“You want to hurt them, Bas,” echoes Karla. “We can do that. Heinreil can bring the Brotherhood back, too.”
“Heinreil. You’re talking like Heinreil’s going to walk back in the door. He’s in prison, and the only way he’s fucking leaving is in a box. And even if they did spring him – the bastard ruined the Brotherhood! No wonder he’s with Duttin and her lot – they’re all the same. Using us! Lots of talk about what’s necessary and all their clever bloody stratagems, but it’s still us dying on the streets! To hell with all of them!” He’s shouting now, roaring in his family’s faces. Elshara recoils from him.
Karla leaps up. Defiant, anger in her eyes.
“Fine!” she spits. “I’ll do it, then!”
“Biscuits!” sings out Silkpurse, re-emerging into the little garden carrying a tray laden with more cups of tea and a plate of biscuits and sandwiches. The ghoul blinks at the tableau before her – Baston and Karla glaring at each other, Elshara pale and shaking.
“Give us a moment,” snaps Karla.
“Oh, I can’t do that, dearie,” says Silkpurse. “I’m being called below – we’re off to the Fog Yards, tonight, all us ghouls. Lord Rat’s orders. I need to get some surface food in my belly before I go into the dark, so I’m going to sit here with your mother and eat my supper, and we’ll have no more shouting.” Silkpurse drags over another chair with one hoofed foot, then lays the tray on the table. With ghoulish strength, she yanks Baston and Karla down to their seats.
“Thank you,” says Elshara.
Silkpurse removes her veil and lays it aside. Karla absently takes it and folds it. “So pretty,” says Silkpurse, glancing at Karla’s features. The ghoul scoops up a handful of food and stuffs sandwiches into her wolfish mouth, gagging with every bite, but still forcing them down. She speaks around each mouthful. “I couldn’t but overhear. It’s maybe not my place to speak, but I’ll say my piece anyway. Take it from a Guerdon ghoul – there are always monsters and powerful folk in charge, scheming and squabbling with each other. Sometimes they’ll help you and sometimes they’ll hurt, but they never give a damn about us on the streets.”
“Idge wrote—” says Baston.
“I knew Idge,” says Silkpurse. “Lovely man, but not very practical. He’d walk into an open manhole while talking about moments of destiny. Or Mr Kelkin – I’ll always support him, after what he did for the ghouls, but I don’t pretend he did it out of love for us. It was Mr Kelkin against the priests, and he could use the ghouls against the church, back in the day. Or…” Silkpurse swallows another bite of meat, and sighs. “Or Miss Duttin, whose name I heard mentioned in most unpleasant terms earlier.” She kicks Baston’s shin, sharply. “Miss Duttin bought me this house, and she’s been a good friend to me. She’s trying to keep the peace in this city – but Baston’s right, she doesn’t give a damn about any of us. Not really. I don’t mean to be unkind, but when times are hard, it’s the folk at the bottom who suffer.” She looks at Baston, shading her eyes against the sunlight with her clawed hand. “Does Rasce give a damn about you?”
Baston shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. But Spar does. What if we lose him, too?”
“Spar Idgeson’s dead, dearie.” Silkpurse finishes the last sandwich, then sucks her fingers. “The ghouls know. Everything comes to ruin in the end.” The ghoul stands and bows, like she’s stepping offstage. “We’ll eat together again, some day soon,” she says, “one way or another.”
And then she’s gone.
For a few moment, the sounds of the city fills the silence of the garden. Distant bells up on Holyhill, and ship engines down in the harbour.
It’s Karla who speaks first.
“The ghouls can hide. We can’t. We’ve nowhere else to go. It has to be done.”
“It’s not just Rasce,” says Baston quietly. “It’s Spar.”
“We’ve seen no sign of him since Vorz came back.” Suppressed panic in Karla’s voice. “And the dragon follows after Vorz. We’ve no time. We have to act now.”
“We do have a choice,” says Elshara. “Let’s be honest with ourselves. Baston – you’ll be the one pulling the trigger. What do you want to do?”
He closes his eyes. In a way, it would be a relief to be told what to do again. To give in and just be a weapon again, instead of a man who has to think and to live and to feel.
