by Dan Abnett
I prayed not. I was a man of careful, considered ambition. Though everything pointed to Zael, that seemed too easy. From experience, I know the universe is a far, far more complex mechanism.
I hovered behind Carl as he continued his work. He seemed to me to be edgy and restless. When he this-struck a key on the board of his cogitator, he cursed and oathed.
+Gently.+
‘So much data,’ he murmured. ‘So much to co-ordinate. It gets me worked up.’
One thing we had fathomed from the riddle box: some of the cartel members had grown so rich on their profits that they had already quit and retired. That was virtually unheard of, a rogue trader selling up his ship and retiring to a life of luxury. But such were the vast earnings of these men. Marebos had purchased an entire island on Messina. Braeden had retreated to a castellated abbey above the Great Falls on Mirepoix. Counting their money, no doubt, rolling in it.
Athen Strykson had sold his ship and, combining that huge fund with his cartel earnings, had bought a retreat in a private canton of his homeworld.
Athen Strykson came from Eustis Majoris. The place he had purchased was in Farthingale, a rural seat fifteen hundred kilometres inland from Petropolis hive. For the first time in our investigation, we had an opportunity to meet with a cartel member face to face.
Nayl, Kys and Mathuin were en route right now. They were going to ask the ex-shipmaster a few pointed questions.
‘So much data,’ Carl complained again, pasting another card on the wall. ‘Couldn’t Zael help?’
‘No,’ I transponded. ‘I sent him to the kitchen to brew you some caff,’ Truth was, I wanted Zael as far away from this as possible. If he was Slyte…
There was a chime alarm. I heard Frauka go to the front door. He came back and leaned in to see me. ‘It’s the physician,’ he said.
I left Carl to his work and hovered down to greet Belknap. True to his promise, he’d come back to check on Kara.
He stood in the doorway, his bag in his hand.
‘Medicae.’
‘Inquisitor.’
‘I appreciate this.’
‘Good.’
‘Come up.’
He followed me up the stairs. He was a good man, a very principled man, I could feel that now, just as Kys had told me.
We went down the upper corridor towards Kara’s room. A cry stopped him in his tracks.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘Nothing that needs to concern you, doctor,’ I replied.
Another cry.
‘You want me to trust you, don’t you?’ Belknap said, turning to face me. ‘What the Throne was that?’
‘Our guest,’ I replied. ‘He does that from time to time.’
‘Let me see him.’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m leaving, Ravenor.’
‘Very well.’
I led Belknap down the hall and nudged open the door of Skoh’s room. Pulling at his shackles, Skoh screamed again for effect.
‘Holy Throne…’ Belknap said, gazing into the room.
‘They’re chafing me!’ Skoh cried. ‘They’re chafing my wrists so sore!’ He held up the manacles to show us.
‘This is disgraceful,’ Belknap said.
‘Skoh is my prisoner. A dangerous man. Don’t pity him, whatever you do,’ I said.
Belknap glowered at me. ‘He’s a man even so, stricken in health. My oath as a medicae means I have to see to him.’
‘Very well.’
Belknap walked over to Skoh and examined his manacles.
‘You have to release him. The binders are rubbing him raw and the sores are infected.’
‘He is an enemy of the Imperium, doctor,’ I said. ‘The binders stay on.’
‘Then I have to take him to the local medicae facility…’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I told you that secrecy was our only power here. Take Skoh to the local infirmary and he’ll blow our cover. He knows too much.’
‘Then what would you have me do, inquisitor?’
‘Treat him.’
Belknap produced a liniment from his bag and began to smooth the cream into Skoh’s wrists. ‘It’s a start,’ he said. ‘But I’m still not happy.’
KARA SWOLE WAS asleep when we went in. The medical apparatus Belknap had ordered was set up around her bed, pulsing and blinking.
‘Glory,’ Belknap said, looking at the equipment. ‘I made a list of things that would be useful and you went out and bought them all?’
‘I value Kara very much.’
‘All this stuff,’ Belknap said. ‘You don’t blink at the price. I could have equipped an entire low-stack surgery with this. What kind of people are you?’
