The Shadow Saint

by Gareth Hanrahan

  Silva hands a garland of flowers to one little man in a bright green cloak, and there’s a crash of thunder, a flash of sunlight so intense it sears a ring of fire onto Eladora’s vision. Everyone’s vision–the whole crowd staggers, thousands of people struck half blind by that moment of divine glory. Eladora blinks furiously, but the ring’s still there, a miraculous circle of golden light that recedes, contracts, until it’s a crown. A crown of fire. The garland of flowers has become a blazing crown. Silva’s still holding it, as is the man in the green cloak.

  The Patros runs down from the high altar, shoving bishops and prelates out of the way. He pushes through them to Silva’s side. She’s still holding the crown, frozen like a figure in a painting. The whole scene is like a scene from a religious painting brought to life–the red-robed saint, the holy beggar, the Patros in his shimmering cloak.

  Then the man kneels before the Patros. The Patros takes the crown and places it on the little man’s head, in full view of the whole crowd.

  “The king! The king has returned!”

  CHAPTER 27

  The waters of Guerdon’s harbour are dark and murky this evening. The seabed’s choked with mud and runoff from the factories, so every step throws up clouds of silt. Even if the spy were to light the lamp attached to his diving suit, he wouldn’t be able to see more than a few inches. He can only trust in the tugging of the rope that’s wound around his waist. It tugs him forward, and he walks forward into the utter darkness.

  Tander’s somewhere behind him, tied to the same rope. Ahead of the spy, the rope runs to the mer-woman, Oona. She’s also holding the end of a second rope, the bridle for two of Tander’s mercenary friends, Fierdy and the Relief. The Relief answers to no other name, and the spy doesn’t begrudge him that. The four of them are all wearing diving suits that Dredger swears are watertight, but the growing chill in the spy’s right boot suggests otherwise.

  On their backs are breathing cages. Take gills cultured from some aquatic species, keep them alive in a vitalising gel. Clamp the gill inside a mesh, have it squirt liquid air into the back of the user’s helmet. As long as the gill-creature thrives, you can breathe underwater.

  The spy can feel the creature in the cage gurgling against his spine as he walks, leaden-footed, across the floor of the sea.

  Somewhere, far above and far behind, is Dredger’s launch, where Haberas and Annah wait. When the job is done, Oona will lead the four divers back to that launch; they’ll shuck their weighted belts and boots, and she’ll carry them up to the surface, one by one. They’re supposed to be down here for an hour at most, pushing the breathers to their limit. The spy doesn’t know how long it’s been so far–without sight, without hearing, without anything but the sensation of cold and the taste of copper. He’s never been so aware of the blood in his body, the motion of his lungs. He can hear his heart.

  Oona flashes by, a moment of light in the porthole of his helmet. Underwater, parts of her scaly body are luminescent, the holy litany of the Kraken written in her flesh. The sigils are brighter now, the gills on her flanks more visible. The longer she spends down here, the more she succumbs to her change. The spy’s promised her and her husband a considerable payment for this job, but no amount of money can reverse her transformation. She belongs to the god now, and the sea.

  A tug, and they move forward. A march into darkness. Someone stumbles–the spy can tell by the rope going slack, and then the water rushing past him as Oona swims over to lift the fallen diver. They’re moving too slowly, the spy guesses, but they have no way to communicate.

  After an endless, timeless march, the seabed begins to slope upwards. There are lights, far above, and the distant rumble of engines. Something passes overhead, an ironclad warship, huge and terribly present as a god. They’re getting closer to the secure harbour at Queen’s Point. The plan is to stroll past the fortress’s walls and guards, past all its defences, by taking the decidedly unscenic route along the seabed.

  It’s an easier route, but it’s not undefended. Oona leads them around underwater obstacles. Spiked chunks of metal.

  At his belt hangs a heavy pistol. It’s waterproofed–phlogiston can burn in water just as easily as in air–but he doubts he could hit anything with it while wearing this clumsy suit. Instead, he unclips the flash ghost and holds the weapon in his gloved hand. Press the clasp, and the little grenade discharges a howling storm of aetheric energy. Raw sorcery, gone sour.

