‘Your man Drouet’s dead,’ Worna grumbled. ‘Ballack shot him. Lucky for you, I was close by.’ ‘Where shall we put them?’ Slade asked.
‘We can lock Ballack up in the under pantry,’ Culzean said. ‘First we make Thonius secure. Bring him this way.’ ‘What’s so important about Thonius?’ Slade asked. ‘Never mind.’
‘Why are we hiding this from Molotch?’ Worna growled. ‘Never mind that either. Come on.’
They moved away down the stone corridor until they were out of sight. The rain beat down, and drools of rainwater seeped into the lower structures of Elmingard. Maud Plyton, a shotgun in her hands, rolled out of hiding as soon as it was quiet.
She ran to the Alcove’s door, and tried the handle. It was locked. Muttering an oath, she knelt down and pulled out her picklock bundle. She worked the lock, sweating, jumping at every sound and every boom of thunder. ‘Come on!’ she spat. ‘Oh, come the frig on!’
The door swung open. Raising her weapon, she crept inside, instantly repelled by the skeletal horrors and jarred monstrosities on display in the gloom around her. A woman in a curious head brace sat chained to a wooden chair at the centre of the room, her head bowed. ‘Kara?’
Kara Swole looked up, drunkenly, at the sound of Plyton’s voice. Her eyes were blinkered by the coloured lenses of the kinebrach device.
‘Who?’ she sighed.
Plyton moved towards her and began to unfasten the chains. ‘It’s all right, Kara. It’s me, Maud. I’ll get you out of this.’
‘Maud? Maud, I saw,’ Kara murmured.
‘It’s all right,’ Plyton assured her, fighting with the shackles.
‘Oh, Throne,’ said Kara more clearly, stiffening in her seat.
‘Kara? It’s all right, just let me—’
‘I saw. I remembered. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.’
‘Kara? What are you saying to me?’
Kara shuddered, and then projectile vomited violently.
‘Kara!’
Plyton pulled her loose and let the chains fall away with a clatter. She dragged the strange lensed device off Kara’s head.
‘He’s here, Maud. Slyte’s here.’ Kara gurgled. Hauling her upright, Maud Plyton felt the hairs on her neck rise.
‘No, he’s not, Kara. We’re all right. Stop saying that.’
‘He’s here.’
ELMINGARD’S VAST STONE kitchen smelled of peppers, goose fat and grease. Their work over for the night, the cooks had gone, and a few scullery boys had been left clearing the marble counters and mopping the floor. Pots were being scrubbed, and the ovens were being banked down. Two youngsters, on menial dishwashing duties, began to lark around beside their enamel sinks, throwing soap suds and bottle brushes at one another.
A senior domestic in a floor-length apron marched in from the larders and bellowed at the pair. He took them both by the ear-lobes and dragged them out of the kitchen, ignoring their squeals of protest. The other scullery boys quietly stopped their chores and crept over to the doorway to eavesdrop and giggle at the dressing down the pot washers were receiving outside.
Belknap seized his chance. He slipped down the length of the old kitchen, hugging the shadows and the wall, his rifle clutched to his chest. Old skills, never forgotten. Hug the cover. Stay low.
His pulse raced. If any of the youngsters turned away from the door, they would see him and raise the alarm, but he couldn’t stay hidden. He had to find Kara. There was nothing more important in the entire galaxy.
A small part of him stepped back and scoffed at his antics. Belknap had been taking risks all his adult life: six years in the Guard, nine as a community medicae, and then the rest as a back-street, unlicensed doctor. The risks he’d taken had always been about the general good, about service. They had always been measured and rational. This was different. This was stalking into a hornets’ nest of first degree sociopaths and heretics, and all for the love of a woman he barely knew, a woman who, in all likelihood, had been dead for over a week.
This was not like him, not at all. He was out of his depth. He was no principal agent like Thonius, Ballack or Kys, or even, Throne rest him, Harlon Nayl. This was not the life he had chosen, nor been recruited for. He was just an ex-soldier who knew his way around a rifle, and had a little training in stealth work and the use of cover.
All he really had was his faith and his passion. He hoped they would be enough.
