Lukas the Trickster

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Has Vect forgiven me, then?’

  ‘Do you care if he has?’

  Sliscus threw back his head and laughed. ‘I care nothing for the Tyrant, and he cares nothing for me. Save when I can be of use to him on some matter or other. Much like you, dear Aurelia.’ He peered at her, the light of the hololith making his face look skeletal. ‘You are not so opaque as you believe, dear heart.’

  Malys bristled. ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Is it time, then? Have you at last come to it – the great moment for which you have been preparing since Vect cast you aside, so many years ago?’ Sliscus smiled. ‘It was the talk of Commorragh at the time. Some thought he might take you as his consort. Not me, though. You are the sun, Aurelia, and he is the moon. Two great bodies moving in eternal opposition. You thrive on it, and I was not surprised when he tossed you over for something more pliable. Only that it took him so long.’

  ‘Is that a compliment or an insult, Traevelliath?’

  ‘A bit of both.’ Sliscus stepped back and turned away from the hololithic projector, his hands behind his back. ‘My question stands, dear one. Did you accept my invitation hoping to secure my allegiance in whatever internecine conflict you are planning?’

  ‘And if I did?’

  Sliscus closed his eyes, savouring the moment. It was an exciting prospect, and not unwelcome. He had been getting bored, wiling away his eternity plundering chattel worlds. He needed a new challenge. Something with more meat to it.

  He looked at her. ‘Then we will have much to discuss over the cooking fires. We shall hunt an agreement even as we hunt beasts. It will add a more subtle pleasure to the visceral thrills to come.’

  ‘I don’t trust her,’ Myrta said, watching Sliscus converse with Malys. She stood on the command deck of the cruiser, close to hand but far enough away that no one could accuse her of eavesdropping. Slaves bustled about her, eyes downcast, as overseers barked orders. Thorn-whips lashed the flesh of any who didn’t move fast enough for the overseers’ liking, and a pleasing aura of pain and despair hung over everything.

  ‘And?’

  She looked at Jhynkar. The haemonculus wasn’t paying any attention. Instead, he was studying the photonic projection of a genetic sequence floating above his hands. Like Myrta, he stood ready for Sliscus’ call, though unlike her, he didn’t seem to care overmuch. He had been distracted since the party. She had seen him in close if not convivial conversation with Master Xhact of the Hex. Why Sliscus had invited such a creature Myrta didn’t know, but she guessed it was some suggestion of Jhynkar’s.

  Myrta frowned and slashed her blade through the haemonculus’ projection, scattering the motes of light. Jhynkar grunted and glared at her.

  ‘How rude.’

  ‘She might be a problem.’

  ‘Who? Malys? Perhaps.’ Jhynkar grinned. ‘Getting nervous, my lady?’

  ‘Why should I be nervous, Jhynkar?’

  ‘I’m sure I have no idea.’ He leaned towards her, close enough that she could smell the stink of the chemicals he used to preserve himself. ‘But you seem in need of a confession. So I place myself at your disposal. Speak, and I shall do my best to set your mind at ease.’

  Myrta snorted. ‘I have no need of your condescension.’

  ‘Then why are you bothering me?’

  Myrta had no answer to his question. At least, not one that wouldn’t make her seem weak. He was right – she was nervous. The plan, such as it was, was a tenuous thing. A nudge here, a suggestion there. Sliscus was immune to traditional methods of manipulation. She couldn’t seduce him, or tease him. She was his slave, bound to him by rites as old as Shaimesh himself. As Lhilitu was bound to the void, so too was Myrta bound to Sliscus.

  Even now, she didn’t truly understand why. Some bargain made by those of greater influence in the Lhamaean sisterhood. She was payment for services rendered. A not uncommon state of affairs, but one normally rectified with a dab of poison at a time and place of the sister in question’s choosing. No sister served the same master for long if the latter proved unsuitable. Ownership came with certain responsibilities, and few archons could manage it for any great length of time. Invariably they would strike or insult their courtesan, and she would punish them according to the ancient laws of the sisterhood. That had always been the way of it. But Sliscus defied even those traditions.

  He refused to die. Whether it was due to spite or stubbornness, he refused to release her from her servitude. Until he perished, she was trapped.

