by Dan Abnett
The exclave was a little system of towers and habitats situated on the north end of the central city arm. Culzean had owned it for twenty years, since a certain deal he'd made, but he'd had the deeds held on the skin of a seneschal, a man in his pay. Now he had returned to claim the site, he'd paid the seneschal off, had the deeds blacked, and was having them rewritten on his own flesh. The seneschal had been remunerated well for his service. And then killed and disposed of by Lucius Worna. Culzean was not a man to take chances.
"We're almost done," Culzean said in idrish.
"Well, hurry up. I have things I want to talk about." Molotch replied. He had wandered around the couch and was examining the inker's needles. He had also spoken in idrish.
Culzean looked at him. "My friend, I had no idea you were fluent."
"I'm not. But it's easy enough to pick up."
"From a few sentences?"
"Orfeo, I believe you still underestimate me."
"He's a wonder," Leyla said brightly. "And he has a trick with a gun too that-"
"What?"
"Nothing."
"It's done," said the inker in Low Gothic, rising.
"Thank you," said Culzean, gathering up his robes as he stood.
"There is the matter of payment, sir," the inker mentioned, delicately.
"I'll cover it," said Molotch in idrish. He weighed the needle he was holding and then, very simply, flicked it. It impaled the inker through the right tear duct, sticking out like an unnaturally long eyelash. The inker wavered. An ink-stained tear track ran down his right cheek. Then he fell, dropping onto his knees initially, then folding at the waist so his upper body crashed face first onto the tiled floor. Leyla Slade winced. The face-on impact had driven the needle in up to the stub.
"Coins would have sufficed," Culzean said mildly. Lucius Worna chuckled a deep, dirty laugh.
"I would like to have a proper conversation with you, Orfeo," Molotch said, taking a seat.
"That sounds ominous." Orfeo replied. "Drink?"
"Secum," said Molotch. Orfeo nodded to Leyla. "For all of us," he said.
"What about-?" Leyla asked, glancing at the inker's corpse, kneeling as if in prayer.
"I don't think he needs anything."
"I meant-"
"I know, Ley. We'll clean up later. Zygmunt here has things on his mind."
Leyla brought the secum in heated drinking kettles. Culzean sipped, and arched his back a little to relieve the pressure on his raw tattoos. "What's on your mind, Zygmunt Molotch?"
Molotch smiled. His smile, like his face, was woefully asymmetrical. "Let me begin by saying I am in your debt. There's no question about that. You pulled me out of Petropolis when my plans came apart, and for six months you have protected me. I was telling Leyla this earlier. I owe you and I appreciate it. There's no guile here. When I can, I will reward you handsomely."
Culzean nodded politely. "And the 'but' is?"
"I fear we are about to clash, you and I," said Molotch. "I broach this topic in the hope that we can avoid such an eventuality. But we will clash, sooner or later."
"Your reasoning?"
"By any reasonable scale, I am an abnormal intellect. An alpha, a plus alpha. With due respect, judging from the time we have spent together, I see you are too."
"Thank you."
"You are a genius, Orfeo. The Cognitae would have been proud to own you."
"Again, thank you. Are you trying to get me into bed, Zygmunt?"
Leyla chuckled.
Smiling again, Molotch shook his head. "We are both manipulators, schemers, plotters. We both discern patterns where others see only nonsense. We can create and drive extravagantly complex ploys and see them to fruition. In short, we are, I fear, too much alike for it to be healthy."
Culzean sipped from his kettle again, and then set it down. "I agree with everything you've said so far. Go on."
"If we work together, we could do unimaginable things. But we are not together in this. You call the shots. You do not confide in me. To begin with, this was expedient. Now, it has become a handicap. There is a real danger we will conflict, and tear each other apart. What I'm saying is, we need to be frank with one another."
"Frank is good."
Molotch rose to his feet. "I'm not playing, Culzean. Since Petropolis, I have been your cargo, your trophy. I am valuable to you. I imagine you could earn a tidy sum by delivering me to all manner of interested parties. That is something I would not tolerate."
