by Dan Abnett
"Just cargo," Unwerth said.
"Ornales?" Siskind called. Another man came into the cabin, and handed Siskind one of the Arethusa's leather-bound manifests. Siskind skimmed through the pages to the last entry.
"Here, in your own hand, Unwerth. Passage arranged from Bonner's Reach to Eustis Majoris. Eight persons. Price agreed. No names recorded."
Unwerth knew when lying was hopeless. "I was pertained by those persons to act as conveyance. They have quit the ship now."
"Who were they?"
"Traders, I conceive. I asked no query of them."
"Come on, you little bastard!"
"If I knew names." Unwerth blurted, "I would not obligate you with them! A shipmaster and his clients enrapture the principles of privatisation and confidence! As a master yourself, you know that!"
"You know," grinned Siskind, handing the manifest back to his first officer, "I admire your professionalism, Unwerth, I really do. Client confidentiality. That's something I try to uphold in every circumstance. But I'd waive the privilege like a shot if my ship was being held by force and I was in the same room as Lucius Worna. So... give me the damn names."
"No," said Unwerth.
"All right, answer this. What do you know of a man named Gideon Ravenor?"
"Nothing," said Sholto Unwerth flatly.
Siskind turned to Worna. "Your witness," he said.
Lucius Worna reached into a belt pouch and took something out that began to chitter and vibrate.
"Know what a cisor is?" he asked.
Unwerth shook his head and slowly shrank back into the couch until he could go no further.
"Well," said Worna. "You're going to find out. Unless you answer the questions. Do you know Gideon Ravenor?"
"Yes," said Unwerth.
"He was your passenger? Him and his team?"
"Yes," Unwerth said in a tiny, tiny voice.
"Now we're getting somewhere. What happened to Thekla and his ship?"
"I don't know! In absolution, I do not! They did not tell me!"
"Maybe they didn't. All right, here's another. Where is Ravenor and his crew now?"
"I don't know. On the surface. That's all I can explicate, to the best margin of my knowing."
"On the surface. Uh huh. And how do you contact them?"
"I don't! Our arrangementage is finished!"
"You must know where they are, what they're doing?"
"I applore you, I don't! They made a special immensity of not telling me the pertinence of their business! They said I shouldn't know for the good of my health!"
Lucius Worna slowly raised the sawing cisor.
"How wrong they were," he said.
FOURTEEN
Piece by piece, Carl Thonius was extracting the secrets of Tchaikov's riddle box. He'd been deciphering for two days. He wrote every scrap of data down on index cards and soft-gummed them to the wall of the east bedroom, rearranging them as more details fitted in. The entire wall was speckled with cards. Every once in a while Carl went to his cogitators, and checked a fact via his link to the Informium, or ran details through his arithmometer.
The sheer scale of the Contract Thirteen operation was becoming evident. It had been going on for years. I had suspected that thousands of tainted devices had been smuggled into Petropolis, but the actual figure was currently close to five million.
Five million! If that were true, vast substrates of the Administratum in the hive were currently using warp-infected engines on a daily basis. And the Contract Thirteen cartel had become very rich indeed. It was evident from the funds Tchaikov had been laundering for them. The Contract itself had paid out well, regularly, and it had been fearsomely supplemented by the trade in flects.
The foolish trade in flects. The greedy side-order they hadn't been able to resist, the very reason I had discovered their vile dealings in the first place. Their own greed had betrayed them.
I was still troubled by the deeper connections. The vein of Cogitae that ran through the players in this game. Thekla, Tchaikov, Siskind, though I didn't think that last fool was a player anymore. Trice intrigued me, given his power and status, and Carl had been unable to draw up any background on the man. But I knew he employed powerful psykers. Kinsky, for one, and the unidentified fellow at the diplomatic palace. Then, of course, there had been the assassination attempt itself. Trice had other enemies. Enemies who could conjure an incunabula. My gut feeling was the Divine Fratery. Carl's initial findings showed they had cells operating on Eustis. That made me especially wary.
