by Dan Abnett
‘Magistratum!’ Rickens cried out. ‘Drop that and assume the position! This is your first and only warning!’
There was a sound, suddenly, like metal whisks churning milk. For a second, Rickens thought the rain had begun. He glanced around.
Wings beating, the sheen birds mobbed in through the open side of the bridge frame. Hundreds of them, chrome and steel and silver, like a snowstorm fury driven by the wind.
Rickens cried out. He fired once, twice, three times, his gun-flash lighting the dark and glittering off the swirling metal wings of the flock.
Then the Unkindness enveloped him, jabbing and pecking, and he staggered backwards. The force of them drove him back over the rail. As Rickens fell into the vast hydroelectric canyon, he was already dead, his skin flayed off.
Drax stopped swinging the lure. Toros Revoke came out of the shadows, picked up the steel-shod walking cane, and threw it off the bridge into the night.
Eighteen
Skoh vaulted the wall at the end of Parnassus, and dropped onto the metal walkway. He found the stairwell and thundered down-stack towards the arterial.
Carl Thonius was about twenty paces behind him.
They were moving through pedestrians now, thickets of citizens, tradesmen and gampers who leapt aside and turned to stare at the two racing men. Carl could hear the noise of the traffic from the four-lane arterial. He knew Skoh was blocked. There wasn’t a crossbridge for nine stacks. Skoh could either go along, or down again, into the sinks.
Carl saw Skoh up ahead, slamming through the crowd, knocking people down. He was heading towards the lower pavements.
Carl wasn’t entirely sure how he was managing to keep up with the hunter. Lactic acid burned in his muscles, and his face hurt like hell. He realised it was simple. He absolutely didn’t want to let Ravenor down. Skoh couldn’t be allowed to get away. He couldn’t be allowed to contact his co-conspirators. It was a mortal lock. Carl simply had to catch him and stop him.
If only he’d brought a weapon. The Hecuter 6 would have made this so much simpler.
Carl lost sight of Skoh. The man had ducked left into a crosswalk between two interlocked stack towers. Carl followed, and slewed to a halt. The crosswalk was empty. Where the hell had Skoh g–
Feaver Skoh, equally weary, was tired of running. He came out of the shadows like a pouncing carnodon.
But Carl Thonius was caught up in a rush now. He turned, met the attack, and drove his fist into Skoh’s nose. The hunter reeled away, then lunged back with a potentially backbreaking punch that Carl sidestepped.
Carl was a slight, slender man, but he was quick, and he had been trained by the Inquisition’s best. You didn’t make interrogator without learning certain skills. The fact that Carl Thonius avoided physical combat didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of it.
The fight lasted ten seconds. In that brief time, the two men traded almost fifty strikes and counter strikes, whip-snake fast, the precise martial skills of the Throne agent pitted against the brute force and cunning of a game hunter who had survived the dangers of countless bar-fights and rip worlds.
Passers-by from the main street gawped at what they saw occurring down the alleyway. Two men, blurs, engaged in a level of physical war that was seldom seen, even in a city that boasted the Carnivora. Every punch, every kick, was a potential killer; every block, every smash, bone-breaking.
Carl dodged, cracked Skoh’s ribs with an underpunch, then chopped wide at his exposed neck, but Skoh lurched aside, caught the chopping hand, and viced to snap it. Carl had to somersault out of the hold, and kicked out Skoh’s right leg from behind as he landed.
Skoh stumbled, but turned the fall into a sweep with his feet that Carl was forced to leap over.
Skoh came up, broke Carl’s nose for the second time that night, and crushed his left ear, but Carl blocked the third punch, broke another of Skoh’s ribs with a side-kick, and burst Skoh’s right eye with a hammer-claw.
Skoh staggered backwards. Carl leapt at him, but had underestimated the hunter’s burning resolve. Skoh threw a punch that hit Carl in the throat and dropped him onto his knees, choking.
Skoh started to run again. The crosswalk went nowhere except the fence overlooking the roaring arterial highway. Skoh scaled the fence, shivering the chainlink, kicking off Carl’s hands as they tried to grab his ankles. He went over the fence top and fell onto one of the box-girders over the rushing traffic ten metres below.
