by Dan Abnett
What is your name?' I asked the mercenary again. ТоГ you. Eino Goran.' 'Where are you from?' 'Hesperus.'
4Vhat colour is the sky?' 'Blue. Defn'ly' 'What is your name?' 'Eino. Goran. Eino Goran. Eino Goran.'
The words came out like a mountain stream, overlapping, light, without any meaning. 'Where are you from?' I went on. 'Hesperus… uh. Dunno.'
What does the tattoo on your upper body signify?' 'Bond.'
'In what language?' 'Dunno.'
'Is it a repatriation bond?' 'Uh huh.' 'That's a mercenary custom, isn't it?'
'Uhm.'
'It states, for any captor to see, that if you are returned to your home world, or an agency of your home world unharmed, a bond will be paid. Is that correct?'
'Yeah.'
'Are you a mercenary?'
Yessss.'
'What colour is the sky?'
'Blue. No, yes… blue.'
What is your name?'
'Uh…'
'I asked you, what is your name?'
'Wait… I know this. Be hard to think…' His eyes rolled in their sockets.
'What is your name?'
'Dunno.'
'Are you a mercenary?'
Yeah…'
'Was I your target last night?'
Yeah.'
"Who was your target last night?'
'Eisenhorn.'
Am I Eisenhorn?'
Yes.' He looked at me, but his eyes remained glassy, unfocussed.
'What were your orders?'
'Chill 'em all. Burn the place.'
'Where did the orders come from?'
'Clansire Etrik.'
'Is clansire a rank?'
Yeah.'
'Is Clansire Etrik a Vessorine janissary?'
Yes.'
Are you a Vessorine janissary?'
Yes.'
'What is your name, janissary?'
'Sire! Vammeko Tarl, sire!'
He paused and blinked, not sure what he had just said. Crezia was staring at me.
You're doing very well, Tarl,' I said.
'Uh huh.'
The emplate was shredding away from his mind like damp paper now. I went in for the kill with my full willpower now his mind was open.
'Where were you hired?'
'Twenty weeks ago. Nnngh. Twenty weeks.'
'Where was that?'
'Heveron.'
'What were you doing there?'
'Looking for work.'
'Before that?'
'Gnnh… be hired for a border war. Local governor hired us. But the war fizzled out.'
'And you found a new client?'
The Clansire did. Good pay, for a longterm hire. Off-world, transit paid.'
To do what?'
They didn't tell us. Shipped us off to someplace/
Where?'
'Gudrun?'
'Was it Gudrun?'
'Yeah…' A shudder went through him.
'And the job, in outline?'
'Hardware and fliers provided by client. Told to hit this place on a headland. Chill everyone.'
'Whose place was this?'
'Be someone called Eisenhom.'
'How many men were hired?'
'All of us. The entire clan.'
And how many men is that?'
'Eight hundred.'
I paused. Eight hundred?
'All for this job on Gudrun?'
'No. Be seventy of us for that. The rest for other jobs.'
What other jobs?'
'Wasn't told. Gah… my head aches/
Crezia touched my sleeve. 'You must stop/ she whispered. 'He's beginning to hyperventilate/
'Just a few more questions/1 hissed back.
I looked at Tarl. He was sweating and rocking slightly in his seat as his breaths came quick and fast.
'Where did you stage before the raid?'
'Nnh… Piterro/ A small island in the Bay of Bisheen. Interesting.
'What was the name of the ship that brought you here?'
The Beltrand!
What was the name of your client?'
'Dunno/
'Did you ever meet him?'
'No/
'Did you ever meet any of his agents?'
Yeah… uhhnn! It hurts!'
'Gregor!'
'Not yet! Tarl, who was the agent?'
Woman. Psyker. She came to emplate us the night before the raid/
'She personally fixed your identity veils?'
Yes/
'What was her name?'
'Call herself Maria. Maria Tarray/
'Picture her in your mind, Tarl/ I ordered. I got a brief but vivid flash of a sharp featured woman with long, straight black hair. Her eyes were what I remembered most. Kohl-edged, large and green like jade. She seemed to look into my head. I snatched back.
