She opens the jar, removes the twitching homunculus.
Eladora smashes the wax effigy with the butt of the gun, beating it into a waxy pulp.
History no longer concerns her. The future is coming too fast for her to look back, even for an instant.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Early evening in occupied Guerdon.
Across the city, in the Fog Yards and the New Alchemists District, the whistles sound a shift change. Workers spill out of the factories, a human tide pouring through the streets, breaking into tributaries that fill the taverns and the playhouses, waterwheels of commerce. They pour down spiral stairs into underground rivers where the subway trains thunder. They pool in Venture Square. Different districts of the city flow with their own colours – the grey cassocks of the university students, the tawdry sequinned glamour of Glimmerside, black suits and starched collars of parliament clerks. It’s hard to distinguish one droplet of life from another, when they all mix in the churning rivers that race down the streets.
But the rivers are dammed, and cannot flow free. At the borders of each of the occupation zones are checkpoints and guard posts, each according to their own methodologies. In the Haithi zone, it’s all regimented, with undead soldiers, bureaucratic ledgers, an arrangement of chits and passes, while Ishmere’s borders are watched by gods and monsters. The routes into the Lyrixian Occupation Zone are guarded, too – some by Lyrixian soldiers, nervously holding on to this little foothold on the edge of the city. Others by Ghierdana thugs, hungry for bribes.
The flow of those rivers of life is strangled. The city’s arteries cut.
Spar sees all this, and now he can know all this, too. For months, his mind was broken and scattered, unable to form a coherent thought. Now, suddenly, he has focus. A fixed point of reference, one that is here and now.
Rasce. Rasce of the Ghierdana.
It’s the second time Spar has gone through this strange experience of reintegration, and it’s very different this time. The first time it happened, after he died, after the Gutter Miracle, it was Cari who saved him, and she did it deliberately. She reached out and found him in the darkness, and pulled him back into awareness. She went looking for him, took him by the hand and led him back to life, or whatever bizarre quasi-life he has now – the embodied spirit of the New City.
Cari, he calls, can you hear me?
Nothing. He didn’t think she would be able to hear him. She’s half the world away, and Spar’s reach is limited to the New City.
Rasce, though, isn’t even fully aware of Spar. It’s more like the two have become entangled, like Rasce blundered through a dark alleyway and emerged with Spar’s mind clinging to him like a cobweb on his sleeve.
He feels as fragile as a cobweb. Spar strained himself with miracles during the invasion, spent his power profligately. He’s not a god – all he had was the stolen divine potency of the Black Iron Gods, and he’s used up all he could carry. For now, he can only observe through a hundred thousand windows, a hundred thousand eyes.
Spar watches Baston visit the house on Lanthorn Street. Rasce now keeps a little snuffbox of ash taken from the ruins of Dredger’s yard on his desk. Spar wonders how much of Tiske is mixed into that black dust.
Baston doesn’t take the ash, but some of the other thieves from the Wash do.
Spar finds that he’s able to watch Baston without falling into the traps of memory – Rasce keeps him anchored in the present.
Rasce, can you hear me? he calls. Rasce shivers, like Spar’s thought is a breath on the back of his neck, but he still cannot hear.
Cari couldn’t hear Spar either, at first. It took time to build that connection. He can afford patience, even as Rasce paces the halls of the house on Lanthorn Street (his footsteps echoing through Spar like a new heartbeat), eager to press on with his campaign. Spar can share Rasce’s excitement – and his fears. Anticipation of the dragon’s return is a constant presence in the back of Rasce’s mind, the shadow of great wings. Fragments of emotion bleed through.
Why Rasce? Spar can only guess. He’s not a god, but the terminology of sainthood is all he has to use. From what he knows, gods don’t exactly choose their saints – it’s a question of potential, like lightning striking the tallest point in the landscape. It can be the work of a moment, too. Cari’s Aunt Silva was a Safidist, an adherent of the branch of the Keeper’s church who sought sainthood. She diligently performed the rites, offered sacrifices, mortified her flesh, but the gods ignored her for years until that lighting flash finally came. And then, once the connection was established, it endured even after Silva’s mind was broken. Compare that to Saint Aleena, who had no time for rituals or worship, who was endlessly profane in every sense of the word – but for one moment she’d attracted the attention of the gods, and that was enough to bond her to the gods for the rest of her life.
