Serpents of Ardemis - Mike Brooks

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘We’ll need the time. I’ve seen at least five Ludanites here, including Gavrel Aurallan. They must have a strong interest in something for there to be that many of them poking about. We need to know specifics.’

  Chetta grimaced. The Ludanites were a society of some sort, although even the best efforts of House Brobantis’ formidable intelligence agents had failed to work out the details. They claimed to be serving the Emperor, but didn’t everyone? On the other hand, she was fairly sure the Inquisition had investigated them and yet the Ludanites were still around, so presumably they couldn’t be any form of heretic. But there were a lot of them, and they seemed to have deep pockets, and they were cropping up more and more often in this sort of situation.

  ‘Aurallan? Oh yes, there he is,’ she said quietly. Now she was looking for Gavrel Aurallan, she saw him quickly – a bony, earnest-looking fellow, with a pointed bald head that looked more to have risen up out of his hair than been revealed by the natural thinning processes of age. He was moving across the dance floor in a stately sweep with one of his… colleagues? Followers? Chetta wasn’t quite sure what terminology was appropriate. The measured precision of their steps was a front, though: each of them was scanning those around them as they moved, rather than staring into the face of their partner as tradition suggested.

  ‘How’s your dancing these days?’

  ‘Only marginally better than my levitating, as well you know,’ she snapped. ‘Why don’t you ask him for the privilege? At least you have two working hips.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m his type.’

  ‘And you were never mine, but look how well that worked out for everyone,’ Chetta told him, and killed the connection. She hated dance floors. They reminded her that some people found spouses based at least partially on mutual attraction, rather than political necessity and genetic compatibility.

  ‘All for the good of the Imperium,’ she muttered, thinking of her children, Felicia and Ranovel. ‘All for the good of the Imperium…’

  Another day had passed, and Chetta was quite thoroughly sick of syrupy alcohol, tiny pieces of finger food, and watching the graceful flourishes of those for whom dancing with a partner presented no physical barriers. Even worse, although she and Azariel had established that there were unlikely to be any notable competitors to their planned bids except for the KeWitts and the Ludanites, they’d had no success in discovering the details of what either other party might be intending. They returned to their suite in grim, frustrated silence.

  ‘If only you hadn’t–’ Azariel began, as they started to disrobe prior to climbing into the large, luxurious bed in which they would sleep on opposite edges. Chetta rolled her eyes, then frowned as something caught her gaze.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing, interrupting the start of her husband’s complaint.

  ‘A dressing table,’ Azariel said sourly. ‘I would have thought you’d become familiar with the basic concept.’

  ‘Not the table, you facetious pile of overlong bones,’ Chetta snapped. ‘The parchment! It’s not mine!’

  Azariel came to stand by her shoulder, and looked down with her at the oblong of folded parchment nestled behind her powder brushes.

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Chetta reached out for it, but her husband put his hand on her arm.

  ‘Wait. It could be a contact poison.’

  Chetta grunted. ‘If someone could place a poisoned parchment in here, they could apply the poison to something far less likely to arouse suspicion. My brushes, for one.’ She paused. ‘I need to remember that one. It could come in useful.’

  ‘Even so,’ Azariel said. He pulled thin gloves out of his pocket and donned them, then took up the parchment and unfolded it to reveal lines of handwritten Low Gothic text, with a hand-drawn pattern running along the bottom of the page. A signature?

  Azariel squinted at it. ‘What is this?’

  Chetta’s breath caught in her throat as she hovered her finger down the page. ‘Oh my.’

  ‘Oh my?’

  Chetta smiled. ‘It’s exactly the information we need.’ She traced down farther. ‘Yes, yes, this all makes sense… Oh! Well, Aurallan has been a naughty boy, hasn’t he?’ She reached the last written line, and paused.

  They look down on us, but do not see us.

  ‘We can’t trust this,’ Azariel argued. ‘We have no idea where it’s come from!’

