His heart was pounding. This wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this.
He knew running was making him stand out. He might as well have been holding up a sign saying, "Here I am, the guilty one". But still he ran. The bodyguard had got a good look at him. All he could see in his mind's eye were the polished teeth of the man's chainblade.
Most people got out of his way. Nobody wanted a piece of this trouble. A few, tallymen and stock-men mostly, cried out and pointed, alerting his pursuers.
There was a junction ahead. Straight on was the bustling main street, to the right a short drystone alley that led to a staircase down into the moot pens. He kept going straight. If he could get to the street, then he could reach the yard, reach the vehicle. They'd be waiting for him. With the engine running.
Hands grabbed at him. Three filthy drovers had decided they weren't just going to stand by and watch some outsider get away with breaking their most inviolable laws. Shouting out, they clawed at his coat. One had his left arm pinned.
"Get off me!" he wailed. One thumped him across the side of the head to shut him up. The drover had bone rings on his dirty fingers and the hard edges stung and drew blood. Thonius could feel it dribbling down the side of his face.
Carl Thonius hated physical combat. He didn't look like much of a threat either. He appeared too fragile, too slight, especially compared to combat specialists like Nayl and Zeph Mathuin. Certainly, he saw himself more as a thinker, a tactician. He tended to leave what he called "the fisticuffs" to his more brawny comrades. But, in truth, Carl Thonius was a trained Throne agent, an ordo interrogator. The fact that Harlon Nayl could kill him with a single cough obscured the fact that Thonius was still far more capable than the average man on the street. This street included, it was to be hoped.
The drovers holding him were whip-thin and strong. The pursuing bodyguard could only be a few paces off now. Thonius was not physically powerful, but he fought with a canny combination of brains and vicious dexterity. He went limp, and his assailants relaxed slightly, assuming him to be submitting to their efforts.
It was easy, therefore, to snap himself sideways, freeing his pinned arm. He back-kicked the drover behind him in the shins and jabbed his fingers into the eyes of the dynast breathing rancid halitosis in his face. The man screamed. Thonius danced away, ducked a flying fist from the third drover, and pirouetted neatly to kick him in the gut. Two were down - one doubled over and retching, the other on his knees, hands clamped over his injured eyes. The third came in, roaring hoarsely, slashing with an ivory dagger. Thonius dodged to the man's right, caught his stabbing wrist with his left hand and broke me drover's humerus against his right forearm with a scissoring block-and-yank.
Some of the off-world traders in the immediate vicinity cheered. They didn't care about the outcome. A decent street fight was an entertainment to be enjoyed.
There was a revving sound, the noise of a chainblade kicking into life. In his high-buttoned black coat, the pursuing bodyguard stormed into view, his powered, ceremonial weapon whining as it swung and circled in expert hands.
Thonius jumped backwards and the alarmed crowd retreated wide to avoid the oscillating chainblade.
Thonius could hear the warlock-freak up in his basket, shaking his rattles fit to bust, screaming that the rogue was found.
The bodyguard came in, blade shrilling. Thonius feinted left and then went right, pausing to rip the antlered headdress off one of the fallen drovers as he did so. As the bodyguard came round for a second try, hefting his cumbersome weapon, Thonius had the antlers held out before him with both hands, like the beast-tamers he'd seen in the circus, warding off big felids with the legs of a stool.
The bodyguard chopped with his chainblade, and fifty centimetres of brittle antler tree sheared away in splinters. The force nearly tore the headdress out of Thonius' hands. Another pass, and now both antlers were cut down. A drunken shipman in the circle of onlookers cheered and clapped, and the bodyguard glanced around with a murderous glare.
Thonius took the opportunity as it was given. He lunged forward and stabbed the sawn-off antlers deep into the slaughterman's neck.
It was horrible and messy. Blood squirted out and drizzled the crowd, which backed away sharply with disgusted complaints. The slaughterman fell on his front, his limbs convulsing. He landed across his own tearing chainblade and a great deal more blood erupted into the air.
All the rough good humour was gone now. No more clapping, no more cheering. This wasn't bare-knuckle chop and punch. A man was dead.