"Really?" asked Culzean, sitting back, aware that, behind him, Leyla Slade had risen quietly and Lucius Worna had taken a step closer. "You know, Zygmunt, that sounds ungrateful. I pulled you out of the furnace, but now I'm not useful anymore?"
"That's not what I meant."
"That's how it sounds."
"It sounds like it sounds. I believe we could do great works together. But as partners. Not like this."
Culzean got up and faced Molotch. Slade closed in beside him. "You are alive because I made it so," Culzean said. "You have evaded capture and execution because I made sure of your safety. I have watched over you, schemed to protect you. Worked hard to-"
"I understand-"
"Ravenor would-"
"Ravenor has been behind us every step of the way!" Molotch snarled. "Every step! He has followed us and hunted us and haunted us everywhere we've gone these last six months! He-"
"That's the point," Culzean said, quietly.
"What?"
"That's the point!" It was one of the few times Leyla Slade had ever heard her master raise his voice.
"Where better to hide than in that bastard's shadow?" Culzean asked softly. "You are the most wanted man in the sector, Zygmunt. Where do we go? In, towards the core? Not with your face on every tracking warrant and wanted list. What about out, into the Halo? No... because there's nothing out there! All we could do is hide! To work our magic, you and me, we have to stay inside the system. That's what I've been doing. Ghosting Ravenor's every move. Staying in his shade, in his blind spot. Your great enemy is hiding us by his very presence."
Molotch paused, frowning.
"It wasn't easy to do," said Culzean. "So show me some damn respect."
Molotch took a step backwards. It was rare for him to be blindsided. He groaned. "Oh, Orfeo, this is precisely why we should be working together. Talking to each other. Your strategy with Ravenor is brilliant. I commend it. But you should have told me!"
"Calm down," Leyla said. "Just calm down. Don't make me draw on you twice in one day, Molotch."
Molotch was too exasperated to be mollified. "Draw away, Leyla. You know what happened last time."
Annoyed, Slade pulled her pistol and aimed it at the side of Molotch's head.
"Again with this," Molotch said, making that particular flicking gesture with his right arm. Slade's weapon tumbled up into the air. He caught it.
Her left hand was aiming a las-blunt body pistol at him. "I learn," she said. Behind her, Lucius Worna had quietly unshipped his bolt pistol.
"Oh, put them away, both of you," Molotch said sourly. He looked at Culzean. "We need to start sharing and cooperating right now."
"Why?"
"Because I fear things have gone wrong."
"Wrong?"
"Ignorant of your fine scheme and concerned with the situation, I have put plans of my own in motion. I fear they will now conflict with yours, and that conflict may harm us both."
Culzean sighed. "Throne, Zyg, what have you done?"
As if on cue, the exclave's outer gate bell chimed.
"Visitor," said Leyla.
"See to it." Culzean replied. Leyla holstered her las-blunt and caught her pistol as Molotch threw it. She locked it away and headed out of the room.
Culzean look at Molotch and repeated. "What have you done?"
"I was looking after myself."
"Leave that to me."
"I will, if you keep me informed and remain open to my ideas. We have to work together or we'l
l destroy one another."
"I heartily concur."
Slade returned, trailed by a figure in a long grey storm cloak, the hood up.
"A visitor for our guest," she said.
"Probably not a great idea to entertain with a corpse on the floor." Worna rumbled, glaring at the dead inker.
"I won't stand on ceremony," said the hooded figure. The newcomer turned and faced Molotch. "This is a matter of the most pleasant fraternal confidence."
Molotch smiled. The ancient Cognitae code greeting was like a lost, mournful echo to him. "And I stand ready, in confidence, for a knowing brother," he replied, as was the form.
"Ravenor is quitting this world. His hunt is over," said the hooded figure.
"Good news." Molotch replied.
"There is just the final business to conclude," said the hooded figure.
"Oh, Zygmunt, tell me. What the hell have you gone and done?" Culzean whispered.
