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

Karla wrinkles her nose at the mention of ghouls. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Magic shit.” Baston rubs his head. His hair is rank with sewer-water. “I’m going to go and talk to the other dragons. Convince ’em they’re in danger, too, maybe.”

“Is that going to achieve anything?” She kneads the back of his neck. He reaches up, takes her hand, holds it.

“Come with me. You’ve taken the ash. What did Rasce say – it buys a measure of indulgence? Let’s see what they’ll do for you.”

The New City juts out into the harbour of Guerdon, skirted by a towering seawall. There are few places to moor a ship in the original design (if the word design can be applied to the dream of stone that is the New City), but Guerdon is always quick to adapt. Ugly concrete platforms, stained with alchemical run-off, now abut the seawall. Most of the ships docked here are Lyrixian military vessels, taking advantage of the only secure port friendly to them in the west. They’ll refuel here, then steam south, laden with supplies for the Lyrixian war effort against Ulbishe and Khenth. The strange sight of convoys escorted by Ghierdana dragons, instead of being preyed on by them.

There are two dragons on the docks, Thyrus and Carancio, lazing in the afternoon sun. There are few places in the New City where a dragon can stretch out to its full length, and Thyrus sprawls along the dock. Carancio has slithered into the water, his tail snaking off into the mud. His wings are extended to dry in the sun; he has propped himself up by his elbows, like a fat man in a steam bath. Beside him, a cargo ship newly arrived from Lyrix unloads crates of supplies – most of which are destined for the markets of Guerdon, not the war. Lyrixian silk and jewels pass through Ghierdana hands to be smuggled across the border into the city proper, to come washing back as coin and armaments. The dockworkers have to shuffle awkwardly to avoid treading on Carancio’s wingtip; Baston fights the urge to hurry over and give them a hand shifting the boxes.

Each dragon is accompanied by a host of Ghierdana attendants and other bodyguards. The dragons are more dangerous than any assassin, but there are other forms of assault. A brigade of mercenary priests chant and ring bells, in the hopes of disrupting any divination miracles targeting the pair. Hired sorcerers, too, ready with defensive wards and dampening rods. A cowled figure in a porcelain mask stands near Carancio – a Crawling One. Baston hasn’t seen one in months.

A few passengers disembark from the Lyrixian ship and gingerly pass between the dragons. One – stooped and thin, with a broken nose – casts a curious glance at Baston and Karla, and seems almost to recognise them, but he hurries on without a word.

The dragon Carancio, too, notices the pair. He beckons them with a lazy wave of a claw that could rip through steel armour like tissue paper.

“Look, Thyrus – Taras’ Chosen sends his servants to treat with us.”

“It is the way of this city. These people have no understanding of civility or respect. Is that not right, little ones?” Thyrus rolls her neck to fix Baston with the full glare of her reptilian eyes.

“We need to talk,” says Baston, awkwardly. “Sharpish. It’s business.”

Karla steps in. She sweeps back her hair to show her forehead, marked with fresh ash. She raises her voice, projects like she’s treading the boards of the Great Metropolitan Theatre in Bryn Avane. “Great ones, I have heard many accounts of your magnificence from your kinfolk. Carancio, Bane of Cities. Thyrus, Queen of Calamity. I beg leave to address you in the name of Rasce, Chosen of Taras. The matter is urgent.”

Thyrus smirks, then furls her long body. She extends one wing, mantles it into a tent. Baston hesitates for a moment, then Karla gives him a sharp shove, pushing him forward. The dragon curls around him, enfolding him. All he can see is Thyrus’ eyes, glowing with inner fire, inches away from him.

“Speak.” Her voice is a subsonic vibration, shaking his bones.

“City watch Tallowmen are attacking us. So far, they haven’t crossed the border into the occupation zone, but—”

“‘Us?’ I smell no ash upon your brow, mortal. You are not Ghierdana. You are not Eshdana. You are nothing to me. I could swallow you whole, here and now, and no one would gainsay me.”

“I’d taste foul.” Baston opens his jacket, revealing a metal cylinder tucked inside. “Withering dust.” He has no idea if the alchemical poison would work on a dragon, but at this range, it certainly wouldn’t be pleasant. “Rasce is my employer, and my friend. He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his.”

Thyrus snorts, and the wing-tent fills with sulphur. It’s hard to breathe. “And yet you have not sworn fealty to him. He must be a fool to trust one such as you.” The dragon yawns. “Rasce has brought this misfortune on himself. You mortals are hasty and lack wisdom. It was careless of my brother to leave the child without adequate supervision.”

“That’s as maybe. But now they’re attacking the Ghierdana.”

“The things of wax have not crossed the border. They are attacking you and your cutpurses, not my kin.”

“They attacked Rasce, too, on Glimmerside. A jack nearly cut his throat. And Vyr got killed down on Mercy. And let me tell you something – the last time they let the Tallowmen loose on the streets, it wasn’t long before there was martial law. Curfews, mass arrests, raids. All sorts of trouble.”

“That was before the Godswar came here. They would not dare do so now.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Jacks are hard to keep under control. And even if they don’t cross the border, you’re not just a soldier, are you? Not just here for the war effort. You’ve got business, same as me. How hard do you think it’ll be to