I was locked into their future predictions, their prospects. If they were attacking Trice, that meant my struggle with the cartel was somehow interfering with the fearful event that they were so keen to see happen.
So many pieces, like a vast game of regicide. At the centre of it all, I worried, was the mysterious, prophesied figure known as Slyte. The Divine Fratery's messiah. What was he, what was it?
Zael's true name was Sleet. He was a mirror farseer, and so, by Eisenhorn's definition, especially luminous to the fraters. Had I really been so gullible as to accept a daemon into my midst? Was my sympathy for Zael my undoing, and the undoing of a subsector besides?
I prayed not. I was a man of careful, considered ambition. Though everything pointed to Zael, that seemed too easy. From experience, I know the universe is a far, far more complex mechanism.
I hovered behind Carl as he continued his work. He seemed to me to be edgy and restless. When he mis-struck a key on the board of his cogitator, he cursed and oathed.
+Gently.+
"So much data," he murmured. "So much to co-ordinate. It gets me worked up."
One thing we had fathomed from the riddle box: some of the cartel members had grown so rich on their profits that they had already quit and retired. That was virtually unheard of, a rogue trader selling up his ship and retiring to a life of luxury. But such were the vast earnings of these men. Marebos had purchased an entire island on Messina. Braeden had retreated to a castellated abbey above the Great Falls on Mirepoix. Counting their money, no doubt, rolling in it.
Athen Strykson had sold his ship and, combining that huge fund with his cartel earnings, had bought a retreat in a private canton of his homeworld.
Athen Strykson came from Eustis Majoris. The place he had purchased was in Farthingale, a rural seat fifteen hundred kilometres inland from Petropolis hive. For the first time in our investigation, we had an opportunity to meet with a cartel member face to face.
Nayl, Kys and Mathuin were en route right now. They were going to ask the ex-shipmaster a few pointed questions.
"So much data." Carl complained again, pasting another card on the wall. "Couldn't Zael help?"
"No." I transponded. "I sent him to the kitchen to brew you some caff." Truth was, I wanted Zael as far away from this as possible. If he was Slyte...
There was a chime alarm. I heard Frauka go to the front door. He came back and leaned in to see me. "It's the physician," he said.
I left Carl to his work and hovered down to greet Belknap. True to his promise, he'd come back to check on Kara.
He stood in the doorway, his bag in his hand.
"Medicae."
"Inquisitor."
"I appreciate this."
"Good."
"Come up."
He followed me up the stairs. He was a good man, a very principled man, I could feel that now, just as Kys had told me.
We went down the upper corridor towards Kara's room. A cry stopped him in his tracks.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Nothing that needs to concern you, doctor." I replied.
Another cry.
"You want me to trust you, don't you?" Belknap said, turning to face me. "What the Throne was that?"
"Our guest." I replied. "He does that from time to time."
"Let me see him."
"No."
"Then I'm leaving Ravenor."
"Very well."
I led Belknap down the ha
ll and nudged open the door of Skoh's room. Pulling at his shackles, Skoh screamed again for effect.
"Holy Throne..." Belknap said, gazing into the room.
"They're chafing me!" Skoh cried. "They're chafing my wrists so sore!" He held up the manacles to show us.
"This is disgraceful," Belknap said.
"Skoh is my prisoner. A dangerous man. Don't pity him, whatever you do." I said.
Belknap glowered at me. "He's a man even so, stricken in health. My oath as a medicae means I have to see to him."
"Very well."
Belknap walked over to Skoh and examined his manacles.
"You have to release him. The binders are rubbing him raw and the sores are infected."
"He is an enemy of the Imperium, doctor," I said. "The binders stay on."
"Then I have to take him to the local medicae facility..."
"No," I said. "I told you that secrecy was our only power here. Take Skoh to the local infirmary and he'll blow our cover. He knows too much."
"Then what would you have me do, inquisitor?"
"Treat him."