‘The kind that will donate all of this to your practice, once we’re done,’ I said.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and started to examine Kara’s belly wound.
She rolled in her sleep and mumbled.
I went out of the room.
‘VOX FROM NAYL,’ Frauka said. ‘They’re in position and await your pleasure.’
‘Understood,’ I said. ‘Listen, Wystan, things are going to be quiet around her for a few hours. Why don’t you take Zael to a gallery? Maybe a museum. With so few of us around, I’d rather not leave him here to his own devices. Given what you told me.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You want him kept away from anything sensitive when there’s no one around. No problem.’
He went off to find the boy. I slid into Carl’s room. ‘I’m going bodiless to work with Harlon. Wystan’s taking Zael on an excursion so you’ll be able to concentrate on the work.’
‘Good,’ he said.
‘Don’t forget to check on Skoh.’
‘Of course not.’
I went back into my private room, locked off my chair’s mobilisers, and sent my mind into the sky.
WARING ZEPH MATHUIN, I walked up the gravel path to join Kys and Harlon. Farthingale was a quiet interior town of broad avenues and pollarded trees. The sky was cloudy and morose. Athen Strykson’s mansion lay before us.
‘Let’s go and present ourselves,’ I said. We walked down to the gatehouse. Through the locked iron gates, we could see a dark space of lawn, and a path lined with enamel obelisks that led up to the mansion’s main doors.
Kys rang the bell-pull. The three of us were wearing simple black suits and long coats of grey wool.
‘Who visits?’ the vox speaker on the gatehouse wall crackled.
Kys leaned close to the speaking cone. ‘Department of Tithe and Tariff,’ she replied.
‘YOU SAID YOUR name was Belknap?’ Kara asked. She was sitting in the chair beside her bed. Her cheeks were pale and drawn.
‘That’s right,’ he said, adjusting the dials of one of the machines.
‘What you’re doing, all these tests. It’s very thorough.’
‘I’m a thorough person, Mamzel Swole.’
‘Even so…’
‘You were injured by a so-called vampire blade,’ Belknap said. ‘The injury is more than a stab wound. I need to run a complete biological audit to make sure there are no… secondary problems.’
‘You’ve stabilised the blade wound. It’s no longer a threat.’
‘Yes, but as I said, I need to—’
Kara looked at Belknap. ‘There’s no need for the cover story, doctor. The fact you want to run more tests has nothing to do with the blade injury. You picked up on something else while you were treating that. I know.’
‘I see.’
‘So, go on,’ Kara stared at him, smiling.
Belknap took a deep breath and handed her a display slate. ‘The expensive instruments your master has brought in don’t lie. You know what this is?’
‘I knew before the blade bit me,’ Kara said flatly.
‘Did you?’
‘Of course. I checked myself on a weekly basis using Unwerth’s autodoc.’
‘Who’s Unwerth?’ he asked.
‘Doesn’t matter,�
� she replied quickly. ‘What matters is I know what this is. Astroblastoma. Last year, I took a leap off a docking bay in a vacu-suit. Exposed myself to megawatts of rad. I hoped the suit was shielded.’
‘I don’t think it was.’
‘Seems so. How long have I got?’
Belknap looked at the floor. ‘No more than six months, Mamzel Swole. I’m sorry.’
‘Why, it’s not your fault. Treatments?’
‘The condition is terminal. You understand that? There are certain palliatives that can make you more comfortable. And angiogenesis inhibitors that buy you a little more time, although carcinomatosis has begun.’
‘The cancer’s spreading to other parts of my body, you mean?’
‘Yes. Or you were so comprehensively irradiated you are developing multiple oncological responses.’
‘How long will I remain… active?’
‘With good fortune and the proper care, three or four months,’ Belknap replied. ‘Look, you need some rest now. I’ll come back tomorrow and we can discuss how we’re going to approach your treatment.’
‘We?’ Kara asked.
‘You’re my patient now,’ he said.
