Ravenor

by Dan Abnett

  The ladder-climb wobbled. Gantry men were coming up from below to help the overhead crews winch back the dance cage.

  Kara looked left and right, made a quick estimation, and leapt off the landing platform, her weapon gripped between her teeth. She fell five metres and caught one of the guy wires with both hands. The snap made her grunt. She accelerated her pendulum swing and then got her legs up over the wire and slid down it. Quite a show, if the lights had been on her. But she was out in the dark, above the radiance of the lamps.

  A few metres from the end of the wire, she let go and dropped into space. She turned a neat cartwheel and smacked down onto the landing of another ladder-climb.

  She took the gun out of her mouth and wiped her lips, tasting gold body-paint. The western terrace was ten metres below her, a mass of writhing bodies and waving arms. She unwound a support rope from the landing’s bracket and tested it for give. Then she kicked out and swung from the landing across to the roof-spars of the attic tiers. The swing wasn’t quite going to do it. She let go and flip-flopped the last few metres, landing on a rafter barely thirty centimetres wide.

  Kara teetered on her feet for a moment, arms spread.

  Then she ran along the rafter and jumped off, dropping onto a crosswise beam two metres below. When she reached the end of it, she vaulted over a stone divider and landed in a service gallery above the attics.

  Two clansters looked round in surprise as she flew in and landed with a slap. They had left their seats for the cool gloom of the upper walk, to share some grin and ‘lax out’ before the main show.

  They could scarcely believe their eyes. A voluptuous girl, painted head-to-foot gold and, as far as they were concerned, butt-naked, had just flown in through the frigging window.

  ‘The circus gets better and better…’ mumbled one. They stepped towards her.

  Kara was suddenly glad of the cacophony from below.

  Nayl rolled the freighter to a halt, expressed the air brakes and pulled on the parking lock. The chamber was like a cavern, dark and damp. Five other trucks were parked beside his. The noise of the circus audience was like remote thunder overhead.

  This was the choragium, the understage. For all its size, the circus had more private parts than public ones. Immense cellars and subdecks existed to service the arena. Nayl could hear the hissing clank of the rising and falling logeum platforms as he got out of the cab. The air smelled bad. He could taste the ash-burn of the ustrinum, where they cremated the bodies and waste products from the pit fights.

  Nayl walked the length of his freighter and hammered on the backdrop. The tailgate slammed open and Mathuin leapt out. He was carrying a pistol, but Nayl knew the murderous rotator cannon was zipped up in Mathuin’s kitbag.

  ‘Put it away.’ he said, nodding at the pistol. ‘We’ve a way to go yet, without attracting notice.’

  Zeph Mathuin frowned and put the handgun into the pocket of the filthy plastek smock-coat he was wearing. Nayl had one on too… crusted with dirt and dry blood.

  They hurried across the chamber, through the bustle of the stewards and crewmen. The floor shook with the transmitted shudder of the crowd. They stood back as three cavea handlers led a muzzled, thrashing ursid through to the stage-gates ready for the next show. Nayl found the chained beast’s angry whimpers strangely affecting. He felt sorry for it. Win or lose, it would be bushmeat by dawn.

  They crossed a stone pier over a rancid waste-sluice, and passed under a heavy portcullis gate into a warren of understage tunnels. There was activity all around: stage-men shouted for cues, labour muscle wound the chain winches, engineers ran coke carts to stoke the furnaces of the hydraulic engines, and gladiators oiled their bodies in the chrismatories.

  They came down another narrow stone corridor into a wide underfloor hall. The spoliarum was to the left, a dank, foetid pit where all the bodies were dumped. Mechanised ploughs swept each descending logeum clean of debris and cadavers, and they ended up in the spoliarum. There, the dead were recycled. Armour and weapons were recovered, and rings and trinkets looted. Human bodies were carted away to the ustrinum for burning. Non-human flesh was sold off by the kilo to buyers from the food markets. Bushmeat was a cheap and ready source for the hive’s provisioners. Bear, lizard, twist… it all looked and tasted the same once it was macerated, spiced and roasted on a street-vendor’s stick.

