City of Last Chances by Adrian Tchaikovsky EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author Name: Adrian Tchaikovsky
- Book Genre: Adult, Dark Fantasy, Epic Fantasy, Fantasy, Fiction, Science Fiction, Science Fiction Fantasy
- ISBN # 9781801108423
- Edition Language: English
- Date of Publication: 2022-12-8
- File Format: PDF / EPUB
- PDF / EPUB File Size: 6.3 MB
Yasnic’s Relationship with God
Yasnic the priest. Thin and not young, though not quite old. Half lost in clothes tailored
for a larger man in the voluminous Ilmari style. Face hollow, hair greying before it
should, thinning, creeping back from his temples like an army that, seeing its opposition
is time, no longer has the will to fight…
That morning, God was complaining again. Yasnic lay crunched up in bed,
knees almost to his chin and his feet twined together. Trying to tell from the
way the light filtered in through the filthy window whether the frost was
just on the outside, or on the inside again. He could have put a hand out to
touch the panes and check. He could have put a foot out and kicked out at
God. Or the far wall. It was, he decided, a blessing. A small room held his
body heat longer. If he’d been able to afford anything larger, then he’d have
needed a hearth and to buy wood or coal, or even magical tablethi, to heat
the place.
“It’s cold,” God said. “It’s so cold.” The divine presence was curled up
on His shelf like an emaciated cat, and about the same size. He had shrunk
since the night before, and perhaps that, too, was a blessing. Sometimes
Yasnic could do with a little less God in his life, and here he was this
morning, and God was smaller by at least a quarter. He gave thanks, his
knee-jerk reaction ingrained from long years of good upbringing from
Kosha, the previous priest of God. Back when Ilmar had been a more
tolerant place, and old Kosha and Yasnic and God had lived in three rooms
above a tanner’s and had meat at least once a twelveday.
Not a twelveday, he reminded himself. The School of Correct Exchange
was levying fines and making arrests for people using the old calendar, he’d
heard. He had to start thinking in terms of a seven-day week, except then he
couldn’t look back on the way things had been and quantify the time
properly. How often had they had meat, back when he’d been a boy
learning at Kosha’s knee? What was seven into twelve or twelve into seven
or however it might work? His mathematics weren’t good enough to work it
out. And so, obscurely, it felt as though a swathe of his memories was
locked away by the new ordnances. Also, he’d just given thanks to God that
he had less God in his life, and God, the recipient of those thanks, was right
there and staring at him accusingly.
“I need a blanket,” said God. “It’s only the beginning of winter, and it’s
so cold.”
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