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

if Baston had not seen his portrait downstairs. It’s Alic Nemon, minister for state security. Nemon gives Baston an encouraging little smile, then Sinter flings a chair in Baston’s direction.

“A week, you little shit! You were supposed to report in after a week!”

Baston stands, considers throwing the chair back at the priest with a lot more force. Instead, he rights the chair and sits. “I couldn’t get away, could I? The Ghierdana are watching me closely.”

“It’s unwise to lie to me,” advises Nemon, like he’s remarking on the weather. “We know you returned to the Wash on the evening after you visited Craddock & Sons.”

“The clue,” adds Sinter, “was when you set off a fucking siege charge in the middle of the Wash.”

Baston stays quiet. What is there to say?

“Talk, you little shit. Explain yourself.”

“Who sent that candlejack? The one that tried to kill Rasce?”

“The Ghierdana have many enemies,” says Nemon, blandly.

“That’s not an answer.”

Duttin dabs her bleeding fingertips with ointment. “As I explained when we first met, Mr Hedanson, my sole interest in this matter is keeping the Armistice intact. Your own actions severely imperilled it.”

“I nearly got killed, too,” Baston mutters.

“Martyrdom is no excuse for poor planning,” says Duttin, wincing as she applies her medicine.

“Idiot. If you want to die, that can be arranged with a lot less collateral-bloody-damage.”

“Out of curiosity, how did you escape the blast?” asks Nemon.

Do they know about Rasce? About Spar conjuring up a tunnel? Heinreil warned him to stay quiet, give nothing away. Is this what he was referring to? But how could Heinreil know, when he’s locked away in his prison cell?

“Ghoul-run. Out through the sewers.” Only half a lie.

“Rasce’s criminal acts so far, while distasteful, can be tolerated for the sake of peace,” says Duttin. “I was aware of the nature of the dragon families when I invited them in. However, a move into the Fog Yards is impermissible. Guerdon’s alchemical industry requires a secure supply of yliaster, and it cannot be monopolised by a foreign power. The ambition of the Ghierdana must be curtailed.”

The sight of the three bastards in front of Baston makes his anger swell, blood pulsing through his frame. They’re the worst of Guerdon made flesh, injustice and cruelty given form. Duttin stinks of money and alchemy; Nemon’s part of the corrupt parliament, and Sinter’s a Keeper priest. He can imagine the three of them agreeing to carve up the city, to hand the Wash over to the mad gods.

Nemon continues. “Tell him that you saw Heinreil. Tell him that it was a fruitless meeting, that Heinreil said there’s no viable way into Mandel & Company. Slow him down. Give him nothing.” He stares intently at Baston, his piercing eyes incongruous in his doughy, unremarkable face. Some insect picks its way down Baston’s spine. “Do you understand?”

He nods. Plays dumb, plays the whipped dog.

“I’ll tell him there’s no way in.” He swallows his anger, even though it’s spiky and bitter going down his throat.

Nemon stands. “I must leave. I’ll talk to the alchemists’ guild and bring the new guildmaster to heel.”

“Very well. Sinter and I shall finish up here.”

Nemon looks back at Baston for a moment. “My blessing upon you,” he says, and then he’s gone, slipping out through a side door.

“Let the fuckers run to Ulbishe,” mutters Sinter. “The city would be the better for it.”

Duttin rubs her eyes. “We need the alchemists, just as we need the dragons – and the Kept Gods. We must work with the tools we have, no matter how unreliable. Mr Hedanson, I trust you will leave peaceably, and I shall not have to exert myself again.”

“Who sent that jack?” he asks again. “Was it you?”

Sinter grins, a mouthful of broken teeth like a graveyard. “There was a time,” he says wistfully, “when I’d have sent Aleena Humber or Holger Carlson to do a job like that, ’stead of some ratty candle. Make sure your boss stays on his side of the border, boy, or there’ll be worse coming.”

“Our previous arrangements stand. Report back in via the aethergraph in the tailor’s shop. Once the danger from the Ghierdana is contained, we shall reward you commensurate with your service,” says Duttin. “Oh, one final question. I’ve had reports of…” She shakes her head, rephrases the question. “Have you seen or heard anything that might suggest Carillon Thay has returned?”

“No,” replies Baston, and it’s the only wholly honest word any of them have spoken in the entire conversation.

Baston finds Rasce in the house on Lanthorn Street, lying back on his couch, clad in a silken dressing gown. His eyes are closed, but he’s awake. Dreaming awake, guesses Baston, wandering the New City in his mind.

“You just missed your sister,” says Rasce dreamily, without looking up. He smirks in response to some comment only he can hear. “Spar wishes to know what tidings you bring from the old master. Did Heinreil speak of him?”

“Not really.” The casual nature of the question makes it uncomfortable. Baston can get his head around the concept of some spirit or ghost of his friend haunting the New City, and he’s lived in the occupied zone long enough to be familiar with the supernatural intruding into the mortal world. But spirits are supposed to be distant and inhuman, to talk in riddles and prophecies, not talk like this. His gaze flickers nervously around the room, unsure where to look.

Stick to business. It should be safer footing, but it’s all tangled up with Eladora Duttin and that priest and their secret threats. The urge to confess wells up in him. He owes Duttin and her coterie no loyalty, but he doesn’t know how Rasce would take the admission.

He could take the ash. If he swore an oath to the Ghierdana, then he’d have some protection from Rasce’s wrath. He’d be fully on the inside then – and it’s not like he’d be alone. He’s brought half the old Brotherhood up to the New City, and they’re all ash-marked