by William King
“You wanted to talk to me, Lord Feracci,” said Gabriella, smiling pleasantly. “I am curious to know why the master of this House wishes to speak with me.”
“Two things,” he said. “My son Misha likes you. He has done since the first ball you both attended. I am a shamelessly indulgent father. I would know how you feel about him.”
Ragnar almost felt Torin stiffen. He had not expected this. Gabriella too seemed flustered and a little off balance. Doubtless that had been Cezare’s intention. Perhaps the subtle psychic probe had been aimed at him for a similar reason. “I like him well. Are you talking of trothplight here?”
“Let us say I would find out what you and your family think of him as a potential match.”
“You must take it up with my family.”
“Indeed. We must open channels of consultation on this matter.”
Ragnar immediately saw that such channels could be used for other things. While negotiating a wedding, the two Houses could negotiate other things. Subtle indeed.
“I will take word of your… suggestion to my family.”
Cezare laughed heartily, reminding Ragnar of a tiger purring. He reached for his food and dug into it with gusto. “Eat! Eat!” he said.
“You spoke of another matter,” said Gabriella, spearing some small silver fish that were swimming in the soup with her fork.
“Indeed. A most important matter,” said Cezare genially. “Someone is assassinating Navigators. Just as they assassinated your late father. There have been attempts on my life. Two of my sons have disappeared. Several other Houses have taken casualties as well.”
“It would be in both our Houses’ interests to find out who it is,” said Gabriella, obviously choosing her words carefully.
“I believe I already know,” said Cezare. “What do you know of the Brotherhood?”
“They are a secretive society of zealots, popular among the underclasses. They preach in the ancient warrens below Terra. They call us mutants. They hate Navigators but no more so than other cults.”
“I believe they are the pawns of our enemies. Their fanatics slew your father. Two of them almost managed to kill me when I visited the Shrine of St. Solstice two days ago. Their intelligence is uncanny. Few were informed of my visit, and all of them were trustworthy. I confess at first I thought Alarik might be behind it but, taking into account the fate of your father, I am no longer convinced.”
Ragnar pondered the conversation. Why was Cezare confessing to weakness before a representative of his greatest enemies? There was more going on here than met the eye. Clearly Gabriella thought the same. Why had he mentioned the Belisarius chamberlain and then dismissed him? Such an accusation could have meant a declaration of war between Space Marine Chapters. Be careful, Ragnar told himself. You are not dealing with Space Marines here but something infinitely more devious.
“I can assure you that Alarik has nothing to do with this,” said Gabriella. Ragnar realised that was all she could say.
“I believe you,” said Cezare, his smile unwavering, but his tone full of contradictory meaning.
“What would you have us do about this?”
“We could pool resources, influence and information. To this extent I am willing to provide dossiers of our intelligence to you. I will have them delivered to your flitter before you depart.”
“That is most generous.”
“No. It is in my self-interest. These are troubled times. Our enemies multiply. The Navigator Houses must stand together or we shall all be swallowed separately.”
“You have given me much to think on. Be assured I will carry your words back to the Celestarch.”
“I can ask no more. Now if you will forgive me, I must go. The tides of commerce wait for no man. Prosper and be free,” he said, rising. Gabriella rose too. “Please finish your food,” he said, stretching out his hand palm forward.
“Delicious as it is, I am not so very hungry, and my aunt waits.”
“Your loyalty to your family is worthy. The major domo will take you to her. Rest assured she is getting the finest care available on Terra. It is the least I can do for the first wife of my late brother.”
Cezare bowed to Gabriella, and nodded pleasantly to the two Wolves before striding off. Within seconds he was out of sight among the plants. There was a mere heartbeat in which the three of them were alone. Ragnar caught Torin’s warning look. However, he was well aware that this was not the place to discuss anything.
“I trust you had a pleasant meal, milady,” said Torin.
“Delicious,” she replied. It was obvious they were exchanging a code phrase that Ragnar was not yet privy to. Perhaps Torin was simply letting her know they were not alone for a moment later, an immaculately clad man garbed in a long flowing top-coat of red and black emerged. His hair was cropped short and his spry walk suggested that he was a soldier, not a servant. He bowed, and said, “My master has requested that you be shown to your aunt’s chambers, milady. If you would be so kind as to follow me?”
Gabriella nodded and the man turned. The more Ragnar studied him, the more he was convinced that he was no simple servant. His movements and scent suggested a hard competence, as well as many sub-dermal implants. A cautious glance revealed that the man’s hands were bionic, encased in synthi-flesh. One of his eyes seemed mechanical as well, although it looked so natural that most men would not have spotted it.
He was reminded of the men who had attacked them last night in the tavern. Was there some connection, he wondered? His mind drifted back to the psychic probe. There was a great deal more going on here than met the eye.
Lady Elanor lay in a huge suspensor divan that floated over the marble floor. Through her arched window Ragnar caught a view of the hundreds of lesser towers of the merchants quarter sprawling below. Enormous crowds of robed people flowed in endless tides along the roads. Ragnar had never seen so many, even on a hive world. But this was the navigators quarter of Terra, and a significant percentage of the trade of the entire Imperium probably passed through here.