  A few other meat brokers had arrived before them, and were lounging around, smoking, waiting, under an arch nearby. Nayl wandered across to the spoliarium overseer and signed his name in exchange for a numbered paper chit. At the end of the show, the overseer would draw the numbers randomly. The winning broker got first pick of the spoils, the second got to choose from what was left and so on. A butcher’s lottery. The waiting brokers had buckets and carts, soiled aprons, saws and surgical masks. In their filthy plastek smock coats, Nayl and Mathuin looked the part.

  ‘Lucky seven,’ said Nayl, walking back to Mathuin and flashing the chit.

  ‘What now?’ Mathuin asked.

  ‘Now we lose ourselves in the mix. Hang on.’ He strolled over to the waiting brokers, and nodded a few curt hellos. Mathuin heard him ask them where a man could get a drink while he waited. A couple of the brokers pointed and mumbled.

  Nayl rejoined Mathuin. ‘Now they won’t even miss us,’ he said as they fell into step.

  The underhall was packed. They had to weave their way through the crowd. A team of chainsword fighters shared a group huddle as they waited to enter the caged walkway onto one of the lowered logeums. Weaponeers trundled carts of swords and pikes over to the traps. A pit-bull cracked his lash across the backs of a chain gang of convict fighters, desperate men hoping to win a state pardon through an arena victory. Rumour had it the lord governor himself was here tonight, enjoying the show from his executive belvedere. That would certainly explain the number of marshals on the prowl. Gold painted dancers ran by, perspiring and swearing. Two trainers were having a stand up row about marquee billing. A professional gladiator, huge, oiled and armoured, knelt and bowed his head as the circus’s appointed priest blessed him in expectation of death. Tipsters and bookies were everywhere, eyeing up form and gathering last minute advice for their clients. Servitors lumbered past with crates of water and ale for the fighter pens. Musician bands tuned up against the constant din. Money changed hands, debts spiralled or were wiped clean, letters of pledge were signed. Medicae surgeons knelt in a pool of blood around a twist clown who had come off stage minus an arm.

  Two animal handlers hurried past with long pole-goads. They were heading through the crowds towards a heavy shutter on the far side of the hall.

  ‘Follow them,’ said Nayl.

  The galley halls were rattling with activity. In a hellish, smoky environment, squads of cooks and their underlings and servitors slaved to cater for the paying customers in the stadium. Most of their fare was savouries or pies that were taken up by box lift to the vendor stalls in the stands, but there were sumptuous feasts to be prepared for the dignitaries in the exclusive belvederes – meals that would be shipped up by hand and served by impeccably mannered attendants in circus livery.

  Kys held back in the main doorway for a second. Unless she went all the way around the outside underwalks of the circus-drome, the only way to the cavae was through the galleys. And no matter how many telekinesis distractions she created, she’d not manage that without being seen. She breathed in, remembering one of the inquisitor’s training dictums: ‘If you can’t hide, don’t. Bluster.’

  If nothing else, Patience Kys had boundless confidence. She adjusted her microbead and whispered, ‘Carl? Who’s head chef tonight?’

  As the reply came, she straightened her bodice demurely, adopted a haughty stance, and marched into the kitchens.

  A few underchefs glanced at her, perplexed, but they were too fearful of their head cooks to stop what they were doing and challenge her. Kys strode right down the line between brushed-steel workstations, and paused to lift the lid
on a large stockpot simmering over a galley range.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ yelled a senior cook, spotting her. He was a fat man – always a good sign in a cook, Kys believed – but he was meatily powerful and over two spans tall. His apron was cinched around his great girth. Red faced, he marched over to her, pushing several slow-moving undercooks out of his path.

  Kys ignored him. She elegantly extended the index finger of her gloved left hand and stuck the tip of it into the pot’s contents. Then she withdrew it, and made a business of studying the moonstone ring she wore on it.

