Otto shrugged. Felix stared at von Halstadt, wondering what the connection between the skaven and the head of the countess’s secret police could be. And hoping against hope that the man did not recognise him.
Von Halstadt was tired. Not even his usual excellent supper could cheer him. His mind was filled with worry and the cares of high office. He looked around at his fellow diners and returned their smiles, but in his heart of hearts he despised them. Shallow, indolent cattle. Garbed like nobles but with the hearts of shopkeepers. He knew that they needed him. They needed him to keep Chaos at bay. They needed him to do the work they were too soft to do themselves. They were barely worth his contempt.
It had been a trying day. Young Helmut Slazinger had failed to confess, despite von Halstadt himself supervising the torture implements. It was strange how some of them maintained their innocence even unto the grave. Even when they knew that he knew they were guilty. His secret sources had told him that Slazinger belonged to a clandestine cell of Slaanesh-worshipping cultists. The jailers had been unable to find any of the usual tattoos that marked coven members, but that meant nothing. His most trusted informants, the skaven, had let him in on the secret. That in fear of his ruthless crusade, his hidden enemies had taken to using sorcerous tattoos visible only to fellow coven members.
Gods, how insidious the mutant fiends were! Now they could be everywhere; they could be sitting right in this very room, their initiation tattoos plain to each other on their faces and he would not know. They could be sitting there right now mocking him and there was nothing he could do about it. That lanky young fellow in the ill-fitting clothes could be one. He was certainly studying von Halstadt intently enough. And come to think of it, there was something quite sinister about him. Perhaps he should be the next subject of an official investigation.
No, get a grip on yourself, von Halstadt told himself. They cannot hide forever. The blinding light of logic can pierce the deepest darkness of falsity. So his father had always told him before yet another beating for his sins, real or imagined. No, his father had been correct. Von Halstadt had done wrong. Even if he could not work out exactly what. The beatings had been for his own good, to drive out sin. His father had been a good man, doing the work of the righteous. That was why he smiled as he punished him. He didn’t enjoy it. He told him that over and over. It was for his own good. In a way it had been a great lesson. He had learned that it was often necessary to do painful, bad things for the greater good.
It had made him hard. It enabled him to do what he had to today, free from the weakness of lesser men. It enabled him to stand up for right. It had made him into a man his father could be proud of and he should be grateful. He was strong without being malicious. He was like his father.
He had taken no pleasure in the torture of young Slazinger. He had taken no pleasure in the skaven report that the nobleman was a Slaaneshi cultist. Although he had to admit that it was a fortunate coincidence, given the rumours concerning Slazinger and Emmanuelle. More malicious lies: someone as pure as the countess would not, could not, have anything to do with the likes of Slazinger. The worm was a notorious rake, the sort of handsome young dandy who thought it witty to speak out against the lawful servants of the state, to criticise the harsh measures needed to maintain law and order in this festering sink of iniquity and sin.
He pushed Slazinger from his mind and gave his thoughts over to other matters. His agent in the watch house had brought him the report on the Gant incident. No action was being taken. It would cost too much to make a full sweep through the sewers beneath the Old Quarter and that would cut into the take the watch captain got from his station’s financial allocation. Well, even corruption sometimes has its uses, thought von Halstadt.
His spy had brought him word that Gant’s patrol had been nosing around in the area of his death, though, which was more worrying. They might accidentally come across some more skaven going about their business. They might even discover the skiffs that ran from the docks to van Niek’s Emporium. He doubted, though, that they could ever discover that the shop was simply a government front which channelled warpstone from outside the city to the skaven in payment for their services. He smiled.
It was an arrangement with a certain pleasing symmetry. He paid the skaven in the currency they wanted. They did not seem to realise it was both useless and dangerous. Warpstone actually caused mutation. The skaven claimed to use it as food. Well, it was a relatively harmless way of disposing of an incredibly dangerous substance and it provided him with a fine source of information at the same time.