So, why Rasce? Spar and the Ghierdana are both of similar age – well, Spar’s been dead for two years, but set that aside for now. They’re both heirs to criminal dynasties. Spar’s father Idge was master of the Brotherhood; Rasce’s Chosen of the Dragon. Was that enough for a moment of congruency?
If Spar could choose, he would not pick Rasce. The Ghierdana boy may have had a similar upbringing, but they’re very different men. Rasce has no love for the people of Guerdon, no thought of a higher calling. He’d pick another connection instead. Baston, maybe. They were friends, before Spar’s illness, before Baston became the Fever Knight’s lieutenant. There were others Spar would have chosen before Baston, but most of them are dead. Can he give Baston that saint’s grace, instead?
He reaches out with his soul. Exerts his will as best he can.
Baston, can you hear me?
Nothing. He pushes harder, slips – and now it’s a day later. Maybe two. Mid-morning, and Rasce’s walking out of the New City, passing the checkpoints along the border. Spar’s disorientated, his consciousness as slippery as wet soap. He clings to Rasce with what strength he can muster, desperate to avoid those chasms of oblivion.
He can’t let himself fall again.
Rasce shivers as icy raindrops trickle past his collar and run down his back. Another advantage of soaring above the clouds denied to him. No wonder everyone in Guerdon seems to wear hooded cloaks or drab, heavy coats. Streams gush from the drainpipes, making the pavement a series of rivers that must be forded. This afternoon’s downpour has emptied the streets of Glimmerside. Only a few hardy souls can be seen on the street, and half of them are his Brotherhood recruits. Baston strides along just ahead of Rasce and Vyr, and Rasce can almost imagine him growling faintly. Karla’s already gone ahead, to keep watch on Craddock’s.
Vyr sniffles into a handkerchief. “I need to stop along here for a moment,” he says. “An errand for my father.”
“As you wish.” They’re in the free city, but he and Vyr are the only Ghierdana members of this little expedition, and he’s not expecting trouble. Burning Dredger’s yard was the artillery barrage; today, they’re bonepicker priests, collecting the souls of the fallen.
The streets here are lined with bookshops, stationers, cafés. Tailors with academic robes and tasselled hats in their windows, makers of alchemical paraphernalia, dealers in reagents and relics. Rasce notes the shimmer of yliaster amid jars of other alchemical substances – dilute phlogiston, aetherated salt, tincture of divinity, mother’s milk, sweetened vitriol. Vials and syringes of alkahest, the drug that the Stone Men use to slow the progress of their horrible disease.
Vyr enters a curious little establishment. At first, Rasce mistakes it for a jewellers’, but when he wipes away the rain that beads the heavy slate-glass window, he discovers it’s a dealer in prosthetics. A display of mechanical arms, peg legs carved from wood or bone, alchemist-grown organs floating in life-support jars. A partially disassembled suit of armour, like Dredger’s. A peeling sign pasted to the door gives notice that priority will be given to accredited members of the alchemists’ guild, and no charity will be ext
ended to victims of war or industrial accident.
In the dim shop beyond, he can see Vyr arguing with the maker of mechanical limbs.
Rasce crosses the street to a little newspaper kiosk, nods at the haggard crone behind the counter, and takes a copy of the Guerdon Observer off the table. He starts to walk away.
“Thief! Thief,” she croaks, “two coppers!”
Of course – he has to pay. Back on the isles of the Ghierdana, no one would dare charge the Chosen of the Dragon for anything. Even in the New City, most now know better than to ask him for coin.
Rasce gives the woman a gold coin, worth enough to buy the kiosk and all its contents. Gives her a smile, too, a dragon’s smile, with the promise of teeth.
The headlines, pleasingly, are still dominated by the fire at Dredger’s yard. Fears of contamination from the toxic smoke. It’s not the first such incident in recent years, and Rasce’s lost count of the number of infants he’s seen with twisted limbs or other malformations. Among the wealthy, gilded gas masks have become a fashionable accessory.