'Are you all right?' Crezia asked.
Yes, I'm fine/
We're going to stop now/ she told me straight. 'Right now/
'Right now?'
That's what I said/
The janissary had sunk back on the bed, his skin puffy and damp. He closed his eyes and moaned.
'He's coming down. Now he's feeling the disruptions of your mind probe/ I could see she was shaking slightly. She'd felt them too, second hand.
'One last question/
'I said we were stopping now and I meant it. I have to stabilise him/
I held up my hand. 'One more. While he's still open. We come back later or tomorrow and he'll have closed up. And you don't want to do this again, do you?'
'No/ she relented.
Tarl? Tarl?'
'Go 'way/
What was the name of your client? What was the name of Maria Tarray's boss?'
The Vessorine murmured something.
What was that?' whispered Crezia. 'I didn't catch it/
I had. Not verbally, but in my mind. Something blocked out, something he hadn't been able to say even before if he'd wanted to. As he collapsed into psi-fugue, the last shreds of his emplated veil melted away and the final name tumbled out.
'He said Khanjar/ I told her. 'Khanjar the Sharp/
ELEVEJM
Adept Cielo.
Death notices.
Dangerous kindness.
Iwoke before dawn. it was still twilight outside, and the curtains of my room swayed in the cold breeze.
I got dressed, and went downstairs. On the way, I checked on Tarl. He was profoundly asleep, curled on his bed. Crezia had made sure he was alright, given him a secondary, mild opiate to reduce his trauma and covered him with a blanket. He'd been out for the best part of fourteen hours. Crezia had almost flipped out with fear when she discovered the captive in her box room was a Vessorine janissary.
I checked Tarl's bindings, and he groaned softly as 1 disturbed the blanket.
Aemos was already up. Drinking caffeine he had brewed himself, he sat in Crezia's study, listening to the early morning vox broadcasts.
'Couldn't you sleep?' I asked.
'I slept fine, Gregor. But I never sleep for long.'
I fetched another cup and poured caffeine from his pot.
'There's nothing about us/ he said, gesturing to the vox.
'Nothing?'
'It's most perturbatory. Not a word, not even on the arbites band.'
'Someone managed to hire eight hundred Vessorine killers, Uber. They have clout. The news has been withheld. Or censored.'
The others will know.'
'How do you mean?'
'Fischig, Nayl. The moment they don't get a response from Spaeton House, they'll know something is up.'
'I hope so. What did you make of our friend's tattoos?'
'Base Futu, just as I supposed. I cross-checked it using the doctor's cogi-tator.' He took out a note-slate and adjusted his eye-glasses. This mark bears witness that Vammeko Tarl, a janissary, is owned by the Clan Etrik, and a bond often thousand zkell will be paid for his repatriation. He is of flesh made and his flesh speaks for him.'
&
nbsp; Aemos looked up at me. 'Strange practice.'
Totally in keeping with the Vessorine mindset. Janissaries are objects. Material items. You might as well keep a cannon or a tank as a prisoner of war. They have no political affiliation, no loyalties within the particular frame of whatever conflict they're involved with. No use as a hostage. Putting that little incentive on each one makes dungs clear and simple. Puts a simple price on the matter and dissuades a captor from simply killing them.'
'How much is ten thousand zkell, then?'
'Enough, I should dunk'
What do we do with him when we leave?'
Now there was a question.
I went into the kitchen to brew more caffeine and hunt for bread, and found Crezia juicing ploins and mountain tarberries in a chrome press. Her hair was loose and she was wearing a short, cream silk houserobe.
'Oh!' she said as I walked in.
'I'm sorry,' I said, retreating.
'Oh, don't bother, Gregor. You've seen me in a lot less.'
Yes, I have.'
Yes, you have. Fruit juice?
'I was looking for caffeine, actually/
'How could I forget? Breakfasts on the terrace… me with my fruit and grain-cakes, you with your caffeine and eggs and salt-pork/
I filled a pan from the sink pump and lit the stove. Then I rinsed out the pot. 'I suppose now's your opportunity to tell me "I told you so"/1 said.
