[Shira Calpurnia 02] - Legacy

by Matthew Farrer - (ebook by Undead)

  “There’s power in it,” Yimora had said. “Whether it’s living power I don’t know. There’s a feel to the really bad ones, Dorel, I don’t know if you’ve ever been close enough to a high-calibre storm to know. A kind of clenched, hungry feel.”

  “What caused it?” asked Domasa. “Do we know?”

  Yimora had given her an odd look. “You’re old enough to know that there’s no easy answer to that. The idea that for every little stir and gust in the warp you can point to a single thing and say ‘that did it’ is a myth for the warp-blind. Waves and echoes have been rebounding back and forth through the immaterium since the Emperor Himself was in swaddling robes. Every thought that every living creature has adds to them, or interferes with them, or breaks them, or makes new ripples of their own. Who can disentangle what does what? I’ve been checking the logs and speaking to some of the others around the high docks. It’s been growing steadily over the past few weeks—just chop and eddy to begin with, but there have been tides coming up from the Rasmawr Gulf that have fed into the thing and been trapped in it. It’s been building up energy ever since. Three days before we came into dock it sent out a shockwave that unhinged a dozen of the more sensitive astropaths in the Pevrelyi Psykana station and gave nearly everyone on the planet screeching nightmares.”

  Domasa hadn’t known about this, but it explained why the shipworks had been so slow to get under way. She had been told by the captain that there had been riots down on the planet and a rash of suicides on the docks themselves. She had heard of severe warp storms leaking out into reality like that.

  All she could hope for now, she thought to herself as she jerked herself out of her reverie, was that whatever menial slobs the Santo Pevrelyi dockmasters had got working on the ship were going to do good work.

  Domasa pushed open the dining chamber doors and peered around. Had this been a ship belonging to the Navis Nobilite, there would always have been servants in here, ready with confectionery and soft music to soothe whichever of their masters had found themselves restless, but there was nothing here now but stale uncirculated air and more dimness. She pushed the irritation out of her mind and bee an a circuit of the room.

  The storm ahead would have been frightening enough under any circumstances, but the storms they had already weathered between Gunarvo and here had weakened the ship. The reactions of the ship’s drives had been strained and the machine-spirit that raged in the heart of its plasma furnaces had become weakened and angered. It was all the ship’s own engineers had been able to do to contain and placate it, and that meant that they had found little time to examine the Geller field, whose generator had also been taxed to its limits keeping the surges of the warp away from the hull.

  The toll on the field engine would not even be known for another day or two—the ship’s crew could perform the rites of initiation and maintenance usual to a warp voyage but the ship’s officers were unanimous that the field needed the attentions of the Adeptus Mechanicus before it would be ready to break warp again. The master engineer had told her of other things: hull stresses and power depletion, anomalies with some of the internal gravity systems that had injured several of the crew, minor things that she had not cared about. All she cared about was when they would be strong enough to face down the monstrous storm that straddled all the quickest routes to Hydraphur.

  There was a whisper. Domasa stopped, cocked her head, took an experimental step. No, it had not been the sound of her skirts on the hide-skein matting that framed the rich carpets in the centre of the room. She put a finger to her vox-piece, checked the settings. No, it hadn’t been anyone trying to hail her. She listened, and heard it again, grinned, and marched toward the trio of doors in the rear of the chamber behind the high table: the private dining rooms.

  Varro Phrax, his wife, his chief attendant with the ridiculous metal head-frills and two others that Domasa didn’t bother to try and put names to were all perched on the dining-couches. They all started up guiltily as though Domasa were a dormitory-mistress who had caught them at some kind of little game after lights out. Later, Domasa would think back on that analogy and laugh, but for now there was too much to do. She jabbed a finger at Varro.

  “Master Phrax. The ship’s apothecarion, if you please. Now.”

  Ksana put a hand on Varro’s arm, but he, to Domasa’s disgust, had already stood. He really was like a puppy—snap an order at him in the right tone and he couldn’t help himself.