“It’s not enough to go back,” he says slowly. “Nothing will ever change for the better while the alchemists and Duttin and their sort are in charge. What’s Heinreil’s plan?”
Baston listens as Karla outlines what he’s supposed to do next, what Heinreil’s plotted for him from his prison cell.
The girl in the tailor’s shop on Greyhame Street ushers Baston into the back room again and unlocks the cabinet that conceals the aethergraph. It takes a few minutes before the machine goes live, before Baston senses the ugly presence of Sinter on the other end.
NEED TO TALK IN PERSON. IT’S URGENT, he types.
USE AETHERGRAPH, comes the reply.
NO.
He hits the power stud, shuts the machine down. And waits.
The girl comes in, tells him to leave. He doesn’t hit her, but he twists her arm in the way the Fever Knight taught him, tells her softly not to scream. Tells her that he’s not going until he gets to talk to Sinter.
She runs off. Comes back in a few minutes with two big louts. Baston’s last few fights have been with Tallowmen, so it’s nice to hit someone who feels pain, to hit someone who can’t dodge so quick. To hit someone who goes down when you smash a head into a cabinet, or who roars in pain when you put their face through a dressing-room mirror.
He sits and waits amid the devastation for the priest to show up.
“Fuck me,” says Sinter, stepping over the unconscious bodies. “But you’re the shittiest spy I’ve ever run.”
“I want to make a deal.”
“We had a deal. You tell us what Rasce’s up to, and we spare your slut of a sister. Your ma. Your drinking pals down in Pulchar’s. Most of them are still alive, despite you being singularly bad at telling us what we needed to know. For example, just a passing thought, why the fuck was there an Ulbishe-made aethergraph in the room where young Vyr got killed?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“No? Clever thing, I’m told. More advanced than even the ones our alchemists can make. Long range, no fecking wires. Why, they’d love to have a poke at it – only someone took a knife to it, smashed it all to pieces first. See any fuckers from Ulbishe running around the New City?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What do you know?”
“It’s you and Nemon and Duttin running the Tallowmen now – I want you to pull the jacks back. They’re killing us.”
Sinter scratches his nose. “Seems to me,” he says slowly, “that you’re falling short on your end. You’ve given us chickenfeed. Why, in the name of a goddess I shan’t name, should I help you scum? Brotherhood or Ghierdana, you’re all a gang of fucking thieves.”
“I told the Ghierdana that the tunnel into Mandel’s refinery was blocked, just like Duttin ordered. But… Rasce can work miracles now. Like the Saint of Knives. He’s got her gifts. Her sainthood. And there’s some alchemist, too, now – he knew it was going to happen.”
“How could—” Sinter interrupts himself. “You shits!” He leaps to his feet, admiration mixing with anger in his voice. “That’s my trick, you bastards. Ha! Damnation, damnation, I should have trailed a vestment myself.” Sinter shakes his head. “Who’s this alchemist? Is he the dragon’s counsellor? Name of Vorz?”
Baston nods. “He knew Rasce could do what Cari did.”
“Ach. So, what’s Rasce doing with this gift?”
“He looked inside Mandel’s fortress. He knows the way in still exists. Then he captured the Rat, and now the ghouls have agreed to bring the Ghierdana through the undercity. He’s going to go after the Fog Yards.” Baston hesitates for a moment. “I�
�m telling you this, so you can make ready. Warn Mandel.”
“Rasce is a single-minded little shit, isn’t he?” Sinter rubs his bald pate. “Aye, we’ll make preparations.”
“Preparations that’ll get my lads killed. So, I want out. And I want the Brotherhood safe.”
Sinter raises his three-fingered hand. “Knowing about Vorz is useful.” He curls one finger down. “Confirmation about young Rasce’s plans is useful.” Two fingers. Only one left. “But it’s not enough. Won’t be enough for the lady.” The priest scratches his nose with that one outstretched finger. “Duttin would prefer something quiet. So – can you kill him quietly?”
“He’s like the Saint of Knives. Your Tallowman couldn’t cut his throat. What makes you think I can?”
“Fair point. Fair point.” Sinter nods, slowly. “I had this made, when I was looking for a way to dispose of Carillon Thay safely. It’s a bullet carved from a holy relic of Saint Aleena Humber. She killed a lot of Thays in her day, you know. If young Rasce is borrowing Thay’s sanctity, the bullet should work on him, too.” He hands Rasce a loaded pistol.
