Ravenor Returned

  ‘Let’s go and present ourselves,’ I said. We walked down to the gatehouse. Through the locked iron gates, we could see a dark space of lawn, and a path lined with enamel obelisks that led up to the mansion’s main doors.

  Kys rang the bell-pull. The three of us were wearing simple black suits and long coats of grey wool.

  ‘Who visits?’ the vox speaker on the gatehouse wall crackled.

  Kys leaned close to the speaking cone. ‘Department of Tithe and Tariff,’ she replied.

  ‘You said your name was Belknap?’ Kara asked. She was sitting in the chair beside her bed. Her cheeks were pale and drawn.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, adjusting the dials of one of the machines.

  ‘What you’re doing, all these tests. It’s very thorough.’

  ‘I’m a thorough person, Mamzel Swole.’

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘You were injured by a so-called vampire blade,’ Belknap said. ‘The injury is more than a stab wound. I need to run a complete biological audit to make sure there are no… secondary problems.’

  ‘You’ve stabilised the blade wound. It’s no longer a threat.’

  ‘Yes, but as I said, I need to–’

  Kara looked at Belknap. ‘There’s no need for the cover story, doctor. The fact you want to run more tests has nothing to do with the blade injury. You picked up on something else while you were treating that. I know.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So, go on.’ Kara stared at him, smiling.

  Belknap took a deep breath and handed her a display slate. ‘The expensive instruments your master has brought in don’t lie. You know what this is?’

  ‘I knew before the blade bit me,’ Kara said flatly.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course. I checked myself on a weekly basis using Unwerth’s autodoc.’

  ‘Who’s Unwerth?’ he asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she replied quickly. ‘What matters is I know what this is. Astroblastoma. Last year, I took a leap off a docking bay in a vacc-suit. Exposed myself to megawatts of rad. I hoped the suit was shielded.’

  ‘I don’t think it was.’

  ‘Seems so. How long have I got?’

  Belknap looked at the floor. ‘No more than six months, Mamzel Swole. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why, it’s not your fault. Treatments?’

  ‘The condition is terminal. You understand that? There are certain palliatives that can make you more comfortable. And angiogenesis inhibitors that buy you a little more time, although carcinomatosis has begun.’

  ‘The cancer’s spreading to other parts of my body, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Or you were so comprehensively irradiated you are developing multiple oncological responses.’

  ‘How long will I remain… active?’

  ‘With good fortune and the proper care, three or four months,’ Belknap replied. ‘Look, you need some rest now. I’ll come back tomorrow and we can discuss how we’re going to approach your treatment.’

  ‘We?’ Kara asked.

  ‘You’re my patient now,’ he said.

  Kara reached out a hand and caught him gently by the sleeve. ‘One thing, Master Belknap, more important than anything else. Please don’t tell anyone about this yet. Not my friends. Not Ravenor. Especially not Ravenor. All right?’

  Belknap nodded.

  Fifteen

  ‘You’re who?’ asked the housekeeper warily.

  ‘Department of Tithe and Tariff,’ Kys repeated politely. She showed the man her permit, and Harlon and I did the same. The man looked at them with some alarm, but seemed convinced. He ought to be. The permits were authentic. Carl had got them for us from the Informium itself.

  We had been let into the vestibule of Strykson’s home. It was gloomy and cold: though the day was grey and overcast, no interior lights had been switched on. There wasn’t any sound except the ticking of a longcase chron and the clack of rooks cawing reedily out in the damp gardens.

  ‘What is this about?’ the housekeeper said. In my opinion, he was the least convincing thing around. A hard bodied man in early middle-age, he seemed more like a guard than a housekeeper. His voice and gestures certainly lacked the poise and polish that might have been expected of a senior servant or butler.

  ‘We’ve been sent to undertake a surprise inspection of Master Strykson’s financial records,’ Kys said.

  ‘What? Why?’ asked the man.

  ‘We should discuss that with Master Strykson himself, or with a clerk who can legally speak on his behalf.’

