“Is the supervision deck a place of significance?” said Dervla.
“That is where the Gateway chamber is, yet access is gained via a complicated route. It is isolated …”
A baffled looking Pyke was about to speak but Dervla got in first.
“Before you mentioned a place called the Mosaic. Is that where the Gateway leads to?”
“It does,” said Shogrel. “But that has little bearing on our quest. I now know the location of your companions.”
Pyke was suddenly all smiles. “Where?”
“They are being held captive by an alliance of three minds of the forest. This alliance also has a small group of intruders trapped in a chamber, as you were, Captain. Unlike you, these outsiders have ammunition and explosives and have proved their willingness to use them. The alliance of three are divided on how to proceed but there seems to be some plan involving your companions.”
“Intruders?” Dervla said. “Could be Raven or some of her goons.”
“Well, let’s get going,” said Pyke. “Can’t have my crew used and abused as decoys or whatever.”
“There is something else,” said Shogrel. “It is only a faint thread of memory, but there is a suggestion that Kimisuru was in contact with these trapped intruders.”
“Knowing Raven,” said Dervla, “that doesn’t sound good.”
“Not at all,” agreed Pyke. “Let’s shake a leg and get barrelling!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pyke, in the Crystal Simulation, the city of Granah
The interrogations were proving to be a challenge.
Pyke couldn’t be sure how long he had been unconscious before they brought him round but he was guessing it wasn’t that long. Coming to, he found himself roped into a chair in a dingy room lit by a couple of hanging lanterns. Before him was a burly, broad Shylan wearing street-thug leathers and pulling on a pair of gloves.
“We only have one question,” said Pyke’s own personal thug. “And we’ll have the answer before the night is done.”
“What? You mean how many Shylans does it take to change a … burned-out candle?”
That earned him his first punch in the face. The thug leaned in close.
“The question is—where is the blood phial?”
“Where’s the what?”
That got him punch number two.
Over the next hour or so the placing of the punches varied—face, stomach, chest, lower back. The pain began to merge, Pyke’s surroundings grew a little hazy and he found it harder and harder to come up with original insults and bon mots. But always at the back of his mind was the sight of Klane crouching down next to him before the light went out.
That son of a slug must pay!
Occasionally his host (who introduced himself as Drask) took a break from his playtime, and during those punchless interludes Pyke could hear faint voices through the wall repeating that same question, “Where is the blood phial?,” followed by the meaty thud of more punches. Drask was workmanlike in his interrogation and unresponsive to any of Pyke’s own queries and observations, although the more biting the sarcasm the sharper the punch. There was at least one other Shylan in the room but Pyke’s chair was facing into a corner so he could only tell by sounds. Now and then Drask muttered to his buddy in low tones and once in a while the door opened and closed.
After roughly two hours of this luxury treatment, Drask came into view and stood there, calmly examining the knuckles of his gloves which had an extra layer of hardened leather sewn across them. A second broad figure appeared to the side—Klane, dressed in a fancy dark coat with a high collar, embossed diamond patterning with blood-red stitching. The candlelight gleamed on polished leather.
“Well, don’t you look pretty,” he said, almost without thinking.
At once, Drask slapped him full in the face. The burning sting of it made his teeth ache.
“You will not address the Shield Captain,” said Drask. “Your companions have spoken of a book—what is its location?”
Pyke’s first reflex was to tell him that he could find it up his boss’s arse, but he reined that one in and instead gave as mocking a smile as he could manage.
“Which one?” he said.
Drask’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his fist and drew back for another blow but Klane intervened:
“Enough—have them all taken up to the balcony room.”
“Oh good,” Pyke said. “A party! I do hope there’s cake.”
A few minutes later Pyke, with hands bound and mouth gagged, was close-escorted by lamplight up a broad, dusty staircase. Two flights later they entered a large room long since stripped of anything valuable or useful. Bare boards, bare walls and glassless doors that opened onto a wide balcony. Three battered chairs were produced and arranged noisily in a line. At the same time a table was dragged out of a cupboard and set up before the chairs. Then Vrass and T’Moy arrived, the latter looking as if he’d received by far the worst beating. One eye was swollen and blood trickled from battered lips. But when he glanced over at Pyke he still managed a half-smile. Vrass gave just a faint nod—he looked exhausted.