  “We were having a…” Varro shot a look over his shoulder. “We were having a private conversation, Domasa. It’s nothing you need to be present for, I assure you.”

  “You may resume your private conversation at any point that pleases you, Master Phrax.” Domasa said. Warpspit, but the man was transparent. “Only not right at this moment, I regret to say. You are needed at the apothecarion. Now.”

  “What’s wrong?” Varro’s face suddenly twisted. “Dreyder? Has something—”

  “Your son is fine, I am sure. It’s you we need. You’re in no danger, don’t worry, I’ll explain on the way.”

  Phrax gave what he probably thought was a knowing nod to the rest of them and stepped out of the room; Domasa could feel the others’ eyes boring into her as she went after him.

  “What is so urgent?” he asked as they marched away. “Surely nobody will be there?”

  “One of the ship’s medicae staff is being roused on my instructions.” Domasa said, “and he should be there and waiting for us. It took me a little while to find you, Varro, after I realised you weren’t in your stateroom.”

  “I’m sorry. Well, I mean, I thought we’d go elsewhere for our, er…”

  “Your private conversation. Of course, Master Phrax. This is your voyage, after all, when one thinks about it.”

  She caught him in her peripheral vision, giving her a dark look. Well, score a point for the man, she thought, he had more about him than she had credited him with.

  “Quite right. How long have you been looking for me?”

  “Some while. We checked the other decks too, or at least the main compartments. We weren’t sure where you were.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to have put you to the trouble. I assure you I’m safe with Rikah and Malon. And what could happen in the depths of the ship anyway?” His expression changed to something Domasa couldn’t quite read out of the corner of her eye. “Do you mean to say that you suspect more traitors in the crew?”

  “It’s nothing like that. Read this.” She pushed the communiqué paper at him. “That should convince you that this is worth running about in the middle of the sleep shift for.” Varro took the paper and carefully uncrumpled it. He peered at it one way and another for the time it took them to walk down the passageway and down the forward well, where a wide curl of ramp led down through three layers of passenger decks, all deserted after Domasa’s syndicate had taken exclusive charter of the ship. The walls of the well were strung with slightly brighter lanterns, in ornate spiked cases fashioned to resemble sunbursts, but even these had been dimmed for the sleep shift and Varro handed the paper back.

  “I can make out references to Hydraphur and my father’s flotilla. Does any of this matter? I’m sure I remember that the succession hearings wouldn’t be able to start until I arrived. What’s changed?”

  “Did you even read the—” Domasa stopped short. After so much time clutched in her hand, the lower paragraphs were smeared into one another, and even in good light the scrawls would have been a challenge. With a small impatient noise she stuffed the paper into the sleeve of her gown and set off down the long passage, twin to the one they had just descended from, which led to the ready-room and the apothecarion.

  “Alright. Our informant tells us that the flotilla has sent a sample of blood from their counter-claimant ahead to Hydraphur so the examinations to prove their half of the case can get under way. There’s a line about a Mechanicus escort or something, but the message had trouble with the warp storm so some of the details got lost.�
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  “They must be sending it to the Mechanicus temple at the Augustaeum. That’s where the tissue samples are traditionally examined when there’s a contest of heredity; said Varro.

  “You knew that already, did you? Well here, Master Phrax, we do indeed have a contest of heredity, as I believe we’ve been at some pains to make clear to you. That’s why we’re marching down to the apothecarion at this damnable hour.”

  “You want a sample of my blood, then. That’s what this is about.”

  “Well done. Presenting you in person will be a tramp card for whenever we manage to arrive there, since we now know that the bloody flotilla has beaten us to the system. But we are not, mark me Varro, we are not going to let them have the whole thing their own way. My associates have a fast warp-runner ready to go, something that has enough power in it to skirt the worst of that storm and still make it to Hydraphur within ten days. What it’s going to be carrying.

