The Broken God Gareth Hanrahan (all ebook reader TXT) 📖

oath,” says Baston slowly, “is death. He knew it when he took the ash. And you see everything. You don’t need any spies in the New City.”

“I suppose not.” Rasce sighs. “Very well.”

Heinreil would have had the Fever Knight kill Gunnar, thinks Baston. Or he’d have had me do it. On the streets of the old Wash, Heinreil was the generous boss whose hands flowed with silver. He was the man you went to for favours, the court of last resort. It was lieutenants like the Fever Knight or Baston who did the killing, who bore the sin. Baston’s already carrying his damn oath to the dragon, and that’s burden enough. Rasce will carry this killing. The people of the city will see him do it.

“You should do it yourself. Do it outside,” says Baston. “Show people what happens when they cross the dragon.”

“Are you sure?”

Baston clenches his teeth, and nods.

They drag Gunnar outside. Baston watches through the window as they force the boy to kneel. One of the Eshdana pulls back his head, exposing his throat.

Heinreil knew how to lie and keep his own hands clean.

Rasce brandishes the dragon-tooth, then draws it across Gunnar’s throat in a red rush. Blood gushes out across the pearly stone of the street, running into the hungry throats of gutters. Once Gunnar stops twitching, they pick up the body, throw it in a cart. Down to Lanthorn Street, down to the cellar. Cellars, by now – Vorz’s crew have expanded their makeshift catacomb, to cope with increased demand.

A hundred eyes watch Rasce murder Gunnar. Baston doesn’t have Rasce’s supernatural awareness, but he knows Guerdon. Whispers on the streets, like poison poured into every ear. The city turning sour. Baston’s bound by his oath, but he can undo his mistakes. He can drive a wedge between the Brotherhood and the Ghierdana, push people to rally against the tyrant god that’s growing in their midst.

Heinreil taught him to be a monster. Very well – he’ll be a monster. He’ll force some Brotherhood to stand up. The guilds’ oppression made Idge. He’ll force some other hero to rise up.

Rasce comes back in. He throws a handful of coins down on the table, but the café owner doesn’t touch the money. She vanishes into a back room to fetch a bucket of water for the stained pavement outside. No doubt she fears that her coffee shop will be hit next, targeted for collaborating with the occupying forces.

“You know,” Rasce says, “Great-Uncle shall move on soon. Back to Lyrix, or back down to Ilbarin to clean up the mess my Uncle Artolo left there. I shall fly with him, of course, but there’s a place for you, too. A high rank in the Eshdana, wealth and power beyond measure.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Rasce takes a step towards Baston, and Baston steps back. “The plague, boss. Better I don’t get too close.”

“Of course.” There’s a weight to Rasce’s voice, a leaden resignation. He turns away, eyes half-closing as his mind flickers through the stone.

“Boss…” says Baston.

“Yes?”

“Did you really speak to Spar Idgeson?”

“For a while. But he’s gone now. The New City belongs to the dragon.” Rasce turns. “Keep going through the list of names I gave you. Send them all down to Lanthorn Street.” He wipes the dragon-tooth on a napkin, throws it on the floor. “Great-Uncle calls for me.”

Great-Uncle suns himself on the plaza. Rasce approaches and bows, wincing as the stone plates dig into his ribs.

“My boy,” rumbles the dragon. “How fares your city?”

“It is unsettled,” Rasce admits, “but the trouble will subside.”

“It is good for them to know fear.” Great-Uncle stretches his wings. “Walk with me, Rasce.”

Great-Uncle leads him across the plaza. For a moment, Rasce is comforted by the presence of the dragon; he can feel Great-Uncle’s thunderous footsteps as he ambles across the courtyard, feel the scales of the dragon’s tail slither across the flagstones. He beholds Great-Uncle’s radiant glory from every angle. It reassures him – Great-Uncle will help him with this cursed sainthood – but he cannot rid himself of the troublesome impression of how small the dragon is, compared to the New City.

“Look,” rumbles the dragon. Rasce looks out up at the serried ranks of grey clouds marching in from the sea, the dazzling patches of blue sky in the gaps between. He imagines flying with Great-Uncle, soaring up above that dull canopy to the bright realm beyond, liberated from the sullen earth.

“Not there, Rasce,” chuckles Great-Uncle. “The harbour.”

“Oh.” Rasce looks across the island-spangled harbour. “What of it?” With a pirate’s eye, he distinguishes traders and freighters from fishing boats and warships.

“During the invasion, Carillon Thay used her miracles to raise the wreck of the Grand Retort. She conjured a new island.” Great-Uncle pauses and digs his claws into the plaza, ripping up the flagstones and cracking them into smaller pieces. Rasce winces as the claws scratch his borrowed flesh. “Doctor Vorz proposes that I scatter stones like seeds, and you make them sprout. Imagine it – a barrier we can command, nephew. Every ship passing through the harbour shall pay us tribute – and should we desire, we can close it. Doctor Vorz is a man of vision.”

Rasce closes his eyes and imagines it. The same miracle he conjured in the Fog Yards, over and over again. The last time he did that, the stone tore through his innards even as he shattered the world.

“Such a miracle,” he whispers, “would be costly.”

“Have no fear,” says the dragon. “All is arranged.”

On the horizon, a great freighter steams into the harbour under armed escort.

Moonchild has returned to Guerdon.

It’s twilight by the time Rasce returns to the House on Lanthorn Street. There are thirty-seven guards stationed there, in the house and in the surrounding buildings, watching the courtyard and the alleyways.

Two hundred and four people in the buildings immediately nearby, and at least one hundred and fifty of them hate him. He can feel their anger through the stone.

Under cover of darkness,