Pyke and his crew were sitting or standing around in a poorly lit basement half full of crates, boxes and curious hourglass-shaped storage canisters. One large box lay open, spilling brown and grey garments onto the tiled floor. Even though Kref’s choice of attire provoked amusement, mused Pyke, the droopy, baggy tunics, overalls and breeches that he and the others were wearing, along with enclosing headgear of various kinds, wasn’t far behind his. The smell of Pyke’s own getup reminded him strongly of the worst bout of trench foot he’d ever had, but he wasn’t about to tell the others all about that.
Before the exchange of banter could pick up steam, the basement door opened and Mokle, the Gruxen Nightfinder who had led them into Armag City, slipped smoothly in, closing the door behind him. He was wearing an ankle-length, dull-yellow cloak with the hood pulled back. There was a hush as he looked the crew over one by one, ending with a reluctant nod.
“A lot of city guards are busy defending some of the approaches to the estates, or patrolling the garths around the city, making sure no insurgents get in or out. Some headed up to the Stonehands garrison, thinking they could mount a surprise attack on the Chainer forces surrounding it. No one came back.”
Pyke arched an eyebrow. “So, do we have a clear run from here up the tower, then?”
“Not quite. Some of the dignitari families flew their own vow-guards in from plantations and breeder demesnes to the north, so that complicates matters. Also, members of Lord Gyr-Matu’s bodyguard are stationed before the main and only entrance, so you will need another way in.” He gave them all a final sweeping gaze. “You look the part, and the cargo you’ll be carrying should convince any onlookers.”
“Cargo?” Pyke said.
Mokle led them to the rear of the basement, through another door to a shadowy stairwell where half a dozen large baskets with shoulder straps sat in a line on a trestle table. Strained gasps came forth as Mokle and Pyke helped baskets onto backs. Kref, bearing his burden with ease, let out another rumble of chuckling.
“Your handweapons are in the false bottoms,” Mokle said. “When you need them, upend the baskets and rip them open.”
Pyke’s own basket, like the others, was full of cloth bolts and bundles of animal hides, and was staggeringly heavy. But when Mokle came to speak with him he just gritted his teeth and gave one of his devil-may-care grins.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
Mokle nodded. “I’ve told the others to keep to one-word answers if anyone says anything to them, as should you. It’s very unlikely that any member of a dignitari coterie would even approach an underworker but we should be prepared.” He paused to doff the cloak, twisted it into a ball and lobbed it into a corner. Beneath he wore a blue-grey semi-militaristic uniform, similar to the ones Pyke had seen on the various Armag guards. From a pocket the Nightfinder took a blue cap which he unfolded and tugged onto his head. “I, on the other hand, am a squad overseer, an official with whom limited exchanges are permissible. But again, that rarely happens–the dignitari, after all, think very highly of themselves.”
He produced a folded piece of paper which he spread out against the wall close to a dull lamp. It showed the precincts of the Lord-Governor’s official residence, an eight-sided outer wall beyond which lay Armag City’s network of streets; inside the wall were unexplained radial layouts and what appeared to be a courtyard surrounding the Lord-Governor’s tower.
“There are several entrances to the outer yards,” Mokle said. “But getting into the courtyard would be next to impossible–normally. We will be going underground…”
“Not again,” Ancil groaned.
“… and under the wall through what is essentially a food delivery system for the main ovenhouse.”
There were puzzled looks all round except for Pyke, who had got the measure of this society.
“What you’re saying is, no one cooks up the feasts inside the courtyard,” he said. “Might disrupt their highborn sensibilities, I’m thinking.”
Mokle smiled. “Yes, that is exactly right. Servants work and serve–they do not share the exalted ambience of their masters’ playgrounds.”
“Will it work?” said Mojag all of a sudden. “And what do we do if that way is blocked to us?”
Pyke felt a chill go down his spine. It was Mojag’s voice but Oleg’s speech pattern and assertive querying style.
