The Splintered Gods

by Stephen Deas

  ‘Do you have a sword for me? Some sort of weapon would be helpful.’

  ‘The dragon, you stupid woman.’ Beside herself, Liang lunged and slammed her palms into Zafir’s chest.

  Zafir pursed her lips. ‘I can’t,’ she said, and as the words hung between them, she pointed to the wall where the dragon sat as a new wave of Vespinese soldiers on glass sleds whipped past and swarmed into the dragon yard, filling the air with lightning. Scores of them. Hundreds, perhaps. Too many to resist. Liang spat and ground her teeth.

  ‘Go, slave! Serve your master.’

  Zafir glared and didn’t move. Some sort of animal snarl forced itself out of Liang’s throat, the sort of sound she didn’t even know she could make. She lunged at Zafir again. Zafir caught her arms, spun her round and pinned them behind her back. The rider-slave hissed in her ear, dripping with venom, ‘I already told you, witch, that I can’t do that just now. I took a potion to hide from that hatchling and so I can’t ride.’ She let go and they faced each other, Zafir looking down on her, cold and haughty. ‘And the truth is, witch, that I would if I could, but not for you, because why would I? These are men from the mountain king, are they not? Why would I save you from them? I’m just a slave, and one master is as good as the next, and you would never let me go. None of you ever do. At least this one might not hang me. But if I could, I’d fly. Because that is what I am.’

  Liang took a step away and stroked the lightning inside her wand up to its brightest. She levelled it at Zafir’s face. There really wasn’t any reason now, was there, not to kill this viper that Tsen had brought among them?

  Zafir watched calmly. ‘I don’t think you have it in you, Chay-Liang. But if you do, then have done with it.’ She slowly walked past Liang out into the frenzy of the dragon yard and tipped back her head to look at the stars. ‘My dragon stands on the far wall. Bellepheros sits between his feet. Have a thought for him.’

  Chay-Liang raised the wand and aimed it at the middle of the dragon-rider’s back. She counted slowly to five. Then lowered it again.

  10

  The Regrettable Man

  Tsen was in his bath, irritably scratching at his finger, when the Vespinese came. Bronzehand was being insistent tonight, trying to reach him again and again, and Tsen was steadfastly ignoring him because he didn’t think that either of them had much to say, not when Bronzehand was a world away in the jungles of Qeled. They’d all be like that now, all of Quai’Shu’s heirs, or at least they would once they knew what he’d done. Bunkered up and watching from a good safe distance, trying to make sure they didn’t get caught in the wreckage, watching in case they could pick up any pieces for themselves. It made Tsen unreasonably cross and he was almost minded to take off Bronzehand’s ring and write him a little letter and show it to him, telling him exactly what he thought of them all. Hardly matters now. I’ll be dead soon enough.

  The bathhouse door opened. He looked up and felt a vague sense of relief as Kalaiya walked in through the steam, carrying a thick towel. She slid between the circle of white stone arches, climbed the steps and sat at the edge of the water beside him. He hadn’t asked for her tonight but it was hardly a surprise that she came anyway. She knew his moods and when she was wanted. She had an instinct. Her movements were quick and sharp and she’d clearly come with a purpose in mind.

  Without thinking much about it he reached out for her hand. ‘Bronzehand’s being a right . . .’ His words stuttered and failed as she drew back and opened her robe. She wore tight silks underneath, as black as midnight, clothes he’d never seen on her before. She unfolded the towel and inside were more of the same. The biggest surprise came when he saw the Watcher’s bladeless knife, which he’d taken to keeping in his room.

  ‘Tsen.’ Her voice was strange. Strained and not her own at all. She held out a hand to him. ‘Tsen! Shonda comes. Now. It’s time to go.’

  Baros Tsen stared up at this new Kalaiya and frowned at her. This was a Kalaiya he’d never seen. He smiled, but nothing about her smiled back and so his own quickly faded to a frown. ‘Who are you today, my love?’

  She beckoned him out of the bath, fingers twitching with impatience. ‘Whose face do you see, Tsen? I’m who I’ve always been.’ She sounded more like herself now than when she’d first spoken. Softer. Kinder. ‘I’m the slave you’ve always known.’ She sighed. When Tsen made no move towards her, she dropped her hand. ‘When would be a convenient time?’ she asked. ‘In a few days? Is that long enough to set your affairs in order, Baros Tsen T’Varr? Except, knowing you, you’d ask for years.’ She smiled a little. ‘And how shall it be? A knife? A metal wire garrotte? For you perhaps the ecstatic poison of the Shabbahk, laced into your apple wine. I would have done that for you.’