The weapon seems unusually weighty in Rasce’s hand. He stares at it, then thrusts it hastily into his pocket.
“Well then, there we are. Good lad. Now, do it sharpish, before he causes any more trouble. Rid us of this troublesome saint, and I’ll let your pack of thieves get clear of the New City. I’ll have Nemon give you a fair head start, too, before we start hunting you.” The priest grabs Baston’s arm with his maimed hand. “Fair warning, though – last time I tried killing a saint like that, it cost me dear. You’ll get one shot. Don’t miss.”
Baston brushes against the priest, pulling free as he makes for the door. “Got to get back before I’m missed.”
“It’s fine,” complains Sinter. “Leave me here to clean up this mess.” Groaning, the priest bends down to tend to the unconscious thugs, little shards of broken mirror cracking under his feet.
He doesn’t notice the pebble that Baston slipped into his pocket.
Rasce visits the Lyrixian military enclave in the New City. The walls of this dome are strong and proud, the doors rebuilt and fortified by the occupying military forces. The battlements bristle with cannons and artillery pieces purchased from the forges of Guerdon, and he can tell that there are more such weapons in the bowels of the compound. Ahead of him are the dragon-gates, a wide breach in the dome, blasted open so the dragons can enter the clave; to his left, the wide plaza where the dragons land. He remembers his last flight with Great-Uncle, when he circled over the city. Soon, he’ll fly again.
The guards at the doors regard him with a familiar mixture of wary respect, for they know he is Chosen of the Dragon Taras, and scorn, for the Ghierdana are criminals. They bar his path as he approaches.
“I wish to enter,” says Rasce.
“Your dragon is still absent,” replies the captain of the guard. “You have no business here.”
“He’s diseased,” whispers another guard to one of his comrades. He’s out of Rasce’s earshot, but close to the living stone of the wall, and so Rasce hears him.
“I shall enter,” says Rasce again, and he reaches out his mind and moves. The stone wall cracks, splits, rolls back, making a door just for him. He strides forward, his footsteps shaking the ground, knocking the guards away. Even as he glories in his miraculous gifts, Rasce can feel his power ebbing. Each miracle costs him, depleting the strength gleaned from Vorz’s experiments on Lanthorn Street.
But soon Great-Uncle will return, and Vorz has promised him all the power he’ll need.
He strides into the dome. The dragon Thyrus is there, freshly returned from a combat flight. She’s half clad in battle-scarred armour; alchemists are spraying her with exorcising foam to rid her of lingering miracles from the battlefield. Her Chosen rider lies on a stretcher nearby.
Major Estavo emerges from a side office and hurries up to Rasce. Medals jiggling as he runs. “You shouldn’t be here, boy! You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Theft, arson, provoking the alchemists! You’re endangering the war effort! The longer Taras stays away, the thinner my patience grows! I cannot—”
“That is why I am here, Major.” Rasce smiles. “Doctor Vorz tells me that my Great-Uncle returns tonight.”
“To active duty?” The major’s relief is palpable. With his inner eye, Rasce can see the maps and reports in Estavo’s office; he can see the battle lines in the south, the precarious situation of the Lyrixian expeditionary forces.
“I cannot speak for his plans after he returns, but I would assume so. My Great-Uncle is a patriot, after all. We all look towards securing the future of Lyrix, and the defeat of the mad gods.”
Thyrus pulls herself free from the exorcism rig and stomps across the floor of the dome, shedding pieces of broken armour like dead scales.
“Rasce. I thought you were on your death bed.” The dragon lowers her massive head, sniffs at him – and recoils, snorting fire in alarm. “What is this? What are you?” She spreads her wings, filling the dracodrome. “What has Vorz done to you?”
“Nothing that need threaten you, O Thyrus,” says Rasce. “But to both of you, I say: tonight, do not interfere. I give you my word that neither the military enclave nor the holdings of the other Ghierdana families will be endangered.”
