Ravenor Omnibus

by Dan Abnett

  The two escorts replaced their velvet patches over their organic eyes, exposing their crude, glowing augmetics.

  One had to help Lezzard, who fumbled at his own patch with palsied hands.

  ‘It has been a few years since we last worked together on a prospect,’ Lezzard said. His voice had a tremulous, breathless quality. Tubes from his exoskeleton’s bio-support pack were sutured into his scrawny neck.

  ‘Indeed. On Promody. The plague was a thing of exquisite beauty.’

  ‘This prospect is many times more wonderful.’

  ‘I imagined it would be. The summons was… eager. As I understand it, this particular prospect is the Fratery’s chief current interest.’

  ‘It is. That is why I asked the Fratery masters to engage your services. Let me introduce my companions. Arthous and Stefoy, both able seers.’

  ‘Brothers,’ Culzean nodded. The men were typical of the Fratery: their faces scarred and twisted from the rigours of cult initiation, their hands worn and eroded from working the silver mirrors. ‘Will you take refreshment?’

  ‘A little wine, or secum liquor, perhaps?’ Lezzard said.

  Culzean nodded. Nearby stood his watcher, a tall, muscular woman with short blonde hair and an anvil-hard face. She wore a tight khaki bodyglove with a fur trim. Her name was Leyla Slade.

  ‘Leyla?’

  She retreated obediently to call for service.

  Lezzard limped around the chamber, the pistons of his exoskeleton wheezing. Culzean had decorated the room with his own ornaments. Lezzard examined a few, chuckling from time to time.

  ‘Your collection grows, I see,’ he said.

  ‘People die all the time,’ Culzean replied lightly.

  ‘Indeed they do. But tell me… this key?’

  ‘It choked a child on Gudrun.’

  ‘Did it? And this paving stone?’

  ‘Once lay at the very top of the processional steps outside the templum at Arnak. The glass vial beside it contains some of the rainwater that made it wet and treacherous to an unsuspecting pilgrim.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ one of the fraters – Arthous – said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  Culzean smiled. ‘I collect deodands,’ he said.

  Arthous looked bemused.

  ‘A deodand,’ Culzean said, ‘is an object that has directly caused the death of a person or persons. This tile, from the roof of an auction house on Durer, which cracked the skull of a passing magistrate. This ink pen, whose filthy nib poisoned the blood of the Administratum cleric who accidentally speared himself in the buttock. This thunderstone, falling like a missile from the open sky onto a herdsman in Migel County. This apple, sealed in a plastek block to preserve it – you notice the single bite mark? The poor woman was allergic to the juice.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Arthous. ‘May I ask… why?’

  ‘Why do I collect them? Cherish them? You know what I do, Frater Arthous. 1 engineer destiny. These objects fascinate me. I believe they contain a vestige of some outer force, some happenstance. Each one crude, and of itself worthless, but empowered. I keep them by me as charms. Every single one has changed a person’s fate. They remind me how fickle and sudden fate can be, how easily twisted.’

  ‘They’re the source of your power?’ Stefoy wondered.

  ‘They’re just a collection of things,’ Culzean said. ‘All of them yearn to shape the future as completely and as fully as I do.’

  Leyla Slade returned, with a tray of hot secum in drinking kettles. She served the men as they took their seats under the tall windows of the suite. The simivulpa scurried playfully under their chairs. Outside, the rain lashed the grim, high stacks of the city.

  ‘Tell me about the prospect,’ Culzean said, sipping from his drinking kettle’s spout.

  ‘How much do you know, Orfeo?’ Lezzard replied.

  Culzean shrugged. ‘The Fratery’s seers on Nova Durma have seen something in their silver mirrors. A prospect that is – and I understand this is almost unheard of – almost one hundred per cent likely. Something will occur here, on Eustis Majoris, before the end of the year. A daemonic manifestation. It will shake history. Its name will be Slyte.’

  ‘A decent appraisal,’ the magus-clancular replied, as Stefoy helped him suck from his kettle. ‘Arthous, the rest.’

  Arthous leaned forward in his seat, and put his kettle down. He stank from the sores on his body, but Orfeo Culzean was too well-mannered to register distaste.

  ‘The name, expeditor, will indeed be Slyte. Perhaps the name may be Sleet or Slate or—’

  ‘Slyte will do,’ Culzean said, raising a hand. ‘What I don’t understand is this. I was told of an almost one hundred per cent certainty. Why in the name of darkness do you need my services?’

