone of the plaza, is the scorched carcass of a goat. Great-Uncle’s breakfast.
People file up to Great-Uncle, one by one, to whisper into the dragon’s ear. Reporting to him, begging for favours. Or offering tribute – there’s a growing pile of coins and bank notes on a black cloth in front of the dragon, a microscopic fraction of the dragon’s hoard back home.
Rasce walks across the plaza, head held high. Swaggering, the dragon-tooth knife at his belt gleaming bone-white in the sun. The onlookers watch him as he crosses the open ground, but few dare meet his gaze. They bow their heads, offering respect. He spots his cousin Vyr. Unlike most of the Ghierdana, Vyr doesn’t look away, but the expression of naked jealousy on his face is tribute enough for Rasce.
The Broken God Page 3