"What do you mean?'
You always said fruit and grain-loaf was the path to a healthy life, remember? You used to go on about diet and fibre and all sorts. Told me my intake of caffeine and alcohol and red meat would kill me/
'I take it back/
'Really?'
'It won't be your diet that kills you, Gregor/ she said, suddenly biting at a fingernail.
You were right, of course. Look at you/
'I'd rather not/ she said, crushing a ploin with excessive force.
You're as lovely as the day I first met you/
'The day you first met me, Gregor Eisenhorn, you were half-comatose with anaesthetic and I was wearing a scrub mask.'
'Ah. How could I forget?'
She looked at me witheringly.
'Still/ I said. 'I'm not lying. I treated you badly. I'm still treating you badly. Someone like you doesn't deserve that.'
She tasted her pulpy juice drink. 'I won't argue with any of that. But… it's nice to hear you admit it.'
'It's the truth. So's the fact you're still lovely.'
She sighed. 'Juvenat programs are all easy to administer. I look this way thanks to Imperial science, not fruit juice.'
'I still believe in fruit juice.'
She grinned. You don't look so bad yourself, red meat and caffeine considered.'
The pan began to boil. 'I feel about a thousand years old next to you. Life has not treated me kindly'
'Oh, I don't know. There's a nobility about your scars. Something very masculine about the way you wear your age well.'
I started to look in cupboards for the ground beans.
'That canister there/ she said. 'The chicory blend you always used. I've never lost the taste for it.'
I took the tin canister and spooned out several measures into the pot. 'Crezia/ I said, 'you should have let go of me a long time ago. I was never any good for you. I was never any good for anyone, truth be told.'
'I know/ she said. 'But I can't. That's just the way of things/
I poured the boiling water into the pot and let it stand.
'How's Alizebeth?' she asked suddenly.
I had been sort of waiting for that. I had broken my long relationship with Crezia Berschilde in the end because of Bequin. Even though I knew Alizebeth and I could never be together in any way except friends, I knew I would never get past my love for her. It was too much in the way, and that could never be fair on Crezia.
Twenty-five years before, in that very house, I had told her as much. And walked away.
'She's dying/ I said.
Crezia put her glass down suddenly. 'Dying?'
'Or already dead/ I told her what had happened on Durer.
'Oh, God-Emperor/ she said. 'You should go to her/
'What could I do?'
'Be there/ she said firmly. 'Be there and tell her before it's too late/
'How do you know I haven't already told her?'
'Because I know you, Gregor. Too well/
'I… well…'
'The two of you never… I mean?'
'No. She's an untouchable. I'm a psyker. That's the way it works/
And you never told her?'
'She knows/
'Of course she knows! But you never told her?'
'No/
She embraced me. I pulled her close. I thought of all the things I had never done, or never started, or never finished. Then I remembered all the things I had done and could never undo.
The last thing you want is me, Crezia/ I whispered into her hair.
'I'll be the judge of that/
The kitchen door burst open and Aemos limped in. Crezia and I let each other go.
We could have been doing anything for all Aemos cared. You have to come and hear this, Gregor/ he said.
He had been listening to the Sub-sector Service on the vox, news from all around the Helican sub, some of it days or weeks old. By the time we were standing around the old set, the news had moved on to stock reports and shipping forecasts.
'Well?' I asked.
'A report from Messina, Gregor. The upper levels of spire eleven of Messina Prime were destroyed twenty-four hours ago by what was cited as a recidivist blast/
I went cold. Spire eleven, Messina Prime. That was the location of the residence I had leased for the use of the Distaff. Nayl and Begundi had taken Alizebeth and Kara there. For safety.
The report said that over ten thousand lives had been lost/ Aemos murmured. The Messina arbites are hunting for suspects, but it's been attributed to a radical free Messina outfit/
I sat down, trembling. Crezia crouched beside me, hugging me. The Distaff… gone? Bequin… Nayl… KaraSwole… Begundi?