“It should work,” said Mokle. “A lot of workers have failed to turn up, for obvious reasons–the shooting, the fighting and so on–so there are fewer eyes taking notice of their surroundings. But if something gets in the way, I do have an alternative, slightly riskier way to get you all to the objective.”
“Right, then let’s not waste any more time,” Pyke said.
The dark stairwell went up to an arched door that led out to a small square. By now night had fallen and the air smelled of ash while minor alarms were ringing several streets away. With Mokle leading at the front, the crew lined up behind Pyke, then Kref, then Mojag, then Ancil, and trudged off towards a main road. The Nightfinder led them across the thoroughfare to a side street which curved round towards the outer yards of the Governor’s residence. Plodding through the darkness Pyke recalled the city as he’d seen it in the fading light of day, remembering the richness of the architecture, the jutting window bays, the well-formed stonework and the plentiful blue and gold trim, all of which bore evidence of decades of wear and tear; scores and cracks, themselves rounded by the elements, as well as the cracked pavements, and roads originally cobbled with hexagonal stones which now were worn near-smooth and half buried in accumulated dirt and gravel. There had been more inhabitants around earlier, although the occasional side glance revealed street-level bars and cafes doing a busy trade.
After turning another couple of corners they came to one of the entrances to the outer yards, the artisans’ zone. The guards wore mauve uniforms and carried double-barrelled pistols in bulky holsters strapped to the leg. Mokle insisted on showing them several pages of documentation, which quickly provoked glazed eyes and a useful amount of tedium. They took a look inside one of the baskets then shrugged and waved the party on through.
The buildings here were taller and better maintained while the roads were narrower and surfaced with some kind of artificial, rubbery red material laid out in large square sections. Some of the tall buildings were grouped together with covered walkways linking them at different heights. There were enclosures where rows of handcarts were parked, and stone outbuildings with flat roofs and the kind of venting machinery which was a sign of temperature-regulated storage, perhaps for food.
Mokle steered them along a curved pathway running parallel with the outer wall, before turning onto a wider street which ran straight and unbroken to a high wall which enclosed the inner courtyard. Gyr-Matu’s tower was visible in its entirety, with its spacious balconies and its clusters of oval windows all shuttered and dark under the security lockdown. This close, Pyke realised that it wasn’t a proper free-standing tower after all, since Armag City was built at the foot of a sheer cliff-sided promontory and the rear of the lower sections of the Lord-Governor’s tower extended back to the rock face, so clearly the interior floors spread back into the promontory itself. Higher up, a single arched bridge joined the penultimate floor, which lay beneath the landing pad, to the cliffside. Against the night sky it looked imposing, regal, a manifestation of authority with a heavy dash of impregnability.
We’ll see about that, Pyke thought with a smile in the shadows.
Following Mokle’s lead they turned a corner in time to see two large carts carrying big bright yellow canisters go past at the next junction, their hauliers straining at their yokes with a fevered urgency. Mokle held up a hand to stop the crew and then gestured them into the shadows of an alleyway.
“Wait here for a moment,” he said and was gone.
Everyone was hushed and tense for a few seconds, then Ancil spoke in a stage whisper.
“Does this mean we don’t have
to go crawling through tunnels again, chief?”
“If there’s any justice in the cosmos,” Pyke said just as Mokle reappeared.
“The ovenhouse is belching smoke,” he said, “and court sentries are all over the place, cordoning off part of the street and questioning anyone in sight. They seem to think that Chainer sympathisers are responsible.”
Pyke gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Well, me old sweat, time for plan B, I reckon.”
Mokle regarded him in a measuring kind of way for a second. “You may not be so keen when you hear what it is, Captain.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Pyke said. “If I think yer talking a complete crock you’ll know soon enough, so let’s hear it.”
Mokle breathed in deeply. “Kitchens and artisan workshops are not the only things which the dignitari prefer to keep beyond the courtyard wall. The sons and daughters from some of the dignitari families favour pastimes that require a certain amount of technical support but which the seniors have relegated to the outer yards. In short, the more daring of their offspring like to manually fly lightwings, small propeller-driven craft–there are four of them hangared in the top floor of a workshop block back round the other side.”