  Flash ghosts are hard to detect at a distance. An observer just sees a whirling flash of light, a phosphorescent catfight that blazes for an instant. Better yet, they’re good at dealing with magical defences, they can overwhelm wards and other spells with sheer chaotic force. There’s little a flash ghost won’t fuck up on some level. The downside is that that they’re largely indiscriminate, attacking the most vulnerable targets first, taking the path of least psychic resistance to oblivion. If the spy lets off a flash ghost here, the discharge will arc to Oona or one of the mercenaries. Still, he keeps the ghost ready.

  The lights from the surface are getting brighter as they climb. Huge aetheric lamps mounted along the cliffs, banishing the gloom of twilight from the cove. Queen’s Point was a cove once, a steep-sided gash in the headland. The fortress has consumed the headland, wrapped the sea cliffs in concrete. They’ve expanded the cove, blasted and dredged it, making it into a secure, sheltered harbour, narrow and high-walled.

  Another ship moves overhead, eclipsing the blazing lamps. The spy can see the smaller shadow of the tug dragging the ship, as Oona’s dragging them. As above, so below.

  As part of their preparation Tander and the spy worked their contacts. Talked to Dredger, to ex-military, mercenaries, alchemists, sailors, anyone who’d been inside Queen’s Point. The cove’s entrance points almost due east, and their accounts all agreed that the main moorings are on the northern side of the cove. There’s a small rocky ledge that starts halfway along the south side, and runs to the western end, close to the Grand Retort’s berth. That’s their target. They can climb up there and spy on the docked ship up close. Confirm, somehow, that there’s a god bomb there, ready for use on any invading deity.

  On the sketch map Tander drew in the tavern, it all looked so easy. They’d crowed about how there’d be fewer guards on watch, with so many people away at the Festival. Talked about how they’d be in and out in a few minutes, how easy it would be. But the air in his helmet already tastes stale, and there’s still a long walk back to the launch even after they finish the job. The other three divers worry about making it back alive.

  The spy has other concerns.

  Suddenly, there’s a bloom of mud, a muffled, rumbling explosion of movement. A blur of brown and blue as Oona flees, the dropped ropes coiling like sea serpents in her wake. Movement–it’s Tander’s mercenary pals. One’s fumbling with his pistol, the other’s somewhere in the cloud of mud ahead. The spy catches a glimpse of something with teeth and tentacles, a polyp grown gigantic and carnivorous. The product of some alchemical vat.

  He throws the product of another alchemical vat at it, the flash-ghost grenade tumbling slowly through the water. It explodes, too, silently, vomiting out a whirling cloud of pale phantasms that quickly vanish into the mud. Underwater, the shrieking of the weapon cannot be heard.

  The thrashing stops, and it’s all still.

  Silt begins to settle, the water begins to clear. He sees the cut end of the mercenary’s rope, a few shredded pieces of rubber diving suit, and a mud-covered carcass torn apart by long rasping tongues. The surviving mercenary–he can’t tell which one it is–drags himself upright. The flash ghost got whatever monster guarded the approach to the cove.

  Got one of the monsters, anyway. But who knows how many more creatures lurk in the mud and rocks ahead?

  The spy turns. Behind him, the dark shape of Tander, still tied to him by the rope. Tander walks up to him, presses his helmet against the spy’s glass faceplate. He can see Tander’s mouth move, hear distinc
t vibrations transmitted through the metal, but he can’t make out words. Instead, the spy unhooks his lamp and flashes it–once at the other mercenary, and once in the direction Oona went.

  The other mercenary stumbles over to them, holding the cut end of his rope like a lost child. The spy takes that end and loops it around his own waist. All three divers are now tethered together again. They wait there in the murk for a long silent minute until Oona swims back into view. Compared to her aquatic grace, they are clod-footed and slow. Through gestures, she makes it clear that she’s not going any farther. She’ll wait at the mouth of the cove, and lead them back to the launch when they return.

  She points in the direction of the rocky ledge that’s supposed to be out there in the murk, somewhere along the southern edge of the harbour. She then swims off in the opposite direction, leaving the three alone. They can’t talk to one another, and their own gloves are too bulky to make anything but the simplest gestures.