  Jhynkar chuckled at her reticence. ‘Patience, dear lady. Patience. All art takes time. And this will be a masterpiece. The Serpent impaled on his own hubris.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ she hissed. ‘Yet there he sits, intact.’

  ‘The hunt has not yet begun,’ Jhynkar protested.

  Myrta considered cutting off one of his hands. Just the one, to ease her frustrations. Even so, she was forced to admit that he was right. She was impatient. There was time yet. The augmented warriors of the mon-keigh were dull-witted and slow by eldar standards, but they were also determined and spiteful opponents. A hunt of this sort was sure to elicit a hostile response from them – especially these particular mon-keigh. The savages in their storm-grey armour were barbarians among barbarians.

  She had often seen their sort fight in the arenas. They were the inevitable favourites of the masses, eliciting cheers with their fierce displays and crude behaviour. Barbarism was often confused with heroism at a sufficient distance. Individually, they were little match for a Commorrite warrior. But they travelled in packs.

  For a moment, she lost herself in a much-cherished fantasy of Sliscus being torn apart by the savage monsters of the blue-grey world below. She would try to protect him, of course. But she would be half a second too slow. An instant too late. Apologies and commiserations, then… freedom.

  ‘He tells me it was your suggestion.’

  Myrta turned, startled, but hid it beneath a carefully composed expression of elegant boredom. Lady Malys stood behind her, fluttering her bladed fan before her face. The archon of the Poisoned Tongue Kabal was taller than Myrta and clad more richly. ‘It was, my lady,’ Myrta said.

  ‘And how did you come by the idea? Such a thing would seem to be beyond the knowledge of one of your sisterhood.’ Malys delivered the insult with gentle ease. Myrta could tell she had done so intentionally. Malys did everything intentionally.

  ‘We are not so provincial as you seem to think. And in any event, I have learned much in my time with the Duke, my lady.’

  Malys nodded, as if that were the answer she had expected. ‘I wondered to see one of your sort with him, and so far from the Eternal City,’ she said. ‘Of course, Sliscus has ever been needful of certain comforts.’

  ‘Much the same has been said of the Tyrant, at times,’ Myrta said.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘That isn’t what I heard.’ It was a low blow, and crude. But Myrta was in no mood for subtlety. ‘It is said that Vect cast you out when he grew bored with you.’

  ‘I left of my own choice, little courtesan,’ Malys said. ‘Unlike you, I am free to choose my own path in this universe. But you, sadly, are bound by the whims of another.’ Malys reached out and took hold of Myrta’s chin. ‘And such whims they are. Is it true that he immolated a world because its ruler mispronounced his name?’

  Myrta stepped back, out of reach. ‘He has burned many worlds, and spared many more. His reasons are his own. He rarely shares them.’

  Malys smiled and folded her fan with a snap. She turned. ‘No. He is quite close-mouthed. Hard to tell what he’s thinking, our Serpent.’ She glanced back at Myrta. ‘But I suspect you might have some guesses.’

  Myrta stiffened. ‘I would not presume to do so.’

  Malys tapped the Lhamaean on the chest with her fan. ‘No? Then maybe your companion
will share his own.’ She turned to the haemonculus. ‘Your name is Jhynkar, is it not?’

  Myrta glared at Jhynkar, willing him to silence. The haemonculus cleared his throat and cocked his head. ‘I believe I hear someone screaming my name. If you will excuse me…?’ He bobbed low in a jerky bow and sidled away. Malys didn’t try to stop him.

  ‘You came to seek his help,’ Myrta said.

  Malys looked at her. ‘Am I so obvious, then?’

  ‘I am observant,’ Myrta said.

  ‘You do not approve.’

  ‘It is not my place to approve or disapprove. Merely to serve his will.’

  Malys tapped her lips with her fan, her expression speculative. Before she could speak, the sudden appearance of Sliscus interrupted her. Myrta made to kneel, but Sliscus waved her to her feet. ‘Now, now, none of that, my lady. You might be a slave, but you are a queen among slaves. Never forget that.’ He brushed a stray hair from her face, his smile unpleasant. She resisted the urge to reach for one of the many blades hidden about her form. ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. It would be her duty to clear the way for the rest. The Raiders of the Sky Serpents would emerge from the webway somewhere above their target and descend swiftly to take captives and ensure that none escaped to warn anyone of their coming.

