[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  Despite herself, Keira shivered. The cavernous antechamber was dimly lit, votive icons and warding sigils everywhere she looked, and the mosaic in the floor seemed to writhe like smoke, its details obscured by the enshrouding darkness. Probably just as well too, she thought. The few Ordo Malleus operatives in sight moved quietly about their business, in ones and twos, occasionally conversing in hushed tones, like pilgrims in a cathedral.

  The young assassin had never thought of herself as particularly imaginative, but a faint miasma seemed to cloy the air in here, as though something unwholesome was pushing against the fabric of reality, and the echo of its presence was somehow able to seep through into the material world.

  “Can I be of assistance?” a reassuringly supercilious voice asked, and she looked up to find an Administratum clerk of indeterminate age and gender peering at her over a counter like the one in the Hereticus tower where Mordechai had been told to wait for the servitor.

  “I need information,” Keira said, having discovered a long time ago that the best way to get what she wanted was to act as though she was perfectly entitled to it. “About cases of possession involving members of the Adeptus Mechanicus.”

  “The library is on level seven, section three,” the scribe said, apparently taking it for granted that her mere presence was all the authorisation she needed. Not for the first time, the young assassin blessed the lack of imagination which the Administratum seemed to consider a prerequisite for advancement among its ranks. “The staff there should be able to direct you to the material you require.”

  “Thank you,” Keira said, hoping she sounded sufficiently bored. “And section three would be…”

  “The second doorway to the left,” the scribe said, indicating one of the shadowy portals allowing access to the depths of the tower.

  Keira nodded, and set off in the indicated direction, fighting the impulse to look back and see if the scribe was tripping an alarm. There was no point in fretting about all the things that could go wrong. If she was discovered, she’d just have to bluff or fight her way out as best she could.

  Luckily the internal layout of the tower was very similar to the one she was already familiar with, and she was able to orientate herself reasonably quickly. The corridors were as shadowy as the main concourse had been, and the few people she passed engrossed in their own affairs; it was all uncannily reminiscent of the early stages of the Angelae’s descent into the bowels of the Misericord, and she shivered in spite of herself, hoping that wouldn’t prove to be an omen.

  Level seven was at the bottom of a wide flight of stairs, and as she descended, Keira was heartened to see that the low levels of illumination she was growing used to were beginning to rise, which meant she must be getting near her destination. You needed light in order to read, after all. A few more minutes were sufficient to confirm that her guess was right, and that the library was just ahead.

  She pushed her way through a pair of wooden doors, carved with a snarling visage which made her palms sweat to look upon, to find herself in front of a small desk. Instead of another Administratum scribe, as she’d expected, a woman in a green robe looked up at her, and Keira found her breath knotting for a moment. Only one of the woman’s arms was there, the entire right side of her body contorted and diminished, like the wax dropped by a melting candle. The human side of the bisected face, in which a single blue eye was visible, looked at her appraisingly.

  “Yes?” the crippled acolyte asked, her voice rasping a little as it forced its way past the ruin of her throat.

  “I’d like to see anything you’ve got about possessed techpriests,” Keira said, in the same matter-of-fact tone she’d employed with the scribe in the entrance hall.

  To her surprise, the recognisable part of the woman’s mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “I get it,” she rasped. “You’ve just started working for the ordo, right?”

  “It’s my first time down here,” Keira admitted, and the librarian nodded.

  “Thought so. Some of the senior acolytes think it’s funny to send a rookie on a pointless errand. When you get back upstairs, tell them to come and see me. I take a very dim view of people treating my archives as a joke, and they really don’t want me to come looking for them.”

  “Nevertheless,” Keira said, trying not to wonder what the woman thought she could do if sufficiently provoked, and suddenly sure she didn’t want to find out, “I’d be grateful if you could check. Just so I can say I’ve been thorough.”

  “If you insist on wasting your time,” the woman said, moving her sole remaining shoulder in what might have been a shrug, “you can use that data lectern over there. Just enter ‘techpriest’, ‘possession’, and hit the cross-reference icon. I’ll say the incantations for you from here, as they’re a bit technical. But I guarantee you won’t find anything.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” a new voice said, and Keira turned, to find a man standing behind her. He appeared to be in late middle age, although his hair was still dark, and his narrow face had an air of brooding intensity about it. He wore the robes of an inquisitor, the sigil of his calling hanging on a gold chain around his neck, and his eyes, as black as his hair and vestments, seemed to look through her, to some distant realm.

  The librarian inclined her head in a gesture of respect. “Inquisitor Karnaki,” she said. “How can we be of service?”

  “I think you could start by granting this young lady her request,” the inquisitor said, “as we appear to be engaged on the same line of research.” He looked at Keira narrowly. “Then perhaps we can discuss the matter of daemons. Miss Sythree.”

