[Space Wolf 04] - Wolfblade

  “What do you think?” Ragnar asked, as Torin’s eyes followed the girl.

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “I mean about the attackers.”

  “Agents of some kind, although I am not sure whose. Or why, for that matter. You never can tell these things on Terra. Although things are getting a little tense at the moment.”

  “In what way?”

  “Politically. There is a lot of manoeuvring going on between the Houses.”

  “I thought there always was.”

  “More so even than usual.”

  “Why?”

  “Old Sarius, the Navigator representative to the High Lords of Terra, is dying.”

  “Why should that affect anything?”

  “Everybody wants to have a say in who elects his successor.”

  “Is he that powerful?”

  Torin laughed and smiled at a couple of serving girls who went past carrying bowls of some perfumed liquid. “Quite the contrary. The Navigators’ representative among the High Lords has always been little more than a figurehead.”

  “Then why do people care who succeeds him?”

  “Because potentially the Navigator’s voice has power. All of the High Lords do. Sarius is powerless because he comes from a relatively minor House with very little support from the more powerful ones. None of the great Houses would allow any of their rivals to take that position. At least none of them has managed it in the past two thousand years. It would signal their pre-eminence among the Houses. The rest have tended to gang up on anyone who looks like they might swing it. A weak man from a weak House can be influenced by anyone. And he can be counted on not to do anything that would upset the balance of power.”

  “It all sounds rather foolish to me. Leaders should be strong, not weak.”

  “Spoken like a true Fenrisian warrior, Ragnar, old son. But no Navigator wants a strong leader for the Houses, unless it’s them, of course.”

  “But this time it’s different?”

  “Maybe. It’s always a tense time. Every great House is scared that the others will try and steal a march on them. They watch each other like hawks. There’s a lot of horse trading and influence peddling.”

  “Fascinating,” said Ragnar. He did not want to seem overly interested. All of this seemed somehow beneath a Space Wolf. Torin chuckled.

  “You remind me of me when I first came here,” he said. “Study these things, Ragnar, learn them. They are important. They may determine who we fight tomorrow, or next month or next year — and how. It never hurts to understand the political situation.”

  “A Space Wolf fights where he is told.”

  “One day, Ragnar, you may be the one doing the telling.”

  They had reached Valkoth’s chamber. The older Marine was already enthroned behind his desk. It was almost as if he had never left it. A stack of papers was scattered around. Ragnar wondered whether he and Torin were mentioned in any of them.

  “Good morning, brothers,” said Valkoth, as they entered. His manner was more melancholy than usual. “You have a busy day ahead of you and an interesting one. You are going to see a place few Wolfblades have, at least not without heading a strike force.”

  “Where is that?” said Ragnar. Torin grinned.

  “The Feracci Palace. You are to escort the Lady Gabriella on a visit to her aunt. Do try and make sure she comes home in one piece, won’t you? Go to her chambers now and await her pleasure.”

  His words and manner were casual, but it was clear they were dismissed.

  If Ragnar had thought his own rooms were opulent, he now felt like a pauper. The smallest room in Gabriella’s suite was larger than his entire living space. Antique furniture filled it. Bookcases full of ancient musty tomes covered the walls. A massive desk dominated the chamber.

  Looking out of the huge arched windows, Ragnar realised that even her balcony was larger than his chamber. Everything was monogrammed with the House emblem. Serving maids came and went at will. Ragnar waited. Torin studied the paintings on the wall. They were scenes of alien landscapes.

  “Celebasio,” he said.

  “What?” said Ragnar.

  “The painter. Quite a famous one. He did the murals in the northern audience halls. The Belisarians were his last and richest patrons. Each of these paintings is worth a potentate’s ransom.”

  Ragnar thought they were beautiful, but hardly functional. “On Fenris we would use them as kindling for the fire.”

  “You are not on Fenris now, Ragnar, and stop trying to pretend you’re Haegr. You would need to put on a hundred kilos and grow a moustache like a walrus before you could carry it off.”

