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

to the invaders is the god-bomb in the sky, depicted as a pure, searing light. The giant form of Pesh seems ephemeral in comparison to the alchemists’ bomb.

He also notes that the frame of that huge painting is decorated with silver leaf and sapphires. A fortune squandered on extravagant folly that only a handful will ever see, while people starve in the shadow of those dark walls. In the painting, Pesh’s gigantic feet trample the familiar streets of the Wash.

Baston’s hand brushes against the painting. He hides a second pebble of stone in the frame.

The footman brings them to another double door and shows them into Mandel’s chamber. The room is long – you could fit Craddock’s whole building in here twice over – and lit by glowing panels of gold that cast patterns of light shimmering over the polished tiles of the floor. Marble walls rise in flowing shapes to meet in the arched ceiling overhead, giving the unsettling feeling of movement, as though the stone might without warning transmute to fluttering fabric. A dark-skinned scribe sits on a stool near the altar, scratching notes in a great ledger, but the shifting light makes it hard to see his face. Baston wonders if the creature is really a man at all, or something grown in a vat. Certainly, the scribe doesn’t react to their presence at all. Only his withered hands are clearly visible, moving ceaselessly across the page, recording everything.

Nothing is solid here, nothing certain except the great black altar of Mandel’s desk at the far end.

Mandel himself looks like a judge, white hair worn long enough to touch the collar of his dark suit. A golden amulet on his chest, the eye-and-cup of the alchemists his only adornment. Gloved hands steepled in front of him.

It’s all theatre, Baston guesses. All to make people feel small. He holds his head up, refuses to let the weight of Mandel’s gaze intimidate him. The Brotherhood will get you in the end, Baston promises silently, and we won’t need a picture to remember. Still, he finds his pace slowing, and has to fight the urge to bow his head. Instead, he sits in one of the two low chairs in front of the massive desk.

He slips a third pebble out of his pocket, tucks it into the lining of the chair.

Vyr draws his knife again, holds it up. “I am here as a representative of my cousin – and my Great-Uncle, Taras the Red. I speak for the Ghierdana.”

“Speak, then,” booms Mandel, his voice brassy and deep.

“We offer a simple arrangement. My family has secured a large supply of yliaster. We ask that you purchase all your yliaster through us, instead of your existing sources.

“My present arrangements are satisfactory to me. I have no interest in bargaining with you. Good day.”

“Ah,” says Vyr, “but our rates are cheaper. You shall profit greatly by agreeing.”

“Your supply comes from Ilbarin.” The scribe makes a note. “Much farther away than my existing sources of yliaster. Your rates cannot be cheaper – unless the dragon is subsidising the cost for his own ends. I have no intention of surrendering control of the guild’s yliaster to the Ghierdana.”

“Your—” Vyr’s voice cracks. He swallows, tries again. “Many of your competitors have already taken the dragon’s bargain, and you would be wise to do the same. It is better to be the dragon’s friend than his enemy!”

“The whelp threatens us, Tym,” laughs Mandel, and the scribe makes another note. “The whelp mistakes us for grubby dealers in scrap. Out of respect for the dragon – not you, and certainly not your cousin, who lacks the courage to come himself – I shall say this: the alchemists’ guild sees no profit in a pointless quarrel with the Ghierdana, but we shall not tolerate thuggery or insolence. Walk away now, whelp, and I shall forget you ever spoke so unwisely.”

Vyr opens his mouth like a gaffed fish, unsure of how to respond. Baston steps in. Time to growl, to be the savage brute that makes Vyr look reasonable and statesmanlike in contrast. He launches into a snarl, a rant, hunching his body forward like he’s about to fling himself across the deck and go for Mandel’s throat.

“In case you haven’t noticed, you fat prick, this isn’t the guild’s city any more. You’re not in charge. You’re fucked and you know it!” Baston’s intimidating enough for the scribe to lay down his pen, to raise his hand in a curious contorted gesture. He keeps going, droplets of spittle mottling the pristine surface of the desk, waiting for Vyr to say something, to lay a restraining hand on him or to interrupt him, but Vyr’s just sitting there gawping. Baston’s words keep coming, exploding like the siege charge. He rises from his seat, slams his hand on the desk. “You haven’t got parliament in your pocket. Your Hawkers lost last year, and you can’t buy enough votes to cover your shame. There’s a king up in Holyhill now, and every dog in the street knows he’s on our side, not yours. The Keepers are back, and they hate you, too. There are fucking mad gods squatting in the Wash. You don’t even have your candlejacks no more. This city hates you! The streets will rise and we will finish you!”

“Enough.” Guards in Mandel & Company livery flood from concealed side doors, faces masked by black helms.

Hands grab at Baston. He breaks them, twisting free, grabbing fingers, twisting them too, then driving his knee in hard enough to snap ribs. Elbows one man in the face, punches another.

He knows that this is stupid, but his blood’s up.

A fourth guard moves in – Baston grabs the chair he was sitting on, flings it towards the man, but the guard’s not there any more. The fucker moves far faster than any human could, ducking under the flying chair with easy grace, and now his too-soft, too-strong hands are at Baston’s throat, pushing him to the