  Tsen gaped. ‘You’re one of them? All this time and you’re one of them?’

  He looked for the inner voices that would tell him he should have seen this coming for years, but for once they were silent, as stunned as the rest of him. His Kalaiya was a Regrettable Man? No. Not possible. It simply couldn’t be.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot – of course I’m not!’ She crouched at the edge of the bath. ‘Shonda is here. Now. He will kill you and the truth will die. We have to leave.’

  Tsen shook his head. ‘You’re not Kalaiya. I don’t know who you are but you’re not my Kalaiya.’

  ‘Someone sent me to murder you a long time ago, Baros Tsen T’Varr. And I chose otherwise.’ Her voice was still different. Everything about her, her manners, her expressions, the words she chose, the way she moved, all of it was wrong as though the Kalaiya he’d known for a dozen years had been nothing but a mask. Perhaps she had. He’d often wondered if she secretly detested him, or if she simply put up with him because she was a slave and he was her master and everything he thought they had between them was in fact nothing at all. But this? This?

  Her face though. Her face was perfect. The same face that had looked at him almost every day for all that time. See, Tsen? What a fool you are! All these years . . .

  Well that stupid voice could shut itself up right now. This is a pile of horse crap. I’m not that bad a judge of character. ‘And you’re going to do it now? After how many years?’

  Kalaiya slapped the water impatiently. ‘I’m not here to kill you, you idiot. What in the name of the unholy Konsidar would be the point of that when I could just do nothing and let Shonda have you. I’m getting you away. He’s here! Listen!’

  Tsen listened. There wasn’t much, but he felt the stone walls of the bath tingle now and then, the faintest vibration running through the stone. There was little that could do that except the black-powder guns.

  That or the dragon is dancing very energetically and for no apparent reason.

  ‘He’s here and you are going to lose. Come on!’ Kalaiya held out her hand again, and this time Tsen took it because if the Vespinese really had come then he certainly didn’t want them to find him surprised and naked in a bath. He let her wrap the towel around him and hurry him into his clothes. When he was done, he looked at her long and hard. He stared at her face. He couldn’t believe it was her and yet he couldn’t believe it wasn’t. Could she have a twin? ‘Who are you? Is this a game? Because if it is, it’s not funny.’ His Kalaiya knew better than to play games though. You’ve known this woman for twelve years, Baros Tsen. Every feature, every curve, every line, every wrinkle, every pore. Look at her! She is who she is.

  Yes, yes, but really? In my hour of greatest need the slave I quietly adore becomes a Regrettable Man and rushes to save me? If he heard that in a story he’d piss himself with laughter at the absurdity of it. The beautiful assassin who falls in love with the man she’s sent to kill? Oh, please!

  Well then, what? A golem sent by Shonda? Does that sound any better? Look at her!

  The eyrie quivered again. He scowled. The Vespinese had come – that could hardly be any more obvious – and yet why was it Kalaiya, of all people, who was here to warn him? I have kwens for this, not slaves! Kw
ens and soldiers. Where are they? He looked at Kalaiya, if that was who this truly was, bemused, trying to decide. She smiled back at him and rolled her eyes. ‘Come. Time to go. Don’t tell me you don’t have a secret escape plan?’

  Tsen shook his head, bewildered even more because escape had been the one thing he’d never considered and she knew it. And yes, maybe now he was wishing he had considered it, and yes, standing proud at the prow of his sinking ship had seemed all well and good when it hadn’t actually happened and yes, now that that same ship was apparently on fire with the sea lapping at his feet it seemed . . . well, less well and good, but he’d always known it would be this way. That was the point. He’d made a choice: no desperate escape plans. No chance to take the coward’s way at the very end and run. To his disappointment he found that a part of him, right now, was very keen indeed on the coward’s way.

  The night-black silks were awkward and ill fitting and so thin that he felt almost naked. She’s not real? Then what is she, a golem? Don’t be absurd. He didn’t know what to believe. He kept thinking he should shout for his guards and then he looked at her face and was struck dumb. She took his hand and tugged him towards the iron door of the bathhouse and he came slowly, resisting but never quite pulling away. ‘Show me,’ he said. Yes, yes, stall for time, for surely all the gods in which we do not believe forbid that you should come over suddenly decisive at this time of crisis.