  As Kys spoke with him, I looked into his mind and learned some basic facts. His name was Geren Felt and he was a member of Strykson’s house security. A few days earlier, following some incident in the hive – news of which had greatly distressed Strykson – the house staff had been scaled down to security personnel only. Felt had been ordered to act as housekeeper and answer any calls. Things were afoot, but Felt was too junior to be privy to what. All he was sure of was that he had to check the sudden arrival of Imperial tax inspectors with his superiors.

  ‘Wait here, please,’ he said and hurried off. He took our permits with him.

  +Strykson’s expecting trouble.+ I sent as we waited.

  +Figures.+ Kys answered. +He must’ve heard that Tchaikov’s dead by now, so he knows the cartel is potentially under threat. And he’s the most visible member.+

  I gently scanned the building. +There are eight people here with us. No, nine. A general sense of anxiety and suspicion directed at us. Tension.+

  I sensed Nayl about to place a hand under his coat.

  +No. I told you how we’d play this.+

  Nayl’s hand slid out.

  Felt returned. He didn’t have our permits, nor did he pass any comment on their absence. ‘This way, if you please.’

  He led us out of the vestibule, into a wide hall where a grand staircase rose above us, along another stretch of corridor, under an arch and into a large salon intended for the entertainment of guests. The short trip was illuminating to me. I sensed the primed sentry gunpods concealed behind the vestibule doors, auto-tracking our heat as we went by. I sensed the guard with the hellgun poised behind the side arch of the hall, and the other two guards, both armed with lasrifles, up on the staircase landing out of sight. I felt the heartbeats of the men concealed behind the salon doors, weapons drawn, ready to enter. I touched the hard metal shapes of remote-operated plasma beamers in the false wall behind the salon’s wood panelling, their focus-nozzles aimed at us. I saw the electromagnetic shimmer of the multiple security picters tracking us as we walked, and gently psy-blurred our features so they wouldn’t read cleanly.

  And I sensed the aide in an adjoining chamber, frantically checking our permits via a secure vox-link to Petropolis.

  +The house staff are all around us, armed and ready to spring. Automated weapons systems too, the house is wired. Be wary but show no sign. Let’s see how this plays.+

  ‘Uh, tea? Caffeine perhaps?’ Felt said awkwardly. From his agitated surface thoughts, I knew he had a sting-blunt tucked into the waistband of his trousers, though he wasn’t thinking about how quickly he could draw it. He was calculating which item of furniture in the room he should throw himself behind if things went awry.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Kys.

  We stood, waiting. I felt the tension swell to bursting point, the men hidden around us on a hair-trigger. I sent my mind back to the aide in the nearby chamber, watched as he spoke on the vox, read out our permit numbers, waited, and finally nodded.

  ‘They’re clear. Genuine,’ he called.

  The automated weapon systems switched to ‘safety’ and depowered. The waiting men stood down and retreated.

  +We’re fine.+

  Athen Strykson came into the salon.

  He was a tall, long-faced man with thin black hair and quick, intelligent eyes. He wore a well-tailored suit of selpic tarsh, and nodded to us politely.

  ‘I wasn’t told to expect a v
isit,’ he said. He had our permits in his hand. He waved Felt out of the room.

  ‘The department makes special visits from time to time. Unannounced. In our experience, notification of a visit sometimes gives a citizen undue opportunity for concealment.’ Kys smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry if this is inconvenient. You are Athen Strykson?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Can you tell me what this is about?’

  ‘You’ve recently taken up residence here on Eustis Majoris?’ Nayl asked.

  ‘I have. I’m retired. I bought this place nine months ago.’

  ‘Your previous employment was as a shipmaster?’ Kys said.

  ‘I was an owner-master. Seventy-nine years. Made my fortune, as they say, and came here to enjoy it. Look, my financial agents logged all my records with your department for the purposes of disclosure and estimation of tariff burden. Everything is in order.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Nayl. He opened the small black case he was carrying and took out a data-slate. ‘The finance agency you retain has been very forthcoming and thorough. However, we have found a discrepancy that they are unable to account for.’

