The Broken God

by Gareth Hanrahan

  “It’s all right,” mutters Cari. Once, she’d have been filled with wonderful righteous anger at this confession. She’d have leaped up, shouted fuck you at Ren, stormed off. Knifed him, maybe. Plotted revenge, or just run. Another city marked off the list. Sailing off, never to return.

  Strangely, though, she feels it is all right. Self-sacrifice has never been in Cari’s nature – all her life, maybe from the moment she was conceived in Jermas Thay’s fucking laboratory-slash-Black Iron Cult sanctum, she’s had to fight to have a self, to be something more than a tool of the gods. Somehow, the fact that it all went wrong for Ren, too, makes it easier to forgive. Ilbarin’s run of cursed luck extends to him, too.

  Also, later that night, when she burst into his carefully built little fortress of normality with a Crawling One and a mad plan, he hadn’t said no. That willingness to take a chance counts for a lot with Cari.

  She peels back the blanket, takes a look at Adro’s injury. It’s bad. It’s very bad.

  Spar, what should I do? she thinks, but there’s no answer. Two dying friends to save, but one’s right here.

  “Back in a while,” she lies.

  Cari walks the streets of the camp, stepping over bodies – sleeping or dead, it’s hard to tell – until she finds a guard post.

  “Hey!”

  It’s too dark for her to make out his features. He’s just a dark outline against the pinkish sky, looking down at her.

  “Go and find the Dentist. Tell him I’m ready to co-operate.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There’s a glass of arax waiting for Baston at Lanthorn Street. He wishes it was something else – the smoky liquor echoes the smoggy air of the Fog Yards instead of washing away the taste – but he still raises his glass when Rasce toasts his success. There’s a third glass on the table. For Karla, maybe. Or for Spar.

  And next to the glass is Rasce’s snuffbox of ash, for anointing new Eshdana. Its presence unsettles Baston. It reminds him of the grave-worm in Heinreil’s little gold casket.

  “A daring raid,” says Rasce, “into the heart of the enemy!”

  “All for naught, unless you can find the tunnel. Have you looked, yet?”

  Rasce shakes his head. “I’ll wait until nightfall. It’s easier for Spar, then. I don’t know why.”

  “What’s it like? The visions, I mean?”

  “Perilous, in its way. Like walking along a parapet.” Rasce sits down, swirls his arax. “No, better. Sit down and I’ll tell you what it’s like. Sometimes, in the summer, Great-Uncle would play with the children on the island.”

  “The dragon… would play with the children.”

  Rasce nods enthusiastically. “It was wonderful. We’d climb all over his back, slide down his tail. Go hunting and seeking in the folds of his wings. He’d throw us up in the air and catch us, or blow smoke rings the size of wagon wheels to jump through. He’d whisper secrets to us, too – things we weren’t supposed to know. Who had gained his favour, or lost it. Who was strong, who was weak. Marvellous it was to be a child and know that a dragon watched over you. That’s what the visions are like, my friend. I am watched over by something great and glorious, and it whispers secrets to me.”

  “It’s strange to hear you talk of Spar Idgeson like that,” says Baston. It sounds wonderful, in truth. The Brotherhood, blessed and cleansed, watched over by Idge’s son. “In my head, he’s still living off Crane Street in the Wash.”

  “What was he like, in life?”

  Baston shrugs. “His father’s son. A good man. A great one, I think, had he lived.” He throws back the arax. “We moved apart, and I regret it.”

  “And Carillon Thay?”

  “I hardly knew her. Spar and I… once he got the Stone Plague, we had to stay away from him, right? It’s catching. So I only met her a few times. Once or twice in the clubhouse, and on the streets. Sour-faced. Skittish.” Baston rakes through his memories, searching for some early sign he missed. That flighty little cutpurse became the dread Saint of Knives, powerful enough to hold back the Ghierdana.

  “You said the visions could be perilous.”

  “Ah, yes. Once, Great-Uncle was playing with my cousin… cousin… ah, what was her name? Tero’s girl? He’d fling her into the air with his teeth and catch her again. How we laughed – and then Great-Uncle flung her up, and gobbled her up instead of catching her. Like that!” Rasce’s hand mimes a snapping jaw closing.