Thonius threw the dripping headdress aside. He started on towards the main street.
But now there were three more slaughtermen running up towards him from that direction. One had a chain-blade, another a butcher's axe. The third was wielding a long, bronze-bladed drover lance.
For a brief moment, Thonius considered reaching into his left hand coat pocket and pulling out his ordo rosette. He pictured himself holding it up and declaring: "By the order of the Imperial and Holy Inquisition, and by the authority of the Ordo Xenos Helican and Inquisitor Gideon Ravenor, I command you to desist and submit."
Would that stop a lance and an axe and a chainer? Would the sworn and blooded moot-kin of an august and almost deified slaughterbaron even recognise the authority?
Thonius decided the answer was no. He had no desire to end his career with a raised rosette in one hand, a meaningless declaration on his oh so pretty lips and a bronze lance through his torso.
So he reached into his right hand coat pocket instead. All bets were off now.
Will Tallowhand, God-Emperor rest his soul, had given Carl Thonius the Hecuter 6 the day Thonius had achieved the rank of interrogator. Kara Swole had given him a not entirely unpleasant hug, and Norah Santjack had presented him with a silver charm showing Saint Kiodrus inspiring the hosts. Nayl had given him a pat on the arm and a few inspiring words, and Ravenor had given him a first edition of Solon's writings.
The book was on a shelf in his cabin aboard the Hinterlight. He still wore the charm. Nayl's comradely pat and heroic words, and Kara's hug, were cherished memories with zero practical application.
On balance, right then, in that dusty side street, Tallowhand's gift seemed the most lasting and provident.
Will had warned him the Six had a beefy kick. Thonius knew it. He'd trained with the gun on the Hinterlight's range, exhausting hundreds of clips for ten-zero groupings. This was the first time, in anger.
The Hecuter 6 was a hand-made piece. The body and slide were brushed chrome, the grip satinized black rubber machined out to fit his hand. It formed an inverted "L" shape because the grip housing, built to contain an eighteen round clip, was longer than the polished body. The safety-off was a steel rocker that the thumb depressed automatically when the weapon was gripped. When it discharged, white flame burped from the snout and the slide banged back and forth, flinging out the spent case with a chime like loose change. The buck-recoil wrenched his wrist. It was so frigging loud. Thonius realised that he'd only ever shot it with ear-protectors on.
The crowd broke and fled. The slaughterman with the lance jerked back four or five metres, his face missing. The man with the chainblade did likewise, tumbling over on the cobbles. The axe man turned to flee. It was all too easy to put a round through the back of his head. Such force. Such monumental destroying force. The axe man spun over, his face hitting the paving first with a wet crunch.
Thonius gasped, and raised the Hecuter to a ready-armed position. His wrist ached. His mind was racing. He heard someone growl a curse, and saw one of the retreating shipmen turn, wrenching an eight-shot heavy revolver from his ermine-edged coat. Yes, all bets were off.
Thonius didn't wait. He put a bullet through the ship-man too.
Kys, already running, jumped when she heard gunfire echo down the streetway. It was distant, muffled. A street away? Two? More? All around her, the moot crowd was breaking and scattering, fleeing the killing zone. Drovers and
moot-men ran, panicking. Shipmen and off-world traders were more leisurely, returning to their vehicles, heading back to their ships on the commerce fields. Some had weapons drawn just in case, and the richest had their lifeguard cadres locked and loaded.
The Tusk Verge moot was certainly suspended. There was evidently going to be hell to pay for the disruption.
As she ran, against the tide, Kys could see the warlock in his balloon, heading towards the auction rings and the gates into the pens. She didn't dare risk telepathy now.
"Carl! In the name of the God-Emperor, Thonius! Where are you?"
No response. She halted under the eaves of a barter-hall and self-tested her vox. It was live, all right.
"Carl?"
"Kys? You out there? I need a hand, I really do!" Thonius called. He was running down the stinking stone stairs into the unlit pens. Above and behind him the street was alive with tumult and firebrands.
