From the bar downstairs he can hear the Ishmerians singing a familiar hymn of mourning, a song that’s sung many times a day in Guerdon. It tells of the death of their war goddess, brought down by treachery. The death of Pesh was more than a defeat for the Sacred Realm. It tore a wound in their souls and destroyed their ability to conceive of war. The empire’s collapsing – and in that chaos, the Ghierdana thrive.
A door at the bottom of the stairs opens. The sound of the hymn mixes with the sound of an argument.
“Who’s drinking that filthy arax? Who’ve you got up there?” An Ishmeric soldier shoves the waiter against the wall, heavy bottles clanking together as the waiter’s tray wobbles.
“No one,” insists the waiter. “Just a storeroom.”
“Kraken take your lying tongue,” slurs the soldier. He grabs one of the bottles, raises it like a club. He’s a big man, shoulders corded with muscle. A killer, forged in the Godswar. He won’t hesitate to smash the waiter’s brains out with the bottle.
The waiter, Rasce suddenly remembers, is named Pulchar. Another former member of the Brotherhood. He’s lived in the Wash all his life, watched the city change around him. Memories flash through his brain. Pulchar serving him a drink, shouting at other customers who refused to share a bar with a Stone Man. Pulchar, during the invasion, cowering on these stairs as water flooded the bar downstairs, as monstrous Krakens swam through the streets outside.
It’s not Rasce’s memory. It can’t be. He’s never met Pulchar before. These memories are coming from the same place as the visions that warned him of the ghouls, of the fires. But none of that matters right now. Pulchar doesn’t deserve what’s about to happen to him.
The soldier, Rasce decides, does.
Rasce jumps over the banister.
The split second in midair is liberating, like flying again. He feels thoroughly himself in that instant.
He lands squarely on the Ishmerian. The soldier crumples under the impact, ribs cracking. For good measure, Rasce grabs the wretch by the hair, drives his skull into the nearest step, and the Ishmerian goes limp.
The waiter stares in horror. Rasce barely notices. His mind is elsewhere. The memory of Pulchar hiding on the stair, the vision of Dredger’s yard – in both, it was as though he was looking down from some vantage point in the heights of the New City. He’s looked down from Great-Uncle’s back often enough to visualise the city spread out below, to imagine the angles and perspectives. Something has touched his mind. Something unnatural.
Something connected to the New City.
“Baston! Vyr!” calls Rasce. Faces appear at the top of the stairs. “We’re leaving.”
He kneels down by the terrified waiter. “Listen! We were never here, yes?” Rasce presses a purse of gold into Pulchar’s hand. “Take this, for the drinks. And the shelter. And the fire damage.”
“What fire damage?” mutters Pulchar weakly.
Unlike the soldier, the bottle of arax is still intact.
Rasce plucks a rag from Pulchar’s apron, stuffs it into the neck of the bottle. The Guerdon thieves did well tonight, he reflects, and it’s only fair to honour their efforts with a little extra payback. “We shall leave by the front door,” Rasce announces.
“The bar is full of Ishmeric soldiers,” says Vyr.
“The dragon walks where he pleases.”
A burning bottle of arax isn’t half as impressive a weapon as that blunderbore, but it still makes for a marvellous beginning to a quick and bloody brawl as the thieves charge through the front bar, scattering the soldiers of the Sacred Realm.
To Rasce’s delight, Baston comes alive in the fight. The man fights with brutal efficiency, moving across the bar like some remorseless engine. He wields a table leg as a weapon, bringing it down again and again on the skulls of Ishmeric soldiers. Never a blow wasted.
“We have to go,” shouts Karla. Blood runs down her face from a cut on her cheek, but she’s grinning broadly. Rasce claps her on the back. “Lead us out!”
She grabs him by the hand, fingers intertwined with his. The thieves spill out on to the streets, Ghierdana and Guerdonese alike, and vanish down back alleys and passageways, out of the sight of the city and its many gods.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Carillon wakes at dawn, hears the waves washing against the hull through a haze of dull pain. Hears Captain Hawse’s gruff voice in the distance. She thinks, maybe, that she saw a Monkfish – a Bythos – standing in the doorway of the cabin, but it might have been a dream. She’s dreaming again—
Waking in a cold panic, unsure where she is. She lunges for her dagger – unexpected, unfamiliar pain, how can she be wounded? – and reaches out for Spar with her mind. She’s the Saint of Knives, she’s got a thousand enemies in Guerdon. She can’t let her guard down. Spar? Who’s out there? Show me, she thinks, even as she falls out of the bunk to land heavily on the floor of the little cabin. Falls through the floor, into blackness. Into another waking dream.
