Ravenor Returned

  ‘And you come in and clean house once I’m gone?’

  ‘Simply put,’ said Sankels. He held out his hand, palm up. ‘So?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Your resignation, Deputy Rickens?’

  ‘You honestly thought I’d fold and make it that easy for you, Sankels?’ Rickens said.

  The head of Interior Cases coloured slightly and withdrew his hand. ‘Don’t do this,’ he breathed through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t even begin to–’

  ‘I am an officer of the Imperial Magistratum,’ Rickens said. ‘Sworn to uphold civic law and the justice of the Emperor of Mankind. I protect the codes and practices that make our common freedom possible. I am not going to stand aside and make things easy for you.’

  Sankels turned away and then snapped back round again, aiming a finger at Rickens’s face. Rickens didn’t flinch. ‘You don’t even begin to comprehend what you’re dealing with!’ Sankels shouted.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Rickens agreed calmly. ‘I have absolutely no idea what is going on, what great darkness Interior Cases is closing ranks to conceal, except that my department has clearly stumbled on something important and has therefore been selected to take the fall.’

  ‘You–’

  ‘I’ll finish what I’m saying, Sankels. I know your department’s close connection to the Ministry of Subsector Trade, I know your close co-operative relationship with the chief provost. I don’t question that the attempt on Provost Trice’s life the other night was an act to be deplored by us all. I accept there may be matters of confidence, state secrets that I cannot be party to. But I will not allow my department to be sacrificed. If I resign, there will be no process of inquiry. No impediment to the swift and total disintegration of Special Crime.’

  Rickens took a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. ‘I have been in correspondence today, sir, with the Justiciary, the Advocate’s department, and the office of the Subsector Arbites. I have consulted with legal counsel. If I refuse to resign, you’ll have to impeach me or charge me. Either way, there will be a thorough legal examination of this matter. No cover up. No conspiracy. If the accusations levelled against this department, and the men and women who serve it, are true, you will have to evidence those facts and develop a case that the Justiciary can try. If we’re guilty, let us be found guilty. I will not be party to a backroom coup and the indiscriminate usurpation of constitutional process by a department that, in my opinion, is too powerful already. Interior Cases is part of the law, Sankels, not above it.’

  ‘And you’ll refuse to resign quietly, just to prove that point?’

  ‘I won’t budge, Sankels. I see it as my duty to the Throne itself.’

  Sankels looked Rickens up and down slowly. ‘Investigation and trial will destroy you, Rickens. Your reputation, your good name. I was trying to spare you the shame and ignominy.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what you were doing at all,’ Rickens said. He walked past Sankels and headed for the door. ‘I’m going home now. Tomorrow morning, I have the first of what I imagine will be a considerable number of meetings with Justiciary counsel in preparation for your investigation. They will of course require access to all the files and digital documents you removed from this office. And I’m sure that one of their first recommendations will be for me to contact the Officio Inquisitorus Planetia to inform them of the impending legal action.’

  Sankels started to say something, then closed his mouth.

  ‘Good night to you, sir,’ said Rickens, and left the room.

  Sankels stood alone for a moment, then took his hand-vox from its belt pouch. He selected a secure channel.

  ‘This is Sankels. I’m going to need a meeting with the chief provost at his earliest convenience.’

  Orfeo Culzean was sipping nettle tea and reading when the fraters called upon him unannounced. It was early evening, and the climate in the Regency Viceroy suite had been notched up to counter the inclement weather outside. Culzean sat at a desk, surrounded by old manuscripts, ancient documents recorded in slate-form and crumbling books. The current volume under inspection was written in a xeno script, and he was having to hold up a bulky brass translation viewer in front of his eyes like opera glasses. The simivulpa was playing under his chair.

  Orfeo Culzean had almost filled the memory of a data-slate with notes from his reading. Enuncia. He wondered if it could possibly be true.

  ‘The fraters have come to see you,’ Leyla Slade said.

  Culzean lowered his viewer. ‘Now?’

  ‘Shall I tell them you’re not available?’