The scullery boys broke from the doorway and flocked back to their chores as the senior domestic returned, shouting. Belknap had just reached the exit at the far end. He slid into other shadows, breathed out, and headed up a dingy staircase into the rambling house.
Halfway up the stairs, he ducked down as he heard a sound from outside, louder than the din of the storm. What was that?
Thrusters?
‘I’D REALLY LIKE to know what’s going on.’ said Zygmunt Molotch, stepping into the cold, damp under pantry.
He had come out of nowhere. Culzean glanced around, saw him, and quietly cursed. He put on a busy smile and strode towards Molotch. ‘Zyg, Zyg, my friend, you don’t need to bother yourself with this.’ He put a hand gently on Molotch’s arm to steer him out of the room, but Molotch shook it off.
‘I don’t like the idea that you’re hiding things from me, Orfeo. Who is that?’
Molotch pushed past Culzean and advanced into the dank under pantry. Worna and Slade reluctantly stood back from their captive.
Culzean knew he had to handle Molotch with more care than ever before. He shrugged, changing his approach. ‘All right, Zyg, you got me. It’s Ballack. It was supposed to be a surprise.’
‘Ballack?’ Molotch asked. He peered at the man Slade and Worna had been chaining to a stone block by the pantry’s back wall. ‘Ballack? The interrogator?’
‘It was going to be my gift to you,’ Culzean said.
Molotch ignored the facilitator. He knelt down beside Ballack, peering at him.
‘I was quite sure I’d killed you,’ he said.
Behind him, Culzean shot urgent looks at Worna and Slade. Slade put her hand on the grip of her holstered weapon. Worna drew his bolt pistol quietly. Molotch didn’t seem to notice. He stimulated a pressure point in Ballack’s neck with the tip of his finger.
Ballack woke up with a splutter. He swung his head around and blinked as his eyes focused. Blood seeped out between his shattered teeth.
‘M-Molotch…?’
‘Indeed,’ said Molotch. ‘What are you doing here, Ballack? What possible purpose could have brought you to me?’
‘I wanted…’ Ballack murmured, his words slurred and malformed by his broken mouth. ‘I wanted…’
‘What did you want?’ asked Molotch.
‘Revenge, you bastard. I wanted revenge. You left me to die. We were brothers, Cognitae. I served you in fraternal confidence and you betrayed me.’
Molotch rose to his feet and looked down at Ballack. ‘You are a poor excuse for a Cognitae. Diluted fifth or sixth generation, an affront to our tradition. You were an instrument, and I used you without compunction. I owed you nothing.’
Ballack groaned, and thrust at Molotch, but the chains were too tight.
‘You came all this way to kill me?’ Molotch asked. He looked around at Culzean. ‘It rather begs the question how the hell he found me.’
‘Zygmunt, we’ll work that out in due course,’ said Culzean carefully. ‘For now—’
‘No!’ snapped Molotch. ‘I want to know what’s going on, Culzean! Right now!’
Worna moved forwards rapidly. Molotch made a flicking gesture with his right hand, and Worna’s bolt pistol flew out of his grasp. Molotch caught it, turned, and aimed it at Ballack’s head.
‘Molotch! It’s a matter of the most pleasant fraternal confidence!’ Ballack slurred. ‘Molotch!’
‘Shut up,’ said Molotch, and pulled the trigger.
Ballack’s head exploded. Slade leapt back, spattered with blood. Even Worna flinched.
‘Zygmunt…’ Culzean growled.
Molotch muttered some dark prayer and turned back to face them. He calmly handed the weapon back to Worna. ‘What else are you hiding from me, Orfeo?’
‘Nothing,’ Culzean declared.
‘Let me put it another way,’ said Molotch. ‘How did Ballack find me? Why is it I hear thrusters?’
‘I don’t—’ Culzean began.
Slade and Worna pulled out their links simultaneously. Both of them had started chiming.
‘Incoming vehicle,’ said Slade to Culzean.
‘You see?’ said Molotch. ‘I think it’s time you stopped lying to me Orfeo, and started telling me plainly what in the name of the Undying Eight is going on here.’
EIGHT
THE CUTTER SKIMMED in low and fast out of the night towards the high perch of Elmingard. The sensor web of Culzean’s fastness had been set, by the master’s own recent command, to passive, but even that did not explain the way the cutter had come into airspace proximity without any prior detection.
