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

the other Crawling Ones that infested the city. Their malignity is something other than the crazed fervour of the gods – it’s a slow rot, a cancer. There’s a horrible inevitability about it. Everyone knows that the sorcerers of Khebesh are the best at sorcery, just like Guerdon’s alchemists are the best in the world, far beyond their competitors in Ulbishe or Paravos. What will happen when the worms get into the Vault of whatever-it-was and eat the knowledge of the dead archmages? How much stronger will the Crawling Ones become?

But if she doesn’t take the deal, what then? Spar dies, she probably dies here on Ilbarin when the Ghierdana find her, and the worms find some other way in. The next pilgrim seeking Khebesh might not hesitate. What should I do? she thinks. She wishes she could ask Spar, even though she knows what he’d say. Spar would tell her that it’s too dangerous to give the Crawlers such power, that he should do the honourable, self-sacrificing thing instead. He’d martyr himself, and say something inspiring about his father Idge.

You martyring yourself is how we got here, she snaps. I’m saving you no matter what. What’s the value in thinking through the consequences, in considering the morality of your action, if your conclusion is that it’s wrong, but you have to do it anyway?

Her hand hovers over the casket, her fingers flexing, unable to decide.

It’s Adro who jumps up, Adro who grabs the casket, stuffs it roughly into his pocket. “It’s a deal? Right, Cari?”

“Fuck it. Deal.”

The carriage can’t cross the mud of the shore. Artolo climbs down and strides across the muddy slope towards the wreck of the Rose. Werelights glow on the deck – the witch must still be there. Ropes trail over the side of the hull, and it’s clear from the footprints that most people took that route up on to the deck, but with his maimed hands it’s denied him, because of Carillon Thay. He searches until he finds a breach in the hull and squeezes his broad shoulders through, makes his way through the stinking bowels of the wreck. It’s pitch-black and he has to shove his way through the debris, kicking and pushing junk out of the way until he finds the cramped stairs up to the deck.

Dol Martaine rushes over to him like a hound greeting its master, licking the bleeding stumps of Artolo’s fingers. Too eager. Too eager by half.

“We got a tip-off, boss, but it didn’t pay off.” He jerks a thumb towards an old man sitting on the deck. “Just some crazy hermit. God-touched, I’ll wager. Seeing things that aren’t real.”

Artolo ignores him. “Hands,” he says to the witch, “now.”

The witch recites the spell, and the ghost-fingers awake. Strength runs through his hands.

“She was here,” whispers the witch.

“You’ve searched the ship.”

“She’s gone. I’ll find her. You need to focus on the yliaster supply. The dragon will be—”

Artolo turns away. He picks up the old man, ghost-fingers gripping the collar of his priestly robes. The old man’s mumbling to himself, snatches of a prayer to the broken gods of Ilbarin.

“Hawse, yes?”

“Blessed be the Lord of Waters. My soul shall sail over calm seas until the Bythos carry me down to the fathomless palace.”

Artolo strikes the old man in the face, but he keeps mumbling through broken lips. A fanatic. It’ll take time to break him. He drops Hawse at the feet of another Eshdana – Rauf, he recalls.

“Hold him. Make sure he doesn’t run off. Or die.”

Rauf’s a little slower than he should be, wary of laying hands on a holy man. Infuriating – he should fear Artolo, not the broken gods. All these bastards need reminding who rules Ilbarin. It’s because of his fingers. They don’t respect a maimed man. They don’t respect him because of Carillon Thay.

“Martaine,” snaps Artolo, “search the shore. She was here. Find out where she went.”

“First light, we’ll sweep the shore.”

“Now.”

“It’s too dark, boss.”

Artolo takes a breath. More and more, it feels like he’s wrestling with the whole of Ilbarin, like the whole island is conspiring against him. Godhusks, foot-dragging workers, cursed weather. Crops that won’t grow, ships that won’t sail, alchemical machines that break down. Every time he pins one problem down, another sprouts, and the only tool left to him is fear.

Very well. He’ll make them scared.

“Oh? It’s light you need, is it?” He grabs Martaine, spins him around, ghost-fingers seizing the smaller man by the wrist, arm locking across Martaine’s neck. He bends Martaine’s sword arm back painfully. “Witch! Burn this fucking ship.”

The witch raises her hand, makes an arcane gesture. Blue flames flicker in the captain’s cabin, then catch on the piles of salvaged books. Artolo force-marches Martaine over to the burning pile and shoves his face towards the flames. “You belong to the Dragon! You don’t question my orders! You belong to me!”

Martaine struggles, but Artolo’s too strong for him. “I’ll find her! I’ll find her!” whimpers Martiane. Artolo drops him to the floor, kicks him in the side, lets him crawl away. Martaine’s men, the witch’s men, all Eshdana, all gathered in a gaggle around the deck, faces lit by the dancing firelight, all watching Martaine’s humiliation. Artolo roars at them. “You think the ash-mark means you’re safe? You’re mine, too! I can put you back in the camps! Make you dive until your lungs burst! If any of you want to get off this stinking rock, you’ll do as I say. Find her! Go!”

Led by a limping Dol Martaine, they scramble down the side of the ship.

Artolo’s left alone with the witch. The fire’s blazing now; the whole cabin’s aflame. Soon, it’ll consume all the rotten timbers of the Rose. It bathes his left side in uncomfortable heat. He can only imagine how hot it must be inside the witch’s metal suit. All that exposed brass and steel, next to the open flames.

Servants, he can break. Martaine, he can hurt. The witch requires special