The Crawling One whispers to Myri, too. He’s too far away for Cari to eavesdrop, but she doesn’t get the impression it’s a threat or insult. He’s careful not to cross the line of the binding circle.
“And the grimoire?” asks Rhan-Gis, with a disinterested wave of his hand.
“Ah, yes, yes,” says Xargor Bane. “It’s Khebeshi. Doubtless one of their akashic records. Of little value, save to scholars, O radiant one.”
“Then with his divinity’s permission,” says Twelve Coins Bleeding hastily, “I shall take custody of it.” He kneels in a fluid motion, touching the brow of his porcelain face to the ground in front of the throne. Rhan-Gis, though, raises one finger, and Xargor Bane crosses his hands atop the book. The Crawling One clearly isn’t getting Ramegos’ grimoire that easily.
“Gissa shall never fall,” announces Rhan-Gis. He’s not talking to Caro, or anyone in this room; his words echo from the bricks of this broken city, spring from the lips of the guards at the doors. “Gissa’s glory is eternal.” Then he frowns, and a little drool escapes his slack lips before he gathers himself and says, “Show in the emissaries of Ishmere.”
The guards open another set of doors, and Cari has to fight her instinct to spring up and run. Artolo strides in, those metal-shod riding boots of his clacking on the tiles. He’s flanked by Eshdana guards, nervous-looking folk from Ilbarin, and a few Ishmeric soldiers, sigils of Cloud Mother on their armour. Unlikely allies. Big round of applause for Eladora and her Armistice, thinks Cari, bringing together bastards who want to kill me.
Following Artolo comes an old hag of a priestess. “Damala,” mutters Xargor Bane, and Cari assumes that’s her name.
On seeing Cari, Artolo’s face darkens. He strides forward, fingers clenching – hey, the bastard has fingers now, boneless tentacle-tumours sprouting from his ruined knuckles. Good for him!
The wine of Rhan-Gis, she realises, is really strong.
“She is mine!” snarls Artolo, jabbing a tentacle at Cari. “I’ve chased her from Ilbarin. Hand her over, or I shall put your joke of a city to the torch!”
“Gissa is eternal,” says Rhan-Gis, and Artolo’s struck across the face by the words. He staggers back, knocked on his heels. The words hang in the air for a long moment, like there’s some improbable solidity to them, a physical barrier. The lamps on either side of the throne blaze with an unearthly light.
“High Umur,” says Damala quietly, like she’s remarking on distant events, “has decreed the destruction of greater cities than Gissa, and his will cannot be denied.”
Xargor Bane leans across and whispers in Rhan-Gis’ ear. “My lord, my scouts tell me that there are considerable Ishmeric forces to the north of the city, including war-saints. Of course, Gissa is eternal and our victory is assured – but it would, I fear, be costly.”
Cari shivers at the mention of war-saints. She saw too much when Guerdon was invaded, and her city was much better protected than ragged Gissa. If it’s war here, everyone’s going to die, or worse. Rhan-Gis surely can’t risk that. Back when Cari was the Saint of Knives, she could see, could feel, everyone in the New City. She knew when they were suffering, or scared. She couldn’t run away, nor stand aside. She couldn’t abandon Spar to that knowledge.
“My people would bear the cost joyfully. We shall build new walls from the bones of the dead,” says Rhan-Gis, and he sounds horribly enthusiastic about it. “We cannot deny them the privilege of martyrdom!”
Bastard, she thinks. Does he not care? Or does he buy his own claims that Gissa is a city of joy and plenty? Or does being a god mean believing your own bullshit is an inherent part of the deal?
“Nevertheless, divine one,” says Xargor, his voice both soothing and panicky at the same time, “the city is still rebuilding after the affray with the Moon-Eater. If more of your people perish, who will praise your name in the Festival of Clay Words? Will there be enough maidens to dance the maze at midsummer? Who will proclaim you Cornerstone of the World?”
Cari revises her assessment of Xargor. He may be a shit sorcerer, but he seems to be something much more valuable – a voice of sanity, balancing the mad whims of the god with the needs of the people. Xargor’s trying to keep everyone in the city alive, while Rhan-Gis would happily see them all perish if they die with his name on their lips.