Hours later, in the dead of night, she’s awake again. The bitter taste of medicine in her mouth; her lips numbed. Someone – Hawse? – has put a blanket over her, and it’s drenched in sweat. She kicks it off, awkwardly, her limbs heavy and disobedient. She looks out of the door, sees a sky full of strange stars, and none of the smog that usually covers the skies of Guerdon. I’m in Ilbarin. I’ve got to get to Khebesh. Her satchel’s on the floor by her bed; she fumbles for it, tries to pick it up, but she doesn’t have the strength. The weight of the fucking book is too much for her. She falls back into the bed. Sleep. Heal.
She wakes to the reassuring bulk of Hawse as he wipes her brow with a cool cloth. “Rest,” he tells her. “The Lord of Waters will bear you up.” Somehow, coming from him, it’s comforting. He leaves a plate of fried fish by the bunk, and a flask of water. She sips the water, eats as much of the fish as she can. It twists in her stomach, so she twists herself face down on the bunk, as if she can keep the food trapped inside her by her posture. She falls back asleep.
Half awake, she wanders through confused recollections. She hasn’t been this sick in years, not since her return to Guerdon, when Rat found her, shivering and feverish, in an alleyway, and brought her to Spar. How close to death must I be, she thinks, before I can ask for help? She sits up, has a little water, then lies back and rests, listening to the sound of the birds on the shore. A curious cacophony – gulls and other seabirds, but also inland birds, screeching threats at the unfamiliar expanse of the encroaching sea. The harsh sounds are not restful, but, still, she sleeps.
She wakes again to a man sitting on her bed.
“Hello, Cari.”
Dol Martaine.
She tries to back away, recoiling from Martaine like he’s a scorpion. Pressing herself up against the wall again, reaching for a knife that isn’t there. A figure out of a nightmare, a shadow from her past. She can’t run. Her legs still feel boneless.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” says Dol Martaine. He’s a lanky man, all limbs and long hands. Head shaved; a thin black beard. A high-collared shirt that probably hides the armoured vest he used to favour, leather treated with alchemical curatives until it’s tough enough to stop a bullet. “Young Cari, all grown up.” His gaze runs over her hungrily. “What are you doing back here, Cari?”
She tries to speak, but her throat is clogged with fear. She’s faced down far worse things than Dol Martaine, fought Ravellers and Crawling Ones and mad saints, killed a fucking goddess, but that was when she had power. And Martaine’s another order of terror. The bastard tormented her on the Rose for years, played with her like a cat toying with a mouse. Adro – and Hawse, usually – gave her some protection, but the Rose wasn’t a big ship, and she couldn’t avoid Martaine. He taught her to hide, to move unseen. To hate.
“Let’s see.” He grabs her satchel. Instinctively, she tries to snatch it away, but he’s faster and stronger. He paws through the contents. “Oh, she has money,” he crows, letting a handful of coins from her b
ag slip through his fingers. “But I always guessed that, from how she joined us. Spoiled little runaway. And what’s this?”
He rips open the inner lining of the satchel, pulls out a little derringer pistol, a handful of Haithi letters of credit. All given to her by her cousin Eladora, back in Guerdon. Emergency supplies for the journey, in case she encountered trouble she couldn’t run away from. He pockets the pistol. Spreads the Haithi papers out on the bed. “What are you?” he asks, a note of surprise, even respect in his voice. “A spy? For Haith, maybe?”
“I stole them, you moron,” she lies. He hasn’t taken the book out yet. How can he miss it? It’s gigantic, heavy, obviously valuable. Why isn’t he asking her questions about Ramegos’ grimoire?
Because, Cari realises with mounting horror, the book isn’t there. It’s already gone.
The room darkens as Hawse appears in the doorway. Martaine hastily folds the letters of credit and shoves them inside his jacket. The captain carries two steaming cups of tea; he hands one to Martaine.
