by Dan Abnett
The warm spice of shaellic filled the air, and vague blue veils of smoke drifted through the candlelight.
Connort Timurlin, dead now four hours, stared at the ceiling. His flesh looked like white marble so that, but for his breeches, he resembled a graven image on the lid of some templum tomb, the carved likeness commemorating some ancient worthy. Kara had marked certain sigils on his cheeks, forehead, chest and palms with ash, according to Ravenor’s direction. I could make no sense of the designs, nor of any of the sigils writ on the floor, nor even of the pattern in which the candles had been laid out, but some of the shapes and symmetries made me uneasy. Kara had told me that the act was to be performed according to old lore contained in something called the Malus Codicium, an ancient tome of abomination that had once been owned by Gregor Eisenhorn, and extracts of which were saved in the databanks of Gideon’s chair.
This was daemon-craft, warp-lore. I saw it now, and I saw the distinct difference, beyond the very obvious, between Gregor and Gideon. Gideon was, above all, a creature of science, a student of enlightenment and technoscientific knowledge. He trod the narrow but bright golden path that led from the foot of the Holy Throne into the future, a way lit by genius and discovery. Whenever he had strayed from it, into the dark off the golden track, calamity had followed.
Gregor, Gideon’s great mentor, had chosen instead to walk in the dark places, from perhaps the earliest days of his career. He had deliberately gone into the dark, and parleyed, dealt and contested with the nether-things it contained, often stealing their secrets from them and turning those tricks against them.
This act, this auto-séance, lay too much in that realm of the arcane that Gregor favoured. It was of the warp, a thing so great and terrible that no man, not even a posthuman champion like Ravenor, could ever hope to control or conquer it. The few times Ravenor had faced such dark immensity directly, it had almost overwhelmed him, and those times had, almost always, been as a consequence of him following Eisenhorn’s footsteps.
Our work smacked of magic, of necromantik dabbling. It reeked of forbidden lore, and of the ravings of mad heretics and doomed sorcerers. There was no cold science in it, no golden path, no trusted fact or true knowledge. Ravenor feared it, and he despised it. He knew how seductive it could be, how beguiling, how addictive. He knew how easily it could go wrong, and how badly. He knew that to toy with it was hubris, that to pretend mastery of that which was infinite and masterless, was to begin a plunge into a midnight pit from which no one could return.
There was a line, past which insanity and damnation awaited. Gideon had crossed it a number of times in the course of his work, always unwillingly or in extremis. Gregor crossed it willingly and eagerly every day of his life.
In the pair of them, the Imperium itself was represented, the impossible balance. To know and use the warp was essential for mankind’s survival; to know it and use it too well or too much… was to tempt the annihilation of our species.
We stood behind Ravenor’s chair, at either side. The silence bred like fog.
Speak, Connort Timurlin.+
For a long while, there was nothing, and Ravenor repeated his telepathic summons several times. Then the candle flames began to bob and dance, and the rasping voice began to answer.
Tell us your real name.+
‘I beg you, do not ask that of me.’
Then tell me, who do you serve? Understand, Connort Timurlin, the symbols that mark you prevent you from uttering anything but the truth. Your soul is bound.+
‘My soul is lost,’ the sigh replied. ‘Lost and damned. I am dead, aren’t I?’
You are.+
A choking rattle issued from the dead man’s throat. I wondered if he could see. His eyes were open, but they did not blink. I glanced over at Kara, and saw she was watching carefully. She had Timurlin’s blinksword at her side. According to lore, a dead man’s weapon was the most efficacious way of slaying him again. I wondered, bleakly, who had first found that out, and under what circumstances. The thought almost made me laugh, mainly because our nerves were heightened, but this was in no way a time for mirth.
‘I serve the Cognitae,’ the corpse whispered. ‘I stand in service of the one truth.’
You were what they call a perfecti? One of the Cognitae’s warrior cadre.+
‘Yes.’
There are few like you. The Cognitae seem to prefer professional retainers and sell-swords.+
‘There are few like me now,’ the whisper answered. ‘Once there were many. In the old days, before the Crusade and the Great Heresy, the perfecti were a secret army. But our numbers dwindle.’
‘So in this day and age, a perfecti is a precious resource,’ said Kara, ‘used only for particular missions?’
It seemed odd at first to hear her speak, but Ravenor had instructed us to share the questioning, in moderation, for the contacted dead can become resistant to one, repeating voice. We would learn more if our questions came from different voices.
‘That is so,’ the corpse replied.
‘What was your particular mission?’
‘I was the personal guardian of my mistress, who is an exalted senior of the Cognitae order.’
I took a step forward.
‘The woman I saw you with that night at Lengmur’s salon?’
He did not reply.
‘This was the night Mam Tontelle perished.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, with a reluctant sigh.
Was it you and your mistress who co-opted Mam Tontelle’s performance so? Used her to communicate?+
‘Yes. We dared not approach directly. We thought to use Mam Tontelle as an unwitting intermediary, to gauge your willingness to talk. But… it went wrong. Our efforts were discovered by the King, and the Eight came to silence us.’