The Crawling One slithers to the middle of the room. “Great Ones, there is no need to make such threats. All of us have other foes to contend with. This matter can be resolved peaceably.” He gestures at Cari, and at Myri’s bound form. “Both these women claim sanctuary in Gissa. Both these women are sought by Artolo of the Ghierdana. The matter before us is to agree on mutually acceptable terms for the surrender of one or both of them.”
Artolo starts blustering about how the Crawling Ones have no business here, threatening to do to Twelve Coins Bleeding what he did to the colony on the Street of Blue Glass. Cari ignores him, and tries to work out what game the Crawling Ones are playing. She certainly didn’t claim sanctuary here, and she doubts Myri did either, not unless blasting a host of soldiers with sorcery is part of the application process. So, is the Crawling One lying to protect them, bolstering their case like a defence lawyer, or is he after something else?
“This one,” says Twelve Coins Bleeding, pointing to Myri, “broke her oath to the Ghierdana. She is a powerful sorceress, and a known criminal. She orchestrated the escape from Ilbarin. While this poor girl,” indicating Cari, “was but a prisoner, a hostage to the sorceress. She seeks to withdraw from the world, and searches for the peaceful refuge of Khebesh. If Artolo seeks revenge, let him have Myri, and this other one shall remain here as a guest of Rhan-Gis.”
He lets a little of Adro’s voice bleed in at the end, and Cari knows he’s lying. It’s all too neat.
Once, back in the New City, she watched a con man running the old shell game. Through Spar’s gifts, she could watch him move the shell hiding the coin and track it no matter how quickly he shuffled. She could tell when he palmed the coin, too. The whole game was laid out in front of her, and she could see every move.
It’s like that here. The Crawling One’s goal hasn’t changed – all it wants is to get one of its worms into Khebesh. They’ll feast on the dead there, like they did in Guerdon, and Ilbarin, and here in Gissa. Like they did to Adro. Everything’s just a means to an end for those grave-cold bastards. The sorcerers of Khebesh won’t let the Crawlers in, though, so it needs a plausible candidate to smuggle the worm through the doors. Cari’s more tractable – she’s got no defences against its spells – but the Sacred Realm are here for her. Myri may be harder to deal with, but the Crawling One will take her in a pinch. It takes Myri and the grimoire, acts as a broker between Rhan-Gis and the Sacred Realm, and sells Cari to Artolo.
The shell on the left. Twelve Coins Bleeding takes Myri with him to Khebesh, and Cari’s murdered by Artolo.
The middle shell… no deal. Everything falls apart. The Sacred Empire attacks Gissa, and it’s slaughter. The streets, such as they are, run with blood. She can’t allow that.
The right shell. By some miracle, Artolo takes Myri and lets Carillon go free. Cari gets to Khebesh, but Myri’s dead and the Crawling Ones get even more powerful. She’ll be the prisoner of a mad god and his evil vizier all the way to Khebesh. Some instinct tells her that Xargor Bane will get bricked up in some wall within five minutes of a deal being struck, his position fully eclipsed by Twelve Shits Conspiring.
Thing is, that’s the one shell she might be able to pick. Rhan-Gis is already infatuated with her, or at least amused by the novelty. Maybe she can push him, get him to protect her. Play to his city-sized ego. The Sacred Realm may want her dead, but how badly?
Anyway, she’s mortal and they’re immortal gods. If nothing else, they can wait her out and dance on her grave, like she danced on the grave of the goddess Pesh.
Spar, what the fuck should I do?
Artolo and Rhan-Gis bicker, and the argument swirls around Cari. She�
�s only half listening to it anyway, and it’s peppered with references to places or gods she doesn’t know, and a lot of posturing. Twelve Coins Bleeding’s in the middle of it, too, unctuous and all too calm, trying to sell Artolo on taking Myri as a consolation prize. The Crawling One will pretend to give in any moment now, shrug the shoulders he doesn’t have and then start haggling on a price for Cari. He’s as transparent as any junk dealer in the market.
You’ve got a knife. Cari doesn’t know if it’s a memory of something Spar said, or her own brain playing tricks on her. It’s true, though. She has the sacrificial knife, and that concentrates the problem. Knives have a way of cutting through bullshit, making everything bloody simple.
