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

reports in Estavo’s office; he can see the battle lines in the south, the precarious situation of the Lyrixian expeditionary forces.

“I cannot speak for his plans after he returns, but I would assume so. My Great-Uncle is a patriot, after all. We all look towards securing the future of Lyrix, and the defeat of the mad gods.”

Thyrus pulls herself free from the exorcism rig and stomps across the floor of the dome, shedding pieces of broken armour like dead scales.

“Rasce. I thought you were on your death bed.” The dragon lowers her massive head, sniffs at him – and recoils, snorting fire in alarm. “What is this? What are you?” She spreads her wings, filling the dracodrome. “What has Vorz done to you?”

“Nothing that need threaten you, O Thyrus,” says Rasce. “But to both of you, I say: tonight, do not interfere. I give you my word that neither the military enclave nor the holdings of the other Ghierdana families will be endangered.”

If they object or argue, he has many darts to throw, arguments honed in discussion with Vorz. Rasce knows all their secrets now. He knows that Estavo is a habitual user of blackmarket elixirs, knows that two of Estavo’s staff are secret spies for Haith. He knows that Thyrus’ Chosen murdered the Chosen of Carancio in a backstreet duel, and that the truth of the incident was concealed from both dragons. Knows, too, that there’s a warehouse down near Shriveport that contains the cargo from a Haithi vessel, and that Thyrus took the ship in Guerdon waters, in breach of the Armistice.

But there’s no need for all these weapons. He can hold them in reserve, conserve them like his stock of miraculous power. The threat is enough.

“Have your Great-Uncle report to me when he returns. At his convenience, of course,” mutters Estavo, smoothing his moustache. Relieved, as if he’s navigated some dispute he didn’t quite understand, but is now resolved.

Thyrus bows her head. “Hail the new saint of this strange city,” she says, “but do not forget what became of the last one.”

Rasce laughs. “The Saint of Knives fought alone. I have many friends.”

Lanthorn Street has become a military encampment. Thieves and mercenaries fill the street outside, and Baston cannot tell one group from the other. The dragon’s gold and a lot more beside has been spent on alchemical weaponry. The host bristles with rifles and hand-cannons. Baston pushes past men he might once have known, now rendered beetle-headed and anonymous by the protective gas masks they wear. Loose tarpaulins on wagons promise other horrors – there are canisters of knife-smoke there, and blasting dust. Maybe some of the weapons were made by Mandel, and now they shall return home.

Baston lingers a moment by a phlogistonic siege charge. He runs his gloved hand over the metal sphere, remembering the heat of the flash.

All these weapons, and none of them could be sure of killing Rasce – yet the little gun in his pocket could manage it. Strange indeed are the ways of divinity.

A beetle-mask hails Baston. It’s Gunnar, his voice rendered strange by the breathing apparatus. It reminds Baston of how the Fever Knight spoke. “Where’ve you been? It’s been a hell of a job, getting all this ready.”

“Orders from above,” mutters Baston. “Where’s Rasce?”

“Inside. I’ll let him know you’re back.”

“He knows.”

Baston approaches the house. The sniper on the rooftop tracks him as he walks, and the gunman’s eyes aren’t the only ones watching Baston. Karla’s in the crowd, too, somewhere. She’s one of the beetle-masked people, too, and the thought of his sister perishing in the underworld chills him. Their father went down into the darkness, too, and never returned.

He enters the house, the gun heavy in his pocket. The Eshdana guards don’t search him as he crosses the threshold, and no one stops him as he heads to Rasce’s chambers.

Rasce’s half dressed, his torso bare. A half-dozen needles laid out on the table, and one big syringe of alkahest next to a bottle of arax. Vorz leans over the younger man like a vampire, working through the row of syringes. “You left the New City,” says Rasce, wincing as another dose of Vorz’s tincture shoots through his veins. “Is all well?”

“Boss… I need a word.”

“Speak.”

Baston pulls out the gun, and in one practised motion ejects the phlogiston charge. “Eladora Duttin sent me to kill you. That bullet’s magic – it can wound you. They’ve had me spying on you since the start.”

He drops the weapon on to the desk, the holy bullet rolling across the green baize surface to clink against the arax.

“I planted a pebble on Duttin’s spymaster. I figured you’d want to return the favour.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Rhan-Gis gurgles blood.

He looks at Cari in confusion. For a moment, she swears there’s a look of relief on his face, but she can’t be sure, because he topples over backwards and then—

Oh god, and then—

Wrath strikes the throne room in the temple of Rhan-Gis.

Without the presence of the saint, the god’s wrath is unfocused. Indiscriminate. A skyquake, the heavens shattering and exploding in fury. The temple cracks asunder, one of the great teak runners supporting it falls away, tipping the whole structure over to the side. The sky blackens like a bruise, and the stones cry out in anguish and anger.

This is what Cari knows: everything’s fucked. The air full of dust and smoke and thunderous fury. She can barely see, and she’s drenched in hot blood. Her right hand’s numb and weirdly heavy. All around her, people moan or shout or scream. Or let off guns, which really doesn’t help. Half-blind, she crawls across the cracked tiles, feeling her way. Sandpaper no longer describes the sensation of divine proximity – no, now her brain is bathed in some acidic stew that’s seeping down her spine.

Clambering over bodies. Something squishes beneath the weight of her numb right hand, and then she feels rubbery, writhing worms against her cheek. Twelve Shits Conspiring has collapsed into