Kara reached out a hand and caught him gently by the sleeve. ‘One thing, Master Belknap, more important than anything else. Please don’t tell anyone about this yet. Not my friends. Not Ravenor. Especially not Ravenor. All right?’
Belknap nodded.
FIFTEEN
‘YOU’RE WHO?’ ASKED the housekeeper warily.
‘Department of Tithe and Tariff,’ Kys repeated politely. She showed the man her permit, and Harlon and I did the same. The man looked at them with some alarm, but seemed convinced. He ought to be. The permits were authentic. Carl had got them for us from the Informium itself.
We had been let into the vestibule of Strykson’s home. It was gloomy and cold: though the day was grey and overcast, no interior lights had been switched on. There wasn’t any sound except the ticking of a longcase chron and the clack of rooks cawing reedily out in the damp gardens.
‘What is this about?’ the housekeeper said. In my opinion, he was the least convincing thing around. A hard bodied man in early middle-age, he seemed more like a guard than a housekeeper. His voice and gestures certainly lacked the poise and polish that might have been expected of a senior servant or butler.
‘We’ve been sent to undertake a surprise inspection of Master Strykson’s financial records,’ Kys said.
‘What? Why?’ asked the man.
‘We should discuss that with Master Strykson himself, or with a clerk who can legally speak on his behalf.’
As Kys spoke with him, I looked into his mind and learned some basic facts. His name was Geren Felt and he was a member of Strykson’s house security. A few days earlier, following some incident in the hive – news of which had greatly distressed Strykson – the house staff had been scaled down to security personnel only. Felt had been ordered to act as housekeeper and answer any calls. Things were afoot, but Felt was too junior to be privy to what. All he was sure of was that he had to check the sudden arrival of Imperial tax inspectors with his superiors.
‘Wait here, please,’ he said and hurried off. He took our permits with him.
+Strykson’s expecting trouble.+ I sent as we waited.
+Figures.+ Kys answered.+He must’ve heard that Tchaikov’s dead by now, so he knows the cartel is potentially under threat. And he’s the most visible member.+
I gently scanned the building.+There are eight people here with us. No, nine. A general sense of anxiety and suspicion directed at us. Tension.+
I sensed Nayl about to place a hand under his coat.
+No. I told you how we’d play this.+
Nayl’s hand slid out.
Felt returned. He didn’t have our permits, nor did he pass any comment on their absence. ‘This way, if you please.’
He led us out of the vestibule, into a wide hall where a grand staircase rose above us, along another stretch of corridor, under an arch and into a large salon intended for the entertainment of guests. The short trip was illuminating to me. I sensed the primed sentry gunpods concealed behind the vestibule doors, auto-tracking our heat as we went by. I sensed the guard with the hellgun poised behind the side arch of the hall, and the other two guards, both armed with lasrifles, up on the staircase landing out of sight. I felt the heartbeats of the men concealed behind the salon doors, weapons drawn, ready to enter. I touched the hard metal shapes of remote-operated plasma beamers in the false wall behind the salon’s wood panelling, their focus-nozzles aimed at us. I saw the electromagnetic shimmer of the multiple security picters tracking us as we walked, and gently psy-blurred our features so they wouldn’t read cleanly.
And I sensed the aide in an adjoining chamber, frantically checking our permits via a secure vox-link to Petropolis.
+The house staff are all around us, armed and ready to spring. Automated weapons systems too, the house is wired. Be wary but show no sign. Let’s see how this plays.+
‘Uh, tea? Caffeine perhaps?’ Felt said awkwardly. From his agitated surface thoughts, I knew he had a sting-blunt tucked into the waistband of his trousers, though he wasn’t thinking about how quickly he could draw it. He was calculating which item of furniture in the room he should throw himself behind if things went awry.
‘No, thank you,’ said Kys.
We stood, waiting. I felt the tension swell to bursting point, the men hidden around us on a hair-trigger. I sent my mind back to the aide in the nearby chamber, watched as he spoke on the vox, read out our permit numbers, waited, and finally nodded.
‘They’re clear. Genuine,’ he called.