Belknap produced a liniment from his bag and began to smooth the cream into Skoh's wrists. "It's a start," he said. "But I'm still not happy."
Kara Swole was asleep when we went in. The medical apparatus Belknap had ordered was set up around her bed, pulsing and blinking.
"Glory," Belknap said, looking at the equipment. "I made a list of things that would be useful and you went out and bought them all?"
"I value Kara very much."
"All this stuff," Belknap said. "You don't blink at the price. I could have equipped an entire low-stack surgery with this. What kind of people are you?"
"The kind that will donate all of this to your practice, once we're done." I said.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and started to examine Kara's belly wound.
She rolled in her sleep and mumbled.
I went out of the room.
"Vox from Nayl," Frauka said. "They're in position and await your pleasure."
"Understood," I said. "Listen, Wystan, things are going to be quiet around her for a few hours. Why don't you take Zael to a gallery? Maybe a museum. With so few of us around, I'd rather not leave him here to his own devices. Given what you told me."
"I understand," he said. "You want him kept away from anything sensitive when there's no one around. No problem."
He went off to find the boy. I slid into Carl's room. "I'm going bodiless to work with Harlon. Wystan's taking Zael on an excursion so you'll be able to concentrate on the work."
"Good," he said.
"Don't forget to check on Skoh."
"Of course not."
I went back into my private room, locked off my chair's mobilisers, and sent my mind into the sky.
Waring Zeph Mathuin, I walked up the gravel path to join Kys and Harlon. Farthingale was a quiet interior town of broad avenues and pollarded trees. The sky was cloudy and morose. Athen Strykson's mansion lay before us.
"Let's go and present ourselves," I said. We walked down to the gatehouse. Through the locked iron gates, we could see a dark space of lawn, and a path lined with enamel obelisks that led up to the mansion's main doors.
Kys rang the bell-pull. The three of us were wearing simple black suits and long coats of grey wool.
"Who visits?" the vox speaker on the gatehouse wall crackled.
Kys leaned close to the speaking cone. "Department of Tithe and Tariff," she replied.
"You said your name was Belknap?" Kara asked. She was sitting in the chair beside her bed. Her cheeks were pale and drawn.
"That's right," he said, adjusting the dials of one of the machines.
"What you're doing, all these tests. It's very thorough."
"I'm a thorough person, Mamzel Swole."
"Even so..."
"You were injured by a so-called vampire blade," Belknap said. "The injury is more than a stab wound. I need to run a complete biological audit to make sure there are no... secondary problems."
"You've stabilised the blade wound. It's no longer a threat."
"Yes, but as I said, I need to-"
Kara looked at Belknap. "There's no need for the cover story, doctor. The fact you want to run more tests has nothing to do with the blade injury. You picked up on something else while you were treating that. I know."
"I see."
"So, go on." Kara stared at him, smiling.
Belknap took a deep breath and handed her a display slate. "The expensive instruments your master has brought in don't lie. You know what this is?"
"I knew before the blade bit me," Kara said flatly.
"Did you?"
"Of course. I checked myself on a weekly basis using Unwerth's autodoc."
"Who's Unwerth?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter," she replied quickly. "What matters is I know what this is. Astroblastoma. Last year, I took a leap off a docking bay in a vacc-suit. Exposed myself to megawatts of rad. I hoped the suit was shielded."
"I don't think it was."
"Seems so. How long have I got?"
Belknap looked at the floor. "No more than six months, Mamzel Swole. I'm sorry."
"Why, it's not your fault. Treatments?"
"The condition is terminal. You understand that? There are certain palliatives that can make you more comfortable. And angiogenesis inhibitors that buy you a little more time, although carcinomatosis has begun."
"The cancer's spreading to other parts of my body, you mean?"
"Yes. Or you were so comprehensively irradiated you are developing multiple oncological responses."
"How long will I remain... active?"
"With good fortune and the proper care, three or four months." Belknap replied. "Look, you need some rest now. I'll come back tomorrow and we can discuss how we're going to approach your treatment."