There were three other factors in play. The first was the way the cutter was being flown: ultra fast and ultra low, what Navy pilots called ‘crust kissing’. The flight path had hugged the terrain all the way from the Sarre borders. In places, the craft’s downwash had parted treetops like a comb, or whipped up com stooks from the harvested fields. The method of flying kept the craft’s profile low and tough to paint. It also required a very experienced and dynamic style of piloting.
The second factor was the way the small craft was obscured. A shield or veil had been employed, its mechanism and type unidentifiable to Tzabo and the other professional experts in Elmingard’s security control centre. The cutter was suddenly just there. They heard its thrusters before they saw it on their scopes.
The third factor was the night. The storm was a filthy, howling monster, worse than any they’d known. It straddled the mountaintops like a drunken ogre, roaring at the heavens. The storm’s savage electrical pattern flared and sparked and wallowed, creating blinks, false artefacts, phantoms and idiot flashes on the instrumentation. It caused two of the cogitators to short out. Bizarre whines and squeals emerged from the speakers, causing Eldrik, the duty man on station with Tzabo, to tear off his headset.
‘This isn’t natural,’ Eldrik complained.
Tzabo was slow replying. He was staring at his own screen, where the fading after-image of the last lightning ghost had shown an uncanny resemblance to a human skull.
‘What?’ he asked, distractedly.
‘I said this isn’t natural. The storm,’ said Eldrik.
‘No, I don’t think it is,’ said Tzabo. He shook himself. ‘Concentrate on the damn contact. Pull it up for me, sharp.’
‘On it,’ said Eldrik.
Tzabo lifted his handset and pressed the master channel. Culzean answered.
‘Sir,’ said Tzabo, ‘we have an airborne contact two kilometres out, coming in strong. No marker, no registration, no handshake codes.’ ‘I can hear it already,’ replied Culzean’s voice. ‘It must be really moving.’ ‘It is, as I said, sir. I am about to light the house defences and switch to active, with your permission.’
Down in the clammy gloom of the under pantry, the ghastly stink of Ballack’s detonated skull still clinging to the air, Culzean glanced at Molotch and then nodded.
‘Light them up, Mister Tzabo. Activate all perimeter and surface to air systems. Stand ready to deny them and annihilate them.’
‘Hail them first,’ Molotch said.
‘What?’ asked Culzean.
‘Hail them. Hail them,’ Molotch demanded.
‘Zygmunt, they are coming in unauthorised, no codes. They are not ours.’
‘They want to be here.’
‘Zyg, Zyg, Zyg… it could be an Inquisition raid.’
Molotch laughed. It was a disconcerting sound, because he didn’t do it very often. ‘Orfeo, if the Inquisition had found us, they’d have called in Battlefleet Scarus and wiped us off the map already. Hail them.’
‘No, Zygmunt, this—’
Molotch demonstrated his right arm flick again, and the link sailed out of Culzean’s manicured hand. Culzean cursed.
Molotch caught the device neatly and raised it to his ear. ‘Tzabo, hail the contact.’
There was a long silence.
‘Tzabo?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I only take orders from Master Culzean,’ Tzabo’s voice said.
Molotch sighed and looked back at Culzean. He handed the link back to him. ‘I am ever impressed by the quality of the people you employ, Orfeo.’
Culzean took the link back. ‘Mister Tzabo, hail the contact.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Culzean lowered the link. He glanced at Slade and Worna. ‘Ley, I’d like you up in the centre to take charge.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Slade said, hurrying out.
‘Lucius,’ Culzean said, ‘you’d be useful up on the landing if this goes arse up.’
Worna nodded, and strode away. Culzean looked over at Molotch.
‘We should go up and see what this is.’
Molotch nodded. ‘We should. Just to be clear, Orfeo, we’re not done, you and me.’
‘I know.’
‘We’re not done.’
‘I know.’
Molotch placed a hand on Culzean’s arm and gently prevented him from leaving the under pantry.
‘What I mean, Orfeo, is that there’s a very real possibility that we are about to experience a parting of the ways, and you do not, believe me, want that to happen.’
