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The Broken God

Page 58

by Gareth Hanrahan


  The Construct of Bureaucracy would now be handing over the reports. I’d watched him sorting them earlier in the day, hairy lips fumbling over his teeth as he read them silently. There would be quite a lot. Shipments delayed due to skirmishes, the Ioph Carn stealing and smuggling witstone, citizens shirking their duty to the Empire.

  I swung onto my father’s balcony. The door to his room was cracked open. The room was usually empty, but this time it was not. A growl emanated from within. I froze. A black nose nudged into the space between door and wall, widening the gap. Yellow eyes peered at me and tufted ears flicked back. Claws scraped against wood as the creature strode toward me. Bing Tai, one of my father’s oldest constructs. Gray speckled his jowls, but he had all his teeth. Each incisor was as long as my thumb.

  His lip curled, the hackles on his back standing on end. He was a creature of nightmares, an amalgamation of large predators, with black, shaggy fur that faded into the darkness. He took another step closer.

  Maybe it wasn’t Bayan that was stupid; maybe I was the stupid one. Maybe this was how Father would find me after his tea – torn to bloody pieces on his balcony. It was too far to the ground, and I was too short to reach the roof gutters. The only way out from these rooms was into the hallway. “Bing Tai,” I said, and my voice was steadier than I felt. “It is me, Lin.”

  I could almost feel my father’s two commands battling in the construct’s head. One: protect my rooms. Two: protect my family. Which command was stronger? I’d bet on the second one, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  I held my ground and tried not to let my fear show. I shoved my hand toward Bing Tai’s nose. He could see me, he could hear me, perhaps he needed to smell me.

  He could choose to taste me, though I did my best not to think about that.

  His wet, cold nose touched my fingers, a growl still deep in his throat. I was not Bayan, who wrestled with the constructs like they were his brothers. I could not forget what they were. My throat constricted until I could barely breathe, my chest tight and painful.

  And then Bing Tai settled on his haunches, his ears pricking, his lips covering his teeth. “Good Bing Tai,” I said. My voice trembled. I had to hurry.

  Grief lay heavy in the room, thick as the dust on what used to be my mother’s wardrobe. Her jewelry on the dresser lay untouched; her slippers still awaited her next to the bed. What bothered me more than the questions my father asked me, than not knowing if he loved and cared for me as a child, was not remembering my mother.

  I’d heard the remaining servants whispering. He burned all her portraits on the day she died. He forbade mention of her name. He put all her handmaidens to the sword. He guarded the memories of her jealously, as if he was the only one allowed to have them.

  Focus.

  I didn’t know where he kept the copies he distributed to Bayan and me. He always pulled these from his sash pocket, and I didn’t dare try to filch them from there. But the original chain of keys lay on the bed. So many doors. So many keys. I didn’t know which was which, so I selected one at random – a golden key with a jade piece in the bow – and pocketed it.

  I escaped into the hallway and wedged a thin piece of wood between door and frame so the door didn’t latch. Now the tea would be steeping. Father would be reading through the reports, asking questions. I hoped they would keep him occupied.

  My feet scuffed against the floorboards as I ran. The grand hallways of the palace were empty, lamplight glinting off the red-painted beams above. In the entryway, teak pillars rose from floor to ceiling, framing the faded mural on the second-floor wall. I took the steps down to the palace doors two at a time. Each step felt like a miniature betrayal.

  I could have waited, one part of my mind told me. I could have been obedient; I could have done my best to answer my father’s questions, to heal my memories. But the other part of my mind was cold and sharp. It cut through the guilt to find a hard truth. I could never be what he wanted if I did not take what I wanted. I hadn’t been able to remember, no matter how hard I’d tried. He’d not left me with any other choice than to show him I was worthy in a different way.

  I slipped through the palace doors and into the silent yard. The front gates were closed, but I was small and strong, and if Father wouldn’t teach me his magic, well, there were other things I’d taught myself in the times he was locked in a secret room with Bayan. Like climbing.

