[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  “The booth in the corner,” the girl said, indicating a nook on the far side of the taproom. She shrugged. “You won’t get much sense out of him, though. Not after the amount he’s had.”

  “Nevertheless,” Horst said, “we’d like to try.”

  “Suit yourself.” The girl shrugged, and began to turn away; then, for no reason Keira could see, she swung back towards them. “What the hell, I’ll introduce you. It might help if he sees a familiar face.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Keira said, searching the girl’s face for any sign of deceit, but the mask didn’t slip for a second. Perhaps she was just hoping to be paid for her assistance.

  “That’s me,” the girl agreed flatly. “All heart.” She began to weave her way through the crowd of patrons, several of whom turned to watch her progress with obvious signs of appreciation.

  Keira frowned, disapproving on principle of Lustful Thoughts, which many of the Redemptionist tracts she’d memorised as a child warned were the first step towards bringing down the wrath of the Emperor, but she had to concede that the girl’s attire was probably as much to blame as the men in question were. Her skirt was short, reaching down no further than mid-thigh, and clinging tightly to the curve of her buttocks, while her blouse was low-cut and diaphanous, revealing and accentuating the better part of her breasts. Well, if the aim was to attract customers, it seemed to be working.

  “Mind on the job,” Horst murmured, and Keira nodded, grateful to him for keeping her focused. Since entering the service of the Inquisition she’d learned to ignore the small sins when that was the price of doing the Emperor’s work, but it wasn’t always easy; luckily, Horst knew her well enough by now to have a fair idea of when her Redemptionist instincts were stirring. She began to recite a calming litany, forcing her thoughts back onto the stony path of duty.

  “Verren?” The joygirl leaned over a small man slumped into the angle of bench and wall, and after a moment his eyes opened, focusing blearily on her cleavage.

  “Jenie? Whatja want?” His breath would have felled a grox, even from where Keira was standing.

  Jenie flinched visibly, and stood upright again, her glossy black hair swirling around her face. “These beyonders want a word with you.”

  “What about?” Verren hauled himself upright, and Keira got her first good look at him. He was short and wiry, with thinning hair, his face blotched with broken veins. His clothes were old and shabby, and smelled almost as badly as he did. He was very drunk, in the superficially lucid fashion of the confirmed alcoholic, and she began to wonder if this was going to be a complete waste of time. It was hard to imagine getting anything useful out of this sorry specimen of humanity, beyond spare parts for servitors.

  “About your last scavenging trip,” Horst said, slipping into the bench opposite. He began to lay a few of the items they’d recovered from Cuddy’s stall on the tabletop between them. “Where you found these.”

  “Did I?” Verren asked, peering at them sullenly. “I can’t rightly remember.”

  “I’m sure I could help jog your memory,” Keira said, taking a step forwards, but Horst held up a hand to forestall her.

  “That’s a shame. I thought a quiet chat over a glass or two of amasec might be to everyone’s advantage.” He nodded to Keira. “Could you get some drinks please?”

  “Of course.” Keira smiled tightly, trying not to resent being sent on so menial an errand, and slipped away through the crush. By the time she returned, with four tumblers of the clear golden liquid, the prospect of free alcohol had loosened Verren’s tongue at least as effectively as the more direct methods she’d been contemplating, and, she had to admit, a great deal more discreetly.

  “Whatja want to know?” Verren asked, seizing the glass eagerly, and draining it in a couple of swallows.

  “A friend of ours lost something recently,” Horst said. “Along with these items. He’s prepared to pay a great deal for its recovery.”

  The harlot Jenie was still hovering near the table, which tended to confirm Keira’s suspicion that she was hoping to be rewarded in some way for helping them, and she handed her one of the drinks.

  “Thank you.” The girl took it and sipped, her surprise apparently genuine; it was clear from her expression that she didn’t really like the liquor, but was making a show of drinking it out of politeness.