‘Why would you wish to communicate–’ Kara began.
A better question – with whom were you trying to communicate?+
‘With me?’ I asked.
‘With you… Yes. More particularly, with Eisenhorn.’
Why?+
‘In the hope that he might help us, or side with us.’
Kara and I exchanged perplexed looks.
A senior of the Cognitae wished to reach out to an inquisitor, and ask for help?+
‘No. Eisenhorn.’
I nodded.
‘That’s why you tried to kill me, isn’t it, Timurlin? You reached out to me and Eisenhorn, but now Eisenhorn is gone, and you know I stand with Ravenor. When we met again tonight, you tried to kill me and escape, for now I was in the service of the Ordos.’
‘Yes.’
I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice. It meant, for all my care, they had been watching me all along. It also revealed a stark difference and a painful reminder: the Cognitae considered Ravenor true Inquisition, and thus something to be feared and shunned. The Inquisition was, and had always been, their enemy.
But Gregor Eisenhorn, for all he hunted the Cognitae, perhaps more ruthlessly and doggedly than any man in the last few centuries, was no longer Inquisition to them. He was an adversary, a scourge perhaps, but nevertheless, they felt they might deal with him.
And that he might understand why.
‘You thought Eisenhorn might be receptive?’
The whisper exhaled in answer. ‘Against a mutual foe.’
Who is that foe?+
Silence. Then the merest sound.
‘The Yellow King.’
We did not speak for a moment. Kara looked at me, alarm in her eyes.
The Cognitae serve the Yellow King.+
‘We do not. We have aided him, for a long time. But we are not his.’
‘Explain,’ said Kara.
‘His goal,’ the corpse sighed, ‘his mission… For the longest time, it seemed the same as ours. A shared ambition. So, for a long while, we worked
with him, lending our talents and our secrets to help accomplish it. For a long time. All the ages of the stars.’
How long?+
‘Centuries, and more. The project has lasted almost as long as the Imperium.’
‘And now you fall out? You are at odds with him?’ I asked.
‘The King is all-powerful. We have helped him every step of the way, but he has used us up. He has stripped us of every asset, every secret. He no longer needs us. We presumed he would honour the ancient debt he owes to us, that he would respect our centuries of toil on his behalf. That he would, as befits the magnanimity of a king, keep us close, and reward our loyalty by sharing his power with us. This, he promised. He comes close to fruition. The City of Dust is built, and his hosts assembled. The hour of his triumph is upon us. The universe that you know, and that I know, is about to change forever. But he has reneged. He keeps all power to himself, all authority and command, all secrets and instruments of transmutation, all reins and harnesses of Pandaemonium. He shuts us out. We are of little further use.’
And this is unacceptable to the Cognitae?+
‘It is not,’ the whisper said, ‘what was promised us. The goal was, forever, to remake the Imperium, to build it anew, to tear down the mockery that is the Corpse-God, and begin again, for the glory of mankind. To make the Imperium as it should have been, not as the petulant and arrogant False Emperor devised it.’
The whisper died away, and the corpse on the flagstones shuddered slightly. When the voice returned, it was a dry rasp, like stirring leaves, and barely audible.
‘But that… that is not enough for the King in Yellow. He wants more. He wants a greater prize still. And we have given him the keys to claim it, and he shuts us out. Our ambitions are no longer harmonious. Worse, he sanctions us when we object. He purges the seniors of the Cognitae from his dusty court, casts us out of favour, and hunts down, with murderous intent, any who try to oppose him. The Cognitae is broken, and is persecuted by both the Inquisition and the Yellow King.’
‘This is why you attempted contact with Eisenhorn?’ I asked. ‘As a potential ally?’
‘The Inquisition could not be bargained with,’ replied the whisper, ‘but we thought he could be made to see reason. We know him of old. An enemy, yet we hold him in high regard. He is capable. He has damaged our cause many times. He found and destroyed our operation on Gershom–’
‘Things must be bleak for the Cognitae to turn to a sworn enemy for help,’ said Kara.
‘Not the Cognitae. Merely my mistress. I told you. The Cognitae is broken, scattered and in hiding. It no longer operates with one mind. My mistress, fearing for her life, made the decision to approach Eisenhorn. Other parties were considered, but–’
‘So the Cognitae was not behind the Talltown attack?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Who was?’
‘I know not.’
You said others. Other parties. What do you mean?+
The corpse made an odd, rattling noise. After a moment, I realised with distaste that it was laughing.
‘Almost every force, every faction, every power in the galaxy opposes the Yellow King,’ the whisper said. ‘Not all of them for the same reason, of course. But they all want him stopped. Other forces gather here on Sancour, seeking his destruction.’
‘Such as the Traitor Legion known as the Word Bearers?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘With such eagerness, they would side with the Ecclesiarchy?’
‘And vice versa?’ added Kara.
‘Yes.’
‘And the Emperor’s Children?’ I asked.
