by Dan Abnett
‘We will deal with this later,’ I said. ‘I’ll watch over the boy. Frauka, see what if anything you can salvage from the wreckage. Ten minutes, no longer. Carl, go and get the cargo-8 from the garages and bring it round the front.’
‘Can’t Zeph do that?’ Carl said.
‘Mathuin’s dead,’ Frauka told him.
It was getting so cold out on the tower approaches in Formal A that Harlon Nayl was almost tempted to find one of the late night oven-barrows and buy a cup of the perniciously awful liquid they claimed was soup.
He moved from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together, praying for a call from someone, anyone. It had been almost an hour.
Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he coded his vox and called the house.
Nothing. Channel dead, the display read. With mounting alarm, he tried Thonius’s channel, then Mathuin’s, then even Frauka’s. Each one flashed up as dead.
He started to run back towards the rail transit. By the time he’d reached the stone steps into the station, he was sprinting.
Two
A fragrant scent of sweet corruption mixed with acrid fumes drifted through the lower levels of the governor’s palace, concentrated in the floors given over to the secretists’ enclave. Someone had at last managed to cancel the blaring alarms, and crash teams had moved in, tending to the injured, putting out machine fires, and beginning repair and recovery work.
The chief provost, shaking with what Revoke presumed to be barely-contained rage, had withdrawn to the safety of an armoured parlour in the cap levels of the tower, taking Culzean and Culzean’s female bodyguard with him. Revoke wanted to stay to supervise the recovery, but he knew Trice probably needed protection at this ill-fortuned time, so he left Molay and Boneheart in charge and accompanied his master.
The parlour was part of Trice’s personal suite of apartments. Refined, luxurious, it was softly lit by recessed lumin strips and standard lamps, and lined with library shelves of books and slates built into the wood panelling.
Culzean had taken a seat. As ever, he looked remarkably unruffled, and happily accepted a drink one of the servitors offered him. His guard, Slade, lingered nearby, tense and edgy.
Trice paced for a while.
‘Ravenor,’ he said, coming to a halt.
For the third time since the mayhem in the basement vaults, Culzean shook his head and said ‘No, not Ravenor. Chief provost, that was something more. ‘
‘Your daemon.’
‘Not mine,’ Culzean said, sipping and sitting back. ‘Yes, I was previously employed to facilitate the manifestation of Slyte, but I work for you now.’
Trice laughed mirthlessly. ‘Get me a drink,’ he snapped at one of the attending servitors. ‘How convenient, Master Culzean,’ he said, ‘that the goal of your previous job was so admirably accomplished tonight. A suspicious man might be tempted to think this was all part of your scheme.’
‘Are you a suspicious man, chief provost?’ Culzean asked.
‘Explain to me how I might otherwise read this… disaster,’ Trice snapped.
Culzean put his glass down and leaned forward, gently smoothing his hands together. His voice was so well-pitched, so gently modulated. ‘First of all, what happened tonight was a confluence. A combination of events. To clarify, the Divine Fratery, through catoptric means of prediction, prophesied that a potent force, known as Slyte, would be brought into being here before the end of the year. Its manifestation would directly attach to the Inquisitor Ravenor, or one of his party of specialists. They employed me to make this possibility a certainty. Because you, and your Ministry, and your grand work, is entirely opposed to Ravenor, that made you key obstacles to the process. Which, of course, is why we got off to a… bad start.’
Culzean smiled. Trice did not.
‘Anyway, with my help, you moved against Ravenor. This could have finished the Fratery’s schemes – kill Ravenor and, of course, you doom the prophecy – or, as seems to have happened, it provided the catalyst for the event. I did remark, as I remember, that the psykers weren’t such a great idea.’
Trice glared at him. ‘Are you suggesting that I–’
‘I’m suggesting,’ Culzean put in smoothly, ‘that you stop worrying. If Slyte’s been born, then Slyte’s been born. The Fratery will be delighted. In time, Slyte may become a problem, but right now, he’s just a warp-thing, spat out into our material world. Do you have any idea how many cacodaemons and sprites are conjured up by lunatic cults in the undersinks of a hive this big every year? By the time Slyte grows to be any kind of threat, your project here in the city will have advanced to such a level that he will be a threat you can extinguish with the merest… word. Or have I overestimated the scope of your designs?’