  Hive Tarsus, Scintilla

  257.993.M41

  The chill in the air grew ever more marked the deeper Kyrlock descended, until, by the time he found himself approaching his destination, his breath was becoming visible, faint puffs of vapour appearing with every exhalation. After a lifetime spent in the frozen forests of Sepheris Secundus, this was nothing new, but it was only when he observed the phenomenon that it struck him how used he’d become to not seeing every breath he took; and how much his life had changed in so short a time for that to be so.

  The streets here were wider and quieter, and the passers-by dressed in thicker fabrics than the ones he’d seen uphive, flaunting the wealth and social status which allowed them to live in the chillier regions. Elyra had told him that the real aristocracy were supposed to dwell in palaces carved from solid ice, deep in the hive roots, although, knowing a little more than she did about subzero temperatures, Kyrlock doubted that. He’d taken the precaution of bringing his furs with him, jammed into the holdall along with his shotgun, and decided to don them as soon as he’d first noticed the vapour condensing in front of his face. A lifetime of experience had left him all too aware of how easily the growing chill could sap his strength by almost imperceptible degrees, and he felt ever more grateful for his foresight as the temperature continued to fall.

  That his clothing marked him out as an off-worlder didn’t bother him in the slightest; his red hair did that already, as did his facial tattoos, neither of which he’d seen anyone else sporting since his arrival. If anything, the furs worked to his advantage, most of the people he passed apparently assuming they meant that he was from the really cold regions still far below, and stepping out of his way with respectfully averted eyes. The irony of that, highborn locals deferring to a Secundan peasant, amused him greatly, but he wouldn’t allow himself to enjoy it too much. He was here to do a job, and doing it well would consolidate Greel’s confidence in him, helping to further his mission for the Angelae. On the other hand, some things were just a gift from the Emperor…

  “You there!” he called, gesturing in a peremptory manner to a couple of men loitering at the corner of the street, who had clearly been taking a covert interest in his approach. They were dressed alike, in dark tunics of a deep burgundy hue, with gold piping on the sleeves, and a similar streak of shiny decoration down the seams of their trous
er legs. Local watchmen, employed by the neighbourhood households to keep the riff-raff from encroaching on the precincts of their betters. Both carried lascarbines, slung from their shoulders in a casual manner which would have earned them a flogging from Sergeant Claren, Kyrlock’s late and unlamented superior in the Imperial Guard, although he doubted that either would be able to hit the broad side of a starship from inside the hold if they actually had to use them.

  Reassured that the man approaching was really entitled to be there, because no one who wasn’t would have accosted them, the two watchmen pulled themselves into a semblance of attention. The older one appeared to be in charge, and bowed, with an overelaborate flourish. “Delegated to meet your acquiescence, your worship,” he said. “How may we be of assurance?”

  For a moment Kyrlock wondered if he’d be better off just shooting the pair of them, then shrugged. “I want directions,” he said. “To Lower Chrysoprase. Fifty-third level, south terrace.”

  “Ah,” the senior watchman said. “That’s alimentary from here. Deduct your steps to the temple yard, and you’ll see Chrysoprase from the South Present. Across the causistry to your left, and you’ll arraign at the fifty-second littorel, one down from your destitution.”

  “Thank you,” Kyrlock said, wondering if this was some patois peculiar to the portion of the hive he now found himself in, or if the man was just simple-minded. The latter, he suspected, as the younger of the two watchmen spoke up for the first time.

  “You won’t find many of the scholastical gentlemen there at this time of night, though,” he said.

  “Not a problem,” Kyrlock assured him, barely managing to suppress a grin. “I’m not after many of the scholastical gentlemen. Just the one.”

  “Would that be one particulate indivisible, sir,” the senior one asked, “or by way of a germane inquiry?”

  “One in particular,” Kyrlock said, turning to follow the road towards the visible outline of a temple, some hundred metres or so in the direction they’d indicated. “One very much in particular.”

  Hive Sibelius, Scintilla

  257.993.M41

  Despite his slow progress, Vex was feeling quite satisfied with his work so far. He’d managed to eliminate a considerable number of dead ends, and, although he hadn’t managed to discover anything new about the mysterious fragment of ivory, the data he had collated was quite fascinating in its implications. It seemed several attempts had been made in the last few millennia to control psychic phenomena through technotheological means, and, although the details remained elusive, all had apparently ended in failure. Some of the new information might help him to make more sense of Tonis’ manuscript, however, and uncovering the principles behind the operation of his infernal machine might enable him to deduce more about the properties of the artefact.

  “Hybris.” Horst’s voice was in his comm-bead, and, judging by the edge of asperity in it, the team leader had been attempting to attract his attention for some time. “For Throne’s sake, respond!”

  “I’m here,” Vex said, tearing himself away from the dizzying dance of fact and conjecture with the greatest reluctance. “I’m afraid I’ve only been able to make the most cursory—”

  “We’ve been compromised,” Horst said, cutting him off before he could complete the sentence. “Get back here. We’re pulling out as soon as we hear from Keira.”