  The walls were clean but in disrepair. The plaster had broken away in places, leaving the stone beneath exposed. It was easy enough to climb. The monkey-shaped construct atop the wall just glanced at me before turning its limpid gaze back to the city. A thrill rushed through me when I touched down on the other side. I’d been into the city on foot before – I must have – but for me, it was like the first time. The streets stank of fish and hot oil, and the remnants of dinners cooked and eaten. The stones beneath my slippers were dark and slippery with washwater. Pots clanged and a breeze carried the sound of lilting, subdued voices. The first two storefronts I saw were closed, wooden shutters locked shut.

  Too late? I’d seen the blacksmith’s storefront from the palace walls, and this was what first gave me the idea. I held my breath as I dashed down a narrow alley.

  He was there. He was pulling the door closed, a pack slung over one shoulder.

  “Wait,” I said. “Please, just one more order.”

  “We’re closed,” he huffed out. “Come back tomorrow.”

  I stifled the desperation clawing up my throat. “I’ll pay you twice your regular price if you can start it tonight. Just one key copy.”

  He looked at me then, and his gaze trailed over my embroidered silk tunic. His lips pressed together. He was thinking about lying about how much he charged. But then he just sighed. “Two silver. One is my regular price.” He was a good man, fair.

  Relief flooded me as I dug the coins from my sash pocket and pressed them into his calloused palm. “Here. I need it quickly.”

  Wrong thing to say. Annoyance flashed across his face. But he still opened the door again and let me into his shop. The man was built like an iron – broad and squat. His shoulders seemed to take up half the space. Metal tools hung from the walls and ceiling. He picked up his tinderbox and re-lit the lamps. And then he turned back to face me. “It won’t be ready until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

  “But do you need to keep the key?”

  He shook his head. “I can make a mold of it tonight. The key will be ready tomorrow.”

  I wished there weren’t so many chances to turn back, so many chances for my courage to falter. I forced myself to drop my father’s key into the blacksmith’s hand. The man took it and turned, fishing a block of clay from a stone trough. He pressed the key into it. And then he froze, his breath stopping in his throat.

  I moved for the key before I could think. I saw what he did as soon as I took one step closer. At the base of the bow, just before the stem, was the tiny figure of a phoenix embossed into the metal.

  When the blacksmith looked at me, his face was as round and pale as the moon. “Who are you? What are you doing with one of the Emperor’s keys?”

  I should have grabbed the key and run. I was swifter than he was. I could snatch it away and be gone before he took his next breath. All he’d have left was a story – one that no one would believe.

  But if I did, I wouldn’t have my key copy. I wouldn’t have any more answers. I’d be stuck where I was at the start of the day, my memory a haze, the answers I gave Father always inadequate. Always just out of reach. Always broken. And this man – he was a good man. Father taught me the kind of thing to say to good men.

  I chose my words carefully. “Do you have any children?”

  A measure of color came back into his face. “Two.” He answered. His brows knit together as he wondered if he should have responded.

  “I am Lin,” I said, laying myself bare. “I am the Emperor’s heir. He hasn’t been the same since my mother’s death. He isolates himself,
he keeps few servants, he does not meet with the island governors. Rebellion is brewing. Already the Shardless Few have taken Khalute. They’ll seek to expand their hold. And there are the Alanga. Some may not believe they’re coming back, but my family has kept them from returning.

  “Do you want soldiers marching in the streets? Do you want war on your doorstep?” I touched his shoulder gently, and he did not flinch. “On your children’s doorstep?”

  He reached reflexively behind his right ear for the scar each citizen had. The place where a shard of bone was removed and taken for the Emperor’s vault.

  “Is my shard powering a construct?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I don’t know, I don’t know – there was so little that I did know. “But if I get into my father’s vault, I will look for yours and I will bring it back to you. I can’t promise you anything. I wish I could. But I will try.”

  He licked his lips. “My children?”

  “I can see what I can do.” It was all I could say. No one was exempt from the islands’ Tithing Festivals.

  Sweat shone on his forehead. “I’ll do it.”