“Well?” he rumbles.
Cari tries not to panic. Hawse took care of her. He’s always protected her from Dol Martaine. He’s always been her friend – until you ran away, she reminds herself. But he’s always been Martaine’s friend, too. He needed Martaine a lot more than he ever needed Cari; Martaine was the captain’s right hand back in the day, his counsellor, his scourge. Adro was the muscle, but Martaine was the one the captain trusted to get things done, at sea or on shore. She remembers seeing Martaine come back on board with bloodied hands, being told to help throw cloth-wrapped bodies overboard. The Rose survived by smuggling on the fringes of the Godswar; a dirty, dangerous business, and Martaine handled the roughest parts.
Cari swallows the bile rising in her throat and stays perfectly still as the two men talk over her.
“Here’s the thing, captain,” says Martaine. “The Ghierdana are looking for a young woman, just come to Ilbarin. Dark-haired, like our Cari. Secretive, like our Cari. Little scars on her face.” Martaine reaches out, runs his thumb over Cari’s cheek. “And our Cari’s got some scars since she left us. They didn’t say anything about her being insolent or treacherous, but we’ll take that as read.”
“Is there a reward?” asks Hawse, sipping his tea.
“Passage off the Rock. That’s all they need to say to get every poor bastard on Ilbarin looking for her.”
Hawse groans as he sits down on the bunk opposite. “Cari, why are the Ghierdana looking for you?”
Cari shuffles away from Martaine as much as she can. “Stuff happened back in Guerdon.” Both men frown in confusion. “Look, have either of you heard news out of Guerdon in the last few years?”
Martaine sounds gratifyingly unsure of himself. “Ishmere invaded. Guerdon used some alchemical weapon on the Lion Queen. Killed Her, I’ve heard.”
“Impossible,” says Hawse harshly. “Gods cannot die.”
Martaine rolls his eyes, “Ishmere signed a peace treaty, guaranteed by Haith and Lyrix. Guerdon’s partially occupied by all three, now, and they’ve all agreed not to fight in the city.”
“And there’s a king in Guerdon again,” adds Hawse. “Chosen by some god or other.”
“Now what,” says Martaine slowly, “does any of that have to do with you?”
Cari’s tempted to boast about killing the Lion Queen, to show them that she’s risen far beyond them, but, instead, she picks her words carefully. She doesn’t want to give away too much. “I was running with the Brotherhood – the Guerdon thieves’ guild, right? We kicked the Ghierdana out of Guerdon. Killed a bunch of them. That’s why they want me, I guess.”
Martaine leans back. “But the Ghierdana are back in Guerdon now. The peace treaty let them back in.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here and not there.”
“Why here?”
“I need to get to Khebesh.”
“Khebesh has sealed its gates. No one can pass the Ghost Walls.” Martaine leans back. “You’re lying.”
“Believe me or don’t, I don’t care. Look, I just need passage off Ilbarin. I’m not looking to make trouble here, not looking for payback or anything. Don’t tell the Ghierdana you saw me, Dol, and you can keep the money.”
“Oh, I’m keeping the money.” Dol Martaine laughs. “As for telling the Ghierdana… the captain already told me you were here.”
Shit.
Martaine’s Eshdana. She should have guessed he would take the ash.
Carillon throws herself at Martaine, hands scrabbling for that little pistol, but her limbs are like wet seaweed against the solid rock of his arm. Pain explodes in her wrist again. His hot tea spills down his leg, making him flinch, but she’s too hurt to take advantage of the opening. He pins her in the bed, puts the gun to her head. “I know the boss, Cari! This much hate – it’s more than business! It’s a vendetta!” He hisses into her ear. “Why does Artolo want you so badly?”
“Dol.” The captain doesn’t look up, doesn’t move, but there’s still a weight to his words, an iron bar dropping. Martaine twists around to look Hawse in the eye.
“We need to know! We need to know what she’s worth to him!”
“Dol. Not like this. Get off her.”
Martaine snarls, but he obeys the captain’s order, releasing his grip on Cari. He stands up, slips her pistol into a pocket, tugs his shirt down. He backs away, keeping his eyes fixed on Cari, all of him in motion somehow, hands flexing, body twisting as he withdraws from the cramped cabin.