  Strykson’s face darkened. ‘I do hope not. It cost me a significant sum to set up residency on this world. I did everything by the book, under advice. Paid what seemed like extravagant sums to the taxation department in recognition of my base worth. There were additional tariffs, settlement clauses, exchange considerations. Adopting the life of – aha – a simple citizen of this fine world cost me an exorbitant amount. Which I gave freely. I did not expect further swingeing demands to be made.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Kys said.

  ‘Though that is perhaps a matter you should take up with your finance agents,’ Nayl added.

  ‘We’re just doing our job,’ Kys said.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Strykson said, half-smiling and raising his hand. I had been probing him gently while the discourse distracted him. He was wearing a psy-blocker in a silver charm around his neck, a fairly powerful device, but nothing like strong enough to keep me out. By the time he was half-smiling and raising his hand, I had deactivated it and moved into his mind.

  What I found there was a curious mixture of annoyance and relief. Strykson had indeed been told about Tchaikov’s demise. He’d had a call from Akunin, warning him. Akunin had been furious, complaining that Trice had refused to meet with him to discuss the matter.

  ‘The bastard won’t take it seriously,’ Akunin had told Strykson. ‘He thinks Tchaikov fell foul of a black market rival. ‘

  ‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ Strykson had said.

  ‘We chose her in the first place because she was a genuine player,’ Akunin had said. ‘No underworld rival would dare go up against her. Just watch yourself, Athen. If someone’s on to us, you will be next. You’re the easiest one of us to find.’

  Scared, Strykson had sealed his house and waited for the worst. Our knock on the door had jarred his nerves. He’d come very close to panic. Now, as it seemed, he had an impertinent but authentic visit from the tithe department to deal with. His relief was considerable. He’d thought for a moment some nemesis – the sort of force that had slaughtered Tchaikov and her retinue – had found him. All the same, he was exasperated. He’d been assured, by the Ministry operatives who had overseen his settlement, that his tax affairs would not be subject to scrutiny by the Department of Tithe and Tariff. One more perk of Contract Thirteen.

  From his surface thoughts, I could read all the things that he thought had been covered up, all the things he was afraid might come out. Undeclared funds, sequestered shares, false business accounts, unpaid duty on–

  There we go. I didn’t want to rip into his mind and strip it. I didn’t want him to even know what I was doing. This form of telepathic manipulation was akin to hypnotism, to gentle persuasion, to suggestion. His brain whirling with financial concerns, he was ripe and ready to give everything up.

  ‘Master Strykson,’ I said, speaking for the first time. ‘There is the matter of mercantile process duty.’ I spoke the words, forming Mathuin’s voice into a smooth tone that would play mesmerically with a susceptible mind, but I also cast them, a telepathic echo to the speech. The echo was what really got under his skin.

  ‘Process duty?’

  ‘On the sale of your vessel, the Bucentaur. If the affidavits of fiscal gain and letters of dispensation signed by the agents are accurate, then the figures for anchorage tax and mercantile process duty are out by a factor of thirty-two per cent.’

  The true figure was twenty-six, but I wanted him to be alarmed. A startled mind is even easier to control.

  ‘Thirty-two?’

  ‘In wharfinger revenues alone, it is off by a margin of point nine. But mercantile process is our main concern, the department’s key area of discrepancy. The freight stamps are overdue by…’

  +Eight years.+

  ‘Eight years,’ said Nayl, pretending to consult his slate.

  ‘Eight years?’ Strykson said, sitting down.

  +And the tonnage band is wrongly declared.+

  ‘And the tonnage band is wrongly declared,’ Kys said.

  +The Bucentaur was a class seven.+

  ‘Because the Bucentaur was a class seven,’ she finished.

  ‘Throne,’ Strykson whispered. ‘What is the duty remaining?’

  ‘The duty outstanding at this time,’ I said, ‘allowing for interest, is…’

  +Is this, Athen. How long were you working for the cartel?+

  Still caught up in his financial worries, Strykson shrugged. ‘No more than four years.’ He thought he was telling us about freight stamps.

  +Who brought you in?+

  ‘Akunin and Vygold.’