It was too much.
I realised why Khanjar the Sharp had hired so many Vessorine janissaries. Multiple strikes, multiple worlds. What else had this Khanjar hit? What other pain had he already caused me?
Who else had he killed?
What's going on?' Eleena asked, coming in, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
I paced the house and the courtyard garden. Two or three times, I started up towards the box room, the autopistol in my hand. Damn the bond! I would have vengeance!
Each time, I turned back. I'd counselled Medea against vengeance, and so I should listen to my own good advice. Killing Tarl would be like breaking a sword. What was it Medea had said? It's a displacement activity. It's something you can lock on to and do because you can't do the thing you really want to do. I needed something, and it wasn't payback.
So what was it? I needed to get back in the game. I needed to round up my allies. I needed to discover who Khanjar the Sharp was.
And then, damn the advice I had given Medea, I needed to destroy him.
At nine sharp, Adept Cielo arrived with his clerk, having been summoned the day before. Both were hooded and cloaked, which I suppose was their idea of subtlety.
I met with them in the drawing room, with Crezia in attendance. She had dressed in a trouser suit of beige murray.
Adept Cielo was an elderly, experienced astropath, one of the best the Guild House in Ravello had to offer.
'I take it, sir, this is a private matter?'
'It is.'
'Are you purchasing my services in cash?'
'No, adept, by direct fund transfer. I have a confidential message service which I wish to use. I expect the utmost discretion.'
'You have the guarantee of the Guild, sir,' said Cielo. His clerk opened a data-slate and offered me the thumb-print scanner.
I pressed my thumb against it and then entered my code.
>
'Ah/ said Cielo, as the slate chimed and displayed a readout. /That's all sorted out. Your accounts have released the funds. Everything's in order, Mr Eising. Let us proceed.'
Of course, I wasn't using any accounts that were connected with the person of Gregor Eisenhom. I had good reason to suspect my finances were under observation, if not frozen. But I wasn't even going to try, because that would let my enemy know that someone with the authority to access Gregor Eisen-horn's accounts was still alive, and it would be comparatively simple to trace that access.
As with the various properties I owned, I had resources under other identities. 'Gorton Eising' had several holdings with the Imperial Thracian treasury, with enough funds for my current needs.
I had set up the confidential message service many years before so that I could send and receive messages without using my real identity. It was essentially an automatically maintained mailbox account that I could access, using an astropath, from any location. 1 could send messages through it, and read any communiques that had been posted to it. The service was registered under the name Aegis'.
When Cielo accessed the Aegis account, there were no communiques waiting to be read. Composing the contents in Glossia, I had Cielo send warning messages to Fischig on Durer, to Messina, to agents of my organisation on Thracian Primaris, Hespems, Sarum and Cartol. I used the signature 'Rosethorn'. I also sent a private, coded, anonymous transmission to a friend outside the Helican sub-sector. It was a single word message that read 'Sanctum'.
I would wait for responses before I contacted my Lord Rorken. I wanted to take things one step at a time. Not for the first time in my career, I wanted to stay out of sight, except to friends.
Of course, even sending communiques in another name was risky. Many or all of the people I was trying to contact might be under surveillance themselves – if they hadn't already been eliminated. But Glossia was a private code. Even if my messages were intercepted, they would be impossible to decipher.
The first responses arrived by noon the next day. Cielo's clerk came up from the Guild House to deliver them.
One was a message from Fischig, in Glossia, that essentially told me he was already en route from Durer and would arrive at Gudrun in about twenty days. I dispatched a reply that emphasised caution and told him to contact me when he was close.
The message 'Sanctum' had been answered with the words 'Sanctum arising, in fifteen'. There was no ident on the communique, and the source was deep space.
The clerk then passed me a data-slate. 'The communiques to Messina, Thracian Primaris, Hesperus and Cartol have all been returned as unde-liverable. That is strange. The message from Hesperus has a statement from the local arbites attached, recommending you get in touch with them directly. There has been no response from Sarum.'