  ‘Yes we do,’ Chetta told him, tapping the pattern. ‘Yes, we do…’

  Sunset underwater was one of the most beautiful things Chetta had ever seen. It was worth coming all the way to Ardemis, worth even the mindless inanity of the Baronial Ball, just to experience the way the local star’s golden light filtered through the clear blue of the water and brought out the colour of the reef even more sumptuously in the few minutes before dusk began, when the world faded into shades of grey. She always made a point of coming to watch it at least once on every visit to the Glasswater, but on this occasion she had not picked her viewpoint at random.

  A slight figure stood in front of a crystalflex wall, watching the natural display and bathed in its rippling light. Chetta moved up slowly alongside, not trying to hide the noise of her approach as she climbed the half-dozen steps to the viewing window.

  ‘Mamzel DuVoir?’

  DuVoir looked around, and bowed her head in greeting. ‘High lady.’

  ‘I don’t like to disturb servants when they’re off duty,’ Chetta said, leaning on her cane. ‘I always feel you have quite enough to deal with the rest of the time. But I wished to express my gratitude, and it only took a few questions and one or two bribes to your inferiors for me to track you down.’

  DuVoir’s browed creased slightly. ‘High lady?’

  Chetta snorted. ‘I’m not a fool, DuVoir. If you’d truly wanted the note left in our suite to be anonymous, you wouldn’t have signed it with the pattern on your collar.’

  ‘That would have been foolish, I admit,’ DuVoir replied, turning back to look out at the water.

  ‘I cannot fault your information,’ Chetta continued. ‘It turned out that the baron was most displeased about Gavrel Aurallan’s indiscretion with the chambermaid–’

  ‘Indiscretion?’ DuVoir spat. ‘Please, high lady, your reputation is that of someone who speaks plainly. Call it what it was – a powerful man taking advantage of a servant who dared not refuse him.’

  ‘As you say,’ Chetta agreed. ‘And I must admit, it was foolish of Lord KeWitt to discuss the details of his planned bids within earshot, I presume, of one or more servants. But then again, as you wrote yourself, we look down on you, but do not see you.’

  ‘And the information was useful?’ DuVoir asked.

  ‘Most certainly,’ Chetta replied. ‘The Ludanites’ bids were summarily rejected, and the society themselves are now out of favour here. A bold stance for Archetuch to take, even as planetary governor, but he has always struck me as a fair-minded man. Meanwhile, my husband was able to successfully outbid the KeWitts in every way that mattered, and we have been awarded every contract we applied for.’ She shifted her weight on her cane. ‘All in all, the most successful Baronial Ball we have attended thus far.’

  ‘I am glad,’ DuVoir said.

  ‘So why us?’ Chetta asked. ‘Why House Brobantis?’

  ‘Not House Brobantis, high lady,’ DuVoir said, frowning. ‘You. Anagy’s account of how you stood up for them made the rounds very quickly. Others have reported similar interactions. You treat servants with respect.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ Chetta grunted. ‘I am perhaps somewhat sharper with my tongue than I should be, at times.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ DuVoir said, a slight smile quirking her lips. ‘However, reserving your ire only for those beneath you is the preserve of bullies, high lady. Whereas you are known to dispense with it freely and equally
in every direction.’

  ‘Hah!’ Chetta snorted. ‘Yes, possibly true. Much to my husband’s frustration.’ She looked sideways at the young woman. ‘What’s your background, DuVoir?’

  ‘I was educated at the Tzudyk Scholam, high lady,’ DuVoir replied smoothly, as though she’d been expecting the question. ‘To forestall your next question, I lacked the martial sensibilities to make a good candidate for the Adepta Sororitas or the Commissariat, and showed too much imagination to be a good fit for the Administratum. A chamberlain to a planetary governor appeared to be my best hope in life.’

  ‘But not any more?’ Chetta prompted.

  DuVoir sighed. ‘High lady… I can only find so much satisfaction in overseeing the stocking of the governor’s pantries, arranging his schedule, and recruiting staff. I feel I would have much more to offer the right employer.’

  ‘I imagine that you would,’ Chetta agreed. ‘You appear to have a knack for intrigue, the courage to see it through, intelligence and, if I may say, a good judge of character.’ She tapped her fingers on the head of her cane, considering. ‘I could use an aide with such capabilities.’

