‘Of course we will, Ibram,’ he said.
Boniface rolled his wheelchair into the side of the room and engaged the lateral cogs with the toothed trackway which spiralled up around the shelves. He turned a small handle and his chair started to lift up along the track, raising him up in widening curves over the boy.
Boniface stopped at the third shelf up and took out a book. ‘The strength of the Emperor…? Finish it.’
‘Is Humanity, and the strength of Humanity is the Emperor. The sermons of Sebastian Thor, volume twenty-three, chapter sixty-two.’
Boniface wound his chair up higher on the spiral and selected another book.
‘The meaning of war?’
‘Is victory!’ Gaunt replied eagerly. ‘Lord Militant Gresh, Memoirs, chapter nine.’
‘How may I ask the Emperor what he owes of me?’
‘When all I owe is to the Golden Throne and by duty I will repay,’ Gaunt returned. ‘The Spheres of Longing by Inquisitor Ravenor, volume… three?’
Boniface wound his chair down to the carpet again and swung round to face Gaunt. ‘Volume two, actually.’
He stared at the boy. Gaunt tried not to shrink from the exposed gristle and tissue of the half-made face.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘How did my father die? No one’s told me, not even Un–I mean, General Dercius.’
‘Why would you want to know, lad?’
‘I met a boy in the cloisters. Blenner. He knew the passing of his parents. His father died fighting the Enemy at Futhark, and his mother killed herself for the love of him.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Scholar Blenner’s family were killed when their world was virus bombed during a genestealer insurrection. Blenner was off-planet, visiting a relative. An aunt, I believe. His father was an Administratum clerk. Scholar Blenner always has had a fertile imagination.’
‘His use of live rounds? In training? The cause of his punishment?’
‘Scholar Blenner was discovered painting rude remarks about the deputy high master on the walls of the latrine. That is the cause of his punishment duty. You’re smiling, Gaunt. Why?’
‘No real reason, high master.’
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle and fizz of the high master’s suspension field.
‘How did my father die, high master?’ Ibram Gaunt asked.
Boniface clenched the data-slate shut with an audible snap. ‘That’s classified.’
PART FOUR
CRACIA CITY, PYRITES
One
THE IMPERIAL NEEDLE was quite a piece of work, Colonel Colm Corbec decided. It towered over Cracia, the largest and oldest city on Pyrites, a three thousand metre ironwork tower, raised four hundred years before, partly to honour the Emperor but mostly to celebrate the engineering skill of the Pyriteans. It was taller than the jagged turrets of the Arbites Precinct, and it dwarfed even the great twin towers of the Ecclesiarch Palace. On cloudless days, the city became a giant sundial, with the spire as the gnomon. City dwellers could tell precisely the time of day by which streets of the city were in shadow.
Today was not a cloudless day. It was winter season in Cracia and the sky was a dull, unreflective white like an untuned vista-caster screen. Snow fluttered down out of the leaden sky to ice the gothic rooftops and towers of the old, grey city, edging the ornate decorations, the wrought-iron guttering and brass eaves, the skeletal fire-escapes and the sills of lancet windows.
But it was warm down here on the streets. Under the stained glass-beaded ironwork awnings which edged every thoroughfare, the walkways and concourses were heated. Kilometres below the city, ancient turbines pumped warm air up to the hypocaust beneath the pavements, which circulated under the awning levels. A low-power energy sheath broadcast at first floor height stopped rain or snow from ever reaching the pedestrian levels, for the most part.
At a terrace cafe, Corbec, the jacket of his Tanith colonel’s uniform open and unbuckled, sipped his beer and rocked back on his black, ironwork chair. They liked black ironwork here on Pyrites. They made everything out of it. Even the beer, judging by the taste.
Corbec felt relaxation flood into his limbs for the first time in months. The hellhole of Fortis Binary was behind him at last: the mud, the vermin, the barrage.
It still flickered across his dreams at night and he often woke to the thump of imagined artillery. But this – a beer, a chair, a warm and friendly street – this was living again.
A shadow apparently bigger than the Imperial Needle blotted out the daylight. ‘Are we set?’ Trooper Bragg asked.