  “Acknowledged,” Vex said, abandoning the lectern, and erasing all the files he’d been perusing. It wouldn’t take long for a sufficiently skilled datasmith to reconstruct them, but if their shadowy enemies were able to trace him here, at least the delay might buy the Angelae a little more time to identify them and prepare a response. “I’m returning at once.” With a last, regretful glance at the workstation he’d been using, he turned away; whatever he’d learned so far would just have to be enough.

  Quillem’s vigil outside the shrine of the Machine-God had been as tedious as he’d expected. For some hours he’d drifted around the plaza fronting the temple of the Omnissiah, concealed among the perpetual crowds who congregated here bearing cherished or malfunctioning devices to be blessed by the techpriests, fortifying himself as best he could with barely identifiable viands and bitter recaf dregs purchased from the swarm of street traders inevitably drawn to any large gathering of people.

  “Carys.” He leaned casually against a girder supporting an overhead walkway, wondering if he dared drink any more of the contents of the paper cup in his hand, and pretending to do so to conceal his use of the comm-bead from anyone who happened to glance in his direction. This was a good vantage point, one he’d used several times in the hours since he’d arrived here and seen Vex disappear through the gaping bronze doors embossed with the cogwheel symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus. “Anything happening your end?”

  “Nope. Drake and the flyboy are staying put aboard the shuttle.” She sounded as bored as he felt. “I spiked their drinks in the tavern they went to, and stuck a microvox under the table, hoping they’d let something slip, but they’re too good to start talking shop in the open, even with a bit of help. Sorry about that.”

  “Well, it was worth a try,” Quillem said, trying not to feel uneasy about the risk she’d run. Carys clearly felt she had something to prove since the fiasco aboard the void station, and it was making her reckless. “But we need to keep a low profile, remember.”

  “Don’t worry,” Carys assured him. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good,” Quillem said, hoping she would, and cut the link, letting his cup of bitter sludge fall unheeded to the age-worn cobbles of the square, where the contents splashed his boots. Vex was leaving the shrine, with an air of evident purpose, and Quillem began to follow, making full use of the crowd to keep himself concealed. Either the techpriest had got what he’d come here for, or something urgent had redirected his attention; and whichever it was, Quillem intended to find out.

  * * *

  Hive Tarsus, Scintilla

  257.993.M41

  The watchmen’s directions turned out to be surprisingly accurate, once Kyrlock had mentally translated the gibberish, and he crossed the causeway into the Chrysoprase district at the same unhurried pace he’d maintained since starting out on his errand some hours before. Unusually, the roadway here was unlined by shops or houses, soaring over a vertiginous drop, and he had to fight the temptation to linger and admire the view, reminded of the vast pit of the Gorgonid back home on Sepheris Secundus. Traffic was relatively light at this hour, mostly limousines or transcabs, and he was the only pedestrian crossing the vast span; feeling exposed, he maintained a careful watch for any observers, but noticed none. On reaching the far side he found himself in a prosperous-seeming district, where mansions surrounded by high walls sat back from the roadway, and the shops sold things nobody he’d ever met before needed, at prices none of them could possibly afford.

  If Tarsus was a tangle of intersecting angles, like a vast ball of twine, Chrysoprase was a particularly obdurate knot. Streets, buildings and alleyways clumped together, folded in and around one another, although from the cyclopean bridge he’d crossed to get here it had been possible to discern the semblance of a pattern. Like the district of Icenholm where the Angelae had made their headquarters, multiple terraces piled atop one another, although on a much bigger scale than they had in the Secundan city, to create the impression of a gradual slope when seen from a distance. Up close, however, the illusion of a regular ziggurat was shattered, in a frozen explosion of stairways, balconies and spiralling roads.

  Kyrlock found a street sign, where a broad boulevard met a quiet residential sideroad, and, to his relief, recognised the name. He was close to his destination, and pressed on, looking for more of the landmarks helpfully detailed in the sheaf of papers Greel had given him.

  A small formal garden was right where it was supposed to be, and he cut across it, making for a narrow stairway rising between two buildings. One was an anonymous-looking apartment block, apparently home to some of the stud
ents from the university for which Elyra had told him the Chrysoprase quarter was famed, and even at this time of night sounds of revelry could be heard emanating from several of the windows. The other had a stout wooden door, next to which a discreet brass plate had been fixed; Kyrlock knew what it was supposed to say, but glanced at it as he passed to make sure nevertheless.

  The Conclave of the Enlightened, he read, in an elaborate cursive script. There was nothing else, not even the name of the lodge, but that was hardly necessary; anyone who needed to know it already would. That included Kyrlock, although he had no doubt that if any of the members ever realised the fact, they’d be quietly appalled.

  The Conclave liked to think of itself as a gathering of the sector’s intellectual elite, although according to Horst’s briefing on the subject back in Icenholm, it was more of a social club for wealthy and aristocratic dilettantes who liked to dabble in esoterica. The ill-fated Technomancer Tonis had been a member of the lodge in the Secundan capital, which had first brought the organisation to the attention of the Angelae; for a moment Kyrlock found himself wondering how his colleagues were faring, and if they’d discovered anything useful there. Then he dismissed the thought as fruitless, and returned his mind to business.