If they object or argue, he has many darts to throw, arguments honed in discussion with Vorz. Rasce knows all their secrets now. He knows that Estavo is a habitual user of blackmarket elixirs, knows that two of Estavo’s staff are secret spies for Haith. He knows that Thyrus’ Chosen murdered the Chosen of Carancio in a backstreet duel, and that the truth of the incident was concealed from both dragons. Knows, too, that there’s a warehouse down near Shriveport that contains the cargo from a Haithi vessel, and that Thyrus took the ship in Guerdon waters, in breach of the Armistice.
But there’s no need for all these weapons. He can hold them in reserve, conserve them like his stock of miraculous power. The threat is enough.
“Have your Great-Uncle report to me when he returns. At his convenience, of course,” mutters Estavo, smoothing his moustache. Relieved, as if he’s navigated some dispute he didn’t quite understand, but is now resolved.
Thyrus bows her head. “Hail the new saint of this strange city,” she says, “but do not forget what became of the last one.”
Rasce laughs. “The Saint of Knives fought alone. I have many friends.”
Lanthorn Street has become a military encampment. Thieves and mercenaries fill the street outside, and Baston cannot tell one group from the other. The dragon’s gold and a lot more beside has been spent on alchemical weaponry. The host bristles with rifles and hand-cannons. Baston pushes past men he might once have known, now rendered beetle-headed and anonymous by the protective gas masks they wear. Loose tarpaulins on wagons promise other horrors – there are canisters of knife-smoke there, and blasting dust. Maybe some of the weapons were made by Mandel, and now they shall return home.
Baston lingers a moment by a phlogistonic siege charge. He runs his gloved hand over the metal sphere, remembering the heat of the flash.
All these weapons, and none of them could be sure of killing Rasce – yet the little gun in his pocket could manage it. Strange indeed are the ways of divinity.
A beetle-mask hails Baston. It’s Gunnar, his voice rendered strange by the breathing apparatus. It reminds Baston of how the Fever Knight spoke. “Where’ve you been? It’s been a hell of a job, getting all this ready.”
“Orders from above,” mutters Baston. “Where’s Rasce?”
“Inside. I’ll let him know you’re back.”
“He knows.”
Baston approaches the house. The sniper on the rooftop tracks him as he walks, and the gunman’s eyes aren’t the only ones watching Baston. Karla’s in the crowd, too, somewhere. She’s one of the beetle-masked people, too, and the thought of his sister perishing in the underworld chills him. Their father went down into the da
rkness, too, and never returned.
He enters the house, the gun heavy in his pocket. The Eshdana guards don’t search him as he crosses the threshold, and no one stops him as he heads to Rasce’s chambers.
Rasce’s half dressed, his torso bare. A half-dozen needles laid out on the table, and one big syringe of alkahest next to a bottle of arax. Vorz leans over the younger man like a vampire, working through the row of syringes. “You left the New City,” says Rasce, wincing as another dose of Vorz’s tincture shoots through his veins. “Is all well?”
“Boss… I need a word.”
“Speak.”
Baston pulls out the gun, and in one practised motion ejects the phlogiston charge. “Eladora Duttin sent me to kill you. That bullet’s magic – it can wound you. They’ve had me spying on you since the start.”
He drops the weapon on to the desk, the holy bullet rolling across the green baize surface to clink against the arax.
“I planted a pebble on Duttin’s spymaster. I figured you’d want to return the favour.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Rhan-Gis gurgles blood.
He looks at Cari in confusion. For a moment, she swears there’s a look of relief on his face, but she can’t be sure, because he topples over backwards and then—
Oh god, and then—
Wrath strikes the throne room in the temple of Rhan-Gis.
Without the presence of the saint, the god’s wrath is unfocused. Indiscriminate. A skyquake, the heavens shattering and exploding in fury. The temple cracks asunder, one of the great teak runners supporting it falls away, tipping the whole structure over to the side. The sky blackens like a bruise, and the stones cry out in anguish and anger.
This is what Cari knows: everything’s fucked. The air full of dust and smoke and thunderous fury. She can barely see, and she’s drenched in hot blood. Her right hand’s numb and weirdly heavy. All around her, people moan or shout or scream. Or let off guns, which really doesn’t help. Half-blind, she crawls across the cracked tiles, feeling her way. Sandpaper no longer describes the sensation of divine proximity – no, now her brain is bathed in some acidic stew that’s seeping down her spine.
The Broken God Page 43
