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

Baston’s collar, searching for his throat. “Little Brotherhood shit,” he mutters, “fucking guttersnipe.”

“Sinter. Enough.” Baston’s face down in the mud; he can’t see Duttin’s face, but he can hear the strain in her voice. Holding him like this costs her. He struggles against the spell, trying to force his limbs to move against the unseen hands that grip every muscle. “The poor man’s wife perished in the invasion,” she adds. “We must be understanding.”

Understanding. How can they be understanding, when he can’t understand? How can anyone give meaning to the terrible suddenness of Fae’s death? One moment there, and the next, gone, washed away by the Kraken-waves that crashed down on the city. As though she were no more real than a figure drawn in the sand of the shore – to be erased by a passing whim. How do you understand, when nothing stands, nothing lasts, and the world changes in a heartbeat?

“Roll him over,” orders Duttin. Groaning, the priest hauls Baston’s paralysed body over. He’s lying on his back now, staring up at the green light.

Duttin stands over him. Her hand still glows with arcane energy, blood welling up from the edge of her fingernails to drip down and mingle with the mud.

She sighs. “Three points. First, please understand that we are trying to preserve a very delicate balance. I brought the Ghierdana back to Guerdon – at a not inconsiderable personal cost – to ensure that balance between the occupying powers. We need the dragons to remain in Guerdon. We are prepared to overlook a certain degree of, ah, illicit activity, as long as it doesn’t threaten the Armistice. Second, we only require information from you, nothing more. If action is warranted, we have our own resources. We do not require you to do anything more than report on the Ghierdana’s plans. And, thirdly…” She purses her lips, like she’s tasting something unpleasant. “I know your wife perished last year, but, ah…”

Sinter steps in. “We’ve been watching you. We know your sweet little sister. Your sinful mother. Your friends in Pulchar’s bar. Any of yours that hasn’t gone up to the New, we know. You think you’re the only one with gutter-water in their blood? I was running saint hunters in the Wash when your shit of a dad was an altar boy in St Storm’s. If you don’t do as we tell you, we can ruin any of them.” Sinter jerks a thumb at Duttin. “You work for her now, understand?”

Baston really wants to punch that old priest. To bring down Eladora, too, this woman who looks like Cari and talks like a lawyer. Move fast enough, the Fever Knight once showed him, get your hands around a sorcerer’s throat before they can breathe a word, and you’ve got a chance.

But it’s not worth it. The Ghierdana and their dragons, the Ishmerians and their gods, and this woman and her murderous priest – and behind her, other forces he can only faintly perceive, money and influence and parliament, as real and dangerous as any other power. Fuck them all – they’re all uncaring giants, trampling the wreckage of his home underfoot.

They step back. The priest ostentatiously takes another cartridge from his pocket, reloads the pistol. Once the weapon’s ready, Duttin releases the spell.

Baston sits back up, draws himself back to a standing position.

“One job. And I’m not taking the ash. One job, and you leave me and mine alone after that.”

Duttin glances at Sinter, who scowls.

“Assuming you’re able to ascertain the nature of this Rasce’s plans,” says Duttin carefully, “that would be acceptable.”

“All right. I’ll do it.” Baston extends his hand.

Neither of the other two moves. Neither shakes his hand to seal the deal. Neither risks coming within arm’s reach. Oh, they think they know him.

“There’s a tailor’s on Greyhame Street, up Holyhill,” says Sinter. “Go there after, and we’ll take your measurements, understand?”

Baston nods. “What happened to Cari?” he asks. “Is she dead?”

“Oh.” Eladora’s flustered for the first time. “S-she’s alive, but she had to leave Guerdon. I sent her away. She’s safe.”

The first to arrive at the house on Lanthorn Street is Tiske. Rasce could guess Tiske was ash-marked even if Vyr hadn’t already told him – there’s something in the demeanour of the Eshdana, an instinctive deference in the presence of Ghierdana. Middle-aged, heavy-set, balding. A barrel of a man, in that he’s been filled with salted pork and you could use him to barricade a door, but he doesn’t strike Rasce as a great wit. One of Artolo’s lieutenants, hoping to worm his way back into the dragon’s favour.

He kneels, kisses the dragon-tooth when Rasce presents it. His hands shake, slightly.

“They’re on their way up, sir,” he says.

“I’m looking for soldiers, Tiske, not the sweepings of an alehouse. This friend of yours had better be worth my time.”

“I’d wager my life on him.”

Rasce toys with the dagger. “Oh, you have.”

The door opens, and Vyr shows two people into the room.

One, Rasce assumes, is the fellow Tiske spoke of, Baston Hedanson. Broad shoulders straining the fabric of his grey suit. His face puts one in mind of an animal, but which beast? The build of a bull, but no – he’s a wolfhound. Strong, fierce, but used to being part of a pack. He moves unhurriedly across the office, taking in everything. His gaze flickers to the exits, marks the guards at the door, the dagger on the desk.

The other is Baston’s sister. Hair dyed an unnaturally pale blonde. Her dress is of cheap fabric, but she wears it well. Back home on the isles, the fisherfolk would parade their pretty sons and daughters on market day, hoping to be noticed by a Ghierdana. He wonders if that’s why Baston brought her along – but then she meets Rasce’s gaze, and doesn’t look away. None of the fisher-folk would ever show such a lack of respect to the children of the Dragon.

To his surprise, he finds it enhances her allure in his