‘Yes, them too. The Smiling One and his hideous-beautiful warriors. So many come to the court of the Yellow King, to overthrow him, to stop him, or to forge an alliance to share in his coming glory. All are denied. There are many we could turn to who would share our intent, but most are too dangerous to deal with.’
‘And Eisenhorn was not?’ I asked.
‘Comparatively. My mistress considered him, and one other faction. But the other was not receptive.’
Who was that?+
‘I will not speak their name.’
Then speak yours now. What is your true name?+
‘I would not say it.’
You have no choice.+
‘It is Verner Chase.’
The corpse began to sob. Dry sobs. It was hard to listen to.
Chase? A relation?+
‘Yes. Lilean Chase was my grandmother.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Kara.
‘I know not.’
Is Chase your mistress?+
‘No! No.’
‘In what language did your grandmother compose her commonplace book?’ I asked.
‘What?’ Timurlin seemed now puzzled.
‘Her commonplace books, the journals she kept,’ I pressed, running with the guess we had made that the numbered book was just one of many. ‘What private cipher or language did she use?’
‘She kept many notebooks,’ he replied. ‘I do not know.’
You do.+
‘A hex!’ he cried. ‘A hex, that is all I know. She wrote in a secret hex!’
A hex. Just as my angel had said.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Kara. ‘A hex?’
‘She never said. Some kind of spell, some hexcraft, I supposed. A magical alphabet.’
What is the significance of the number 119?+
‘It means nothing to me.’
‘Who is your mistress?’ I asked.
‘I guard her name and her life, even dead. I will not say.’
‘Where may she be found?’
‘I will not say.’
‘In these circumstances, Verner,’ said Kara, ‘I suggest you relent. If she is prepared to cooperate, as she intended with Eisenhorn, she will be treated fairly by the Inquisition. We can be her allies, strange as that may sound, if she shares what she knows. Where may she be found?’
‘I will not say. I will guard her. You Ordo murderers cannot be trusted.’
What was the other party?+
‘No!’
‘What is her name?’ Kara asked.
The corpse resisted again. I saw the technique now, standard Ordo interrogation. The subject was weakening, and his resistance failing. Kara and Ravenor were switching their lines of questioning rapidly, so that Timurlin could not build a hard barrier against any in particular. They were probing his failing mind with varying jabs and thrusts, so he could not shield or block them all, like two swordsmen cornering one.
A third would weaken him further.
‘What is the name of your mistress?’ I asked.
‘No–’
‘Say it!’ I snapped.
‘Zoya Farnessa!’
Her true name.+
‘I will not tell!’
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘I will not say!’
Who is the other party?+
‘You do not want me to say it. I swear, you do not!’
‘What is her true name?’ asked Kara.
‘Who killed Eisenhorn?’ I asked.
Where can she be found?+
‘Stop! Stop it!’
‘What is her true name?’ I asked.
‘Who is the other party?’ Kara snapped.
‘I beg you, stop!’
Who killed Gregor Eisenhorn?+
‘Please!’
‘What was the other party?’ I asked.
‘The College!’ The whisper broke, brittle. ‘The Immaterial College!’
Then the whispers stopped. The air went cold and soundless. The candle flames dipped very low, almost out, and started to issue ribbons of smoke.
He has gone. I could not hold him.+
I sagged a little. All energy seemed to have been squeezed from us, and the room – and the night outside – seemed darker than ever.
‘What is the Immaterial College?’ Kara asked. ‘I’ve never heard of it. What did he mean?’
I don’t know, Kara.+
‘Have you heard of it, Beta?’ Kara asked, glancing over at me. I opened my mouth to reply in the negative, but Ravenor cut me off.
Wait.+
CHAPTER 18
In the muniment room
We were no longer alone.
Though it was very dark, and the drapes drawn, a shadow seemed to pass by the windows of the muniment room. How a shadow could be detected under such circumstances, I cannot imagine, but there it was, crossing the end window. I heard a footstep or two, and the shadow paused, as if trying to peer in at us.
We waited. After a moment, a shadow passed the side window. I felt at first that the shadow was circling us, prowling around the house. But it seemed as though something was still peering in through the end window. Two shadows, then, two visitors lurking outside.
In the oppressive silence, Kara flexed her grip on the blinksword. I reached to my wrist.
‘Cuff?’ I whispered.
‘Not yet,’ Ravenor responded, his voice issued by the Chair’s transponders at very low volume. ‘We are warded. Let us see who we have beckoned to us.’
The shadows outside seemed to have stilled. I fancied they had been tricks of the eye, until one moved again, the second, or perhaps now a third. After a moment, the end window rattled slightly in its frame, as if someone was trying it to see if it was loose.
‘Stay within the outer circle, both of you,’ Ravenor said. Timurlin’s body had been placed at the centre of a chalk-and-sand diagram on the floor, but a wider circle of poured salt formed a full circumference around us, almost to the walls of the room. We remained obediently inside it. The air had gone cold, making the afterscent of the shaellic seem stale and sour.
