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

are ephemeral to Spar, wispy shades of water and flesh moving through the stone and brick of the city, but Nemon has a solidity to him the others lack. The mantle of his office, maybe, the embodiment of Guerdon’s tattered establishment, even though Nemon’s no more a native to this city than Rasce.

Eladora Duttin watches from Nemon’s carriage. Rasce has met Duttin before, under strange circumstances. Six months ago, during the invasion, she appeared out of thin air in Great-Uncle’s palace. Somehow, through some secret sorcery, she teleported across the ocean from Guerdon to Lyrix. Rasce recalls the tolling of unseen bells that heralded her arrival, and when she appeared she was covered in a thin film of reddish dust, like rust or dried blood. Still, despite the trauma of her unnatural mode of travel, she had the presence of mind to demand to speak to Great-Uncle. She carried with her a message from the rulers of Guerdon, and she pleaded her case before the dragon while barely able to stand. As much as anything else, the sheer bravado of her act impressed Great-Uncle and sealed the bargain that led to the Armistice.

Like Nemon, Duttin is more dangerous than she appears.

She’s Cari’s cousin, adds Spar. She’s a friend.

“My cousin,” murmurs Rasce, “is dead.” To the abyss with the Armistice and all the laws of this city – the blood of the dragon has been shed. No one crosses the dragon and lives.

Spar’s vision shows Rasce one more thing – there’s a gap in the line of the city watch. Nemon’s deliberately refrained from stationing any guards along the street back to the New City, obviously leaving a line of retreat open to the thieves.

Spar also shows him snipers on the rooftops, the long guns used in the war against saints and monsters.

You’re too far away from me to protect you if they shoot.

“They don’t have the stomach for it. They don’t want a fight.”

They might not. A fight might happen anyway. A flicker-vision – the clouds twisting and boiling in the sky over the Ishmeric Occupation Zone, as the gods there sense destinies colliding. There are spies in the crowd, Rasce guesses, who’ll report events back to their masters in the Haithi Bureau, too. The rules of the Armistice are clear – whoever breaks the truce is the enemy of the other three signatories. Lyrix and the Ghierdana would be set against the unlikely temporary alliance of Haith, Ishmere and Guerdon.

Be careful, urges Spar. His voice is fainter, weaker than before. Failing, just when Rasce needs him.

Again, Rasce sends his mind aloft, climbing Spar’s soul like a ladder to the sky. Again, he looks down at Mercy Street from the heights of the New City. He can see the heaving crowds behind the watch lines, see Baston shoving his way towards the inn (an unfortunate watchman tries to stop him at the border; there’s a moment of violence, and then the watchman’s unconscious in an alley and Baston hasn’t broken stride). He sees a knot of dignitaries, debating and blustering like they mean something. There’s the Lyrixian ambassador and Major Estavo, both red-faced and angry, arguing with some Guerdon official, Eladora Duttin lurking in the background. Gods and politicians alike, all trying to seize the thrashing serpent of events. Everything could change, here on Mercy Street.

But it’s all in the decisions of two people. In this moment, only two men command the city’s destiny.

Rasce walks forward, leaving the cover of the inn. From the New City, he can see snipers on rooftops aiming at him.

Alic Nemon pushes forward through the ranks, to meet him in the middle of Mercy Street.

“Prince Rasce.”

“Minister Nemon.”

“You’re well beyond the truce line here, my lord. Can we resolve this without bloodshed?”

“Blood has been shed. My cousin, Vyr, was murdered in that tavern.”

Nemon bows his head. “You have my condolences, for what they’re worth. But the Inn of the Green Door’s in free city territory, not the LOZ. March your Eshdana back across the border into the New City and I’ll see that the case is investigated promptly and thoroughly by the city watch.”

“I’ll save you the bother. I know who was responsible. The alchemist Mandel.”

“Do you have proof?”

Rasce flings the sealed letter at Nemon’s feet. Wearily, the minister bends down in the dust of the street to pick it up. “This is a receipt for a set of prosthetic hands.”

“Mandel enchanted them to murder my cousin. It is proof enough for me.”

“And why would Mandel do such a thing?”

“That is between Mandel and the Ghierdana, but know this – he will pay.”

“The Ghierdana,” says Nemon, “have no business beyond the truce line. Take your Eshdana back to the New City, now.”

“You dare—”

Do as he says, urges Spar. This isn’t your moment. Fall back, regroup, come up with a plan first. Don’t rush off blindly.

Some of Rasce’s anger bleeds off into Spar; it’s like pressing his forehead against a cool wall, soothing and calming.

“We shall bear my cousin’s body home. But this is not over. Do not come between the dragon and his foe.”

“Should I ever meet an actual dragon, I’ll remember that,” needles Nemon.

Rasce raises his voice, calls out to his followers. “We are leaving! We gather again at Lanthorn Street.”

The way they leave the inn speaks much about each man. Many of the Eshdana in Rasce’s entourage are veterans of the Godswar, veterans of fighting in other cities. They move in ones and twos, scurrying from cover to cover. They move as though the buildings around them were burning and about to collapse, as if the massed lines of the city watch were about to open fire. The few full-blooded Ghierdana, distant cousins from minor branches of the family, march out proudly, an honour guard for the sheet-wrapped corpse they carry with them. The Ghierdana do not give their dead to any god or psychopomp; Vyr’s body will be interred in the haunted crypts back on the isles.

The new recruits, the Brotherhood thieves, they