"I have made a commitment that must now be honoured," Molotch said. "We must make the best of it." He stared at the hooded figure. "What remains?"
The man drew his hood down and shook out his long, white hair. "All that remains is the most dreadful amount of killing," said Interrogator Ballack.
FIVE
They met in the pavilion of a salon in the depths of Basteen. It was a genteel place, the haunt of fashionable society. Dressed in robes, in jewelled gowns, in all their finery, the grandees of Basteen came to the salon and others like it, to see and to be seen. Carriages and ground cars queued to deposit their passengers under the tented awning where lasdancers and contortionists performed in the twitching brazier light.
Inside, the place was lit by glow-globes and hanging lanterns. Each booth and dining table was screened off in its own tent of white silk, which magnified the lamp light and created a creamy luminosity like vellum. Silhouettes moved across the silk screens. There were the sounds of laughter, of conversation, of clinking glasses, of soft chamber music. The smells were of perfume and obscura, secum and hot, intense chocolate. Servitors hurried to and fro, bearing laden trays.
He took a booth on the right-hand side of the salon, and had ordered amasec and a pot of mud-thick dark chocolate when she arrived. "Drink?" asked Nayl.
She shook her head. She was wearing a black velvet overgown, as rich and black as the night outside, a matching hat with a lace veil, and a stole of jet-dyed fur. She looked regal, like an empress, like the dowager governor of an ancient core world. "Sit, then."
She sat on the satin upholstered couch across from him. Dainty laughter, prompted by some witty remark, peeled like bracelet bells through the white silk wall behind her. She reached her arms up, drew long silver pins out from behind her head, and removed her hat and veil. It was the most sexually charged disrobing he'd ever seen.
"Will your master miss you?" she asked.
"What?"
"Will your master miss you?"
"Oh. No, not tonight. Too much on his plate."
"You?"
"Fenx lets us out." Angharad replied.
"Why did you want to meet with me?"
"You knew my aunt. I would hear you speak of her." Nayl sipped at his amasec. It tasted like molten gold. He couldn't take his eyes off her. "If that's what you want," he said. Nayl felt vulnerable, and it wasn't just the fact that he'd come unarmed because of the salon's potent weapon scanners. When she'd told him where she wanted to meet, he'd been obliged to dress up. A grey linen coat and trousers, a white shirt of sathoni cloth. He felt ridiculous. He felt under dressed. He felt... not at all like Harlon Nayl.
He also felt as if he was committing some kind of betrayal, like an illicit affair. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, especially not Ravenor, and he wasn't quite sure why.
"So, your aunt-" he began.
"Yes."
"Your aunt. Well, I knew her, but my master knew her better."
"Your master isn't going to talk to me. Not openly. I need to know about the blade."
"The blade?"
"Yes, the blade."
"Not your aunt?"
"She died. The clan has come to terms with that. But the blade, Barbarisater. It must be reclaimed."
"Reclaimed?" Nayl asked.
"The steels belong to the clan. This is ancient law. Barbarisater must be reclaimed."
"Well, that's tough. My master has it."
"Your master? Ravenor?"
"No, uh... my previous master. Eisenhorn." Nayl's voice faltered.
"Where is he?"
"Lost. Long lost. Sorry. But I know the blade. Know it well. It cut me."
An expression that he couldn't read crossed Angharad's face. She rose, holding the train of her overgown, and moved around the low table where the drinks and silver chocolate pot had been placed. She sat down on the couch beside him. She gazed at him. The golden buttons on her high-throated black gown came right up under her chin.
"Where?" she asked.
"Where... sorry, what?" he asked back.
"Where did it cut you?"
"Through the body, years ago. Right through me."
Angharad leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were wet and slippery.
She took him by the hand and dragged him up from the couch.
"Going well so far," he murmured.
She kissed him again. Lips locked, they rocked each other back and forth, knocking into the table with their legs, shivering the glasses. His amasec spilled. Her mouth was inhumanly hot, her tongue rapid like a wet snake.