  ‘An aide?’ DuVoir said with a slight gasp, turning to face Chetta. ‘High lady, that would be–’

  ‘Difficult,’ Chetta interrupted her. ‘Highly complex, delicate situations, with a steep learning curve. If you’re not up to it, I’ll find another, and fast. Plus, you’ll have to put up with me at my worst.’

  DuVoir nodded, her expression determined. ‘I’d expect nothing less, high lady. It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Chetta said with a smile. ‘Then we’ll have to talk to the baron and see–’

  ‘Lady Brobantis!’

  The voice of Serranay KeWitt was now not a purr but a roar, and it echoed around the viewing chamber as he stormed towards them with his purple-and-silver robes flapping. The upper part of his face was still hidden by his mask, but there was no mistaking the angry set of his mouth.

  ‘Lord KeWitt,’ Chetta replied, turning to face him. She quickly scanned their surroundings, but there was no sign that he’d brought any flunkies with him. ‘My condolences on your failures.’

  ‘Enough of your smirking platitudes, you venomous hag!’ KeWitt thundered. ‘You think I don’t know of your underhanded dealings with servants? Your conspiracy to bring ruin on my house?’

  ‘Come now, my lord, I suspect you’re exaggerating,’ Chetta scolded him, picking her way down the steps to meet him on the open floor of the chamber. ‘We both know that a failure to win an Ardemis contract isn’t going to make a dent in your house’s finances.’

  ‘As ever, you know less than you think,’ KeWitt sneered at her. ‘Finances aren’t everything, Chetta. I do not take such meddling lightly, and nor should you!’

  He reached up and removed his silver half-mask, and revealed his warp eye.

  ‘DuVoir, close your eyes!’ Chetta snapped, clawing off her diadem. A large stone of onyx sat in it and completely obscured her pineal eye from the view of others while it was in place, but she wasn’t going to leave herself undefended against such naked aggression. She didn’t open it yet, though: she would not be the one to initiate hostilities if she could help it.

  ‘Serranay, consider yourself!’ she said urgently. ‘No matter how justified you feel, this will not go well for you! Remember that I am Brobantis by marriage only – my bloodline is Dacastos!’

  ‘A ruined house of fools,’ KeWitt sneered, and his lid began to open to reveal the dark horror of the warp eye beneath. Chetta could meet its stare with her own, but to do so would be to engage in a duel that could lead to incapacitation, or even death for the loser.

  ‘I agree,’ Chetta told him. She had no sympathy for those who had married her off for political gain, especially since they’d subsequently squandered it. ‘But while my kin were certainly fools, have you ever heard of a Dacastos being defeated in a duel? It’s about the only thing we ever excelled at.’

  KeWitt hesitated. In truth, Chetta was bluffing: Dacastos had tended to avoid duels, where possible. However, that did mean that there were very few notable defeats that could be easily called to mind, and she could see KeWitt’s uncertainty.

  ‘The Novator of House KeWitt accosting the spouse of the Novator of House Brobantis will not help you,’ she added. ‘If you truly wish to avoid ruin, then walk away.’

  KeWitt exhaled hard through his nose, but he nodded. ‘Perhaps I was hasty.’

  ‘We need say no more about this,’ Chetta assured him, trying to calm her racing heart.

  ‘Honour must be satisfied, however,’ KeWitt continued. ‘Your underhanded tactics were only to be expected, but to have been betrayed by the servants of my host…’

  He turned away from her and began to stalk towards DuVoir, who still had her hands over her eyes.

  ‘Serranay,’ Chetta said warningly, but he paid her no mind.

  ‘Such insolence cannot be borne,’ KeWitt growled. ‘You think I am too much of a dullard to remember who might have heard my words, girl? I fear your master would not take my complaints seriously. Look at me.’

  ‘Serranay!’ Chetta shouted.

  ‘Look at me!’ KeWitt bawled at DuVoir. He began to ascend the steps, reaching out his hands to seize hers and pull them away from her eyes.

  ‘I cannot be having with this foolishness,’ Chetta muttered, and thumbed the activation rune on her cane. Hidden power lines flared into life and her walking prop was momentarily transformed into a shock maul, which she swung clumsily at the back of KeWitt’s legs.

