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

shivering, her lips and sleeve caked in fragments of vomit. Spar’s first instinct is to pick her up and carry her to the bed, but the Stone Plague is transmitted by touch. “Put her on my bed,” he tells Rat. There are old bandages hanging on the back of the door; Spar begins wrapping his hands.

“Found her down by the docks,” mutters Rat, “tryin’ to pick a pocket. She threw up all over the mark. I figured keep her here. If she gets better, she owes us. If she dies, I’ll take the carcass below.” The ghoul licks his chops.

“Fuck you,” says the girl, weakly. She paws at her throat. “Did you…?” Rat brushes her hand aside, pulls a necklace out from under her shirt. He holds it up to the lamplight – dangling from the chain is a black stone, set in an enamelled amulet.

The girl reaches for it. “No,” she moans, “that’s mine.”

Spar closes his hand around it. “I’ll keep it safe for you. Just rest.” He draws a blanket across her thin form. The girl closes her eyes, seems to fall asleep.

Rat sniffs her. “She’s off a ship. Not local.” He sniffs again, wrinkles his muzzle as if trying to identify some subtle scent.

“Here.” Spar hands the ghoul a few coins. “Run down to Lambs Square, get some food in. Stuff that’s easy on the stomach – Ranson’s Chemical Food, maybe.” Alchemical paste, sweet and sticky. Stone Men with calcified stomaches swear by it; Spar isn’t there yet. “And some clean clothes. Maybe ask Silkpurse.”

Rat hurries off. Spar returns to his chair, carefully lowering himself like a crane righting a derailed train engine.

He waits there, reading his father’s old papers. Turning her necklace over and over in his hand, testing to see if there’s any sensation left in the skin of his palm. Not much – he’d have to dig the metal edges of the little amulet into his flesh to feel anything, and that might damage the girl’s treasure.

After a few minutes, he becomes aware that she’s woken up, but is still pretending to sleep, watching him through half-closed eyes. Waiting for him to move, so she can escape out of the door and die in a gutter somewhere. He reaches over, drops her amulet on the bed next to her.

“You’re safe here,” he says again, “I’m Spar Idgeson.” Putting the emphasis on his last name, his father’s name. Everyone in Guerdon’s underworld remembers Idge – the great leader, the philosopher-thief, the man who was going to right all the injustices of the guilds and make the city fair. Invoking Idge’s name is a declaration of responsibility and trustworthiness. Everyone in Guerdon would understand that Idge’s son is a man of honour.

But Idge’s name clearly means nothing to her. She stares blankly, then repeats “Spar,” in a scratchy voice. “Is there water?”

“Would you like me to fetch some?”

“It’s okay.” She sits up – how easily she does that, without any hesitation, without any cracking of stone scabs or shooting nerve pains – and swings her legs out of the bed. She takes two barefoot steps, then her knees buckle and she nearly falls, catching herself on Spar’s chair.

“Little help?” she asks, reaching out.

Spar takes her hand, careful to ensure the bandages are between her skin and his stone. With his other hand, he lifts himself out of the chair. The room’s cramped, and he’s much bigger than she is, so he has to carefully manoeuvre himself to avoid brushing against her, like he’s dancing with her.

They walk the few steps to the little sink, hand in hand. The girl finds a cup of water, sips it slowly. “Gods, that’s better. Thanks.”

“I still don’t know your name,” says Spar.

“Cari. It’s Cari.”

Cari looks down at him as he falls.

Tumbling, head over heels, from the roof of the Seamarket to the stone floor of the market far below. Three hundred feet straight down.

As he tumbles, he sees it all.

Below him, the terrified crowds. People of the city, corralled into this ancient temple as sacrifices to the Black Iron Gods. The people his father tried to inspire, tried to lead, to protect.

Above him, the black iron bell. A monstrous god, reforged and trapped in the shape of a bell.

Below him, the city. Through the great arched windows of the Seamarket, he glimpses for an instant the spires of Guerdon, but an instant is all he needs to recognise his city. The Victory Cathedrals up on Holyhill, the church spires of the Holy Beggar, St Storm’s by the sea. Castle Hill, like a sleeping dragon, its back saw-toothed with towers and roofs. Across the harbour, the mighty bastions of Queen’s Point. The new spires of the alchemists, the smokestacks and cooling towers. His city, his Guerdon.

The city is eternal, says an old rhyme; the city must finally end.

Above him, Cari. Caught by a spell, paralysed, unable to reach him. For an instant, he dares to imagine a last-minute reprieve, a miracle. He imagines her taking the terrible bargain offered by the Black Iron Gods, becoming their high priestess. Sharing in their divinity. She could pluck him out of the air and carry him to safety. Cure the Stone Plague with a thought. Bring down the alchemists and the arms dealers, the politicians and the priests. Shatter the world and remake it.

But no. Below him, he sees the dark writhing tide of the Ravellers, the other agents of the Black Iron Gods. Monstrous things, living knives of shadow, nothing but hate and hunger made manifest. Nothing good could ever spring from such things.

Above him, the vast dome. A magnificent tomb for a street thief.

Below him—

The fall is eternal. The fall must finally end.

Spar falls into darkness.

Darkness.

And then a distant flare of light.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A distant flare of light. There, for a moment, across the dark waters of the harbour.

Time to move.

“Lead on,” hisses Rasce. Baston leads them down the silent docks, using stacks of crates and mooring posts