Corbec squinted up at the huge, placid-faced trooper, by some way the biggest man under his command. ‘It’s still early. They say this town has quite a nightlife, but it won’t get going until after dark.’
‘Seems dead. No fun,’ Bragg said drearily.
‘Hey, lucky we got Pyrites rather than Guspedin. By all accounts that’s just dust and slag and endless hives.’
The lighting standards down each thoroughfare and under the awnings were beginning to glow into life as the automated cycle took over, though it was still daylight.
‘We’ve been talking–’ Bragg began.
‘Who’s we?’ Corbec said.
‘Uh, Larks and me… and Varl. And Blane.’ Bragg shuffled a little. ‘We heard about this little wagering joint. It might be fun.’
‘Fine.’
‘’Cept it’s, uh–’
‘What?’ Corbec said, knowing full well what the ‘uh’ would be.
‘It’s in a cold zone,’ Bragg said.
Corbec got up and dropped a few coins of the local currency on the glass-topped table next to his empty beer glass. ‘Trooper, you know the cold zones are off limits,’ he said smoothly. ‘The regiments have been given four days’ recreation in this city, but that recreation is contingent on several things. Reasonable levels of behaviour, so as not to offend or disrupt the citizens of this most ancient and civilised burg. Restrictions to the use of prescribed bars, clubs, wager-halls and brothels. And a total ban on Imperial Guard personnel leaving the heated areas of the city. The cold zones are lawless.’
Bragg nodded. ‘Yeah… but there are five hundred thousand guardsmen on leave in Cracia, clogging up the star-ports and the tram depots. Each one has been to fething hell and back in the last few months. Do you honestly think they’re going to behave themselves?’
Corbec pursed his lips and sighed. ‘No, Bragg. I suppose I do not. Tell me where this place is. The one you’re talking about. I’ve an errand or two to run. I’ll meet you there later. Just stay out of trouble.’
Two
IN THE MIRROR-WALLED, smoke-wreathed bar of the Polar Imperial, one of the better hotels in uptown Cracia, right by the Administratum complex, Commissar Vaynom Blenner was describing the destruction of the enemy battleship, Eradicus. It was a complex, colourful evocation, involving the skilled use of a lit cigar, smoke rings, expressive gestures and throaty sound effects. Around the table, there were appreciative hoots and laughs.
Ibram Gaunt, however, watched and said nothing. He was often silent. It disarmed people.
Blenner had always been a tale-spinner, even back in their days at the Schola Progenium. Gaunt always looked forward to their reunions. Blenner was about as close as he came to having an old friend, and it strangely reassured him to see Blenner’s face, constant through the years when so many faces perished and disappeared.
But Blenner was also a terrible boast, and he had become weak and complacent, enjoying a little too much of the good life. For the last decade, he’d served with the Greygorian Third. The Greys were efficient, hard working and few regiments were as unswervingly loyal to the Emperor. They had spoiled Blenner.
Blenner hailed the waiter and ordered another tray of drinks for the officers at his table. Gaunt’s eyes wandered across the crowded salon, where the officer classes of the Imperial Guard relaxed and mix
ed.
On the far side of the room, under a vast, glorious gilt-framed oil painting of Imperial Titans striding to war, he caught sight of officers in the chrome and purple dress uniform of the Jantine Patricians, the so-called ‘Emperor’s Chosen’. Amidst them was a tall, thickset figure with an acid-scarred face that Gaunt knew all too well – Colonel Draker Flense.
Their gaze met for a few seconds. The exchange was as warm and friendly as a pair of automated range finders getting a mutual target lock. Gaunt cursed silently to himself. If he’d known the Jantine officer cadre was using this hotel, he would have avoided it. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation.
‘Commissar Gaunt?’
Gaunt looked up. A uniformed hotel porter stood by his armchair, his head tilted to a position that was both obsequious and superior. Snooty ass, thought Gaunt; loves the Guard all the while we’re saving the universe for him, but let us in his precious hotel bar to relax and he’s afraid we’ll scuff the furniture.
‘There is a boy, sir,’ the porter said disdainfully. ‘A boy in reception who wishes to speak with you.’
‘Boy?’ Gaunt asked.