He stopped for a moment in the shadow of a drystone wall and reached into his coat for his microbead, tracing the tiny plastek-sheathed wires from his earpiece to the compact set in his pocket. The wires had been torn out, presumably when the drovers had manhandled him.
His heart was still beating fast. He checked his weapon. The tiny LED display informed him he still had fourteen rounds left. And he had another clip in his hip pocket.
The smell and the darkness had become alarming. There was no light down in the pen yards. Just stink. Massive, heavy bodies jostled in the stalls. He was splashing through pools of urine, tripping on raked-up rafts of straw, mud, shit.
"I really frigging want to know the way out of here," he said.
+Relax, Carl. It'll be all right. +
Thonius smiled as Ravenor's voice floated into his head. He could feel the warm glow off his wraithbone pendant.
A bobbling line of torches was making its way down into the pen yards in the dark. They were coming after him. Thonius could hear shouting voices, gunning chain-blades.
"Help?" he said.
+Ahead twenty paces.+
"Right." He obeyed. It brought him up against a solid iron gate.
+Open the gate.+
"What?"
+Open the gate, Carl.+
"You expect me to go into a pen full of frigging tuskers?"
+Sigh. Actually, they're demi-pachyderms. Quite placid, despite their size.+
"I know as a fact the average demi-pach on this scum-world weighs in at forty tonnes and has shovel-tusks the size of an ork's bill-hook."
+Indeed. Carl, you asked for my help and I'm trying. As I sense it, there are sixty-eight of the baron's slaughtermen coming down the pen track towards you, out for blood. I'm not even counting the angry drover-men with them, or the armed traders coming along for the bounty. I'll pacify the demi-pachs. Just get across the yard.+
Carl Thonius sighed and slid back the gate bolt. The sound of it made the herd inside sound and low. Huge hooves trampled forward. "I-"
+Get the hell on with it, Carl.+
Thonius pushed the hefty gate open and slid into the pen. He leaned the gate shut behind him. The demi-pachs were huge shadows in the chilly night. He could smell their weight, their dung. He could see their snorting breath fuming the cold air. +Carl? Let's go.+ He walked forward.
Terra, these things were big. Even in the utter dark, they were monsters. They loomed over him. He could sense their parasite-clotted, wrinkled hides. He edged past two or three, then one turned its massive head and he had to duck to avoid collision with a pair of two-metre tusks.
"I'm dead," he whispered.
+Shut up, Carl. I'm trying to save you here. Keep going. Another twenty paces.+
"Eeewww..."
+What?+
"One of these things just defecated on me."
+It'll wash off, Carl. Come on. Get with me.+
"I see the gate."
+Good. Head for it. Open it.+
Head low, Thonius scurried through the forest of legs and distended bellies, hearing their multi-stomach gurgle, smelling their constant gas.
He reached the far gate and drew back the slider bolt.
+Wait-+
Thonius didn't. His heart was fluttering with fear now. He so wanted to be out of the pen, away from the gigantic beasts.
+Carl, I-+
Thonius pulled the gate open and dashed out into the drystone corridor outside. He only dimly registered the figures in front of him.
He raised his gun as fast as he was able.
The slaughterman's face was fixed in a grimace, marked with dried blood. The chainblade sang.
The toothed cutter severed Thonius' right arm at the elbow. His whole forearm, the hand still clutching the Hecuter 6, flew off into the dark.
Kys heard the scream of pain and outrage. "Carl! By all that's holy, Carl!"
He'd never been worn. There'd never been a circumstance where it might have to happen. Ravenor didn't even know if Carl Thonius could be worn.
But there was no choice.
The wraithbone pendant shone like fire.
Nfff! Pain! Excruciating, dominating... total. I try to blank it, but it's overwhelming. Blood's pumping out of my severed arm. I've fallen down, I'm passing out.
There's a slaughterman standing over me, his murderous chain blade raised, gore flecking from the cycling teeth.
Focus. Focus!
