by William King
Two men stood beside the throne. One was tall but stooped, with long fine silver hair and beard. He wore robes similar to the Celestarch’s but trimmed with white fur at the collar. The other was shorter and more intense looking with black hair shot with grey and a well-trimmed goatee beard. He wore the dress uniform of the House with panache and looked like he knew how to handle the sword and bolt pistol clipped to his belt. All three of them bore a distinct family resemblance both to each other and to Gabriella. They were all tall and slender, with fine boned hands and faces, slightly sunken cheeks and large eyes. The Navigators looked up as the three Wolfblades entered.
“Greetings, Torin of Fenris,” said the woman. Her voice was deeper than Ragnar expected. “I see you have brought our latest recruit with you.”
“I have Lady Juliana. May I present to you, Ragnar Blackmane of Fenris and the Wolves.”
“We are pleased to make your acquaintance, Ragnar Blackmane. Advance so that we may recognise you.”
Ragnar did so. He strode forward with all the confidence he could muster, determined not to be intimidated by the wealth of his surroundings or the ancient lineage of the Celestarch. He realised the ostentatious display en route to the presence chamber was designed to impress and intimidate the visitor. He was not going to let it sway him. He would judge the Celestarch on her own merits, just as she must judge him. Such had been the way of the warriors of Fenris with their chieftains since time immemorial.
He stood before the dais and looked up at the Celestarch. If she was offended she gave no sign, nor did the elderly Navigator. The uniformed man scowled but said nothing as he witnessed Ragnar’s swagger. Ragnar thought he sensed amusement radiate from Torin and approval from Haegr.
“I can see you are a true son of Fenris,” said the Lady Juliana, not unkindly. “Step on to the dais.”
Ragnar did so, and noticed not the slightest tremor in the suspensor field, as his massively armoured form rested on it. The platform might look as if it floated like a raft in a swell, but it felt solid once you were on it.
“You have come to swear allegiance to us, Ragnar?”
“I have. You have my word as a warrior and Space Wolf that I will follow you and shield you and obey your commands as I would the Great Wolf himself.”
“I can ask for no more,” said the Celestarch. “Be welcome in House Belisarius, Ragnar Blackmane.”
“I thank you, lady,” A nod told Ragnar he was dismissed, so he bowed and backed off the dais, easily retracing his steps to Torin and Haegr.
“You may go,” said Lady Juliana. All three Wolfblades saluted and withdrew through the archway.
“I think she likes you,” said Torin.
“How can you tell?”
“She kept the formalities short.”
“Who were the other two?”
“The old man was Alarik, the chamberlain, also head of security. The dandy was Skorpeus. He is the Celestarch’s cousin and he thinks he is her advisor.”
“Who cares?” said Haegr. “Let us go and consume vast quantities of beer in a manner suitable for heroes of Fenris.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said Torin. “Come, Ragnar, let us introduce you to one of the delights of Terra — the taverns of the merchants quarter.”
Ragnar felt like saying he was tired and wished to recover from his journey, but there was a challenge in the gaze of both his companions. Torin appeared to be judging him, and Haegr’s manner made it clear that no true son of Fenris would miss such an opportunity. On reflection, Ragnar thought it would not be such a bad thing to do. He was keen to see more of his new homeworld and once his duties had started he might not get an opportunity. It occurred to him that this might be the case for the other two as well. Perhaps they had been assigned to show him around and would be assigned to something else if he left. That being the case…
“Lead on,” said Ragnar. At that moment, the uniformed Navigator Skorpeus emerged from the presence chamber. He was greeted by a hulking figure with a scarred face. The two of them exchanged a few words and then strode over towards the three companions.
“Welcome to Terra, Ragnar Blackmane,” said the Navigator. His manner was smooth and easy, perhaps overly so, thought Ragnar. “I wish you better fortune than your predecessor.”
“Skander died performing his duty. No Wolf could ask for a better death.”
“Perhaps it would have been better for us all if he had succeeded in his duty which was, after all, to keep Adrian Belisarius alive. It would certainly have been better for my cousin.”
Haegr grunted and spat. Torin said, “In his place I am sure you would have found a way to preserve both your lives, noble Skorpeus. Doubtless the stars would have warned you to stay away. Perhaps they did… which is why you were not around when the attack came.”
“The stars did indeed smile on me. Although, of course, it saddens me that my cousin did not heed my warnings.”
Ragnar turned to the Navigator’s hulking companion. He was listening to the exchange intently and showing no sign of emotion. There was a hard competence in his manner that reminded Ragnar of the elite units of the Imperial Guard.