  But he had guessed. “A tissue sample of my own.” Varro was puffing a little as they quick-marched.

  Domasa had discreetly picked up the hem of her gown.

  “Blood is all it should need. We’ve got a flask of the same pattern the Mechanicus use to transport samples so we’re pretty sure it’s going to arrive in the system in good condition. Given that we know for a fact that you’re the Phrax firstborn, your blood should tell enough of a story to at least stall whatever the flotilla are trying to pull.” A door slid open ahead of them and white light poured out, making them both blink. “Not nervous about having your blood taken, are you, Varro?”

  “With an occupation like mine? I can’t exactly afford to be, you know. Hah, all they need to do is reopen some of the weals that that Invus glasswood left me when I got careless the day before you arrived.” Some of the animation had come back into Varro’s voice, and Domasa found herself smiling, rather to her own surprise.

  “Before too much longer, Varro, your occupation will be rogue trader and merchant prince. You won’t have to do any undignified rushing about like this, but I fear I have to warn you that you will still have people waiting around corners to draw your blood, albeit in more figurative ways.”

  “That’s a fact I think I’m starting to get used to, Madam Dorel,” said Varro, and walked forward into the whiteness of the apothecarion where a white-and-green-shrouded servitor was already moving forward with a syringe in one delicate hand.

  They stood at the lock and watched through the narrow port as the shuttle carrying the flask in which a vial of Varro’s blood nestled slid backwards out of its berth with a brief spray of white frost as the remnant of the air in the lock escaped and froze. For a moment before it pushed itself into a new trajectory with bursts from its altitude jets they could see the distant shape beyond it of the Noonlight Phoenix, the fastest ship anywhere near Santo Pevrelyi, a sleek four-tiered hull with a flared prow like a snake’s head.

  “Wish her well,” said Domasa. “She’s carrying the opening of your claim. Throne knows I’ll be sending my thoughts with her tonight.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Domasa.”

  “Oh?” Now she had her counter-gambit launched, she felt her tension lifting. She suddenly felt that she could use a good sleep herself.

  “Has the charter ever been held jointly? I mean, have two members of the Phrax family ever owned it between them? I’ve been thinking back over what I know of my family history and I can’t think of it happening, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t.”

  “One charter, one hand, one Phrax, one heir. I trust I’m being clear,” said Domasa as they walked away from the lock. She thought she knew where this was heading, and she had a mind to tread on this line of thought as soon as she could.

  “It just seems so… stupid.” Varro sighed. “You know? I had this whole childhood on the flotilla and then I came of age on Gunarvo and it was all wonderful in so many ways, but… well, I keep thinking that there’s this other Phrax, my half-brother, blood of my blood, another son of Hoyyon that I’ve never known about all this time. And now that I do know about him what’s the first thing that’s happening? We head straight for opposing camps and get ready for war over the spoils from my father’s death. Doesn’t this strike you as wrong?”

  “Try growing up in the Navis Nobilite,” snorted Domasa, surprising herself a little with her candour. “The family affairs of Navigators have probably not given me a very good yardstick to judge questions like yours, but if you’re thinking of letting down your guard and throwing open your arms, then I’ll say think again. Stop and think, really think about what’s at stake here.”

  “I’ve thought about it. My son. That’s what’s at stake. Who’s at stake.”

  “Thinking about the way you will pass on the charter is very noble, and perfectly fitting for the position you aspire to, but before you can get too far with plans like that we need to make sure—”

  “No. Not my son’s inheritance. My son. He’s the one I look at and remember what’s at stake. As you say, Madam Dorel, perhaps your own family circumstances stop you from really understanding.” There was a tone in his voice that set her teeth grinding. Perhaps there were things in the universe she hated more than being condescended to, but she hadn’t found one yet.

  “After all the work that I’ve done for you, Varro, after all the work my associates and backers and I have done to help you to reach Hydraphur and mount a case against this ridiculous counter-claim, I must say that we perhaps expected a tiny degree more co-operation and gratitude.” Her back was ramrod straight and her shoulders back, the way she always held herself when she was angry. “The effort we are making to help you is perhaps something I need to remind you of rather more often.”

