by Dan Abnett
Nayl and Kys froze and slowly raised their hands. There was no cover, no room to resist. One of the men pushed the barrel of his carbine into Nayl’s face while he reached over and confiscated the bounty hunter’s sidearm.
‘Who are you?’ asked Nayl. None of them answered. Two of them were herding the housekeepers into a tight huddle. Meek, the housekeepers made no sound or any gesture of resistance.
‘Watch the woman,’ a voice echoed out across the chamber. Nayl and Kys turned. A large figure was walking around the circuit towards them, accompanied by two more hired guns. His carapace armour gleamed like mother of pearl in the lamp light. His head was a mass of livid scar tissue, with a bleached stripe of hair across his scalp. He held a psy-scanner in one gauntleted hand.
‘She’s telekinetic,’ he said. He glared at Kys, and waved the scanner at her. ‘One hint of psy, I’ll know it, and you’ll be dead.’
‘Lucius frigging Worna,’ Nayl growled.
The massive bounty hunter regarded Nayl. ‘Long time, Nayl,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve fallen on hard times, scrabbling for dung work like this. Working for the Throne, brother. Shit, I’m disappointed in you. Gives our kind a bad name.’
‘You do that all by yourself,’ Nayl replied.
Kys stared at Lucius Worna. This was the callous monster who had tortured and mutilated Sholto Unwerth. The last they’d heard of him, he’d been working for the opposition. She had no doubt he still was, and that meant–
‘What happens?’ Nayl asked.
‘Oh, it’s happened already,’ Worna replied. ‘You tried a little gambit, but we outplayed you. We’ve won. You’ve lost. End of story.’
Thirteen
‘So, this is a trap.’
Orfeo Culzean gestured around himself with both hands, indicating both the harvested field and the twilight sky. ‘This? No, this is not a trap. This is a conversation.’
‘But the Wych House, the three-way door... that was a trap,’ Ravenor said.
Culzean chuckled. ‘Trap this, trap that, trap, trap, trap! I suppose it must be the inquisitor in you that makes you so very suspicious all the time, Gideon. May I call you Gideon, incidentally?’
‘You may not. I watch for traps all the time because Zygmunt Molotch is supremely gifted at setting them, and he’s caught me more than once before.’
Culzean thought about that. ‘Well,’ he said gently, ‘if it is a trap, it would be safe to conclude you’re not getting any better at spotting them, are you?’
‘I’ve never underestimated Molotch’s guile,’ Ravenor replied. ‘The only thing I seem to keep underestimating is his talent for coming back from the dead.’ He scanned around gently. On his seat in the warded ring of corn, Culzean was a blank. There were human life signs in the woods behind him, support, no doubt, but too far away to be an immediate threat. Thonius, Ballack and Angharad remained at the top of the hilly field, watching from beside the door.
‘Where is Molotch?’ Ravenor asked. ‘Is he too afraid to face me himself?’
‘Where is Molotch? That’s the question, isn’t it. The big question, the one you came to Utochre to answer. I think the door’s done a splendid job of answering you. It’s brought you here. Molotch is close by, but I am much better at this kind of negotiation. I don’t know how much you know about me?’
‘Enough not to underestimate you either. But you’re not like Molotch. You’re a different breed of evil altogether. A facilitator. A mercenary. A prostitute–’
‘Well, let’s not bandy semantics, shall we?’ Culzean frowned. ‘This should be amicable. A conversation between peers.’
Birds sang high in the darkening sky above them. Their songs seemed painfully innocent to Ravenor.
‘You have arranged all this so we can talk?’ Ravenor asked.
‘No, actually,’ replied Culzean. He settled back. ‘It’s quite the most curious thing. It arranged itself. Oh, I had to make a few judicious improvements and alterations so it would all run smoothly, but generally, this just happened.’ His eyes sparkled with enthusiastic cunning. ‘That’s just amazing, isn’t it? That’s why I decided we had to talk.’
‘So talk.’