  With the base camp established, the full force of the hunt, led by Sliscus’ guests, could safely spread across the world at their leisure. It was a rare thing for a raid to take more than a few hours, but not unknown. In such a case, a central rallying point was invariably set up for the inevitable retreat. Sliscus had chosen the spot himself, days earlier, after studying the cartographic scans of the world.

  That Sliscus was bestowing the honour of establishing the base camp upon her could be taken as a sign of his favour. In reality, she knew that it was because his guests would view it as an insult if any among them was chosen without the agreement of the others.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Be wary. I am given to understand that not all in my service are best pleased by my choice. They see only insult, where honour was intended.’ She stiffened as the warning sank in. Before she could ask, his smile widened. ‘Smile, my lady. It is midwinter, after all. A season of red pleasures, for master and slave alike.’ He stroked her face, the edges of his armoured fingers drawing blood. He traced the blood across her cheek and above her eyes, like primitive war-paint. ‘Go. And be swift. Be sure.’

  She nodded stiffly and departed. She felt Malys’ eyes on her the entire way.

  The assault bay was a riot of noise and celebration when she arrived. Half a dozen Raiders painted in the subtle colours of the Sky Serpents waited in their berths. The crews of the anti-gravity skiffs drank and crossed blades, challenging one another for the honour of the prow position. Only the best of them could man the weapon that was mounted there, whether it was a dark lance or disintegrator cannon. The rest would have to make do with their splinter rifles and blades. Gantries stretched like a web of iron across the bay, connecting the Raiders to refuelling and rearming stations.

  She glanced towards the far end of the cavernous bay, where an immense webway portal hung suspended against the interior of the hull in a web of chains and massive clamps. The dimensional doorway was a barbed edifice of black stone shot through with veins of pale green. It hummed ominously, and the chains that bound it rattled constantly. When it was activated, the Raiders would plunge through and into the webway beyond. That the webway itself would have a pathway to their target was a given.

  Even so, Myrta felt a familiar vague sense of uneasiness at the thought of traversing the ancient sub-dimension for even a short amount of time. But she was careful to keep her feelings to herself. For all his seeming impulsiveness, Sliscus had carefully orchestrated this raid, as he had all the others. He had left nothing unaccounted for.

  Warriors greeted her with ironic cheers as she stalked across the gantries. She was as much a mascot as a war-leader. Only Sliscus would see fit to turn command over to a courtesan, and for some among his forces this was simply a sign of his infamous changeability. A point of humour, a great jest. For others, it was a subtler cue – Sliscus was no fool, to bestow such responsibility without regard for capability.

  ‘Hold, wench. I did not give you permission to come aboard.’

  Myrta continued to climb the boarding plank of the lead Raider, its crew falling silent as their commander strode across the open deck of the anti-gravity skiff with one hand on her sword. ‘Did you hear me, courtesan?’

  ‘I heard you, Kakaroth,’ Myrta said. ‘I simply do not care.’

  Sliscus’ reputation for cunning didn’t stop some from challenging her when she was given command. While normally such incidents were postponed until after the conclusion of a successful raid, some corsairs lacked the pragmatism of their Commorrite kin.

  Kakaroth was one such – an exile from some minor craftworld, still wearing the armour of her warrior path, though much altered now by whim and circumstance. She wore a cloak of black silk over armour the colour of blood, adorned with trophies plucked from the dying – broken spirit stones, ork tusks and the like. And buried among them, her spirit stone winked a dull amber. She strutted to meet Myrta.

  ‘So good of you to honour us with your presence, courtesan. Though I fear you will find no captain’s bed to warm here. Only cold steel.’ Kakaroth looked around expectantly. Some among the crew let desultory laughter slip, more to avoid offending her than because she had said something amusing. Kakaroth was not liked, but she was deadly with a blade, and that more than made up for a lack of interpersonal skills.

  Myrta sighed and rested one hand on the pommel of her blade. She had known this was coming. It was inevitable. Though Kakaroth had left her craftworld behind, she had brought its foolish prejudices with her. True, she had not served Sliscus long, but ignorance was no excuse. ‘How droll. I assure you, Kakaroth, that I would much rather be in bed than here dealing with you. But we are all slaves to our master, and he has commanded me.’