“Did the stars not also predict that you would become Celestarch?” said Torin smoothly. Skorpeus cast him a patronising smile.
“You think that the Elders’ selection of Cousin Juliana invalidates that prediction, do you, Wolfblade?”
“To an untutored barbarian such as me it would look that way.”
Skorpeus’s smile widened. He resembled a gambler who holds a trump card and is about to produce it. “The stars did not predict when I would become Celestarch. Only that I would. It’s something you should keep in mind. I will be your master someday.”
“I think you misunderstand the relationship between Fenris and Belisarius,” said Torin. Ragnar noticed a faint hint of anger in his scent. Although he concealed it well, the Space Wolf clearly disliked Skorpeus.
“Perhaps once I take the throne I shall redefine it,” said the Navigator. He strode off with the jaunty air of a man who knows he has had the last word.
“VVhat was that about?” Ragnar asked, when Skorpeus had disappeared out of earshot.
“That fine specimen of Navigator pride and self-love thinks the stars predicted him being on the throne,” said Torin, swiftly walking in the other direction. “In case you missed it, he is convinced that he should and will be Celestarch. His lackey there, the ape Beltharys, agrees with him.”
“You think Skorpeus would do something to help the process along?”
Torin shook his head. “He would if he could, but there is no way he could influence the selection of the Elders.”
“Who are they?”
“Don’t ask,” said Haegr. “Drink beer instead.”
“I am curious,” said Ragnar.
“They are very mysterious,” said Haegr. “And really you don’t want to know.”
“For once my vast friend is right,” said Torin.
“In what way mysterious?” said Ragnar.
“Most people never see them. To most of the people in this palace they are as invisible as Haegr’s common sense.”
“I hope I am not going to have to thrash you again, Torin.”
“All know that common sense is a quality, Haegr, and therefore noticeable if not perceptible.”
“That’s all right then.”
“You mean no one sees the people who select the ruler of House Belisarius.”
“There are couriers who venture into the Vaults below. They are blind. And the Navigators sometimes go down there too. And I think Valkoth has been. Skander had too.”
“Down there? Vaults?”
“Below this palace is a maze, Ragnar. It is fortified, and sealed off from the rest of the underworld by a ten metre thick moat of reinforced plascrete. It fills every corridor and is riddled with sensors and traps and detectors. The Elders dwell in these Vaults.”
“Perhaps they fear assassination,” said Ragnar.
/>
“You’re very quick, young Blackmane,” said Haegr sarcastically.
“And perhaps they fear something else,” said Torin.
“What do you mean?”
“Now is neither the time nor place to discuss it.”
“It’s one of the Navigators’ guilty secrets, is it?”
“Don’t mock, Ragnar. It may be.”
“Are we going to talk or drink?” demanded Haegr.
“Doubtless you have noticed that our steps are taking us in the direction of the flitter bays, friend Haegr,” said Torin. “And doubtless your mighty brain will have deduced that one of those vehicles will carry us to the tavern quarter. Many of us can perform two tasks, such as walking and talking at once.”
“Are you suggesting that I can’t?”
“You have proven many times your capacity in those arenas. Even as we speak you perform both with diligence. Why then would I suggest otherwise?”
“There is a slipperiness in your manner, Torin, that I like not. A beating may be necessary.”
“Save your energy for the drinking, my friend.”
“I will consider your advice.”
Torin led them to a vast hangar somewhere high on the side of the palace. From its cavernous interior, there was a panoramic view of the skyline of the city. A number of enormous structures glowed in the distance, every window like a small beacon. The running lights formed streams across the skies. Gigantic trains wended their way between buildings and the endless tide of tens of thousands of people. The taste of pollution tainted the air. Ragnar felt a very long way from the cold wilderness of Fenris.
Torin led them over to a small four-man flitter. It bore the markings of Belisarius, a sleek streamlined insect like vessel painted in black and silver. They clambered in and Torin took the controls, handling them as expertly as a Thunderhawk pilot. He quickly ran through the pre-flight invocations, and the engines hummed to life. Moments later the vehicle slid swiftly out into the night.
Ragnar felt a moment’s disorientation as he looked down at the metal and plascrete sliding away below. They were a thousand metres up and rising. Torin was giving his attention to their surroundings and the holosphere gauges. The Belisarius Palace receded behind them. From this vantage point Ragnar could see it was a massive black and silver lozenge with the logo of the House embossed on the side. He knew now that the skyscraper was but the tip of an iceberg: the real domains of the House extended far below the surface to the mysterious Vaults. What could possibly go on down there, he wondered? Why were the Navigators so secretive? What were they hiding?