Culzean nodded and brushed corn chaff off the hem of his jacket. ‘To business then. I’ll keep it simple. You have been chasing Zygmunt Molotch for a long time, and with due cause, I will admit. If I was an Imperial inquisitor – perish the thought! – I would have made it my life’s work to hunt him down too. The pair of you dance and dance around each other, jabbing and sparring, daring and thwarting. You’ve done it for years. You’ll be doing it forever, I believe, unless someone intervenes and brings matters to a head.’
‘Is that someone you?’
‘In part. Working on Zygmunt’s behalf, I have discovered some strange facts, Gideon. I found out things I don’t think either of you are aware of.’
‘Such as?’
‘The pair of you are bound by destiny. Bound by a single, shared destiny.’
‘That’s merely a fanciful and melodramatic way of describing my ongoing prosecution of the heretic Zygmunt Molotch. If that’s the best you can–’
‘Whoa, whoa!’ Culzean said, raising a hand. ‘Settle down. I mean it literally, as it happens. Right at the start, the first time you met, something happened that spliced you together in a grand, cosmic design.’
‘And what is that design?’
‘Ah, that’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘This is just nonsense. Make your play if you’re going to. My people are ready.’ Ravenor cast out a simple command and, on the crest of the hill behind him, his three companions drew their weapons.
‘I don’t want to fight you,’ said Culzean. ‘That’s the point. All the time we’re fighting each other we’re missing what’s really important. And what’s really important is Slyte.’
Ravenor paused. ‘You have two minutes, Culzean.’
Culzean licked his lips and smiled. ‘You came all the way to Utochre because you believed it was the only way you’d find out where Zygmunt was hiding. A good plan. A very good plan, in fact, because Zygmunt had the very same idea. When we made our exit from Tancred, Zygmunt decided that the only way he could ever be safe from you, truly safe, was to consult the future and find out your part in it. He wanted coherence too. Isn’t that funny? Both of you deciding to take precisely the same course of action?’
He leaned forward and tapped an index finger against his temple. ‘It’s because you think the same way. Bound in destiny, remember?’
Ravenor didn’t reply.
‘We arrived at Utochre about three weeks ahead of you. I made the appropriate arrangements, and secured us a consultation at the Wych House. And what was the first thing we found out when the door opened? That you were coming to the Wych House too, hell-bent on the same scheme. That took me aback, I can tell you. Zygmunt, for his part, was delighted. He was all for setting a final and very nasty trap for you. And we’ve established his penchant for traps already. But I talked him out of it. The whole thing fascinated me, piqued my facilitator’s mind. I think along different lines to Zygmunt, you see. We perceive different patterns, which is why we complement each other. Zygmunt saw it all as moves in a great game, you and he as pieces on a regicide board, one stratagem out stepping the next, blah bla-blah. But I was scared.’
‘Scared?’
‘Of the implications. There are coincidences and there are coincidences. A great deal can be dismissed on the basis of your shared history and experiences. You have similar knowledge, similar talents and, although it’s a blood rivalry, you walk in similarly dark places. Both of you simultaneously decide to come to the Wych House? I can accept that. Coincidence. But what brought you both to Eustis Majoris? What brought you to the other worlds where you’ve clashed?’
‘We’re antagonists, Culzean. I’m hunting him. It’s not hard to grasp.‘
‘What about Tancred? Of all the places in the sector, you tracked him to Tancred. We left no trail t
hat you could have followed. What brought you there? A hunch?’
Again, Ravenor didn’t answer.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ smiled Culzean. He stroked his beard. ‘A hunch. A hunch here, a little intuition there, a handful of happenstance and accident. Doesn’t it scare you too, just a little bit?’
‘What’s your explanation? And don’t say shared destiny.’
‘This is what I decided to find out. I sat down with Zygmunt and interviewed him over a period of days. He’d told me of your past encounters already, but I wanted to hear them from him again, every last detail. He kindly and patiently told me everything, and that’s when I saw it. Clear as day. The way the two of you had been bound.’
He rose to his feet and walked around the wooden chair, staying within the corn ring. ‘You have been bound by the forces of the warp, Gideon, bound together to accomplish a great task. Neither of you realises you’re being used. Left to your own devices, I doubt either of you would have ever realised it. Apart, perhaps, for one brief, gurgling moment of insight as death claimed you. The warp has chosen you, selected you both carefully, and set you about its work. Without realising it, as you wage your sporadic bloody squabble down the years, you are acting as facilitators. As midwives.‘
‘For Slyte,’ Ravenor said.
