The Broken God

by Gareth Hanrahan

  “Will they hang him?”

  They will hang him. They hang Idge.

  It’s twenty years ago, and it’s always now.

  Spar watches in the garden of the Hall of Law. The bell tolls the noon hour, and the gallows drops beneath his father. Idge falls, and in Spar’s memory the fall seems to go on forever, far longer than any rope could possibly allow. He clutches his mother’s hand, imagining somehow that his father will fall through the earth, fall into some subterranean wonderland of the ghouls, escape through the endless tunnels below the city. Survive, transformed into some strange new form. Survive through his writing if nothing else.

  The fall an escape, a miraculous victory in the face of death.

  But the rope snaps taut, and the fall ends.

  In a tunnel under the New City, a ghoul crouches by a stone wall. It’s dark, but darkness means nothing down here – both Spar and the ghoul have transcended the need for anything so mundane as eyes to see in the dark.

  He knows the ghoul. It’s Rat. When he contracted the Stone Plague, that mysterious disease that slowly ate away at his flesh, transmuting it to rock, his Hog Close friends abandoned him, one by one. Their father hustling Karla out of Spar’s room, Baston hovering at the threshold, unwilling to leave, too scared to come closer.

  Some saw that he would never take his father’s place at the head of the Brotherhood. Others, he drove away. But Rat stayed. Ghouls can’t get the Plague. Ghouls don’t care about bitterness, or self-loathing, or despair. Everyone else, Spar could find some leverage, some weak spot to push, but Rat had decided Spar was his friend, and that was that.

  Rat, but not Rat. Rat has suffered a change almost as complete as Spar’s. His friend was a street-ghoul, a young ghoul, lurking in the alleyways and stealing carcasses from slaughterhouses to slake his hunger for dead meat. But Rat was – possessed? Chosen? Consumed? – by one of the Elder Ghouls of Guerdon, the necrotic demigods who dwelled in the depths below. All the other elders are gone now, killed in their war with the Crawling Ones, all save the thing called Lord Rat.

  Rat scratches at the tunnel wall with his massive paws, tapping on it. His huge jaws part, his long purple tongue licking at his teeth. Sharp fangs for ripping corpse-flesh from bone, wide flat molars for cracking bones to get the marrow, the residual soul-stuff. Haltingly, Rat speaks. He’s trying to tell Spar something important. The ghoul gestures, says something about Black Iron. Something about alchemy.

  The vibrations echo through Spar’s mind. He fights to pay attention again, to pull fragments of his mind together so he can listen, but it’s so hard to focus. To… coagulate.

  Rat’s voice becomes an echo, robbed of meaning. His words join the chorus of other words spoken in the New City, lost in the tumult of noise. He strains to pick meaning out of the seething chaos of life. Spar’s aware that he’s only been a city for a short time, but his grasp of the mortal world is slipping. To distinguish individual words, individual days, individual lives from the masses that swarm through him, their passage clear to him only in aggregate, in the way their feet wear away well-travelled steps, in how their hands rub certain lucky carvings smooth.

  Frustrated, Rat scratches on the stone again.

  Spar’s eyes are the tunnel wall, the ceiling, the stones all around. His eardrums are every surface. He sees Rat from a hundred different angles, and every one of those viewpoints is a portion of Spar’s attention that threatens to slip away. His thoughts are a host of children in a crowded city – it’s all too easy for him to lose them down the twisting alleyways of memory.

  He follows the scratching sound, back three years.

  Scratching at his door. It’s Rat. Spar puts down his papers and levers himself up from his chair. If he grabs on to the edge of the shelf nearby, he can pull himself up, avoid putting added pressure on the left side of his back. There are jagged plates of stone on his skin there that dig into the underlying muscle if he puts weight on them, and every time he does he feels the chill numbness of petrification take hold.

  The shelf creaks under his weight. Dents in the wood match his stony fingertips. He stands, but his left leg seizes up, goes numb. Like he’s balancing atop a precarious pillar of stone.

  He’s in danger of falling. The room spins around him. Terror seizes him; he can’t breathe.

  Falling’s always a danger for him – if he smashes to the floor, the impact might cause internal damage he can’t see, damage he won’t catch until it’s too late. He imagines smashing heavily on to the dirt floor. Maybe hitting his head, or getting dirt in his eyes that scratches the delicate tissue, blinding him with stony cataracts.

