The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (most life changing books .txt) 📗

have a poke at it – only someone took a knife to it, smashed it all to pieces first. See any fuckers from Ulbishe running around the New City?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What do you know?”

“It’s you and Nemon and Duttin running the Tallowmen now – I want you to pull the jacks back. They’re killing us.”

Sinter scratches his nose. “Seems to me,” he says slowly, “that you’re falling short on your end. You’ve given us chickenfeed. Why, in the name of a goddess I shan’t name, should I help you scum? Brotherhood or Ghierdana, you’re all a gang of fucking thieves.”

“I told the Ghierdana that the tunnel into Mandel’s refinery was blocked, just like Duttin ordered. But… Rasce can work miracles now. Like the Saint of Knives. He’s got her gifts. Her sainthood. And there’s some alchemist, too, now – he knew it was going to happen.”

“How could—” Sinter interrupts himself. “You shits!” He leaps to his feet, admiration mixing with anger in his voice. “That’s my trick, you bastards. Ha! Damnation, damnation, I should have trailed a vestment myself.” Sinter shakes his head. “Who’s this alchemist? Is he the dragon’s counsellor? Name of Vorz?”

Baston nods. “He knew Rasce could do what Cari did.”

“Ach. So, what’s Rasce doing with this gift?”

“He looked inside Mandel’s fortress. He knows the way in still exists. Then he captured the Rat, and now the ghouls have agreed to bring the Ghierdana through the undercity. He’s going to go after the Fog Yards.” Baston hesitates for a moment. “I’m telling you this, so you can make ready. Warn Mandel.”

“Rasce is a single-minded little shit, isn’t he?” Sinter rubs his bald pate. “Aye, we’ll make preparations.”

“Preparations that’ll get my lads killed. So, I want out. And I want the Brotherhood safe.”

Sinter raises his three-fingered hand. “Knowing about Vorz is useful.” He curls one finger down. “Confirmation about young Rasce’s plans is useful.” Two fingers. Only one left. “But it’s not enough. Won’t be enough for the lady.” The priest scratches his nose with that one outstretched finger. “Duttin would prefer something quiet. So – can you kill him quietly?”

“He’s like the Saint of Knives. Your Tallowman couldn’t cut his throat. What makes you think I can?”

“Fair point. Fair point.” Sinter nods, slowly. “I had this made, when I was looking for a way to dispose of Carillon Thay safely. It’s a bullet carved from a holy relic of Saint Aleena Humber. She killed a lot of Thays in her day, you know. If young Rasce is borrowing Thay’s sanctity, the bullet should work on him, too.” He hands Rasce a loaded pistol.

The weapon seems unusually weighty in Rasce’s hand. He stares at it, then thrusts it hastily into his pocket.

“Well then, there we are. Good lad. Now, do it sharpish, before he causes any more trouble. Rid us of this troublesome saint, and I’ll let your pack of thieves get clear of the New City. I’ll have Nemon give you a fair head start, too, before we start hunting you.” The priest grabs Baston’s arm with his maimed hand. “Fair warning, though – last time I tried killing a saint like that, it cost me dear. You’ll get one shot. Don’t miss.”

Baston brushes against the priest, pulling free as he makes for the door. “Got to get back before I’m missed.”

“It’s fine,” complains Sinter. “Leave me here to clean up this mess.” Groaning, the priest bends down to tend to the unconscious thugs, little shards of broken mirror cracking under his feet.

He doesn’t notice the pebble that Baston slipped into his pocket.

Rasce visits the Lyrixian military enclave in the New City. The walls of this dome are strong and proud, the doors rebuilt and fortified by the occupying military forces. The battlements bristle with cannons and artillery pieces purchased from the forges of Guerdon, and he can tell that there are more such weapons in the bowels of the compound. Ahead of him are the dragon-gates, a wide breach in the dome, blasted open so the dragons can enter the clave; to his left, the wide plaza where the dragons land. He remembers his last flight with Great-Uncle, when he circled over the city. Soon, he’ll fly again.

The guards at the doors regard him with a familiar mixture of wary respect, for they know he is Chosen of the Dragon Taras, and scorn, for the Ghierdana are criminals. They bar his path as he approaches.

“I wish to enter,” says Rasce.

“Your dragon is still absent,” replies the captain of the guard. “You have no business here.”

“He’s diseased,” whispers another guard to one of his comrades. He’s out of Rasce’s earshot, but close to the living stone of the wall, and so Rasce hears him.

“I shall enter,” says Rasce again, and he reaches out his mind and moves. The stone wall cracks, splits, rolls back, making a door just for him. He strides forward, his footsteps shaking the ground, knocking the guards away. Even as he glories in his miraculous gifts, Rasce can feel his power ebbing. Each miracle costs him, depleting the strength gleaned from Vorz’s experiments on Lanthorn Street.

But soon Great-Uncle will return, and Vorz has promised him all the power he’ll need.

He strides into the dome. The dragon Thyrus is there, freshly returned from a combat flight. She’s half clad in battle-scarred armour; alchemists are spraying her with exorcising foam to rid her of lingering miracles from the battlefield. Her Chosen rider lies on a stretcher nearby.

Major Estavo emerges from a side office and hurries up to Rasce. Medals jiggling as he runs. “You shouldn’t be here, boy! You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Theft, arson, provoking the alchemists! You’re endangering the war effort! The longer Taras stays away, the thinner my patience grows! I cannot—”

“That is why I am here, Major.” Rasce smiles. “Doctor Vorz tells me that my Great-Uncle returns tonight.”

“To active duty?” The major’s relief is palpable. With his inner eye, Rasce can see the maps and