  ‘No, I am in their employ. Show them in. But, Leyla?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Lurk, please.’

  She nodded. She showed the fraters in.

  ‘Frater Arthous. Frater Stefoy,’ Culzean said as he rose to his feet.

  The men bowed. Not so much respect today, Culzean thought. Their real eyes were patched.

  ‘We look upon you, Orfeo Culzean,’ said Stefoy.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Culzean said. ‘Would you care for refreshment?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Arthous. He took a small piece of folded silk out of his pocket with his scarred fingers and unwrapped it. In the centre was the buckled piece of focus ring.

  ‘For your collection, as requested.’

  Culzean took it and examined it. ‘Wonderful. Thank you. But I can’t believe the two of you came here just to give me this.’

  ‘No,’ said Stefoy. ‘The magus-clancular asked us to attend you and update you on the prospect.’

  ‘As per your advice,’ Arthous said, ‘the Fratery has been examining the meniscus to see what determiners may have changed, and how this may effect the likelihood of the prospect.’

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the percentage likelihood has not declined. Indeed,’ said Stefoy, ‘it may have increased. Though still living, Trice may have been altered as a determiner.’

  ‘I expected as much. Trice will be fearful, and cautious. That will stay his hand, and to our advantage. Good. I’m pleased.’

  Arthous took out a piece of paper. ‘Also one of the newer determiners has been read as becoming significantly more important during the last ten hours.’

  ‘Indeed. A negative?’ asked Culzean.

  ‘No, a positive,’ replied Arthous.

  Culzean took the paper and read it. ‘This name again. Do we know who it is? Who it means?’

  ‘We’re looking into that now,’ replied Stefoy.

  ‘Belknap,’ Culzean murmured to himself. ‘Belknap…’

  The good doctor had gone for the day, Kara was asleep, and Miserimus was quiet. Carl Thonius left his whirring cogitators and the wall of pasted index cards for a moment and walked about the halls and landings of the house to clear his head and loosen his limbs.

  He felt ill, and he knew why. He tried to put it out of his mind, but it nagged. The need, pecking at the shell of his resolve. It should never have got like this, he thought to himself. Never. He was a fool and if he didn’t stop he would be found out and everything would–

  Everything would be bad.

  Carl paused in front of a full-length mirror in the hallway. He saw himself, looking tired, sort of ill. His skin was pale and dry, his eyes shadowed. But still, he thought, I cut quite a dash. The black tunic coat and trousers, the black boots, a subtle look today, though that subtlety was perfectly counterpointed by the cazurite brooch on his lapel.

  Then he thought about what he was doing. Looking in a mirror. Looking in a mirror, in a mirror, in–

  He tried to look away, but the feeling had dug too deep already. He walked into his room, opened a locked compartment in his trunk, and took out one of the parcels wrapped in red tissue paper.

  He unwrapped it, his hands shaking, drew a deep breath, and looked down into the flect. What marvels this time? What rapture would–

  He went blind. No, not blind. Deaf. No, not deaf–

  Falling. He was falling. Th
ere was a pit filled with the darkest smoke of Old Night, and the flicker of forgotten suns, spinning into oblivion, and an ochone moaning that crackled like an untuned vox.

  And there was something there in the darkness, swooping around him as he fell into the infinite, his mouth screaming but making no sound.

  Something pale and cold, yet burning, something anguished and spavined, something old.

  Something so dreadful. Sheer, inarticulate terror infected Carl Thonius like a disease and snorted like a beast behind his eyes.

  His blood froze solid, crackling in his veins. His heart seized, a dead, leaden weight in his chest. His eyes caught fire.

  And he died.

  Seventeen

  A terrible, stunning blow struck the back of his head. It was the floor. He lay on his back, twitching, gurgling, then went still.

  Seconds passed with glacial slowness. The cogitators clicked and hummed, auto-processing. Lamplight glinted off the open riddle box and the shattered flect on the floor.

  With a sudden gasp, Carl sat up. He panted furiously, blinking. He tried to remember where he was. Who he was. There was a terrible taste in his mouth.

