by Dan Abnett
Garofar glanced around the library. It had to hold upwards of ten thousand books.
‘You… pick books at random?’
‘No, I am working methodically.’
Garofar couldn’t hide a laugh.
‘You’re reading them all? The entire library?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good luck with that, mam,’ he smiled. ‘I guess you’ll be here a few years after we’ve all gone.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, to read all the books… I mean…’
‘I have one hundred and seventeen more to go,’ she said.
‘You’re joking,’ he said.
‘I must be,’ she said with a flash of raised eyebrows.
‘You can’t have read… I mean… We’ve been here a couple of weeks.’
She put the book down.
‘You really don’t know what a savant is, do you, deputy?’
Garofar thought he did, but clearly he didn’t.
‘You could explain,’ he suggested.
‘Do you know what the Heuristic Amplification Disciplines of the Neo-Distaff Institute are?’ she asked.
‘I do not, mam.’
‘Then a direct explanation will be ineffective. Do you know what a sponge is?’
‘Yes,’ he replied tightly.
‘Then I am a sponge, and data is water.’
‘I see,’ he said.
‘Do you know what a metaphor is, deputy?’
‘I do, mam.’
‘And according to your masseteric ligament, you know what condescension is too. So I apologise for that. Now, let’s discuss your lateral cheek septum.’
‘My…?’
‘Your other tell, deputy,’ said Jaff. ‘A micro-twitch. When I mentioned the cold store, you lied. You didn’t check it.’
Garofar sighed.
‘No, mam. I… I know I should have. But it’s a waste of time. All those bodies. I mean, they’re not going anywhere…’
‘Can you say that with certainty, deputy?’ she asked.
Garofar didn’t reply. He heard the rain pattering on the plastek sheeting. He felt cold, colder than he should have, even in the damp, draughty room, half open to the Karanine weather. It had sounded like a pretty interesting assignment when Macks had put him on it. A major case: murders, killings, the talk of Unkara Town, the idea that external investigators had arrived. No one had outrightly said so, but Garofar was pretty sure they were connected to the ordos – big stuff, the sort of thing that didn’t happen in a backwater province, the sort of thing that could get an ambitious junior officer noticed, and maybe lead to advancement, because opportunities in the Karanines were scarce, especially when the marshal showed zero signs of ever wanting to retire, like she should have done years ago, and make way for new blood…
But it had turned out to be much less comfortable. Cold, wet, tedious, yet with a constant undercurrent of something Garofar felt was malevolent, like a storm waiting to break. It wasn’t the bodies. He’d seen plenty of bodies: accidents, bar fights, farming mishaps, plus a brief tour in the local militia during the last years of the civil war, before he joined law enforcement. Bodies didn’t faze him, though the number and the manner of death in this case was unusual. What unsettled him was something he couldn’t put his finger on, like they were poking at something that shouldn’t be poked, or opening a cage that had been locked for a damn good reason. And that lead investigator was a piece of work. Scary as hell in his own right. If it had been up to Garofar, the lead investigator would have made it onto the list of suspects, just turning up in town like that, with his cruel manner and his band of disreputable henchmen.
But it wasn’t up to Garofar. Hadeed Garofar was just a deputy with an assistant investigator’s ticket. He was local enforcement. He was muscle. He did as he was told.
‘Let’s check the cold store together,’ said Jaff. ‘I want to take some ambient measurements anyway.’
‘Yes, mam. Good,’ he said. ‘Measurements of ambient what?’
‘Just ambient,’ she replied. She buttoned her coat. Then she looked at him.
‘I hear an engine,’ she said, ‘approaching.’
‘The others must be back, mam,’ he replied.
‘Hmm. If they are, they’ve changed vehicle.’
‘How can you tell?’ he asked.
‘It sounds different,’ she said.
Deputy Cronyl had opened the gates to let the transporter enter the yard. He stood watching, his riotgun hooked over the crook of his arm as it came to a halt. Deputy Edde had appeared on the top wall to add cover.
The transporter was a cargo-4, an all-terrain variant, spattered in mud from the forest track. It pulled up beside the green ATV and the heavy, bronze Marshal Division transporter already parked there.
Garofar followed Audla Jaff into the yard.
The hatches popped on the cargo 4, and five people got out. Garofar’s boss, Macks, and three of the investigator’s team: the suave Voriet, the big thug Nayl and Mamzel Betancore, whose beauty stopped Garofar in his tracks every time he saw her.
It looked like someone had taken a swing at Voriet. There was a dressing strapped around his face. That pleased Garofar no end. Voriet was an arrogant bastard. He was of a type Garofar knew too well: privately schooled cadet officers in the Territorial Guard, petulant aristos, privileged rich kids from the cities, who rolled into Unkara every summer season to hunt and drink and sail the lakes, and generally harass any female they could find. They had rich fathers who retained expensive lawyers who, in turn, could disappear any indiscretions.
The fifth man looked like a vagrant. He was old and pale, and thin to the point of being haggard. His hair was grey, and he wore a shabby chequered suit and an overcoat that had outlived several previous owners. Little wire-frame spectacles perched on his face. The frames were bent, and they gave him a cock-eyed appearance. This was the expert they’d gone off to locate?
