These docks are neutral territory, but they’re sandwiched between the Lyrixian and Haithi Occupation Zones, between the dragons and the mad gods, so there are fewer ships berthed here than there might once have been. No captain wants to leave his ship in between two warring powers, and trust to the fragile Armistice to preserve the peace. The big freighters go to the new docks in Shriveport, on the far side of Holyhill, long piers running out into deep water. Fewer ships mean less work.
He waits in the chilly spring drizzle for his name to be called. Distantly, he knows that he’s better off than most of the poor bastards huddled along the dockside. He won’t starve if he misses a day’s work. For others, there’s the span of a single coin between a good day and a bitter one.
Gunnar Tarson sidles up to him in the crowd. Another Brotherhood boy cast adrift. Tarson’s young and eager, starts talking about some job he has in mind, breaking into a merchant’s house. It’s not the time. Not with the spider-sentinels crawling over the district. It hasn’t been the time for months. Maybe it won’t ever be the time again.
He imagines himself as part of a broken mechanism. A coil or spring, wound ever more tightly, but disconnected now from whatever apparatus might once have given him release or function. He bows his head, waits to be called, and feels the tension in his belly ratchet forward, an inch of bile at a time.
The foreman starts calling names.
“Baston Hedanson?”
He steps forward.
“Sheds on Acre Lane. Boss wants ’em cleared.”
The sheds are a maze of rotting timbers. Raindrops swelling through narrow cracks in the roof, like a man bleeding from a dozen cuts. Floor slick with foamy run-off. This place hasn’t been used in months. Abandoned when an alchemist’s freighter went aground off the Bell Rock, and the evening tide ran yellow with poison. Another bit of the city gone rotten, ceded to something toxic and inimical to mortal life. Baston sniffs the air – as a creature of Guerdon, the smells from the alchemists’ smokestacks are as familiar to him as church bells. The burned sourness of phlogiston, the effervescent, tickling saltiness of yliaster, the cloying stench of melting wax.
There’s something else as well. A faint, floral scent. Perfume, maybe?
He’s not alone here. He tenses, his broad shoulders hunching. Hands bunching into fists. This isn’t the occupied zone, he tells himself. There’s no reason to assume trouble.
He prowls through the sheds, moving deeper into the maze. There’s a large space in the centre. Once, it was a trade hall, ornate iron pillars supporting a high ceiling, glass skylights green with moss and scum. The green light shifting like the whole place is underwater.
Two figures wait for him there. One’s an old man, bald, a face like a gargoyle. He’s wearing a priest’s cassock, but there’s a gun in his hand. The other’s a younger woman, a black velvet dress like a guildmaster, but no guild sigil or badge of office. Hair pinned back, one hand pressing a scented handkerchief to her nose. The light catches her face, and for a moment Baston thinks he recognises her.
“Cari?”
“You’re not the first to make that mistake,” says the woman. “But no.”
She raises her other hand and invisible chains lock into place around Baston’s arms, legs, throat. Even his eyes are held by the spell. He can’t blink, can barely breathe.
The woman’s a sorcerer. Even as he’s held there frozen, Baston’s mind is racing. Sorcery’s rarely seen on the streets, and she’s clearly no thief or hired assassin – although he’s not so sure about her companion.
The old man searches Baston’s paralysed body expertly, finding the knife tucked into his boot, the garrotte in his pocket. He checks Baston’s hands, probes the wedding ring for a concealed needle. One horned finger pokes at the spot on Baston’s forehead where the cleric anointed him. The old man sniffs the oil, grimaces. “He’s clean.”
“Thank you,” says the woman. “Mr Hedanson, forgive me. I shall release you momentarily, but please don’t do anything, ah, provocative.”
The old man tucks Baston’s knife into a fold of his cassock, then backs away out of arm’s reach. The gun appears again, pointed at Baston’s belly. The man is old, but his aim is unwavering.
The woman closes her hand, and the spell vanishes. Baston watches the woman closely – he’s heard sorcery puts a terrible strain on its practitioners – but she seems unwearied.
“My name,” says the woman, “is Eladora Duttin. I understand you knew my cousin Carillon, once.” She produces a slim black notebook from a pocket, makes a note.
