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

medicine in her mouth; her lips numbed. Someone – Hawse? – has put a blanket over her, and it’s drenched in sweat. She kicks it off, awkwardly, her limbs heavy and disobedient. She looks out of the door, sees a sky full of strange stars, and none of the smog that usually covers the skies of Guerdon. I’m in Ilbarin. I’ve got to get to Khebesh. Her satchel’s on the floor by her bed; she fumbles for it, tries to pick it up, but she doesn’t have the strength. The weight of the fucking book is too much for her. She falls back into the bed. Sleep. Heal.

She wakes to the reassuring bulk of Hawse as he wipes her brow with a cool cloth. “Rest,” he tells her. “The Lord of Waters will bear you up.” Somehow, coming from him, it’s comforting. He leaves a plate of fried fish by the bunk, and a flask of water. She sips the water, eats as much of the fish as she can. It twists in her stomach, so she twists herself face down on the bunk, as if she can keep the food trapped inside her by her posture. She falls back asleep.

Half awake, she wanders through confused recollections. She hasn’t been this sick in years, not since her return to Guerdon, when Rat found her, shivering and feverish, in an alleyway, and brought her to Spar. How close to death must I be, she thinks, before I can ask for help? She sits up, has a little water, then lies back and rests, listening to the sound of the birds on the shore. A curious cacophony – gulls and other seabirds, but also inland birds, screeching threats at the unfamiliar expanse of the encroaching sea. The harsh sounds are not restful, but, still, she sleeps.

She wakes again to a man sitting on her bed.

“Hello, Cari.”

Dol Martaine.

She tries to back away, recoiling from Martaine like he’s a scorpion. Pressing herself up against the wall again, reaching for a knife that isn’t there. A figure out of a nightmare, a shadow from her past. She can’t run. Her legs still feel boneless.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” says Dol Martaine. He’s a lanky man, all limbs and long hands. Head shaved; a thin black beard. A high-collared shirt that probably hides the armoured vest he used to favour, leather treated with alchemical curatives until it’s tough enough to stop a bullet. “Young Cari, all grown up.” His gaze runs over her hungrily. “What are you doing back here, Cari?”

She tries to speak, but her throat is clogged with fear. She’s faced down far worse things than Dol Martaine, fought Ravellers and Crawling Ones and mad saints, killed a fucking goddess, but that was when she had power. And Martaine’s another order of terror. The bastard tormented her on the Rose for years, played with her like a cat toying with a mouse. Adro – and Hawse, usually – gave her some protection, but the Rose wasn’t a big ship, and she couldn’t avoid Martaine. He taught her to hide, to move unseen. To hate.

“Let’s see.” He grabs her satchel. Instinctively, she tries to snatch it away, but he’s faster and stronger. He paws through the contents. “Oh, she has money,” he crows, letting a handful of coins from her bag slip through his fingers. “But I always guessed that, from how she joined us. Spoiled little runaway. And what’s this?”

He rips open the inner lining of the satchel, pulls out a little derringer pistol, a handful of Haithi letters of credit. All given to her by her cousin Eladora, back in Guerdon. Emergency supplies for the journey, in case she encountered trouble she couldn’t run away from. He pockets the pistol. Spreads the Haithi papers out on the bed. “What are you?” he asks, a note of surprise, even respect in his voice. “A spy? For Haith, maybe?”

“I stole them, you moron,” she lies. He hasn’t taken the book out yet. How can he miss it? It’s gigantic, heavy, obviously valuable. Why isn’t he asking her questions about Ramegos’ grimoire?

Because, Cari realises with mounting horror, the book isn’t there. It’s already gone.

The room darkens as Hawse appears in the doorway. Martaine hastily folds the letters of credit and shoves them inside his jacket. The captain carries two steaming cups of tea; he hands one to Martaine.

“Well?” he rumbles.

Cari tries not to panic. Hawse took care of her. He’s always protected her from Dol Martaine. He’s always been her friend – until you ran away, she reminds herself. But he’s always been Martaine’s friend, too. He needed Martaine a lot more than he ever needed Cari; Martaine was the captain’s right hand back in the day, his counsellor, his scourge. Adro was the muscle, but Martaine was the one the captain trusted to get things done, at sea or on shore. She remembers seeing Martaine come back on board with bloodied hands, being told to help throw cloth-wrapped bodies overboard. The Rose survived by smuggling on the fringes of the Godswar; a dirty, dangerous business, and Martaine handled the roughest parts.

Cari swallows the bile rising in her throat and stays perfectly still as the two men talk over her.

“Here’s the thing, captain,” says Martaine. “The Ghierdana are looking for a young woman, just come to Ilbarin. Dark-haired, like our Cari. Secretive, like our Cari. Little scars on her face.” Martaine reaches out, runs his thumb over Cari’s cheek. “And our Cari’s got some scars since she left us. They didn’t say anything about her being insolent or treacherous, but we’ll take that as read.”

“Is there a reward?” asks Hawse, sipping his tea.

“Passage off the Rock. That’s all they need to say to get every poor bastard on Ilbarin looking for her.”

Hawse groans as he sits down on the bunk opposite. “Cari, why are the Ghierdana looking for you?”

Cari shuffles away from Martaine as much as she can. “Stuff happened back in