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

floor with horrible ease. He can feel the heat of the candle-flame inside the guard’s skull – a Tallowman.

Not like the one that attacked Rasce in Glimmerside. This candlejack’s fresh, its waxy form recently recast. He doesn’t have a fucking chance against this one.

He tries anyway. Slams his fist into the monster’s flank, its neck, anywhere the wax might be exposed. The Tallowman doesn’t react, it just pins him to the floor. Little drools of melted wax from its mouth drip through the faceplate of the helmet.

Vyr pulls himself free. “I’m Ghierdana! I’m Ghierdana! Blood of the dragon!” he shrieks.

The guards – the human ones – hesitate and glance towards Mandel. They know the reputation of the Ghierdana, and how laying hands on a member of the dragon’s own family is an unforgivable offence. Mandel makes a dismissive gesture. “Let him go. As I said, I want no quarrel with the dragon. Your blood will not be on my hands.”

Vyr darts to the doorway, then looks back at Baston, still pinned by the Tallowman. Baston still hasn’t taken the ash. He’s not Eshdana. Just a stray dog. By the customs of the Ghierdana there’s nothing stopping Vyr from walking out the door and leaving Baston behind.

Vyr knows it. He wavers at the threshold, looks down at Baston for a long moment, his breathing fast and shallow, weighing the risk to himself against Rasce’s anger if he returns alone.

“Wretches like him,” remarks Mandel, “are fit only for rendering in the Tallow Vats. I have it in mind to remake him into something useful to society.”

The scribe coughs. Mandel nods, and the Tallowman releases Baston.

He crawls clear, staggers to his feet, leaning against the wall for support as he and Vyr stumble out of the fortress. A fifth chip is tucked behind one of the glowing panels as he passes.

“A disaster. A disaster,” repeats Vyr to himself. “Rasce should have gone himself. I was doomed from the start, yes? The fault is his, not mine. I must tell them that.”

“There was every chance it was going to play out like that.” Baston rubs his neck. “Rasce knew there was little chance of Mandel taking the deal straight off. It was always going to get rough.”

“You made certain of that, dolt, by shouting in Mandel’s face! Useless bluster!”

Baston rolls the last of the pebbles between his fingers. “Wasn’t useless.”

Vyr stares at him, uncomprehending, then says: “Go and tell my cousin of our failure here. Tell him that Mandel is secure in his fortress, and will not bargain. Perhaps we can bring another of the families in, pay Carancio or one of the other great ones for aid. Nothing short of a dragon could break those walls, yes?”

“Looked like.” Unscalable, invulnerable walls, patrolled by Tallowmen and gods know what else. A challenge. Definitely a challenge.

Vyr narrows his eyes. “This is a ploy. Some scheme of his? We’re far outside the New City. The thing that Rasce communes with – it can’t do anything here… can it? What have you done?”

Baston scowls. “Stay quiet. Wait till we’re safe.”

“Safe? Safe?” echoes Vyr. His whole body quivers with nervous excitement or fear. He shakes his head. “Meddling with divine powers is never safe. This has gone far enough.”

It’s not some mad god, Baston thinks, it’s Spar Idgeson. The son of the man who made the Brotherhood.

The train slows, stops at Venture Square station. Vyr rises.

“This isn’t our stop.”

“I need a drink. And not in the New City. That cursed place hurts my eyes. I can’t sleep properly up there. Too many eyes.” He vanishes into the throng on the platform. A few other passengers consider getting into Baston’s carriage, but take one look at him and pick another seat. He closes the door, lets the jolting of the train lull his tired bones.

Alone, he opens his hand and stares at the pebble. It glimmers with a faint light that seems to grow brighter as the train crosses the border and into the New City.

So what if the alchemists have their candles? The thieves have their own light, now.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Eshdana unshackle Cari and take her on board the gunboat. At the sight of the armed guards, Ren lets his stick fall into the water. There’s nothing they can do against armed guards – and that’s not even considering the sorceress.

One of the guards on the gunboat is Dol Martaine. He pulls Cari down to sit next to him as the boat turns around, engine alternately growling and idling as they try to find the best course through the hazardous ruins.

“Help them,” she whispers.

“Got their brat at home, don’t I? That’s all I can do for Adro.”

“You sold me out to the Ghierdana,” she spits at Martaine.

“If I’d sold you out,” Martaine whispers, “you think I’d still be here? Instead, I’m wiping up after the wretch.” He shakes his head. “I should have done it. I wish I had done it. I’d off this cursed island and halfway to Paravos. But no use crying over it now, yes?”

“Are you taking me to Artolo?”

“No. The Dentist.” He hands her a grey shift to wear. The coarse cloth is spotted with someone else’s blood. As Cari pulls the garment over her head, she turns around, looking for something she can steal. A knife or some other weapon. Anything to give her an edge – but Martaine knows her too well. He grabs her, drags her back down to the bench next to him, and keeps a close eye on her. The sorceress, too, watches her like a silent idol.

There’s a ship in the distance, beyond the ruins of the city. An alchemy-powered freighter, her funnels trailing pale blue smoke as she steams north around the coast. Cari stares at her, trying to judge her size. The horizon’s as fucked up as the sea, but Cari guesses it must be huge.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Moonchild,” answers Martaine. “The Dentist brought it. Big beast of a ship, eh? Armed,