Yes, a pleasing symmetry indeed. In a way, it was a pity that he could not make known the service he was doing the Empire by disposing of the evil stuff in a safe way. It had been a lucky day for all mankind when von Halstadt had got lost in the sewers and stumbled across the skaven; It was fortunate they had recognised him as a man with whom they could do business.
He must get some more. This very evening he must contact another skaven agent and see to it that the watchmen met with an accident. He was sorry to have to do that to men who were only doing their duty, but his security must come first.
He was the only man who understood the real dangers threatening Nuln and he was the only man who could save the city. He knew this wasn’t simply vanity; it was the truth. Tonight he would contact the new skaven leader, Grey Seer Thanquol, and order him to eliminate his enemies. The thought of this secret use of his power made him shiver. He told himself it was not with pleasure.
“I’m telling you I saw him last night,” Felix insisted. The other sewerjacks stared at him out of the gloom. Overhead he heard the thunder of wheels as a cart passed over a manhole cover. “At the Golden Hammer. He was standing not twenty feet away from me. His name is Fritz von Halstadt and he’s the man we saw dealing with the skaven.”
“Sure,” Rudi said, glancing back worriedly. “And he was having dinner with the Countess Emmanuelle and the enchanter Drachenfels. What were you doing in the Golden Hammer anyway? It’s where nobs go. They wouldn’t let a sewerjack in if his clothes were made of spun gold. You don’t expect us to believe you were there.”
“My brother took me. He’s a merchant. And I’m telling you that’s where I saw our man, von Halstadt.”
“You’re not from Nuln, are you, young Felix?” Hef spoke calmly and helpfully, as if he were genuinely concerned with clearing up any misapprehension the young sewerjack might have. “Do you know who Fritz von Halstadt is?”
“The head of the Nuln secret police, is who he is. The scourge of mutant scum in this city,” Spider said. A tic moved somewhere far back in the twin’s jaw. Felix had not realised the twins were such great admirers of von Halstadt’s. “And the head of the secret police don’t go about consorting with rat-men.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s the head of the secret police and the head of the secret police wouldn’t do that sort of thing. It stands to reason, don’t it.”
“Well, that is irrefutable logic, Rudi. But I’m telling you I saw him with my own eyes. It was the man from the sewers.”
“Are you sure you’re not mistaken, manling? It was very dark down there and human eyesight is not good in the dark.”
“I’m certain,” said Felix. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
“Well, young Felix, even if you’re right, and I’m not saying that you are, mind, what can we do about it? We can hardly go marching up to the Countess Emmanuelle and say “By the way your majesty, did you know your most trusted advisor has been sneaking around the sewers below your palace in the company of giant talking rats?” Hef didn’t even smile as he said this.
“She’d ask you how much weirdroot you’d been chewing and order her Kislevite lover to throw you in the cells,” Spider said.
Felix could see their point. What could they do? They were just ordinary watchmen and the man he was talking about was the most powerful person in the city. Perhaps it would be best just to
forget the whole thing. He was seeing Otto again this evening, was going to have a fine meal in his townhouse. Soon he could be far from here and it wasn’t his problem.
But the thought nagged at him. What was the terrible and feared master of the countess’s secret police doing in the company of skaven? What hold could they possibly have over him?
“Right, lads, enough of this,” Rudi said. “Back to work.”
Hostleader Tzarkual Skab looked back at his stormvermin. They filled this tunnel chamber and the smell of their musk was sweet. His heart swelled with something akin to pride. These were big, burly skaven and their black fur was sleek and well groomed. It matched their fine lacquered black armour and their rune-encrusted helms of black iron. They were elite: well fed, well turned out, disciplined, as far above the lowly clanrats and slaves as he was above them. He commanded two dozen of the finest warriors his clan could field. In the coming war this would be swelled to two hundred or more.
