На город Гвердон надвигается Божья Война. Безумные боги Ишмиры собираются разрушить храмы, уничтожить вражеских святых и завладеть душами. Шпион из Ишмиры проникает в Гвердон в поисках Божьей Бомбы, сопровождая мальчика-святого, связанного с Ткачом Судеб. Великие Дома и разведывательные службы Хайта ведут борьбу за возможность сотрудничества с Гвердоном. Эладора Тай старается избежать внимания богов, поскольку святость приносит не благодать, а страдания, разрушающие как душу, так и тело....
Намечалось героическое противоборство. У смертных здорово получаются героические противоборства. Пока бог не наклонится пониже и не смахнет их с глаз долой.
Ты снискала святость, вот и наслаждайся, мама. Богам в тебя вливаться уже, наверно, не так и трудно - ведь душу-то ты потеряла.
Черта между божественным промыслом и откровенной придурью в Ишмире давным-давно стерта.
“Sorcery,” says Ramegos, “is a perfectly healthy mental exercise, with only a small chance of self-immolation.”
“The knife wounded you, but the bullet didn’t?” She shrugs. “Some saints can teleport, some get flaming swords. I’ve got a city with a martyr complex looking out for me.”
“Ah, Mr Idgeson, I know that your father and Mr Kelkin had considerable disagreements once upon a time.” “Kelkin had his dad executed, but, sure, considerable disagreements.”
The people of Guerdon are unsophisticated when it comes to divine intervention – they live in a land of Kept Gods and the dregs of the Godswar. A magic crown appearing to some distant heir? That’s mere sleight-of-hand compared to the real wonders the gods can perform. If the kings of old clawed their way out of the tombs, or if every member of parliament suddenly fused together into a fleshy giant that bestrode the city, carrying Castle Hill as a shield and waving the three cathedrals as a trident, then the spy might be impressed.
Olthic said she was at the Palace of the Patros, but he can’t show up at the gates and ask for her. Excuse me, I’d like to talk to my sister-in-law. You can’t miss her, she just manoeuvred her pawn onto your throne to seal her own coronation. Can she come out and play?
That is a fucking heresy. To imply that the gods are not all-wise and all-knowing. To suggest that sainthood's a matter of bad luck and circumstance, like getting caught out on the moor by a sudden storm and getting hit by lightning - it's shameful.
The city's like a big machine, right, an engine rattling along the tracks. If you keep it fuelled and oiled, bread and money and shit, and don't fuck with the levers too much, it'll run along nicely as long as the tracks stay safe.