Cameron Johnston - God of Broken Things

“Are you finished looting the corpse?” Layla said. There was no disapproval in her voice, just impatience.

“One second.” I cut free both magi’s money pouches and then pocketed them. “I earned this.” Layla kept watch while I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, picturing Cillian in my mind.

It was still tricky for me, this new magical technique. I’d only discovered it after my body and Gift had healed (more or less) from their traumas. I no longer had the control I’d once had in keeping out other people’s thoughts and emotions but I could also reach out further than ever before, but only with people I knew well or whose heads I’d already been inside.

I opened my Gift wide and the world rushed in. Layla was a snarl of anger and loss. Hazy blobs all around denoted sleepers and drunks whereas others felt razor-sharp as they padded down alleys with knives at the ready. Late as it was, the Crescent was filled with thought and emotion. Burning lust. Keenest loss. Terror. Pain. Joy. Love. It was almost overwhelming. Almost. I bit my cheek and used the pain to centre myself. I resisted the pull of myriad minds and reached up towards the Old Town on its high rock, to where the spired domes of the Collegiate now served as the beating heart of the Arcanum. I couldn’t see any of that of course, it was more like blindly groping my way around dead rock up towards bright stars of living minds.

I homed in on the familiar, finding Councillor Cillian awake, and judging from the faint images flickering through her tired thoughts, in bed reading ancient stone tablets by crystal-light. She had been waiting up for me. I felt her jerk straighter at my touch, but I didn’t dare do more than politely knock on the doors of her mind.

Cillian’s mind slammed shut and barred the gates, only allowing us to speak through the smallest of peepholes. I couldn’t blame her; Cillian knew exactly how untrustworthy I was. I’d lied to her for the better part of twenty years after all. After my return from self-imposed exile I’d earned back some small measure of respect, but then I’d gone right ahead and abused the writ she had just given me to let her sleep, but oh well, if she got some rest it was well worth it.

Alvarda Kernas is dead, I projected. Though his parasite may still live. He murdered Vivienne Adair and tried to kill me.

Vivienne was innocent? she thought.

Hardly. I dumped the entire confession into Cillian’s mind. It really was a superior method of communication. Her immediate flash of dread was only to be expected. If Vivienne’s devices had helped bring down the Templarum Magestus then the Collegiate was also vulnerable.

Alvarda was not alone , I projected. Who is this? I sent her the face of the youngling I’d disabled.

Rikkard, second son of High House Carse. I could almost feel the political wheels turning in her head. Will he live?

Perhaps, if you can remove the Scarrabus from his body. Even then I doubt he’d ever be whole again. Personally I’d use him to torture the creature for information. The infestation of his body must work both ways, and we only have the two of them.

There was a long pause as my once-idealistic and principled former friend Cillian wrestled with her role as a councillor of the Inner Circle. Duty won, as it always would with her. Are you certain you can learn more of our foe?

I opened my eyes and glanced at Layla. She had a satisfied smile on her face, revelling in striking a small blow against those who had murdered her father. From the darkness in her eyes and heart, it was far from enough. She was more like me than either Lynas or Charra would have liked.

At heart I would always be a creature of the Docklands, growing up running with street gangs and alchemic dealers. I’d made my first kill at an age when Cillian was still cooing over doll’s pretty dresses and I’d never had any qualms doing what needed to be done to survive. Can I be certain? No. I mentally shrugged. But it’s not like you have any other sources of information to hand. This magus was nothing to me.

Stay where you are. I will send wardens to bring all of you to Shadea’s quarters. Quarters? Bloody politicians always had to put the best face on things. It was such an unassuming word for that terrifying old crone’s dungeon. Hundreds of daemonic creatures, rogue magi and blood sorcerers had met their end in there under her questing knives. Parts of them sat pickled in jars for future research. A few months back I had almost joined them.

Your wish is my command, most esteemed councillor.

Her anger was less than I’d expected. Don’t push me, Edrin. Most of the Arcanum would sleep better with you dead. I’m still not entirely convinced they are wrong.

But pushing it was instinctive; I couldn’t help but slip that last little dig. That twisted present from my old mentor turned god, Archmagus Byzant, just kept on giving. I choked back a further needling quip. He’d meant to get me killed to purge the Arcanum of the dangerous tyrant in their midst, and I refused to give that lying old shitebag the satisfaction. Wherever he was now, I hoped he was in fucking agony. He was missing with the rest of our gods and I hoped he’d stay that way. From what I’d seen, Krandus was doing a decent job as our new Archmagus. He seemed willing to put his fear aside and give me an honest chance, which was more than most in this damnable city.

I said nothing and broke contact. We were both thankful.

Layla glanced at the corpses and the unconscious magus. “What now?”

“They’re sending men to scoop up this dung and cart it up to the Collegiate. You’d better make yourself scarce – I doubt wardens will be overjoyed at the sight of an assassin standing over dead magi.”

She smiled and set her mask back in place. “Always a pleasure, Walker. Let me know what you find out. I’m happy to take care of any more of these little problems you uncover.”

I nodded. Sod Arcanum secrecy, she had a right to know. Layla was the closest thing to family I had left and the only person I trusted to cover my back. Old Gerthan and Cillian were friendly enough, but their loyalty to the Arcanum was burned into their minds and magically enforced by the Forging. If they truly thought me a great threat they would burn me to ash without a second thought.

As Layla slipped away into the shadows I searched the ground in vain for any sign of the smoke that had fallen from my lips during the fights. A quick search through my pockets for any other wayward smokes that might be hiding turned up empty. I cursed and savagely kicked Alvarda’s corpse, then turned the collar of my coat up and stuck my hands deep into my pockets, waiting there freezing my arse off while the wardens and their cart took a sodding age to arrive.

Shadea’s workshop was built into the very foundations of the Collegiate. Her macabre collection of specimens was squeezed into a sprawling series of arched tunnels and vaulted chambers dimly lit by flickering wall crystals, where they still remained operational; Arcanum artificers were more concerned with reconstruction than replacing drained lighting in disused dungeons. Her research subjects floated in glass jars lining the walls: daemonic eyes and organs of creatures from the Far Realms sitting next to the twisted flesh of human magi who had given into the seductions of the Worm of Magic and let it change them. All were sorted by creature type and meticulously labelled in Shadea’s elegant script with date and circumstance of acquisition, then their name if they’d had one.

One empty jar in the corrupted magus section caused me to misstep. I stopped and stared at the jar labelled Convicted Tyrant: Edrin Walker . I snorted. “Stinking old hag, getting ahead of yourself there I think.” I’d always known she had her eyes on my bits and pieces.