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

hand. The other’s a younger woman, a black velvet dress like a guildmaster, but no guild sigil or badge of office. Hair pinned back, one hand pressing a scented handkerchief to her nose. The light catches her face, and for a moment Baston thinks he recognises her.

“Cari?”

“You’re not the first to make that mistake,” says the woman. “But no.”

She raises her other hand and invisible chains lock into place around Baston’s arms, legs, throat. Even his eyes are held by the spell. He can’t blink, can barely breathe.

The woman’s a sorcerer. Even as he’s held there frozen, Baston’s mind is racing. Sorcery’s rarely seen on the streets, and she’s clearly no thief or hired assassin – although he’s not so sure about her companion.

The old man searches Baston’s paralysed body expertly, finding the knife tucked into his boot, the garrotte in his pocket. He checks Baston’s hands, probes the wedding ring for a concealed needle. One horned finger pokes at the spot on Baston’s forehead where the cleric anointed him. The old man sniffs the oil, grimaces. “He’s clean.”

“Thank you,” says the woman. “Mr Hedanson, forgive me. I shall release you momentarily, but please don’t do anything, ah, provocative.”

The old man tucks Baston’s knife into a fold of his cassock, then backs away out of arm’s reach. The gun appears again, pointed at Baston’s belly. The man is old, but his aim is unwavering.

The woman closes her hand, and the spell vanishes. Baston watches the woman closely – he’s heard sorcery puts a terrible strain on its practitioners – but she seems unwearied.

“My name,” says the woman, “is Eladora Duttin. I understand you knew my cousin Carillon, once.” She produces a slim black notebook from a pocket, makes a note.

“I haven’t seen Cari in a long time. Is this about her?”

“Not quite.”

“Then who are you people?”

“Our remit,” says Duttin, “is safeguarding the Armistice. It would be disastrous for the city if the war were to resume. The terms of the peace accord provide some restraint on the occupying powers, but it’s our role to, ah, deal with potential problems before that restraint is tested.”

Baston stays silent. His father drummed into him never to talk to the city watch. These people aren’t watch, but they’re something like it.

“The Armistice works by balancing the ambitions of each occupying power against the other two – if the Ishmerians attack, they risk creating an alliance between Lyrix and Haith. The Ghierdana are, ah, challenging. The dragons are an essential part of the Lyrixian military. Without the dragons, the Lyrixians would struggle to fulfil their part of the accord.”

Baston shrugs. “I just shift cargo down the docks. I don’t—”

“Oh, spare us the mummery,” snaps the priest. “We know every fucking thing about you. We know every one of your little secrets. We know your crew, that shit Tarson and the rest. All the scum that you scraped out of the gutters after the invasion. And, honestly, we don’t care. This is much bigger.”

Duttin continues with her lecture. “The Ghierdana operate independently from the Lyrixian armed forces—”

“Wild as bloody devils,” mutters the priest, rolling his eyes. “Anathema upon ’em.”

“Sinter, enough! We don’t have time for this.” Duttin silences him. Sinter – it’s a name Baston’s heard before. A Keeper priest, a fixer. Reputation as dirty as the hem of his cassock that trails through the slime.

Baston folds his arms.

“We are aware,” continues Duttin, “that you were offered a job. We require you to accept this offer of employment. The Ghierdana are tightly knit, and we require a w-window into their plans.”

“You want me to spy on the Ghierdana for you?”

“Precisely.” Duttin’s face lights up. “You will be recompensed, of course.”

“Why me?”

“Never you mind,” growls the priest, but Duttin overrules him again.

“You were well connected in the Brotherhood, well respected. An able lieutenant, able to recruit and motivate, by all accounts.”

“One of Heinreil’s legbreakers,” interjects Sinter.

“You are precisely the sort of man the Ghierdana need. Your former associate Tiske certainly thinks so. We know he visited you last night.” She smiles, and it’s unexpectedly genuine, a moment of satisfaction at her own cleverness.

“Looks like you do know everything.” Baston spits on the floor, a big gobbet of saliva and mucus, halfway between him and Duttin. Anger rises up in him. “So, you know that you bastards have shit on the Wash time and time again. The alchemists poisoned us. When the Ravellers rose, you let them eat us, so the fighting wouldn’t spill into the quality districts, right? Same thing happened in the invasion – you drew the fucking line of no retreat at Holyhill and the Viaduct, not in the Wash. You say you want to protect Guerdon – you mean, your Guerdon, up on the heights. The churches and the palaces and the guildhalls. Not my Guerdon. My Guerdon’s possessed by mad gods. So, you all-wise cunts, you know where you can stick your plan, right?”

“The Armistice saved thousands of lives,” says Eladora, quietly.

“How fucking nice for them that lived.”

“Show some respect, you little shit!” croaks Sinter, spittle flying from his lips. He steps forward, waving the gun—

—and Baston strikes, grabbing at the priest’s wrist, twisting his body as he moves to dodge the bark of the gun. His coat tugs as the bullet passes through the folds of cloth, but he’s not wounded. He grabs Sinter with one hand, hammers the priest in the face with the other, swings the old man’s body around as a shield, then charges Duttin, hoping that any spell will catch the priest and not him.

But he’s a fraction too slow. Duttin’s paralysis spell locks around Baston again and he goes down in a tangle of limbs, landing heavily atop the priest, face down on the muddy floor. Fucking magic. Sinter wriggles out, twitching like a half-crushed insect, cursing and spitting. Bony limbs kicking and hitting Baston’s frozen body as he pulls himself free. There’s a knife in the priest’s hand now, wicked and bright, and he scrabbles at