Free The Iron Ship by K. M. McKinley

something.
    “Tell us about Res Iapetus and the driving of the gods!” said another.
    “Hush, hush now, I’m telling this, not you, and tales of old Res put me out of sorts. Where was I?” He hunkered down conspiratorially. The crowd’s members drew in closer, many dragged their stools over as close as they could to Eliturion’s table. Conversation tailed off to a murmur, then an attentive quiet, rich with belches and winy breath. “There have been those of my priests, when I still had priests, who maintained stories have a force of their own, that they are separate from what, for wont of a better term, I am forced to call by modern sophists, ‘reality’, although from my perspective it’s all much the same. These priests had it that stories are dangerous things. Far more than a novelty or a moral message, they become something separate, a law to themselves, an artistic rather than objective truth that is as powerful as a stone cold fact. Not a lie, not at all. A subjective actuality, if you will, with a power all its own.” He paused. “It’s all shit, but a pretty idea.”
    “You’re drunk!” shouted someone.
    “And so are you,” the god retorted, pointing a finger. “But I have wisdom enough to know what I am talking about, whereas you are a nincompoop. And tomorrow I’ll still be drunk.” The crowd laughed. “Stories catch people up in them, yes; in the wildest sense people and stories feed off each other—people push stories onto one another, and so stories inform the fate of nations. A mage pushes his will onto the world by telling himself lies so convincing they become true, and so all stories have their power. The fundamental of it is that without people there would be no stories at all. You people give the world form through stories, and that makes people the more important to me, you understand? The world sometimes looks like it works to the rules of every legend you ever read, but who’s to say it isn’t the other way round? Because it is; I should know.
    “It’s just that the ‘world’—not that I like the exclusivity of that term either—is a damn sight more complicated than you people will ever understand. Your appreciation of what this”—he cast his eyes heavenward and gestured to the rafters. Three dozen pairs of eyes rolled up, and saw stars among the smoke there—“this bauble of a universe is, is defined by the stories you tell to explain it. And by that I mean your creeds, you sciences, your philosophies, your faulty, faulty memories and recollections...”
    “Eh?” said somebody. Someone else farted. Acclaim and disgust were shouted equally at him.
    “What? What do I mean?” he shouted at the man who said “eh?” “Why, you goodman are a collection of stories that you have told yourself, nothing more. On occasion, your stories embrace a greater part of the truth, but never yet has one contained the whole, and never will one do so. That is why you will never understand, no more than the inhabitants of an anthill will understand the world beyond their nest, not matter how mighty tall it may become, or how involuted the motions acted out within.”
    “Rubbish!” shouted someone. Such barracking was also part of the ritual of the Nelly Bold, hallowed by time since the inn had been built, when Eliturion, small and broken, had come in, draggled by rain and rejection for his first drink.
    “People!” he declaimed, one fat finger in the air. “People tell stories. People are stories. People come first, and stories later. People are more important, that’s my opinion. I’m the god of fucking stories, and I know best.” He belched. The crowd cheered. “That’s probably why I am still here when my brothers and sisters are not.”
    “Give us a story, you old windbag!” shouted someone. Others laughed. The more sober they were, the more nervous their laughter. Most laughed fearlessly.
    Eliturion clapped. “You wanted a story, and then you shall have one. We are