Nayl shook his head. ‘I’ve spent the day there, Zeph. Know my way around at least a little. Better if it’s me.’
‘I find myself agreeing with Carl,’ I put in. ‘We don’t know where Kys is, so I don’t know how you expect to find her in a place that size.’
‘I don’t. You’re going to find her,’ Nayl said. ‘Don’t know how, but you’ll think of a way. And when you do find her, I’ll be right there, ready and waiting to get her out.’
With that, he left. We heard the main door slam shut.
‘Wystan,’ I said. ‘Let’s try it again.’
Frauka activated his limiter.
+Patience?+
No reply.
+Patience, where are you?+
Kys opened her eyes. It was cold. She was lying on the ground, on her side. In front of her, just a metre away, the foot of a whitewashed brick wall. The floor she was sprawled on was tiled with glossy white squares.
For a moment, she thought she was naked, until she realised she was wearing a thin gown of disposable paper, the type they sometimes gave patients in infirmaries. Her feet and legs were bare. Her hands were cuffed in front of her with heavy metal binders. She realised that the main reason she’d felt naked was because not a single erg of psy-power existed in her head. Her talent was gone, as surely and completely as when Frauka did his blunting trick.
She rolled over so she was facing into the room. A secure cell, definitely. Caged lights in the ceiling, a heavy gauge hatch in the opposite wall. A plain wooden chair on the floor next to her. Across the room, a man sat on an identical chair, facing her, his back to the door. He wore a simple, sober suit of dark grey with a black dress shirt. His pale skin was freckled and he had slightly thinning red hair.
As she rolled over, he reached a hand to his ear and activated what must have been a micro-bead comm-link.
‘She’s awake.’
Then he remained sitting there, staring at her.
After a couple of minutes, the hatch whirred open and an identically dressed man entered. He was a little taller, a little heavier than the first, paunchy around the waist, with cropped dark hair and the flat nose of a pugilist. He carried a paper sack in one hand, and a small, stubby actuator wand in the other, which he waved to close the hatch behind him. The freckled man got up, took the wand from his colleague, and went to stand by the door.
The dark-haired man sat down facing Kys, and held out one hand to indicate the empty chair beside her. Kys got up, unsteady at first, and sat on the chair.
The man looked at her. ‘Things sometimes aren’t what they seem,’ he began. ‘At face value, they’re one thing, but peer under the surface and you find all kinds of secrets. Luckily, secrets are what I and my friend here deal in. Secrets. We’re experts, you might say.’
Kys made no reply.
‘So you,’ the man went on. ‘At face value, you’re Junior Scribe Merit Yevins. You started work today in Administry Tower Three, department G/F1, station eighty-six.’ He reached into the sack and produced Kys’s permit. ‘Your documents check out. They’re not fakes or copies. We even ran them through the Informium. Merit Yevins. That’s you. So, what we appear to have is a junior scribe, who became unwell after accidental exposure to a subliminal whilst working at her station.’
Kys just stared back at him.
‘But there’s more to it, isn’t there?’ the man said. He put the permit back in the sack and lifted out the analyser. ‘You were found to be concealing this. Data-analyser, expensive model. That’s odd, isn’t it? Why would a junior scribe be transmitting data for analysis?’
The man dropped the analyser into the sack, rummaged around for a moment and then took out Kys’s hand-vox. ‘Then there’s this. Hand-vox. Common enough. So what? Well, this is odd too. It’s new. It was purchased locally not more than a week ago. And it’s been altered. Altered by someone who really knows his way around tech-priest stuff. No stored calling codes, which is funny, because everybody stores calling-codes. And it doesn’t log. It’s been fixed not to log. Outgoing or incoming, no codes get recorded. So there’s no way of telling who Merit Yevins calls or who’s been calling Merit Yevins.’