Culzean clapped his hands. ‘Sharp as a new crown! I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed in you, Gideon. Yes, for Slyte. The Ruinous Powers want Slyte to be born. Don’t ask me why, because they don’t copy me on their meetings–’ Culzean snorted at his own words. ‘But you can bet it’s going to be bloody horrible.’
‘The birth of Slyte was predicted,’ said Ravenor uneasily. ‘The Fratery predicted it. You were there, Culzean. The hour has passed. The prophesy was unfulfilled.’
‘Was it? Was it really?’ Culzean looked at Ravenor as if he knew something. ‘Or has it already happened? Or... look at it this way, Gideon. The birthing of a daemon in our reality is likely to be a long and protracted labour. There will be complications. If, let’s agree for a moment, you and Zygmunt have been obliviously working towards this end since the first day you met, then the birth pangs have lasted, what, sixty years already?’
‘Sixty-six, if you’re right.’
‘Not an easy birth,’ Culzean mused, ‘not an easy birth at all.’
‘How are you suggesting the Ruinous Powers bound us, Culzean? Explain how I could have been used by the Archenemy for so long without realising it? I am no one’s pawn.’
‘Please, no pawn ever realises he or she is a pawn,’ said Culzean. ‘And look at you. You’ve broken from the ordos, gone rogue, and come to Utochre hunting heretical divination. You’re not exactly pure.’
‘How did the warp bind us?’ Ravenor repeated.
Culzean waved his hands in frustration. ‘At your first meeting, Sleef Outworld. I haven’t got time to fill in all the blanks for you, Gideon. You’re smart. You figure it out. We’ve got more important things to consider right here.’
‘Like?’
‘Like the very purpose of this meeting.’ He paused. ‘I’m proposing a truce. A pooling of resources towards a common goal.’
‘A truce? That’s a spectacularly unlikely notion, Culzean. In fact, it sounds to me very much like the groundwork of one of Molotch’s elaborate traps.’
‘If we wanted you dead,’ said Culzean, ‘you’d have been dead by now. We’ve kept you alive because there’s a good chance you and Zygmunt need each other. You need to come together to defy the Ruinous Powers and stop Slyte.’
Ravenor rolled his chair back a little way. ‘Tell me, Culzean, why would a fiend like Molotch even want to stop Slyte? It sounds like the sort of thing he would ordinarily be working his fingers to the bone to accomplish.’
Culzean sat down again. ‘You don’t really understand us, do you, Gideon? You don’t really understand our beliefs and our ambitions. We’re just evil, an evil to be stopped. And all evil is the same to you. It carries the same weight... me, Zygmunt, Slyte. You’re so blinkered.’ He stared at Ravenor intently. ‘You’ve been through the door, Gideon. I’ll wager it showed you a future or two. Pleasant?’
‘Inconclusive. But no, not pleasant.’
‘I know what Zygmunt and I saw when we went through the door. A galaxy in flames. An age of apocalypse. Daemon time. No Imperium except a burning shell populated by the last dying dregs of mankind. You don’t want that, I know you don’t. You’ve spent your life defending society against just such a doom. We don’t want it either. Our ambitions are wildly different to yours, Gideon, and in definite conflict. But Zygmunt and I can only flourish, prosper and achieve our own goals so long as the Imperium persists. The Imperium is our playground, mankind our instrument. We weave our schemes through the complex fabric of Imperial life, to benefit ourselves. I’m not pretending you’d like what we want from our lives, but it would be nothing compared to Daemon time. Slyte must be stopped. The alternative is too awful for any of us to contemplate.’
‘A truce,’ Ravenor said. ‘Molotch and I, working together, to defy the bond and destroy Slyte? This is what you’re proposing?’
Culzean nodded. ‘If you agree, Gideon, I’ll send you back through the door to Utochre. I’ll arrange for a message to be sent to you at Berynth, giving you this location. This world where we’re sitting now. You bring your people here, and we start to plan in earnest.’
