Warhammer 40K - Farseer

  'Something's come up,' he said.

  'Something is always coming up,' said the tattooed man. 'You gamblers are all the same. You think tonight you will earn it all back playing hookjack. Most of you believe it too. I don't.'

  Janus showed him a fierce grin.

  'No game for me tonight,' said Janus. 'This time I lucked out. I will have the money in three days. And in a way you're just like me.'

  'In what way,' asked the tattooed man cautiously.

  'You're gambling right now.'

  'I don't see it that way.'

  'Then look at it this way. You have two choices. You can believe me and you'll have the money in three days. Or you can start shooting and one of two things will happen. You'll kill me, and Roj will never get his money and you will never get your cut. Or I will kill you, and you'll still never see the money. What seems the most sensible option to you?'

  'There's another option,' said the tattooed man.

  'And what would that be?' Too late, Janus felt the rush of displaced air behind his head. Someone else had approached out of the mist. A mountain crashed into the back of his head. He fell forward into a pit of darkness.

  'This,' he heard the tattooed man say, from across an abyss as wide as the gulf between stars.

  Justina considered the words of Shaha Gaathon. It had not taken too long for him to decide what Justina must do. The Harbinger of all Pleasures had told her she must find Darke at all costs, and protect him until the eve of his ascension. He had made it very clear that failure was not an option. Knowing the punishments her master was capable of meting out, Justina had no intention of disappointing him.

  She studied the reports that various agents had brought her. It was just as well she had thought to infiltrate Fat Roj's operation. Things were not looking so good. Lukash Grimm had just seen Weezel and Fat Roj's henchman pick Janus Darke up, and that meant the trader was most likely in the gang lord's clutches even now. Why did this have to happen now? Darke was ripe for the plucking and he had fallen so far that few would notice if he disappeared. No one would even investigate, which had certainly not been the case when they had first met. Perhaps even the Inquisition would have taken an interest then. Now...

  What options did she have, she wondered, pausing to study her reflection critically in the mirror? She had done business with the Fat Man on occasions, sometimes using his services to collect debts from recalcitrant clients, sometimes purchasing some particularly beautiful youth or maid the gang lord had turned up against all reason in the slums. In return, she had provided him with customers for his golconda, and introduced the wealthy, like Janus Darke, to his illicit gambling empire.

  What a mistake that had proven to be, she now thought. Who would have guessed that the Trader could have fallen so far so quickly and accumulated such enormous debts in such a short time? Janus Darke certainly had a self destructive streak. Then again, she supposed, that was only to be expected. Given his unique powers and talents, and his subconscious knowledge of them, and the way society looked at those who possessed them, it was only natural that he would feel guilty and deserving of punishment. The fools of the Inquisition made sure their propaganda ran deep.

  In spite of himself, Darke would need to be saved. Her master had a great purpose in mind for him, and though he had not shared it with Justina, she had some inkling of what it was. Sparing Darke from death would not be doing him any mercies if Justina's suspicions were true. No matter; his eventual fate would advance Justina within the Masque and in the long run, that was what mattered to her.

  What would be the best thing to do? The direct approach might be the best. She could simply buy Fat Roj's anger off. She had more than enough money to do so, and Darke's bauble was ample security against that. Under the circumstances, he could hardly object to her spending his money to free him from the gang lord's tender mercies. Fat Roj was not gentle with those who owed him money, and who did not have powerful friends to protect them.

  On the other hand, that might cause some questions to be asked in the wrong quarters. Some folk might wonder why she was paying off Darke's debts, and look too closely at her relationship with the rogue trader. She had not survived so long by drawing unnecessary attention to herself. Perhaps she should consider alternative paths.

  Word could be sent to the covens she controlled. A force of men and women could be mustered. Rich young nobles and their bodyguards could descend on Roj and free Darke at gunpoint, leaving any inconvenient witnesses more than a little dead. It was certainly worth considering but it would have to be done carefully. The great crime syndicates did not take kindly to outsiders eliminating members of their organisation. Best make it look like a gang war then, she thought.