He looked at Kys for a moment, and when she made no reply, he continued. ‘So we’re really scratching our heads at this point, and then we find these.’ He put the vox back in the sack and took out something else. ‘They were laced into the hem of your jacket. Thin blades, without handles, seriously sharp. That’s a whole new level of odd. Then one of my colleagues here – and I might point out at this stage that the people I work with have all kinds of specialist knowledge – anyway, he says these are kineblades. Designed for use by adepts with telekinetic powers. So we scanned you. You were unconscious through all of this, by the way. And lo and behold, the scan reads you as a telekine. What’s more, the sort of telekine it doesn’t pay to mess with. So I’m thinking it’s very likely that you’re not Merit Yevins at all. Because Merit Yevins isn’t a trained combat telekine with access to these sorts of toys. Nor is she the sort of person with the expertise to persuade the Informium itself to lie about her identity.’ He smiled. ‘We still don’t know how you pulled that one.’
‘Incidentally,’ he said, putting the kineblades away and handing the sack to the freckled man, ‘we inhibited you. You must be able to feel that. Standard limiters, even lockable ones, can be removed or tampered with. So we injected a fluid suspension of micro-blockers directly into your bloodstream. You won’t be able to use your psychic powers again for at least another twelve hours.’
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Do you?’ Kys asked.
The man sat back and grinned. ‘All right, let’s play. I imagined we would. My name is Suldon. My pal here, his name is Brade. We are agents of the Ministry of Subsector Trade, though our agency is clandestine. We’re called secretists. You’re being detained in the secure wing of our headquarters. I tell you all this simply to demonstrate the hopelessness of your situation. No one knows where you are. No one is coming for you. Our powers of detention are entirely beyond Administratum law, as are our methods of interrogation. You will never see the outside world again. You are not likely to live more than a day or two. Everything you are, everything you were hoping to achieve, it’s all over and done with. Finished. The only thing you have left is the power to determine the quality of what remains of your life. Give us the information we need, and that quality will be relatively high. We’ll take care of your last few hours in a way that you will thank us for at the end. Obstruct us, and when that end comes, I promise you you’ll remember this moment, and loathe yourself for making the wrong choice.’
‘Do they train you in these techniques,’ Kys asked softly, ‘or were you born a silver-tongued bastard?’
The man was still smiling as he rose to his feet. ‘Girl, I make this crap up as I go along. Now, let me tell you what I think.’
‘Please,’ Kys said.
‘I think there’s a very good chance you’re an associate of Gideon Ravenor, the rogue inquisitor. We’re very keen to speak with him. Actually, that’s a lie. We’re very keen to kill him in the most painful and permanent way imaginable. I know it must be very hard to contemplate giving up a friend, betraying them and their confidences. Ravenor’s probably your mentor, right? Father-figure? Beloved leader? But I tell you what, you’ll be so grateful that you did.’
‘My name is Merit Yevins,’ Kys said.
Suldon pointed at her and winked. ‘I love it when they play hard-to-get. We can bring in a psyker any time, rip the truth from your boiling skull. But I have a better idea. It’ll involve a lot less mopping the floor.’
He looked at the freckled man. ‘Brade? Go get prisoner AA-15 and bring him here.’
Brade nodded, waved the actuator wand to open the door, and left.
‘You’re going to love this bit,’ Suldon told her. ‘Brace yourself. Don’t make this too easy for me.’ He took a palm-sized scann
er pad out of his jacket pocket. ‘Bio-metric reader,’ he said. ‘Set to register physiological changes like heart rate, pupil dilation, breathing fluctuations and skips in synapse activity. ‘
‘Truth reader,’ said Kys.
‘That’s right,’ Suldon nodded. ‘It reaction-scans even non-verbal responses. Don’t worry, it’s not for you.’
The hatch opened again. Brade re-entered. ‘In here,’ he said.
A small figure shuffled in behind him. He was shackled at the wrists and ankles, his depth of stride seriously restricted. His head was bowed. What was left of his uniform was torn, and from the bruises and dried blood caking his flesh, it was clear he had been severely beaten more than once in the last few days. Fresh purple contusions mottled older, yellowing bruises. Hideous gashes, each more than a week old, crusted the man’s chest and shoulders. Something had been used to sever the fourth and ring fingers of both his hands.