The newspaper does not mention the Ghierdana in connection with the attack on Dredger, which does not surprise Rasce. The truce between Guerdon and the three occupying powers is a delicate one, and everyone knows that Lyrix’s main contribution to the balance of power comes from the dragons. Openly accusing the Ghierdana of the crime would risk the peace, even if everyone knows the Ghierdana are responsible. A gap in the armour, and the knife goes in. He imagines parliament sending out its agents, bribing and threatening and whispering, trying to right the ship of state.
Speed is of the essence. He needs to get this done before Great-Uncle returns, but also before the authorities push back at him. If he seizes the yliaster trade quickly enough, then parliament will have no choice but to bless this new status quo.
Empty eye sockets watch him from across the street. Skull-faced undead sentries from Haith. Glimmerside’s on the edge of the Haithi Occupation Zone. If he climbs up Holyhill, he’ll be in their territory – and Haith doesn’t have the same compunctions about maintaining the truce. The rules of the Armistice are clear – if one of the three powers breaks the truce, the other two are compelled to ally against the offender. Walking into Haithi territory could be enough of a provocation to start the war.
Rasce gives them a cheery wave and crosses back to meet Vyr.
“Still not finished,” grumbles Vyr. “It needs a specialist sorcerer to enchant it. Five thousand just for the consultation.”
“And they call us criminals.”
They walk side by side through the rain, shadowed by the bodyguards. High atop the hill to their right, emerging from the rain like snow-capped mountains, are three great cathedrals of the Kept Gods. The singing of a great choir, slightly ragged, drifts down from the churches like incense.
“I’m told they never used to do that,” murmurs Vyr, “until the Ishmerians came. Now the singing never stops.”
Craddock & Sons is situated off a steep lane that runs down to Venture Square. Lawyers, speculators, brokers – and dealers in alchemical reagents. Unlike Dredger, the warehouses of Craddock & Sons are far across the city, in the Fog Yards. Their offices, though, are within reach of the Ghierdana.
At a nod from Rasce, the Eshdana go in first. Rough men in grey cloaks swarm the office in a practised flurry, a swarm of pugnacious fish, each man with a task assigned. Sweep for guards. Secure the back exit. Keep the staff quiet. Close the door once the boss is in.
The heavy door shuts behind Rasce. He scans the office, desks of dark wood laden with papers and ledgers, alchemical weapons and supplies reduced to notes and sigils. A dozen clerks of varying ages, ink-spots on their shirts, eyes wide. One fellow attempted to make a break for it, and is now hunched over in his chair, clutching a broken nose. Otherwise, no damage or injuries, and every ash-marked is in their assigned place. Good. Executed with military discipline.
Judging by their chins and thinning hair, three of the clerks are Craddock’s sons. “Those three.”
Three ash-marked move to mark the three sons. One of whom actually shakes his fist at Rasce.
“You won’t get away with this!” he blusters from behind his desk.
“Yes, they will,” calls a voice from the inner office. “I’m in here. And don’t break anything else, please.”
Craddock’s hair has gone entirely, and his chin is lost behind his white beard, but there’s a keen intelligence in his eyes. Rasce sits down – then, on second thoughts, shifts the heavy chair a few inches to the right, just in case Craddock picked up some negotiation tips from Dredger.
Vyr drifts to the window behind Craddock, checks the alleyway outside, then closes the blinds.
“Well, then,” says Craddock, “do you have terms, or should I dig up my old agreements? I’ve been in business long enough to know the score.”
“We have terms,” says Rasce, “but you shall find them reasonable. A small fee to ensure that your yards are safe from the same fate as Dredger’s – and two conditions. First, you’ll henceforth buy your yliaster from us, and only from us.”
Craddock narrows his eyes. “Yliaster? At what rate?”
Rasce waves his hand dismissively. “A reasonable one, I’m sure. Cheaper than the blood of your sons.”
“There’s no need for such threats. As I said, I’ve done this before. The Brotherhood. And later I paid the tallow-tax to the alchemists. Hah! The protection money was cheaper. What’s your other demand?”
Rasce produces the snuffbox, offers the ash. “You know what this means?”
Craddock’s hand shakes. “I did business in Severast, too, before the war. I dealt with the Ghierdana there. Aye, I know what it means to take the ash, and what will happen if I break my word to you.”
“Terrible,” says Vyr softly, “is the vengeance of the dragon.”
