Much of the journal was given over to a detailed account of the colonel’s collection, though alongside the lists of books were occasional annotations by the author on its very nature. Most of these were simple observations on the rarity of certain tomes, but others could be read as admonishments to the colonel for even possessing them. The tone of these observations ranged from simple remarks to commentary that would likely have earned a stern rebuke had the colonel read them.
Had the colonel seen them?
Was that why M.R. was no longer the curator of this collection?
Some of his notes I could well understand, for as I have mentioned, more than a few of the books were of a questionable nature. Around the halfway point through the journal, I noticed a distinct change in the tenor of the notes, coinciding with the arrival of a book or books that featured more than once in M.R.’s notes.
Its name appeared variously as The Elegy of Valgaast, Lament of Valgaast, and also Valgaast Theogonies, though I could not be certain if these were three separate books or a single volume, given that each title appeared to have been sourced from a different planet and every title appeared to be a translation of the same root words.
I had not seen any of these works, nor any reference to what the name might mean.
Whatever its truth, the book or books had clearly upset M.R. to a degree I found hard to fathom. Matters were complicated by the fact that it was clear his mind was unravelling the deeper into the book I went. M.R.’s handwriting, which had been neat and even at the start, was now ragged and spidery by the time I reached the journal’s midpoint. I saw smudged blots on the page (the writer’s quill too laden with ink) and frequent scratched-out words. As I drew to its end, more than a few pages had been ripped out, and much of what M.R. wrote was virtually illegible.
One portion I could read appeared to make reference to the destruction of the temple, while another hinted at a scandalous memoir I could only imagine was the monograph Garrett had spoken of. I found several trembling notes that spoke in terror of something known as the Inamorata, though, like Valgaast, no hint was given as to what that might be.
By now, the moon had passed its zenith, and my eyes were heavy from peering too long at the handwriting of a very disturbed individual. It had been many years since I had worked this long into the night, and though some trace of the youthful vigour I had felt earlier today remained, I knew I would be fit for nothing come the dawn were I to deny myself at least a few hours of sleep. I moved the Militarum uniform onto the chaise longue, next to the piled linen sheets. Resolving to query Garrett on why such clothing had been laid out for me, I climbed into bed.
I hoped I might dream of Teodoro again.
I did not dream of my late husband.
But so deep and swift was my descent into sleep that I can recall little of how my dreaming began. I vaguely recall a sense of comfort, of being enfolded in warmth, like a babe in arms swaddled in a favourite blanket. Tight and binding, holding me safe and protected.
But that tightness soon passed from comforting to constricting.
I struggled against the sensation, but I couldn’t move. Something was pressing against my face. I tried to move, to roll over, thinking I was still dreaming. I tried to draw breath, but what felt like a heavy cloth was pulled tight over my mouth.
I smelled stale, shuttered rooms and the dry mustiness of age-stiffened fabric.
I tasted dust and dead flowers.
My eyes flickered open as it penetrated my consciousness that this was no dream. I saw only dull whiteness, the thick warp and weft of coarse linen.
A shroud…
I tried to sit up, to push the sheet from my face. My legs and arms were pinned in place, bound tight with more of the rough fabric. It chafed my ankles and wrists as the cloth pulled tighter against my face.
Somewhere, a light bloomed, stuttering and weak; the desk lumen. It silhouetted a heavyset form just beyond the suffocating cloth, its outline blurry and indistinct. I tried to scream, but a wadded bolus of moist cloth forced itself down my throat like a hungry snake.
I gagged, fighting for breath.
Greyness hazed the edges of my vision.
…let me in…
My chest heaved, desperate for air, but there was none to be had.
I felt rough hands at my neck, callused flesh and metal. Thrashing on the bed, my body spasmed in fear and desperation. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move.
And then the choking blockage was withdrawn. My back arched as I drew in a breath that felt like fire in my lungs. The greyness retreated from my vision.
I felt the vice grip on my extremities release.
Frantic, I kicked out and reached up to tear the cloth from my face. I scrambled up the bed as my vision adjusted. Hot, acidic fear surged up from my stomach.
Kyrano stood at the edge of the bed, holding twisted sheets of white linen cloth like a garrotte. They clung to him like the toga of a planetary senator or the king of some pre-Imperial feral world.
His immobile face gave no hint of murderous intent, but in the flickering light of the desk lumen his face was daemonic. Sick with loathing and fear, I frantically pushed myself away.
I fell from the opposite side of the bed, gashing my head on the corner of the dresser beside it. Warm blood ran down the side of my face as I lay, stunned, on the floor. I heard the servitor’s heavy footsteps as he circled the bed, moving towards me.
Panic seized me, and I tried to pull myself up, but my limbs were dead weight, numb from their constriction. Instead, I crawled frantically beneath the bed, clawing my way forwards with my fingernails until I emerged on the other side.
My mind was clearing, and my legs ached as blood flowed back to my feet.
I could already feel bruising swelling my wrists and ankles.