A better class of grubby, scratched chair was placed behind the bare table. A moment later Klane entered and sat at the table, after first carefully sweeping the tails of his splendid coat under his substantial buttocks. He placed both hands palms down on the tabletop and impassively considered the three captives for a moment. Then he looked up at Drask.
“Well done, Shield-Lance Drask. You and the others will now retire to the floor below while I question these prisoners.”
“Sir, unaccompanied questioning contravenes practice and custom,” intoned Drask. “If you permitted us to employ the full range of enquiry methods we might be in possession of …”
“Or I might now be looking at three bodies,” cut in Klane. “Clearly you are unhappy with how I’ve conducted this mission. Do you feel you are better suited to be in command?”
The Shield-Lance straightened to attention. “Sir, I …”
“But you are not in command—I am. I was chosen by the Emperor to lead the Shylan Shields as part of the Imperial Honour Guard.” Klane’s dark eyes seemed to project anger and contempt straight at Shield-Lance Drask. “I was chosen because I get results, and I get results in whatever way I see fit. You all have your orders—retire to the lower floor and await my next command. In the meantime I shall closely scrutinise all that these miscreants have to say.”
Pyke couldn’t help grinning up at his tormentor, Drask. The Shield-Lance was trying to keep his face expressionless but his eyes practically shone with burning grievance. When that gaze swept over the captives, as he turned to leave with the rest Pyke gave him a slow, mocking wink.
Ah yes, one of life’s pleasures, Pyke thought as the Shylans trooped out. Seeing your opponent brought low. But how are we going to deal with Klane, or whatever name he’s going under. How do we save our skins, then somehow get out of here, and somehow take Klane to the memory-Statues? Pyke chuckled. Only lies can save us now, fabulous, chrome-plated, ten-storey lies! And you only get them by lying like a rug!
At last the door closed and footsteps on the creaking stairs receded. Behind the desk Klane seemed to be listening, features betraying no thought or emotion. Once all the clumping footsteps had fallen silent, Klane breathed a long sigh and whispered:
“At last, no more subterfuge! We must get away from these thugs, but I do not know what to do next. I’m going to untie you but you must remain quiet—understood?”
Dumbfounded, Pyke nodded along with the others and Klane started round the table, then paused; “Oh, it is me, Klane, by the way.”
Pyke rolled his eyes and nodded vigorously. Klane resumed moving around the table, then froze when he heard a heavy tread climbing from the floor below. The sound halted outside the door, soles scraping on the planks, and a slightly muffled voice said:
“Shield-Captain, forgive the intrusion—Shield-Lance Drask wondered if you required an
y food or water.”
A wide-eyed Klane swallowed hard. “Thank the Shield-Lance for me, Shield-Trooper, but I have no need for sustenance at this time.”
“As you will it, sir.”
The heavy footsteps retraced their route and faded away to one of the rooms below. Klane, meanwhile, made a shushing gesture, pointed over at the balcony doors, then with his fingers mimicked walking over there. Everyone nodded and Klane got to work loosening their bonds. Soon they were all gathered out on the balcony, voices low but emotions high.
“You knew it was us,” Pyke whispered. “But you still let them kick the crap out of us! Just what’s your game?”
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” replied Klane. “The Shield-Captain’s orders are to use any methods to find out where the blood-poison is. My second-in-command wanted to get to work on you with clippers and hot tongs! It was all I could do to restrain him. As you could see, he’s not happy with my command.”
“I’m not happy with him, the poxbag!” Pyke said. “Has a fist like a sockful of spanners …”
“My apologies,” said Klane. “But I have noticed that minor injuries in this simulation seem to heal quite quickly. Look at T’Moy—when I saw him before we came upstairs, one eye was swollen and closed and his lips were burst and bleeding—now see the difference.”