  ‘I said–’

  ‘I heard,’ she cut him off, and looked him in the eye. ‘Are you Binders?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Binders, man, Binders. Are you Binders? I was told he was cook in charge tonight.’

  The senior backed off a little. ‘No, mam, I’m Cutcheska. Senior Binders is away in the cold store, but I can get him if–’

  ‘No matter. Cutcheska. Your name was mentioned too. I’ve heard fine things of your work. Fine things.’

  The senior blushed. ‘Mam…’

  Kys walked past him to another range where underlings were pan-frying marinated terrapins. ‘You understand that not just anything can pass the lord governor’s lips?’

  Cutcheska balked. ‘The lord g–’

  ‘His food must be inspected rigorously for tampering.’

  ‘I… I know that, mam!’ the senior exclaimed, hurrying after her. ‘But his tasters and personal dietitian have already examined the kitchen and–’

  ‘I know they have. But an unscheduled inspection keeps you on your toes, does it not?’ Kys leaned past an undercook’s shoulder and pressed the tip of her left index finger against the tenderised belly of a frying terrapin. Then she studied her ring again. As if noticing the way Senior Cutcheska was staring at her hand, she held it up towards him.

  ‘Augmetic,’ she said. ‘The index finger is a micro-calibrated poison snooper. If it detects any trace venoms, the result is displayed in the ring screen.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Cutcheska.

  Kys raised the little finger on her left hand. ‘This digit cases a tight-focus digi-weapon. If I find any food tampering, I am authorised to use it to incinerate the line chef responsible for the contaminated area.’

  Cutcheska started to tremble. ‘I can assure you–’

  ‘I’m sure you can. Walk me through.’ Kys started off again, with Cutcheska hurrying to catch up. She paused for a moment to glance back at the undercook frying the terrapins. ‘Too much nutmeg, by the way.’

  Cutcheska took her down the line, waiting nervously while she poked her finger into all kinds of food. He brought her a glass of wine, and she poked her finger into that too, before nodding and knocking it back. He introduced her to four other seniors, who fell in step behind them like an anxious chorus.

  Finally, she turned to face Cutcheska. ‘Through there,’ she said, indicating over her shoulder with a thumb. ‘That goes through into the cavae, am I right?’

  ‘Indeed, mam.’

  ‘I’m very troubled. Livestock… including xenos-breeds… penned this close to the main food manufactory.’

  ‘We are scrupulously, clean, mam–’ Cutcheska began.

  ‘My dear senior, xenos germs and bacteria travel in ways unknown to science. I will have to examine it.’ Kys took off one of her pearl earrings and handed it to Cutcheska. ‘Hold that up, please, between finger and thumb. No, arm straight, Higher. That’s it.’

  She started to walk away.

  ‘What am I doing?’ he called.

  ‘That’s a relay sensor for my augmetics,’ she said. ‘I’ll enter the cavae and take readings, and then compare them to the delayed response of that module. Be careful, it’s very delicate. Arm straight, please. This should only take about ten minutes. You can stand there for ten minutes holding that up in the air, can’t you, senior?’

  ‘Of course, mam.’

  ‘Good. Arm really straight, please. Do try not to move.’

  The knuckles on her right hand were badly skinned. Threads of blood ran down the back of her hand and along the gold-painted skin of her forearm. The second clanster’s jaw had been more solid than it looked.

  Laying them out had slowed her down. Kara was running now, along the attic upper walk, and then down the stone screw-stair, the emergency exit that led right down the side of the building into the subdecks. She took them three at a time, hip-surfing off the handrails and leaving streaks of gold paint behind. The stadium was still shaking with noise. Through a window-slit, she glimpsed the night’s first headline bout beginning on the main logeum. The outer stages had sunk down into their pits, awash with gore and littered with bodies, victorious champions raising their arms and bloodied blades to the baying masses as they descended from view. To a fanfare and a tumult – CAR-CAR-CARNIVORA! Bam-bam-thump! – the evening’s first primary spectacle rose up on the central stage. Chained at intervals around the main stage’s edges were four professional pit fighters, armed and gleaming, and four inhumanly massive greenskins, glanded out of their minds on spika and slavering at their leashes. A thorn-bar cage rose up to surround the main logeum. Then the chains released.