He clawed up, and began to tightrope along the girder, arms out.
Carl followed him, sliding over the chainlink and down onto the narrow footing of the girder. It was so narrow, barely the width of his feet placed side by side. Vast transporters and cargo trucks roared by below them.
Skoh saw Carl coming after him. He looked down at the racing traffic of the arterial, all four speeding lanes, and jumped.
‘Holy Throne!’ Carl cried.
Whether by luck or judgement, Skoh landed on the top of a cargo-10’s freight container. He grabbed onto the netting before the slipstream dragged him off.
Carl jumped too.
The impact of landing punched the breath out of him, but he managed to stay on top of a parcel transporter four vehicles behind Skoh’s ride.
Everything shook. The wind was in his face. Road sign displays whipped overhead, brightly lit and dangerously close.
Carl clambered up, dragged himself forward. In disbelief, he watched as Skoh jumped from the cargo-10 onto the back of a low-rider truck that was busy overtaking it.
Carl got up and threw himself into space, slamming down on the roof of a transit omnibus in the outside lane. The roof was flat metal, and Carl almost slithered right off until he got hold of the sill of the roof light.
Up ahead, there was Skoh, getting up and looking back. He saw Carl.
‘Bastard…’ Carl stuttered, trying to hold on.
The thundering traffic suddenly slowed down so violently that Carl was thrown flat again.
The overhead alerts announced an accident at Whitnee Circus. Abruptly, they were almost at a standstill. Carl got up, leapt off the omnibus and onto the roof of a small private transport, denting it. He heard cries of complaint. Skoh was moving too, off the low-rider onto a crawling cargo-8, and off that straight onto a limousine.
Carl followed, jumping from one slow-moving vehicle to the next, ignoring the protests of the drivers and the blaring horns. He almost missed his footing leaping for a cargo-10, almost went under its wheels.
Almost…
Skoh bounced off the roof of a sedan, and rode the windscreen down onto the bonnet. The vehicle braked hard, and the van behind rear-ended it with a brutal shunt. Horns blasted again. From where Carl was, it looked as if Skoh had been thrown off onto the highway.
But no, there he was, climbing the revetment on the far side of the arterial.
Carl threw himself into the air, rolled as he crunched onto the roof of a cab, and got up. Another vault got him onto the back end of a cargo-8, and then he was at the revetment, clambering up the wall after Skoh.
Carl was in a frenzy, not even thinking. He was finding strength from somewhere, somewhere deep inside him.
It was an ugly strength. A dark, unpleasant force. But Carl Thonius didn’t even stop to think about that. Below him, the traffic had begun to speed up again, engines racing. Carl scraped his way to the top of the six-metre revetment.
He looked up.
Skoh was standing over him on the top of the wall, looking down, one eye a bloody gouge.
Skoh grinned and stamped on Carl’s hands.
Yelling out, Carl lost his grip and plunged down into the speeding traffic.
Skoh jumped down off the revetment and limped along an unlit walkway, gasping for breath. There were streetlights ahead, he could see that with his remaining eye, and that meant a cab, or a transit station, maybe even a public vox post. Dazed, he tried to think. Akunin. How could he contact Akunin? Maybe the circus was the best bet. Or perhaps he should g
o straight to the top. The Ministry would protect him surely, given what he knew. Trice owed him.
He limped on.
A man came out of the shadows ahead of him. The man was smiling.
The man was Carl Thonius.
‘How… the hell did you…?’ Skoh began.
‘Truth be told, I don’t really know,’ Carl replied. Only it wasn’t his voice. It was a dry, rasping growl. Skoh backed away. Carl’s eyes were glowing red from the inside, as if a lamp had been lit inside his skull.
‘Holy of holies,’ Skoh mumbled, backing away. ‘What are you?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ the rasping voice replied, gusting like rotten air from Carl’s lips. The inner light had increased, shining out of Carl Thonius’s nostrils, mouth, eyes, and glowing through the skin of his face so that the shadows of the skull formations inside were visible like an x-ray plate.
‘But I know what you are,’ he said.