  “What’s he looking for?” Verren asked, casting covetous eyes at Horst’s drink, and Keira placed her own on the table in front of him. She didn’t care for spirits in any case, her Redemptionist upbringing leading her to consider alcohol as little more than sin in liquid form, although she’d developed rather more of a liking for wines than she was comfortable with in the course of a number of undercover assignments where she’d been obliged to drink the stuff to blend in. She’d thought appearing to order the same thing for herself would put Verren at his ease, though, and the small subterfuge seemed to have worked.

  “A box, with metal bands, about so big.” Horst went through the same pantomime Keira had with Cuddy, and the Receiver shook his head.

  “Din’t see nothing like that.” He shrugged, and took a swallow of Keira’s offering, a little more slowly as the quality registered; she’d bought the most expensive stuff in the bar, as a subtle indication that they were prepared to be generous in return for the right kind of help. Relaxing a little as the glow of the liquor spread, he opened his arms expansively. “The stuff I did find was well scattered, mind. Cases burst open, and that.”

  Picturing the kilometres-deep shaft down which the handcart had plunged, Keira could well believe it. The cogitator case could have ended up anywhere.

  “Could you show us the way down there?” Horst asked, and Verren shook his head.

  “Beyonders stay beyonderside. That’s how it’s always been.”

  “I think we can arrange an exception,” Horst said, and an expression of apprehension began to curdle on Verren’s face.

  “You’re them, aren’t you?” he asked hoarsely. “The inquisitors. I heard you was aboard.”

  Keira exchanged a quick glance with Horst. It seemed that word of their presence was seeping through the crew rather more quickly than they’d hoped. “We’re not inquisitors,” she said. “But we work for one. And we’d like you to guide us through the outhulls.”

  “I’m not going back down there,” Verren said, gulping the rest of Keira’s drink and reaching out for Horst’s. “I barely got out the last time, and that’s the truth.”

  “I don’t think you quite grasp who you’re dealing with,” Keira began, but Horst shook his head, and she subsided, glowering in her most intimidating manner.

  “What do you mean, barely got out?” he asked evenly.

  Verren shook his head. “I could hear ’em in the dark. They come after me, see? But I know the passages, and I shook ’em. I’m not going back, and you can’t make me.” He glared at Horst with alcoholic belligerence.

  “Who came after you?” he asked.

  Verren shook his head emphatically. “I dunno, and I’m not about to find out. But they’re the ones as got Rikko, you can bet on it.”

  “Who’s Rikko?” Keira asked.

  “Best scavver in the outhulls, Rikko,” Verren said. “Nothing he couldn’t find. But something found him on his last trip down, no question. He never come back, see? And he’s not the only one.”

  Horst and Keira exchanged glances again, remembering the transmission Barda had intercepted.

  “Who else has gone missing?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t give you their names,” Verren said, casting a covetous glance at the almost untouched drink in Jenie’s hand. To Keira’s surprise, the harlot handed it to him without prompting. “Couple of other Receivers, though, and a party of Riggers, I heard. Maybe some others.”

  “Thank you,” Horst said, standing slowly. “You’ve been very helpful. Enjoy your drink.” He turned and left the bar, Keira falling in at his shoulder as they regained the bustling stree
t.

  “That’s it?” she asked incredulously. “You’re not going to make him show us where he found the stuff?”

  Horst shook his head. “What would be the point?” he replied quietly. “As soon as he sobers up, the shakes’ll set in, and he’ll be about as much use as a heretic’s oath. And even if we do herd him into the tunnels, he’ll make a run for it the first chance he gets. We’ll be better off relying on Hybris’ map.”

  Keira nodded, acknowledging the truth of his assessment. “You’re right,” she conceded grudgingly. “He’s obviously more scared of his bogeymen than he is of us. More fool him.”

  “I can show you the way.” Jenie tugged at Horst’s elbow, and both Angelae turned to look at her; the harlot’s pose of self-confidence wavered a little under their combined scrutiny, but she rallied quickly, and continued. “My sire was a Rigger, worked the outhulls most of his life. Took me down, too, when he could. I know my way around all right.” An expression of cunning crossed her face, which Keira had seen often on people who thought they had some kind of advantage in negotiations when they didn’t really understand the kind of people they were dealing with. “Besides, I know who you are. I was there when you told Verren, remember?”