Lady Elanor looked ill. One of her hands was cast in plaster. Her skin was sallow and jaundiced, the whites of her eyes were the colour of lemons. Her features were angular and gaunt, showing all the features of the Belisarius geneline. Gabriella set the small gift box she had brought on the table beside the bed and took her aunt’s free hand.
“It is good to see you, child,” her aunt said, offering her cheek to be kissed. “You have grown.”
“It is good to see you too, Lady Elanor. Although it pains me to see you so weak.”
“It will pass. It is the old ailment,” she said. “So many of our clan have suffered.”
Gabriella paled a little. Ragnar heard her gasp sharply before she could suppress the reaction. “How long do you have?”
“Months, perhaps weeks.”
“Have all the arrangements been taken care of?”
“Cezare is a very efficient man. He assures me I will be returned to the Belisarius Palace and the Vaults as soon as need be.”
Ragnar wondered if the woman was dying. Were the Vaults also some sort of necropolis? Perhaps that was why the Navigators were so secretive about them. Ragnar had seen many strange rites and rituals connected with death, and was aware of the tight security surrounding the protection of corpses.
The Lady Elanor certainly seemed ill enough. Her skin was so thin that it was translucent. A smell rose from the bed that was sickly sweet, like the corruption at the heart of an otherwise healthy plant.
“Anyway, I am glad you could visit. Come fill me in on all the details of your travels and the news of Belisarius. I understand you have been to Fenris,” She gave Ragnar and Torin an amused glance. There was a sly humour in it. Ragnar found himself warming to this frail, elderly-looking woman. “Living among the Wolves.”
“Aye, that I have,” For the next few hours the two women exchanged seemingly inconsequential chatter, although, as Ragnar listened, he sensed concealed meanings bene
ath the surface like fish in a tidal pool. He wondered if he would ever understand the Navigators he had been sent to serve.
Two hours later, a man in the white and red uniform of a bonded physician entered the chamber. “I am afraid that is all the talk I can allow for one day. The patient must conserve her strength.”
Gabriella nodded. The Lady Elanor clutched her hand once again. Ragnar could see that it was thin and all the veins were visible. “Do come back and see me,” she said. There was a note of pleading in her voice.
“Of course, aunt,” said Gabriella, clasping the woman’s hand with both of hers. “But for now I had better go.”
Misha Feracci waited outside the chambers. A smile lit his handsome face. “I thought I would escort you to your ship,” he said.
“I would like that,” said Gabriella.
Ragnar watched Torin check out the flyer before they could climb in. A uniformed man presented them with a small folder before they departed. Gabriella placed it carefully within the internal storage compartment while Torin talked into the comm-net. Ragnar knew he was providing a record in case anything happened to them.
Misha stood on the ground below them and waved them off. The smile had not left his face during the whole trip back. The two of them walked along chatting amiably.
Ragnar did not like this development. It made him uneasy and he felt an instinctive dislike for the Feracci even as he found them impressive. Their tower was even more imposing than the Belisarius Palace and he had spent as much energy as he could memorising his way around it. It was unlikely he would be called upon to venture into the same places again, but you could never tell.
In any case, he had noticed incredibly dense surveillance. Televisor lenses and suspensor mounted floating eyes were everywhere, in far greater numbers than in Belisarius territory. But perhaps the Belisarians just kept them better hidden? Either way it spoke volumes about the nature of the House and its rulers.
No sooner had the bubble canopy slid into place than Torin said: “Well, we’re still alive.”
“That’s hardly a surprise,” said Gabriella. “Cezare Feracci would not have done anything to us while we were in his territory. It might provoke complaints to the Council of Navigators or draw unwelcome attention from the Inquisition.”
“We’re not home yet,” said Ragnar. Torin had pulled the flitter into a steep climb and sent it arcing through the clouds towards the Belisarius Palace.
“What did you think of the place?” Gabriella asked.
“Security was very tight and very conspicuous,” said Ragnar.
“Don’t be fooled,” said Torin. “It was meant to be spotted. There are layers of more subtle sensors behind that.”
“How could you tell?”
“It’s something of an area of expertise for me,” said Torin. “I have studied it extensively since I came to Terra.”
“I believe my father spared no expense to see that you got a good education.”
“You believe correctly, milady.”
“Do you believe what he said about assassination attempts?” Ragnar asked.
“It’s certainly possible. Religious zealots make no distinctions between the Navigator Houses. They want us all dead or at least off the sacred soil of Terra. ‘Suffer not a mutant to live’, so they say.”
“Do you believe Cezare was serious about his offer of alliance?”
“It was not an offer of alliance, Ragnar. Far from it. He merely offered to share information. We shall see what his dossier contains. It might all be useless. Even if it contains useful information it might simply be a way of winning our trust or distracting us from Cezare’s own plots.”