  ‘See for yourself.’ She hurried him out of the bathhouse, not the way she’d entered but through the tunnels that led up to the Scales and so they didn’t pass the alcove where the slaves kept the oils and the towels.

  Whatever this was, getting to the surface and seeing it with his own eyes was imperative, and so now he followed as fast as he could. Kalaiya led him through the Scales’ quarters, running ahead through the rising spiral passage. The lower rooms were empty, deserted, unused, but he could hear the commotion as he came closer to the top. The Scales – the slaves who cared for and fed the dragons – had stumbled out into the night-glow of the tunnels wondering what was happening. The eyrie shook and trembled, explosions too powerful to be lightning. Tsen tried not to look as he pushed past. The Scales disturbed him. They carried the Statue Plague, the Hatchling Disease the rider-slave had given to Chrias and would have given to him as well. They were all slowly dying, their skin turning hard until they couldn’t move or breathe, and yet none of them seemed to care. That was the worst part. The dullness they carried.

  Not the best time to be worrying about that, T’Varr! The eyrie shuddered, almost shaking him off his feet, a great heave far worse than the firing of the cannon. He shivered as he stumbled, wondering if that was the eyrie’s magic failing at last. Maybe they were all falling to their doom. All things considered, would that be so bad?

  Kalaiya was waiting for him at the top. She caught him and pulled him on. ‘Come on!’ She was strong and her voice was urgent. He slowed and looked at her but she didn’t flinch. The Kalaiya he knew, the one he’d quietly fallen in love with years ago, she’d have been terrified by this. All these years and she wasn’t the person he’d thought she was? It broke his heart. How? How had she done it? Day after day after day the same flawless mask and he’d never seen through it, not once? Him, a t’varr to a sea lord no less, who read people at a glance every day. How?

  Because she’s not who she seems and you know it. He slowed again. ‘Are you really my Kalaiya?’ But if not then how did she have Kalaiya’s face?

  Kalaiya-or-maybe-not gave him a quick look. ‘I have a sled by the watchtower overlooking the hatchery. Do you want to live? Because if you do then we have to reach it before Shonda does.’

  He closed his eyes and ran on, up and out into an annihilation of sound and light. Lightning flashed everywhere, men ran and howled, waving ashgars, hurling themselves at each other in murderous frenzy. Sleds shot across the dragon yard. The smashed remains of half a glasship lay on its side in the middle of the hatchery, right in front of them, broken eggs and hatchling flesh scattered around it. A gondola lay rolled onto its side against the wall, and not far from it was a second, just reaching the level of the dragon yard, its ramp opening. Soldiers in glass-and-gold armour jumped out and threw lightning every which way as they did. A rocket fizzed from the wall and exploded among them, a handful of his own soldiers ran howling to meet them while the golden rim of the glasship glowed brighter and brighter until it dazzled, and then there was a crack of thunder so loud he felt the shock of air hit him and he almost fell over. He couldn’t think any more. He couldn’t tell who was with him and who wasn’t. Lightning thundered and the eyrie shook and every thought was murdered in his head, stillborn in the chaos of noise and light and screaming wind. On the far wall sat the great dragon, perched on the edge of his eyrie. Doing nothing. Watching.

  ‘The rider-slave! Where is she?’

  ‘Too late for that, T’Varr.’ Kalaiya-or-maybe-not yanked him out into the mayhem where he really didn’t want to be, but he was so slack-jawed and dazzled that he didn’t think to pull away. The hatchery watchtower was right above them. Kalaiya ran up the steps to the top of the wall, pulling Tsen huffing and puffing after her, then let him go and vanished into the tower. The wind hit him hard as he crested the wall. He teetered for a moment, almost tumbling back down the steps. Nice. A hundred men trying to kill you and you break your own neck to save them the trouble? He just about caught himself. Somehow, almost falling seemed to calm him. He was still terrified enough to shit his pants, but he could think again now. Think! That was the thing. Every instinct apart from his eyes told him this wasn’t Kalaiya. But how . . . ?