  ‘The key word, sir, is almost,’ Stefoy said. ‘In the last few months, our brother-seers on Nova Durma have reported a clouding.’

  ‘A clouding?’

  ‘The prospect is becoming less certain. As if fate is twisting against it. We need to confirm fate’s path. Make it certain again. Make it true. The prospect was seen to occur between the start of 400 and the end of 403. That time is almost on us now.’

  ‘I see,’ said Culzean. ‘Now, does this prospect have a focus?’

  Arthous reached into his suit pocket and produced a sheaf of crumpled parchments. ‘These are the transcripts made by the seers. The focus is named here, you see. A person called Gideon Ravenor.’

  ‘Ravenor?’ Culzean said. ‘The writer?’

  ‘He is an Imperial inquisitor.’

  ‘Yes, but he writes too. Various essays, treatises. All rather fey and ponderous to my taste, but well thought of. This Ravenor’s the focus?’

  ‘Him, or one of his close associates,’ Lezzard nodded.

  ‘Curious,’ Culzean said, taking the parchments and studying them.

  ‘The Inquisition is already alert to this prospect,’ Stefoy said. ‘They have attempted to thwart us. One agent in particular, Ravenor’s old mentor, the inquisitor Eisenhorn.’

  Culzean looked up. ‘Eisenhorn? That old bull? Now he I’ve most certainly heard of. Where is he in this picture?’

  ‘He attempted to warn Ravenor of the prospect on Malinter last year. We were unable to stop him, though it seems Ravenor himself did not believe the warning. Eisenhorn was later tracked down and slain by our brothers on Fedra.’

  ‘Glory! You killed Gregor Eisenhorn?’ asked Culzean.

  ‘We believe so. He was confronted on Fedra, at the Mechanicus temple on Mars Hill. A considerable battle ensued, which ended with the explosive destruction of the entire site. His thread vanished from the seers’ vision thereafter. To a degree of certainty, we are sure he is dead.’

  ‘To a degree of certainty?’

  ‘He no longer appears in our scrying mirrors,’ Lezzard said dryly.

  ‘What about Ravenor? Is he here?’

  ‘This is where the clouding troubles us. There is contradiction in the seers’ visions. Some say he is dead already. Others say he is here, amongst us, in Petropolis. It is possible he is here under a veil of the utmost secrecy. If so, that might explain the contradiction.’

  ‘And what are the determiners I can use?’ Culzean asked.

  With Stefoy’s help, the master-clancular produced more crinkled papers. ‘These are the determiners we have established. Nineteen names; persons who, we have predicted, will manifestly influence the outcome of the prospect.’

  ‘Some of these people are… highly placed,’ Culzean said, reading.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And Ravenor himself is on the list.’

  ‘Yes. At this time,’ Lezzard said. ‘We don’t know why.’

  Culzean looked up at Leyla Slade. ‘I’ll need a psyker, immediately. Non-aligned, black market. Find out if Saul Keener is still operating on Eustis Majoris. He does good work.’

  ‘At once,’ she replied.

  ‘Can you help us?’ Stefoy asked. ‘Can you expedite this?’r />
  ‘I believe so,’ Culzean said, rising to his feet. The simivulpa ran up his sleeve and sat on his shoulder. Culzean was still studying the papers. ‘We need to be quick and ruthless. We can’t worry about these determiners. They are all fungible elements. We have to clear the field and hone the prospect down to a bare, simple fact.’

  ‘You mean we have to kill them?’ Arthous said.

  ‘Probably. It’s like surgery. We have to excise the muddle. I think we should start with him.’

  Culzean showed Lezzard the page.

  ‘The Fratery couldn’t begin to attempt a killing like th—’

  ‘That’s what you pay me for. I’ve brought devices with me.’

  ‘Devices?’ mumbled Stefoy.

  ‘Shining weapons of destiny,’ Culzean said with a smile. ‘I believe we should wake the incunabula.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure, sir?’ Leyla Slade asked.

  Culzean nodded energetically. He was hitting his stride now, in command, in control. ‘The Brass Thief is very malleable, very adaptive. Yes, I’m sure. We’ll wake him up.’

  ‘It,’ corrected Leyla Slade.