Wheels within wheels, plots within plots, thought Ragnar. “No one here takes anything at face value, do they?”
“It would probably be a good idea for you to learn to do the same, Ragnar,” said Gabriella.
“He has already started, milady. Don’t let Ragnar’s barbarian act fool you. There is a mind at work there. I can almost see its wheels turning,” Ragnar did not know whether to be pleased or insulted by Torin’s words, and he suspected that was his fellow Wolfblade’s intention. “A few years on Terra and Ragnar will be as smooth a plotter as old Cezare.”
That obviously was a joke, Ragnar thought. “If he lives that long,” Torin added. Gabriella glanced over at Ragnar and smiled.
“What did you think of Misha?” she asked.
“I did not like him.”
“Why?”
“He reminded me too much of his father.”
“He seems pleasant enough.”
“Pleasant enough to marry?”
“I will never many him unless I am ordered to.”
“Why?”
“I do not trust him either. And the Feracci bloodline has an odd, wild streak to it. It throws up many strange quirks — insanity and cruelty are common among them. They are brilliant but flawed, but then I suppose the same can be said of all the genelines.”
“Tour aunt married into them.”
“Cezare’s brother Lucio was one of the good Feraccis.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died mysteriously before Cezare came to the throne. Which is a pity since he would have made a better candidate.”
“How mysteriously?”
“A rare illness, or so it was said.”
“Like your aunt’s?”
“No, that is something different.”
There was something in her tone that told Ragnar this was not a good subject to delve into. “Some claim Cezare was behind Lucio’s illness,” she said.
“And still he became lord,” said Ragnar disbelieving.
“They are strange ones, the Feraccis,” she said wistfully. “It is said their Elders encourage the clan members to compete for the position of lord. They select the most ruthless and dangerous. If Cezare really was behind Lucio’s death it would only serve in his favour.”
“That seems very wasteful,” said Ragnar. “Killing a Navigator. You would think any House that did so would swiftly run out of members.”
“Only a very few are in the running to become Lord of Feracci and they know this from an early age. It would be wasteful and pointless to kill anyone who was not a rival. The Elders would not reward you for it.”
Ragnar considered this. It seemed that each House was as different from the others as the inhabitants of distant worlds were from each other. That was understandable. Over the millennia each House would have evolved its own culture and methods of survival. It was a big galaxy. There was room for numerous alternative and competing views. Indeed, he supposed it was better this way. If a weakness was revealed in one geneline’s strategies, others would still survive. He guessed that any House that had managed to maintain its power and prestige since before the dawn of the Imperium must have evolved very efficient strategies indeed.
Cezare lounged backwards on the dais and considered the deadly man before him. He did not mind admitting that Xenothan made him nervous — more so than little Gabriella’s precious bodyguards. The tall, slender, seemingly innocuous man was quite capable of killing everyone in this room — even Wanda, his pet psyker — and making it out of the Tower alive. Not for the first time, he found himself questioning the wisdom of the course he had charted. He smiled and shrugged. No great venture was ever undertaken without risks, and no great prize won without a gamble. His own career had proven this time and time again. The Elders had chosen him for his propensity for ruthlessness and cunning, and the fact he had eliminated all the other candidates including his own dear brother. He would not disappoint them.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. His voice was clear, calm and commanding. It showed no trace of nervousness.
“The older of the two is a very dangerous man. The younger could become formidable given time. Both of them were aware of what was happening in the tavern.”
“We shall see he is not given time. You have them memorised?”
“T
heir look, their voices, their scents.”
“Can you kill them?”
“If you wish. When?”
“The time will be soon,” he said.
Xenothan smiled. There was no menace there, but it was chilling. Cezare told himself it was only because he knew what this man was — if “man” was the term for a being so modified as he.
“You’ve decided, then?”
“Yes. Tell your master we will strike soon and eliminate our common enemies once and for all.”
A hint of menace entered Xenothan’s manner. “I have no master. Only patrons.”
“Then I should be obliged if you would inform your patron. We will move soon.”
He glanced over at Wanda. Soon she would need to send a message to her fellows in the Warrens below.
CHAPTER TEN
“What do you think?” asked Valkoth. “What were your impressions? Tell me!”
Ragnar looked at the training area. The House guards of Belisarius were running the assault course under Valkoth’s watchful eye. The soldiers were all Terrans. Many had long hair and drooping moustaches in the Fenrisian style.
They were trying hard but Ragnar knew that the youngest candidate for ascendancy on Fenris could have killed three of them easily. Then again, Fenris was a harder world than Terra. Men learned to survive there very early in the face of nightmarish elements, terrible monsters and even more terrible men. Those who did not learn quickly died.
He gathered his thoughts. It had been barely twenty minutes since the flitter had set down on the roof.
All three had been searched by a team of security retainers to ensure they had brought no long distance sensing devices into the palace. Gabriella handed the documents to the retainers for scanning and complete divination before heading off to present herself to the Celestarch. Torin had dispatched Ragnar to report to Valkoth, and had taken off on some mysterious mission.