Pyke smiled. “So, we’d just hop into these little fliers, buzz right over there and get ourselves onto one of those pretty balconies.”
“Each of the lightwings has a built-in suspensor so that the precious progeny of the wealthy don’t face too much risk. With those activated, getting everyone airborne and safely across shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, to get inside the tower you’ll need to break into one of those armoured balcony shutters.”
Pyke nodded then muttered over his shoulder, “Ancil, you got any of those tasty charges left?”
“Still got half a handful, chief. Get us through anything short of a blast door.”
“Good,” said Mokle, straightening and pulling his cap tight. “It’s not too far but we’ll still need the baskets.”
About ten minutes later, after a gruelling trudge through half-lit side streets, Mokle led them into some kind of loading cloister at the rear of an eight-storey building showing no lights above the ground floor.
“The dignitari’s rising generation insist on round-the-clock protection for their toys,” the Nightfinder said as the crew doffed disguises and retrieved weapons from their baskets’ false bottoms. “I was told that there are at least three guards inside, and we need to bring them down fast and silent, before they can trigger any alarms.”
“So how’m I gonna get over to the tower?” said Kref. “I’m not a skinny midget like Ancil and I don’t know if I can fly a little plane.”
“You’ll be with me,” Pyke said. “And I’ll be flying–don’t eat yerself up about it. I’ll have the suspensor running on full and we’ll be fine.” He turned to Mokle. “Right, how are we going to play this?”
“I’ll start a diversion at the main door while you and the others creep in from the goods entrance over there, rush and drop them.”
Pyke chuckled. “Sneaky and underhand–I like it! Is that back door visible from the front door?”
The Nightfinder shook his head. “Through there is a storage room and a ramp down to the basement. Another door leads out to the hallway.”
“Okay, let’s get to it.”
Everything seemed to go quite smoothly. Mokle picked the lock on the rear entrance before heading round to the front of the building. Pyke ushered the others inside one by one, ensuring that footfalls were careful and quiet. Then came the sound of someone banging a fist on the front door, shortly followed by Mokle’s mock-drunken voice insisting that he had been sent by one of the aristo lightwing owners to collect some essential personal effects. This exchange led to raised voices and developed into an argument of increasingly angry loudness.
Pyke nodded to the rest, then gingerly opened the door to the hallway. From a tiptoe start they leaped forward and took the three guards completely by surprise. Mokle closed the front door as the guards were variously buffeted or choke-holded into insensibility. All according to plan… until a fourth guard appeared at the back of the hallway and made a panicky dash for the main stairway.
“Stop him!” yelled Mokle. “Quick…”
Pyke whirled away from one of the motionless guards and lunged back down the hall towards the foot of the stairs. But Kref, betraying an unexpected presence of mind, simply smashed aside a couple of the stairway banister supports, grabbed the fleeing guard by the ankles and dragged him screaming back through the splintered gap. One punch from the Henkayan and all was suddenly silent. Apart from the thud of the unconscious guard falling to the floor.
“Nice interception, there,” Pyke told Kref.
“I like the direct approach, Captain,” said Kref. “It’s direct.”
Mokle straightened from searching one of the guards, holding up a set of keys. “I’ll lock the doors then we can head upstairs.”
Minutes later the five of them emerged onto a long dark rooftop. Coin-sized guidance lamps embedded in the flat roof traced out a landing strip barely twenty metres long, a double line of glowing pale green dots. Mokle was already over at the small hangar, tugging open the concertina shutters.
“We should leave the main lights off,” the Nightfinder said. “If we rely on the lightwings’ own panel lights it will minimise being spotted from out there.”
Pyke followed the brief gesture, which encompassed the outer yards, the buildings, the main wall and the rest of Armag City. Smoke was rising from several locations like strange, pitch-black fountains billowing and bleeding into the night sky. Sounds of gunfire came from every direction and just occasionally Pyke heard the crump of grenades.
