Slade walked to the solar and peered in through the half-open door. Molotch and Culzean were conversing with some vehemence. For the third day running, the talk had turned to the feasibility of constructing new gnosis engines for a return to Sleef. When Slade had first heard them mentioned, she had questioned Culzean about them privately.
‘Sleef Outworld, Ley.’ he had said. ‘Dirty little mudball, far away from all things good, out in the skirts of Callixes sector.’ ‘Have you been there?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’ve studied various reports. Molotch has been there. It was where Ravenor killed him the first time.’
Leyla Slade had looked at Culzean, puzzled. Culzean had snorted, as if he’d made a fabulous joke. ‘I don’t understand. What’s so wonderful about this place?’
‘There are vents there, Leyla, volcanic vents. They have a special quality. The skin of reality is thin there, Leyla. One can hear the vibration of the Immaterium, just out of reach. The vents speak.’ ‘They speak, do they?’
‘They do. Voices from the warp, mumbling fragments from the daemonverse. With the correct equipment – in this case a very curious and expensive device called a gnosis engine – the voices can be collected and stored.’ ‘For analysis?’
‘Yes, and as a source of infernal power.’
Culzean had then rambled on at length, his terminology becoming more and more technical and arcane, until Leyla was lost. She knew he knew she hadn’t the slightest hope of understanding the workings of the gnosis engine, but he insisted on explaining it. He had even drawn a little sketch for her.
Then he had told her about Ravenor. Molotch had been on Sleef Outworld with several gnosis engines built by the Cognitae, and the Inquisition had arrived to destroy the project. Molotch and Ravenor had battled – they hadn’t even known who each other was – and Molotch had escaped with his life, just.
He had jumped, or fallen, into a vent. A teleport had saved him, but not before he had been caught in an upblast of venting fire. He had been scorched by daemonic energy, injuries that took him a long time to recover from.
Culzean told her he believed that was the moment when Ravenor and Molotch had their destinies linked and placed in the hands of the Ruinous Powers. Through the vents, the warp had scented them, tasted them, acquired them. The Ruinous Powers had enigmatic plans, plans too long, too involved, and too abstruse for any mortal mind to comprehend. But the powers could see that, before their brief lives ended, Ravenor and Molotch would perform a great service for them.
‘And this service is Slyte?’ she had asked.
‘This service is Slyte, yes,’ he had replied.
Leyla stepped back from the solar door. From what she could hear, Molotch and her master had managed to disagree on the precise configuration of a gnosis engine, and what alloy best served as an inner lining. There was talk of engaging private fabricators, possibly from Caxton or Sarum, at great expense, and a discussion of how the engine would be shipped.
The only thing they seemed to agree on was that the vents of Sleef Outworld might be a conduit through which they could learn pertinent and valuable information about the mysterious Slyte.
Her ear tag pinged, and she left the solar, coming out of the building across a small, walled courtyard, before running up the steps into the central block of the house sprawl.
Thunder grumbled in the sky behind her, and a breeze had picked up, nodding the tight buds of the arid roses that grew in the courtyard. The sky itself, bright yellow in the east, had bruised black with a thunderhead in the west, as if night and day were co-existing in the same sky.
She reached the security control centre. Like many rooms in Elmingard, its crumbling exterior of flaked plaster and patchy stone belied an extensive modern interior. The walls had been panelled with brushed steel plates, and a grilled deck allowed an under floor gap for power cables and data trunking. There were six cogitator desks arranged in a star pattern, all facing into the centre. The machines clacked and hummed, their valve tubes glowing, and their imaging plates rippling with green sine waves. In the centre of the circle, in the heart of the star, was a large, three-sixty degree hololithic display. Each cogitator desk had a vox assembly bolted on to it, linked under the floor to a bulky, high gain voxcaster in the corner of the room. Extractor fans in the ceiling kept the accumulation of machine heat in the room to a minimum.
Drouet and Tzabo, two members of Culzean’s hired, immaculately vetted staff were on duty. They wore plain suits of navy blue wool with neat silver buttons.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Incoming transport, mam,’ said Drouet.