It was true. The swelling in T’Moy’s pummelled eye had gone down substantially, enough for him to blink his eyelids, and his mouth now only looked a little bruised. And when Pyke prodded his jaw it still ached and he had the odd twinge, but no longer felt as if he’d been interrogated with a meat tenderiser.
Every now and then, he thought, I have to stop and remember how I’m really just a copy of the real me, existing in a fabricated reality, wondering if I’m thinking thoughts the way the real me would think them, and feeling anything that’s got truth in it … and I have to stop remembering all this and get back in the bastard Legacy’s little game. A game which is all we have …
“So exactly what is this blood-poison they were going on about?” Vrass was saying.
“I want to know when you realised that you were you,” said T’Moy. “Were you fully aware from the start or did something awake you?”
“Firstly my simulation person is Kranth of Gojir, a high-ranking Shylan officer chosen by the Emperor to command the Shylan Shields, which are part of the Imperial Honour Guard.” Klane paused to finger the button seam of his imposing coat. “So this morning Kranth had a meeting with one of the Grand Provost’s advisers, the Master of Seals. The Master of Seals swore Kranth to secrecy then told him a story about the Emperor’s secret half-brother, Abryl.
“Abryl was ignorant of his lineage but agents of his father, the previous Emperor, Viskarn, kept watch over his progress. He joined the 25th Brigade of Rifles, campaigned in some of the less picturesque parts of the empire, and after a few years rose to the rank of Battery Lieutenant. Then came the Manakros Rebellion.
“The province of Manakros rose up against Imperial rule, and the 25th was part of the expeditionary force sent to put down the uprising. So, during the siege of Manakros, Battery-Lieutenant Abryl and his squad were ambushed by northern mercenaries who had an Icering wizard with them. Almost the entire squad died from sorcerous arrow volleys, except for Abryl who was the focus of something altogether nastier—reinforcement arrived and dragged him clear as the ambushers were chased off. Back behind Imperial lines he recovered swiftly and even took part in the occupation march when the Manakrosians finally surrendered.
“It was not long after that campaign that the murders began. Nearly all were soldiers of the 25th, mostly of the rank and file. Non-soldiers included an ostler and a powder-boy …”
“Okay,” Pyke cut in. “Obviously, it’s Abryl, the half-brother—was he deliberately infected by this wizard? Is that the source of this blood-poison?”
Klane was visibly annoyed at having his story interrupted but he shook his head and tried to pick up the thread.
“No one is entirely sure if someone in the enemy camp knew Abryl’s identity, and, yes, Abryl was the culprit behind the killings. It took his superiors some time to figure out that it was him, however, and they had to employ a scryer to narrow down the suspects. Anyway, by that time the slayings numbered twenty-two and grim myths had sprung up around the brigade’s curse, the Butcher of the 25th, as it became known. So, during a duty tour on the Eastmarch borders, Abryl was sent with a small team to reconnoitre hostile force camps. That was when he was set upon, tied to a tree and beheaded, and one of the riflemen entrusted with the deed was …”
“Sergeant Traz Dalyak,” Pyke interjected. “Leaseholder of lockbooth 29A at the Raskol Boxhouse.”
Klane nodded. “The Master of Seals told Kranth that Sergeant Dalyak had collected some of Abryl’s poisoned blood in a silver phial with an air-tight cap, and the suspicion was that he’d stowed it in his lockbooth back in Granah.”
“Except that he didn’t,” T’Moy said. “Only that book was missing.”
Pyke resisted the urge to laugh out loud. “We don’t know that for sure! We had a good rummage through the contents, but that wasn’t a detailed search.”
“But whoever got there before you, and left a dead thief behind, seemed to know what to take,” Klane said. “Hence, the missing book.”