  Ragnar laughed in spite of himself. “Who are the Feraccis?”

  “One of the other great Navigator Houses — perhaps the greatest. They are the Belisarians’ most deadly rivals.”

  “I thought Gabriella was going to visit her aunt.”

  “The thing about Navigators, old son, is that they are all related: they only marry other Navigators. They do this to preserve the bloodlines that give them their gift. But no Navigator can marry within their own House, for reasons you can well imagine — although I have heard it has happened anyway.”

  “So they marry their enemies?”

  “They marry who they are told. All marriages are arranged with a view to keeping the bloodlines strong. There are great books of genealogy detailing each bloodline’s strengths and weaknesses. The Navigators procreate in the same way people breed dogs or horses.”

  Ragnar reflected on this. He had known these things, of course, or at least the teaching machines had left the knowledge in his head. But having knowledge buried in the deep recesses of his mind was not the same as learning about it first hand. Before it had been simply a bit of lore — interesting but seemingly useless. Now that he was familiar with the people involved, it all seemed a little inhuman. Torin noticed his expression.

  “It is their way,” he said. “And the Navigator Houses predate even the Space Marine Chapters, so it must work,” He gestured at their lush surroundings. “Some would say it has served them well.”

  “I sometimes wonder why, when someone has all this wealth, they could want more,” Ragnar said.

  “Ask Haegr. He can eat a hundred sweetmeats and still want more. Horus was the most powerful man in the Imperium after the Emperor. Something drove him to rebel.”

  “Evil,” said Ragnar, shocked that Torin would use such an example.

  “Ambition,” said Torin. “At first, anyway.”

  “I do not think the Rune Priests would like to hear you talk this way,” said Ragnar.

  “I agree with you there, old son. But stay on this planet long enough and you will understand why I think the way I do.”

  Ragnar considered Berek and Sigrid and the other Wolf Lords, with their thirst for glory, and their hearts all set on the Wolf Throne. You did not need to go all the way to Terra to find ambition.

  “For some people, the more they have, the more they want. And the lords of the Navigator Houses are among the richest and most powerful people in the Imperium. Indeed, some claim they are the most powerful.”

  Ragnar had heard that view before too. Without Navigators trade would be reduced to a mere trickle and Imperial fleets would only make short crawls between nearby stars. The Space Marine Chapters would be in a similar position. Huge expanses of the Imperium would fall out of contact and revert to barbarism or be conquered by alien powers. The Navigator Houses had an effective monopoly on long haul interstellar travel. If someone could mould those fragmented Houses into a single combine, he would effectively control the Imperium, so great would be his political leverage.

  Perhaps that was why the Emperor had encouraged the creation of so many rival Houses, Ragnar thought. Perhaps he had foreseen the consequences of having one united guild of Navigators. Or perhaps he was letting his imagination take him too far. He resolved to wait until he had a better grasp of the facts before jumping to conclusi
ons.

  “What are the Feraccis like?” he asked.

  “Ruthless, driven, manipulative, more so than most Navigators. Their lord, Cezare, is thought by many to be the most ambitious man in the Imperium, and the most ruthless and cruel.”

  “He has a lot of competition for those three titles, or so it would seem.”

  “The fact he has that reputation should tell you something.”

  “He can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Playing the devil’s advocate to draw me out, eh? Very clever, old son.”

  Ragnar felt a little embarrassed for being so transparent. Torin continued speaking regardless.

  “Oh, he is a smooth devil, all right, and a great patron of the arts — all the great lords are. I suppose they have to do something with their money, but beneath the facade, he’s a plotter and weaver of webs. Clever too. Obvious schemes conceal devious ones, feints within feints within feints.”

  “You sound as if you almost admire him.”

  “I do have a certain respect for him.”

  “You’ve studied him too, I can tell.”

  “Ragnar, old son, he is the enemy. No matter what he says, no matter what you hear, no matter what anybody tells you, never lose sight of that fact. The Feraccis would love to see the Belisarians destroyed or at the very least humbled. There is a long-standing enmity between the two Houses. House Belisarius is a major obstacle in Cezare’s way. He has a habit of removing such things.”