  +How many runs did you make to the Mergent Worlds?+

  ‘Nine,’ Strykson murmured, believing he had just explained how hard it was to get the fiscal reserve to advance mortgage on a ship sale.

  ‘Yes, that is always a difficulty,’ I said aloud.

  ‘The sale was handled by the brokers of the Navis Nobilite,’ Strykson said. ‘Gods, this is terrible. I need caffeine. Do you need caffeine?’

  +You don’t need caffeine.+

  ‘I don’t need caffeine,’ he said, sitting down again, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, what did you just ask me?’

  +Why did you leave the cartel?+

  ‘I’d earned enough. I mean, more than I’d ever dreamed. I was tired of the void. It seemed like a good opportunity.’ He paused and looked up, puzzled. ‘Was I… was I just talking about why I retired?’ he said.

  I tightened my mental hold slightly, like a wrestler changing grips.

  +No, Athen. You were telling me who you worked for. Who organised Contract Thirteen.+

  ‘Oh well, it was Akunin’s show. Him and Thekla, to begin with. They brought the rest of us in. Akunin liked to boast that his orders came from Jader Trice. But Thekla once told me that was just what Akunin liked to say. Pretending he had a direct line to the chief provost. The actual orders came via the Secretists.’

  +Who are the Secretists?+

  Strykson looked up and smiled. In his mind, he was gleefully telling me how the Navis Nobilite brokers couldn’t be trusted with a decent ship-sale if their eyes depended on it. His mouth was saying, ‘I don’t know. That’s the point. The Secretists are secret. They enforce the will of the Diadochoi. They cover up and protect his actions. And they’re bloody good at it too. Throne, I wouldn’t want to cross one of them! I met one once, at a dinner. Revoke, his name was. Akunin’s chief contact. The man was a monster. A stone killer.’

  +What else can you tell me about this Revoke?+

  ‘Nothing, not much. Yellow eyes, that’s what I remember. Yellow frigging eyes…’ Strykson’s voice trailed off. As far as he would remember, he’d just said, ‘Never trust a broker. They don’t include windfall tariff in their estimates, and they try to claw thirteen per cent back at the sale.’

  +What is the Diadochoi?+

  ‘The heir. The successor
. The one that shall be.’

  ‘Is Jader Trice the Diadochoi?+

  Strykson laughed out loud and stood up. ‘Of course not! He’s just the chief facilitator! The Diadochoi’s right-hand man.’

  +Sit back down.+

  He sat, subdued suddenly.

  +The Diadochoi is someone more senior than the chief provost?+

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ Strykson said quietly.

  With Zeph’s eyes, I glanced at Kys and Harlon.

  +What is the purpose of Contract Thirteen?+ Kys sent seductively.

  Strykson looked up. ‘To obtain data engines from the Mergent Worlds, Spica Maximal particularly, and supply them to the Ministries here on Eustis Majoris.’

  +For what purpose?+

  Strykson blinked. ‘I honestly have no idea,’ he said.

  He wasn’t lying.

  ‘Let us consider your duty claims and compensatories,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, all right…’ sighed Athen Strykson.

  Sixteen

  Late afternoon, the city blurred by rain outside the windows. The Special Crime office should have been bustling at this hour. But Interior Cases had suspended everyone the morning before, and technicians had dismantled all the cogitators and taken them away, along with the mountains of paperwork and file cartons.

  The quiet was funereal. Even the air systems had been turned off. Rickens wandered the length of the main office space, his cane tapping. This was so wrong. In all his years of devoted service, he’d never…

  He heard a hatch open behind him, and turned. Sankels, big and barrel-chested in his service uniform, strode up between the empty desks until he was face to face with Rickens. Straight-backed compared to Rickens’s hunched posture, Sankels was significantly younger, taller and more massive than the deputy magistratum. He looked down at Rickens with hooded eyes.

  ‘You got my message?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rickens.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ Sankels said. ‘A man with your career record and good reputation, with retirement prospects. It makes sense. This is a dreadful mess, Rickens, and there’s no need to be dragged down with it. A quiet resignation, retirement on non-specific health grounds. Your pension will be secure. You’ll be clear of anything that transpires.’