“I haven’t seen Cari in a long time. Is this about her?”
“Not quite.”
“Then who are you people?”
“Our remit,” says Duttin, “is safeguarding the Armistice. It would be disastrous for the city if the war were to resume. The terms of the peace accord provide some restraint on the occupying powers, but it’s our role to, ah, deal with potential problems before that restraint is tested.”
Baston stays silent. His father drummed into him never to talk to the city watch. These people aren’t watch, but they’re something like it.
“The Armistice works by balancing the ambitions of each occupying power against the other two – if the Ishmerians attack, they risk creating an alliance between Lyrix and Haith. The Ghierdana are, ah, challenging. The dragons are an essential part of the Lyrixian military. Without the dragons, the Lyrixians would struggle to fulfil their part of the accord.”
Baston shrugs. “I just shift cargo down the docks. I don’t—”
“Oh, spare us the mummery,” snaps the priest. “We know every fucking thing about you. We know every one of your little secrets. We know your crew, that shit Tarson and the rest. All the scum that you scraped out of the gutters after the invasion. And, honestly, we don’t care. This is much bigger.”
Duttin continues with her lecture. “The Ghierdana operate independently from the Lyrixian armed forces—”
“Wild as bloody devils,” mutters the priest, rolling his eyes. “Anathema upon ’em.”
“Sinter, enough! We don’t have time for this.” Duttin silences him. Sinter – it’s a name Baston’s heard before. A Keeper priest, a fixer. Reputation as dirty as the hem of his cassock that trails through the slime.
Baston folds his arms.
“We are aware,” continues Duttin, “that you were offered a job. We require you to accept this offer of employment. The Ghierdana are tightly knit, and we require a w-window into their plans.”
“You want me to spy on the Ghierdana for you?”
“Precisely.” Duttin’s face lights up. “You will be recompensed, of course.”
“Why me?”
“Never you mind,” growls the priest, but Duttin overrules him again.
“You were well connected in the Brotherhood, well respected. An able lieutenant, able to recruit and motivate, by all accounts.”
“One of Heinreil’s legbreakers,” interjects Sinter.
“You are precisely the sort of man the Ghierdana need. Your former associate Tiske certainly thinks so. We know he visited you last night.” She smiles, and it’s unexpectedly genuine, a moment of satisfaction at her own cleverness.
“Looks like you do know everything.” Baston spits on the floor, a big gobbet of saliva and mucus, halfway between him and Duttin. Anger rises up in him. “So, you know that you bastards have shit on the Wash time and time again. The alchemists poisoned us. When the Ravellers rose, you let them eat us, so the fighting wouldn’t spill into the quality districts, right? Same thing happened in the invasion – you drew the fucking line of no retreat at Holyhill and the Viaduct, not in the Wash. You say you want to protect Guerdon – you mean, your Guerdon, up on the heights. The churches and the palaces and the guildhalls. Not my Guerdon. My Guerdon’s possessed by mad gods. So, you all-wise cunts, you know where you can stick your plan, right?”
“The Armistice saved thousands of lives,” says Eladora, quietly.
“How fucking nice for them that lived.”
“Show some respect, you little shit!” croaks Sinter, spittle flying from his lips. He steps forward, waving the gun—
—and Baston strikes, grabbing at the priest’s wrist, twisting his body as he moves to dodge the bark of the gun. His coat tugs as the bullet passes through the folds of cloth, but he’s not wounded. He grabs Sinter with one hand, hammers the priest in the face with the other, swings the old man’s body around as a shield, then charges Duttin, hoping that any spell will catch the priest and not him.
But he’s a fraction too slow. Duttin’s paralysis spell locks around Baston again and he goes down in a tangle of limbs, landing heavily atop the priest, face down on the muddy floor. Fucking magic. Sinter wriggles out, twitching like a half-crushed insect, cursing and spitting. Bony limbs kicking and hitting Baston’s frozen body as he pulls himself free. There’s a knife in the priest’s hand now, wicked and bright, and he scrabbles at Baston’s collar, searching for his throat. “Little Brotherhood shit,” he mutters, “fucking guttersnipe.”