A series of clicks, hums and rustling sounds made him turn. Mokle and the others were wheeling a couple of odd-looking craft out of the hangar. Tiny lights glowed in their open-work cockpits and their opaque wings were unfolding and stiffening into flight configurations. Then Pyke noticed that both cockpits could only hold two, pilot and passenger sitting back to back.
“Not coming with us?” he said.
Mokle gave a regretful smile. “It has been quite an invigorating task getting you and your crew to this point, Captain, but from here you must steer your own fates.” He looked out at the city. “I need to be down there, helping my people free themselves.”
“Yes, I know what that feels like,” Pyke said. “Mokle, it’s been a bit of a mad hooley with yourself and Vralko–tell him to keep his head down next time you see him.”
“I shall, I promise.” Mokle indicated the nearest lightwing. “Time to board your flying machine, Captain.”
Ancil and Mojag were already climbing into their craft. A frowning Kref, however, was staring at their lightwing with suspicion.
“Don’t see how I can get into it…”
“The passenger seat and its framework are adjustable,” Mokle said. “I’ve already prepared it for you, look.”
Grumbling, Kref let the Nightfinder guide him into the passenger seat then help him get belted in. Over in the other craft Ancil was watching the entire process with a kind of wondering gaze. Pyke pointed at him and made a shh-gesture; Ancil grinned and shrugged.
“Well, now, this is cosy,” Pyke said as he strapped into the pilot seat, grabbed the basic-looking control column and peered over it at the small dashboard. Mokle leaned in to show him the button that started the twin propellers and, more importantly, the suspensor on–off knob which could also turn the antigrav up to maximum. He thumbed the engine start, listened to the low hum of the motors climb in pitch, then turned on the suspensor and nodded to Mokle.
“You’ll have to judge it finely when you get near the tower balcony,” the Nightfinder said. “Keep the suspensor up full, turn off the motors and glide to a slow landing would be my advice.”
Ancil and Mojag were already taxiing onto the tiny runway and Pyke heard one of them let out a whoop as the lightwing leaped forward in a sudden su
rge of acceleration. A curved incline had been added to the runway, at the edge of the roof, and the lightwing zoomed off the end and into the air.
Then dived in a sickening sideslip which took them out of view.
“Holy mother of god,” Pyke said through gritted teeth–then let out a gasp of relief when the small craft reappeared on a climbing course that curved back round towards the rooftop. They waved to Ancil and Mojag but then saw Ancil pointing back and to the ground.
“… guards are coming!” he shouted as he skimmed past overhead.
Mokle turned to Pyke. “Get going!”
Pyke cranked up the engine speed and steered onto the runway.
“Now you coming with us?” he yelled at Mokle.
He shook his head and waved farewell. “They’ll find me hard to track down,” he replied, and dashed off back to the hangar.
Pyke turned the engines and the suspensor up full and let the craft hurtle down the roof. Kref was bellowing something but the vibration was making it hard to understand and Pyke started to yell back that he shouldn’t worry, when the lightwing leaped off the edge of the building… and they were in flight. Suddenly Pyke had to grasp the control column and keep them on course for the tower, keep the lightwing’s nose up but not too far. Part of him wanted to look back at the landing strip, or down at the ground, but instead he stared ahead, glancing at the tower. And for one clear cold moment as they coasted through the air Pyke looked up at a cloudless night sky and saw the nearby worlds of the Warcage, that vast megasystem with its hundreds of planets, silvery crescents of worlds hanging in that artificial array like jewels in a lattice, serene and beautiful.
Dervla, darling, he thought. This better work, and Khorr had better be keeping you and Win safe…
Then he turned his attention back to his goal, the Lord-Governor’s tower. But more immediately, where were Ancil and Mojag? He gave their surroundings a quick scan as he leaned forward to adjust the suspensor controls, allowing him to decrease altitude while swooping towards the tower in a gentle curve.
Ancestral Machines Page 25