  He tells himself that he’s not that fragile. He’s seen Stone Men like him shrug off bullets, smash through brick walls, endure terrible beatings. As long as he takes the hit on a part of his body that’s already gone to stone, it doesn’t matter. He’s just got to protect his dwindling stock of flesh. Measure out his life in square inches of flesh, in nail breadths of unpetrified skin.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Hurry up,” mutters Rat. “It’s pouring out here.”

  There’s a vial of alkahest on the shelf, just within reach. Spar leans over, pressing his other hand against the wall for balance. He scoops it up, finds the gap between stone scabs on his leg, and drives the needle home. Fiery sensations, exhilarating and agonising in equal measure, rush through his leg. The paralysis in his knee melts away, and the limb moves freely again. He can feel his toes for the first time in days. The alkahest seethes through his bloodstream in a blazing flood. It feels as though the stone has melted away to become supple flesh again. He knows it’s only a temporary relief, but, still, it’s enough for now.

  He strides across the little room, unbolts the door. Rat’s outside, with some human girl leaning on him for support. She’s deathly pale, shivering, her lips and sleeve caked in fragments of vomit. Spar’s first instinct is to pick her up and carry her to the bed, but the Stone Plague is transmitted by touch. “Put her on my bed,” he tells Rat. There are old bandages hanging on the back of the door; Spar begins wrapping his hands.

  “Found her down by the docks,” mutters Rat, “tryin’ to pick a pocket. She threw up all over the mark. I figured keep her here. If she gets better, she owes us. If she dies, I’ll take the carcass below.” The ghoul licks his chops.

  “Fuck you,” says the girl, weakly. She paws at her throat. “Did you…?” Rat brushes her hand aside, pulls a necklace out from under her shirt. He holds it up to the lamplight – dangling from the chain is a black stone, set in an enamelled amulet.

  The girl reaches for it. “No,” she moans, “that’s mine.”

  Spar closes his hand around it. “I’ll keep it safe for you. Just rest.” He draws a blanket across her thin form. The girl closes her eyes, seems to fall asleep.

  Rat sniffs her. “She’s off a ship. Not local.” He sniffs again, wrinkles his muzzle as if trying to identify some subtle scent.

  “Here.” Spar hands the ghoul a few coins. “Run down to Lambs Square, get some food in. Stuff that’s easy on the stomach – Ranson’s Chemical Food, maybe.” Alchemical paste, sweet and sticky. Stone Men with calcified stomaches swear by it; Spar isn’t there yet. “And some clean clothes. Maybe ask Silkpurse.”

  Rat hurries off. Spar returns to his chair, carefully lowering himself like a crane righting a derailed train engine.

  He waits there, reading his father’s old papers. Turning her necklace over and over in his hand, testing to see if there’s any sensation left in the skin of his palm. Not much – he’d have to dig the metal edges of the little amulet into his flesh to feel anything, and that might damage the girl’s treasure.

  After a few minutes, he becomes aware that she’s woken up, but is still pretending to sleep, watching him through half-closed eyes. Waiting for him to move, so she can escape out of the door and die in a gutter somewhere. He reaches over, drops her amulet on the bed next to her.

  “You’re sa
fe here,” he says again, “I’m Spar Idgeson.” Putting the emphasis on his last name, his father’s name. Everyone in Guerdon’s underworld remembers Idge – the great leader, the philosopher-thief, the man who was going to right all the injustices of the guilds and make the city fair. Invoking Idge’s name is a declaration of responsibility and trustworthiness. Everyone in Guerdon would understand that Idge’s son is a man of honour.

  But Idge’s name clearly means nothing to her. She stares blankly, then repeats “Spar,” in a scratchy voice. “Is there water?”

  “Would you like me to fetch some?”

  “It’s okay.” She sits up – how easily she does that, without any hesitation, without any cracking of stone scabs or shooting nerve pains – and swings her legs out of the bed. She takes two barefoot steps, then her knees buckle and she nearly falls, catching herself on Spar’s chair.

  “Little help?” she asks, reaching out.