‘He said to give you this,’ the porter continued. He held out a silver Tanith ear hoop suspiciously between velveted finger and thumb.
Gaunt nodded, got to his feet and followed him out.
Across the room, Flense watched him go. He beckoned over his aide, Ebzan, with a surly curl of his finger. ‘Go and find Major Brochuss and some of his clique. I have a matter I wish to settle.’
GAUNT FOLLOWED THE strutting porter out into the marble foyer. His distaste for the place grew with each second. Pyrites was soft, pampered, so far away from the harsh war-fronts. They paid their tithes to the Emperor and in return ignored completely the darker truths of life beyond their civilised domain. Even the Imperium troops stationed here as a permanent garrison seemed to have gone soft.
Gaunt broke from his reverie and saw Brin Milo hunched under a potted ouroboros tree. The boy was wearing his Ghost uniform and looked most unhappy.
‘Milo? I thought you were going with the others. Corbec said he’d take you with the Tanith. What are you doing in a stuffy place like this?’
Milo fetched a small data-slate out of his thigh pocket and presented it. ‘This came through the vox-cast after you’d gone, sir. Executive Officer Kreff thought it best it was brought straight to you. And as I’m supposed to be your adjutant… well, they gave the job to me.’
Gaunt almost grinned at the boy’s weary tone. He took the slate and keyed it open. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘All I know, sir, is that it’s a personal communiqué delivered on an encrypted channel for your attention forty–’ He paused to consult his timepiece. ‘Forty-seven minutes ago.’
Gaunt studied the gibberish on the slate. Then the identifying touch of his thumbprint on the decoding icon unscrambled it. For his eyes only indeed.
‘Ibram. You only friend in area close enough to assist. Go to 1034 Needleshadow Boulevard. Use our old identifier. Treasure to be had. Vermilion treasure. Fereyd.’
Gaunt looked up suddenly and snapped the slate shut as if caught red-handed. His heart pounded for a second. Throne of Earth, how many years had it been since his heart had pounded with that feeling – was it really fear? Fereyd? His old, old friend, bound together in blood since–
Milo was looking at him curiously. ‘Trouble?’ the boy asked innocuously.
‘A task to perform…’ Gaunt murmured. He opened the data-slate again and pressed the ‘Wipe’ rune to expunge the message.
‘Can you drive?’ he asked Milo.
‘Can I?’ the boy said excitedly.
Gaunt calmed his bright-eyed enthusiasm with a flat patting motion with his hands. ‘Go down to the motor-pool and scare us up some transport. A staff car. Tell them I sent you.’
Milo hurried off. Gaunt stood for a moment in silence. He took two deep breaths – then a hearty slap on the back almost felled him.
‘Bram! You dog! You’re missing the party!’ Blenner growled.
‘Vay, I’ve got a bit of business to take care–’
‘No no no!’ the tipsy, red-faced commissar said, smoothing the creases in his leather greatcoat. ‘How many times do we get together to talk of old times, eh? How many? Once every damn decade it seems like! I’m not letting you out of my sight! You’ll never come back, I know you!’
‘Vay… really, it’s just tedious regimental stuff…’
‘I’ll come with you then! Get it done in half the time! Two commissars, eh? Put the fear of the Throne Itself into them, I tell you!’
‘Really, you’d be bored… it’s a very boring task…’
‘All the more reason I come! To make it less boring! Eh? Eh?’ Blenner exclaimed. He edged the vintage brandy bottle that he had commandeered out of his coat pocket so that Gaunt could see it. So could everyone else in the foyer.
Any more of this, thought Gaunt, and I might as well announce my activities over the tannoy. He grabbed Blenner by the arm and led him out of the bar.
‘You can come,’ he hissed, ‘just… behave! And be quiet!’
* * *
Three
THE GIRL GYRATING on the apron stage to the sounds of the tambour band was quite lovely and almost completely undressed, but Major Rawne was not looking at her.
He stared across the table in the low, smoky light as Vul-nor Habshept kal Geel filled two shot glasses with oily, clear liquor.
Even as a skeleton, Geel would have been a huge man. But upholstered as he was in more than three hundred kilos of chunky flesh he made even Bragg look undernourished.