‘You haven’t,’ Trice said.
‘Put a smile on your face,’ said Culzean. ‘Press forward. Use me, because I can help you. And think of this. Slyte has done one thing to help you. If he has manifested, Ravenor is dead. Obliterated. The daemon’s done your wetwork for you.’
Trice nodded. ‘If what you’re saying is true, Master Culzean, I’ll be delighted, despite the damage and losses we’ve incurred tonight. And I will use you, as you say. You boasted of many weapons in your arsenal as a facilitator. I want you to guard us against Slyte. Revoke will give you any resources you need.’
Culzean was about to reply when the main hatch to the parlour slid open. A shocked hush fell as a man walked in. Culzean stared at the figure with contained surprise and rose to his feet. Tall, slender, dressed in long black robes, the newcomer was unmistakably the Lord Governor Subsector, Oska Ludolf Barazan.
Barazan walked directly over to Jader Trice and slapped him around the face so hard it knocked Trice to the deck.
‘You useless wretch!’ Barazan spat. ‘Four psykers destroyed! Four of them! And the other one so badly mauled she’ll have to be put down! The alarms woke me! Did you think I wouldn’t find out?’
‘My lord!’ Trice cried out, seemingly less concerned that he had been knocked down than he was that Culzean had witnessed it. ‘We have visitors! Visitors! Not while you wear your public guise!’
Barazan kicked Trice in the ribs and made him double up in pain. Calmly, the lord governor subsector turned and smiled at Culzean. Culzean had seen that face so many times on newscasts and pict-channels.
‘Master Culzean, we haven’t met,’ Barazan said, holding out his gloved hand.
Culzean bowed and kissed the ring of office. ‘An honour, my lord.’
‘Get up!’ Barazan jeered at Trice. Revoke stepped forward and helped the chief provost onto a sofa. Barazan turned back to Culzean, his smile broad. ‘Jader is worried that my little outburst might have unsettled you.’
Culzean shrugged. ‘It’s not every day, sir, that a man witnesses a lord subsector corporally punishing his chief provost. But no, I’m not unsettled.’
‘Oh, and why is that?’
Culzean thought about his next words very carefully. If he had read this wrong, Revoke would probably slay him in a second.
‘Because, sir, no scheme of this scale could have been set up without the full knowledge of the lord governor.’
‘I like him,’ Barazan said, glancing at Trice and Revoke. ‘He’s very sharp, this one, very perceptive.’
Barazan turned around, regarding the chief provost. ‘I’ve been observing your conversation, for days now, in fact. What is the point of having secretists if they keep secrets from you?’ Barazan winked at one of the servitors. It shimmered, and became Monicker.
‘Thank you, my dear. As ever, you serve me well. Jader, I know about Ravenor, damn his name, and I know about your efforts to destroy him without me knowing about it. How thoughtful, Jader, to spare my nerves the worry that bastard was active here on Eustis.’
‘Lord, I–’
‘Shut up, Jader. Is Ravenor dead?’ he asked Culzean.
‘I think it’s very likely, lord.’
‘And this Slyte? The daemon of
fers no challenge to us?’
‘It depends what you intend to do, sir,’ Culzean replied. ‘I’ve not been told in any detail, naturally. The chief provost is too wise to leak that sort of data to an untrusted minion. But I can imagine. I have ideas. If I’m right, Slyte, whatever its power, is just a bug to be crushed along the way.’
‘Good.’
‘So long as…’
‘So long as what?’ Barazan asked.
‘You do whatever you’re going to do quickly. Chaos has a habit of escalating. It’s hard to read, harder to predict. Slyte’s nothing now, but soon… Well, I recommend you put your plan together and act right now.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said Barazan. ‘I told you I liked this man. Wise counsel.’