  Spar takes her hand, careful to ensure the bandages are between her skin and his stone. With his other hand, he lifts himself out of the chair. The room’s cramped, and he’s much bigger than she is, so he has to carefully manoeuvre himself to avoid brushing against her, like he’s dancing with her.

  They walk the few steps to the little sink, hand in hand. The girl finds a cup of water, sips it slowly. “Gods, that’s better. Thanks.”

  “I still don’t know your name,” says Spar.

  “Cari. It’s Cari.”

  Cari looks down at him as he falls.

  Tumbling, head over heels, from the roof of the Seamarket to the stone floor of the market far below. Three hundred feet straight down.

  As he tumbles, he sees it all.

  Below him, the terrified crowds. People of the city, corralled into this ancient temple as sacrifices to the Black Iron Gods. The people his father tried to inspire, tried to lead, to protect.

  Above him, the black iron bell. A monstrous god, reforged and trapped in the shape of a bell.

  Below him, the city. Through the great arched windows of the Seamarket, he glimpses for an instant the spires of Guerdon, but an instant is all he needs to recognise his city. The Victory Cathedrals up on Holyhill, the church spires of the Holy Beggar, St Storm’s by the sea. Castle Hill, like a sleeping dragon, its back saw-toothed with towers and roofs. Across the harbour, the mighty bastions of Queen’s Point. The new spires of the alchemists, the smokestacks and cooling towers. His city, his Guerdon.

  The city is eternal, says an old rhyme; the city must finally end.

  Above him, Cari. Caught by a spell, paralysed, unable to reach him. For an instant, he dares to imagine a last-minute reprieve, a miracle. He imagines her taking the terrible bargain offered by the Black Iron Gods, becoming their high priestess. Sharing in their divinity. She could pluck him out of the air and carry him to safety. Cure the Stone Plague with a thought. Bring down the alchemists and the arms dealers, the politicians and the priests. Shatter the world and remake it.

  But no. Below him, he sees the dark writhing tide of the Ravellers, the other agents of the Black Iron Gods. Monstrous things, living knives of shadow, nothing but hate and hunger made manifest. Nothing good could ever spring from such things.

  Above him, the vast dome. A magnificent tomb for a street thief.

  Below him—

  The fall is eternal. The fall must finally end.

  Spar falls into darkness.

  Darkness.

  And then a distant flare of light.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A distant flare of light. There, for a moment, across the dark waters of the harbour.

  Time to move.

  “Lead on,” hisses Rasce. Baston leads them down the silent docks, using stacks of crates and mooring posts as cover. Their target’s just ahead. A wide pier, sectioned off from the rest of the docks by a wire fence. Rasce can make out a long, low building, and beyond it, tents and temporary storehouses – Dredger’s yard. The arms dealer used to run part of his operations from an island out in the harbour, but Shrike Island was washed clean in the invasion last year, so now everything’s crammed into the yards.

  They come to the fence. A row of red flags flutter limply in the breeze. Red’s a warning: it means the yard’s handling highly volatile phlogiston. Vyr shudders at the sight.

  Poor, nervous Vyr. He needs to learn how to fight, how to act. Vyr should learn from his father’s bad example – Uncle Artolo came to Guerdon and lost everything through weakness. Rasce’s not going to make the same mistake. He’ll show Vyr to be bold, as befits a son of the Ghierdana.

  He glances from Vyr to Baston. The local man’s face is dour, downcast. Does he doubt their chances of success? Or is it something else – Tiske mentioned a tragic backstory, but everyone has sorrowful tales to tell. Cling too tight to your sorrows and they’ll drag you down. These bastards need to feel alive again, to feel the dragon’s fire in their souls.

  There’s an explosion at the far end of the pier. A flash of blue flame so bright it briefly lights up the low clouds over Guerdon, outshining the lights of the alchemists. Tiske’s work – Vyr gave him the most dangerous job, and he’s carried it out bravely.

  Shouts and sirens ring out. The business of the yards is recycling and reselling alchemical weapons. A fire here could drown Guerdon in toxic smoke, or detonate some other weapon, like a phlogiston charge. Everyone stops working, drops everything to lend a hand when fire breaks out. Workers run out of the warehouses, out of the workshops, to grab buckets of water and canisters of fire-quenching foam. Rasce sees the blocky shapes of Stone Men, hauling wagonloads of salvage away from the hot zone.

