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

The two thieves rush down the stairs, nearly falling down the tunnel in their haste. Baston’s carrying two large bags, everything he could take from his house with a moment’s notice. Rasce carries only the dagger.

The effort of conjuring the tunnel exhausts Spar. He summons up an image of the route through the deeper tunnels, and gives the knowledge to Rasce. He also sends a warning – he’s too weak to reseal the tunnel mouth. The way into the tunnel remains open in Baston’s yard, the clearest possible sign of the thieves’ escape route. They’ll follow you.

“That,” laughs Rasce as he descends the stairs, “shall not be a problem.”

Back on the surface, an agent of the Fate Spider is the first to arrive. An assassin, dispatched by the cult to deal with saboteurs and traitors. Her thin blade drips with the Poison Undeniable. Behind her cluster umurshixes, spiders, cultists of one god or another, all eager to punish whatever intruding saint breached the sanctity of the Temple Quarter. The assassin reaches out and slowly turns the handle of the front door, anticipating an attack. Anticipating martyrdom.

She does not, however, anticipate the detonation trigger for the siege charge just inside the door.

For an instant, a new sun blooms in the street.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The days go by, falling one by one behind the flank of the Rock of Ilbarin.

Hawse insists they must be careful to avoid any sudden changes that might draw attention. He’s even more insistent that Cari not leave the Rose at all. So, for a few days, Hawse spends his time in the temple to the Lord of Waters, chanting his rough prayers, and Cari lies in her bunk in the forward cabin, stewing. She tells herself that she needs time to heal, that a few days’ delay isn’t much compared to the months she’s already squandered, and it’s true, but still every part of her soul cries out for action.

She finds the ship’s carpentry tools, busies herself with them. Fixes the holes torn in the roof of the cabin by dragon claws. Repairs the broken steps leading up from the darkness of the hold. Wanders the little country that she dwells in now, the portion of the deck that cannot be seen by unfriendly eyes on the shore, and looks for things to do.

She’s lost her knife, so she borrows Hawse’s old sword, and practises with that instead, though the weapon’s unwieldy for a fighter of her size. Cari’s never had any formal training in fighting, except what she learned on the alleyways and docksides. Her instincts are still off, she discovers. When she was the Saint of Knives, Spar could miraculously take her injuries from her and on to himself, on to the New City, thus shielding her from harm. That let her be as reckless as she wished, quick and savage, her approach focused solely on slashing and stabbing with the sharp blade, on wounding her foe. Now, she has to think about self-preservation, too. Every movement makes her ache, reminding her of what she’s lost. She imagines making Spar laugh with her clumsiness with the sword, and that thought aches, too.

She reads, which was previously something she only did in dire need. Not the fucking book, of course – it’s hidden wherever the captain put it to conceal it from Dol Martaine. Instead, she reads sodden, half-destroyed religious texts from a temple of the Lord of Waters. Chunks are missing, pages stick together, words become a mush of paper and ink, so reading them is listening to the ravings of a mad god. Still, she reads, because it’s better than sitting there in the dark, listening to the Bythos bump against the hull.

The Bythos rise every night, ambling out of the surf and marching off into the darkness. Usually, they parade through the streets of Ushket, or try to stumble up the slope of the Rock – they’re absurdly ungainly climbers and don’t get far – but sometimes they gather around the Rose, keening and burbling in a strange echo of the captain’s prayers. Cari learns to distinguish one from another by their markings. The fish-portion of the creatures always remains the same, but the rotting human corpses that carry them on land change, although they’re all so bloated and half eaten that it’s hard to be sure. The discarded remnants wash up along the shore from the Rose, and a few mountain vultures pick at them, shrieking angrily at the unfamiliar sea.

The Bythos wander around, aimlessly, then slip back into the waters. She’s certain that they’re psychopomps, like the ghouls of Guerdon or the sacred birds of Cloud Mother. They’re supposed to collect the freshly deceased and bring that potent residuum, the corpse-dregs of the soul, to the gods. Now, what’s the point of them?

Captain Hawse makes tentative expeditions to Ushket. Carefully scouting out the town, planning his route, making contacts, waiting for moonless nights. Like she’s a hot cargo that he’s trying to smuggle past customs patrols.

She pleads to be allowed go to town with Hawse, but he shakes his head. Everyone knows that the mad old hermit of the wreck lives alone, so he goes alone. He brings a basket of fish to trade. Without the gifts of the Bythos, he and Cari would soon starve to death, as there’s little food for sale in Ushket – unless you have connections with the Ghierdana, of course.

Each time the captain goes, Cari spends hours crouched at the rail, watching the empty shore for his return. Carts go by under armed guard, carrying food and supplies from the mountain farm, or casks of that glowing silt. From what Hawse tells her, she guesses those casks come from the work camp on the far side of the island. They’re doing some sort of alchemical work there near the ruins of the drowned city. The only way to leave the island is through the Ghierdana. Want out? Then pay. Can’t pay? Then