[Ravenor 02] Ravenor Returned - Dan Abnett

by Dan Abnett

  His eyes were blue and fiercely intelligent. Right now they were a little puzzled.

  "Zael?" he said. "Zael Efferneti? That you, kid?"

  "Hey, Doctor Belknap."

  "Throne, Zael. I haven't seen you for... a year or more. Someone said you were dead."

  "Not me." Zael shook his head.

  "Good. That's good. Who's this?" Belknap asked, looking over at Kys.

  "She's-"

  "A friend of Zael's," said Patience. "I need a medicae. He recommended you."

  "Yeah? What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing. But I need a medicae to come with me and treat two other friends of Zael's."

  "You need a medicae," said Belknap, "go to the local infirmary. Public ward."

  "I need a certain type of medicae," Patience said smoothly.

  "Yeah? What type is that?"

  "The type who sews up a moody hammer's gangfight wounds, no questions asked."

  Belknap looked back at Zael. "Dammit, boy! What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?"

  "Nothing bad, I swear," Zael said.

  The Locum turned back to his work.

  "Will you come?" Patience asked.

  "Yes. For Zael's sake. When I'm finished here."

  They waited an hour while he treated the people in line. Then Belknap put on an old, ex-military stormcoat, picked up a black leather practice bag and followed them out onto the sink-street.

  "You not going to lock up?" Kys asked him.

  "Nothing worth stealing," said Belknap. "And round here, if you lock a door, folk will kick it in just to know why."

  They caught a sub-train and rattled back across the quarter through the dark, labyrinthine foundations of the hive. Just the three of them, alone in a vandalised carriage.

  Kys noticed the old dog-tags on a chain around Belknap's neck. He didn't seem more than thirty, thirty-five, although prematurely aged.

  "Guard vet?" she asked.

  "Company field medic. Six years. I mustered out when the chance came along."

  "Why?"

  "Couldn't stand the sight of blood."

  She smiled. "And really?"

  He looked up at her. His eyes, always half-dosed, as if squinting at something bright, they were really something.

  "I don't even know your name," he said. "I'm not about to tell you my personal business."

  "Okay. But between Guard service and sewing up stab-victims in a sink-level ruin, what?"

  "Nine years as a community medicae. I had a practice in the fourth ward of Formal J."

  The carriage rocked violently as the train rode over points in the dark. Kys, who was standing, steadied herself against the handrail.

  "Why'd you stop?" she asked.

  "I didn't. I still serve the fourth ward in Formal J."

  "Yeah, but not officially. You're a back-street guy."

  "That's me. A real vigilante."

  "So? Why?"

  The overheads flickered on and off for a second as the jolting disrupted the live rail. The carriage flashed into strobing blue darkness. Then bare white light again.

  "You ask a lot of questions," said Belknap.

  "I'm inquisitive," Kys said. "Professionally."

  +Leave him alone. Stop asking him stuff.+ Zael sent.

  Kys still wasn't happy about him being able to do that. And when he did it, it hurt a little. He hadn't refined his talent.

  +I will ask him what I like, Zael.+ she nudged back. +We're gonna trust him with Kara and Nayl. I wanna know we can.+

  Belknap looked back and forth between them, smiling slightly. "What was that?" he asked, pointing a finger at her then him. "You two got a private code or something?"

  "Or something," said Zael.

  "What is it? A gang code? Number of blinks? Secret signals?" Belknap shook his head sadly. "Yeah, I'll lay money it's a gang code. She's definitely connected, that one."

  "Like you wouldn't believe," said Kys.

  "And you," Belknap said looking at Zael. "I always hoped you'd escape, you know. Not slide in like all the others. I always said that, didn't I?"

  "You did," admitted Zael.

  "I know the odds were stacked against you, especially in a dirt-box like the J. But I hoped. You have a good brain on you, Zael Efferneti. If you'd stuck to scholam, trained maybe, got a decent trade. You could have contributed. Made a life for yourself, against all those odds. But I guess the easy option was always going to suck you in."

  Kys suddenly, oddly, felt rather protective. Zael looked like he was going to cry.

  "Zael didn't take any easy option, doctor," she said quietly.