‘Morning, chief,’ Garofar called to Macks.
She nodded back. She was handing down a kitbag that was apparently the extent of the expert’s luggage. The expert was standing nearby, adjusting his spectacles and looking around as if he’d never seen daylight or old high walls before.
‘Garofar, this is Magos Biologis Drusher,’ Macks said.
‘Sir,’ Garofar nodded curtly.
‘Find him a room and give him a hand with his bag. We’ll brief in twenty minutes.’
‘Yes, mam,’ said Garofar. He picked up the kitbag. ‘Fifth floor is free,’ he said.
Macks shook her head.
‘Stick him on the fourth, near to me. If you put him on the fifth, someone will tell a ghost story about the old man dying up there and we’ll never hear the bloody end of it.’
The expert, Drusher, scowled at her.
‘I’m not a child, Macks,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts. An old building where someone once died? So what?’
‘I know what you can get like, Valentin,’ she replied.
‘I presume the bedding has been changed since this old man died in it?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Stick him on the fifth, then, deputy,’ she said.
‘You were gone a long time,’ Jaff said to Voriet.
‘Delayed,’ Voriet replied. ‘The transporter broke down outside Ottofan. Transaxle. We had to rent another ride.’
Jaff looked at Garofar and flashed her eyebrows again. Scary bitch. How could she tell that just from a distant noise?
‘Brief in twenty,’ Macks repeated. ‘Is he here?’
‘No,’ said Jaff.
‘You could have briefed me on the road,’ said Drusher. ‘It was a long enough journey.’
‘Some things you need to see for yourself before they make sense,’ said Nayl.
Garofar led Drusher up to the fifth floor.
‘Old place,’ Drusher remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘Unoccupied?’
‘Before us, yeah, for years.�
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‘Nice views,’ said Drusher, pausing to look out of one of the window slits.
‘I suppose.’
‘I bet you get a lot of hill-browns up here. Pine finch. Crosshammers. Goldhawks. And lots of charhoops in autumn.’
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Garofar.
Drusher shrugged and continued climbing the stairs after him.
‘What happened to Voriet’s face?’ Garofar asked.
‘I attacked him with an eagle,’ said Drusher.
Garofar stopped.
‘Really?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Drusher replied, ‘but that appears to have become the narrative, despite my attempts to correct it, so I’m just going along with it.’
The flaking stone steps led up to a landing where the floor was boarded with wood. It had once been polished, a fine surface, but water damage from the leaking roof had stained it, making it patchy and rough. Buckets and other open vessels had been set at strategic points to catch drips. Some were so full, puddles were spreading around them.
‘Along here,’ said the deputy. ‘Mind your step.’
‘They haven’t told me much,’ said Drusher.
‘About what?’
‘About anything. This matter. This case. This investigation.’
Garofar looked at him.
‘I get the feeling a lot of it’s classified, sir,’ he said.
‘You don’t know?’ asked Drusher.
‘I’m just local law, sir,’ he said. ‘Staffing, support, you know.’
‘So it’s classified by the ordos, then?’ asked Drusher, more to himself.
Deputy Garofar’s manner suddenly became keen. He looked Drusher in the eye.
‘So they are from the ordos?’ he asked. ‘Inquisition?’
Drusher nodded.
‘Yes. I saw a badge. Voriet identified himself. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ replied Garofar. ‘They don’t say much about anything. The marshal was already investigating this case when they sort of turned up and took over. She’s cooperating. It’s not like her to just roll over. It feels like they have something on her.’
‘Not Macks,’ said Drusher.
‘You know her?’
‘From way back.’
‘Well, I suppose if they are from the ordos, that would explain her compliance,’ said Garofar, ‘her eagerness to assist. I mean, that’s how it works, doesn’t it? The Inquisition has authority everywhere.’
‘As I understand it. What was the case?’
‘Sir?’
‘The case Marshal Macks was investigating?’ asked Drusher.
Garofar hesitated.
‘Oh, come on, Deputy… Garofar,’ said Drusher, pausing slightly to squint and read the officer’s name badge. ‘I let slip they were from the ordos. It’s your turn. Like you said, they’re playing it close. Even my old friend Macks.’
Garofar shrugged.
‘There was a death. Last winter. A farmer found the body. Open and closed, really, or should have been. Ursid kill.’
‘Ursa minora gershomi?’ said Drusher. ‘Or majora, I suppose? Or even a cave ursid, though those are rare these days?’
‘Sir?’
‘A banded ursid, or a big grey?’
‘Yeah, we get both kinds up here. The king greys once in a while. So, we thought, some poor idiot left the wood path, got taken. Never got an identification on the victim, though. No papers. We ran genetic samples through the system, and even shared them with other networks. Then in the spring, there were two more. Same deal.’
‘Found together?’
‘No,’ said Garofar. ‘Kilometres apart. Within days, another, then another a month after.’
‘Five. All male?’
‘No. Four male, one female.’
‘All unidentified?’
‘Yeah, which is odd. We get a lot of visitors up here in season. Hunters and the like. Plus, nice views, like you said. So people from outside the province aren’t unusual. But five unknowns? That’s starting to feel off.’