"Here? Really?" he mumbled when their kiss finally parted.
A smile licked across her mouth like a flame across parchment. She gestured at the white silk walls around them and the flickering silhouettes cast upon them, with a casual flip of her black-gloved hand.
"The salon prides itself on privacy and discretion," she said.
"But the walls are thin. Just silk-" he began.
"Are you afraid?"
He nodded. Then they both laughed. They kissed again, bumping into the couch and the table.
"Throne!" he gasped.
She pulled off his coat and yanked open his shirt, tearing the seams apart.
"Where?" she demanded.
"Gut level," he replied, moving against her. She ripped his shirt down further to expose his torso, slick with sweat.
"Where?"
"There!" he whispered, pointing to the thumb-length, dark scar on his knotted lower abdomen, just above his hip.
She dropped to her knees in front of him.
"Oh, well now..." he sighed, blinking.
She kissed the scar. She lingered. Her tongue slid on his flesh. Then she stood again to face him.
"You're stopping there?" he gulped.
Something chimed. She took out her vox.
"My master summons me," she said.
"Throne, really?"
"Really."
She turned and picked up her hat. "You shouldn't be alive," she told him. "Carthaen steel. You are one of a very select group, Harlon. What we call Wyla Esw Fauhn, which means 'spared by the genius'."
"Will I see you again?" he asked, feeling foolish and fourteen the moment he said it.
Angharad smiled. The smile was predatory and thrilling to him.
"Always," she said. Then she pulled back the silk drape and vanished.
Nayl sat down. A servitor peered in through the drape.
"What may I fetch for you, master?" it whirred.
"An amasec. A large one. And also a fresh shirt," he replied.
SIX
"The hobbled bastard was right, then," muttered Inquisitor Fenx.
"You have to hand it to him."
"You do, you really do," replied Ballack.
"Here all the time." Fenx continued. He slid down out of the halted carriage into the gloomy side street. "And we laughed at his hunch."
"Ravenor is old and experienced," Ballack said, clambering out to join Fenx. "What was it he said?"
"He has faith." Ballack spok
e the word as if it was dirty. "He knows his business."
"I will have to make my apologies to him." Fenx decided. "Glory Myzard will have to make her apologies too. Now I understand why he's so highly regarded." Fenx looked at Ballack.
"Provided, of course, that this is confirmed. This is confirmed, I take it?"
"The intelligence is immaculate," said Ballack. "Gathered from eight separate spy units, and corroborated by gene sensors. Molotch is here."
"We have him cold?"
"We have him cold, sir."
Fenx torched up the power to his black body armour. There was a whine, gathering in pitch. Green signal lights lit off around his high collar. He unshipped his bolter and racked it twice. "Bring them up," he ordered.
Interrogator Ballack nodded. The others dismounted from the waiting carriages. D'mal Singh and her gunhounds, Shugurth, Claudel, Mentator. "Where's Angharad?" Fenx asked.
"On her way. She's signalled."
Fenx shook his head. "We can't wait for her. Not with the target in sniffing range. We commence."
"We commence!" Ballack called to the waiting figures.
"Not like that," grumbled Tarkos Mentator, the old savant. He hobbled forward on his cane. "Not with firearms."
"What?" Fenx spat.
Mentator shrugged as if in the most humble of apologies. He aimed a palsied hand at the dark building before them. "Your prey, sir, has made his nest in a house of generation. Public generation 987, to be accurate, serving the western district of Basteen. Quite apart from the power cells contained in this place, there are volatile chemicals held in suspension. Use of firearms would be a very bad idea."
"Because?" Fenx asked. He caught himself. He was sounding stupid. "Because we'll blow ourselves to hell, right. Thank you, savant." He holstered his bolter. "Muzzle your firearms!" he ordered, drawing a short, curved sword.
Claudel put away her plasma pistol and pulled out two bloodletting sickles, one in each hand. Cursing, Shugurth patiently detached his cannon from his shoulder socket, put it back in the carriage, and hefted up a war axe with a long, knurled grip.