  "Yeah, that's the real truth, isn't it?" the medicae said. "The life you people choose, it looks easy. A few risks, a fast fortune. But it's never easy in the end."

  Kys caught Zael's eye and they both started laughing.

  "I say something funny?" Belknap asked.

  "Hysterical," said Kys. "Now tell me. Why did you quit the community practice?"

  Belknap's compelling blue eyes stared straight up at her. "I didn't. You want to know? Okay. I was disbarred. The Departmento Medicae struck me off and stripped me of my practice. They took away my credentials because I was found guilty of serious malpractice. Okay?"

  +Throne, Zael! You brought me to him? We need a medicae, not an incompetent!+

  +Ask him why+

  +What?+

  +Ask the doc why he was struck off.+

  "Why?" asked Kys.

  "I said. Malpractice. Serious professional misconduct contrary to my oath as a Medicae Imperialis."

  Kys shook her head, reached into her pocket and threw a handful of change at Belknap. "Next stop, get off. Find your own way back. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you. We'll find someone else. Someone competent."

  Zael got up. "Tell her!" he cried. "Tell her the reason, doc!"

  Belknap glanced at him. "It doesn't matter, Zael."

  "Tell her!"

  "It's my business."

  Zael turned to Kys. "They disbarred him for fraud! It was a cash thing! He was only trying to... for Throne's sake, doc, explain it to her! I don't know how to describe it!"

  Belknap breathed in deeply. "My community practice had a budget. It was nothing like enough. You've seen the way it is down in the J. I could barely cope. Malnutrition, low-grade pollution disorders, addiction, chronic disease. People were dying - really, actually dying, I mean - because I couldn't afford the treatments for everyone. So I tried to work the system. I filed false subsist vouchers, claimed for practice expenses that didn't exist, defrauded the welfare system, just so I could bulk up my budget and afford the things I needed. The things my patients needed. The Administratum caught me, fair and square. Tore up my license, kicked me out and told me I was lucky not to get a custodial."

  "See?" said Zael to Kys.

  "So you just practise now anyway?" Kys asked. "As a rogue medicae?"

  "Listen, mamzel friend-of-Zael's. The formal infirmaries automatically deny treatment to any clan members injured in street clashes. Any drag addicts. Any persons who've lost their subsist code. Any child who doesn't present with a registered parent or guardian. The Administratum, by its own figures, recommends there should be one practising medicae for every five thousand citizens of any Imperial city. You know what the split is here in Petropolis? One medic for every hundred thousand habbers. A hundred thousand, so help me! You think the God-Emperor of Mankind is happy that's the way it is here? I'm just trying to even down the stats!"

  The train rocked. The lights went on and off again quickly. The train was pulling into a sub-stop. Belknap collected up the scattered change.

  "Good luck," he said. "Zael. It might be way too late, but be a good boy, all right?"

  The train shuddered to a halt. The auto-hatches opened.

  Belknap got up, but Patience was right in front of him. "My name's Patience Kys," she said.

  "Patrik Belknap," he replied.

  "Isn't that Medicae Patrik Belknap?" she asked.r />
  They looked at each other for a long moment.

  "Sit down, sir," she said. "You'll do."

  He sat. "Patience Kys, eh? I look forward to finding out your real name."

  "Don't hold your breath," she replied.

  The hatches slipped closed and the train began to pull away.

  NINE

  Across the hive, out where Formal Q met the bay, the occulting lighthouse was blinking into the night. It was one of the twenty-nine station lighthouses that warded the curved seaboard of Petropolis.

  The private flier swung down out of the sky, through the squalling rain. It landed on its eight jointed legs in the centre of the stone dock, and then, wings cased, walked itself over until its body hatch was under the rainguard awning.

  The entrance was lit with fluttering candles and glow-globes. Magus-clancular Lezzard and about forty of the Fratery's seers stood in the wind, waiting.

  The body hatch opened, three figures dismounted and strode, side by side, towards the doorway.

  Orfeo Culzean, business-like in a blue suit, flanked to his right by Leyla Slade, dressed in dark red. Her right hand was poised on the butt of the handgun holstered in the small of her back, and she scanned left and right, watching for movements out amongst the dark and the rain-blurred lights of the vehicle.