  “Gods below!” Baston’s stomach turns. He didn’t think he was still capable of feeling revulsion, after all the things he’s done.

  “Oh, she deserved it,” laughs Rasce, finishing his drink. “Tero had failed Great-Uncle, and so he had to atone. We all belong to the dragon, my friend, and he shall reward or punish as he sees fit. But you have nothing to worry about – you’ve done well, Baston.” He pushes the snuffbox across the table. “I need a strong right hand. Take the ash, and I can send Vyr back home. You can have his place.”

  Baston shakes his head. “I’ve already given you my word. That’ll have to do you.”

  Rasce frowns, and the room seems to darken for a moment, the light in the stone walls guttering out. “For now.”

  “Show me.”

  Rasce hardly needs to say the words, now. Every day, he becomes more adept at calling on Spar’s miracles. The visions grow more tactile, too, Rasce sharing more of Spar’s strange perceptions of the city. Rasce can feel his mind moving through the streets, feel the people of the New City as soft, hot, fragile things amid the stone. His own body, lying on the couch in the upstairs room on Lanthorn Street – he sees it from the outside, sees it from every angle, an eye in every wall of the house, and he beholds the whole house, too, the whole street, his mind’s eye shattering and re-forming to encompass the new way of seeing. He sends his thoughts dancing over the streets, leaping invisibly from spire to spire, then leaping into the sky like a dragon to spy on the other Ghierdana families. He glimpses Major Estavo bent over a desk full of maps. Glimpses the Street of Saints up near Ghostmarket – and the slumbering gods in those temples sense him, too, a profane presence searching their altars for hidden gold.

  He sees the dragons Thyrus and Carancio in private conference, their wings a black leathery tent, blocking out all eavesdroppers – but he’s there, too, listening from the stone. He hears the dragons grumble about the war. Ishmere’s collapse has thrown the southern portion of the continent into chaos. Lyrix vies with Ulbishe and Khenth, and with wild gods from the interior beyond the forest. Without the foothold in Guerdon bought by the Armistice, Lyrix’s forces could never hope to compete against mainland deities. Lyrix needs the New City as a supply depot, a secure port and a nest for dragons, who are much more vulnerable on the ground than in the air. Thanks to the Armistice in Guerdon, there’s a chance for Lyrix to greatly expand its influence inland. There’s war in the south, with Lyrixian forces ranging upriver as far as Asegata. Rasce fought in those battles with Great-Uncle, but he never paid much heed as to why. Now, he finds himself listening intently.

  No. Rasce is not listening intently. It’s Spar. The distinction between the two blurs; Rasce has to examine his own thoughts and impulses closely to see which are solely his, and which spring from the stone of the city around him. Sometimes, the visions are things Spar wants him to see, showing him people in need, people he can help. The Brotherhood took care of their streets, and all these streets are Spar’s.

  “Enough!” Rasce cries. “We have work to do, friend. Baston has done his part, now you must do yours. Show me the secrets within Mandel’s fortress.”

  I’m not some demon conjured to grant wishes. I want something in exchange.

  “What do you desire? More coin for beggars?”

  I want to talk to Rat. I’ll need you to speak for me. He can’t hear my thoughts like you and Cari can.

  “The Lord Rat of Guerdon. He was your friend, yes. Karla told me. He was a common ghoul, and you a common thief. Now you are both very much changed.”
Rasce finds he can’t lie on the couch any more; too much nervous energy to stay still. He paces the room, feels the sensation of his footsteps on the stone floor through Spar. “Will the Rat come if you call him?”

  He’s still my friend.

  “And he is chieftain of the ghouls, in league with the city watch. I must tread carefully, friend. Show me Mandel’s secrets, and I shall do as you ask. Now, no more hesitation,” he tells Spar. “Reach out.”

  I’ll try. Spar’s soul is gargantuan, swollen beyond mortal recognition by the miracle of his rebirth. His mind encompasses and inhabits the New City. Now, Rasce demands that his conscious mind – perhaps the greatest portion of what remains of Spar’s consciousness – balance itself on five little pebbles, five shards cut from the living stone. It’s a psychic high-wire act, crossing an abyss where you can only cling on to a narrow ledge by the fingernails of one hand.