  The blow struck home, and stunning power coursed through the robes of the Lord of KeWitt and into his body. He stiffened, let out a strangled yell, and fell backwards. The fall was an ugly one, and uglier still was the way his head cracked on the edge of a step. He landed in a twisted mess of limbs and cloth, and didn’t move.

  ‘Ah.’ Chetta moistened her suddenly dry lips with her tongue. ‘That is… inconvenient. DuVoir, are you certain you wish to take up position as my aide?’

  ‘Yes, high lady,’ DuVoir said, cautiously lowering her hands.

  ‘Good,’ Chetta said. She reached out with her cane and flicked away the fold of robe that obscured Serranay’s face. It revealed sightless eyes, and a skull that had been stoved in on one side. Ruin had come to Lord KeWitt sooner than even he had feared. ‘Then I welcome your suggestions on what to do with… this.’

  DuVoir gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she saw the freshly made corpse. For a moment, Chetta thought she was going to shut down completely. Then DuVoir swallowed, and composed herself.

  ‘There’s a waterlock,’ the girl said, pointing. ‘Just beyond those doors. Divers use it, but not at this time of day. It’s too dangerous, due to the serpents.’

  Chetta raised her eyebrows. ‘You’d best get on with it, then.’

  The body of Lord Serranay KeWitt drifted out into the gathering gloom, his robes floating around him like vibrant seaweed.

  ‘You handled that well,’ Chetta told DuVoir.

  ‘You don’t pass through a scholam without seeing a few bodies,’ the younger woman replied, slightly distantly. Chetta nodded.

  ‘Are you claustrophobic?’

  ‘I… No, why?’ DuVoir asked, frowning.

  ‘We would have been leaving soon anyway, but I think we shall have to move our schedule along,’ Chetta said. ‘And there will be no opportunity to discuss with the baron about you leaving his employ. Happily, I have a great many clothes with me, many of which I could leave behind. If you can fit into a packing case for the time it takes to get out of here and to our shuttle, that should dispense with any uncomfortable questions about why you’re coming with me.’

  DuVoir hesitated, then nodded. ‘It’s not how I anticipated beginning my new employment, but that sounds workable.’

 
‘It’s probably only going to get stranger,’ Chetta advised her. She frowned. ‘I assume you have a first name?’

  ‘DeShelle, milady.’

  ‘Very well then, DeShelle DuVoir.’ Chetta took one last look out of the window, and turned away. ‘Let us be on our way, before anyone starts asking difficult questions.’

  She set off, wincing as her hip jolted with every other step. DeShelle DuVoir followed, one step behind and one to the side, exactly where an aide should be.

  Behind them both, the huge, dark shape of a serpent loomed up out of the murk. There was a flash of fangs, a rush of bubbles, and the body of Serranay KeWitt disappeared for good.

  About the Author

  Mike Brooks is a speculative fiction author who lives in Nottingham, UK. His work for Black Library includes the Warhammer 40,000 novel Rites of Passage, the Necromunda novella Wanted: Dead, and the short stories ‘The Path Unclear’, ‘A Common Ground’ and ‘Choke Point’. When not writing, he works for a homelessness charity, plays guitar and sings in a punk band, and DJs wherever anyone will tolerate him.

  An extract from Rites of Passage.

  They were forty-seven hours out of Necromunda when the warp shock took hold.

  Chettamandey Vula Brobantis jerked awake from cloying dreams of roaring giants and blood-flecked axes as the Solarox shuddered violently, the entire starship spasming like some mighty aquatic beast impaled by a hunter’s harpoon. She rolled to her right, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, and reached out with her left hand to slap the lumens on. Pale light sprang up at the gesture, as torches held aloft by bronze images of Terran saints illuminated her private chambers. The rays glinted dully off the gilded surfaces of her dressing table – built of wood from a planet liberated from the savage aeldari – reflected from the gilt-edged mirror presented to her as a gift by Admiral Venuza of the 19th Pacificum Sector Fleet, and got tangled in the folds of black Azantian lace that hung around her huge, pillar-cornered bed. The bed that until a matter of days ago, she’d shared with her husband of forty-three Terran years.