  It occurred to her that all of this represented a great opportunity. If Darke disappeared now, everyone would assume that Roj had taken him and disposed of the body. And if Roj was eliminated, who would know any better? She decided it was time to summon the hidden covens and take them to battle.

  'Awake, Janus? Good,' said the deep, booming jovial voice. 'I am glad you decided to join me. I had thought you were avoiding me.'

  Janus opened his eyes. He swallowed. His mouth felt dry. His head felt as if it was about to split open. A giant tugged at his arms. His chest felt as if it was about to be wrenched open. 'This is the worst hangover I have ever had,' said Janus.

  The booming voice laughed. It was a hearty sound, the laugh of a man who enjoyed a good joke. It came from somewhere behind Janus. He tried to turn his head to see the speaker but could not twist his neck far enough. The movement caused him an inordinate amount of pain so he stopped and studied his surroundings instead.

  'I like a man who can laugh in the face of his misfortunes Janus, old son. I really do. After all, you've got to have a laugh, haven't you?'

  Janus's nostrils switched. He could smell blood and raw meat. He noticed for the first time how cold it was. Looking around he could see the split carcasses of cattle and moondeer hanging from hooks. Looking up, he could see his wrists were chained and one link of the chain was looped over a hook. He too dangled like a side of beef. He was in some sort of refrigerated storage area, and felt a surge of horror entirely disconnected from his pain when his memory of all those tales of Fat Roj returned.

  A huge hand slapped Janus heartily and painfully on the back and sent him spinning. The motion rotated him to face Fat Roj. Janus wished it hadn't. There was nothing reassuring about the sight whatsoever. Roj was a huge man: tall and broad as an ogryn, with an enormous belly that wobbled as he laughed. A belt of suspensor globes helped support its weight. He had at least ten chins and his eyes disappeared into deep pools of fat. His cheeks were rosy and chubby as a baby's. His little blue eyes twinkled with mirth. In one massive paw, he held a pair of pincers. There was nothing about him now of the urbane well-dressed man who had encouraged the drunken Janus to gamble on credit, using his share of the Star of Venam as collateral.

  Behind Roj stood Weezel, the tattooed man and a group of gnarled looking thugs. The tattooed man had a chainsword in one hand, obviously much used for cutting up beef, judging from the scraps of meat and splatters of blood on its blade. At least, Janus hoped it was beef.

  'Hello, Roj,' he said and swallowed. 'Long time no see.'

  'Well, I think we should make up for lost time,' said Roj. He clicked the pincers with one hand. He was wearing only leather trews and a butcher's apron, leaving his entire upper torso bare. It was not a pretty sight. Janus noticed enormous slabs of muscle moving beneath the fat. Roj was as strong as the Niponan sumo wrestler he resembled. He clicked the pincers again, like a dancer using castanets. Suddenly his smile faded and he glared at Janus evilly.

  'Where is my money?' he said, reaching out to administer a back-handed slap on Janus's face. The blow was given casually, with no apparent effort, but the force of it almost knocked Janus out. He realised exactly how strong Fat Roj was. The impact sent him to spinning faster.

  'You'll get it in t
hree days,' said Janus, doing his best to ignore the taste of warm blood in his mouth.

  'You said that last week,' said Roj administering another tap. There was a note of almost hysterical anger in his voice. Janus's head snapped to the side. Over Roj's shoulder, he could see the nervous looks on the faces of the gang lord's henchmen. When Roj was in a rage, even the hardiest souls walked quietly. 'Are you trying to make me look like a fool? Do you think I am a fool?'

  'No, Roj, just a madman,' said Janus. Despite his fear and his pain he was starting to get angry himself. There was no need for this. And there had been a time when Roj would never have dared treat him this way. From somewhere far off, something seemed to feed him strength and anger. As if at a great distance, he could hear voices whispering. He was not sure what it was they said, but he thought it was kill them, kill them all. A sour smile crossed his lips, for now he knew the voices were the siren call of madness. He was in no position to harm a fly, let alone the gang lord and his henchmen.