  “That’s right, you were,” Horst said. He smiled at her, in a manner designed to put her at her ease. “So I suppose you’d better consider yourself hired.”

  “She’ll need some more suitable clothes,” Keira said. “She can’t go grubbing around in the outhulls dressed like that.”

  “A good point,” Horst agreed, palming some coins, and handing them to Jenie. “Go and find something appropriate.” He waited until the girl had trotted off to a nearby stall, and was comfortably out of earshot. “Unfortunately, Verren’s discretion can’t be so readily relied on.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Keira assured him. “A man as drunk as that’s bound to have an accident on the way home.”

  Drake had been hanging back, in case the little group he’d been following were looking out for any attempt to keep them under surveillance, but as it turned out he needn’t have bothered. They kept moving purposefully, as if knowing where they were going, although a couple of times they’d hesitate, looking to the man who was obviously the leader. Not that his clothing gave any indication of his authority: all three were dressed in the multi-hued jackets and trousers favoured by minor Secundan aristocracy, and those sufficiently wealthy to imitate the fad, but the other two clearly deferred to him. After a moment’s thought, the leader would point confidently down a nearby alleyway, and the trio would resume their purposeful advance.

  They’d just done this for the third or fourth time since he started following them, disappearing down an intersecting cleft between two buildings, when Drake heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. All thought of caution evaporated: drawing the Scalptaker, he sprinted after them, apprehension gnawing at his gut. He was familiar enough with firearms to have recognised the timbre of an autopistol, the kind of weapon Vex carried; which didn’t mean the techpriest was at the centre of the disturbance, of course, but had he been a betting man, that would be where he placed his money.

  As Drake rounded the corner of the intersection, he felt a brief flicker of satisfaction that his instinct had been right. The techpriest was crouched behind an overflowing garbage bin, holding his gun, while the three men he’d been following fanned out, raising their hands. At first he was puzzled, wondering why they didn’t take cover: then a fireball erupted from the hands of the man on the left, conjured into existence just as Elyra had done, and with a sudden shock of horrified realisation he knew them for what they were. Wyrds, like the ones who’d escaped from the Citadel of the Forsaken; at the memory of the witches they’d encountered in the snow-shrouded forest, and the power wielded by the deranged leader of the heretic cult they’d raided in the depths of the Gorgonid, Drake shuddered.

  His shock was only momentary, however; even as Vex fired, wounding the pyrokine, he was bringing up the Scalptaker, taking careful aim at the group leader. That was simple common sense, pick him off and the others would be thrown into a state of confusion, easy prey for the two Angelae.

  To Drake’s uncomfortable surprise, however, it didn’t prove as easy as that: somehow the shot missed, the leader moving at the last possible second, turning to look in his direction with a lazy grin. “Another Throne agent,” he called to his friends. “Kill him too!”

  The third psyker turned, raising his hand, but Drake was faster, his years of military service sharpening his reflexes; he fired twice, the rugged revolver kicking against his hand and coming back on aim for the second shot just after the first bullet hit the mark, as he’d known it would. He’d gone for the chest the first time, concentrating on the biggest and easiest target, and as the man folded, his head dropped to meet the second bullet. Blood, bone and brain spattered the wall, and the wyrd hit the cobbles hard. He wouldn’t be getting back up, either, and Drake switched his aim, going for the wounded pyrokine, who seemed to be trying to summon another fireball.

  “Danuld!” Vex called, his voice echoing flatly in the narrow thoroughfare. “The other one!”