When he looked up, his face was a swollen black gourd of bruising and half-closed, bloodshot eyes.
Even so, he was still recognisable.
It was Shipmaster Sholto Unwerth.
His fingers steepled together, his chin resting on his thumbs, Orfeo Culzean slowly looked up from the regicide board in front of him. The game was set on a little turntable, and Culzean was tournamenting himself.
He rose to his feet. The hotel suite was quiet, except for a delicate sonata by Hanz Solveig that Culzean had left playing at low volume.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I let myself in,’ said Toros Revoke.
Culzean recognised him instantly. It was the man who had gone head-to-head with the Brass Thief at the diplomatic palace.
‘I’m sure you did,’ said Culzean. ‘I’ve been expecting you, actually. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Revoke half-nodded. ‘You are Orfeo Culzean?’
‘Yes, I am. You?’
‘Toros Revoke. You seem remarkably composed, Culzean. Considering your situation.’
‘And what is that, exactly?’ Culzean asked.
‘Precarious,’ smiled Revoke.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Culzean asked. ‘Perhaps an appetiser?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Revoke. The little simivulpa was hiding under one of the chairs, hissing at the secretist in pure malice.
‘Stop that,’ Culzean shushed. ‘So, let’s get to business, shall we?’
‘Business?’ Revoke echoed. ‘There is no transaction here. You speak like you have some leverage. You do not. I… visited your employers at the lighthouse in Q this evening. They are all dead now.’
‘I expect so. You are a dangerous man.’
‘Thank you. Their leader, Magus-clancular Cornelius Lezzard – as he kept reminding us – remained alive long enough to tell me all about you. By the end, he was quite desperate to tell me, in fact.’
Culzean walked over to the sideboard. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.
Revoke shook his head. Culzean poured himself an amasec, trying hard not to give away how much his hands were shaking.
‘You are a facilitator, an expeditor, and you work for cult concerns such as the Divine Fratery, so long as they can afford your fees.’
‘Yes, sir. That is what I do.’
‘You make things happen.’
Culzean took a sip of his drink, breathed deeply and nodded. ‘I have skills and means. If something needs to be facilitated, I’m the one people come to.’
‘According to Lezzard, the Divine Fratery was concerned with the birthing or manifestation of a daemon called Slyte, whose occurrence they had foreseen. They employed you to make this happen. The birth of this daemon was tied into the activities of Inquisitor Gideon Ravenor, who currently acts against my interests. So that made me and my commander, the chief provost… how did Lezzard put it? It made us negative determiners. Is that right?’
‘It is.’
‘And that’s why you unleashed an incunabula to kill the chief provost?’
Culzean took another sip. ‘Naturally. It was the most expeditious option. But you stopped it. I watched you. It was very impressive. I should like to know how you did that, Master Revoke. As a result, the determiners changed slightly.’
‘Favourably, I gather. Lezzard was quite clear that, despite the failure of your attack, this Slyte was quantifiably more likely to be manifested.’
Culzean set down his empty glass and shook his head. ‘Throne, sir. You really must have hurt Magus Lezzard to get him to tell you this.’
Revoke shrugged. ‘I left it to the experts. I can tell you he was in forty-six separated parts when he died.’
Culzean shuddered. ‘And is that going to be my fate too, Master Revoke?’
‘You know, I should think so.’
The connecting door from the bedrooms opened suddenly and Leyla Slade came in. ‘Orfeo, I heard voices and–’
Her handgun was drawn in a nano-second. Revoke was faster. With his telekinesis, he threw Slade against the wall, smashing a gilt-framed mirror, and seized her. Slowly, unwillingly, Slade raised the gun and aimed it at her own forehead.
‘Don’t,’ said Culzean.
‘You’re in no position to bargain,’ Revoke said.
Culzean poured himself a second amasec. ‘Actually, what do you know? I am. Don’t. Let her be. I’m serious.’
Revoke let Slade go, and plucked her gun right across the room into his hand.