  ‘You don’t know him like I do,’ Culzean grinned. He turned to the fraters. ‘We’ll begin in a day or so. Where are you based, master?’

  ‘The occulting lighthouse at the bay end of Formal Q,’ Lezzard replied.

  ‘Remote, is it? Discreet?’

  ‘Yes, Orfeo.’

  ‘I’ll come to you there. We’ll wake the incunabula and begin our work.’

  ‘What is this thing you speak of?’ asked Stefoy.

  ‘Just a tool. A deodand.’

  ‘Like a roof tile or a pen?’

  Culzean shrugged. ‘Slightly more proactive than that. There will be a cost involved.’

  ‘The Fratery’s funds are at your disposal for this, Orfeo,’ Lezzard replied.

  Orfeo Culzean raised a fist and coughed politely into the core of it. Leyla Slade took a step forward. ‘Magus-clancular, sir, my employer did not mean a monetary cost. You must arrange for there to be persons present whose lives can be used as payment.’

  ‘Sacrifices?’ asked Lezzard.

  ‘At least a dozen,’ said Orfeo Culzean. ‘The Brass Thief gets his name because he steals lives. And when he wakes, he will be so awfully hungry.’

  FOUR

  ‘HEY, I’VE AN idea. Try opening it,’ Nayl suggested.

  ‘Try waiting for me to open it,’ Kara growled back, fumbling with the power driver. It whined pathetically in the gloom, and she coughed as rust flecks billowed down. ‘Damn thing’s corroded shut. Just use your cutter. This is wasting time.’

  Nayl lit the torch blade of his las-cutter. The fizzling glow lent their surroundings an even greater sense of decay and neglect.

  Kara jumped down from the crusted metal rungs. She made an ‘after you’ bow – difficult to do in a bodysuit so laden down with kit.

  Nayl clambered up the ladder, and dug the cutter into the rim of the heavy roof hatch. Metal curled away, glowing, melting, dripping onto the floor below in fat, orange droplets.

  The vox pipped. ‘Are you two quite ready yet?’ Carl said. ‘This plan relies on perfect co-ordination. I explained that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Carl. You did,’ Kara replied. ‘Little technical difficulty with the roof access.’

  ‘I blame the acid rain,’ Nayl said, still at work.

  ‘So noted,’ Carl’s voice cracked over the line.

  ‘I blame Nayl,’ said Kara. ‘It makes me feel better about myself.’

  ‘Also noted. I applaud the sentiment.’

  ‘We’re through,’ Nayl called, killing the cutter blade and slipping it back into his hip pouch. ‘Mask up and brace yourself.’

  Kara checked her hood seals and pulled the breather mask down over her face.

  Nayl punched the ancient metal hatch and it flopped over, open onto the exterior roof. Immediately, a pressure wave of wind and rain burst down onto them. It was even worse than she’d expected, howling, murderously violent. The acid-warning lights inside their headsets lit up. A stormy night in downtown Petropolis.

  The high, flat roof of the Mansoor Hagen Manufactory was just a jumble of duct heads and old reheater blocks in the darkness. The roaring crosswind drove the acid rain in slantwise sheets across the mouldering roof and threatened to tear them off their footing.

  They staggered on, heads low, two strange, bulky shapes in the dark, moving east. Up ahead, through the fuming rain, the lights of the city glowed, one in particular.

  The Mansoor Hagen Manufactory in Formal H had once, proudly, been the subsector’s chief producer of buttons and other quality clothing fasteners. Twenty years before, it had ceased production and closed down; maybe there had been a new trend in button recycling, maybe the citizens of the Angelus Subsector had begun to care less if they were decently fastened up. Whatever, the place had died, and the site had been sealed by the guild foremen.

  The manufactory itself was a massive ouslite blockhouse a kilometre long and half a kilometre wide, rising nearly four hundred metres above the top of the upper stack levels. It lay across eight sink blocks, arranged roughly east-west along its longest sides. The western end looked out to Formal F and the sprawl of factory residuals. The eastern end faced the vast donjon of the Informium Depository on the boundary of Formal D.

  Nayl and Kara reached the east-end lip of the massive building. They had to cling on to the old support wires to prevent themselves being torn off the roof by the wind.

  ‘Decent take-up,’ Nayl noted, his voice tinny over the vox.