  Father would be setting the reports aside now. He would take up his cup of tea and sip from it, looking out the window at the lights of the city below. Sweat prickled between my shoulder-blades. I needed to get the key back before he discovered me.

  I watched through a haze as the blacksmith finished making the mold. When he handed the key back, I turned to run.

  “Lin,” he said.

  I stopped.

  “My name is Numeen. The year of my ritual was 1508. We need an Emperor who cares about us.”

  What could I say to that? So I just ran. Out the door, down the alleyway, back to climbing the wall. Now Father would be finishing up his tea, his fingers wrapped around the still-warm cup. A stone came loose beneath my fingertips. I let it fall to the ground. The crack made me cringe.

  He’d be putting his cup down, he’d be looking at the city. How long did he look at the city? The climb down was faster than the climb up. I couldn’t smell the city anymore. All I could smell was my own breath. The walls of the outer buildings passed in a blur as I ran to the palace – the servants’ quarters, the Hall of Everlasting Peace, the Hall of Earthly Wisdom, the wall surrounding the palace garden. Everything was cold and dark, empty.

  I took the servants’ entrance into the palace, bounding up the stairs two at a time. The narrow passageway opened into the main hallway. The main hallway wrapped around the palace’s second floor, and my father’s bedroom was nearly on the other side from the servants’ entrance. I wished my legs were longer. I wished my mind were stronger.

  Floorboards squeaked beneath my feet as I ran, the noise making me wince. At last, I made it back and slipped into my father’s room. Bing Tai lay on the rug at the foot of the bed, stretched out like an old cat. I had to reach over him to get to the chain of keys. He smelled musty, like a mix between a bear construct and a closet full of moth-ridden clothes.

  It took three tries for me to hook the key back onto the chain. My fingers felt like eels – flailing and slippery.

  I knelt to retrieve the door wedge on my way out, my breath ragged in my throat. The brightness of the light in the hallway made me blink. I’d have to find my way into the city tomorrow to retrieve the new key. But it was done, the wedge for the door safely in my sash pocket. I let out the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

  “Lin.”

  Bayan. My limbs felt made of stone. What had he seen? I turned to face him – his brow was furrowed, his hands clasped behind his back. I willed my heart to calm, my face to blankness.

  “What are you doing outside the Emperor’s room?”

  if you enjoyed

  THE BROKEN GOD

  look out for

  THE MASK OF MIRRORS

  Book One of Rook & Rose

  by

  M. A. Carrick

  The Mask of Mirrors is the enchanting start to the Rook & Rose trilogy, a darkly magical fantasy adventure in which a con artist returns to the city that betrayed her, determined to have her revenge—only to find that her fate might be to save it.

  This is your past, the good and the ill of it, and that which is neither.…

  Arenza Lenskaya is a liar and a thief, a pattern-reader and a daughter of no clan. Raised in the slums of Nadežra, she fled that world to save her sister.

  This is your present, the good and the ill of it, and that which is neither.…

  Renata Viraudax is a con artist recently arrived in Nadežra. She has one goal: to trick her way into a noble house and secure her fortune.

  This is your future, the good and the ill of it, and that which is neither.…

  As corrupt nightmare magic begins to weave its way through the city of dreams, the poisonous feuds of its aristocrats and the shadowy dangers of its impoverished underbelly become tangled—with Ren at their heart. And if she cannot sort the truth from the lies, it will mean the destruction of all her worlds.

  Prologue

  The lodging house had many kinds of quiet. There was the quiet of sleep, children packed shoulder to shoulder on the threadbare carpets of the various rooms, with only an occasional snore or rustle to break the silence. There was the quiet of daytime, when the house was all but deserted; then they were not children but Fingers, sent out to pluck as many birds as they could, not coming home until they had purses and fans and handkerchiefs and more to show for their efforts.

  Then there was the quiet of fear.

  Everyone knew what had happened. Ondrakja had made sure of that: In case they’d somehow missed the screams, she’d dragged Sedge’s body past them all, bloody and broken, with Simlin forcing an empty-eyed Ren along in Ondrakja’s wake. When they came back a little while later, Ondrakja’s stained hands were empty, and she stood in the mildewed front hall of the lodging house, with the rest of the Fingers watching from the doorways and the splintered railings of the stairs.

