by William King
A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
FARSEER
William King
ONE
A DESPERATE MAN
'Someone is looking for you, captain.'
Janus Darke looked up drunkenly from the sediment of his drink, a concoction of Cadian firewine and the last of the powdered golconda. There had been nothing too interesting at the bottom of his glass anyway, he decided. His bleary gaze took in his surroundings warily.
Unsurprisingly, the Palace of Pleasure did not look any different from the last time he had raised his head. Same kidney bean-shaped pit filled with drinking booths, drinkers and scantily clad bargirls. Same dim reddish glow-globes floating in their mock-Imperial chandeliers below the ceiling. Same poison snoopers hanging like metal-legged spiders above every table. The voice was somehow familiar... soon he might be able to put a face to it. Alternatively, he thought, he could just try and bring the face into focus. The little man was far from the prettiest sight Janus had laid eyes on. He was skinny, with thin, receding hair and a rat-like face that went well with his general demeanour.
'I know you. You're Weezel, you gretchin-spawned bastard informer,' he said. Feeling the trader's eyes on him Weezel began to dry-wash his hands, and coughed apologetically. Over Weezel's shoulder Janus could see Dugan glaring at him. He didn't like Weezel's sort and he particularly didn't like Janus, at least not since he had taken up with Justina. Janus suspected the hulking bouncer was sweet on his employer. Too bad, he thought. 'Who is looking for me, Weezel?'
Weezel coughed. Janus supposed he wanted money. It was his trade, after all, selling knowledge and people and things, a dodgy deal here, a friend handed over to the Arbites there. Janus wondered if it was worth handing over any ducats to find out who was supposed to be looking for him. It might be important. On the other hand it might just be a figment of Weezel's imagination. He was not above telling a few lies to support his habit. When the need for weirdroot was on a man, he did whatever was necessary.
'I said who, Weezel?'
'You're a friend of mine, captain, but one good turn deserves another. A man's got to eat—'
'I am no friend of yours, Weez. I know what happened to the last few who thought they were. I've no urge to end up in a slaver's hold, a skavvy's belly or an Inquisition cell.'
'I wouldn't do that to you, captain.'
'That's because you would be very dead very quickly if you tried.'
'It's not just that, captain — I like you.'
'If you like me so much why don't you tell me who is looking for me, and how you came by this knowledge? Or have you been smoking 'root again? Too much makes a man see things, so they say.'
Janus took a sip of what was left in his goblet. Money was in short supply and golconda was too expensive to be wasted now. The drug tingled on his tongue and immediately he began to feel a bit better. Golconda in wine stilled the voices for a little while, and kept him from seeing the other things. Weezel watched him sip the stuff and licked his lips.
'I wouldn't lie to you, captain, and I ain't been at the root for weeks... well, days anyway,' he corrected himself, seeing Janus's cynical smile. There's strangers looking for you. I saw them myself down in Blind Bob's. They were asking for a captain, and they described you pretty exact: tall man, white streak down the middle of his hair, long red trench coat. How many men answering that description they gonna find in Medusa Freeport, I ask you?'
Janus considered this for a moment. He did not like the sound of it at all. Too many people wanted him found at the moment, a fair few even wanted him dead, for him to feel comfortable with Weezel's information.
He raised a finger and signalled to the bargirl, then jerked a thumb at Weezel, letting her know she should bring him a drink. Janus watched the wiggle of the girl's hips as she strode away—the long diaphanous skirt did nothing to conceal them—then gave his attention back to Weezel.
'By the Emperor, she's a pretty one, right enough,' said the informer, licking his lips again with more emphasis.
'They all are,' said Janus. That's why Justina hires them. That's why sailors come to the Palace of Pleasure. But it's not why you're sitting here. You're sitting here to tell me about these strangers you claim to have seen, the ones who are looking for me.'
Weezel nodded and looked contrite. 'Big men they were and not sailors, I could tell. I've seen their type before. Moved wrong, not with the bounce of men who hit grav-wells irregular like. Well armed, well armoured and too confident by half for strangers at night in the darkest corners of the Warrens.'
'Mercenaries? Bounty hunters? Hired thugs?'
'Yes. Maybe.'
'Which?'
'Maybe all three. Not locals. One of them had Killean tattoos covering his whole face and head. Hands too, arms most like as well coz I could see two dragons disappearing up his sleeve. No Medusan would go in for those. Too proud of their fair skins to mark them.'
'Plenty of off-worlders in the Freeport, Weez. Lots of them live here.'
'I would know any hard-boy that looked like that, captain. Muscle like that is hard to miss.'
'Maybe you would at that. You said there was more than one.'
'Aye. Tall man, massive, garbed all in grey. Robes, boots, tunic, cloak. Only thing that wasn't black was his hand. All silver it was—prosthetic gauntlet of some sort, I guess. Expensive by the look of it, forge world stuff, maybe even Old Terran. He was a monster—bigger than Dugan by a half, and maybe there was something wrong with his mouth. He left the talking to the tattooed man.'
