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

around her necklace. “But I’m not going to be one of your tools. I’m not going to hold back. That’s my city up there.”

“I need the Ghierdana, Carillon. Without the dragons, the Armistice won’t hold. The whole damn point is that the three powers counter each other – if one breaks the truce, the other two are bound by treaty to attack.” Eladora steps forward to grab Cari’s arm. “If you weaken the Ghierdana too much, you’ll ruin everything. Or g-get yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to weaken them. I’m going to drive them out. I’m not going to let them suck us all dry in the name of stability. Fuck that. El, I’ve seen where that goes, how everything rots and goes bad. I’m going to save Guerdon from that. I don’t know how, but it starts with saving Spar.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

“On three,” whispers Baston.

One, and his hand brushes against his pistol. He shouldn’t need it, but in the aftermath of the raid on Mandel’s, there are a lot of guns slopping around the New City.

Two, and breathe. Steady head, steady hands. Like the Fever Knight taught him. Push all thoughts of Karla away. Remember your oath. He glances down the street, checking to ensure his men are in place. Eshdana from Lyrix, all of them.

Three, and he’s kicking in the door. The place on Horsehead Street is typical of the New City – a stone mansion, conjured from Spar’s dying dreams, now turned into a slum. In fact, Baston recognises it – there was a kid’s book of fairy stories that Spar had when he was a boy, and Karla inherited it when Spar outgrew it. Baston remembers the faded illustration of some brave knight’s manor, and now he walks through Spar’s memory of it. He steps over ragged bedrolls, scavenged from some wrecked ship. Pushes aside a tattered curtain. Dirt smeared on the walls.

One guy by the entrance, scrambling to his feet. Reaching for a blade. Baston punches him in the face, kicks him to make sure he stays down. Scoops up the blade without breaking stride.

There are shouts of alarm from other rooms. Groggy confusion – it’s early in the morning, pre-dawn.

“Hold ’em,” he orders. His men sweep forward, securing the lower floors. “Don’t hurt anyone,” orders Baston, “unless they move.”

He marches upstairs. Third door on the left, Rasce told him. The walls of the corridor are covered in a scrawl of black paint, a litany in some tongue he doesn’t speak. Folk of Mattaur do that, he’s heard. The stone beneath the paint glimmers with its own internal light for a moment. He’s not alone.

Third door on the left. Baston pauses, sniffs the air. There’s a faint smell of phlogiston.

“Gunnar,” he calls out. “It’s me. Don’t make this messy.”

“Baston,” shouts Gunnar. “I’ve no quarrel with you. Send in the dragon boy.”

“He isn’t here.”

“Join us, Baston! You owe that bastard nothing, not after what he did to Karla.”

“I gave my word.”

The tombstone click of a breech snapping shut. “Come in then. Let’s talk.”

“Door,” whispers Baston.

The corridor wall to the left of the door ripples, the stone softening. Baston puts his head down and charges through the gap – it’s like pushing through mud – into the room beyond. Gunnar’s there, facing the door with a gun in hand. His eyes widen in surprise, but he’s too slow. Baston’s strong hands close on the barrel, force it to one side. Baston’s forehead crashes into Gunnar’s face, and the boy falls to the ground.

Baston wrenches the weapon free, flips it around, aims it at the woman in the bed.

“Don’t,” says Baston.

“Her family died in the dragon’s fires.” Gunnar spits blood across Baston’s boots. “How many of our friends did the Tallows get? And you don’t give a damn. You spent their gold and you spent our lives, and you don’t give a damn. The dragons and their fucking cult, and you’re one of them.”

“You took the ash first.”

Gunnar wipes his bloody hand across his forehead. “Aye, and you told me to take it. Karla said it meant nothing, that we’d get back what they took from us. But now…” He looks up at Baston. His voice shakes with fear. “Are you going to kill me?”

Baston reaches down, pulls Gunnar upright. Presses the gun into his side. “You broke your oath. It’s up to the boss.”

Baston finds Rasce waiting in a café nearby. Four Eshdana at the door, two more inside, and either end of the street under guard, too. Baston catches a few people glancing fearfully at him as he marches Gunnar down towards the little eatery. The owner – a Mattaurese woman, eyes marked with dark kohl, her wooden shoes clattering as she clears plates – frowns when he enters with Gunnar, but quickly conceals her distaste. The place has been cleared of other customers – it’s just Rasce and his guards.

Rasce is looking stronger. Only a little stiffness in the way he turns reveals his injuries. His high-collared jacket and gloved hands conceal any trace of the Stone Plague.

“Gunnar,” says Rasce. He puts down his butter knife. Picks up his dragon-tooth. “You plotted against the Ghierdana. You attacked the tavern.”

Gunnar swallows. “No, sir.”

“I heard it from your own lips, friend.”

Gunnar hawks up a gobbet of phlegm and spits. Rasce doesn’t dodge. The spittle drips down his cheek. He takes a napkin and wipes it carefully away. Drops the napkin back on the table. Then, with the same hand, he grips Gunnar by the throat, and lifts the bigger man up. Rasce’s arm quivers with the effort, but the added strength granted him by the Stone Plague is obvious.

“This man swore an oath to the Ghierdana, did he not, Baston?”

“He did.”

“And what is the punishment for oath-breakers?”

“Death.”

“But perhaps,” says Rasce, “I could be merciful.” He drops Gunnar. “What do you think, Baston? Maybe we could use an informant?”

Gunnar gasps for air, unable to speak, but his eyes stare pleadingly at Baston.

“The punishment for breaking the