  It’s the democracy of the rope–they all have to follow the course set by the majority, come what may.

  Lights stab down from above. A small boat, probably checking out whatever made the disturbance in the water. Guerdon’s harbour is mostly empty of fish, but some must survive in the tainted waters. The guardian monsters must snap at the occasional flounder or dogfish. Not every disturbance means an intruder. Still, the three divers hurry to get clear of the light.

  Tander’s in the lead. If he’s picked the wrong direction, they’re doomed. If he doesn’t hit that rocky ledge, they’ll march past it, off down the length of the secure harbour. There’s nowhere to climb out unseen there. They might make it back to Oona before they run out of air, but there are no guarantees of that.

  It’s getting harder to breathe.

  Far away, Emlin flinches away from the unrelenting fire of the Kept Gods, in the hands of Silva Duttin.

  Farther away, the fleets of Ishmere sail north–to Lyrix or Haith, it doesn’t matter. Cloud Mother’s breath fills their sails; Kraken swims ahead, seizing the seas. Lion Queen stands on the prow, roaring a challenge. High Umur on his throne of stars. Fate Spider sees it all from the shadows.

  The spy’s light-headed. He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t walking through these murky waters.

  And then the rope drags him up a slope. Tander’s found the ledge.

  They haul themselves out of the water, hunching down behind rocks and discarded fuel drums to hide from any sentries. Shucking off the diving suits, helping each other out of the heavy brass helmets, the clomping weighted boots, the alchemical cages. The gills in the cages are exhausted, their bluish scales now flushed pink. Little trickles of blood oozing from the feathery membranes. Tander’s mercenary friend–the surviving one, Fierdy–has used these sorts of breathing tanks before. He pales and mutters an oath under his breath, tells them that he’ll need to stay here to wash out the tanks before they can be used again. The spy unties Fierdy’s rope from his waist. He stays tethered to Tander.

  And then there were two.

  Tander and the spy creep along the narrow ledge that runs along the edge of the cove. They’re at the mercy of the tide here–the high-water mark is two feet above the spy’s head as he clambers along, his feet sliding on seaweed and shells. They’re halfway along the canyon of the sheltered cove, with Queen’s Point opposite them across the deep, dark water. The southern cliff wall soars behind him. If there are sentries up there, they’d have to be right at the brink of the cliff to spot them.

  There are sentries on the other side of the cove, of course–thousands of them. The massive fortress of Queen’s Point stands there, cannons pointing out to sea, watchtowers gazing at the horizon. The fortress is piled upon itself, new bulwarks and towers engulfing older ones. Grown like a coral, a concrete cancer. The spy cowers at the sight of the fortress’s hundreds of windows. Older ones are arrow-slits and gun-loops; the ones in the flank of the new-built sections are glassy portholes, gleaming like red eyes as they reflect the setting sun.

  The long barrels of guns look like fingers against the orange-red clouds above the cove. The larger gun emplacements can fire clear across Guerdon’s island-strewn harbour. They could smash the dying on the Isle of Statues, wipe Dredger’s yards on Shrike clear in a flash. Smaller gun emplacements command the approaches to the city, watch over the entrance to this cove.

  They crawl on, closer to the warship that’s docked at the end of the cove. The Grand Retort. Built to take advantage of the latest alchemical engines.

  Maybe a god bomb, too.

  The spy fishes out out a spyglass and scans the Retort. The crew on deck lumber around in protective suits. Most have their helmets off–there’s no danger here, just standard procedures. No danger yet, that is–the weapons they handle are a thousand times deadlier than any bullet or sword. How much of that canister of acid seeds would it take to kill every crewman on the deck, to melt their flesh and turn their bones into a sticky, chalky mess? A hundredth of the barrel? Less?

  The spy isn’t Sanhada Baradhin, but these ironclads look otherworldly to him, impossibilities conjured by alchemy and ingenuity.

  “We have to get closer,” Tander insists.

  They shuffle faster. Fierdy’s out of sight now, lost behind the rocks.

  They can see the deck of the Grand Retort more clearly now. There, mounted dead centre on the main deck, is the frame of a rocket launcher. Heavily reinforced, wound around with protective sorcery-runes and blast shields.