“Yeah, that is fair enough,” said Pyke. “And doesn’t that look a bit convenient? I mean, your guy, this Master of Seals, knows a bunch of details about the half-brother and his mad butchery, and about the departed Sergeant Dalyak—and whoever was behind the pre-emptive break-in must have known about the book as well? Did Dalyak get drunk one night and spill the whole story?” He shook his head. “Can’t see it—veteran hard cases tend to be curt, tight-lipped types, but maybe there was an accomplice …”
Klane uttered a hoarse laugh. “Do not forget the aim of our presence here, in these curiously primitive surroundings—we have a problem to solve so that we can move onto the next stage in the Legacy’s game of tests …”
“Makes you wonder where all this came from.” Pyke frowned, gazing out at the night-darkened city. “From a real living mind, or from some semi-aware stack of data?”
“We can’t stay here much longer,” said T’Moy, whose features now looked mostly healed. “Our friend Shield-Lance Drask will be wondering why it’s so quiet up here.”
Almost as one they glanced worriedly back at the table with its vacant chairs.
“How many of them are there?” Pyke said.
“Including the Shield-Lance,” said Klane, “eight, and they all have Shylan long-knives.”
“I think I’ve seen one of those,” said Vrass. “Nasty, serrated short sword, basically.”
“And they have all our gear so the odds are heaped against us if we’re talking about mixing it up with them, face-to-face.” Pyke peered over the balcony rail. “No way down unless you’re a brick.”
“Captain, look,” said T’Moy.
Strands of dead, dried-out creeper still clung to the outside walls near the balcony. T’Moy was prying some kind of hinged metal bar free from the lifeless foliage. There was a crackling sound, along with a squeak, and the Bargalil pulled an iron half-ladder into view. The rungs looked good and went straight up to a parapet that seemed to go all the way around the roof. Pyke sent Vrass up to scout it out, hoping there might be another building close enough on the other side. In the meantime, he and the others went back inside to use what furniture there was to block the door to the stairs. They were almost finished when Vrass appeared at the balcony doors.
“Captain, we’re in luck,” he whispered. “There’s a catwalk linking the roof to a nearby building.”
Pyke nodded and gestured the others back to the balcony. Before joining them he grabbed a broken stool that had been tossed in a corner; he snapped off one of its remaining legs and, once back out with the others, slipped it between the outer handles of the doors. Of course, a couple of hefty kicks would smash them open bu
t even a few seconds’ delay for their pursuers was worth having.
With Vrass in the lead, Pyke sent Klane and T’Moy up after him, following on himself. A fresh breeze was picking up by the time he joined the rest up on the parapet. Cautiously they circumnavigated the slate-covered, peaked roof. Sure enough, on the opposite side was another building of similar height, with the edge of its flat roof perhaps ten feet away.
“Where’s this gantry, Vrass?” said Pyke.
“Right here, Captain …”
With both hands, Vrass lifted a long, narrow plank of some kind up from the edge of their building and swung it round to place its far end down on the other roof’s edge. It seemed that this clever bridge was anchored on a swivel on this side, yet even as they congratulated Vrass on his perceptive eyesight they heard shouts and a crash of doors and furniture being broken aside.
“Okay, let’s move,” said Pyke.
Suddenly urgency was all. Klane and T’Moy were sent across first, then Pyke, Vrass insisted. Then the Gomedran took something from the anchor point before making his own crossing. Once across, he grabbed the broad plank, now disconnected, and threw his end over the edge. The gantry scraped off the anchor point, turned over and fell out of sight to clatter noisily down below. Pyke urged everyone back into deeper shadows as a line of figures shuffled round the parapet they’d so recently left behind.
“We should leave quickly,” murmured Klane. “I don’t want them to see me. Vrass says there’s an easy way down to another adjoining building.”
“Good idea,” said Pyke. “I’ll be right with you.”
Klane left, carrying a recently lit candle. Pyke, squatting behind a low trough filled with dry soil and dead plants, stared across at the shadowy figures gathering on the other roof’s edge. He’d been rehearsing in his head a few choice and profane farewells, but before he could deliver one or two a voice came out of the darkness.
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