Janus liked the sound of this less and less. In a long career in the darker corners of the Imperium, he had made too many enemies. When his star had been in the ascendant it had not mattered. Nobody would touch a man with his reputation, particularly not a man with the backing of the Medusan syndics and one of the big Navigator Houses, but lately things had been different; he was not a force to be reckoned with any more. He had heard it said that not a few of the syndics wanted him dead. He had laughed those rumours off. The syndics after all were merchants, and they did not murder men when there was no profit in it. Not unless those men had cost the syndics a great deal of money, and were privy to all manner of disturbing knowledge, the more cynical part of his mind whispered.
Who were these men then? Heavies from the syndics sent to teach him that failure did not pay? Or were they from Fat Roj, trying to find out when he was going to pay off his gambling debts? He did not relish the prospect of explaining to the Fat Man that the last of his money was to be found floating in that goblet there. Roj had been known to pull men's fingers off with a pair of pincers for doing things like that. He didn't even get his muscle boys to do it, because he liked doing the bloody work himself.
How had things gotten so bad, so quickly, Janus asked himself? Not so long ago he had been at the top of the world, a rogue trader whose services were sought out by half the wealthy merchants of the sub-sector, an explorer who was known to always come back wealthy, whose backers always got at least a four or five hundred per cent return on their investment.
He already knew the answer: Typhon. That hellworld had changed everything. It had cost him more than half his crew and nearly his whole complement of mercenaries. It had damn near cost him his life and almost certainly cost him his soul. He should never have gone there, but he had been a different man then, filled with confidence, his ego bloated on a decade of success. I was an idiot, he thought. Greed and arrogance led me to places where no man is supposed to go. I thought I was different. How wrong I was.
He rubbed the amulet that dangled over his breast. Justina had sworn that it was a sovereign protection against evil when she had given it to him before his last voyage. Somehow he still found the feel of it reas
suring, although so far it had proven less effective protection against the voices than the booze and the golconda. At least when he stunned himself with those he could sleep without the dreams.
Perhaps he should simply hand himself over to the Inquisition, as he was supposed to. When he had started hearing voices and seeing things he had known he should, but he had not. That would have been the end. 'Who were they asking about me, Weezel?'
Weezel looked down at the table. He seemed a little embarrassed. He began to draw small circles on the ceramite tabletop with his long bitten-nailed index finger. Slug trails of moisture from the wine Janus had spilled earlier followed his finger. 'Lots of people: Blind Bob, Murray the Skink, Old Elisa...'
Suddenly it occurred to Janus exactly how Weezel knew people were looking for him, and just how he could give such an accurate description. You?'
Weezel's face became a picture of outraged innocence, so outraged in fact that Janus knew at once he was lying. 'Me, captain? I told them nothin'.'
'But they asked you?' He could tell that Weez was considering denying it, measuring his chances of being believed and coming to the correct conclusion.
'Aye.'
'And you didn't mention this place?'
'No, captain. Why would I do such a thing? You're an old friend of mine.'
'And they wouldn't be outside right now, waiting for you to finger me to them, or lead me out?'
'Emperor forbid, captain! May he and all his primarchs strike me down if I did such a thing.'
'Weezel—they wouldn't have to. I would do it before the Emperor could even lift himself out of his golden throne.'
'There's no need to be blasphemous, captain, nor take that high-handed tone either. I never led them nowhere. I never told them nothing.'
'That's a double negative, Weezel.'
'What do you mean by that, captain?'
'Never mind. I doubt grammar was ever your strong suit.'
'My grandma was as strong as an ox.'
'Where did these strangers go, after they left Blind Bob's?'
'Don't know, captain. I came straight here to warn you.'
'Any chance they followed you?'
'No man can follow me through the Warrens when I doesn't want to be followed.'
That was probably true, Janus thought. Weezel was as slippery a customer as they came. Too slippery by half.
The bargirl set a glass of doomberry juice in front of Weezel and looked at Janus. He flipped her a silver terce. That's for you. Put the drink on my tab.'
The girl smiled at him. She was indeed very pretty, Janus thought, then decided he'd better not show too much interest. Bad for him and bad for the girl if Justina found out. She was getting to be a surprisingly possessive woman, all things considered. Weezel slurped the drink down noisily and instantly became calmer and less fidgety. Doomberry was known, among other things, for its tranquillising effects. Janus had used it for a few months to drown out the voices, but eventually they had broken through, and he'd needed to take something stronger. And the dreams that stuff gave you...
'It will give you nightmares, Weezel,' he said.
'Couldn't be worse than my life,' said Weezel with a certain gloomy satisfaction. 'Not that I'm not grateful to you for the drink or anything, captain.'
'These strangers do anything else? Mention any names, carry anything unusual?'
'No—what you gonna do about these guys, captain? Round up your crew and give them a seeing to? Hop aboard the Star of Venam and shake the dust of this hellhole off yer boots? If you're looking for another crewman, count me in. I did my time on starships, captain. I wasn't always a dirtside rat like I am now.'
Was he serious, Janus wondered? Did he really imagine I would give a drughead like him a berth on the Star?
Why not, part of him answered cynically? You would have something in common. It was not something he wanted to consider too closely at this moment.