Culzean looked down and very deliberately took hold of Molotch’s hand and removed it from his sleeve. ‘Zyg, don’t threaten me. I am the last person you should ever threaten.’
Molotch smiled. It was the expression a hyena might wear as it salivated over some newly felled prey.
‘Orfeo, there’s no one anywhere I would ever be afraid of threatening. Understand that, and our relationship might last a little longer.’
LEYLA SLADE ENTERED Elmingard’s security control centre in time to hear Tzabo say, ‘Approaching vehicle, approaching vehicle, respond and identify yourself. This is private airspace. Identify yourself, or suffer the consequences of trespass.’
Static fuzzled back.
‘Approaching vehicle, approaching vehicle—’ Tzabo began again.
Slade took his vox-mic away from him. ‘Approaching vehicle,’ she said sternly, ‘this is Elmingard. Speak now, or we’ll hammer you out of the sky with the Emperor’s own righteous fury. Respond.’
Static.
‘Are the systems active?’ Slade asked the duty men.
‘Sentries are live. Missiles armed and ranged,’ Eldrik replied quickly, clicking brass switches on his desk.
‘Approaching vehicle,’ Slade began again. She didn’t get a further word out. The approaching vehicle interrupted her by answering.
It was not a vox squirt, nor a pict-enabled transmission.
It was a psi-blurt.
+Elmingard. Hold your fire. You do not want to destroy me, because I am not your enemy. Not this time.+
HEADING UP THROUGH the Byzantine stairwells of Elmingard, Culzean and Molotch stopped in their tracks.
‘Ow!’ said Culzean. ‘Did you feel that?’
‘Yes,’ said Molotch. ‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘Who the hell do you think? Who else knows us this well? Who else is so powerful a sender?’
‘Ravenor?’
Molotch nodded. ‘It’s Gideon,’ he said.
‘Ravenor’s alive?’
Molotch looked at him in disdain. ‘Of course he is. Did you ever doubt it? Oh, grow up, Orfeo.’
IT WAS DARK and cold and wet out in the raw base of the astronomer’s broken tower. The wind shrieked in through the gappy stones, and there was no shelter from the rain.
Carl Thonius moaned, pulling at the wrist chain Leyla Slade had shackled him with. The chain was anchored to the heaviest tumb
led block in the heart of the tower.
He had heard the voice. In his head, he had heard the voice, despite the buzzing and the chuckling. Gideon’s voice. Gideon was alive.
Thonius felt a sudden, soaring sense of hope. There was regret and shame and pain mixed in with it, but hope was the strongest flavour. He pulled himself upright and looked out into the sheeting rain at the approaching lights. He had strength at last, a force of will. Since that afternoon, in Miserimus, in Formal E of Petropolis, when he’d been stupid enough to look into the flect and let the daemon into his soul in the first place, he hadn’t felt this strong. He could do this. He could beat this. He – He went blind. No, not blind. Deaf. No, not deaf – Falling. He was falling. There was a pit filled with the darkest smoke of Old Night, and the blemish of forgotten suns, decaying into oblivion, and an ochone moaning that crackled like an untuned vox.
It was there in the darkness, swooping around him as he fell into the infinite, his mouth yelling but making no sound. He knew this. He knew what this was. It had happened before.
The thing in the darkness swooped closer, pale and cold, yet burning. It was anguished and spavined, old and so, so dreadful. It snorted like a beast in Carl’s head.
Terrible pressure pushed his eyes back into their sockets. Claws rammed up into his nostrils, and dragged out his tongue until it was tight and stretched. Molten lead poured into his ears, suffocating all sounds. He toppled over, pulling the chain tight, wailing in distress. Black, stinking blood suddenly welled out of his mouth, nostrils and tear ducts. Cramps viced and wrenched at his intestines. His legs exhibited a sudden, palsied tremor. One by one, the rings he had collected snapped and pinged off the swelling fingers of his right hand.
Carl Thonius screamed. He decided he wanted to die after all, really, properly die, and soon.
He let the buzzing out. The pain had become too much. It had been inside him for so long, wearing him down, wearing him out. A lifetime, so it seemed. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
His vision returned. For a bare instant, he saw Slyte, face to face. Thonius’s eyeballs burst and jellied matter dribbled down his cheeks.