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

The servant’s wholeness irritates him. The servant comes from Ilbarin. His homeland is drowned and ruined, his gods broken, his leaders fled. He’s lost – so how dare he stand so proud? How dare he remain unblemished? It’s an insult. A deliberate insult.

“Now my boots.” The servant glances at Artolo in confusion – Artolo slept naked. “There is glass everywhere – would you have me go barefoot?”

The servant fetches Artolo’s heavy boots from the wardrobe. They’re his old dragon-riding boots, armoured, steel-toed. Steel hooks at the ankles, designed to lock into the saddle-straps. He hasn’t flown since he lost Great-Uncle’s favour, but they’re still his boots. The servant helps him pull them on, one at a time. Artolo gives the servant a reassuring smile as the Ilbariner works the buckles. Artolo’s useless hands sit in his lap.

“Now, clean. Be sure not to lose a single pill. Each one’s worth more than your life.”

The servant nods. Crawls over on his knees, starts picking up the pills and piling them on the nightstand.

Artolo stands. The pain of the old knife wound in his belly’s gone. He stretches, feels the warmth of the morning sun on his back as it shines through the window. “Did Dosca’s ship come in last night?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Good.” Artolo looks out of the window at the rooftops of Ushket, at the cluster of masts in the port. Contemplates the light dancing on the water, the reflections on the walls of the buildings around the half-flooded streets.

Then he slams his boot into the servant’s face. Stamps on the servant’s hand, grinding his boot to press the servant’s fingers into the broken glass. Kicks the man in the stomach, twisting his heel so the boot-hooks tear the flesh. The servant’s other hand, too, deserves attention. Artolo wrenches the portrait off the wall. The thing’s fucking heavy, and he can’t get a proper grip with his maimed hands, but he manages to sort of twist it as it falls, so the sharp-edged corner of the heavy frame lands squarely on the servant’s palm. The painting falls with a crash. The servant starts to scream, but Artolo fumbles a silk pillow off the bed and shoves it at the man’s face. The servant buries his mouth in the pillow, muffling his whimpers and groans.

“Gods below.” The witch stands at the doorway. Her voice drips with revulsion, but the metal face on the helmet is expressionless.

“You’re late,” snaps Artolo. He kicks the servant again for emphasis. “This is your fault.”

“There was a problem with Dosca,” says the witch. Her suit whirs and clicks; some clever magical clockwork hisses as it injects her with her own painkillers. They’re both damaged goods, debris from the wars. Discarded on this ruin of an island.

“Gloves first,” he orders. The witch opens the wardrobe, takes out Artolo’s heavy riding gloves. She removes her own gauntlets, studded with little shards of ruby like spots of blood, exposing her hands. Her flesh is marbled, scarred with forking, coiling burn marks. The lines of nerves set alight by sorcery, Artolo guesses – humans aren’t made for working magic. She needs to be free of the unwieldy gauntlets, though, to strap on his gloves properly.

“Any word from my son?” asks Artolo. His son Vyr has hired doctors and artificers in Guerdon to make him a set of mechanical fingers, like the witch’s suit.

“I told you, that sort of precision work takes time.”

“And much money,” says Artolo sourly. “For the price they charge, they should be done by now. If I was there—”

“Would you beat them, too?” mutters the witch. “Ready?”

Artolo grunts in acknowledgement. The witch takes his gloved hands in hers, and concentrates. Artolo can feel the invisible filaments of sorcery pushing against the stumps, worming their way into his own nerves. The gloves flex, inflate, stiffen. A thrill runs through his hands as the witch’s spell takes hold. He feels the ghosts of finger-bones form within the gloves, feels spectral muscles and sinews sprout and knit themselves into his living flesh. He flexes his new hands, feeling the strength in them again, better than any drug.

The witch lets out a groan, and her suit fusses over her. It clacks as it injects more drugs, leeches poisons from her. Aetheric energy discharges from the suit in crackling arcs of blue light. She leans heavily against the wardrobe as she laboriously pulls her gauntlets back on. Tendrils of smoke rise from her blistered fingers.

Artolo whistles as he pulls on a shirt and watches the servant laboriously pick up every spilled pill with broken fingers. Fastening each button is a joy. It’s the little things. The witch’s spell will only last a day or so before it will have to be cast again, but until then he’s whole.

He wonders how long she’ll last at this rate. If she dies, he’ll have to hire the fucking Crawlers again, and he has no desire to sit across a negotiating table from those wormy horrors. They demanded a fortune the last time he dealt with them.

“What happened with Dosca?” he asks.

“The gunboat caught him trying to go to Ilbarin City first.”

“What was he planning on doing? Stealing raw brine?”

“He had a passenger on board who paid for passage to Ilbarin,” says the witch. “That’s all. He’ll know better in future.”

“Who was this passenger?”

“No sign of them. Must have jumped ship as soon as they got here.” The witch starts to reattach her own gauntlets, laboriously plugging little wires and veins back into place.

“But you have a description, yes? Dosca told you who this passenger was, yes?” Something’s amiss. Artolo takes the witch’s blistered fingers, squeezes them – gently, but with enough pressure to hurt, enough to remind her who’s in charge.

“A woman. From Guerdon. No name, but the crew said she was dark-haired. A thief, some of them said.” Artolo squeezes a little more. “Scars on her face. Little scars!” admits the witch, wincing in pain.

“It was HER. The Saint