‘Origin?’
‘The landing fields at Dorsay. It’s broadcasting the correct code fields.’
‘How far out is it?’ Slade asked.
‘Six minutes, mam,’ said Tzabo.
‘Ask for the final handshake code, and direct it to the landing. I’ll be there to meet it.’
The two men nodded, and turned back to their cogitators.
Leyla Slade hurried out of the security room, back out across the courtyard, and began to descend through the rambling labyrinth of Elmingard via terraces, stone staircases, and twisting steps. As she strode along, she opened her link.
‘This is Slade. I want three guns to meet me on the landing immediately.’
‘Yes, mam.’
She adjusted her link setting and made another connection.
‘Leyla?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. There’s a transport approaching.’
‘Any surprises?’
‘I’m making sure there aren’t.’
She had reached the southern end of the mountain fastness. Beyond the line of the old monastic wall, a large part of the cliff top had been cleared back to form a natural landing pad of granite. She stood facing the landing, looking out at the evening sunlight over Sarre. The monastic wall and the shadow of Elmingard rose behind her, and then the wilder shadows of the mountains. She felt the first few spots of rain in the air. Thunder growled.
Three men in light body armour appeared through the wall gate behind her. They carried lascarbines.
‘Just a precaution,’ she told them. She spoke into her link again. ‘Security control? Arm the wall sentry guns, please. Voice command to me.’
‘Yes, mam,’ the link crackled back.
Slade heard the sentry pods go live over the gusting breeze, and arm with a clatter of autoloaders.
They could see the transport: a light lander, a gig, its running lights bright white like stars in the fading sky as it came head on towards them.
Slade slid out her autopistol, popped the standard clip and switched it for one she carried in her belt pouch, one of Culzean’s special loads. She slammed it home, but she didn’t rack it. You didn’t walk around with something like that in the spout.
The lander swept in, big and dark in the threatening sky, its winglets hooked like the pinions of a stooping hawk. Its nose light was blinking. Its landing claws descended from their hatches with whines audible over the thruster downwash.
The wind picked up on the landing, and the down draught lashed grit up in a wide spiral.
The lander touched down with a final howl of thrusters, its claw struts bending to take its weight. The thruster wash immediately dropped, though the belly lights kept flashing, lighting the rock shelf amber. Slade could see the pilot servitor through the cockpit windows, shutting down systems in the green glow of his instrumentation.
The side hatch opened like petals. A tall, red-haired man in a glass jacket came down the ramp and walked briskly over to Leyla. He was followed more lethargically by the pearl-armoured bulk of Lucius Worna.
‘Stand down, deactivate systems.’ Leyla Slade said into her link.
‘Yes, mam.’
‘Master Siskind.’ she said.
‘My dear Leyla.’ the red-haired man replied with a smile. He leaned in and kissed her on each cheek, ‘You’re looking as radiant as ever.’
Slade couldn’t abide Siskind’s familiarity, but she tolerated it. You didn’t shoot the shipmaster your employer was retaining.
‘A good trip?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘A bumpy ride in places. Utochre turned into something of a fracas. But all’s done. We made high anchor this morning.’
Worna joined them. ‘Slade,’ he growled.
‘Lucius,’ She changed out the special load from her weapon, replaced it with the standard clip, and put the gun away.
‘Fracas is probably not a word you should use in your report to Orfeo,’ she said to Siskind, ‘not if you’re trying to ingratiate yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ a voice said from behind them. ‘I enjoy a good fracas once in a while.’
Culzean had joined them on the landing. He was wearing a richly embroidered gown of Hesperan silk over a simple black bodyglove. He looked like the hereditary ruler of some ancient mountain satrapy.
‘Sir,’ said Siskind with a smile, shaking his hand. Worna nodded respectfully.
‘So?’ Culzean asked with a cunning smirk. ‘Fracas, wasn’t it?’
‘It all went to hell,’ Worna told him in his deep, bass voice, like a testament of doom. ‘I lost some men. The Wych House got scragged.’