  For a fraction of a second Drake hesitated, but he trusted the techpriest’s judgement, and switched his aim, sending two more rounds at the leader. Which left only one in the chamber before he had to reload…

  As he’d half-suspected, the leader moved again, at exactly the right moment, a fluke of circumstance so unlikely it had to have been the result of some warp-spawned power, and Drake felt his muscles cramping with frustration. Vex fired too, at almost exactly the same instant, emptying his magazine, and looking vaguely put out as the man evaded the storm of bullets with the same casual ease. The blizzard of rounds ripped into the corner of the alleyway, raising a cloud of pulverised plaster and brick, through which Drake could just see the Secundan disappearing.

  “Interesting,” Vex remarked conversationally, snapping a fresh clip into his weapon, and taking a few steps in pursuit. “He can predict the attacks of more than one assailant at a time. Not many wyrds can do that.”

  “Lucky for us,” Drake said, raising his pistol to dispatch the pyrokine, who was clutching at a nearby wall for support, his face grey. Before he could pull the trigger, though, he was interrupted.

  “Drop the skagging gun, rutface, or I’ll cut you off at the knees!” a new voice bellowed, accompanied by the sound of running feet.

  Drake looked round, to see several sets of brightly polished armour converging on their position. He smiled. “And they say there’s never an enforcer around when you need one,” he said.

  “I said drop it!” the leader of the Merciful squad shouted, snapping a round into the chamber of her shotgun, clearly in no mood for levity.

  “I think we should comply,” Vex said calmly, allowing his autopistol to fall to the cobbles. Drake nodded, and followed his lead. “It would be somewhat ironic to be killed by the forces of law and order, having just seen off a gaggle of heretics.”

  “What about him?” Drake asked, pointing to the wounded pyrokine. The psyker’s greying face had taken on the unmistakable expression of a man who felt he had nothing left to lose.

  “I’ll ask the skagging questions!” The Merciful sergeant was close enough now to prod him in the chest with the barrel of her shotgun, tiny globules of spittle spattering his face as she bellowed at him from a few centimetres away. “And I just might shoot first!”

  “Armsmistress,” one of the troopers accompanying her ventured, with a sidelong glance at the wounded pyrokine. “Something’s wrong here…”

  “Of course it’s wrong!” the Merciful leader snapped, her ire momentarily directed towards her subordinate. “Murder always is!”

  “I think you’ll find that the execution of wyrds and heretics doesn’t constitute murder under most interpretations of the appropriate statutes,” Vex put in helpfully.

  “Shut up, cogboy!” The sergeant glared at him, her face framed by a tangle
of chestnut curls escaping from under her ridiculous archaic helmet. “The law’s my business, not yours!”

  “Uhm, Armsmistress…” the trooper persisted, “that man’s smoking…”

  “I could do with a lho myself about now,” the sergeant said, her mood abruptly switching from belligerent to the merely testy. She glanced at the pyrokine, and her eyes widened in shock. “Emperor’s gona—”

  The pyrokine exploded, in a gout of superheated air and charred viscera, which sent everyone reeling. Drake’s face stung from the sudden burst of searing heat, which reminded him momentarily of the forest fire which had erupted after the shuttle crash he and Kyrlock had gone to investigate, only to find themselves sucked into a greater, more complicated battle than he’d ever dreamed possible as a simple Guardsman. A moment later the air around them had returned to the relatively comfortable temperature he’d grown used to aboard the Misericord, only the stench of burned flesh and the staining on the cobbles remaining to bear witness to the gruesome miracle he’d just witnessed.

  “What the hell just happened?” the Merciful sergeant demanded. She began to bring her shotgun up to cover Drake again. “What did you do to him?”

  “We didn’t do anything,” Drake said. “We were never here.” Ignoring the threat of the weapon pointing at him, he reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the thin disc of metal Horst had given him back on Sepheris Secundus. The rosette gleamed gold under the shadowless light spilling from the metal sky above, the stylised letter “I” in the middle of it glistening like freshly shed blood. The little group of Merciful shuffled back an involuntary pace, glancing at one another in sudden apprehension, as they recognised the sigil of the Inquisition. “Which means there’s nothing for you to report. Understand?”