  If the weapon were on board the Grand Retort right now, it would be there.

  It’s empty.

  “It’s not here, Tander.”

  “We’ve got to be sure,” says Tander. “Annah said.”

  There, beyond the Retort, is a metal door set into the stone wall of the cove. Some natural sea cave that’s been expanded, reinforced, locked away behind steel. A narrow-gauge railway runs from the door to the docks. It’s an armoury.

  The spy can’t stop himself looking at it. It draws his eye. He feels he has to watch that door, in the same way he’d keep watch on a poisonous serpent sunning itself in the middle of the road. He doesn’t like that door.

  Tander spots it, too. To get to the door, they’ll have to climb across from the one side of the cove to the other, crossing the western end. The rocks are jagged and scarred; it might be possible to clamber above the stew of garbage that’s collected at the water’s edge and make the crossing.

  Tander goes first, and the rope tugs the spy along. He follows Tander along the rocks, using the same perilous handholds and toeholds. Digging his fingers into the slimy cracks.

  As they get closer, the spy feels a growing weakness. It’s a sickening sensation, as if invisible particles are penetrating him and encrusting his bones. His blood thickens, curdles, rots inside his veins. His fingers go numb, then his limbs. He’s a sack of flesh, limp and heavy. Laboriously swinging one leg, then another, placing his arms on handholds like a sailor tying ropes, knotting his fingers around the rocks.

  It’s not enough.

  He slips, plunges down towards the jagged rocks below, suddenly boneless.

  The rope catches him. Tander holds on, clinging to the rocks, his fingers bone-white as he carries his own weight and the spy’s.

  “Climb,” Tander orders, eyes wild. The Fate Spider’s poison gives him strength born from desperation; for Tander, there’s no fate worse than failure, than being unmade at Annah’s command.

  The spy can’t do it. He’s suddenly exhausted beyond all experience. He can only cling here, exposed. If a sentry glances towards this end of the cove, he’ll be spotted instantly.

  “Climb,” hisses Tander, again. He shifts his grip on the stone–Tander’s frightfully strong–so he can get to his knife and cut the rope if he has must.

  He’ll leave the spy to die here. Drown here. And then he’ll go after Emlin.

  The spy flails his limbs. Can’t remember which ones are arms and which are legs, or what the difference betw
een them is supposed to be. It’s Alic who saves him, Alic who takes over. Alic who clambers across the cliff. Alic, now, who’s helping Tander cross the last few feet of cliff before they reach the north side of the cove.

  They’re in Queen’s Point now. Ahead, by the door, stand two sentries. They’re watching the causeway that runs along from the docks to the armoury door, not the cliffs. They haven’t yet seen the two bedraggled figures, huddled behind a barrel.

  “What was that shit?” whispers Tander. “You had a fit or something?”

  “It’s nothing,” says Alic. “Let’s get this done.”

  Tander has his gun out. It’s a gun made for fucking underwater use, it’s not supposed to be accurate at any range, let alone shooting at targets a hundred feet away in near-darkness, but desperation does funny things to a man’s nerve.

  The crack-crack of two gunshots rolls out across the water, and two bodies fall, vanishing into the darkness. Tander breaks into a run, racing towards the armoury door. Frantic, furious, one last effort. The spy has to follow, running up onto the causeway. Along the railway, following the two bright lines of polished iron. They race up to that terrible door.

  Behind them, the spy hears distant shouts, movement in Queen’s Point. No siren yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The fortress-god has felt a sting, heard the buzzing of a sandfly. Soon Queen’s Point will stir itself to swat this intruder.

  Tander gets to the door first. Spins the wheel to open it.

  On the other side, a stone corridor. Racks, vaults of weapons.

  They both see it only for an instant, before alarms sound in the depths, but that instant’s enough. The god bomb’s stored just inside the armoury door, ready to be loaded onto the Retort at a moment’s notice.

  A thing of ugly black iron, plates of twisted scrap metal welded together. Misshapen, mangled, a scab of divine ichor. So appalled at its own existence that it screams for annihilation. A shaped charge of blasphemy. Undeniable in its awful power, loathsome in its totality.