  “Wait for it,” mutters Baston.

  A side door of the main building bursts open. Flames reflect off a burnished helmet.

  “There goes Dredger,” whispers Baston. The salvage dealer, protected by his armoured suit, stomps off into the maelstrom leaving his offices unguarded.

  More importantly, he’s also left the shed where Dredger’s stock of yliaster is stored. That’s Karla’s job – to smash open the casks and spill the yliaster into the water, as a warning to other dealers in the stuff.

  Then the black harbour blazes red. A second, much larger explosion erupts near the first, showering burning debris down across the pier. The whole area’s aflame, now, red flames lighting the night sky, flaring blue and green and lurid violet shades as alchemy burns. Tiske’s misjudged where he set his fire, it seems, and paid for the error with his life. Neither ghoul nor god will ever find the man’s remains – the blast is big enough to scatter his ashes across the harbour.

  Vyr quails at the sight of the devastation, looking nervously into the sky as if expecting to see an attacking dragon circling over the New City. Baston doesn’t flinch, but he looks to the Ghierdana for a decision. Lead on or fall back? Abandon the mission – or plunge into the flame?

  “Onward!” cries Rasce. He darts forward, shoves open the door. Baston and Cousin Vyr follow. The air’s thick with smoke; this building isn’t supposed to be on fire, but, well, you don’t blow up a pier full of dangerously volatile alchemical salvage and expect everything to go as planned. They just need to be faster. Baston leads them into Dredger’s office.

  “Vyr, to the shelves. Baston, you find the safe,” orders Rasce. He searches the desk himself. The worktop’s littered with machine parts – alchemical scrap or parts of Dredger’s armour, Rasce can’t tell, but none of it’s useful. He forces open the drawers, finds a bottle of nectar-wine, more junk, more junk, and…

  “Behold! This bastard,” he mutters, holding up the weapon he has found mounted beneath the desk. The blunderbore looks like its maker harboured a subconscious death wish and tried to make a weapon that was guaranteed to explode when test-fired. Given its placement under the desk, muzzle pointing at the chair opposite, he suddenly has more respect for this Dredger as a negotiator. He’s glad he picked Dredger as the example, instead of burning down some other merchant and then trying to cut a deal from that chair of
death there.

  Baston tears a painting of a burning ship off the wall, revealing a heavy safe. He peers at the mechanism, coughing as the room begins to fill with acrid smoke. “This is going to take a few minutes, boss.”

  Vyr’s looking out of the window. “Longer than we have, I fear.” Outside, flames leap and roar.

  Rasce hefts the blunderbore. “Stand back.”

  “Are you crazy?” Vyr flinches away from the weapon. Rasce tosses the heavy blunderbore to his cousin, who catches it with a squeak.

  Rasce draws his dragon-tooth knife, advances on the safe. The blade cuts through steel like straw, and there’s a little puff of sulphurous smoke as whatever magic wards guarding the safe pop. The tooth still retains a trace of Great-Uncle’s magic. Little mortal spells can’t stand against the dragon’s might.

  The door gives way under its own weight and falls to the floor. Rasce grabs the heavy ledger books, folders full of contracts and secrets. He grabs the petty cash for good measure.

  “Come on, let’s…”

  The strangest feeling overwhelms him. His vision doubles – he’s looking down at the yard from a great height, able to see Karla and her crew staving in the casks of yliaster, the flames raging along the pier. She moves like she’s dancing with the flames, eyes bright behind her breathing mask. He sees the foaming slime beneath the pier, thick with alchemical run-off. He feels like there are hollows in his skull, and furtive, feral shapes move through them, within him. Ghouls. Ghouls are coming.

  Rasce knows all this like he might know he has a stone in his shoe, like he might feel the sun on the back of his neck. But how? Where did this knowledge come from? He reels, steadying himself against the wall. He can feel the heat of the fires on the far side, outside the window. It’s getting hard to breathe in here, with all the smoke. That’s all it is – a lack of good air, making his mind play tricks on him. Like his ancestors who went flying on Great-Uncle’s back before the invention of breathing masks, tormented by phantoms of the thin upper airs.