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

shakes. “I did business in Severast, too, before the war. I dealt with the Ghierdana there. Aye, I know what it means to take the ash, and what will happen if I break my word to you.”

“Terrible,” says Vyr softly, “is the vengeance of the dragon.”

In a quick spasm of motion, Craddock takes a smear of ash and rubs it across his forehead. “Done, then.”

“Two down,” says Rasce.

Vyr glances back down the street. Craddock and his belligerent son stand in the doorway. The rain has already washed away much of the ash from the old man’s forehead. “He didn’t seem as cowed as I’d have liked.”

“He’s taken the ash. That gives him a measure of indulgence. Let him keep face, so long as he does as he is told.” Rasce glances to his left, looking north across the side of Holyhill. He can dimly make out the shape of the Duchess Viaduct that runs between Holyhill and Castle Hill, although the fog makes the structure look like some primordial serpent-monster, a dragon about to assail the Parliament. Somewhere beyond that, lost in the smoke clouds and serried rooftops, are the Fog Yards. “I have it in my mind to go for Mandel & Company soon. Vorz listed them as the largest supplier of yliaster to the guild. Great-Uncle may return more swiftly than we expect, and we must be ready.”

“Our new recruits haven’t taken the ash yet,” grumbles Vyr, loud enough for Baston to hear. “We cannot rely on them until they do. There are many smaller dealers, closer to the LOZ. We should consolidate our holdings first before risking the Fog Yards.”

“Have faith, Vyr,” says Rasce.

Baston stands at Rasce’s shoulder like a dour shadow. “You should get back to the New City.”

“Indeed. You know, I think I am growing to like the place.”

They head back along Philosopher’s Street, the New City rising before then. The rain slackens off, rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds and turning the towers to blazing pillars. Once they secure Mandel’s supply of yliaster, the job will be mostly done. Great-Uncle will return, and he’ll lift Rasce from these streets, return him to his proper place as Chosen of the Dragon. Vorz can oversee the dull details of the yliaster trade, and whatever intrigues and schemes he intends.

Or, perhaps someone other than Vorz. The Dentist has grown arrogant and must be shown his place. The ash buys a measure of indulgence, but only a measure. Once Great-Uncle returns, Rasce will suggest that Vorz be placed in charge of the yliaster trade, and someone more suitable be given his role as adviser. Someone who knows Guerdon, if the Ghierdana are to have a permanent presence here in the New City.

Baston, maybe, once he takes the ash. Or Karla. The idea of an alliance with her certainly has its appeal. It’s strange how comfortable Rasce feels with the two of them, as though he’s known them both for a long time.

Someone calls his name.

He stops, looks around. The whole procession of thieves stops, fanning out across the pavements.

“What is it?” asks Baston.

“You spoke.”

Baston shakes his head, confused. Vyr flinches and looks up at the clouds.

Rasce. There. Danger.

Rasce’s vision fractures, like he’s looking at the world through broken glass. Simultaneously, he’s standing on Philosopher’s Street, surrounded by his guards, but he’s also looking down on himself from the heights, his attention focused on one rooftop – there.

A brief glimpse – a humanoid figure, long, spindly limbs, clad in rags – and then the thing’s leaping, flinging itself from the roof of a nearby hostel to land right next to Rasce. Face burning with its own inner flame, the wax of its skull burned paper-thin in places. The horror’s got a dagger in its pale hand, and it stabs at him, moving inhumanly quickly.

The first shallow cut opens up his forearm, spraying blood across the Tallowman’s thin ribs. The monster raises its knife, then freezes for a split second, the flame in its wax skull flickering as if in thought, an instant of hesitation that gives Baston time to tackle it. He’s bigger than it, heavier. The pair go down in a tangle of legs, but the Tallowman’s quicker. It slithers free, stabs at Baston’s back once, twice, but its thrusts aren’t able to penetrate the armour he wears beneath his shirt.

Rasce tries to go for his own knife, the dragon-tooth blade, but his wounded arm betrays him. His fingers are slick with his own blood, and he drops the knife. Falls backwards as the Tallowman slashes at him. The Tallowman’s burning bright now, head flaring with murder-lust. The guards in disarray, trying to grapple with the nimble assassin that prances madly around them, dagger flashing in the fresh sun. A scream as one of the thieves loses his fingers to the wicked blade. Some of them strike at the Tallowman, but they can’t injure it. Wounds in the wax close instantly.

Baston’s up again, attacking the Tallowman from behind. He gets his forearm across the creature’s throat in a chokehold, and pulls with all his might. The Tallowman doesn’t need to get air to its lungs – if it even has lungs – but Baston tugs with such force that the waxy neck stretches, pulling apart, gooey strands of wax snapping and parting. Rasce ducks forward, scoops up the dragon-tooth blade – and the Tallowman kicks him in the face, sending him sprawling once more. Again, it twists free of Baston’s grasp, scrabbles across the pavement on all fours like some nightmare insect, melting face scuttling ever closer.

It’s on top of Rasce now, pinning him, hot wax dripping on him. The dagger’s in its wax hand, and then it slashes him across the throat, quick and neat.

No pain. No blood.

He feels the blade skitter off the skin of his throat, but he’s uncut.

The Tallowman frowns, opens its mouth, and a bubble of hot wax bursts on its lips. It drops the dagger, tries another murderous approach. Fingers