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

Cari’s just given her a clue in a crossword. “I assumed that the dragon’s attack on the New City was connected, but it’s good to have confirmation. One can never be sure with the Ghierdana – feuds between families are not unknown. That raises the stakes.”

“The stakes,” echoes Cari.

“Right now,” continues Eladora, “the various factions appear to be holding back and letting things settle. The Ghierdana have stopped trying to push beyond the boundaries of the Lyrixian Occupation Zone. It’s exceedingly hard for me to get information out of the New City, as Rasce has the same, ah, supernatural awareness you possessed. However, there are reports only of comparative minor miracles, and no further sacrifices.” She coughs, a horrible hacking cough, then continues. “Of course, your return may precipitate further trouble.”

“Fuck you.”

A thin smile. “The alchemical works need yliaster. The Ghierdana have disrupted the supply lines. And you just showed up in a freighter that was supposed to be loaded with the substance, but instead arrived bearing a very different cargo. That will agitate events.” She sniffs. “The dragon Taras overflew the naval base at Maredon. They know you returned – or at least, they know that the Moonchild is here, and I assume—”

“I don’t give a shit about any of that.”

“You should. The freighter Moonchild is owned by Lyrix, and they have requested that it be returned to them – with all its current passengers aboard. Parliament has agreed to do so.”

“The Ghierdana are fucking pirates! To hell with them! You can’t do it! I got those people out of Ilbarin. They’re supposed to be safe here!”

“‘Safe’ is not a natural condition of the world, Carillon. A place must be made safe – and here, that is achieved by maintaining the Armistice. If it means anything, the Lyrixians have offered assurances that the passengers on Moonchild will be treated hospitably.”

“It doesn’t. You can’t trust the dragons.”

“I am aware of that. But preserving the peace is—”

“Worth their lives?”

“Yes. I shall do everything I can to avert such a tragedy, but, yes – if one must choose between a handful of lives and thousands – not to mention the accumulated learning and cultural wealth of this city – then the choice is obvious. In any event, it’s parliament’s decision.” Eladora shuffles the papers on her desk, holding them up like a shield.

“What’s the book?” asks Cari suddenly.

“What book?”

“That book. The one you’ve been trying to hide from me.”

Reluctantly, Eladora moves the documents, revealing the leather-bound tome once more. “It’s one of our grandfather’s diaries. Jermas sent them to my m-mother long ago, when he sent you to live with us. I only obtained them after Silva’s funeral.”

Cari draws a knife. “Tallowmen at your door. Jermas’ diaries. Talking like a fucking politician. Who knows what else you’ve got here. Gods below, El, what are hell are you doing?” It’s not like Guerdon was ever a shining beacon of moral clarity, but Eladora was always the good girl, the polite one, and Cari was the troublemaker, the one who didn’t give a damn.

“Saving Guerdon. Preserving the Armistice.” Sorcery flickers around Eladora’s hand, a corona of incipient lightning. “I do have influence in parliament. Maybe I can help – but I’ll need your assistance. The balance of power has to be restored, and quickly. The alchemists’ guild is threatening to flee the danger by decamping to Ulbishe, and without the alchemists the city will be considerably weakened. I’m trying to bargain with the guildmaster – I still have certain things they desire – but it would help immensely if the threat was, ah, diminished. I need you to counter Rasce.”

“You mean kill?”

“If it comes to that. If it can be done. We tried, and that was before he came into the fullness of his power. The key, though, is returning the three occupied zones to balance. If Haith or Ishmere believe that the Lyrixians can strike outside the borders of the LOZ without impediment, the peace will collapse. I think I have General Bryal of Haith convinced, but Ishmere is… well.”

“Yeah, I think I have some idea.” Mad gods all around. Cari shakes her head. “I want to talk to Rat, first.”

“The Ghierdana have imprisoned Lord Rat in the vault under the New City. He is alive, the ghouls tell me.”

There’s a chair nearby, and Cari sinks into it. “Fuckers.” A thought strikes her. “So where are the Black Iron Gods, El? Do they have the other bells, too?”

“No. While you were away, I removed the contents of the vault for safe-keeping.”

“What do you mean? What are you doing with the bells? No one should ever touch those things, ever. Fucking ever.” Her grip on the knife tightens, to fight her rising panic. She judges the distance between them. “You never told me what really happened, last year, when you went into the vault. The Black Iron Gods teleported you to the isles of the Ghierdana. What was the price, Eladora? What did you promise them?”

“Owe them,” whispers Eladora. She stands. “Come here. I want to show you something.” Eladora beckons Cari across the room, brings her over to a trapdoor set in the floor. “It’s warded against me. I can’t touch it. You have to open it.”

Cari hooks her hand around the iron ring, pulls the hatch open. Wards glimmer on the trapdoor for a moment. There’s a small storage space beneath – Jere Taphson kept vials of alkahest down there, once.

Now, something else.

“Why,” asks Cari, “do you have a phlogiston siege charge under your chair?”

“Because I don’t know when the Black Iron Gods will call in their debt. I don’t know how much time I have, Cari. I’ve gathered all the power I can, as fast as I can, to use for the betterment of Guerdon. But when the bells call for me, I shall deny them as b-best I can.” Eladora’s clearly rehearsed this speech before, over and over, but her voice still quavers at the end. “I need your help.