The Broken Kingdoms
Page 88

“Dump!” a young girl cried. “People in the yard! Rexy told ’em to get the hells out and they hit him! He’s bleedin’!”
Abruptly I was jostled as Dump shoved the girl into the little alcove with me and Shiny. “Stay there,” he commanded. “I’ll go take care of ’em.”
I squirmed around the girl. There wasn’t much room for her, but she was small. I pushed at her; she was all lanky bones and ragged clothes. “Lord Dump, be careful! The scrivener I told you about, his magic—”
Dump made a sound of annoyance and vanished.
“Damn it!” I pounded my good fist into Shiny’s unresponsive leg. If Dateh was among the Lights who had come looking for me, or if they had another arrowhead made from demons’ blood…
“Hey,” said the girl, annoyed. “Shove the dead guy, not me.”
Dead, dead, uselessly dead. I couldn’t say he hadn’t warned me, though; this was why he’d wanted me stronger before we attempted the escape. So that I could leave him behind? For a moment, the possibility turned in my thoughts. If the Lights didn’t find him, Shiny would return to life and make his own way in the city, however he’d done it before meeting me. If they did find him… Well, perhaps he would slow them down enough for me to escape.
Even as I thought it, though, I knew I couldn’t do it. As much as I wanted to hate Shiny for his self-absorption and his temper and his miserable personality, he had loved Madding, too. For that alone, he deserved some loyalty.
In the meantime, I needed help. I couldn’t count on Dump returning. I had no way to reach mortal aid. If I could summon another godling to help, or better still…
My first thought was so repellent that I actually had trouble considering it. I forced myself to do so, anyhow, because Shiny had said it himself: there was one god who would want to deal with his children’s killers. Yet I also knew from my people’s history that Lord Nahadoth would not stop there. He might decide to wipe out the Lights by wiping out the entire city of Shadow, or perhaps the whole world. He was already angry, and we were nothing to him—worse than nothing. His betrayers and tormentors. It would probably please him to see us all die.
The Gray Lady, then. She had been mortal and still showed some concern for mortalkind. Yet how could I reach her? I wasn’t a pilgrim, though I had exploited them for years. To pray to a god—to get a god’s attention—one had to thoroughly understand that god’s nature. I didn’t even know the Lady’s real name. The same went for nearly all of the godlings I could think of, including Lady Nemmer. I didn’t know enough about any of them.
Then an idea came to me. I swallowed, my hands suddenly clammy. There was one godling whose nature was simple enough, terrible enough, that any mortal could summon her. Though the Maelstrom knew I didn’t want to.
“Move,” I said to the girl. Muttering, she slipped out, and I crawled one-handed out into the open. The girl started to crawl back in, but I caught her bony leg. “Wait. Is there anything around here like a stick? Something at least this long.” I started to lift both arms, then gasped as the muscles of my bad arm cramped agonizingly. I finally approximated the gesture with my good arm. If I had to flee, I would need some means of finding my way.
The girl said nothing, probably glaring at me for a second or two; then she slipped out. I waited, tense, hearing the sounds of battle in the distance—adult shouts, children’s screams, debris crashing and splintering. Disturbingly close. That the fight had lasted this long with a godling involved meant there were either a lot of Lights, or Dateh had already gotten him.
The girl came back, pressing something into my hand. I felt it and smiled: a broomstick. Broken off and jagged at one end, but otherwise perfect.
Now came the hard part. I knelt and bowed my head, taking a deep breath to settle my thoughts. Then I reached inside myself, trying to find one feeling amid the morass. One singular, driving need. One hunger.
“Lil,” I whispered. “Lady Lil, please hear me.”
Silence. I fixed my thoughts upon her, framed her in my mind: not her appearance, but the feel of her presence, that looming sense of so many things held in precarious containment. The scent of her, spoiling meat and bad breath. The sound of her whirring, unstoppable teeth. What did it feel like to want as she did, constantly? How did it feel to crave something so powerfully that you could taste it?
Perhaps a little like the way I felt, knowing Madding was lost to me forever.
I clenched my hand around the broomstick as my heart flooded with emotion. I planted the jagged end of it in the dirt and fought the urge to weep, to scream. I wanted him back. I wanted his killers dead. I could not have the former—but the latter was within my grasp, if I could only find someone to help me. Justice was so close I could taste it.