‘I’ll listen once, Culzean. Go on.’
‘Well, here it is,’ Culzean replied, taking his glass and walking over to the settee. He sat down, crossed his legs, seeming utterly relaxed. ‘His magnificence Jader Trice, and the entire body of the Ministry of Subsector Trade – of which you are a servant – are engaged in some activity that… well, let’s put this fairly. If the ordos knew what you were up to, they would purge this planet by Exterminatus. Just for starters.’
He knocked back his glass.
‘So, by way of insurance, you understand, expecting you to come for me, I have prepared a document outlining all I know about your activities. This document is being held in trust by a third party – a major subsector banking house, just so you know. Every hour, on the hour, I send them a ciphered message. All the while I do, they retain the document. If I miss just one cipher, the document will be sent directly, by astropath, to the Inquisition on Thracian Primaris. I’m just guessing, but I think that would rather spoil your endeavours here.’
Revoke said nothing.
‘So, this does become business. There is a transaction, after all. You tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you what I can give.’
Revoke turned and shot a mind-nudge out of the room. A few seconds later, the chamber doors opened and Boneheart entered, followed by four secretists lugging the coffer.
They set it down and backed away. Revoke opened the lid.
Inside sat the pyramidal device wrought of brass and the trigger-orb.
‘This is the incunabula you used against my Master Trice?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘It can find any target, anywhere, no matter how well hidden said target is?’
Culzean nodded. ‘That’s what it does. The Thief doesn’t need an address. The warp shows it where to go.’
‘I want you to use it to find and destroy Ravenor,’ Revoke said.
‘And in return?’
‘In return?’
‘My payment,’ Culzean said. ‘I want a piece of what you have. My terms are these. I will destroy Ravenor, but in payment I want Enuncia.’
Revoke stared at him.
‘Yes or no,’ said Culzean. ‘I want Enuncia. You’ve decoded the fundamental controls of reality. I want to share in that. Say yes and I will operate this shining weapon for you. Say no and you might as well leave now and watch your backs for the black ships and their virus bombs.’
‘My answer is yes,’ Revoke said.
‘Excellent. That’s business done. Now get the hell out of my chambers. I’ll join you in an hour or so.’ br />
Revoke nodded to Boneheart and the secretists carried the coffer back out. Revoke paused in the doorway. ‘Any tricks, Culzean, and I will kill you.’
‘I should hope so,’ Culzean said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
As soon as the secretists had left, Culzean hurried over to Leyla Slade and helped her to her feet.
‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘All that stuff about ciphered documents held by banking houses. You never did that.’
‘A bluff, Ley, not a lie. They’re quite different things.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘What I say now is, let’s unlock some of our other weapons. Just in case.’
Suldon waved the scanner pad at Unwerth.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘He’s good. Not even a twitch of recognition. Unfortunately, the scanner says otherwise. A massive brain spike. Synapses firing all over the place. He knows you. He really does.’
Unwerth looked up at Kys, his face a pitiful mess.
‘I furnish you with all apologems,’ he hissed through his split mouth. ‘I never ever intended to affect your betrayness.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kys said.
Suldon took out his hand-vox. ‘Revoke? Yes? It’s me. Suldon. In the holding cells. Looks like we’ve got one of Ravenor’s team here. Yeah, locked up. No, she definitely checks out. One of Ravenor’s. Absolutely. All right. As soon as you get here.’
Suldon shut his vox and popped it in his pocket. He looked at Unwerth.
‘Get him out of here,’ he said.
Brade waved the wand at the hatch and it opened. He jostled Unwerth towards the door.
‘One thing,’ Kys said.
‘What?’ asked Suldon.
‘That subliminal you thought I’d picked up. I remember now how it sounded.’
Patience Kys looked Suldon in the face and said it.
Seven
It wasn’t a word. It wasn’t even so much a proper sound. Just giving voice to it made her mouth hurt.
But it did a lot more to Suldon. He instantly, explosively vomited, then fell onto his knees, clutching at his belly, violently retching up his stomach contents.