Pushing myself upright, I stumbled weakly towards the open door. The corridor beyond was lit by the pale light of the moon. I lurched along its length to where Garrett Grayloc’s room was located.
I paused at a turn in the corridor to see if I was being pursued.
I whimpered in fear as Kyrano stepped through my door, pulling rumpled sheets of linen from himself as though tearing free of a cocoon. Our gaze met, but I saw only the bland horror of a dispassionate murderer who barely even notices his victim.
But instead of following me, the hulking servitor turned and walked in the opposite direction, as though he had accomplished whatever it was he had set out to do.
I waited, breathless, at the turn as he disappeared into the darkness of the house.
Tears streaming down my face, I slid down the wall and wept.
The following day, I told Garrett Grayloc everything that had transpired during the night.
‘Are you sure he was attacking you?’ he asked as he poured me a hot cup of herbal tea.
I could scarcely believe he was asking me that.
‘Perfectly sure,’ I replied, holding out my wrists and leaning my head back.
Garrett drew in a breath as he saw how bruised and grazed both were.
‘Damned peculiar behaviour,’ he said, taking a seat at the dining room table. ‘Perhaps he’s stuck in a service loop.’
‘A service loop? What are you talking about?’ I said, the anger at my assault still burning hot in my chest. ‘He tried to kill me!’
‘Of course I see how you might think that,’ said Garrett, holding his hands aloft as he saw my eyes widen. ‘Wait, hear me out, Teresina. You said one of my mother’s uniforms was laid out on the bed, yes?’
I nodded, too furious to speak.
‘And there was a meal of rare steak and amasec on the desk?’
I nodded again as Garrett ran a hand across his chin.
‘I think I see what happened,’ he said. ‘Kyrano’s always been a bit glitchy, but it’s got worse since my moth
er passed. You see, and I realise now that it might have been a trifle inappropriate, but you’re actually sleeping in my mother’s room.’
I could barely believe what he was saying.
‘I’m sleeping in your dead mother’s room?’ I said, struggling to keep my tone even.
‘Well, it seemed like the most expedient solution, given that it hadn’t yet been closed up, though I see now that was somewhat foolish. I apologise for that.’
I should have turned and walked away right there and then. I should have immediately marched down into Vansen Falls and arranged passage back to Servadac Magna.
But I did not, and I still wonder at how easily I was convinced to remain.
Taking my silence as consent to continue speaking, Garrett said, ‘So I wonder if perhaps Kyrano was confused, and thought my mother was, well, not dead. Hence the meal and the clothes.’
‘I’ve been here nearly a month,’ I pointed out. ‘Surely he must have known I was not her?’
‘One would think so, but who really knows what goes on in the mind of a servitor? The machine-spirit moves in mysterious ways within its servants, after all. Now, I think what happened is that Kyrano–’
‘Stop calling him that,’ I snapped. ‘Whoever he was before, that thing is a servitor now.’
‘Of course, yes,’ said Garrett. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll have another room prepared for you immediately. I shall see to it personally.’
‘What are you going to do about the servitor?’
‘There’s a man in town,’ said Garrett. ‘Not a tech-priest as such, but he has a knack with cybernetics. Used to work in the vehicle pool as part of the enginseer cohorts. Maintains most of the old cargo-eights around here. I’ll have him take a look at Kyr– the servitor today, do a fresh memory-cache scrub.’
‘Fine, but do it today or I am leaving.’
‘Absolutely. No question,’ said Garrett. ‘And please, take today to rest and recover. Whatever it was that happened in the night must have been traumatic.’
I bit back an angry retort to whatever it was. While Garrett Grayloc was in the mood for concessions, I had one last thing to ask him.
‘Do the initials M.R. mean anything to you?’
He thought for a moment before answering.
‘It could be Montague Rhodes, why?’
Unwilling to yet disclose the existence of the monogrammed journal I had studied last night, I decided obfuscation was the best course of action.
‘I found his initials in a number of the colonel’s books,’ I said. ‘Who is he?’
‘I believe he was the custodian of my mother’s library,’ said Garrett.
‘Was?’
‘Yes. He retired soon after my mother’s death. I heard the poor fellow was quite distraught at her loss. He and his wife still live down in the town, I believe.’
I nodded, now knowing how I would spend the rest of this day.
I left Grayloc Manor as soon as I could and walked back down into Vansen Falls. Garrett claimed to have no knowledge as to where exactly Montague Rhodes lived, but I had a good idea of where to start.
Making my way to Gant’s Confectionary and Recaff Emporium, I purchased another sugared pastry that felt deliciously comforting and engaged in awkward small talk until I found a way to enquire after Colonel Grayloc’s previous librarian.
‘A terrible business,’ he said, leading me to believe that this must be a favourite phrase around Vansen Falls. ‘Poor fellow. Was never the same after the colonel died, Emperor rest her soul.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Books were his life, you see, Mistress Sullo,’ said Gant. ‘He’d curated her books for decades, knew that collection inside out. When Master Garrett came back and announced he was going to sell them off, well, it quite broke the fellow’s mind.’