Carl raised his right hand. The flesh peeled back from the bones like melting wax, and the exposed finger bones extended into talons, long and thin and curved.
‘What you are is dead,’ Carl rasped.
Nineteen
We were leaving Strykson’s mansion when the vox chimed. We’d been in there a few hours, probing him for everything he knew. Behind us, we left a man who had no idea what secrets he had just revealed. As far as Athen Strykson and his entire staff were concerned, he’d just had a nasty visit from the tax office.
‘Yes?’ I answered.
‘We need you here,’ Frauka replied.
Through Mathuin’s eyes, I looked at Kys and Nayl. ‘Got to go. Get back safe.’
They nodded. As soon as I had left him, they led the slightly woozy Mathuin up the hill to the rented flier parked behind the trees.
‘What happened?’ I asked, resuming control of my chair.
‘There was an incident,’ Frauka replied lightly. ‘I’d taken the boy to a gallery, like you suggested. An exhibit of the later Remembrancers, quite beautiful work, if a little–’
‘Wystan. The point.’
He shrugged. ‘We got back. Skoh had escaped.’
‘How?’
‘It seems Doctor Belknap’s liniment afforded him the opportunity to slip his cuffs. He overpowered Carl. Kara went after him, but she hurt herself.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Belknap’s with her now. Carl continued the pursuit. It would appear he killed Skoh.’
I swung my chair around. ‘Look after Zael, please. Distract him.’
‘All right,’ Frauka answered. ‘How did it go with Strykson?’
‘Fine. The others are on their way back now. I’ll fill in the details later.’
I floated down the hall and entered the front lounge. Carl was sitting there on an armchair, gazing into space. I tried briefly to read him, but his mind was impenetrable. Shock, I supposed.
‘Carl? What happened?’
‘Skoh got out, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet. His face was split and bruised. His clothes were torn and soaked with blood. ‘I gave chase. I knew we couldn’t let him get away.’
‘That would have been bad,’ I conceded. ‘So, you killed him?’
He looked at me sharply. ‘No. No, no. I didn’t. I chased him. We fought. He tried to climb the fence beside the arterial. And he fell. Went under the wheels of a cargo-10. It was… instantaneous.’
I sighed. ‘Better that, I suppose…’ I began. ‘Better that than he’d got away. Are you all right?’
‘A little dinged up. That happens, right?’
‘Yes. Go and get yourself cleaned up, Carl. Get Belknap to look at your face.’
He nodded. ‘What happens next?’ he asked me.
‘We know what they’re doing. We just don’t know why. As of tomorrow, we switch to infiltration. Kys and Harlon will be going in. To find out what this is actually about.’
‘What they want the data engines for?’
‘Exactly, Carl. Exactly that.’
‘I see,’ he said. He paused. ‘About Skoh, I’m really sorry–’
‘Don’t be,’ I said. ‘Our cover’s still intact. That’s the main thing. If our enemy had found out we were still alive and operating here, infiltration would be suicide. Thanks to you, we’re still covert. You should feel good about yourself.’
‘I do,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘As long as we’re still invisible, we can do this.’
In his private suite at the Petropolitan, Shipmaster Akunin put down his glass and sat back, listening to the neotropical songbugs chirruping in their cages.
Akunin was a short, bulky man with a crown of white hair around his bald pate. He wore black robes with red buttons. Traces of digita inlay spread across his jaw.
An aide entered the room.
‘Well?’ Akunin asked.
‘It seems that whatever happened this afternoon at Master Strykson’s house was a false alarm.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m waiting for details, but it seems he was visited by the tariff revenue. A legitimate visit.’
Akunin sipped his drink. ‘They shouldn’t be investigating him. Trice assured us that our cartel would be immune from…’
He looked at his aide. ‘Yet more grounds for complaint. After Tchaikov, this petty insolence. Send to Trice. Repeat that I need to see him personally. Insist, please. I won’t be brushed off any more. This is getting out of hand.’
The aide nodded. ‘Also, sir, there is a Master Siskind here to see you.’
Akunin rose. ‘Let him in.’
Bartol Siskind walked into the grand apartment, glancing around. With his shaggy red hair and glass jacket, he looked out of place and uncomfortable amongst the trappings of high living.