The problem of who to stab, though, is vexing. Most people in the room are too far away, or won’t be affected by a mere knife. She guesses Damala’s mortal enough to die from a knife wound. Xargor, too, if his heart doesn’t get him first. And Myri’s so weak that ending her would be easy. But none of those are helpful options.
So. Rhan-Gis is a powerful saint, and she’d lay money that he can pull off the same damage-redirection trick that Spar did for her. Her little knife isn’t going to hurt him. And knives definitely don’t hurt Crawling Ones.
Artolo. She can get to Artolo. No one’s paying attention to her; they’re all arguing over her, around her. She’s got no power here, no influence, no god backing her up. All her friends – all my living friends, she thinks bitterly – are far away. Taking out Artolo would be satisfying if nothing else, but that’s not enough. And, anyway, she’s not that strong, not that fast. There’s little chance, unless she gets very lucky, of inflicting a mortal wound from here. It’s a small knife, not a giant flaming sword.
“The sorceress is of no concern to the Sacred Realm. It was Carillon Thay who blasphemed against Pesh,” says Damala. Twelve Coins Bleeding shrugs, holds out his hands, gives a resigned sigh, the universal shrug of the con artist. I’m cutting half my own throats here, but maybe I can do you a deal on one lightly soiled Cari.
Think, she screams at herself. Do something. She digs her fingernails into her palms, almost hard enough to draw blood.
Blood.
Back in Guerdon, years ago, Cari fought a Raveller, a servant of the Black Iron Gods. Those creatures couldn’t be injured by mortal weapons, either – but she’d smeared some of her blood on her knife, and that was enough to wound the creature. Of course, that was because Cari was Herald of the Black Iron Gods, birthed by a Raveller, kin to the creature she fought. Alike enough to get past its defences. Rhan-Gis’ nameless saint is like her, too, right? People are always going on about congruency and sympathetic resonance when it comes to saints. Her grandfather made her to match the slumbering Black Iron Gods; now, though, she’s a better match for Spar.
And things like Spar.
She runs her palm across the edge of the sacrificial blade. It’s sharp.
Don’t pick any shell. Kick over the table.
Cari jumps up and stabs the Cornerstone of the World in his beautiful throat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There is time, in those days before catastrophe, for confessions.
A note from Karla, delivered by a messenger. Baston’s careful only to open it when he’s outside the New City, away from prying eyes. It directs Baston to a house in Newtown.
A stone’s throw from where they grew up, but two or three worlds away. Newtown’s quiet, law-abiding, unlike the rookeries of the Wash on the far side of Military Road. Free city territory. No god has ever walked here save the tame deities of the Keepers, and then only lightly; but Baston can smell the incense from the temples in the IOZ from here. Newtown even escaped significant damage during the invasion. A few patches and spots of fresh whitewash are the only scars left on these regimented terraces.
He raps on the door of one house, and it’s answered by a veiled woman.
“Mr Hedanson! Come in, come in. I was just making tea.”
They follow the woman in. No – the ghoul, as he catches a glimpse of hoofed feet beneath her skirts. A ghoul, dressed in human garb. He might have walked by her on the street and not known. He recalls a ghoul hanging around the Brotherhood clubhouse, years ago, but she was dressed in stolen rags then, an absurd scarecrow figure. Silkpurse, they called her.
The smell of fresh-baked bread mingles with thick perfume. Incongruous posters on the hallway walls – old theatre posters, rain-streaked, peeled off the walls and kept as treasures. Baston spots his mother’s face in one of them. Elshara stares out at him across thirty years. The ghoul leads them down the hallway to a side door, and out into a little garden.
There, seated in wicker armchairs, are Karla and his mother. Baston blinks, momentarily confused. He knew Karla had moved their mother out of Hog Close for protection, but he’d assumed she had hidden Elshara with some old family contacts, or put her on a train to some outlying town like Maredon. This is something else.
He leans down to kiss his mother’s cheek. She frowns, examining the bruises on his face. “You’ve been in the wars. They’ve sent the Tallows after you.”
“Did the smoke show you that?”
“I cleaned up your father’s wounds often enough,” snaps Elshara. “I don’t need the Smoke Painter to recognise Tallowmen’s work.”