  He looked around, and began to remember. There on the floor beside him, the broken flect.

  ‘Oh, gods…’ Thonius mumbled. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

  He pulled himself to his feet. His skin was gooseflesh, his clothes cold and lank with sweat. He tried not to think of the things he’d witnessed in that moment. Stupid! STUPID!

  ‘Bad trip,’ he said out loud in a shaky voice. ‘That’s all it was. Bad trip. Your own stupid fault…’

  He bent down and collected up the pieces of the broken flect, wrapped them in the tissue paper and hid them in his luggage.

  Suddenly, he snapped round. How long had he been out? He looked at the chron on the desk. An hour. He’d lost an entire hour at least.

  Something cried out and made him jump. For a second he thought it was the lamenting moan that had called out to him as he’d fallen into the pit and–

  There was no pit. No darkness. No moaning. He breathed hard to control his panic. That had all been a dream, just a spasm in his mind. Everything was okay.

  The cry came again. From along the hall.

  ‘Shit!’ Carl said. ‘Skoh!’

  Thonius unlocked the door and looked in. Skoh sat on the chair staring at him.

  ‘About time,’ he said. ‘I’ve been calling. Calling for ages.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now. What’s the problem?’

  Skoh raised his manacled hands. ‘Same as usual. Cramps.’

  ‘I thought the doctor gave you a liniment?’ said Carl.

  ‘For my skin, not the cramps,’ said Skoh.

  ‘All right.’ Carl walked into the room until he was just beyond the reach of the floor chain. ‘You know the drill. Show me.’

  Skoh raised his hands, to show that both of the heavy steel manacles were locked tight around his wrists.

  Carl took the key from his pocket and tossed it to Skoh. The hunter caught it, undid his cuffs and began to rub his wrists.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Carl.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Skoh replied, flexing his aching joints.

  ‘Now,’ said Carl.

  With a glare, Skoh locked the manacles back in place again. He tossed the key back to Carl.

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with your nose?’ Skoh asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Skoh said, nodding his head at Thonius. Carl felt at his face, saw the red on his fingertips.

  ‘Damn it!’ he said and went out, slamming the door and locking it. He hurried to the hall mirror. His nose was bleeding freely, and his eyes were hideously bloodshot. ‘Oh, Throne…’ he whispered.

  Feaver Skoh waited a few seconds, then slipped his hands out of the cuffs. He had re-locked them loose, but even so it skinned his knuckles pulling them off. The doctor’s greasy liniment helped. Without that lubrication…

  He went to the door, knowing it was locked. No time for caution now. This was the chance, the fleeting chance.

  Skoh was a strong man, and desperation made him stronger. One kick smashed the door out of its frame.

  Carl turned at the crash. Skoh was already moving, charging him like a bull. The hunter body-slammed into Carl and drove him back into the wall, shattering the mirror. Carl tried to fight Skoh off, but the other man was much more powerful. He slammed Carl into the wall again, then punched him in the face. Carl flew backwards, hit the jamb of the doorway opposite and fell to the floor, unconscious.

  Skoh thought for a second about finishing the job. It would be a pleasure to kill the bastard interrogator. But he knew there wasn’t time. If the others were about, they’d have heard all this. He ran for the stairs, flying down them.

  In pyjama pants and a singlet, Kara emerged from her room. ‘Carl? What the hell’s going–’

  She saw Skoh leaping down the staircase.

  ‘Damn it, no!’ she yelled, and ran after him, ignoring the pain in her belly. Skoh had a good lead. He was in the hall before she was even halfway down the stairs. Seeing her, he turned and hurled a hall chair at her. She ducked, and it broke against the heavy banister.

  Skoh was at the front door, throwing the deadbolts, and then he was out, onto the path, into the cold grey evening.

  Barefoot, in agony, Kara pursued him. Onto the street, the wide, quiet avenue. No traffic, no pedestrians. Just the high, ivy-clad walls of the neighbouring mansions, streetlamps, alarm posts.