  Thunder rumbled and cracked all around him. Lightning flashed. The screams and shouts of men came and went. Rockets flew off the walls, striking at the Vespinese as they landed. Out across the storm-dark, more glasships were drifting closer. Scores of them though still far away. He ducked into the shelter of the tower, fearful he’d be hit by a stray bolt of lightning. Yes. Yes, I want to run . . . Time for betrayals and broken hearts later.

  A dead soldier lay on the floor. Even through the wind and the scorched tang of the air, Tsen could smell the freshness of the man’s blood.

  Well, in case you were still wondering, isn’t that an answer? Kalaiyaor-maybe-not was climbing onto the roof. He cringed and winced as another shattering bolt of lightning struck the eyrie from the glasship floating above. He reached for his wand but of course he didn’t have it; he’d left it in the bathhouse. The ground trembled as a barrage of rockets peppered the glasship with explosions. There was an ear-splitting crack, louder even than the lightning, a brilliant flash and the golden rim of the glasship went suddenly dull. Up in the heart of its great disc, among the smaller discs that all spun in different ways, something wasn’t right. It started to tilt. It was coming down, and he knew he should probably run away now, any way at all, but he didn’t know how, didn’t know which way to go. So he just stood there. Pathetic fat old t’varr.

  Not-Kalaiya jumped back into the tower. She grabbed his face and turned it and he knew he had to run away right now if he wanted at all to live, and yet still he didn’t, because it was still her face, and if he was going to die then that was what he wanted to see as he faded. ‘Look, Baros Tsen! Look!’

  His eyes blurred with tears. ‘You’re not—’ he began. You’re not my Kalaiya.

  ‘No.’ She caught hold of something and pulled. Tethered to the outside of the tower, a sled appeared as if she’d lifted an invisible blanket. She twirled her hands as though she had something in them and then wrapped whatever it was around herself as if putting on a shawl. From her neck down to her knees, she vanished. Tsen’s mouth fell open. ‘Shifter skin,’ she whispered. ‘Do you understand now what I am?’

  Shifter skin? But her eyes . . . ‘You’re not her. You’re not.’

  Not-Kaliaya shook her head. ‘Your slave is who you think she is, nothing less, nothing more. I borrowed her face because I knew you wouldn’t come here without her.’
She touched his cheek and a horrible pain flowed across his face and into his head. He felt his skin writhe as something terrible happened inside him. She caught him as he fell. He waited as the lights went out for some last snide remark from his little voices but they had nothing to say, not for this.

  11

  The Spire of the World

  The dragon Silence hurled itself through the tunnels. There was blood in the air and war on the wind. There were dragons, dulled maybe, but perhaps they would have followed had it asked. Perhaps if it had spoken its thoughts into theirs and broken their chains then they would have turned on the little ones, but as Silence reached the open air, it swiftly forgot them amid the chaos of thunder and lightning as the little ones fought one another. And it might have circled and listened to their thoughts and revelled in them, in their pain and hope, in their despair and fear, but it saw, as it took to the wing and slipped into the darkness of the night past a falling glasship, what lay below.

  The storm-dark. It had seen it before, in the life before this at the end when the moon sorcerers had thrown its flesh into the sea and sent its soul to Xibaiya. An unravelling of the very stuff of matter. Silence dived and skimmed the surface, tasting the scent of it, touching its smell, and it knew as it did that it had been right. But this was different. In tiny subtle ways but there was a smell and a taste of a wrongness, of the creeping hole of the Nothing it had found in the realm of the dead. It tasted the Nothing here in the air. The dead goddess and the Black Moon, her killer, were no longer the walls and door to the prison that had kept the Nothing locked away.

  The battle raged above, forgotten. A vast disc of glass, spinning slowly, fell past the dragon, too slow for gravity alone to be at work. A silver orb dangled beneath from a dozen chains, half of them broken. The dragon watched the glass touch the Nothing and piece by piece cease to be. Not shattered or smashed or burned or transformed or destroyed but annihilated, every piece of history and future taken away. Matter that was not and had never been. The dragon watched and remembered its purpose, why it had chosen this place as it flew across the roiling black clouds and the purple lightning, the shroud that kept the Nothing ever out of sight. It circled the Godspike, unexpected and vast, piercing the cloud and piercing the Nothing as well, an impossibility standing proudly before it. The dragon Silence flew closer and touched the shaft with its talons and then flipped away. It knew this stone well.