“Keep her here,” he tells Hawse from the doorway, “until I get back. Don’t tell anyone – and if Artolo’s men come calling, drown her like I told you.”
“Dol,” says the captain, in that same leaden tone, “He has not forgotten.”
“Your god is dead, captain,” spits Dol Martaine, and then he’s gone. Cari hears him slithering down the side of the Rose, the distant wet squelch as he lands in the mud.
“You’re still weak,” says Hawse. He throws back the last of his tea, then rises, groaning as his old bones creak. “I’ll get you more to eat.”
“You fucking turned me over to the Ghierdana?”
Hawse grunts in irritation. “I found you on the shore, and there were other Ghierdana out there this morning, looking for your trail. If they’d caught you, you’d be in their citadel in Ushket, and I’d have my throat cut for sheltering you. So, aye, I went to Martaine. He took the ash after they beached the Rose. He can make sure they won’t search here.”
“You mean, he won’t let anyone else turn me over. He’ll do it himself.”
“If it comes to it. But a promise to me is not one he’ll lightly break.”
Cari scowls. Her head’s spinning. “You sound very sure.”
“I have faith. I shall show you, when you’re stronger.”
“Hawse, my book. Where is it? Did he take it?”
Hawse sits heavily back down on the bunk opposite. “I spoke with the Bythos this morning.” It takes her a second to recall he means the Monkfish-things that came out of the ocean. “There’s much I don’t understand about you, Cari. But your book is safe. I hid it from Martaine. And you’re safe, for now. I swear this by the Lord of Waters.”
By the evening of the next day, Cari is able to walk a little. Her whole left side is blue with bruises, courtesy of the goddess of the mountain. She creeps out on deck, moving like an old woman herself, like Spar on a bad day. Her ribs feel like they’re made of glass – fragile, cracked, fragments grinding into her flesh – but she’s getting stronger.
She crouches down by the railing, and looks out at the shore, squinting through the bandages over her battered face. In the fading light, the Rock is visible only as a black void looming above her, blotting out the stars to the south, although she can see an eerie radiance from the far side, streamers of light of no colour she can name rising from what must be the ruins of Ilbarin. It puts her in mind of the new Temple Quarter back in Guerdon, the Ishmeric Occupation Zone.
<
br /> Off to the right, she can see the lights of the town of Ushket. More lights – campfires and farms – on the upper slopes beyond the town. Floodlights now illuminate the harbour where she landed, and she can make out parts of a fortress on the far side of the town, through gaps in the skyline – a tower there, a bastion there. It’s like some great beast hiding in the undergrowth, hunting her, waiting for her to break cover. And on the shore between the wreck of the Rose and Ushket, she can see a few thin figures stalking up and down the muddy fields, poking at weeds or searching through the other wrecks.
They’re looking for her.
For them, passage off Ilbarin. Hawse told her that the first thing the Ghierdana did when they arrived, after Ilbarin City drowned, was make sure they controlled all the ways off the island. Their dragons destroyed the ships that weren’t Ghierdana. Burned most of them, dragged others – like the Rose – out of the water to rot. Tens of thousands of people died in Ilbarin City, but tens of thousands survived, too. For now – this island is dying, she can taste it in the air like a ghoul. Not enough food, not enough drinkable water. The farms up the slopes look like they don’t produce much, and she’s got no idea where Hawse got the fish he fed her, because the only others she’s seen are the piles of rotting fish-kill along the water’s edge. The seas are fucked, too, ruined by the battle between Kraken and the Lord of Waters. She wants passage off this rock, but so does everyone else.
What about Dol Martaine? Hawse claims she can trust their former crewmate, that Martaine won’t break his word to the captain – but Cari needs to know the source of that certainty.
She leaves the rail, makes her way slowly downstairs into the dark bowels of the ship.
The forward hold is pitch-black apart from the wan light that spills in through the breach in the hull. She has to navigate by touch, by memory, until she finds the doorway that leads into the aft hold. The tide’s coming in, water gushing through the wounds in the aft hull. She climbs down the ladder, wincing at every rung, cold and slimy tongues lapping against her ankles, her calves. The salt stings the cuts on her knees.
The Broken God Page 11