  “And yet, the Lady Gabriella is about to pay him a social call.”

  “Rivals, partners, relatives, that’s the way it is here. Business must carry on regardless. Just because you are planning to slit a man’s throat, it doesn’t mean you can’t both profit from a deal in the meantime.”

  “It all sounds very complicated.”

  “Keep it up, Ragnar. You play the simple Fenrisian very well. You’ll fit in around here.”

  “And what part are you playing, Torin?”

  “Perhaps I am more of the simple Fenrisian than I look,” Ragnar found that very hard to believe.

  At that moment the Lady Gabriella emerged from her chamber. She was garbed in the formal dress uniform of a Navigator once more with the badge of her House on her jacket and belt buckle. A sword in its scabbard and a bolstered pistol hung from her belt.

  “Shall we go?” she said. There was a slightly sour expression on her face. Ragnar wondered if she had been listening. He was starting to suspect that every chamber in these palaces contained hidden eavesdropping devices.

  “Tastefully understated, is it not?” murmured Torin as he brought the flitter into a holding pattern over the Feracci tower. Gabriella laughed loudly. Ragnar held back a smile. The Feracci tower looked as if its kilometre-high spire had been gilded. Statues and gargoyles occupied thousands of niches in its walls, flanking every arched stained glass window. It would have made an Imperial temple from the High Decadent period look tasteful. And yet there was no denying it was impressive. It was taller by far than the Belisarius Palace and was easily the highest structure visible to the furthest horizon.

  Ragnar’s keen eyes made out weapons emplacements concealed within the gilt work. He had no doubt that the walls were thick and heavily armoured. Even before they landed, they were intercepted and escorted by two very heavily armoured gunships each bearing the rampant golden lion insignia of the Feracci, the lion encased within an eye. It fluttered on the thousands of flags that adorned the building.

  Armed men waited for them on the rooftop landing pad. They were accompanied by a tall, thin young Navigator. He was good looking in a gaunt way, his hair black as a raven’s wing and flowing down to his shoulders.

  Torin emerged from the craft on one side, Ragnar on the other. Only once they had both looked around to check for obvious threats did they signal for Gabriella to emerge.

  “Greetings, cousin Gabriella,” said the young man, bowing formally. He smiled at her warmly as he rose. He treated the two Space Wolves as if they were not there. Ragnar was not used to being ignored. It spoke a lot of the youth’s self possession that he was capable of it. Not many mortals were.

  “Greetings, cousin Misha.” Gabriella returned the bow with one just as courtly. She smiled. Ragnar was surprised to note that this pair seemed to genuinely like each other. Either that or they were both impossibly good dissimulators. As they were Navigators, their scents were too alien for him to read.

  “My father would be grateful if you would join him in his chambers,” said Misha. “He will not take up much of your time. He knows you are keen to visit your aunt.”

  “I would be honoured,” she responded.

  “This was not on the agenda,” said Torin, so low that only a Space Wolf could have heard him. “Let’s see what we shall see.”

  Moments later an elevator carried them into the bowels of the Feracci tower. The closing of the doors was like a trap snapping shut.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ragnar was surprised by the setting where Cezare Feracci greeted them. It was a garden, a huge hothouse geodesic set atop one of the lower wings that thrust out of the tower’s side. The air was hot and humid and smelled of all manner of exotic off-world blooms. They were led along a dozen twisting paths to the very centre of the place. It was all part of a pattern he told himself, along with the seemingly endless security and surveillance equipment they had passed through en route.

  In the middle of a grove of beautiful orchid like plants stood a tall man. He resembled Misha, although run slightly to fat. He had a small double chin and slightly puffy cheeks. The flowing robe he wore concealed his slight paunch, but for all that Cezare held himself well. It was obvious that there was hard muscle below the fat. His smile was pleasant, but his eyes were predatory. His face was very pale which contrasted with his very dark eyebrows and stubble. A circlet of pure platinum covered his pineal eye.