  Roj closed his fingers into a fist this time and his blow struck with the force of a thunderbolt. Stars danced before Janus's eyes and he passed out. When he recovered he found that he was swinging backwards and forwards on the end of the hook, like the pendulum of some strange clock. He must have only blacked out for a few seconds, he realised. Roj grinned amiably again, looking for all the world as if he was greeting an old friend. He held the pincers up so that Janus could see them.

  'Interesting how fragile flesh is,' he said conversationally. 'Pliable, too. When you pull out a man's tongue, for instance, it stretches a long way before it snaps. Fingers are different, of course. You can hear the joint pop as you pull the bone from the socket. It's an odd sound, sometimes mixed with cracking if the bone breaks. Toes are the same, but they're not as much fun for some reason. The nadgers are the hardest to get off clean. Sometimes the testicle pops under the pressure. Nasty, it is.'

  He moved a bit closer, till Janus's body came to rest against his huge gut. Fat Roj's china-blue, mad eyes glared into his own, exactly at the same level. He clicked the pincers again. 'Some men can stand a lot of pain. Stay awake right through the whole process. Some pass out halfway through. Some of the weedier ones faint before you even start, and have to be woken with a stim-shot. Strangely enough women mostly endure the pain better than men. Makes you think, doesn't it? Makes you wonder why.'

  Janus could feel Roj's hot breath on his face, smell the garlic and herbs of his last meal. Roj reached up and almost gently caught the tip of his nose with the pincers. Their cold clasp was painful. Roj twisted and Janus was forced to move his head to one side as his nose was tweaked. He wondered if the gang lord intended to tear his nose off. But Roj opened the pincers again and reached out for his ear this time. The pincers bit flesh painfully and then released. 'No fun,' said Roj. 'Except for the vain ones, the ones who think you're going to spoil their beauty, and you're not one of them are you, Janus? Are you?' The second question was almost a scream.

  Janus turned his head to look away. A deep throbbing filled his head, beating inside his skull in time to his heart. The voices chanted in time to its rhythm: kill them, kill them, kill them all! He felt an odd dizziness come over him, a vertigo that had nothing to do with pain or nausea, a sensation of standing over the mouth of a great abyss, while the ground beneath his feet crumbled. He took a deep breath and wondered what was about to happen.

  Roj grabbed Janus's chin with his blubbery fingers and turned his captive's head around to face him. Once again Janus looked deep into those pale psychotic eyes. 'People are thinking you don't respect me, Janus,' he said. 'People are thinking that you think you can get away with things. When people start to think that, they think they can get away with things too. Then we have to make an example of somebody. It seems only fair that we should make an example of you.'

  Janus did not answer. Partly because he knew that Roj was lost in some fantastic otherworld of his own, partially because the siren song of the voices in his own head was getting louder and drowning out the gang lord's words.

  'Big shot,' sneered Roj. 'Won't talk to us now. Too good for us. Used to have a palace on the hill and a seat at the governor's table. Where are your fine friends now, Janus Darke? Who is going to help you now? You will make a good example. People will know that no one is beyond my reach.'

  Janus ignored him. Nothing he could say would convince Roj anyway. The big man enjoyed cruelty and would not be denied his sport. Janus was determined not to give him the satisfaction of showing fear. He knew that was what Roj really wanted. He suspected that for some reason, the gang lord feared him and did not want to admit this even to himself.

  He is right to fear you, whispered the voices. Let us loose and we will teach him the meaning of terror. He will learn how sweet and terrible the game he thinks he is playing can really be.

  Janus tried to ignore the voices too, but it was getting more and more difficult. He was sober now. The booze and golconda were gone from his system. There was nothing to drown them out. Indeed he felt in danger of having them drown out his own thoughts. They were loud as the roaring of a storm-tossed ocean, and more distinctive too. Each voice had its own character, sometimes insinuating, sometimes demanding, sometimes commanding, sometimes pleading. Janus wondered whether he would go mad before Roj could kill him or whether something worse was about to happen.

