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

She smirks as if they’re sharing a private joke. “So, Tiske tells my brother there’s business to be done, and you need a few good hands. What sort of business?”

“I intend to burn Dredger’s yard.”

“Thought you had dragons for that sort of thing.”

“My Great-Uncle is away, and this is family business,” explains Rasce.

Baston frowns in confusion, and Tiske leans down, whispering. “There’s a dragon at the head of each family. The families work together on some business, but not all.”

Rasce continues. “You will be well paid for your work. And if you prove worthy, you may be rewarded further, with the favour of the dragon.” Back home, just the chance of the dragon’s favour could induce one man to kill another. To be Eshdana, ash-marked, is to share in the dragon’s fortune, to have the syndicates behind you. Rasce’s mildly surprised when neither Baston nor Karla react. “The ash,” he adds.

Baston’s unimpressed. “Why Dredger?”

“Does it matter?” snaps Vyr. “That is the target the Ghierdana have chosen.”

“Dredger’s got friends in the Wash,” says Karla, “he’s been running his yards for years. Paid his dues to the Brotherhood regular as clockwork.”

“That was when the Brotherhood had the docks,” says Tiske. “Nowadays, they go unclaimed.” His tone is that of some old aunt running her finger over the mantlepiece and finding it dusty.

“He gave work to the plagued when no one else would touch ’em,” says Baston.

“But he was an informant to the thief-takers. And the watch, when it suited him,” argues Karla.

Vyr scowls at her. “He is who I have chosen. Are you in?”

Tiske reaches forward and squeezes Baston’s shoulder, but the younger man still has reservations. “What’s our payment?”

“Chaos is all we want. We’ll break the yards. You may rob what you wish in the process.” He’s handing the Guerdon thieves a small fortune in stolen alchemical weapons, but the sum is of little concern to the Ghierdana. Great-Uncle sleeps on a bed of treasure worth a thousand times as much.

“Not coin?” grumbles Baston.

“I’m sure we can move whatever ye steal through the New City,” says Tiske. “Baston, lad, the Ghierdana operate all across the world. They can sell those weapons off in Khenth or Ul-Taen, get you a good price. Assuming you’re not going to…” He trails off, glances at the Ghierdana. Use them here, Rasce assumes. On the Ishmerian occupiers.

“What’s the plan for containment? And protection? Dredger handles poisons and worse in the yards.”

“A small explosion, at the far end of the yards, to draw guards away. A second team at the front, to strike the main office as you counsel. The risk of wildfire should be minimal. We know how things burn, of that have no doubt.” Baston’s caution is justified – alchemical weapons are immensely potent, and indiscriminate in their killing. A leak from Dredger’s yard could be disastrous.

Karla leans over to her brother. “It’s worth a shot, to my mind. Bring some of the canal crew. See if Yon Bleak will still talk to us.”

“Listen to her, lad,” pleads Tiske.

Baston’s face is unreadable. “That’s a fine dagger, there,” he says, nodding at the dragon-tooth blade.

“Taken from the dragon’s maw, and it marks me as the dragon’s favourite. Do not touch it, or I would be honour bound to kill you.”

“So I’ve heard. Can you use it, or is it an ornamental piece?”

“I can use it.”

“Aye, aye.” Baston watches the light glimmer on the blade for a moment. “I’m in – on one condition. You’re coming, too.”

“The point of hiring you,” says Vyr, “is to ensure the attack cannot be blamed on the Ghierdana.”

“Or maybe the point of hiring us is so you can set us up.”

“You come to our house and you dare accuse us of treachery?” Vyr goes for his own dagger, but Baston’s quicker. He springs to his feet, grabs Vyr’s wrist and pins it. “It was your father who tried to move in on the old Brotherhood territory last year, wasn’t it? Artolo, right?

“Baston, I wouldn’t lie to you!” shouts Tiske, leaping up, too.

“You did take the ash, Ben,” remarks Karla lightly. Like Rasce, she too has remained seated.

“If the dragon wanted you dead—” begins Vyr, but Rasce interrupts him.

“The dragon does not want you dead.” Rasce picks up the dagger, flips it in the air, and thrusts it into his belt. “And battle holds no fear for me. I shall be with you at Dredger’s yard. And to put your fears at ease, we’ll bring Vyr, too. Isn’t that right, Vyr?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Waking is always bad. The long scar on Artolo’s belly hurts, a dull ache. Groaning, he throws back the silken sheets, reaches for the glass jar that holds his pills.

The idiot servants have put the lid back on. How many times must he tell these Ilbariners to leave the lid off in the morning? Artolo snarls and bats at the lid with his maimed hands. No fingers, no thumbs, just stumps. The horror still hits him every time he looks at his ruined body.

He sweeps the heavy jar off the nightstand. It shatters on the tiles. Shards of glass and brownish lozenges scatter across the floor, some becoming lost under the ornate furniture. An oil-painting portrait of some long-dead Ilbarin minister or priestess stares down at him from her golden frame, as if disapproving of the criminal that now rules in her palace.

The door opens a crack. One of the servants looks in. “My lord? I heard something break.”

“Where is my witch?

“I don’t know, my lord. I’ll go and look—” the servant pleads.

“No. Come in here. Help me.” The servant enters the room like a mouse, his hands twitching, shoulders flinching as broken glass cracks underfoot.

“Get me a pill,” orders Artolo. The servant rushes over, finds one of the pills, holds it out. “In my mouth.” He sticks out his tongue, and the servant places the pill there with outstretched arm, outstretched fingers like he’s reaching into a dragon’s maw. Artolo sucks the sticky lozenge, feeling it numb