by Dan Abnett
“I have worked on the living,” said Kolding. “For many years, as a junior in my father’s practice. I am qualified for human work. But these days, the city is empty. The streets are dark and quiet. The population has never really returned. I need to supplement my workload with autopsy work for the Health Department, or this place would have to close.”
“The war ended your father’s business?”
“The war ended my father,” said Kolding. “He died. So did his assistants and nurses. I was the only one who lived.”
“Will the patient survive?”
“I have stabilised him, and repaired the blood vessel damage. We need to wait for another half an hour to see how the coagulant healing meshes take. His blood pressure concerns me. If he is still alive in a hour, I think he’ll be alive in fifty years.”
Gaunt sipped his caffeine. It seemed awful. The truth was, it was simply battlefield quality. Maggs had thrown it together according to trench conditions. Gaunt realised that he’d been spoiled by too many months of fancy quality caffeine. This, this dark murk that Maggs had concocted, was caffeine like the Guard drank it, the bitter taste of the zone and the dug-out.
It was dire, and it was the best drink he’d had in a year.
“Where did you get the pistol?” Gaunt asked.
Kolding looked down at the old weapon. It was lying on the worn top of the kitchen table.
“It’s the pistol that was left behind.”
“Left behind?”
Kolding hesitated. It wasn’t so much as if he was trying to find the right words, it was more as if he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say them.
“It was left behind. Afterwards. The night my father died. My father and his assistants.”
“Doctor, did they die here?”
Kolding took off his tinted glasses and carefully cleaned one lens.
“My father had set up a triage station. Injured men were pouring in from everywhere. There was fighting in the streets all round here.”
“I know. I was here.”
“Then you’ll know what it was like. Mayhem. The streets filled with smoke. Noise. Some soldiers came. They were enemy soldiers. They broke in while we were treating the injured.”
“How old were you, doctor?” Gaunt asked.
“I was sixteen,” Kolding replied.
In the street outside, the snow was silently obliterating all lines and angles. The whiteness of the flakes caught the streetlamp light like blobs of molten metal spurting from ruptured armour. Wes Maggs pulled his jacket close and rubbed his arms. His breath wreathed out of his mouth like gun smoke.
He trudged up the street through the thickening snow cover, wet flakes pelting his face. The night was as black as Rawne’s soul, but there was a phantom radiance coming up off all the surfaces on which the snow had settled. It had rounded kerbs, softened walls and blunted iron railings. It had deformed windowsills and gutter lines, and it had upholstered all the vehicles parked up the hill.
They’d left the staff car near the top of the street, tucked in beside some railings. Maggs hoped it would start all right. There hadn’t been time or light enough to check if anything vital had been punctured. In the time it had been sitting there, tanks could have drained or hydraulic fluids leaked away.
The hill was steep, and he slithered a little in the snow. He cursed the weather. The car was in sight.
Three men stood beside it.
Maggs stopped walking and gently allowed himself to melt into the shadows of the street wall. He stayed very still. He could see the men clearly. They were shadows, shapes caught in the downlight of a street-lamp, wraiths as silent as the night snow. They were studying the car, moving around it slowly and silently. Maggs couldn’t tell if they were armed, and he couldn’t make out any details of their clothing or uniforms.
But as one of them turned, Maggs caught the glint of lamplight catching the edge of a metal mask.
Maggs turned and began to make his way back down the hill to the doctor’s house as quickly, but invisibly, as he could.
FIFTEEN
The Hunters
“Is this all of it?” asked Edur. He gave a nod of his head that indicated the barrack’s clerical pool in general, and the files and volumes gathered on the central desk in particular.
“Yes, commissar,” said Kolea.
Several Commissariat officials had already begun working through the regimental files, especially the day-book and the company logs. Two agents of the ordos had also begun what looked to Viktor Hark like a forensic examination of the Tanith First’s central records.
“Are you going to tell us anything?” asked Hark.
“No,” said one of the ordo agents.
Edur looked at the officer of the Inquisition with some distaste. The Inquisition was already taking over, and that wasn’t the only reason Edur had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He tilted his head to suggest that Hark and the Tanith’s acting commander, Kolea, might like to step aside with him.
It had all been, by necessity, hasty, but Edur had been briefed by Mercure before riding the Valkyries out to Aarlem with the Inquisition. Mercure had been emphatic: while Mercure took the matter to Command-level authority in the hope that Command might apply some pressure to the ordos, Edur was to do all he could to make sure the Inquisition didn’t trample everything flat on the ground.
“I want us to hold on to some control in this, Edur,” Mercure had said, “for as long as we can, or until we know there’s nothing worth holding on to.”
“Both the Inquisition and the Commissariat are keen to discover the whereabouts of Colonel-Commissar Gaunt,” Edur told Hark and Kolea.
“Wasn’t he at Section when this happened?” asked Hark.
“Yes,” said Edur.
“Isn’t he still there?” asked Kolea.
“We don’t know,” said Edur.
“What does that mean?” asked Hark.
“It means that part of the building has burned out, another part is still ablaze, and there are a fair number of corpses still to be recovered and identified.”
“Gak!” Kolea whispered.