This... this is a surprisingly soft place. Warm, inviting, educated, refined. Thonius' mindspace is like a gentleman's club. No, a private dinner party. Every place setting perfect, every line of discourse wise and ironic. God-Emperor, it's so genteel, so polished.
Except for that man at the end of the dining table. The man with the severed arm, spraying blood all over the pressed white table cloth, screaming, soiling himself. I raise a crystal glass, dignified, and toast. I am the host here. I'm in charge.
The man with the shorn-away arm stops screaming. He looks at me, puzzled, like I'm some gate-crasher.
We look into each others eyes for a moment. There's a door behind him in the wood-panelled wall. A door into a secret room. The man really, really doesn't want me to go in there. I don't. There's no time. A brute with a chainblade is about to decapitate me.
Carl Thonius' mutilated body springs up onto its feet and avoids the downstroke of the chainblade. It circles wide and kicks the chainblade's operator in the face so hard several of his teeth come flying out.
Then there's a man with a knife. Even missing a limb, Thonius' body disarms him easily and leaves the knife wedged under his left eye.
The other two men have lances. Herd lances, with long, broad, bronze tips.
Thonius' body reaches down into the filth and prises the Hecuter 6 from the dead fingers of a severed right arm.
Left-handed, it raises the gun. The grip doesn't fit its hand.
Who cares?
A tight squeeze puts it on auto. The charging spearmen come apart like gristle dolls.
Only then do I sink to my borrowed knees, drop the gun and sag. I've staved off the effects of Thonius' blood loss long enough.
Kys is there. She smiles down at me.
She says: "Gonna be fine. I'll get you out of here."
And she means it.
THREE
When he woke up, he was flat on his back, with three hard, white suns shining into his eyes, and a tall figure standing over him. The figure was a shadow, silhouetted by the clustered suns.
Although he knew Ravenor could never be a figure, an upright figure, not any more, he was sure that was who it was. It was big and strong, and it was assured. Perhaps this was some lingering part of the strange things that had been done to his mind.
The figure reached up a hand and, with a casual, godlike gesture, swung the suns aside in the sky.
With their light tipped away, he realised they were not suns after all. Just a bank of chrome-hooded photo-lumin surgical lamps on a multi-poise armature. And the figure wasn't Ravenor. Or the God-Emperor.
It was Zeph Mathuin.
The bodyguard was naked except for a pair of white, draw-string shorts and a heavy packing of surgical dressings strapped across his broad torso. Thonius could see the entirety of Mathuin's left arm: the polished mechanisms of a chrome-plated augmetic limb. He could see the old scars where silver metal and caramel flesh folded into one another at the shoulder. He thought of his own arm and-The stuff you know.
"He's awake," Mathuin said, and turned away. Ravenor hovered his chair across the infirmary to Thonius' bedside. "Carl?"
Zarjaran, the medicae, appeared from somewhere and checked the diagnostic displays above the head of the cot. "My head hurts," Thonius said, his voice sounding to him like it was coming out of distant speakers. "Naturally," said Zarjaran.
"I want to sit up."
Zarjaran reached up to a dangling control box and elevated Thonius' cot into a half recline.
Thonius looked around the room. He'd never been a patient in the Hinterlight's infirmary before, except for periodic health checks and shots prior to planet visits. Ravenor was there in front of him, his armoured shell giving nothing away. Mathuin had crossed back to his own rumpled cot and was sitting on its edge, sucking drink from a flask through a plastek straw. There was an overwhelming smell of counterseptic wash.
"I'm sorry," Thonius said.
"For what?" Ravenor asked.
"The mess."
"Things happen in the field, Carl. I'm just glad you're alive."
Thonius felt as if he might burst into tears. He breathed hard, and felt the tension pull at sutures. He didn't dare look down at his right arm. He wanted Ravenor to mind-speak, so he could hear his real voice and tone and inflection, instead of that bloodless, emotionless voxsponder. But he didn't know if his splitting, psi-abused mind could take it.
"You and Kys got me out."
"We did," said Ravenor. "I'm sorry I had to ware you like that. I would normally ask permission of a friend first, and I don't like to ware someone who's not experienced it before. But it was a necessity."