He did not need the full force for this mission; this was simple. The elimination of some pink flesh man-things. Easy. Grey Seer Thanquol had made it plain it would be so. Even though he didn’t like Skrequal’s replacement, he agreed. He doubted he would even need four claws of stormvermin to deal with some lowly man-thing warriors. Behind him Thanquol gave a discreet little bark of impatience. The rat-ogre which accompanied the sorcerer rumbled angrily.
A little shimmer of fear passed through Tzarkual when he contemplated the giant hybrid’s formidable muscles and claws. He would not want to face it in battle. It must have cost the grey seer a fair stash of warpstone to purchase from the packmasters of Clan Moulder, and from what Tzarkual had heard it would prove worth every ounce.
Yet he would not let himself be hurried. There were certain proprieties to be observed. He must keep face in front of his troops. He allowed none of his anxiety to show in his bearing and he controlled the urge to squirt the musk of fear.
He twitched his nose authoritatively and then lashed his tail to get their attention. Two dozen pairs of alert pink eyes turned to look at him. “We go to the bigstink below the mancity,” he told them. “We go to kill five man-things who guard the tunnels. They are enemies of our clanlord and have killed-dead a clanbrother, yes. Vengeance and manblood will be ours. Fight well and more breeders and more warptokens will be yours. Fight badly and I will chew your guts with my own fangs.”
“We hear, hostleader,” they squeaked thunderously. “Glory to the clan. Vengeance for our clanbrother!”
“Yes-yes, blood-vengeance for our clanbrother!” Tzarkual smiled, revealing row on row of sharp serrated teeth. In skaven it was a gesture of menace and his followers fell silent. He was pleased by the fear he had imposed on them.
Yes, he wanted vengeance for Skrequal. They had belonged to the same birthing, had fought their way to the top of their clan together. Had connived and killed and assassinated their way to power. He understood his brother’s ambitions and insofar as he trusted anybody he had trusted Skrequal. He wanted the blood of his killers. It would in some way make up for the inconvenience of having to find another ally in the great game of clan politics.
Perhaps Thanquol might do, if the grey seer didn’t attempt to slip a saw-knife into his back first. Well, only the future would tell.
He covered his teeth once more and the stormvermin relaxed. He was looking forward to visiting the undercity once more. He liked slinking through the vast stinking maze that reminded him of Skavenblight. It made a change from this hideously barren outpost of the Underway he had been forced to occupy since Warlord Skab dispatched him here. He was glad the stupid man-thing had enough sense to contact them about his problem. The guards were potentially a threat to the great plan. Nothing must menace their pawn before they took over the city.
He wasn’t sure what the great plan was but that didn’t matter. He was a simple and vicious soldier. It was not his place to philosophise on the ways the Thirteen Lords of Decay chose to order the Universe. It was his task simply to kill the enemies of Clan Skab. That was what he intended to do.
Felix was worried. It wasn’t just the number of rats he had seen, it was the way they followed him that was worrying. He told himself not to be stupid. The rats weren’t following him. They were just there, like they always were in the sewers. His imagination was playing tricks on him, as it always did.
He gazed round what the other sewerjacks called “the cathedral”. It was a major confluence of several of the city’s greatest sewerways. It had been designed in a style he thought he recognised from the halls of Karak Eight Peaks. He called it Dwarf Imperial. The dwarfs who had built these sewers were refugees, he knew. They had fled from the World’s Edge Mountains when their lands had become too dangerous. They had come to the human lands bringing a great store of engineering knowledge and a tremendous nostalgia for their ancestral homes under the mountains.
The then-Elector of Nuln had been an enlightened man. He put their knowledge and skills to good use, improving the sanitation of his fast-growing city. They had responded to the challenge by creating places that resembled great temples rather than sewers. Mighty arches supported masonry that had lasted nearly a thousand years. Intricate carved stonework adorned the arches, revealing the traditional dwarf hammer and shield designs. The work had been made beautiful in its way, as well as functional. Of course, time had eroded much of it. Coarse patchworks of plaster and brick filled gaps where human repair teams less skilled than the original builders had been at work. But this place almost directly below the elector’s palace was a sewer fit for an emperor.