"We?" Kara asked.
"You're my patient now," he said.
Kara reached out a hand and caught him gently by the sleeve. "One thing, Master Belknap, more important than anything else. Please don't tell anyone about this yet. Not my friends. Not Ravenor. Especially not Ravenor. All right?"
Belknap nodded.
FIFTEEN
"You're who?" asked the housekeeper warily.
"Department of Tithe and Tariff." Kys repeated politely. She showed the man her permit, and Harlon and I did the same. The man looked at them with some alarm, but seemed convinced. He ought to be. The permits were authentic. Carl had got them for us from the Informium itself.
We had been let into the vestibule of Strykson's home. It was gloomy and cold: though the day was grey and overcast, no interior lights had been switched on. There wasn't any sound except the ticking of a longcase chron and the clack of rooks cawing reedily out in the damp gardens.
"What is this about?" the housekeeper said. In my opinion, he was the least convincing thing around. A hard bodied man in early middle-age, he seemed more like a guard than a housekeeper. His voice and gestures certainly lacked the poise and polish that might have been expected of a senior servant or butler.
"We've been sent to undertake a surprise inspection of Master Strykson's financial records," Kys said.
"What? Why?" asked the man.
"We should discuss that with Master Strykson himself, or with a clerk who can legally speak on his behalf."
As Kys spoke with him, I looked into his mind and learned some basic facts. His name was Geren Felt and he was a member of Strykson's house security. A few days earlier, following some incident in the hive - news of which had greatly distressed Strykson - the house staff had been scaled down to security personnel only. Felt had been ordered to act as housekeeper and answer any calls. Things were afoot, but Felt was too junior to be privy to what. All he was sure of was that he had to check the sudden arrival of Imperial tax inspectors with his superiors.
"Wait here, please," he said and hurried off. He took our permits with him.
+Strykson's exp
ecting trouble.+ I sent as we waited.
+Figures.+ Kys answered. +He must've heard that Tchaikov's dead by now, so he knows the cartel is potentially under threat. And he's the most visible member.+
I gently scanned the building. +There are eight people here with us. No, nine. A general sense of anxiety and suspicion directed at us. Tension.+
I sensed Nayl about to place a hand under his coat.
+No. I told you how we'd play this.+
Nayl's hand slid out.
Felt returned. He didn't have our permits, nor did he pass any comment on their absence. "This way, if you please."
He led us out of the vestibule, into a wide hall where a grand staircase rose above us, along another stretch of corridor, under an arch and into a large salon intended for the entertainment of guests. The short trip was illuminating to me. I sensed the primed sentry gunpods concealed behind the vestibule doors, auto-tracking our heat as we went by. I sensed the guard with the hellgun poised behind the side arch of the hall, and the other two guards, both armed with lasrifles, up on the staircase landing out of sight. I felt the heartbeats of the men concealed behind the salon doors, weapons drawn, ready to enter. I touched the hard metal shapes of remote-operated plasma beamers in the false wall behind the salon's wood panelling, their focus-nozzles aimed at us. I saw the electromagnetic shimmer of the multiple security picters tracking us as we walked, and gently psy-blurred our features so they wouldn't read cleanly.
And I sensed the aide in an adjoining chamber, frantically checking our permits via a secure vox-link to Petropolis.
+The house staff are all around us, armed and ready to spring. Automated weapons systems too, the house is wired. Be wary but show no sign. Let's see how this plays.+
"Uh, tea? Caffeine perhaps?" Felt said awkwardly. From his agitated surface thoughts, I knew he had a sting-blunt tucked into the waistband of his trousers, though he wasn't thinking about how quickly he could draw it. He was calculating which item of furniture in the room he should throw himself behind if things went awry.
"No, thank you," said Kys.
We stood, waiting. I felt the tension swell to bursting point, the men hidden around us on a hair-trigger. I sent my mind back to the aide in the nearby chamber, watched as he spoke on the vox, read out our permit numbers, waited, and finally nodded.