  ‘There’s a kindness. Check the direction.’

  Nayl fumbled with the instrument strapped to his left wrist.

  ‘Blowing due east. Eight over seven. It’s going to be a quick trip.’

  Kara did some quick mental maths. ‘Really quick,’ she replied. ‘No more than eighteen, nineteen seconds. We’ll have to be really sharp not to overshoot. Shave off another two seconds to compensate for the way the wind’s going to carry us even when we’re uncoupled.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes, two! Trust me! Now, are you set?’

  Nayl played out the carry-tube from his belt and the wind immediately tugged at the limp sack like a flag. He kept one hand clenched to the guard wire, and took hold of the inflator pump with the other.

  ‘Set!’

  Kara had done the same with her own kit.

  ‘We’re set,’ she voxed to Carl.

  ‘Then I’ll start making my way in. Thonius out.’

  ‘Ready?’ Kara asked Nayl.

  ‘For this? No,’ he said. ‘But let’s do it anyway.’

  They both activated the pressurised helium canisters fixed to their belts. In less than a second, the two limp sacks trailing wildly in the wind at the end of their carry-tubes had expanded into taut globes a full metre in diameter. The wind grabbed them at once.

  Kara and Nayl let go of the wires and the windshear, wrestling with their globe balloons, yanked them forward with brutal force, off the edge of the manufactory, into the open sky.

  CARL THONIUS HURRIED across the rainswept street, past the singing burn alarms, and reached the north portico of the Informium Depository. Under the awning, he paid off his gamper, tipping the boy well. The gamper took the coin with a smile, shook off the huge, acid-resistant folds of his gamp, and went in search of other business.

  Thonius brushed down his blue merskin jacket, flushed out his lace cuffs, and straightened his cravat. He took a moment to check his reflection in one of the deep windows of the entranceway.

  ‘Sublime,’ he murmured.

  Tucking his document case under his arm, Thonius clipped up the wide steps and entered the towering north atrium. It was dreadfully warm inside, almost tropical. Well-armed Magistratum guards lingered on the vast marble floorway, and beyond them stood the ornate silver podiums of the public interlocutors. At this late hour, only a few citizens bustled to and fro, most of them l
awyers or legal assistants chasing down last minute details before the courts opened the following morning.

  ‘May I be of service, sir?’ asked a uniformed docent.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Thonius smiled back. ‘May you?’

  The docent produced a datawand from under his mantle and flipped it on. A hololithic list of headings and sub headings projected up into the air from the wand’s tip. ‘Do you require births? Deaths? Marriages? Lineage? Augment or cloning records? Land rights? Settlements? Copyright manifests? Historical and/or analytical claims? Tithe records? Buskage? Tullage? Vellement? Remallage? Gubernatorial records—’

  ‘Do you have frottage?’

  ‘Uh, I don’t believe so, sir.’

  ‘Pity. I’ll tell you what. What it is, you see, is that I’m actually a student of High Imperial architecture: modern, intuitive, post-modern, quasi-modern, whatever. I’m on sabbatical here on this lovely… and I do mean very, very lovely… world of yours, and I was told to look this place up. Lingstrom, they said, for that is my name, Lingstrom, you really must behold the Informium in Petropolis before you die.’

  ‘Are you dying?’ the docent mumbled, wide-eyed.

  ‘My dear soul, we’re all dying. Each in our own way. I intend my parting to be extravagantly consumptive and melancholic, yet a touch romantic. How about you? By the look of you, I’d say the best you could hope for is a bad step on a wet stairwell. Or maybe a ram shellfish supper. Alone, no doubt.’

  ‘S-sir?’

  Thonius spread his arms wide and looked up at the vast, frescoed ceiling of the atrium two hundred metres above their heads. ‘Just look at it. No, look! Really look!’

  The docent looked up, and blinked, as if he had never seen the magnificence before.

  ‘Splendid, isn’t it?’ Thonius said.

  ‘I… I suppose so, sir,’ the docent replied.

  ‘I’m in the front door,’ Thonius whispered into his concealed vox-mic. ‘Get our little friend in position, Patience.’

  ‘YOU KNOW WHAT to do?’ Patience Kys asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Zael replied. She was shooing him along under the walkway canopy towards the Informium’s west entrance. Acid rain beat on the tight covers above them. Zael was fidgeting with his right hand.