  “Next time,” Ondrakja said to Ren in that low, pleasant voice they all knew to dread, “I’ll hit you somewhere softer.” And her gaze went, with unerring malice, to Tess.

  Simlin let go of Ren, Ondrakja went upstairs, and after that the lodging house was silent. Even the floorboards didn’t creak, because the Fingers found places to huddle and stayed there.

  Sedge wasn’t the first. They said Ondrakja picked someone at random every so often, just to keep the rest in line. She was the leader of their knot; it was her right to cut someone out of it.

  But everyone knew this time wasn’t random. Ren had fucked up, and Sedge had paid the price.

  Because Ren was too valuable to waste.

  Three days like that. Three days of terror-quiet, of no one being sure if Ondrakja’s temper had settled, of Ren and Tess clinging to each other while the others stayed clear.

  On the third day, Ren got told to bring Ondrakja her tea.

  She carried it up the stairs with careful hands and a grace most of the Fingers couldn’t touch. Her steps were so smooth that when she knelt and offered the cup to Ondrakja, its inner walls were still dry, the tea as calm and unrippled as a mirror.

  Ondrakja didn’t take the cup right away. Her hand slid over the charm of knotted cord around Ren’s wrist, then along her head, lacquered nails combing through the thick, dark hair like she was petting a cat. “Little Renyi,” she murmured. “You’re a clever one… but not clever enough. That is why you need me.”

  “Yes, Ondrakja,” Ren whispered.

  The room was empty, except for the two of them. No Fingers crouching on the carpet to play audience to Ondrakja’s performance. Just Ren, and the stained floorboards in the corner where Sedge had died.

  “Haven’t I tried to teach you?” Ondrakja said. “I see such promise in you, in your pretty face. You’re better than the others; you could be as good as me, someday. But only if you listen and obey—and stop trying to hide things from me.”

  Her fingernails dug in. Ren li
fted her chin and met Ondrakja’s gaze with dry eyes. “I understand. I will never try to hide anything from you again.”

  “Good girl.” Ondrakja took the tea and drank.

  The hours passed with excruciating slowness. Second earth. Third earth. Fourth. Most of the Fingers were asleep, except those out on night work.

  Ren and Tess were not out, nor asleep. They sat tucked under the staircase, listening, Ren’s hand clamped hard over the charm on her wrist. “Please,” Tess begged, “we can just go—”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Ren’s voice didn’t waver, but inside she shook like a pinkie on her first lift. What if it didn’t work?

  She knew they should run. If they didn’t, they might miss their chance. When people found out what she’d done, there wouldn’t be a street in Nadežra that would grant her refuge.

  But she stayed for Sedge.

  A creak in the hallway above made Tess squeak. Footsteps on the stairs became Simlin rounding the corner. He jerked to a halt when he saw them in the alcove. “There you are,” he said, as if he’d been searching for an hour. “Upstairs. Ondrakja wants you.”

  Ren eased herself out, not taking her eyes from Simlin. At thirteen he wasn’t as big as Sedge, but he was far more vicious. “Why?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t ask.” Then, before Ren could start climbing the stairs: “She said both of you.”

  Next time, I’ll hit you somewhere softer.

  They should have run. But with Simlin standing just an arm’s reach away, there wasn’t any hope now. He dragged Tess out of the alcove, ignoring her whimper, and shoved them both up the stairs.

  The fire in the parlour had burned low, and the shadows pressed in close from the ceiling and walls. Ondrakja’s big chair was turned with its back to the door so they had to circle around to face her, Tess gripping Ren’s hand so tight the bones ached.

  Ondrakja was the picture of Lacewater elegance. Despite the late hour, she’d changed into a rich gown, a Liganti-style surcoat over a fine linen underdress—a dress Ren herself had stolen off a laundry line. Her hair was upswept and pinned, and with the high back of the chair rising behind her, she looked like one of the Cinquerat on their thrones.

 

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