In a quick spasm of motion, Craddock takes a smear of ash and rubs it across his forehead. “Done, then.”
“Two down,” says Rasce.
Vyr glances back down the street. Craddock and his belligerent son stand in the doorway. The rain has already washed away much of the ash from the old man’s forehead. “He didn’t seem as cowed as I’d have liked.”
“He’s taken the ash. That gives him a measure of indulgence. Let him keep face, so long as he does as he is told.” Rasce glances to his left, looking north across the side of Holyhill. He can dimly make out the shape of the Duchess Viaduct that runs between Holyhill and Castle Hill, although the fog makes the structure look like some primordial serpent-monster, a dragon about to assail the Parliament. Somewhere beyond that, lost in the smoke clouds and serried rooftops, are the Fog Yards. “I have it in my mind to go for Mandel & Company soon. Vorz listed them as the largest supplier of yliaster to the guild. Great-Uncle may return more swiftly than we expect, and we must be ready.”
“Our new recruits haven’t taken the ash yet,” grumbles Vyr, loud enough for Baston to hear. “We cannot rely on them until they do. There are many smaller dealers, closer to the LOZ. We should consolidate our holdings first before risking the Fog Yards.”
“Have faith, Vyr,” says Rasce.
Baston stands at Rasce’s shoulder like a dour shadow. “You should get back to the New City.”
“Indeed. You know, I think I am growing to like the place.”
They head back along Philosopher’s Street, the New City rising before then. The rain slackens off, rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds and turning the towers to blazing pillars. Once they secure Mandel’s supply of yliaster, the job will be mostly done. Great-Uncle will return, and he’ll lift Rasce from these streets, return him to his proper place as Chosen of the Dragon. Vorz can oversee the dull details of the yliaster trade, and whatever intrigues and schemes he intends.
Or, perhaps someone other than Vorz. The Dentist has grown arrogant and must be shown his place. The ash buys a measure of indulgence, but only a measure. Once Great-Uncle returns, Rasce will suggest that
Vorz be placed in charge of the yliaster trade, and someone more suitable be given his role as adviser. Someone who knows Guerdon, if the Ghierdana are to have a permanent presence here in the New City.
Baston, maybe, once he takes the ash. Or Karla. The idea of an alliance with her certainly has its appeal. It’s strange how comfortable Rasce feels with the two of them, as though he’s known them both for a long time.
Someone calls his name.
He stops, looks around. The whole procession of thieves stops, fanning out across the pavements.
“What is it?” asks Baston.
“You spoke.”
Baston shakes his head, confused. Vyr flinches and looks up at the clouds.
Rasce. There. Danger.
Rasce’s vision fractures, like he’s looking at the world through broken glass. Simultaneously, he’s standing on Philosopher’s Street, surrounded by his guards, but he’s also looking down on himself from the heights, his attention focused on one rooftop – there.
A brief glimpse – a humanoid figure, long, spindly limbs, clad in rags – and then the thing’s leaping, flinging itself from the roof of a nearby hostel to land right next to Rasce. Face burning with its own inner flame, the wax of its skull burned paper-thin in places. The horror’s got a dagger in its pale hand, and it stabs at him, moving inhumanly quickly.
The first shallow cut opens up his forearm, spraying blood across the Tallowman’s thin ribs. The monster raises its knife, then freezes for a split second, the flame in its wax skull flickering as if in thought, an instant of hesitation that gives Baston time to tackle it. He’s bigger than it, heavier. The pair go down in a tangle of legs, but the Tallowman’s quicker. It slithers free, stabs at Baston’s back once, twice, but its thrusts aren’t able to penetrate the armour he wears beneath his shirt.
Rasce tries to go for his own knife, the dragon-tooth blade, but his wounded arm betrays him. His fingers are slick with his own blood, and he drops the knife. Falls backwards as the Tallowman slashes at him. The Tallowman’s burning bright now, head flaring with murder-lust. The guards in disarray, trying to grapple with the nimble assassin that prances madly around them, dagger flashing in the fresh sun. A scream as one of the thieves loses his fingers to the wicked blade. Some of them strike at the Tallowman, but they can’t injure it. Wounds in the wax close instantly.
The Broken God Page 15