The automated weapon systems switched to ‘safety’ and depowered. The waiting men stood down and retreated.
+We’re fine.+
Athen Strykson came into the salon.
He was a tall, long-faced man with thin black hair and quick, intelligent eyes. He wore a well-tailored suit of selpic tarsh, and nodded to us politely.
‘I wasn’t told to expect a visit,’ he said. He had our permits in his hand. He waved Felt out of the room.
‘The department makes special visits from time to time. Unannounced. In our experience, notification of a visit sometimes gives a citizen undue opportunity for concealment,’ Kys smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry if this is inconvenient. You are Athen Strykson?’
‘Yes, I am. Can you tell me what this is about?’
‘You’ve recently taken up residence here on Eustis Majoris?’ Nayl asked.
‘I have. I’m retired. I bought this place nine months ago.’
‘Your previous employment was as a shipmaster?’ Kys said.
‘I was an owner-master. Seventy-nine years. Made my fortune, as they say, and came here to enjoy it. Look, my financial agents logged all my records with your department for the purposes of disclosure and estimation of tariff burden. Everything is in order.’
‘Indeed,’ said Nayl. He opened the small black case he was carrying and took out a data-slate. ‘The finance agency you retain has been very forthcoming and thorough. However, we have found a discrepancy that they are unable to account for.’
Strykson’s face darkened. ‘I do hope not. It cost me a significant sum to set up residency on this world. I did everything by the book, under advice. Paid what seemed like extravagant sums to the taxation department in recognition of my base worth. There were additional tariffs, settlement clauses, exchange considerations. Adopting the life of – aha – a simple citizen of this fine world cost me an exorbitant amount. Which I gave freely. I did not expect further swingeing demands to be made.’
‘Of course not,’ Kys said.
‘Though that is perhaps a matter you should take up with your finance agents,’ Nayl added.
‘We’re just doing our job,’ Kys said.
‘I know, I know,’ Strykson said, half-smiling and raising his hand. I had been probing him gently while the discourse distracted him. He was wea
ring a psy-blocker in a silver charm around his neck, a fairly powerful device, but nothing like strong enough to keep me out. By the time he was half-smiling and raising his hand, I had deactivated it and moved into his mind.
What I found there was a curious mixture of annoyance and relief. Strykson had indeed been told about Tchaikov’s demise. He’d had a call from Akunin, warning him. Akunin had been furious, complaining that Trice had refused to meet with him to discuss the matter.
‘The bastard won’t take it seriously,’ Akunin had told Strykson. ‘He thinks Tchaikov fell foul of a black market rival.’
‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ Strykson had said.
‘We chose her in the first place because she was a genuine player,’ Akunin had said. ‘No underworld rival would dare go up against her. Just watch yourself, Athen. If someone’s on to us, you will be next. You’re the easiest one of us to find.’
Scared, Strykson had sealed his house and waited for the worst. Our knock on the door had jarred his nerves. He’d come very close to panic. Now, as it seemed, he had an impertinent but authentic visit from the tithe department to deal with. His relief was considerable. He’d thought for a moment some nemesis – the sort of force that had slaughtered Tchaikov and her retinue – had found him. All the same, he was exasperated. He’d been assured, by the Ministry operatives who had overseen his settlement, that his tax affairs would not be subject to scrutiny by the Department of Tithe and Tariff. One more perk of Contract Thirteen.
From his surface thoughts, I could read all the things that he thought had been covered up, all the things he was afraid might come out. Undeclared funds, sequestered shares, false business accounts, unpaid duty on—
There we go. I didn’t want to rip into his mind and strip it. I didn’t want him to even know what I was doing. This form of telepathic manipulation was akin to hypnotism, to gentle persuasion, to suggestion. His brain whirling with financial concerns, he was ripe and ready to give everything up.
‘Master Strykson,’ I said, speaking for the first time. ‘There is the matter of mercantile process duty,’ I spoke the words, forming Mathuin’s voice into a smooth tone that would play mesmerically with a susceptible mind, but I also cast them, a telepathic echo to the speech. The echo was what really got under his skin.