  At Culzean's left walked Saul Keener, the notorious unsanctioned psyker. He had prospered over the years by offering his skills via Petropolis' black market, and he was always in demand. He was a short, dumpling of a man. His fine clothes spoke of his wealth and his build positively screamed of the obscene high living his art had afforded him. Keener displayed the symptoms of an obsessive-compulsive. He was constantly rubbing his beringed, sausage fingers together, and he had a great many tics and quivers that flapped his round, jowly face.

  Keener held the trigger-orb in his fat hands. He'd had it close to him for several hours, so as to build a sympatico with the incunabula.

  "We look upon you, Orfeo." Magus-clancular Lezzard said.

  "Magus-clancular, thank you for this greeting. Thank you to the Fratery for making us welcome here." Culzean's molten voice somehow cut through the sound of the rain and the flier's panting jet-pods.

  "Enter," Lezzard said. He turned, his exo-skeleton hissing in step with Culzean. Slade and the psyker came behind, trailed by the body of the fraters.

  "Everything's prepared?" Culzean asked as they walked down the entrance hall of the old lighthouse.

  "Everything, to your requirements. It's all prepared."

  "The device I sent you? It's safe?"

  "Perfectly safe, Orfeo."

  They came out into the basement chamber of the lighthouse, a drum of a room, formed from local stock brick and dripping from the sea. The correct number of tapers - three thousand, one hundred and nine - were lit about the place. The device sat in the centre of the floor, silent, surrounded by the scribings. The marks on the stone floor formed a perfect pentagrammic ward.

  They had been made with bone ash, or at least Culzean hoped so, or the night would come to a very sudden, very messy end.

  Inside the outer scribings, the cages of payment waited. The poor human vermin within the iron boxes mewled and scratched.

  "Locals?" asked Culzean.

  "Mostly," said Lezzard. "But some of the fraters too. Those who have suffered the Unholy Macula and who are no use to us as seers."

  "Anything you need to update me on? Anything new? New determiners? Has the Fratery's meniscus revealed any changes?"

  "Some." Lezzard gurgled. He nodded to Stefoy, and the seer handed Culzean a clump of papers on which recent seeings had been scribbled.

  "No. Not important. No," Culzean said, sorting through them and crumpling some to throw aside. "This, interesting. A change in the clouding, here, just an hour or two ago. Suddenly, the prospect is more likely. Why?"

  "We have not yet fathomed it," replied Arthous. "But we are pleased."

  "Curious." Culzean continued to stare at the scrap of paper. "There is a name here. What is it?"

  Leyla Slade leaned over and looked. "Belknap, sir," she said.

  "Belknap. Fascinating." Orfeo Culzean threw the crumpled paper away and looked at the next. "Now this..." he began.

  "We were pleased by that reading," Lezzard said. "It supports your instinct. That man, high-born and powerful though he might be, is the key at this time. The most potent determiner. If he continues in his path, the prospect will fail."

  "So nice to be vindicated." Culzean grinned. "Saul, would you like to take your place and we can get started. I sense a scratchy impatience within the device. Magus-clancular? Withdraw your fraters."

  Lezzard turned and ushered his followers back, until they were lost in the darkness of the basement, behind the candles. Culzean could see their augmetic eyes glowing in the gloom like a gang of cyclopses.

  "Leyla?" Culzean said over his shoulder. "Be ready. Shoot anything that doesn't obey."

  The woman nodded and drew out her Hostec Livery 50. She slid out the dip of standard rounds and slotted in a magazine of specially prepared loads. Then she slunked the slide.

  "Master Keener?" Culzean said. "Go to work."

  Saul Keener raised the trigger-orb and, as he had been instructed, started to slide reality with his mind. It grew cold in the basement of the occulting lighthouse.

  The device in the centre of the floor began to vibrate. It was a small pyramid, wrought in gold and silver. It started to rock and vibrate, as if a charge were passing through it.

  Keener pressed on, turning the orb in his hands. The device continued to quiver.