“We’ll name no gods here,” says Silkpurse hastily. “Karla asked me to take care of your mother, after the recent unpleasantness.” Her voice lacks the rough growl common to ghouls.
“Thank you.”
“A pleasure, dearie. To be honest, I’ve been a fan of Elshara for years, so this has been a treat for me! We’ve become such good friends! I’ll fetch you some food. Surface food of course!” Silkpurse scurries off.
“Keep your voice down,” whispers Karla. “Silkpurse is safe enough, but she’s still a ghoul – and close to Eladora Duttin, too. We can’t trust her.”
“You look tired, Bas,” says Elshara. “I wish you could rest here.” He feels tired. He’s been running on adrenaline since the alchemists killed Vyr at the Inn of the Green Door. It’s so tempting to sit here, in this quiet sun-drenched garden, and listen to the distant murmur of the city. There are no Tallowmen here, pressing on the windows, stalking him from the rooftops. The New City seems like a distant and improbable dream. He could close his eyes and forget that Guerdon’s changed.
But he can’t.
“Rasce wants me back soon.”
Elshara drops a lump of sugar into her tea like a bomb. “Bas, I’ve got instructions for you. These come from the master of the Brotherhood, understand?”
“From Heinreil? You’re in touch with him?” Baston snarls.
“Yes, I am.” Elshara stares at her son. “I know how you feel about him, I do. But he’s Brotherhood. He’s on our side.”
“He’s got a plan, Bas,” adds Karla. “A plan to bring the Brotherhood back, as strong as we ever were. Duttin and her lot, they think they’re using him, but he’s using them. He’s the one who made sure you were recruited by Sinter. You’re where the master needs you to be. Heinreil still has connections with the alchemists. We protect their yliaster supply, and they’ll owe us. But we’ve got to act fast, before Rasce makes his move and before the dragon comes back. Imagine what we could do in the Wash, Bas. We go home with all the weapons, all the mercenaries that the dragon’s gold can buy. We retake our streets.” Karla grabs his hand. “We can have it all back. The Eshdana will follow you. You’ve been running things for weeks – they trust you.”
“What about Rasce?”
“He’ll have to go, Bas,” says his mother. “He’s the linchpin. It would have been better if he’d stayed sick, and we could have kept him as a figurehead until it was time to act. But the alchemist, ah—”
“Vorz,” supplies Karla.
“He’s forced our hand.” Elshara frowns. “Your hand, Bas. It has to be you. You can get close to the Ghierdana. Kill him, kill the alchemist.”
Of course Heinreil would use him li
ke this. No matter how he tries to escape it, he’s still the master’s vicious dog, his brute. He can’t build, only break things. He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Heinreil’s got that figured out, too,” says Karla, misunderstanding his reluctance. “He knows how you get a weapon that can overcome Rasce’s powers.”
“It’s not that,” says Elshara, studying her son’s face. “Go on, Bas.”
Baston stares at his hands. Feels the strength in them, the power in them. Hands used to holding a blade, or a gun. Hands drenched in blood. “That night after the first Tallow attack, Karla, after Vyr threw us out – I got an alchemical bomb. I was going to blow up the Ishmeric temple, and me along with it. Rasce saved me. I owe him my life.”
Karla opens her mouth to speak, but Elshara shushes her.
“Do you know why you took that bomb, Bas?” asks Elshara, gently.
“It was a mistake. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It was a choice. I want to know why you made that choice – if you can tell me. Gods know I’ve made plenty of stupid choices in my time, and I couldn’t always explain them to myself afterwards. But other choices… marrying your father for one – those I could explain. Those, I had my reasons. What about you? What was the reason you wanted that bomb?”
He shakes his head. “I wanted to fight back,” he says after a long pause. He can’t find the words to describe his thinking on that night. “I wanted to hurt them. I didn’t know how else to do it.”
“When I didn’t know what my next line was on stage,” says Elshara, “I’d call for a prompt, instead of trying to end the whole show. It’s hard, I know. Everything’s changing, with the Godswar so close. It feels like everything’s slipping away, and nothing makes sense. Gods, I know it. Nothing’s been right since… since the Tower of Law burned, maybe. But Heinreil can set it all right again.”
The Broken God Page 42