‘My lord!’ Trice said, getting up, urgent. ‘The project is not finished! Another month, perhaps six weeks, and we’ll have completed the lexicon. I’ve not laboured this long and this hard to prepare the way only to rush prematurely through the final–’
‘Jader, dear Jader. I’ve not laboured this long and this hard either. I refuse to wait any longer for sublimation. The pain is so hard, every day. Another month, six weeks? What of it? We have the Encompass now, the colure, the radius, we have the components in place. We know the true centre, dammit! The looms have spun us out a lexicon that is as complete as we need. Once we transcend, all the minor details and omissions will be revealed and finished. I will not wait around for another impediment to trip us. This Slyte, for example, or Ravenor – if, curse the emptiness, he still lives. We will go now.’
‘I voice my objections again, lord,’ Trice said.
‘Now! No more foot-dragging. Tomorrow night, we will undertake the first Enunciation. Get to work. Instigate the masses. Do what you assured me you could do.’
Trice looked aside. ‘As you decide, sir.’
‘Orfeo,’ said the lord governor. ‘Why don’t you follow me up to the residence? I think it’s time you and I had a conversation.’
‘Yes, lord. I look forward to it.’
‘At your leisure. My guards will show you the way.’
Barazan left. Trice stared at Culzean for a second. Culzean simply sat down again and reached for his drink.
Trice stormed out of the parlour, Revoke behind him.
Leyla Slade waited until Monicker had left the room too. Then she crouched down behind the sofa Culzean was sitting on.
‘I really can’t tell,’ she whispered. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Well, Ley,’ Culzean said. ‘The bluffing’s stepped up a notch or two. But I think we’re safe.’
‘They bought your story about Slyte?’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘But Slyte…?’
‘Oh, it’s more massive and dangerous than they can possibly imagine. But if I let them know that, they’d panic. Then we’ll never get what we want. I need to control this. See it through to the end. That way, I’ll get the pay-off. And believe me, Ley, the pay-off this time is something special.’
‘Really?’ she frowned. ‘This Enuncia thing?’
‘More than you can possibly imagine, Leyla. I’ll make you a goddess.’
‘I like the sound of that’
‘Are the weapons ready?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got six inscribed hooktors in my clip, the special ones you spent all those months preparing.’
‘Good.’
‘And the Telluric Stone. That’s in a case in my pocket. There wasn’t any time to prepare more than that.’
Culzean rose to his feet. ‘They should do, Ley. I have a few tricks myself. Let’s go take the lord governor up on his invitation.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Because he’ll tell us all about Enuncia. And his amasec has got to be a great deal better than the shit they serve down here.’
The southern stack-rises of Petropolis had grown so fast that they had extended out across the river bay, the lower levels of the undersink actually built up on silt-sunk piles above the water, creating a district known as the overfloat. It was a dark and stinking catacomb down there, forty-eight stack levels down from surface level. The water reaches were so dark, so ancient that eyeless albino vermin had evolved in the gloom. Effluvia pumped out from blackened spigots. Luminescent moulds sprouted from the stone piers and stanchions. A ripe floodtide of detritus sobbed in and out under the sink-sumps.
Kys surfaced, gagging, and went under again. She came up, grabbed a frantic breath, then treadmilled around in the black soup, searching for Unwerth.
Once they’d hit the water, she’d slammed the ejector charges.
‘Sholto? Shol-ulp! Gah! Sholto?’
Bubbles dribbled up from the sinking flier.
Kys floundered around, her hair plastered to her face by the stinking, weed-filled water. She glanced about. There was no sign of any sheen birds. The place was dark and silent except for the slopping of the water.
And her voice.
‘Sholto?’
‘Mamzel?’ Unwerth spat the word rather than said it as he surfaced in a flurry of bubbles.
‘Throne! I thought you’d drowned!’
‘I’m obligated to be about to,’ gurgled Unwerth. ‘Can’t swim–’
He went under.
Kys forked her arms and splashed over to him, dragging him up, her flesh tingling from the dilute acid in the water. She towed him over to the nearest mossy brick bulwark and heaved him up onto the platform.