“The thing is, if Gaunt’s alive, we can’t find him,” said Edur.
“And that’s why you’ve locked us down, and come in to take us apart bit by bit?” asked Hark.
“That’s the key reason.”
“Because?” asked Hark. “I’m sorry, Edur, but you’ve missed something out. Some key component.”
“A second individual is missing,” said Edur. “A high-value prisoner. The prisoner may even have been the target of the raid. Gaunt was last seen in the vicinity of the prisoner’s cell, and he was aware of the prisoner’s significance.”
“And if they’re both missing, they could have got out together,” said Kolea.
“Gaunt may have got this prisoner to safety and gone to ground?” asked Hark.
“That’s one possibility,” said Edur.
“And the other?” asked Hark.
“Gaunt may have been working with the raiders to extract the prisoner. I hasten to add this is not my theory. However, the Inquisition is understood to be entertaining it.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Hark, shaking his head. “This is all about fething Gereon again.”
“In so many ways,” agreed Edur.
“They’re never going to let it go,” said Hark.
“Is there any evidence to back up this slur?” Kolea asked.
“There are some unfortunate details,” said Edur. “Your Major Rawne and the others were on the premises.”
“On charges, in lock-up,” said Hark.
“Noted. However, they are also now missing or dead. If one was of a suspicious inclination, one might see evidence of a plan. People on the inside, ready to move.”
“Shall I tell you what I think?” asked Hark.
“I think you should all tell me what the hell you think you’re doing, discussing these sensitive details,” said Rime.
T
hey hadn’t seen the inquisitor approach. He was flanked by two of his henchmen.
“I could have you all executed,” said Rime. “This is confidential information pertinent to an ongoing situation.”
“I felt, inquisitor,” said Edur, “that the senior Tanith officers might be very much more helpful to us if they were granted a better overview,” Edur decided not to mention what else he felt, as it concerned the inquisitor rather more directly.
“I don’t think it’s your place to make that decision,” said Rime.
“Then I will consider myself chastised, sir,” said Edur.
“Gaunt has no part in this,” Hark told Rime.
“Why?” asked one of the henchmen.
“Because I know him,” said Hark.
“Oh, that’s all right then,” said Rime.
“Our commanding officer is not a traitor,” said Kolea. “There is no conspiracy. If he’s involved, it will be an improvised involvement. He is utterly loyal.”
“We’ll know that when we find him,” said Rime.
“We want to help you do that,” said Kolea, “in any way we can. We want to clear his name, and the reputation of this regiment. You can inspect us for any information.”
“We are,” said Rime with a smile.
“You can intercept all on- and off-base communications to see if he attempts to contact us.”
“We are,” said Rime.
Kolea stopped. He breathed hard and asked, “With respect, sir, what else can we tell you? What else can we do to help?”
“You can remain here, and answer any questions we pose,” said Rime. “Other than that, you shouldn’t be involved in any way.”
“The Tanith have an excellent reputation for scouting and tracking,” said Edur.
“That’s simply fabulous for them,” said Rime. He turned away.
“Can I have a word, sir?” Edur asked. “Alone?”
Rime turned, thought about it, and then stepped towards the corridor. His henchmen followed.
“I meant properly alone,” said Edur.
Rime sent a curt signal to his agents, and they stepped back.
Edur followed Rime into the empty hallway and closed the door behind him.
“Speak,” said Rime with a shrug of impatience.
“I think you should use the Tanith, sir,” said Edur. “They are first-class trackers and scouts. If Gaunt and the prisoner are on the run in the Oligarchy, they will find him. They are motivated. It’s a rescue, a matter of honour. And if it turns out that Gaunt’s involvement is anything less than proper, it will also present them with an opportunity to restore their reputation.”
“Edur, I’m not going to entertain that for a moment,” said Rime. “The ordo has first-class agents of its own at its disposal. I don’t need a bunch of thick-necked grunts running around—”
“I suggest you read the regiment profile,” said Edur. “I suggest you properly appreciate the skill and achievements of these thick-necked grunts. Forget Gaunt. If the prisoner’s alive to be found, the Tanith will find him.”
Rime shook his head and stepped past Edur to return to his men.
“Then consider this, sir,” said Edur. “Bring the Tanith in on this hunt, and I won’t have to mention to anybody what I saw today.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Rime.
“That thing… in the hallway… it burned your face off. It cremated your skull. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be alive. You shouldn’t be talking to me.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rime.
“No, I don’t,” said Edur, “but I’ve got a nasty feeling it’s got something to do with the fact that you and your lackeys all look alike.”
“If that’s the case, it was evidently one of them you saw burn,” said Rime.
“I know what I saw,” said Edur, “and it speaks of darkness and warpcraft, and heresy. It speaks of things the Inquisition doesn’t want exposed during a situation this sensitive.”
Rime glared at him for a second. Then he turned and strode back into the company office.
“You, soldier,” he said, pointing at Kolea.
“Major Kolea,” Kolea replied.
“Whoever you are,” said Rime. “I want you to assemble, quickly and efficiently, your finest huntsmen.”