“Sinter. Enough.” Baston’s face down in the mud; he can’t see Duttin’s face, but he can hear the strain in her voice. Holding him like this costs her. He struggles against the spell, trying to force his limbs to move against the unseen hands that grip every muscle. “The poor man’s wife perished in the invasion,” she adds. “We must be understanding.”
Understanding. How can they be understanding, when he can’t understand? How can anyone give meaning to the terrible suddenness of Fae’s death? One moment there, and the next, gone, washed away by the Kraken-waves that crashed down on the city. As though she were no more real than a figure drawn in the sand of the shore – to be erased by a passing whim. How do you understand, when nothing stands, nothing lasts, and the world changes in a heartbeat?
“Roll him over,” orders Duttin. Groaning, the priest hauls Baston’s paralysed body over. He’s lying on his back now, staring up at the green light.
Duttin stands over him. Her hand still glows with arcane energy, blood welling up from the edge of her fingernails to drip down and mingle with the mud.
She sighs. “Three points. First, please understand that we are trying to preserve a very delicate balance. I brought the Ghierdana back to Guerdon – at a not inconsiderable personal cost – to ensure that balance between the occupying powers. We need the dragons to remain in Guerdon. We are prepared to overlook a certain degree of, ah, illicit activity, as long as it doesn’t threaten the Armistice. Second, we only require information from you, nothing more. If action is warranted, we have our own resources. We do not require you to do anything more than report on the Ghierdana’s plans. And, thirdly…” She purses her lips, like she’s tasting something unpleasant. “I know your wife perished last year, but, ah…”
Sinter steps in. “We’ve been watching you. We know your sweet little sister. Your sinful mother. Your friends in Pulchar’s bar. Any of yours that hasn’t gone up to the New, we know. You think you’re the only one with gutter-water in their blood? I was running saint hunters in the Wash when your shit of a dad was an altar boy in St Storm’s. If you don’t do as we tell you, we can ruin any of them.” Sinter jerks a thumb at Duttin. “You work for her now, understand?”
Baston really wants to punch that old priest. To bring down Eladora, too, this woman who looks like Cari and talks like a lawyer. Move fast enough, the Fever Knight once showed him, get your hands around a sorcerer’s throat before they can breathe a word, and you’ve got a chance.
But it’s not worth it. The Ghierdana and their dragons, the Ishmerians and their gods, and this woman and her murderous priest – and behind her, other forces he can only faintly perceive, money and influence and parliament, as real and dangerous as any other power. Fuck them all – they’re all uncaring giants, trampling the wreckage of his home underfoot.
They step back. The priest ostentatiously takes another cartridge from his pocket, reloads the pistol. Once the weapon’s ready, Duttin releases the spell.
Baston sits back up, draws himself back to a standing position.
“One job. And I’m not taking the ash. One job, and you leave me and mine alone after that.”
Duttin glances at Sinter, who scowls.
“Assuming you’re able to ascertain the nature of this Rasce’s plans,” says Duttin carefully, “that would be acceptable.”
“All right. I’ll do it.” Baston extends his hand.
Neither of the other two moves. Neither shakes his hand to seal the deal. Neither risks coming within arm’s reach. Oh, they think they know him.
“There’s a tailor’s on Greyhame Street, up Holyhill,” says Sinter. “Go there after, and we’ll take your measurements, understand?”
Baston nods. “What happened to Cari?” he asks. “Is she dead?”
“Oh.” Eladora’s flustered for the first time. “S-she’s alive, but she had to leave Guerdon. I sent her away. She’s safe.”
The first to arrive at the house on Lanthorn Street is Tiske. Rasce could guess Tiske was ash-marked even if Vyr hadn’t already told him – there’s something in the demeanour of the Eshdana, an instinctive deference in the presence of Ghierdana. Middle-aged, heavy-set, balding. A barrel of a man, in that he’s been filled with salted pork and you could use him to barricade a door, but he doesn’t strike Rasce as a great wit. One of Artolo’s lieutenants, hoping to worm his way back into the dragon’s favour.
He kneels, kisses the dragon-tooth when Rasce presents it. His hands shake, slightly.
“They’re on their way up, sir,” he says.