  There were murmurs at that. Arrogant as they were, few of the corsairs fighting under the flag of the Sky Serpents liked to be reminded that they were servants. It was part of Myrta’s duty to remind them on occasion. Kakaroth seemed determined to be the latest example. ‘You are a slave,’ Kakaroth said. She still wore her tall, crested helm, her jasper eyepieces winking in the dim light of the assault bay. ‘I am free. More, I have walked the warrior’s path for centuries. You, in contrast, have spent most of your time in this life on your back. What do you say to that?’

  Myrta laughed in her face. Kakaroth cursed and went to draw her blade. Myrta was quicker. Assassins had to be quick – they had to seize their moment in the instant it presented itself. Her blade sprang into her hand, its delicate curve wet with a toxin of her own devising. It was slightly acidic, to aid the blade’s entry.

  ‘I may have spent it on my back, but I assure you it was no less arduous,’ Myrta said, sweeping her sword out in a shallow slash. Kakaroth grunted and slid back. The wound wasn’t fatal – she had twisted aside at the last moment. Her blade came up, and she lunged with a snarl. Myrta blocked the blow, but only just. Kakaroth was strong, but arrogant. It would take time for the poison to work.

  She decided to stall. ‘Why now, Kakaroth? Have you finally lost all patience with our ways? Or did someone put you up to it?’ She laughed. ‘You are no more than a petty killer with only a handful of followers. You command only a single Raider among dozens.’

  ‘But I have ambition. It should be me leading this assault, courtesan. I am an experienced war-leader. I have killed more enemies than you, led more raids. And still he favours you!’ Kakaroth lunged. Myrta sidestepped gracefully.

  ‘Jealousy, then? Is that all? How pedestrian.’

  ‘He insults us,’ Kakaroth said. Her voice had a ragged edge to it. The poison was doing its job. ‘Putting his
doxy in charge of a raid. He is mad.’ Us, she had said. Who did she mean? It might be useful to know, if things didn’t go as she hoped.

  ‘As are you, for willingly bending knee to him.’ Myrta swayed aside, avoiding a blow that would have decapitated her. ‘I was sold to him. What’s your excuse?’ She stepped back and circled the corsair, her blade licking out with almost teasing grace. Kakaroth grew more enraged with every light cut, and centuries of training were washed aside in a murderous frenzy. She had been exiled from her home for good reason. Many, in fact, but the rage was a large part of it.

  ‘Perhaps if you had spent more time on your back, you might not be so eager to throw your life away, exile.’ Myrta lunged, her blade hissing over Kakaroth’s shoulder. She could hear the jeers and shouts from the crew. Wagers were flying fast and heavy. The odds were in her favour. Kakaroth wasn’t the first to have challenged her, and she wouldn’t be the last. The key was to make each death as memorable as possible.

  Myrta lapped at Kakaroth’s agony as the poison took hold, eating away at her discipline and coordination. She began to slow, and the strength of her blows faded. Myrta caught Kakaroth’s blade on her own and stepped close, momentarily trapping her opponent’s sword. ‘Take off your helmet, sister, and let me kiss you,’ Myrta said. ‘A moment of pleasure before the end.’

  Kakaroth hissed and shoved Myrta back, slamming her against the rail. The Lhamaean twisted aside as the corsair attacked. She reversed her blade and drove it into Kakaroth’s side. There was enough toxin left on it to eat a hole in the corsair’s armour. The blade slid home, grating against bone. Kakaroth stiffened and tried to move away, but Myrta pulled her into a gentle embrace, sawing the sword up through the corsair’s abdomen and chest. It was a more merciful death than the poison would have granted her, but the opportunity had been impossible to ignore.

  Kakaroth shuddered and died, still standing at the rail. Her blood pooled onto the deck. Myrta drank in her opponent’s final moments, then, with a sigh, she plucked loose the former craftworlder’s spirit stone and tipped the body over the side. She watched it fall to the deck below. Kabalite warriors swooped down to strip the body of anything of value before letting the slaves remove it. Here, unlike in Commorragh, there was no way back from death for a corsair. ‘And even if there was, you are not worthy of it,’ Myrta murmured as she kissed the spirit stone flickering in her hand.