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

it’s a dealer in prosthetics. A display of mechanical arms, peg legs carved from wood or bone, alchemist-grown organs floating in life-support jars. A partially disassembled suit of armour, like Dredger’s. A peeling sign pasted to the door gives notice that priority will be given to accredited members of the alchemists’ guild, and no charity will be extended to victims of war or industrial accident.

In the dim shop beyond, he can see Vyr arguing with the maker of mechanical limbs.

Rasce crosses the street to a little newspaper kiosk, nods at the haggard crone behind the counter, and takes a copy of the Guerdon Observer off the table. He starts to walk away.

“Thief! Thief,” she croaks, “two coppers!”

Of course – he has to pay. Back on the isles of the Ghierdana, no one would dare charge the Chosen of the Dragon for anything. Even in the New City, most now know better than to ask him for coin.

Rasce gives the woman a gold coin, worth enough to buy the kiosk and all its contents. Gives her a smile, too, a dragon’s smile, with the promise of teeth.

The headlines, pleasingly, are still dominated by the fire at Dredger’s yard. Fears of contamination from the toxic smoke. It’s not the first such incident in recent years, and Rasce’s lost count of the number of infants he’s seen with twisted limbs or other malformations. Among the wealthy, gilded gas masks have become a fashionable accessory.

The newspaper does not mention the Ghierdana in connection with the attack on Dredger, which does not surprise Rasce. The truce between Guerdon and the three occupying powers is a delicate one, and everyone knows that Lyrix’s main contribution to the balance of power comes from the dragons. Openly accusing the Ghierdana of the crime would risk the peace, even if everyone knows the Ghierdana are responsible. A gap in the armour, and the knife goes in. He imagines parliament sending out its agents, bribing and threatening and whispering, trying to right the ship of state.

Speed is of the essence. He needs to get this done before Great-Uncle returns, but also before the authorities push back at him. If he seizes the yliaster trade quickly enough, then parliament will have no choice but to bless this new status quo.

Empty eye sockets watch him from across the street. Skull-faced undead sentries from Haith. Glimmerside’s on the edge of the Haithi Occupation Zone. If he climbs up Holyhill, he’ll be in their territory – and Haith doesn’t have the same compunctions about maintaining the truce. The rules of the Armistice are clear – if one of the three powers breaks the truce, the other two are compelled to ally against the offender. Walking into Haithi territory could be enough of a provocation to start the war.

Rasce gives them a cheery wave and crosses back to meet Vyr.

“Still not finished,” grumbles Vyr. “It needs a specialist sorcerer to enchant it. Five thousand just for the consultation.”

“And they call us criminals.”

They walk side by side through the rain, shadowed by the bodyguards. High atop the hill to their right, emerging from the rain like snow-capped mountains, are three great cathedrals of the Kept Gods. The singing of a great choir, slightly ragged, drifts down from the churches like incense.

“I’m told they never used to do that,” murmurs Vyr, “until the Ishmerians came. Now the singing never stops.”

Craddock & Sons is situated off a steep lane that runs down to Venture Square. Lawyers, speculators, brokers – and dealers in alchemical reagents. Unlike Dredger, the warehouses of Craddock & Sons are far across the city, in the Fog Yards. Their offices, though, are within reach of the Ghierdana.

At a nod from Rasce, the Eshdana go in first. Rough men in grey cloaks swarm the office in a practised flurry, a swarm of pugnacious fish, each man with a task assigned. Sweep for guards. Secure the back exit. Keep the staff quiet. Close the door once the boss is in.

The heavy door shuts behind Rasce. He scans the office, desks of dark wood laden with papers and ledgers, alchemical weapons and supplies reduced to notes and sigils. A dozen clerks of varying ages, ink-spots on their shirts, eyes wide. One fellow attempted to make a break for it, and is now hunched over in his chair, clutching a broken nose. Otherwise, no damage or injuries, and every ash-marked is in their assigned place. Good. Executed with military discipline.

Judging by their chins and thinning hair, three of the clerks are Craddock’s sons. “Those three.”

Three ash-marked move to mark the three sons. One of whom actually shakes his fist at Rasce.

“You won’t get away with this!” he blusters from behind his desk.

“Yes, they will,” calls a voice from the inner office. “I’m in here. And don’t break anything else, please.”

Craddock’s hair has gone entirely, and his chin is lost behind his white beard, but there’s a keen intelligence in his eyes. Rasce sits down – then, on second thoughts, shifts the heavy chair a few inches to the right, just in case Craddock picked up some negotiation tips from Dredger.

Vyr drifts to the window behind Craddock, checks the alleyway outside, then closes the blinds.

“Well, then,” says Craddock, “do you have terms, or should I dig up my old agreements? I’ve been in business long enough to know the score.”

“We have terms,” says Rasce, “but you shall find them reasonable. A small fee to ensure that your yards are safe from the same fate as Dredger’s – and two conditions. First, you’ll henceforth buy your yliaster from us, and only from us.”

Craddock narrows his eyes. “Yliaster? At what rate?”

Rasce waves his hand dismissively. “A reasonable one, I’m sure. Cheaper than the blood of your sons.”

“There’s no need for such threats. As I said, I’ve done this before. The Brotherhood. And later I paid the tallow-tax to the alchemists. Hah! The protection money was cheaper. What’s your other demand?”

Rasce produces the snuffbox, offers the ash. “You know what this means?”

Craddock’s hand