‘As you say, a terrible business,’ I said, with enough of an upwards inflection that Gant might feel the urge to continue.
‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Gant. ‘Poor fellow lost his mind. Too aghast at all the colonel’s books being scattered to the wind, I suppose. Can’t remember the last time I saw him. Only ever see his wife, Odette. And even then, rarely.’
I nodded and said, ‘The thing is, Master Gant, I’ve encountered a rather knotty issue in my cataloguing, and it would be most helpful were I able to consult with Master Rhodes. Do you happen to know where I might be able to call upon him?’
Gant was indeed able to furnish me with an address, and after only a mild diversion in the twisting streets of Vansen Falls, I found myself before a sturdy door of pale wood set in a low, clay-tiled cottage overlooking the ocean on the northern curve of the crater. Smoke issued from a leaning chimney, and I could not help but be slightly unsettled to see that each of the windows was shuttered, and that the shutters had been nailed into their frames.
My first knocks went unanswered, but I persisted, suspecting that the cottage’s inhabitants would not be the sort of people to wander far from their place of sanctuary.
Eventually the door was opened by an elderly woman who wore the cares of the world upon her face. She eyed me suspiciously, her appraisal visibly swift and brutal.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but are you Odette?’ I asked.
She nodded, but volunteered no further information.
‘My name is Teresina Sullo, and I would very much like to speak to your husband.’
Odette’s expression, already wary, hardened to outright hostility and she began to shut the door in my face. I stepped in close to prevent its closing.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I need his help.’
‘He can’t help anyone,’ said Odette. ‘Not any more.’
I had one last gamble before the door was closed for good.
‘It’s about Valgaast,’ I said.
The interior of the cottage was dark, which was only to be expected given that its heavy shutters were kept permanently sealed. I felt as though the light that entered with the opening of the door was an unwilling guest, one that gratefully fled with its closing.
Odette led me to a sealed room towards the back of the cottage and hesitated before it.
‘You won’t get anything from him,’ she promised. ‘No one does.’
‘I need to speak with him,’ I insisted.
‘You can speak, but he won’t be answering.’
I couldn’t help but feel she was offering me a last chance to withdraw. Even now I wonder how things might have transpired had I done so.
‘Please,’ I said.
She sighed, lifting a key from a pocket at her waist and unlocking the door.
The room beyond was musty and stifling, and the stench filled me with the urge to flee, for I sensed nothing but reeking madness within and a life sustained at a cost not worth paying.
I looked back at Odette. She bore the expression of a woman trying to quell something entirely intolerable. Reluctantly, I stepped inside and felt my gorge rise at the thickness of the air, as much a prisoner within as the old man slumped in a chair before an empty hearth.
No daylight reached this room, and only a pair of tallow candles set upon the mantle provided any illumination. Montague Rhodes sat with his back to me, staring into the cold fireplace as if hoping flames might spring forth to consume him and the cottage both. From the doorway, I could only see the top of his hairless pate, wrinkled and spotted with age.
‘Master Rhodes?’
His head tilted a fraction at the sound of his name, but he did not turn nor rise from his chair. I had known men and women who had, through age or injury, been forced to abandon their vocations and who had swiftly sunk into depression or listlessness. But, according to Garrett, Montague Rhodes had only recently left the colonel’s employ.
Surely he could not hav
e sunk so low so soon?
Slowly I approached his chair.
A low stool was set in front of the old man’s chair. I circled it and sat down before him.
He lifted his head and I gasped at the horrid ruin of his face. I had hoped to converse with him, archivist to archivist, but I now saw that would be impossible.
Montague’s eyes had been destroyed, gouged out of his skull. The flesh around his sockets was raw and mutilated with deep-ploughed furrows, tearing wounds cut by ragged glass and sealed with sutures. My hand flew to my mouth, horrified at the scale and severity of his wounds; wounds I knew with an absolute certainty I cannot now explain were self-inflicted.
His thin body was swathed in woollen blankets, and I saw his protruding hands were restrained by thick leather straps. My gorge rose as I saw the fingers of his left hand were gone, only ragged stumps remaining beneath a filthy bandage. The image of him hacking them away with the same bloodied glass that had taken his eyes flashed into my mind. His right hand still possessed its digits but they were broken and useless, as though he had punched them against steel until the bones within had been reduced to powder.
‘Master Rhodes?’ I said again.
He did not answer, but swung his head towards me, like a burrowing creature suddenly aware of nearby predators. His cracked and dry lips parted and he drew breath. A soft sound began in his throat, and I leaned closer to hear what he had to say.
His jaw fell open and I recoiled as I saw the ragged wet nub of lacerated meat that was all that remained of his tongue. This was no surgical incision, but the result of frenzied slicing with something jagged and not quite sharp enough to cut cleanly. The inside of Montague’s mouth was filled with poorly healed stab wounds and broken teeth.
‘Throne!’ I cried, almost falling from the stool.
I turned towards Odette.
‘Emperor’s Mercy, what happened to him?’
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