'Oh, I forgot,' said Weezel, not without malice in his tone. 'You can't, can you? Not since the syndics had your ship impounded since you couldn't pay for the refit and all.'
Janus suddenly felt like hitting the little man. That was the last thing he wanted to be reminded of. Too many people were looking for him right now, and he was stuck without a ship, without a crew...
It was always the way, wasn't it? Maybe he should just stick the muzzle of his bolt pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger. It would save everybody a lot of trouble, not the least him. It wasn't the first time he had considered this in the last few weeks—he had fallen further, faster, than any man ought to.
'Don't have a crew neither, so I hear,' slurred Weezel. The doomberry juice was obviously taking effect now, for he would never have dared to mention such things a few minutes earlier. 'I hear next to nobody made it back from your last voyage. Sailors say you're cursed. Something about a temple on a world near the Eye.'
Now Janus really was angry. He unholstered his bolt pistol and set it on the table in front of him. Weezel's face went white. A sudden silence passed over the bar and lots of strangers glanced uneasily in his direction. A few of them unclipped the flaps of their own holsters. Two of Justina's bouncers came up on their toes. One of them reached behind the bar for something.
'And I hear you are a fast runner, Weezel,' said Janus.
'What... what do you mean?'
'I am wondering if you are fast enough to be out the door there by the time I count to ten.'
'What did I say, captain?'
'Think you can outrun a bolter shell, Weez?'
'I didn't mean to offend you, captain. If I said something out of line, I am sorry. I only want to help out. After all, I came here to warn you about those strangers, didn't I?'
'One!'
'Captain, you've been drinking, and you look like you've been doing way too much 'conda, begging your pardon. You wouldn't shoot a man just for flapping his lips, would you? Think of the trouble you'd be in with the Arbites!'
'Maybe I don't have anything left to lose, Weezel, not having a ship and any crew any more. Two.'
'I didn't mean nothing by that, captain. I was just thinking aloud.'
'Thinking had nothing to do with it, Weezel. And by the way, you're running out of time. Reckon you can make it to the door on a seven count? Three.'
Weezel tipped the last of his drink down his throat and rose to his feet. 'Sorry, captain. See you around,' he said as he scuttled for the door.
'Four.' Weezel turned and tried to walk away with some dignity but his strides got longer and longer, and he was almost sprinting by the time he hit the door. Janus had reached nine, on a fairly slow count.
Once he was through it, and Janus had holstered his gun, everybody started to relax a little. A Hydraxian bosun made some nasty remark about Weezel and everybody at his table laughed. Shaven-headed Maggot, the biggest and meanest of the bouncers, put whatever he was holding back down behind the bar. It was only when Weezel had vanished that the reaction hit Janus and his hands started to shake.
That was madness, he thought. I really might have shot him. I might have killed him just because I did not like the tone of his voice. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Too much booze, too much golconda and too much time spent in dives like this trying to drown out the voices in his head, and blot out the things he saw. He was getting worse. Maybe he really should turn himself in to the Inquisition. If what the preachers said was right, it was only a matter of time before the daemons came and ate his soul. Maybe he should save that little bit of himself, before it was too late.
It came to him that he was finally confronting the thing he had been avoiding for so long: he was going mad, he was losing his soul. His personal daemons were closing in. It seemed that they always did, no matter how hard he tried to escape them.
Once it had all seemed so easy. His life had been good. He had looked forward to the prospect of one day being one of the richest and most powerful men in this part of the Imperium. Now he was reduced to terrorising pathetic roothe
ads because he couldn't stand seeing himself reflected in the mirror of their contempt. Maybe he should just go back to his chamber and end it all. It did not look as if he had anything left to lose any more.
Why bother, though? He could just sit around here a while longer and let somebody's tame killers show up and do it for him.
After what I just did, I am sure Weezel will run off and bring them right back, and I doubt if anybody around here will mind too much if they take me outside for a short walk to the graveyard.
He smiled sourly and took another sip of the drug-laced wine. He glanced around and saw that no one would meet his gaze, not even the bargirl he wanted to bring him another drink. It seemed that he had suddenly acquired all the social cachet of a skavvy with para-leprosy. How could things get any worse, he wondered?
It was at that exact moment that the strangers walked in through the door.
TWO
TWO STRANGERS
Janus fought down the urge to reach for his gun. These people did not look like the ones Weezel had described. There were two of them alright, but they were garbed in massive black cloaks, trimmed with white fur of some sort. Cowls covered their heads and cast their features into shadow. They were taller by far than most of the men present, and thin. Janus was reminded of the low gravity dwellers on Talus's Wheel—the thin, sickly ones too weak to move in anything like Earth-normal gee without an exo-skeleton—but when the strangers moved he put that thought aside.
Not even the bulky cloaks could hide their grace. They did not so much walk as flow over to his table. Their movements had a liquid smoothness that was more cat than human, and put him in mind of a large predator. If a devilcat had taken on the shape of a man it might have moved like that. He was all but hypnotised by them as they flowed up to him. Suddenly they were just there, looming over him.
'Janus Darke,' said the taller of the two. It was not a question but a statement, so Janus nodded his head in acknowledgement. 'We would have business with you.'