‘Was there feeding? They were all ursid kills.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Garofar. ‘All the meat was gone. All the organs. Funny, that’s the first question the marshal asked.’
Drusher smiled.
‘She remembered the basics,’ he said.
‘She wanted it squared away, certainly. I mean, we get the odd animal attack. But five felt like there might be a rogue beast. Plus, the identification thing. Macks, she ordered up some expensive facial reconstruction on three of the bodies, then we ran the results around every hostelry, tavern and guest house in the area. I mean, it was possible we had five dead visitors who all happened not to have papers on them, or who had their papers eaten along with them.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Drusher.
‘But possible. No point seeing patterns where there aren’t any. But nothing. No one recognised them. So the reconstructs went out on the wire too.’
‘And that brought the ordos in?’
‘Yes,’ said Garofar. ‘But before they got here, we found the rest.’
‘The rest of what?’
‘The rest of the bodies, sir. It was spring, like I said. The thaw. Warmest spring in a decade. There was meltwater flooding in this valley and the next along. It brought bodies down. People who’d been dead since last year that we hadn’t found because they’d been frozen up. The tech-adepts say some of them might even be from the year before. Or as long ago as eight years.’
‘All ursid kills?’
‘The exact same specs, sir. Ursid kill, unidentified subjects. Two more of them female.’
‘How many bodies?’ asked Drusher.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Garofar.
‘Oh, come on, deputy. You’re on the case. How many bodies?’
‘I mean to say, I don’t know what the total’s going to be. We’ve got eighteen so far. They’re still digging up more.’
Drusher opened his mouth to speak. Nothing much was forthcoming.
‘We’ve got all the bodies downstairs. In the cold store,’ said Garofar.
‘Here?’
‘Yes. Orders of the lead investigator. He wanted all the bodies in one place for examination, so they set up a facility in the cellars where it’s cold.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Drusher. ‘You need a proper morgue and laboratory to conduct–’
‘Orders of the lead investigator,’ Garofar repeated.
‘Well, he sounds like an idiot,’ said Drusher.
‘Oh, he’s not,’ said Garofar. ‘I don’t know what he is, apart from damn scary, but he’s not an idiot.’
‘I disagree, and I’ll tell him so to his face,’ said Drusher. ‘I’ve only ever assisted law enforcement cases, but I know well enough there’s a proper procedure for this kind of thing.’
They had reached a door.
‘This the haunted bedroom, deputy?’ Drusher asked.
‘Well, the old man died here years ago,’ replied Garofar.
‘Which old man?’
‘Fargul. Last person to own this place. I don’t think he’s still here, so you’ll be all right.’
He opened the door, and they went in. It had once been a grand bedroom, but the plaster was crumbling, and the boards were bare. Large windows, the shutters open, overlooked the valley below. It smelled damp.
Drusher and Garofar halted in their tracks. There was a man standing by one of the windows, his back to them. He was staring out. He was tall, broad and solid, his bulk covered in a long, black coat.
‘Throne, but you scared me!’ exclaimed Garofar. ‘I didn’t know you were back, sir.’
The man turned to look at them. It was impossible to discern his age. His craggy face was grizzled and badly scarred. Augmetic plugs and leads trailed back from pinch points and sockets in his hairless scalp, and disappeared down under his high collar. His expression was impenetrable.
‘That will be all, deputy,’ he said.
&
nbsp; ‘Shall I tell the others that you’re–’
‘That will be all,’ the man said. ‘Unless you’d like to stay and discuss the unguarded sharing of confidential matters with outsiders.’
Garofar put the bag down, shot a look at Drusher and left.
‘You’re Drusher?’ the man asked, staring at Drusher. ‘The one Macks recommended?’
‘I am,’ said Drusher.
‘My name is Eisenhorn,’ the man said. ‘I believe there was something you wanted to tell me to my face.’
FIVE
Classified
Drusher followed the inquisitor back downstairs. The rain had come up again, and he could hear it pelting against the thick walls.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ he said.
‘I don’t really care,’ replied Eisenhorn.
It was a slow descent. The inquisitor lumbered. His legs and lower body were braced inside some kind of augmetic exo-support. Every step was a heavy effort, every movement marked by the puff of hydraulic servos. Drusher had often thought himself old and in bad shape, but he was nimble beside the other man. How did a body even keep going after what must have been years of damage and injury? Surely there came a point at which enough was enough? There was an ugly stink of obsession coming off Eisenhorn, the stench of a man driven beyond reason to accomplish something. When was enough enough? Only in death? Drusher had heard that phrase often enough over the years, the noble mantra of the military. It was nonsense, obviously. Only an idiot thought that, or an idiot who pretended to be a hero. An idiot either way.
Drusher’s initial evaluation of the inquisitor had not changed, though he decided to keep that to himself. No point making his bad start worse. Sure, this Eisenhorn fellow was intimidating. He had the badge and the terrifying authority that came with it. But he was just another idiot of which the galaxy had so many: a man with delusions of grandeur; a man who felt he could make some kind of difference in the grand scheme of things; a man who believed his work mattered.