‘If I refuse?’
‘Then you’ll never know where here is, and we’ll have to manage on our own. The Imperium may suffer. If you refuse, go back through the door and we’ll say goodbye.’
There was a long pause, stirred only by the evening breeze and the twitter of hedgerow birds.
‘Goodbye,’ said Ravenor. He turned his chair around and began to glide back up the hill.
‘I’m disappointed!’ Culzean called after him. ‘Truly, I am! You’re making a mistake!’
Ravenor ignored him. He re-joined his companions at the top of the slope.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Thonius.
‘Who was that man?’ asked Angharad.
‘We’re leaving,’ Ravenor said. ‘Open the door, housekeeper.’
The housekeeper placed the key in the door’s old lock.
They looked back down the field for a moment. In the dusk, Orfeo Culzean was still sitting on his chair in the corn ring, watching them. He raised his right hand to his lips and blew them a kiss.
‘I don’t like this,’ Thonius said.
‘You haven’t liked much of anything so far,’ Ballack snapped.
‘Open the door,’ Ravenor repeated.
The door creaked open. They saw the evening fields beyond the door frame, the first stars now bright in the violet sky.
They stepped through.
Fourteen
The dripping, stinking bowels of an underhive surrounded them.
It was gloomy and oppressively muggy. Water – probably not rainwater – pattered down on them from high above, down the sheer ravine depths of the stack foundations. High above, a thousand metres up, tiny moving dots showed the criss-cross of upper level air traffic buzzing between the hive towers.
They heard running footsteps approaching down a nearby alley, a caterwauling laugh that sounded slightly insane.
‘This isn’t right,’ Thonius said, ‘not right at all.’ He looked at the housekeeper. ‘Why aren’t we in the right place?’
‘The route back is often not the same as the route there,’ the housekeeper said blandly. ‘The door chooses.’
‘How many steps until we’re back at the Wych House?’ asked Ballack firmly.
‘The door chooses. It’s not my function,’ the housekeeper replied.
‘Open the door again,’ said Ravenor.
The footsteps and laughter were getting closer.
‘Whoever is approaching,’ said Angharad, ‘they’re out of their minds on some substance. I can smell it on their sweat.’
‘You can smell anything above this ge
neral stink?’ asked Thonius.
Angharad ignored him and looked at Ravenor. ‘They will be violent. There will be violence.’
‘Open the door,’ Ravenor repeated.
The housekeeper tried the key. It refused to turn. ‘The door is not ready to be opened again.’
‘Open the door.’
‘We must wait until it is ready,’ the housekeeper said.
Thonius flinched as shots banged off loudly in a stack-sink nearby. They heard the distinct whine of a hard round spanking off stone. More laughter, shouts. A scream.
‘Gangs,’ said Ballack. He raised his laspistol and took a careful aim at the alleyway end, ‘pharmed up and juicing for an argument. First head around that wall gets a new nostril.’
There were more shots, closer now, and more screaming laughter.
Angharad took up a place beside Ballack. ‘Don’t shoot them all,’ she told him, ‘Evisorex thirsts.’
‘You realise I wouldn’t be here to have all this fun if it wasn’t for you,’ Ballack said sarcastically.
‘You can thank me later,’ she replied.
‘Come on,’ said Thonius. ‘The door?’
The housekeeper tried the key. It turned.
Red light, hot wind, red dust.
‘Damn,’ said Ballack, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the gritty wind.
‘Not this again,’ said Thonius.
The black volcanic rocks loomed in the distance above the sculpted red dunes. The heat from the gunshot star burned their skins.
‘Not here again,’ he murmured.
For all her bravado in the underhive, Angharad was immediately spooked. ‘This is a bad place and we have to leave it now,’ she declared. ‘Something is coming.’
She was right. Even Ravenor could feel it in the back of his mind: a crawling itch, the same sense of impending doom that had surrounded them the last, brief time they had passed through the red desert.
The housekeeper was clearly affected too. Without having to be asked or ordered, the housekeeper put the key in the lock and attempted to turn it. The door remained defiantly locked.