  There was a definite family resemblance between him and Misha, more noticeable even than the one between Gabriella and the Lady Juliana. As the Wolves entered, Cezare looked up. He studied them with interest, and without fear. He was merely curious. There was a strange flatness in the man’s scent that was different from any other Navigator’s. If anything, he was even less readable than they. Ragnar felt as if he were in the presence of an alien being that happened to be wearing the flesh of a near-human. Reading Torin’s scent, he could tell his fellow Wolfblade felt the same. There were other scents present that were partially concealed by those of the plants. They belonged to men— guards and observers within easy call.

  Cezare smiled. There was a warmth and charm in his smile. His teeth were very white and square. “Welcome, cousin. How do you like my garden?”

  “It is very beautiful. It must take a considerable amount of work to keep it so.”

  “All great and complex enterprises do,” said Cezare. “Growing a garden is like running a House. You must know which plants to encourage and which weeds to prune out.”

  Ragnar felt almost contemptuous of this man now, with his talk of gardens. Then he noticed what he was feeding the plants. He had extracted a small wriggling rodent from a sack and was pushing it still living and squirming into the bell of the orchid. After a few moments the animal’s struggles ceased and its eyes took on a glazed and ecstatic look. Ragnar caught the whiff of narcotic perfume. His skin tingled faintly as his system analysed it and neutralised it. The plant had now swallowed the rat like a snake taking down its prey.

  Seeing Ragnar’s look, Cezare’s smile widened. “It’s a prize this one, a Red Trapper Orchid, from Mako’s World. Some of them can grow large enough to swallow a man.”

  “I know,” said Torin. “I have fought there.”

  Ragnar realised there was a method to this madness. Thousands of subtle perfumes filled the air, and many of them were narcotic. The sheer profusion made it confusing, unless he concentrated. He felt like a man trying to hear a conversation in a room where very loud music was playing. Was Cezare aware of the Spac
e Wolves’ heightened senses? Almost certainly. Did he fear they might be able to read his emotions too, or was the meeting here for some other subtle purpose?

  Cezare clapped his hands, and servants materialised from the forest of plants. Ragnar suspected there must be some concealed grav-tubes around here— so swift and smooth was their entrance. The sound of running water would easily cover the faint displacement of air. The men looked like servants, but Ragnar was sure they carried weapons.

  He felt a little vulnerable. They were alone in the palace of one of Belisarius’s greatest enemies, a man who had thousands of armed men on call. What would happen if they were to disappear here, he wondered? He dismissed the thought. If Cezare wanted them eliminated he would doubtless find a more subtle way to do it. He was simply off balance, confused by the unexpected surroundings and the scent.

  Ragnar realised that it had been designed to make him feel that way. Without making an overt threat, Cezare had managed to make him uneasy and unbalanced. Torin was right. The man was subtle and dangerous. Still, even under these circumstances, Ragnar was sure he could snap his neck before a normal human could react. Cezare surely knew this and appeared completely at ease, even though Gabriella’s bodyguards were far closer than his own.

  He was brave then, and sure of himself. The servants produced a suspensor table and two floating chairs. Food and wine were swiftly placed on the cloth along with platinum cutlery. The food smelled highly spiced to Ragnar but that probably meant the Navigators found it a delicacy.

  Ragnar moved around the clearing to cover one direction, while Torin moved in to cover the other.

  The thick vegetation concealed almost all lines of approach. A hundred men could have been hidden there.

  Suddenly, and so subtly that Ragnar almost doubted it, he felt a feather-light touch of a strange energy brush against his mind. Fysker, he thought. Immediately, he was on guard, automatic wards clanging into place in his subconscious. He began reciting protective litanies under his breath. He knew he should be safe — this was not a very bold or potent attack. Briefly he considered what he should do. Should he seek out the psyker? Should he accuse Cezare Feracci of employing sorcery against him? Considered reflection told him the answer was no. There was no proof, only his suspicion. Cezare would deny it easily enough and leave Ragnar looking like a fool. He held his tongue.