The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📕

are yliaster merchants to bully into line, goods to be smuggled across the zone borders – in the last few weeks, Baston’s arranged alliances between Ghierdana smugglers and local sailors and dockers, and the wharfs of the New City are busy day and night. He visits friends he hasn’t talked to in years, reactivates old networks, puts coin into the hands of those that can use it. Puts knives and guns into other hands, too.

It’s good work, balancing the scales. He can feel the old mechanisms coming back to life, the customs and connections of the Brotherhood returning in a new form.

Baston returns to Lanthorn Street each night and checks on Rasce, who sleeps, and mumbles in his sleep. Karla sits by his bed with medicines, but also a notebook for their ad-hoc oracle. Baston’s nightly visits take on the aspect of ritual obeisances, a ceremonial blessing. He takes on a portion of Rasce’s authority, speaks for the boss, and no one questions his orders. The other Ghierdana whisper and grumble about an outsider – not even an ash-mark! – having such influence, but Baston’s too busy with the business to pay them much heed. The gold of the dragon flows through his fingers – and Karla’s. When she’s not with Rasce, she’s out in the New City, distributing coin and kindness, like the Brotherhood used to share a portion of their thievery with the poor folk of the Wash.

Each night, he looks at Vyr’s map of yliaster suppliers. Two clusters, on either side of the city. The dock cluster, a long arc from the ruins of Queen’s Point to the new docks under construction up at the Shad Rocks, they’ve all taken the ash. Everyone from established merchants of good standing with the alchemists like Craddock, to the smallest mudlark with a few casks of old yliaster salvaged from the war, they’re under Rasce’s control.

Under his control.

He can’t deny it feels good, but it’s all built on sand. If Rasce wakes, if the dragon returns… what then?

Karla comes down and hands him a steaming cup of tea.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, but it’s different from the companionable silence they enjoyed in Baston’s old house down in the Wash. It’s like they’re intruders, sneaking into somewhere they don’t belong. Or is it only he that feels unworthy of this place? He hasn’t reported to Sinter in days – not that he wants to do so. Karla’s safe here, but Sinter threatened other people.

“We should check on Mum.”

“She’s safe. She’s with friends.” Karla sips her tea. “I’m staying here, in case I’m needed. You should, too.”

Baston stares at his hands. He wants someone to tell him what to do, who to hit. That’s what he’s trained to do, what he’s good for. He can organise, he can build the Brotherhood, but it needs a leader with vision. He wants Spar to speak to him, to tell him what needs to be done to make a better city. Who needs to be taken out? Is it Mandel, as Rasce wants? Duttin and her cryptic allies? Gods below, he’d enjoy that. Is it the invaders from Ishmere, and fuck the Armistice?

Tell me what to do. Tell me before this opportunity slips away. Tell me how to atone.

“We need some lads to look after the Ghostmarket. And the old docks. I’m thinking Gunnar and maybe Sten Cantcount,” says Karla, breaking the silence.

Both Brotherhood. Both ours. “I’ll sort it out.”

“There’s a ship going to Lyrix next week. We should send Vyr’s body home.”

“He’ll need an escort, I take it.”

Karla smiles. “His kin should take him. Full-blood Ghierdana family, not ash-bought. I’m thinking we send some of them home to Lyrix. If you tell them the order came from Rasce, they’ll go.”

“And what do we do when the dragon comes back, and finds his kin gone, one grand-nephew dead and his Chosen bedridden?”

Karla’s about to answer when a messenger hammers at the door. “Boss! Boss! Trouble up the Shad Rocks!”

At the Shad Rocks, Baston finds worse than trouble.

There’s a long jetty there, shit-encrusted pylons sunk into the scummy water of Shriveport Bay. Beyond, ramshackle warehouses, thrown up in the aftermath of the Crisis. All owned by an alchemical trader named Barrow. A month ago, Baston waded into that scummy water, held Barrow’s face under until he yielded and took the ash, swore eternal loyalty to the Ghierdana.

Now, there’s a squad of city watch there, blue cloaks flapping in the sea breeze. On the roof of the warehouse, the fiery lights of a trio of Tallowmen.

Baston studies them through a spyglass. They’re freshly cast, like the ones he ran into at Mandel’s, unlike the one that attacked Rasce. City watch cloaks nailed on to wax shoulders, hunched like gargoyles. Tallowmen, back on the streets. The bad old days on top of all the new strangeness.

“We came down to collect off Barrow, like you told us. The jacks came at us without warning,” says one of the thieves, clutching his wounded arm. “We tried to fight, but they’re too fast. Watchmen came after. They’re questioning Barrow, yonder.” The spyglass shifts to a small office adjoining the warehouse. Baston can make out Barrow’s lean features. He’s talking to a watch captain.

“How many of ours did they get?” asks Baston.

“They arrested Sten Cantcount and young Leo. Jahn tried to fight, and they cut his throat. Rest of us made it out.”

“Back to the New City,” orders Baston. “Watch can’t follow us back there.”

“What about the jacks?”

The Tallowmen are in the livery of the city watch. The last time the candlejacks were allowed out on the streets of Guerdon, just before the Crisis, they were bound by the same rules as the watch. So, by law, the Tallowmen shouldn’t be able to pursue them freely across the border into the LOZ. They’d need a pass from Lyrix to cross.

And all of that and two coppers will buy you a two-copper meal. Tallowmen go where they please.

“Run fast,”