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

rites. “And when you’re done with that, search the upper slopes. The Guerdonese woman might be hiding up there.”

Martaine hesitates. “What should we expect if we find her? Anything I should know?”

“She’s not to be killed.”

“Anything else? Is she armed? Alchemy?”

“She’s alone. Maybe armed. Bring plenty of men.”

Martaine looks across the corpse-strewn hillside. The skirmish with Usharet killed half a dozen Eshdana. “We’re going to run thin on ash-marks.”

“Take what you need from the work camp. Get it done, Martaine.” Artolo spits into the pit, listens to his saliva sizzle on the smouldering corpse of the goddess. He turns on his heel and walks away.

The witch waits for him by the roadside. “‘Take what you need from the work camp’,” she echoes. “What about the production quotas? What will you cut off to atone this time?”

“Watch your tongue,” snaps Artolo. “Let me handle my Great-Uncle.”

“I’m not taking the blame for any delay,” says the witch.

“Great-Uncle will understand.”

A carriage arrives to bring them back to Ushket. Artolo would prefer to ride – sometimes, when riding fast, it’s almost like flying on Great-Uncle’s back again. But the witch is exhausted, and she’s too useful to neglect.

It’s dusk by the time the carriage reaches Ushket. After curfew, and they speed through empty streets to the citadel.

The citadel in Ushket was once a provincial fort, home to a small garrison of troops. The prefect of Ushket province dwelled here. For a few chaotic weeks after the fall of Ilbarin City, the citadel was the seat of the government, when senators and prefects came scrambling up the Rock in search of higher ground and shelter from the Godswar. There’s still a government in exile, off in Paravos, but the only law in Ushket now is his word.

“It’s not the dragon I’m worried about. He’s bringing the Dentist.” The witch removes one of her gauntlets and scratches at the flaking skin beneath. Her fingers come away bloody. “I don’t like him. And I’ve never heard of anyone leaving the alchemists’ guild in Guerdon, other than in a gilded coffin. They seal their secrets with wax, aye?”

“Vorz is ash-marked, as are you. Vorz serves the Ghierdana loyally. As should you.”

“You think an oath and a pinch of ash means anything to him?”

“It means something to you, does it not?”

She falls silent. Sits back, her armour creaking, and stares out at the discoloured sea. Soil from the mountain has stained it a ruddy shade. The witch holds her hand up, examines it in the light. Most of the skin has long since withered or burned away, exposing the muscle and sinew beneath. Bizarrely, the ornate tattoos on her wrists and the back of her hands are unaffected. She reminds Artolo of the ruined goddess he killed earlier. If he struck the witch hard enough, would she too crumble into dust leaving behind only a tracery of tattooed flesh?

Sorcery is a quick route to power, if you’ve got the talent for it. If you’re willing to light your soul on fire. Artolo flexes his ghost-fingers. He could kill the witch with one blow in the right spot. Drive those ghostly fingers into her throat, for instance. Even if her sorcery-ravaged windpipe didn’t collapse, she’d be unable to speak, unable to cast a spell. She’s physically weak for all her power. What’s the point of power without endurance? She needs to be sheltered. Like the long gun – very powerful, very precise. A wonderful piece of engineering and alchemy, but easily broken.

He clears his throat. “Why do you fear Vorz?”

“I don’t fear. But either he’s not as clever as he thinks he is…” She scuffs a bit of dead goddess with her shoe. “Or he is, and that’s even scarier. He’s dangerous, boss. I want to stay clear of him.”

“Find Thay for me, and I shall protect you.”

“I’m working on it. Divinations take time. I can’t just read a pile of guts.” She sounds irritated. “It’d be easier if you didn’t have the whole island looking for her. It stirs up the aether, creates all sorts of echoes. You should leave it with me. Martaine and the rest are needed in the camp.”

“Don’t bother with your spells, then. Conserve your strength. The dogs in the street will find her.”

“No. I can do it. I’ll do it.”

CHAPTER TEN

It’s double shifts down at the docks all week, working night and day clearing warehouses contaminated by the fire at Dredger’s yard. Baston brings down the breathing masks from the raid and hands them out to the dockers working on the worst afflicted areas. It’s a risk, but he’d prefer to field awkward questions about the masks than watch some poor bastard vomit the dissolved remnants of their lungs up. Baston knows all about necessary evils, about justifying violence to himself. He tried to scrub his conscience clean many times over the years, working for the Brotherhood in the bad times. He told himself that the Brotherhood could still be a force for justice, a way to kick back against the oppressive rulers of the city. He told himself that those he hurt deserved it; they’d broken some rule of the streets, and so brought their suffering on themselves. He could tell himself, maybe, that the burning of Dredger’s yard was an accident, and that he shares no blame for what happened.

All excuses fall hollow in the end, though, and so all week he takes the hardest work on himself, wading into tainted floodwaters to scoop up deposits of alchemical gunk with gloved hands. He works through the night until they send him home.

At the blackened ruins of the yard, the guild alchemists have erected a containment screen of some silvery cloth that glows in the dawn light, as if the New City has spawned a new district. Wearily, he makes his way back through the streets of the Wash, in the shadow of the temples. In Cloud Mother’s floating sanctum, they greet the dawn with torches, setting fire to the