‘Siskind,’ Akunin said, offering a hand. ‘This is unexpected.’
Siskind took the hand. ‘Master. Thank you for seeing me.’
‘Will you sit?’
‘Thank you.’
‘I had thought to see you at the Reach last year. Your cousin suggested you might be ready to join with us.’
‘I was delayed, unavoidably.’
‘But you’re here now.’
‘Indeed,’ said Siskind. ‘Master Akunin, when did you last hear from my cousin, Master Thekla?’
‘Not since Firetide,’ Akunin said. ‘He was conducting a little business for us there at Bonner’s Reach. I imagine he’ll be lying low for a while, though I expect him to join me here in the next few weeks. He backs your interests, you know. He’s very keen for you to join the cartel.’
‘So am I,’ said Siskind.
Akunin smiled. ‘I take it that’s why you’re here. To buy in?’
‘Yes, master. I’m here to join the cartel. The opportunity to make a lot of money. My ship is at the cartel’s disposal.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Akunin said, leaning forward to feed one of the songbugs some seeds through the delicate bars of its cage. ‘Well, let’s get the business over with. Then I’ll treat you to dinner at Lavochey’s. It’s a ritual the cartel has. First, though. A simple matter.’
‘You mean the buy-in price?’ said Siskind.
‘Indeed I do. Three-quarters of a million crowns. A bond will do, or a bank testament.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘A bond?’
‘No, I mean I don’t have three-quarters of a million to give you.’
Akunin frowned. ‘Then this meeting is over, Master Siskind. Thekla made you aware of the details, didn’t he?’
‘When did you last see Thekla?’ Siskind repeated.
‘This meeting is over,’ Akunin spat. ‘Go away and stop bothering me with your–’
‘Thekla’s dead.’
Akunin dropped the last of the grains onto the table, and brushed his hands. He looked round at Siskind. ‘What?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ said Siskind, ‘but I believe my cousin is dead, and the Oktober Country lost. At Bonner’s Reach, you sent him to
trap and destroy an Imperial inquisitor. Gideon Ravenor. Am I right?’
‘Go on, sir.’
‘Ravenor had got too close. He was sniffing around the Contract Thirteen cartel, pretty much on to you. So you lured him into Lucky Space to dispose of him out where no one would care or notice.’
‘I won’t confirm or deny,’ Akunin said. ‘But I think you’ve said enough. I thought you had come to see me to buy in to the cartel.’
‘I have,’ said Siskind. ‘I don’t have the cash, but I have something just as valuable. A place in the cartel, that’s my asking price.’
Akunin thought for a moment. ‘Very well. But it had better be good. If you’re trying to play me, Siskind, I’ll have you thrown from an airgate into hard vacuum.’
‘Thekla always said you were a mean bastard to deal with.’ Siskind got up and gestured towards the door.
Lucius Worna walked in, his armour grating as he moved. He was carrying a bundle in one hand.
‘This is your price?’ asked Akunin. ‘This bounty hunter scum?’
‘No,’ Worna boomed. He dropped the bundle onto the floor. ‘This is the price.’
The bundle stirred and uncoiled. Bloody, bruised and torn, Sholto Unwerth slowly raised his head and looked at Akunin.
‘I know this wretch. Unwerth,’ Akunin said.
‘Indeed,’ said Siskind. ‘Sholto, tell the nice man what you told me. What was the name of the passenger you brought from Bonner’s Reach and delivered here, to Eustis Majoris, about a week ago?’
Unwerth mumbled something.
‘Speak up!’ Worna growled, kicking him.
‘In all appraisal,’ whispered Sholto Unwerth, ‘his name was Ravenor.’
PART TWO
Interior Cases
One
A tide of trudging people, millions strong, flowed into the inner formals of Petropolis. From the air, they created a steady-rushing river delta in the surface level streets, a web of tributaries and streams feeding main estuaries. The tide sobbed out from rail terminals and transit stops, or welled up from lower sink levels like dark water from secret underground springs. In the open streets, the tide moved under a skin of nodding gamps and parasols. In the covered walkways; it ran like ink.