  The gang lord reached up and unlocked the shackles. The chain jingled as one end ran free and dropped Janus to the hard, cold floor. He noticed how his breath misted. How could Roj stand there in only that apron? Maybe his blubber protected him. The thought made him laugh.

  'Laugh all you like, Janus. Things won't seem so funny in a minute.'

  Janus felt his wrist become immobilised by the enormous clamp of Roj's left hand. He was hefted onto his feet as effortlessly as a child. The tattooed man and his large companion slid forward and held him upright. The pincers came to grips, crushingly with the tip of his little finger.

  'This won't take more than a moment,' said Roj, grinning, and began to twist and pull. At first the pressure was almost gentle. Janus's little finger eased forward in the socket. Then Roj began to twist and the pain began. A needle of ice and fire ran up the tendon on the back of his hand. The finger started to feel stretched. Enormous pressure was brought to bear. The skin of his hand was pulled taut. Bones creaked. This is not happening, the part of him which was still sane and aware thought, but all the time he knew it was.

  The pressure increased. Something cracked and agony seared the length of his hand. His palm felt wet. He could not see it, but he imagined the flesh breaking and the white of bone and red of blood showing through. He clenched his teeth shut, determined not to scream. The beating in his head increased until he felt like a daemonic drummer was using his skull as an instrument. The voices thundered within his mind. In spite of his pain, he felt a deep, monstrous rage begin to build, an anger so powerful it might destroy the world, so corrosive it might eat through steel. Somewhere inside him something had started to feed on the anger and the pain and to take strength and pleasure from it.

  Janus was fighting a war on two fronts, with the pain in his hand and the thing in his head. He knew that if he gave way to either his fate was sealed. He was imprisoning the thing within him now by pure force of will, and if once it got loose...

  Roj gave a grunt of pure pleasure. A ripping, tearing sound mingled with the breaking of bones, and the sound of something popping from its socket. Agony lanced through Janus like an electric current. Roj grinned and held the pincers up in front of his face. At first Janus's dazed mind thought he was showing him a sausage or a gobbet of animal flesh, then he noticed the nail on the end of it, and the realisation slowly filled him that he was looking at his own finger. The drops of red stuff cascading down the front of Roj's apron were his own blood. Deep within him a wall began to crumble. The voices sounded louder. He knew that he could resist no longer, that he was at the end of his strength. He bared his teeth in
a snarl and spat a gob of bloody spittle at Roj's face. The gang lord cuffed him angrily with the hard metal of the pincers. Blood from his own severed finger stained Janus's face.

  'Now, what next I wonder?' said Roj, in a voice full of creamy satisfaction. Janus knew the gang lord's desire to cause pain had the upper hand now and he was not going to stop until Janus was dead. A desire for vengeance as much a desire to preserve his own life filled him. Hatred blazed in his eyes. Something in his mind shrieked a warning. He knew he must resist this urge at all costs even though he no longer wanted to.

  'I am giving you one last chance to let me go, Roj,' he mumbled through bruised lips. 'Otherwise, you're going to die.'

  'What makes you think you are in any position to threaten me, little man?' boomed the gangster heartily. 'Why should I give up on my fun?'

  'Don't say you weren't warned,' said Janus, and let go of his grip on the thing within him. The chorus of voices swelled triumphantly. The thing within his mind grew until it filled his head and drowned out all his thoughts. His pain receded, flames danced around his skull. He saw a look of something like horror appear on Roj's face, and felt his own lips twist into a triumphant smile as the thing that was now wearing them tested its control. Blackness swept in from the edge of infinity, bringing with it a cold that burned more than fire, and a pain more pleasurable than ecstasy.

  Janus felt as if something dark indeed was about to manifest itself in the meat-packing plant. Something old as the universe and evil as sin chuckled in the back of his head.

  Then the screaming started in earnest.

  SEVEN

  DECISIONS MADE

  Simon Belisarius strode confidently into the Rat's Head Beer Cellar. In his heart of hearts, he wished he felt as confident as he looked, but there was no helping it, he was a little afraid. Still, it never did to show fear in front of the ancestrals.