  “No, Domasa, you don’t.” He had stopped, now, and waited until she drew level with him. “I am very aware of all the work you have done. The ships you have obtained, Navigators, the medicae help, the support against my half-brother Petronas. And information about him, too, and on the progress of the counter-claim. I’ve noticed that. I’ve noticed that all your talk about treachery and honour when you found what you told me was a spy in our own midst didn’t stop you from cultivating this informant of yours in the flotilla. There seems to be a lot of help that you and these backers of yours—whom you still haven’t fully named or described to me, either—are giving me that even I don’t know about. How else are you helping me, Domasa Dorel?”

  “By putting your spine straight and ready to contest your succession,” she came back without missing a beat. “You don’t know your own best interests, Varro Phrax. If someone doesn’t take you by the hand you are going to sit there with that amiable smile on your face and let a rival you’ve never met stroll by, pluck what is rightfully yours right out of your hand and walk away laughing at you, because you’re somehow worried that reaching out to stop him makes you a nasty person. I didn’t think there really were people like you in the Imperium, Varro. I have trouble believing that you mean all this pious brotherhood stuff even now. But if you do, then you’re luckier to have fallen in with me and my syndicate than you know.” The lateness of the hour was finally starting to tell on her. It was the kind of private thought that Domasa would never have given voice to normally. But Varro only stood there, silent; he gave the Navigator an appraising look that was very unlike his usual one.

  “I know enough to guess, Domasa, what form of gratitude you and your syndicate will be expecting. I do know that much. I believe, in fact, that we understand each other possibly a little better than you realise.”

  The two of them looked at each other for a little while in the dim corridor. Domasa had seen such face-downs on rare occasions in the past, and could usually rely on the strangeness of her features to unsettle the other person enough to get them to walk away first. But, she remembered, Varro was one of the few non-Navigators she had met to whom her appearance didn’t seem to be strange at all.

  “Good,” was all she said in the end, and took her leave of him. It wasn’t until much
later that she realised she had never thought about what Varro and his wife and his staff might have been having a private conversation about, in a private room on a deserted deck in the middle of the ship’s artificial night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Bastion Praetoris, The Wall,

  Bosporian Hive, Hydraphur

  Reverend Simova’s appearance in the court of Praetor Imprimis Dastrom was insultingly brief, an anticlimax. He had been marched into the court to testify and answer questions about how the cages had been commissioned and hung over the Avenue Solar, how Ghammo Stroon (now chained with Symandis in the dock) had been apprehended and sentenced, how the whole ordeal and the handling of prisoners worked, what his own role was. He was stunned and mortified that his mission to Trylan Tor had ended back here, scant kilometres from the Cathedral where it had begun, in a courtroom full of harsh lights and steel fittings with the cadaverous Judge enthroned high above him.

  Simova was not stupid. The Ecclesiarchy worked as hard at keeping citizens’ minds in line as the Arbites did, if not harder, and he knew the rituals, the settings, how to place an accused in awe. The Judge on high, the booming orders and decrees, the quieter tones of the junior examining Judges who unrolled in front of him a clever mix of what the Arbites already knew and what they suspected, lines of questioning hidden inside one another, hunchbacked scribes and blank-eyed auditing servitors recording every word. Why, had he not presided over the trials of heretics and blasphemers using exactly the same strategies?

  The true humiliation: it was working. Simova had walked into the courtroom full of anger at the coarse treatment he had received at the sentry post, and disdain at the Arbites’ belief that the tricks they used on common criminals were going to work on him. “But still he found himself reacting the way he knew they wanted him to: wrong footed, over-anxious to explain himself and fill in the gaps in their knowledge. “You are not on trial here, reverend,” they kept telling him, and he knew that it was a lie. This was a trial if ever he had seen one.