Major Rawne knew full well it would take over three times his own body-mass to match the opulently dressed racketeer. Rawne was also totally unafraid.
‘We drink, soldier boy,’ Geel said in his thick Pyritean accent, lifting one shot glass with a gargantuan hand.
‘We drink,’ Rawne agreed, picking up his own glass. ‘Though I would prefer you address me as “Major Rawne”… racketeer boy.’
There was a dead pause. The crowded cold zone bar was silent in an instant. The girl stopped gyrating.
Geel laughed.
‘Good! Good! Very amusing, such pluck! Ha ha ha!’ He chuckled and knocked his drink back in one. The bar resumed talk and motion, relieved.
Rawne slowly and extravagantly gulped his drink. Then he lifted the decanter and drained the other litre of liquor without even blinking. He knew that it was a rye-based alcohol with a chemical structure similar to that used in Chimera and Rhino anti-freeze. He also knew that he had taken four anti-intoxicant tablets before coming in. Four tabs that had cost a fortune from a black market trader, but it was worth it. It was like drinking spring water.
Geel forgot to close his mouth for a moment and then recovered his composure.
‘Major Rawne can drink like Pyritean!’ he said with a complimentary tone.
‘So the Pyriteans would like to think…’ Rawne said. ‘Now let’s to business.’
‘Come this way,’ Geel said and lumbered to his feet. Rawne fell into step behind him and Geel’s four huge bodyguards moved in behind.
Everyone in the bar watched them leave by the back door.
On stage, the girl had just shed her final, tiny garment and was in the process of twirling it around one finger prior to hurling it into the crowd. When she realised no one was watching, she stomped off in a huff.
IN A SNOWY alley behind the club, a grey, beetle-nosed six-wheeled truck was waiting.
‘Hocwheat liquor. Smokes. Text slates with dirty pictures. Everything you asked for,’ Geel said expansively.
‘You’re a man of your word,’ Rawne said.
‘Now, to the money. Two thousand Imperial credits. Don’t waste my time with local rubbish. Two thousand Imperial.’
Rawne nodded and clicked his fingers. Trooper Feygor stepped out of the shadows carrying a bulging rucksack.
‘My associate, Mr Feygor,’ Ra
wne said. ‘Show him the stuff, Feygor.’
Feygor stood the rucksack down in the snow and opened it. He reached in. And pulled out a laspistol.
The first two shots hit Geel in the face and chest, smashing him back down the alley.
With practiced ease, Feygor grinned as he put an explosive blast through the skulls of each outraged bodyguard.
Rawne dashed over to the truck and climbed up into the cab.
‘Let’s go!’ he roared to Feygor who scrambled up onto the side even as Rawne threw it into gear and roared it out of the alley.
As they screamed away under the archway at the head of the alley, a big dark shape dropped down into the truck, landing on the tarpaulin-wrapped contraband in the flatbed. Feygor, hanging on tight and monkeying up the restraints onto the cargo bed, saw the stowaway and lashed out at him. A powerful jab laid him out cold in the canvas folds of the tarpaulin.
At the wheel, Rawne saw Feygor fall in the rear-view scope and panicked as the attacker swung into the cab beside him.
‘Major,’ Corbec said.
‘Corbec!’ Rawne exploded. ‘You! Here?’
‘I’d keep your eyes on the road if I were you,’ Corbec said glancing back, ‘I think Geel’s men are after a word with you.’
The truck raced on down the snowy street. Behind it came four angry limousines.
‘Feth!’ Major Rawne said.
Four
THE BIG, BLACK staff-track roared down the boulevard under the glowing lamps in their ironwork frames. Smoothly and deftly it slipped around the light evening traffic, changing lanes.
Drivers seemed more than willing to give way to the big, sinister machine with its throaty engine note and its gleaming double-headed eagle crest.
Behind armoured glass in the tracked passenger section, Gaunt leaned forward in the studded leather seats and pressed the speaker switch. Beside him, Blenner poured two large snifters of brandy and chuckled.
‘Milo,’ Gaunt said into the speaker, ‘not so fast. I’d like to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible, and it doesn’t help with you going for some new speed record.’