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

up, as if to say, what are we, invisible? Crawling Ones are far more able than fragile mortal flesh at surviving the devastating side effects of sorcery. “He found a renegade from Khebesh who was able to assist him in his efforts. We greatly admired your grandfather’s ambition. He foresaw what the Godswar entails for your civilisation. In time, he turned to us. We were honoured to be able to preserve part of his indomitable will.”

“The fucker’s ash now. And the ghouls kicked you worms out of Guerdon.” She knows she shouldn’t antagonise the Crawling Ones, but the way they’re talking about Jermas like he’s a visionary to be admired sickens her. The old man was a monster in human form even before he came back as a pile of worms.

The mask doesn’t slip. “A regrettable situation,” replies Twelve Suns Bleeding, “Guerdon holds much knowledge that should be preserved. The pioneers of alchemy were the greatest minds of their generation, and their souls were tossed down the corpse-shafts to be food for the savage ghouls, or burned as offerings to the Kept Gods. We offer a new path. A form of survival.”

Cari shudders as an unwelcome mental image appears in her brain – the towers of the New City, but they’re made out of a gigantic seething pile of maggots instead of heavenly stone. She perceives Spar’s soul locked within that worm-city. Another form of survival – and can she say it’s any worse than Spar’s current state? She imagines the worm-towers collapsing in on themselves, unwinding, taking on a new shape. A cloak of black, and then a white porcelain mask with familiar features. Spar’s face, no longer disfigured by the scales and carbuncles of the Stone Plague, but preserved for ever in perfection—

“Get out,” says Cari through clenched teeth, “of my fucking head!”

The Crawling One doesn’t react, but the thought vanishes, snuffed out like a candle-flame.

“We seek only understanding,” says Twelve Suns Bleeding mildly. “We are akin, are we not? All psychopomps, custodians of the souls of the dead.”

“Passage to Khebesh. For me.” Cari wonders how far she can push it. Ask for the moon, and get a silver coin. “And Adro, and his family. And Captain Hawse. After we’re done in Khebesh, you bring us back to a safe port. Not here – Paravos or the eastern Caliphate.”

Adro reaches over and squeezes Cari’s hand in gratitude. Of course, it complicates things. They’ll have to pick up Adro’s family. And circle back for Hawse and convince him to come. Hell, maybe it’ll be like old times. A pile of malign sentient grave-worms can’t be that much worse than sharing a cabin with Dol Martaine.

Twelve Suns Bleeding considers. “The city of Khebesh is closed to outsiders. None may pass the gate. How do you intend to gain entry?”

Cari tries a bluff. She shrugs. “I’m a thief. I’ll find a way in.”

The worms withdraw, the Crawling One seeming to recoil. It reminds Cari of a sea anemone pulling back its tendrils. “Khebesh is not as other cities. It is locked away behind the Ghost Walls. Even we are not able to force entry. Your skills will not avail you.”

“All right. If that doesn’t work, I’ve got something they want. A book.”

The mask slips a little. When Twelve Suns Bleeding speaks, the grave worm chorus is louder, more discordant. “What book?”

Adro shoots her a curious glance, too. Cari takes a deep breath before answering. The book’s her only leverage. It’s Spar’s only hope.

“A journal belonging to Guerdon’s chief thaumaturgist, Doctor Ramegos. She came from Khebesh. They’ll want her spell diary back, right? Much knowledge that must be preserved.”

“Doctor Ramegos was known to us.” Twelve Suns Bleeding studies its gloved hands like it’s examining the fingernails it doesn’t have. “Might we examine this tome?”

“No. The book’s somewhere safe.” It’s only half a lie – Hawse has hidden the fucking book somewhere safe. She’s just not entirely sure where.

The important thing, though, is keeping the Crawling One’s wormy fingers away from the fucking book.

“You intend to trade Doctor Ramegos’ grimoire for entry into the city. A plausible exchange,” continues Twelve Suns Bleeding.

“So, what do you want?” asks Cari.

Twelve Suns Bleeding raises an empty hand. The fingers – more than five, and no discernible thumb – fold inwards, squeeze, and unfold again. Now there’s a jewelled box in its hand, about the size of Carillon’s thumb. It looks like a tiny coffin. The Crawling One opens the clasp, and a worm wriggles out of its glove and into the casket. The lid shuts again, and Twelve Suns Bleeding lays the casket down on the table between Cari and Adro.

Neither of them move to take the box, even though it’s made of gold and studded with rubies.

“What do we do with that?” asks Adro.

“The sorcerers of Khebesh worship no gods. When a sorcerer dies, the body is placed in a lead sarcophagus and locked away in the Vault of Aeons. You will bring the casket within the walls of Khebesh, and find a dark, moist place. A patch of earth, perhaps, or a drain, or a midden. Let the worm do the rest. We shall multiply, and grow strong, and we shall find a way into the vault. Stone cracks, lead corrodes, and flesh decays. The worm always conquers, in the end.”

“That’s it?” Adro’s surprised. “And for that, you’ll get us all out of Ilbarin?”

“Passage to Khebesh, and from Khebesh to another port of your choosing within the Firesea. There are no safe ports any more, but we shall ensure your protection as much as is reasonable.” The mask tilts. “We gave your grandfather a similar arrangement, Carillon Thay. You shall see the wisdom of an alliance with us.”

Cari hesitates as she considers the gleaming casket. She never met the wormy resurrection of Jermas Thay – it was Eladora, instead, who fell into their grandfather’s slimy clutches. Eladora who got used in his attempt to bind and remake the Black Iron Gods. But she saw