‘You didn’t come out unscathed yourself, I see,’ said Culzean, nodding at the raw, healing weals on Worna’s moonscape face.
‘It’ll heal,’ the bounty hunter replied.
‘But the trap worked?’ Culzean asked. ‘Tell me it worked, after all the trouble we went to.’
‘It worked,’ said Siskind. ‘Ravenor is very, very dead.’
‘End of story,’ said Worna. A smile spread across Culzean’s face. He checked it. ‘We’re sure about that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Siskind. He gestured back at the lander. ‘We had it confirmed by a very reliable source.’
Siskind’s first officer Ornales appeared from the lander. He was escorting someone at gunpoint.
Her hands were bound, and she had obviously suffered extensively. She was limping and her face was bruised.
‘Her name is Kara Swole,’ said Siskind. ‘Until we got our hands on her, she was one of Ravenor’s principal agents.’
‘Really?’ asked Culzean. His eyes brightened. ‘Of course. Molotch has mentioned her name. How did you come by her?’
‘She penetrated the Allure while we were still at anchor over Utochre.’ said Siskind. ‘She was attempting to discover where we were bound, so that the remnants of Ravenor’s team could pursue us in some pathetic attempt at vengeance. However, Lucius and I apprehended her before she could gain access to anything valuable.’
‘This is what she claims?’
‘This is the truth of it,’ said Siskind. ‘I have been… how can I put this delicately? I have been questioning her for several days. My methods are reliable. This is the truth. Ravenor died in the Wych House and the remains of his band are leaderless, divided and lost. I was going to kill her, but I had a feeling both you and Molotch would chastise me for robbing you of a diversion.’
‘You thought wisely, Master Siskind,’ said Culzean. ‘There’ll be a bonus in this for you. Ley, let’s get the cook to produce something special tonight. A welcoming feast, and a celebratory one. Have the lovely Mam Swole secured in the Alcove.’
Slade nodded. ‘This way,’ she said. Dead-eyed, the prisoner limped in the direction indicated.
Leyla Slade almost felt sorry for her. No one deserved to be left in Siskind’s care for days on end.
THREE
‘COME WITH ME,’ said Harlon Nayl the moment Patience stepped through the Hinterlight’s airgate. He hugged her tight. ‘Come with me.’
‘There’s too much to—’
‘Just come with me.’
Nayl nodded to Unwerth and the other three crewmen who had come across from the Arethusa in the Hinterlight’s launch. At Kys’s insistence, no one remained behind on the haunted derelict. Elman Halstrom, Preest’s solid, dependable first officer, a Navy vet, had come to meet them at the airgate with Nayl.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘Master Unwerth, allow me to welcome you to the Hinterlight. Perhaps you’d care for some refreshment?’
Nayl led Kys away down the Hinterlight’s long access tunnels. The smell, the quality of the lamp light, the stylistic details: it felt almost unbearably familiar to Kys.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she whispered.
‘I thought I was dead,’ he agreed.
‘Why aren’t you dead? Where did you go?’
‘Those are two questions I find it almost impossible to answer, Patience,’ he replied, hustling her along. ‘We went through the door. It was the only escape.’
‘To where?’
‘Places you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I was there, and I don’t frigging believe them,’ he replied.
‘But—’ she began.
‘We’ll get to the but and the why and the what later,’ he said. He led her into the Hinterlight’s well-equipped infirmary. The ship’s medicae, Zarjaran, nodded to her. Kys came to a slow halt. She stared.
A vague shape, amorphous, hung suspended in a stasis tube, veiled in a sheen of blue light. The tube apparatus was connected to a wealth of humming, pinging, gurgling mechanical equipment. It looked as if most of the infirmary’s battery of devices had been hooked up to it.
‘Oh, Throne,’ she whispered.
‘He’s resting,’ said Nayl. ‘He’s going to need a long, slow recovery time.’