  Even hurt, she was fast. Sprinting furiously, she began to close the distance on the fleeing man. He couldn’t escape. He simply couldn’t. It would blow everything.

  They reached the street corner. Kara was close enough to grab him now, but as she clawed out, her foot slipped on wet leaves and she fell sideways against a wall.

  Kara howled. Something had torn – Belknap’s perfect stitching, probably. She tried to rise, but she couldn’t. The pain was awful. Blood was soaking the front of her singlet.

  Skoh was disappearing down the street.

  Carl Thonius leapt past her. Still running, he looked back. His face was a bloody mess. ‘Get back!’ he yelled. ‘Get back and secure the house! Call the others!’

  ‘Carl!’

  ‘Do it! I’ll get Skoh!’

  One hand on the wall, the other wrapped around her belly, Kara hobbled slowly back towards Miserimus.

  As per his habit, Dersk Rickens got off the rail transit a stop early, and walked the last two kilometres to his home. He’d done it for years, mainly to ensure he maintained a modicum of exercise in his life. But he also liked the surface level streets of Formal E at night. The busy cafés, the dining houses, the music halls along the Griselda Wall.

  It was dark now, the city lit up with yellow lamps, and there was a threat of rain in the air. Even so, he waved off the boy gampers who approached him as he came down Eisel Stack underwalk and limped up the steps onto the ironwork footbridge over the yawning hydroelectric canyon. There was no one on the bridge. A few spots of rain struck against the bridge’s tintglass roof. A cold night wind, scented with nitric acid, blew in through the sides of the bridge’s open framework.

  Rickens tapped his cane along the bridge deck.

  A figure appeared at the far end of the bridge and started to walk to meet him. The man was lean, well-dressed, and smoked a lho-stick in a long holder. His eyes, in the yellow cast of the street lanterns, seemed colourless.

  Rickens had been on the force long enough to be wary. His left hand closed on the snub he carried in his coat pocket. A mugging. Now that would be a perfect end to this particularly crappy day. Though the man looked too well dressed to be a mugger. Not the usual moody vermin.

  Walking, they came close, almost eye to eye, then passed each other.

  Rickens relaxed slightly. False alarm.

  The man suddenly stopped and turned. He called out, ‘Excuse me. Sir?’
/>
  Rickens halted, and turned back. ‘Yes?’

  The man was coming back to him, his expression one of curiosity. ‘Dersk Rickens? Am I right?’

  Rickens stiffened. ‘Well, this is more than chance. In a hive this size. A random meeting on an empty bridge. With someone who knows my name.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the stranger. ‘Nice to see the old instincts are still there. And thank you for confirming that your name is Dersk Rickens.’

  ‘I’m not smiling, son,’ said Rickens, sliding the safety off the weapon in his pocket. ‘Who sent you? Sankels?’

  ‘He put in a call, but he doesn’t have that kind of clout. Not even nearly. Only one man in this hive gives orders to the Secretists.’

  Rickens sniggered. ‘Well, that’s the stupidest name I’ve heard in a while. What, am I supposed to be afraid?’

  ‘Your choice,’ said Toros Revoke.

  ‘Relax, son,’ Rickens said. ‘I know what this is. A little scare tactic to make me change my mind and resign after all. I’ve been expecting it. Let’s get it over with. Make your threats, hit me if you intend to. I imagine your boss will want you to do that and I don’t want to get you into trouble. I just want to get home. So, come on.’

  Revoke smiled. ‘You think I’m here to put the frighteners on you? Dish out some intimidation to get you to be nice and play along?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Sorry, that moment’s long passed.’ Revoke clicked his fingers.

  Rickens heard a humming sound behind him. He turned. At the far end of the bridge, silhouetted against the lamplight, a tall, hunched man with long, straggly hair was spinning what looked like a bull-roarer.

  ‘All right,’ Rickens said. ‘If this is how you want it.’

  He pulled the gun, and raised it, but the man with yellow eyes had vanished. Rickens turned, aiming his weapon at the other figure, and advanced towards him. That damn thing in the man’s hand was still circling and humming.