‘Unwerth? Unwerth?’ Kys pumped his chest and blew air into his mouth.
He remained still.
‘Unwerth!’ She pounded harder and planted her lips around his, breathing out hard.
He started, gagging, and she rolled him onto his side. A quantity of river filth drained out of his mouth.
Coughing, spluttering, he looked up at her.
‘Birds?’ he said.
‘Yes, bloody birds!’
‘As I concupise it, most birds can’t swim,’ he said.
Patience Kys realised what he had done and began to laugh. Her laughter echoed out across the dark caves of the overfloat.
Three
How’s everyone doing?’ Belknap asked.
‘Do you have any rubbing alcohol?’ Frauka asked him.
‘Why? For the scratch on your head?’ Belknap said.
‘No. Just thirsty,’ Frauka smirked, lighting a lho-stick.
Belknap had concealed us in a lockup over the street from the den he used as a surgery. It was a poor place, but it was out of the way. Even at this late hour, the noise from the dirty sink-streets outside was loud and raucous. Drunken tavern crowds, what sounded like a gang fight in a nearby alley, a cluster of black market stalls around the oil can fires of the nearest walk-through.
Carl limped over to me. He’d bought a hand-vox from one of the black market vendors on the street, and with it he had contacted Kara and Nayl.
‘They’re both on their way.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Only where to come,’ he said. ‘Neither have heard from Patience.’
‘Get some rest.’
I was waiting near Zael. Belknap had laid the boy down on a ratty cot. Zael’s eyes were still open. He had made no sound or motion since I’d found him in Carl’s room.
‘Physically, he’s fine. A few scratches. But he’s in a fugue state,’ the medicae said. ‘Brought on by severe shock or trauma.’
‘Very likely,’ I said. ‘Tonight has been… difficult.’
‘The best thing is to leave him for a while,’ Belknap advised.
I agreed, but in my heart I knew the good doctor was wrong. The best thing, the safest thing, would be to execute Zael Efferneti right now, while he was comatose. There was a high likelihood that Zael had manifested Slyte during the psyker attack, that the warp latency in his mind had been provoked into action by the assault. I’d seen that before: individuals suddenly displaying previously unknown psy powers under extremis. Caught in the teeth of
three or four murderous psykers, Zael’s fragile sanity had snapped and something else had come out.
And what a thing. Even newborn, it had destroyed perhaps three of the psykers. It had also, I was quite sure, playfully linked its power to mine and assisted with the destruction of the Brass Thief. That was where my almost mindless rage had come from.
The Divine Fratery had spent years preparing the way for the daemon Slyte. My master, Eisenhorn, had trekked across the sector to warn me. Slyte was an abominable threat to Imperial security, and I, or one of those about me, would bring it forth.
I knew I should just kill Zael right then, before he woke.
But I had good reasons not to. Not just yet. The first, the most human, was that I did not relish murdering a boy in his sleep, especially as I had only circumstantial evidence he was corrupted. There was still a slender chance he was innocent.
Secondly, I could detect no trace of the warp upon him, except for the foggy latency of his farseeing gift. And that was the third reason. Zael’s unformed talent was so rare and so passive. A mirror seer, a reactor. That was precisely why I hadn’t executed him or consigned him to the black ships the day I discovered him. His nascent talent was a precious thing, one that could benefit the Imperium of Mankind so very much. And it was not an active talent. It seemed so unlikely that a passive gift could be the womb, the cradle of a manifesting daemon. Such things inevitably came into our world through minds twisted by madness, greed, psychosis, or potent, active psyker power.
Like mine, for instance.
With his name, and his odd, disarming manner, and his sometimes troubling gift, Zael Efferneti was so obviously the threat. Too obviously.
I would stay my hand until I had the opportunity to study him further. If I got that chance. I owed Zael the benefit of the doubt.
And, of course, there was the fourth reason. If Slyte was lurking beneath the surface of the comatose boy’s mind, if Slyte was anything like as powerful as I had been led to believe, putting a weapon to Zael’s head would be a very, very bad idea. It might be the hasty action that caused the daemon to manifest permanently.