  Spar tries. The first attempt is a dismal failure; his soul pratfalls, sending him tumbling down alleyways of memory, his consciousness shattering like a fallen vase. He remembers toddling into Idge’s paper-strewn study at four years old, interrupting his father’s work. Idge gently but firmly putting him out, closing the door, choosing the work over the child. Not knowing they’d only have a few more years.

  He remembers lumbering across that side street near the House of Law, knowing there were Tallowmen around the corner, trusting in Rat and Cari to unlock the door and let him in before the candles got him.

  Rasce draws him back together, sends him out again.

  The second attempt is better. Birds take flight, frantically racing north along Mercy Street, and for a moment the flocks resemble a humanoid figure, a giant rising from the rooftops. The suspension bridge at the Viaduct sways and creaks, even though the day is windless. On Holyhill and the University District alike, the keen eyes of saints and the subtle instruments of alchemists alike discern an invisible wave crashing across the city. The ghouls smell it, too, in the dark pits beneath Gravehill, where the Rat of Guerdon sits on a hexagonal pedestal and dreams of elder days. They yelp and hiss, all but one unsure of the meaning of this omen.

  But he falls again. The wave of his mind breaks far short of the distant Fog Yards, squandering the strength of his will amid the alleyways and tenements of the Five Knives.

  It’s too far.

  “Gather your strength! Try again!”

  Every time I try, I diminish, says Spar, his thought edged with exhaustion, and, beneath it, despair. An inverted horror – once, he feared his body turning to stone, his mind remaining healthy and whole as it became trapped in a living tomb. Now, his worry is that he shall erode his soul to nothingness, expend all that he is on failed miracles, and be reduced to nothing but a hollow structure, a corpse grotesquely fossilised and bloated. A horrible image flickers through his mind – Carillon returning to Guerdon too late, after he’s gone. He envisages her walking through the streets of the New City, and finding them empty. He would let that thought go if he could, but it haunts him, clinging to his mind. In his mind’s eye, he watches Cari wander lost through dark passageways, lonely and despairing.

  “You say you are weak,” whispers Rasce to the wall. “How can we make you strong again?”

  My – no, this strength, Spar replies, was stolen. It’s the accumulated power of the Black Iron Gods, accrued through their reign of terror. Three hundred years ago, they ruled this city. They forced everyone to worship them, and conducted mass sacrifices through their Ravellers. Cari’s perverse inheritance, and she gave it all to him.

  “Do you want me to praise you?” sneers Rasce. “To sing hymns glorifying your name?”

  I’m not a god, says Spar wearily. I don’t want worship.

  “I speak of need. If it would strengthen you—”

  I don’t think it would. Spar gives the psychic equivalent of a shudder, which manifests in the New City as a moment of quiet. For an instant, every conversation comes to a natural pause, the wind off the harbour drops, silencing the flapping of the flags and banners. Even the seabirds cease their cries. During the invasion, the people of the city prayed to me – to Cari – for help. I protected them, but I’d have done that even without their prayers. I could hear them, but they were just words.

  And then footsteps. Karla’s coming. Something’s wrong.

  Rasce runs downstairs and is waiting at the door before Karla even reaches Lanthorn Street.

  “It’s Vyr,” gasps Karla. “He’s been attacked. The Green Inn.”

  “Show me,” he demands of Spar.

  Rasce’s vision blurs, doubles, and it’s as though he’s standing atop one of the tall towers of the New City, looking down at the inn from a distance. It’s near Venture Square, off Mercy Street – not that far, as the dragon flies, from the border. He can’t see inside the inn, but he can peer in the windows from every angle. There, on the floor of an upper room, he can make out what must be Vyr, lying on the floor. The room’s in disarray, papers scattered across the floor – and then a dark shape moves across the window.

  Someone’s still inside.

  “Let’s go,” says Rasce.

  Baston appears at his shoulder like a loyal shadow. “I’ll go. This stinks of a trap. Like that candlejack.”

  “This is an attack on the Ghierdana! On the blood of the dragon! I must go.” Rasce hurries out of the door.