‘He was in a very poor state when I got to him,’ said the medicae softly, inspecting a few console read-outs. ‘Massive stab trauma, organ failure, necrotisation, exhaustion, secondary and tertiary infections. He’d been out of support for some time while he received emergency surgery. Very rudimentary surgery, in my opinion.’
‘She did her best,’ Nayl said.
Zarjaran shrugged. ‘He arrested all vitals at least three times under her knife but, yes, I think she did.’
Kys stepped forward. She felt numb. She couldn’t really see what was in the tube. It was just a dark blur, but she could feel what was in it.
She reached out her hand and touched the glass. ‘Gideon?’+Patience.+
The send was distant, like a whisper. Tears sprang up in her eyes.+I’m so sorry, Gideon, I’m so sorry! I should not have left you. I should never have—++Shhhhh,+ the whisper sent back.
ZARJARAN INSISTED THEY leave Ravenor to rest. Nayl took Kys up to the Hinterlight’s ready room. It was a sumptuous private lounge, as befitted the mistress’s character. Shipmistress Cynia Preest was already there, with Halstrom, entertaining Unwerth and his three crewmen. Cynia Preest was more than two hundred and eighty years old, although she always claimed, not unconvincingly, a much lower figure. She had a womanly, matronly frame, cropped blonde hair, and a penchant for heavy eye make-up and ostentatiously dangly earrings. She was wearing a fine, tailored satin suit and red velvet robes. An irascible, strong-minded woman, Preest was nevertheless intensely loyal, although her relationship with Ravenor, and her role as a hired servant of the ordos, had become increasingly strained since the incident at Majeskus. After Bonner’s Reach, when the Hinterlight had been forced to limp away for repairs a second time, they had parted company, partly through necessity. Ravenor had needed to return to Eustis Majoris urgently, and for that reason, the Arethusa was hired. Kys had been privately sure that Preest was glad to see the back of them.
The shipmistress showed no sign of that now. She rose as Nayl brought Kys into the ready room, and gave her a maternal hug.
‘How are you, my dear?’ she asked, as if she really cared.
‘Happier than I was. You’ll have to excuse me. I haven’t washed or changed my clothes in a fortnight.’
‘There will be time for that later,’ said Preest. ‘Have some amasec to steady yourself. Halstrom? Some amasec?’
Halstrom rose to pour the drink. Kys looked around.
The entire situation had a dislocated, dreamy quality. Apart from Preest, Halstrom and Unwerth’s band, she saw Angharad seated in a corner. The Carthaen was dressed in a plain brown gown. Her intricate leather body armour was laid out like a shed skin across her lap, and she was diligently repairing it with wire thread, a steel needle and a pair of cutters. She didn’t spare Kys a second glance.
A young girl sat near to her, prepubescent, wide eyed and strange. She was playing with a key, and laughing to herself.
Halstrom brought Kys her amasec. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek as he handed her the drink. She smiled. She had always been fond of the first officer. He was always reassuring, like the father she had never known.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she said, sitting down with Nayl. The others looked on.
Nayl told her, as best he could. His explanation lasted a long time, and rambled more than once as details failed to make sense until he backed up and explained them. The workings of the door sounded impossible and insane to Kys’s ears, and she asked a lot of questions. Angharad, working and not looking up, interjected several times to correct Nayl’s facts.
‘Finally, we ended up in this place, Rahjez,’ said Nayl at length. Preest had just given him a second amasec. ‘We were a long way out by then. The Ultima Segmentum, a thousand years out.’
‘A thousand?’ Kys breathed. ‘Back, or-?’
‘Back,’ said Nayl.
‘A thousand long years, a thousand long years,’ the child, Iosob, sang, playing with her key. Everyone looked at her. She didn’t notice.
‘Gideon was in a bad way by then,’ Nayl continued, ‘close to death. He tried to hide it, but I knew. He’d worked out how to steer us through the door by using his mind, but his mind wasn’t strong enough any more. The door was playing games, I think, being deliberately wilful. He’d asked it for the Arethusa in 404, and that’s where it took us. Listening Station Arethusa, in 404.M40.’