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

He blows gently in her face, and the illusion dissipates like dust in the wind. Elshara scowls. “Damn, I can’t hold it.”

“An illusion.”

“A miracle of the Smoke Painter, Veiled Master, God of Revelation and Inspiration, Lord of Poets, Dweller in the Room Without Walls, Maker of…” She goes a little glassy-eyed as she recites the names, and he gently pokes her in the arm. She recovers and continues talking as if she’d never slipped into that near-trance. “I spent years shivering in the Beggar’s church, and never once did the Kept Gods answer any of my prayers. I thought I’d try another.”

“You hardly went without,” says Baston. This house on Hog Close is one of the largest in the Wash. Not the sort of wealth the Ghierdana have, but rich enough, thanks to the Brotherhood. Every time he visits, though, he spies some empty spot on wall or shelf that once held a treasure, now gone to the pawnshop. How much is she spending on necessities, and how much is on offerings to the gods? “And speaking of – do you need money?”

“Have the dockers started paying more than five coppers a day?” Elshara sniffs. “No, your sister came by earlier, so I don’t need anything. Fewer children hovering over me, maybe. I thought Karla had enough to do looking after you. She left a message for you, by the by, in case you called. Said to meet her at the Seamarket Arch at seven.”

“You’ve been talking about me.”

“Of course we have. We worry, Bas. It’s been a hard few years, but we’ll always take care of you.”

“I have to go.” Baston pauses at the top of the stairs. “You don’t need the smoke, you know.”

“You think I went to Smoke Painter’s temple out of vanity?” Elshara sounds hurt, but as always, Baston can’t tell if his mother is genuinely offended or putting on a dramatic performance of her woes. “There’s truth in the smoke. The priests have shown me visions.”

“A mad god’s ravings.”

“I can’t make you see, Bas. Only you can look into the smoke. Come down to the temple with me.”

“I can’t.”

She snorts. “What, are the boxes getting impatient?”

“I’ve other things to do.”

Elshara turns back to her shrine, throws more incense on the braziers. The smoke begins to braid around her face, again, and Baston wonders how long it will be before he no longer recognises her. She’s becoming as strange to him as the Wash, the gods of Ishmere taking yet more from him. Elshara waves her hand through the smoke, studying the shapes that form.

“Be careful, please,” she says, without looking at him.

He grunts. He’s not the one in danger.

“I mean it. I always told your father, you’ve got to be a ruthless bastard to hold on to power. Not everyone can do it. Your father, Mercies take his soul, he couldn’t. So I told him to stay close to the cleverest, cruelest bastard he could find. If you go up to the New City, Bas, make sure you do the same.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Elshara clucks her tongue. “You give me crow’s feet, you and Karla.”

A memory trails across Baston’s mind as he leaves Hog Close. It was back before the Armistice, before the Crisis. No New City rising across the skyline of Guerdon, no alien gods planting their nightmare twisted temples amid the ruins. He hadn’t recognised the Stone Man waiting for him outside in the dusk. No Stone Man would dare come up to Hog Close.

“Baston, we need to talk.” The words were ground out, like he’d got millstones in his throat.

“Gods below – Idgeson?” The face he’d known lost beneath scales, pebble-like scabs, sprouting plates of stone. Only the eyes were recognisable, staring out of that stony mask. “Heinreil’s looking for you.”

“Heinreil’s trying to kill me. He poisoned me. I’m not going to let him get away with it.”

“He’s not here, if you’re looking to kill him.” A part of Baston’s mind wondered if he’d be willing to kill his friend, and prayed Spar wouldn’t push it.

“I’m going to challenge him. For the title of Master.” Spar had to gasp out the words, the stone plates pressing on his lungs. He stamped on the ground, sending a shock running through his whole body, shaking the windows of Hog Close. The vibration shook some blockage loose, and he spoke more easily. “I’ll see him in Thieves’ Court. I know your father’s supported Heinreil in the past, and has done well out of it – but I’m asking you, Baston. It’s our Brotherhood now. We can make things better. It’s time for a change.”

“You’ll never get the votes. Heinreil’s too secure.” He tried to convince himself of that, tried to tamp down any embers of hope. The idea that Heinreil could go, that the Brotherhood could be redeemed…

“By tomorrow, I’ll have Tammur’s support,” said Spar. “I’ll have Tiske’s. I’ll have the Cafstans. And I’ve got something Heinreil doesn’t have – I’ve got a saint.”

“What saint?”

“Cari. She gets visions – of real things. She can see everyone’s secrets. Even Heinreil’s, soon. He won’t be able to hide anything from me. I can bring him down. It’s the right moment to turn the wheel.” Quoting his father’s writings. “Are you with me? Both of you?”

Baston glanced over his shoulder. Karla had followed him out, and stood there like a shadow, listening to Spar’s plea. “Hedan’s upstairs,” she whispered. “He’ll call Heinreil if he sees you, put the Fever Knight on your trail. You’ve got to go.”

“I’ll see you at Thieves’ Court.” Spar drew his hood back over his scaled head, stepped back into the shadows. Moving quietly despite the stone.

“Spar,” Baston called after him, “I’m with you.” He never knew if Spar heard him.

Two nights later, Spar challenged Heinreil at Thieves’ Court, and won. But Heinreil had an insurance policy – a bargain with the Crawling Ones. The best of the Brotherhood died that night in a barrage of death spells.

Baston wasn’t