  "I sense him now." Keener muttered. "Oh, yes. He's coming to my bidding. Oh, yes, here..."

  The three thousand, one hundred and nine candle flames flared and grew taller. The light spread. The little golden pyramid shook again, and then unfolded.

  It didn't unleash a figure. It bent and deformed to create one. The folding golden sides twisted and extended, doming a shape that coalesced out of a mist that spilled from the opening centre of the pyramid. A crouched, hunched figure formed, head down, curled. The golden tracery of the device wrapped itself up and down the figure's limbs, creating armour, an encasing suit, a crested helmet.

  The Brass Thief rose to its feet. Smoke poured off it, gusted from its awakening. It was thin, wrapped in segmented plates of gold and brass, faceless but for eyeslits in the high-crested helm.

  "The incunabula is awake." Keener whispered.

  "Tell it to feast," Culzean said.

  Keener spoke with his mind, via the orb, and the golden figure stepped forward. Warp-smoke dribbled off its golden limbs. It raised its hands and, with a wet click, extended the rhyming swords.

  It took a step towards the nearest cage. The sacrifices within saw it coming and squealed.

  It lashed through the bars, its blades meeting flesh, and began to feed.

  Six minutes later, with the cages reduced to buckled frames full of fuming bones, the incunabula clacked to the edge of the scribing and folded its rhyming swords.

  "It's ready," Keener said, rubbing frantically at his hands. "It's really ready. It's fed and it's yearning to know what is next. It wants to know why you've woken it."

  Culzean nodded. He looked round at Leyla Slade, who had been training her handgun on the incunabula for the last five minutes.

  "Put that away, Ley," Culzean said.

  He took a step forward until just the outer line of scribing separated him from the incunabula.

  "Hello," Culzean said softly. "Remember me? Of course you do. I'm going to show you a name. You know what to do then."

  Culzean held up one of the scraps of paper. "You see? Read it right. Understand?"

  The Brass Thief gently nodded its crested helm.

  "That name is Jader Trice," said Culzean. "Do your worst."

  The Brass Thief rocked and vast metal wings articulated out of its back. The wings flapped and it ascended, turning out of the scribed circle, out of t
he lighthouse. Towards the city.

  TEN

  The speech, which had been elegantly crafted and masterfully delivered, came to an end, and the audience rose to its feet, applauding wildly. The furious approval shook the majestic state banqueting hall, the most regal chamber of the diplomatic palace in Formal A.

  At the head of the fan of crowded tables, the speaker waved his hand and accepted the applause graciously, smiling at the cheers he had raised from the assembled highborn dignitaries of the Manufactory Guild. The guild was one of the most influential bodies in the subsector, representing both state and private business interests, and its leaders were men and women of great learning, wit and commercial acumen.

  And also fools, thought Jader Trice, if they could be brought to their feet in jubilation by meaningless phrases such as "genuine market prosperity", "financial upturn" and "glorious futures for our children's generation" all strung together and said out loud. Of course, it was the way he had said them.

  The guild mistress, Sephone Halwah, got up from her seat beside Trice, shook his hand, and gestured broadly to calm the assembly. The uproar slowly died away.

  Halwah was a tall, poised woman in her one-seventies, who looked a youthful forty-something thanks to the expensive juvenat treatments she had enjoyed. Her hair, the colour of spun gold, was contained in a crispinette of white ribbon behind her round, ermine hat and barbette, and her long gown, covered by the ornately embroidered mantle of her office, was made of ice-white silk and frieze. She raised her goblet. Her gown had long, ballooning sleeves tied with golden thread around her cuffs. Wise, thought Trice, to choose a cut that conceals your elbows, my mistress. It was always the elbows that gave away a woman's true age, no matter how strenuous the juvenat work.

  "My guild fellows," she said. "I would ask you to join me as I pledge a heartfelt thanks to the honoured speaker at our annual dinner, the first provost of the Ministry of Subsector Trade, Sire Jader Trice."

  More applause, and a general, loud toasting as the cups were raised. Almost at once, music struck up from the gallery and attendants hurried forward to clear the tables. Some guests resumed their seats, others moved forward into the open floor space to begin the stately dances.