SIXTEEN
The Other Hunters
Karhunan Sirdar stole down the silent street, following the trail of little black discs where drops of blood had marked the snow. The street was steep, and the buildings on either side were dark and shuttered against the night and the snowstorm, as if they were hiding with their eyes tight shut. He watched the gusting snow billowing like sparks in the light cones of the streetlamps. Not every lamp in the old quarter street worked.
The beloved magir had put a duty upon his soul, but Karhunan was content. The duty was almost done. They had followed, and they had closed. The vehicle they’d found abandoned up the street behind him was definitely the same one that had outrun them at Section. The blood drops on the snow completed the death warrant.
Some of the philia had moved up with him to reconnoitre the street. Samus was standing outside one of the buildings just ahead, staring up the steps at the front door. The building was dark, and betrayed no sign of life. A sign, some kind of pole device that Karhunan half-recognised from the depths of his scarred memory, hung above the door on a brass rail. Samus was shivering and gnawing at his tongue. As the sirdar approached, he made a soft mewling noise and inclined his head towards the door.
Karhunan patted the misshapen man gently on the shoulder. There were little spots of blood leading up the entrance steps, not yet covered by the softly falling snow.
Imrie appeared to Karhunan’s left, and Naeme to his right. They looked eager.
“Melthorael,” Naeme muttered, “then it is Aroklur, then it is Ultheum.”
“Quiet,” Karhunan whispered.
At the sirdar’s nod, Imrie took out the door with a kick, and they swept into the dark wood hallway. The snow came in with them. Flakes settled on a long-case clock standing in the hallway.
Imrie led the way, his weapon level, shoulder-height, hunting. He was the sharpest of them. A long time ago, in what was almost literally another life, Imrie had been, like Karhunan, a Throne soldier. He was a convert, an incomer. The sept word was elterdwelt, which meant “other life” or, more loosely, “traded item”. He had sloughed off most of his other life, shed it gladly like a snake sheds an old, tight skin, but some parts of it had remained stubborn. Damogaur Eyl, no elterdwelt but rather Consanguinity-born, cherished such old traits in the men of his philia. Imrie had been a scout, a hunter. He saw details almost anyone else would miss.
Imrie swept down the hall. He noticed that one of the six bulbs in the hall lamps had blown, and blown a long time before, because its dull glass was coated in dust. He noticed that the long-case clock was not working. He noticed the dried residue of snow-melt footprints on the dark wood floor, all but invisible.
A small kitchen. Three mugs, all half-full, all cold. A stove-top burner where the wrought iron ring still held some heat.
Imrie nodded Samus on. Samus checked a side room, caving the door in with a crash. Naeme was on the stairs, his weapon aimed upwards, peering.
Imrie went down the stone steps into the basement. Karhunan followed him. The basement areas were quite extensive, stone vaults built beneath pavement level. There was a surgical theatre, a storeroom and a cold room for cadavers.
“There’s nobody here,” said Karhunan.
“But there was,” Imrie replied.
“You sure?”
“Sure as blood speckles in the snow,” Imrie replied. “Sure as a stove still warm. Sure as this.”
They were in the theatre. It was clean and tidy, and empty, but Imrie had lifted the lid of the medical waste bin. Karhunan Sirdar peered in. He saw dirty swabs and blood dressings, along with some disposable medicae materials.
I
mrie walked over to the tool counter. He unscrewed the lid of one of the glass sterilising baths, and withdrew a scalpel. He sniffed it.
“Blood,” he said.
Even after a time in the chemical soak, the smell lingered enough for a man like Imrie.
“So, where?” asked Karhunan.
Imrie tilted his head and thought. He could smell something else, something dirty and metallic. He strode out of the theatre into the lower landing. The wood panelled back wall wasn’t a wall at all. It was a screen. He found the recessed brass handle and drew it aside.
A service elevator. Cold, damp mustiness drifted up from below.
Imrie rode the rattling carriage down with his sirdar and Naeme. On arrival, after just a short drop, they swung out, weapons raised.
Snowflakes blew into their faces. The front of the house faced one steep street, but the rear let out three floors down onto another street-level of the escarpment. In Old Side, the buildings and streets were stacked in tiers.
The doors of the small basement garage were open onto the back lane. There were oil marks on the rockcrete floor, and a scent of exhaust in the air.
Imrie hurried to the garage doors and looked out.
Nothing had been left behind, except the ghost of squirming tyre tracks.
“It’s just an idea, but could you try going faster?” asked Maggs.
“Quiet,” Gaunt warned him. Maggs sighed, and sat back in the rear of the little private ambulance. It was a rickety thing that patently hadn’t been used in years. Gaunt was in the cab with Kolding. Maggs was in the back with the unconscious prisoner. The ambulance was creeping through the night at what felt like a mollusc’s crawl, except that it was also managing to slide and wheel-spin too.
“Gently,” Gaunt said to Kolding, who was hunched low, glaring over the top of the wheel.
“I’m trying my best,” Kolding replied.
“When was the last time you took this vehicle out?” Gaunt asked.
“A while.”
“At night?”
“A while.”
“Who drove then, doctor?”
Kolding shrugged and found another gear. “My father.”