  Baston protests. “The place could be crawling with city watch! Or—”

  “It’s not. I can see it.” Rasce strides down Lanthorn Street, steel boots sounding out a call to arms. Eshdana gather in his wake. “Baston, go and tell the other dragons. An attack on one is an attack on all.”

  Baston hesitates. He grabs Karla by the shoulders, whirls her around so he can look in her eyes. For a moment, he seems to be about to speak, but then he just snarls and pushes her away. Karla reassures him. “I’ll stay with Rasce. Go, go.”

  Baston vanishes down a side street. Absently, Spar watches him sprint up the winding stairs and alleyways of the New City, heading for the dracodrome on the southern face of the city.

  Karla takes her brother’s place at his side. “Who raised the alarm?” he asks.

  “It’s not the first time Vyr’s gone to that inn. I had a friend of mine watching, just in case anything happened. She came running to me, said she heard fighting inside Vyr’s room.”

  Something is very wrong. Spar feels it in the streets, feels it in the invisible divine currents that eddy around Holyhill, around the IOZ. Gods are abroad tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Artolo seethes at the sight of Carillon Thay. Clenches his ghost-fingers, imagining they’re closing around her throat. The bitch sits there shivering, clad only in a grey shift, but she’s still dangerous. Don’t they see how dangerous she is? Yesterday, she nearly wrecked the refinery. What if she’d sabotaged the athanor and destroyed their ability to process yliaster? That’s what Thay does – she ruins things. A bomb on legs.

  Vorz’s laboratory is much too cramped for Great-Uncle to enter. The roof creaks under the dragon’s weight as he cranes his head down to peer in through the little windows. Carillon on a metal chair in the middle of the room. The witch standing sentinel at the door. And Vorz gliding around like he’s Chosen of the Dragon, even though his nose is a mess of bandages.

  “Now, let us begin. A physical examination first.”

  “I want Adro healed before we continue,” demands Thay, folding her arms and staring up at the dragon. Insolent, arrogant. How dare she make demands of Great-Uncle!

  The dragon snorts, clouding the glass window with its breath. “If it spares us more embarrassment, very well.” Great-Uncle smiles. “You have the word of the dragon that he shall be spared. Artolo, see to it.”

  Vorz looks over at the witch, who follows her cue and seizes Cari in a paralysis spell. She freezes, every muscle locked in place by arcane bonds. It would be so easy to cross the room and kill her. Would it be more or less satisfying if she couldn’t strugg
le or scream?

  The Dentist lives up to his name. His first action is to open Cari’s mouth and examine her teeth. With gloved hands, he probes beneath her fingernails. Examines the scars on her face, an old scar on her shoulder. Studies the skin between her breasts with his eyeglass.

  Great-Uncle stirs. “Well? Can we make use of her, or not?”

  “Patience,” replies Vorz.

  “When our business is concluded, you can play all you want.”

  “This,” says the Dentist, “is not play.” He bends over to shine a light into Cari’s eyes. Held open by the witch’s spell, she can’t even blink, and they’re reddened around the edges. Tears run down her cheeks, tinged purple by the arcane light coruscating around the witch as she holds the spell.

  One of Vorz’s instruments chimes. The metal box he arrived with.

  “Release her,” he orders. Both Cari and the witch sag. Cari eyes a tray of scalpels. Go for it, Artolo urges her. He’d have to kill her then. Smash her. Cut off her fingers, one by one.

  Vorz glances over in irritation. “Please, breathe more quietly.”

  A hurricane-gust of amusement from the roof. “Get on with it, Vorz.”

  The Dentist opens the metal box. Inside, Artolo catches a glimpse of a keyboard attached to a glowing tube wrapped in silver wire. The machine chimes again, and the Dentist spreads his long-fingered hands over the keys like a musician. He presses a stud, and the machine hums, a discordant noise like a key being dragged over piano wire.

  “Is it Ulbishe?” asks Great-Uncle. Is the machine communicating with someone in Ulbishe, all the way across the ocean? In Guerdon, they have aethergraphs, but those machines are connected by silver cables. This is something new. Artolo’s coming to despise new things. Give him a ship, give him a flight on dragon-back and a fat merchant to rob. One with sails, too, sails that burn and masts that break. Not a stinking alchemy-driven iron hulk of a ship. Give him his youth back, give him his hands back.