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

her son to keep him safe. All judging Baston with their eyes. It reminds Baston of the days after the invasion last year, when people emerged from their hiding places in cellars and shelters and found themselves in the shadow of strange powers.

He recognises some of them. A cousin of Fae’s there – Baston met him at the wedding. That woman taught in an alley-school. Another woman in a black shawl – her husband was Brotherhood, back in Heinreil’s day, before they sent him to the Tallow Vats. All of them left the occupied Wash behind, came here drawn by promises of safety from mad gods and occupying armies. Now look at them.

“Karla’s brother,” one of them says to another, “he betrayed her.”

Baston wants to cross the street and greet them. Tell them that he’s still on their side. Tell them that he’ll look out for them, make things right. He can’t make them understand. If he says a word, Rasce will hear it.

There’s a barrier between him and the other side of the street so wide and deep he cannot imagine how to bridge it.

A shadow darkens the street outside, like a cloud moving across the face of the sun. The crowd breaks up, dissolving, people hurrying away without a word.

A dragon passed, he realises.

He returns to Lanthorn Street. The buildings around the house have been transformed by Rasce’s miracles, reshaped into a guarded compound. Baston passes through the outer gatehouse, marches across the courtyard towards the fortified house. He can’t even see the spot where he last saw Karla, the place where Rasce banished her to the underworld. It’s all been erased.

She’s still alive, Rasce told him. He has no idea if that’s true or not.

Eshdana guards stand at the door, but they don’t stop him entering. Inside, the house is quiet. The ground-floor room where the Brotherhood thieves used to gather is empty. Like an abandoned ship, half-played games of cards, undrunk bottles of arax and whisky, all preserved in the moment before they left for the raid on Mandel & Company.

He ascends the stairs, one step at a time, as if carrying a heavy weight.

Rasce is asleep, or in a trance. Doctor Vorz sits on the edge of the bed, like some vampire out of the Haithi uplands – but this leech injects blood, instead of sucking it.

“I’ll come back,” mutters Baston.

“No. Stay,” orders Vorz. A forced smile, as if to say we’re all Eshdana now. “I have to leave the city soon, and it would be best to have someone reliable to handle further injections.”

“I don’t know anything about alchemy.”

“Don’t boast about ignorance. Take every opportunity to improve yourself.” Cold white fingers grab Baston’s rough hand, guide it into place over the syringe. Rasce shudders as Baston pushes down on the plunger, but doesn’t wake. “See, the tincture is injected into the vein. It’s dilute – mostly water. A little yliaster – note how there’s a residue left in this vial, so be sure to shake it before injection. And the active ingredient, of course.” Vorz holds up another vial, reddish-black liquid clinging to the inside of the glass.

“Blood.”

“More or less.” Vorz carefully returns that vial to his bag. “I shall prepare a number of tinctures for you to have on hand.” The Dentist peels back the blankets and examines the stone plates on Rasce’s ribs.

“What does it do, exactly? The tincture.” It’s not idle curiosity. More like pushing on a scab. Baston wanted Rasce’s miracles to be a genuine blessing, a sign that the Brotherhood could be reborn, that Spar Idgeson and Idge’s ideals were still alive. Better to be thoroughly disabled of such fancies, to drain the pus of illusion from the world. Deal in certainties.

“It increases Rasce’s congruency with the Guerdon entity.”

“With Spar Idgeson, you mean.”

Vorz frowns. He lowers his voice and makes a curious gesture with his hand before continuing. “I do not misspeak. The entity was conjured through Idgeson, and they are entangled, but still distinct. The entity is a sort of formless deity without ethos or purpose or intent. Little more than a holding vessel for the power of the Black Iron Gods that was stolen by Carillon Thay. A null god, which retained a fleeting impression of Spar Idgeson.” Vorz scratches the bridge of his nose. “It would be fascinating to study thoroughly, but other projects take precedence.”

“What if I run out of tincture while you’re away?”

“You will be left with an adequate supply.”

Baston watches the Dentist work in silence for a few minutes.

“I need some scrying done.”

“He must rest. Just say what you need done. He will hear you.”

Self-consciously, Baston recites what he found at the tavern, asks Rasce to find those responsible. Like he’s visiting a Keeper church and whispering prayers to the Holy Beggar, or staring into the vapours in the temple of the Smoke Painter with his mother. Rasce moans, tosses and turns on the bed, reddish sweat staining the pillow. Lights flicker in the depths of the stone.

“He will know.” Vorz fastens his bag shut and rises. “He will sleep for some hours now, though. Come along. Great-Uncle calls for me.”

“I’ll stay a bit.”

“As you wish.” Vorz makes that gesture again, leans in close to Baston. “You know, I will soon have need of a reliable bodyguard. I could speak to the dragon, have you given into my service instead of Rasce’s. We both know the true value of an oath.”

He doesn’t know if it’s meant as a peace offering or a threat.

“I’m not sure that we do.”

Vorz departs. Baston settles into the heavy armchair opposite the bed, and waits.

The town of Maredon is Guerdon’s younger sister. More sensible, one might say – here, there are only the Kept Gods, no dalliances with alien gods, no wild speculation. Old church spires dot the skyline, mixed with the chimneys of the alchemy works and the cranes of the town docks. Maredon’s the home port for Guerdon’s navy, and the little harbour’s ringed