Then suddenly Felix saw it. He saw how vulnerable those ancient master builders had made the city. He remembered Gotrek’s tale of how the skaven had attacked Karak Eight Peaks from the direction least expected: from below.
The sewers provided a means of access to below any place of importance in the city. Teams of assassins or shock troops could be moved through them by a foe adapted to the darkness. They were a perfect highway for a skaven invasion. The great walls of Nuln would prove no barrier to them. The watchers on the roof of the temple of Myrmidia would notice nothing.
The peril to the city was even greater if its own chief magistrate were in league with the rat-men! The pieces clicked. He knew how von Halstadt’s foes disappeared. They were dragged down into the depths by the skaven. He would bet anything that a web of access tunnels existed which gave access to the palaces and walled houses above. If nothing else, a small enough assassin could gain access through the sewage channels, gross as that thought was.
The question now was why? Why was von Halstadt doing it? What did he stand to gain? The demise of his enemies? Perhaps he was a mutant in league with the forces of darkness. Perhaps he was mad. Felix asked himself whether he could walk away now, knowing what he did. Could he take the offer of a safe job alongside his brothers and leave the second greatest city of the Empire in the hands of its enemies?
It was infuriating; there was nothing he could do. No one would believe him if he accused the chief magistrate. The word of a sewerjack against that of the most influential man in the city? And if he revealed who he really was, that would only get him into deeper trouble. He was a known revolutionary and an associate of the dwarf who had slaughtered ten of the Emperor’s own elite household cavalry. No one would be too bothered if the pair of them disappeared. Perhaps it would be best to let things be. It was only then, as he came to his decision, that he noticed that the rats had vanished and the sound of soft padding could be heard behind him.
“We’re being followed, manling,” Gotrek said quietly. “Several groups. One behind. Two taking tunnels parallel to us. There’s more up ahead.”
“Followed? By what?” Felix had to force his words out. His throat felt constricted and his voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Skaven?”
“Yes. We’re going to be ambushed. Our scuttling little friends should be quieter. Dwarf ears are keen.”
“What can we do?”
&nb
sp; “Fight bravely and, if need be, die heroically, manling.”
“That’s all very well for you—you’re a Slayer. The rest of us aren’t quite so keen to get ourselves killed.”
Gotrek glared at him contemptuously. Felix felt the need to find an excuse for his fear. “What if it’s an invasion? Someone has to warn the city. It’s our duty. Remember the oath we swore when we joined the watch.”
He could see this made an impression on the Trollslayer. Dwarfs were always impressed by talk of duty and of oaths.
“You have a point, manling. At least one of us should get away and warn the city. Best talk with the others and make up a plan.”
Tzarkual saw that his prey had stopped. They were huddling together in the passage and talking in low tones. He knew they were afraid. It had finally dawned on even their dim manbrains that they were being followed. He knew the righteous fear that the true skaven warrior inspired in most humans. He had seen the look of cringing horror in many a human eye. The terrifying majesty and dignity of the skaven form filled the man-things with awe.
He stood taller and preened his fur with his tongue. At times, looking in the polished mirror of his shield, he almost understood their feelings. There was no denying he cut an impressive figure even among the regal forms of his fellow high-ranking skaven. It was only proper that man-things should be suitably impressed by the master race.
He gestured for his stormvermin to halt. He would allow his victims a minute’s grace to fully savour their fear. He wanted them to understand the hopelessness of their position. Perhaps he might even allow them to beg for their lives. Some victims did. He knew it was a tribute to the impressive bearing he mustered.
“Hostleader. Should we not attack now? Maimslay the man-things while they are in confusion?” Clawleader Gazat asked.
Tzarkual shook his head. Gazat had showed his true lack of understanding of the finer points of strategy. He thought it better to simply attack rather than wait for the correct moment when their foes were paralysed with fear.