  The crowd roared, louder than ever before.

  Kara kept on running.

  She came down into a choragium sub-deck where sooty spade workers were shovelling body parts into the furnace hatches of the ustrinum, and sprinted west, through the tunnels of the fighter pens towards the cavae.

  A pair of stewards at the entrance tried to stop her.

  ‘Where you off to in a hurry, dancer girl?’ asked one.

  ‘Not that we mind you running, at all,’ smiled the other. ‘Makes your body jiggle real nice, if you know what I mean.’

  No time left. Certainly no time for subtlety. ‘My frigging boyfriend just got eaten by some frigging carnosaur!’ Kara yelled. ‘I gotta get in there!’

  ‘If he’s eaten…’ one of the stewards began.

  ‘He had my nanny’s diamond ring as a keepsake! I gotta check the dung for it, or nanny’ll kill me!’

  There was no arguing with that. They let her pass.

  ‘Uh, some keepsake,’ one of the stewards called after her.

  Ranklin Sesme Duboe, accredited handlerman-chief of the Imperial pits, ran the cavae. He was two hundred years old, standard, and had benefited from judicious juvenat work. He looked forty-five, was strong and well muscled. His grizzled face sported a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache. He never seemed to have to raise his voice. Just a look sent his handlers scurrying. He was a force of power in the circus understage. Without his say-so and his skill, the show would simply not go on.

  He knew what to buy and where to buy it. He knew how to source the most interesting and deadly beasts for the show, and how to cage them and keep them fit, and how to get them dandered up just right for the spectacle.

  Of all the great understage sections of the circus stadium, the cavae smelled the worst. Worse than the kitchens, worse than the fight-waste furnaces, worse even than the reeking spoliarium. In a long, semi-circular series of dank chambers under the drome’s western end, the pit animals were caged and prepped. The air was wretched with the sharp bite of piss-ammonia and fecal matter. Blood too. And the humid musky scents of penned creatures, most of them predators, most of them anguished and goaded.

  A cue-man ran a slip over to Duboe. He read it, tossed it away, checked with the logeum control via his headset, and then pointed across the paved stone floor to a team of handlers around a trap cage in which a mature fighting struthid was clawing and clacking.

  The handlers obeyed at once. They pulled the slot-hatch open on the logeum entry, and then cranked back the cage door. The flightless fighting bird – four metres tall and with a beak the size of an Space Marine’s power axe – came rushing out up the penway, driven by the sparking jolts of the handlers’ electro-goads.

  Overhead, the crowd thundered approval.

  Pulling o
ff his headset, Duboe walked over to the group of game agents assembled around an upturned pack-crate they were using as a table. A smile-girl in a short skirt had fetched them liquor and grin from upstairs, at Duboe’s expense. She was serving them now.

  Duboe approached, and shook hands with a few of them, accepting a shot-glass of amasec from the girl.

  ‘Budris… good work, that struthid. Worth the wait, I’m sure.’

  Budris, a sallow man with two lean bodyguards, nodded his satisfaction.

  ‘Skoh. What can I say?’ Duboe slapped hands with a heavy-set, square-jawed man with sandy-white hair. Skoh’s bulky figure was sleeved in leather armour. ‘Perfect saurians as always.’

  ‘I may have some long-tusks come winter,’ said Skoh. ‘Interested?’

  ‘Only if they’re the aggressive kind. The dociles play really bad here. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Verdendener. I haven’t forgotten that crap-fest last summer.’

  A bespectacled agent turned his head, miffed. ‘I was assured of their quality–’ he began querulously.

  ‘Take another drink, Verdendener,’ Duboe smiled. ‘You’ve redeemed yourself with those ursids. Never seen bears so nasty. Leave the long-tusks to Skoh here.’

  Skoh nodded appreciatively.

  Duboe looked over at another game agent. ‘Murfi… stop bringing me shit crocodilians, or I’ll turn them back.’