“I’m looking for soldiers, Tiske, not the sweepings of an alehouse. This friend of yours had better be worth my time.”
“I’d wager my life on him.”
Rasce toys with the dagger. “Oh, you have.”
The door opens, and Vyr shows two people into the room.
One, Rasce assumes, is the fellow Tiske spoke of, Baston Hedanson. Broad shoulders straining the fabric of his grey suit. His face puts one in mind of an animal, but which beast? The build of a bull, but no – he’s a wolfhound. Strong, fierce, but used to being part of a pack. He moves unhurriedly across the office, taking in everything. His gaze flickers to the exits, marks the guards at the door, the dagger on the desk.
The other is Baston’s sister. Hair dyed an unnaturally pale blonde. Her dress is of cheap fabric, but she wears it well. Back home on the isles, the fisherfolk would parade their pretty sons and daughters on market day, hoping to be noticed by a Ghierdana. He wonders if that’s why Baston brought her along – but then she meets Rasce’s gaze, and doesn’t look away. None of the fisher-folk would ever show such a lack of respect to the children of the Dragon.
To his surprise, he finds it enhances her allure in his eyes.
She smirks as if they’re sharing a private joke. “So, Tiske tells my brother there’s business to be done, and you need a few good hands. What sort of business?”
“I intend to burn Dredger’s yard.”
“Thought you had dragons for that sort of thing.”
“My Great-Uncle is away, and this is family business,” explains Rasce.
Baston frowns in confusion, and Tiske leans down, whispering. “There’s a dragon at the head of each family. The families work together on some business, but not all.”
Rasce continues. “You will be well paid for your work. And if you prove worthy, you may be rewarded further, with the favour of the dragon.” Back home, just the chance of the dragon’s favour could induce one man to kill another. To be Eshdana, ash-marked, is to share in the dragon’s fortune, to have the syndicates behind you. Rasce’s mildly surprised when neither Baston nor Karla react. “The ash,” he adds.
Baston’s unimpressed. “Why Dredger?”
“Does it matter?” snaps Vyr. “That is the target the Ghierdana have chosen.”
“Dredger’s got friends in the Wash,” says Karla, “he’s been running his
yards for years. Paid his dues to the Brotherhood regular as clockwork.”
“That was when the Brotherhood had the docks,” says Tiske. “Nowadays, they go unclaimed.” His tone is that of some old aunt running her finger over the mantlepiece and finding it dusty.
“He gave work to the plagued when no one else would touch ’em,” says Baston.
“But he was an informant to the thief-takers. And the watch, when it suited him,” argues Karla.
Vyr scowls at her. “He is who I have chosen. Are you in?”
Tiske reaches forward and squeezes Baston’s shoulder, but the younger man still has reservations. “What’s our payment?”
“Chaos is all we want. We’ll break the yards. You may rob what you wish in the process.” He’s handing the Guerdon thieves a small fortune in stolen alchemical weapons, but the sum is of little concern to the Ghierdana. Great-Uncle sleeps on a bed of treasure worth a thousand times as much.
“Not coin?” grumbles Baston.
“I’m sure we can move whatever ye steal through the New City,” says Tiske. “Baston, lad, the Ghierdana operate all across the world. They can sell those weapons off in Khenth or Ul-Taen, get you a good price. Assuming you’re not going to…” He trails off, glances at the Ghierdana. Use them here, Rasce assumes. On the Ishmerian occupiers.
“What’s the plan for containment? And protection? Dredger handles poisons and worse in the yards.”
“A small explosion, at the far end of the yards, to draw guards away. A second team at the front, to strike the main office as you counsel. The risk of wildfire should be minimal. We know how things burn, of that have no doubt.” Baston’s caution is justified – alchemical weapons are immensely potent, and indiscriminate in their killing. A leak from Dredger’s yard could be disastrous.
Karla leans over to her brother. “It’s worth a shot, to my mind. Bring some of the canal crew. See if Yon Bleak will still talk to us.”
“Listen to her, lad,” pleads Tiske.
Baston’s face is unreadable. “That’s a fine dagger, there,” he says, nodding at the dragon-tooth blade.
The Broken God Page 6