Another glance showed him that the flitters were all following routes through the sky as distinct as the roadways beneath them. There were vast open spaces occupied by solitary structures that were avoided. He asked why.
“Those are the homes of the other Houses. No one violates their airspace without invitation and clearance. To do so is to risk being shot down.”
Ragnar understood that. Such cordons would be the easiest way to prevent a surface attack and would allow any gunner on the building a clear line of fire at any target — a thing that would not be possible if vehicles crowded the skies above them. It had been what he expected, but he was glad to have his thinking confirmed.
“I thought the Inquisition and the Arbites maintained tight security on Terra.”
“They do, but not everywhere. You are in the navigators quarter now. The whole island is a free zone. The families are left alone and maintain their own security. The Inquisition cannot enter here unless invited or unless there is some flagrant violation of the laws. There is little love lost between the families and the Inquisition.”
“Aye,” said Haegr. “The black-cloaked bastards hate the three eyed devils. None of them are worth a fart, except one or two of the Belisarians, of course.”
“You don’t like it here?” said Ragnar.
“The place disgusts me. I wish I were back on the icefields of Fenris with a herd of elk before me and a spear in my hand.”
“It’s funny,” said Torin. “That time when you saved old Adrian from those fanatics I thought I heard him offer you your heart’s desire. He would have sent you home if you asked. Instead you asked for a meat pie.”
“It was a big pie,” said Haegr. He sounded almost embarrassed.
“It was indeed,” said Torin. “They killed a bull and wrapped it in pastry. Haegr ate it all himself too.”
“It was my reward. I didn’t notice you stepping in the way of any bullets.”
“Is it true you trampled several servants to death as you rushed the table?” said Torin.
“No. None would dare stand between me and such a prize.”
Ragnar was amused listening to them. Their banter reminded him of the cheery insults he had often traded with Sven. But he still felt out of place here. He noticed that the flitter had started to descend towards a tightly packed cluster of buildings. The sky above them blazed with light.
“You said the Inquisition does not come here.”
“It would take little short of open war between the Houses to give them reason,” said Torin. “The Navigators spend enough in bribes to buy a small planet. It ensures their privacy.”
Ragnar was a little shocked by all this talk of bribery. That the heart of the Empire should be so corrupt disappointed him and left him feeling naive. The others seemed to take it in their stride. Perhaps he would too when he had been here as long as they had.
“Are you saying the Inquisition takes bribes?”
“Nothing as blatant as that,” said Torin. “You have to understand how the Imperium works, Ragnar. All the High Lords of Terra spend their time intriguing against each other, jockeying for position, prestige and power. That takes money. The Navigators have a great deal of money. The High Lords and many ranking bureaucrats ensure that the trusted allies who provide them with money are not bothered.”
“The whole planet would be better off if we virus bombed it,” said Haegr. “Except the Emperor’s Palace.”
Torin looked at him.
“And the Belisarians, of course,” Haegr added as an afterthought.
“Only you would suggest virus bombing Holy Terra,” said Torin.
“It would improve the place,” said Haegr.
“Don’t say that too loudly where someone might hear.”
“What will you do if I do?”
“I will attend your funeral after the zealots incinerate you.”
“Bring them on. I do not fear them or the Inquisition. Haegr fears nothing in this galaxy.”
“Zealots?”, asked Ragnar.
“Religious fanatics. Terra abounds with them, as you might expect. It’s not all corruption and luxury. Not everyone can afford them. There are billions of people here on the holy soil who have no comfort but their faith. A certain percentage of them take comfort in killing anyone who does not measure up to their idea of virtue.”
“That’s one of the reasons why the Navigators prefer to be isolated in the middle of this sludge sea,” said Haegr. “The zealots hate them, they call them mutants.”
“They would kill Navigators?” said Ragnar.
“Who do you think killed Adrian Belisarius?” demanded Torin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The tavern was packed with hundreds of people. Sailors, soldiers, merchants and their bodyguards from a thousand worlds had congregated here. Music pulsed loudly. Semi-naked women danced on tables, while others brought food and drink to the customers. The interior had been built to resemble a wooden tavern on some frontier world, but Ragnar’s senses told him that this was an illusion. The beams overhead were in fact painted plascrete, not wood. The walls were panels overlaid on stone. The fire, strangely enough, was real and roaring.
Many animal heads had been mounted on the wall. Ragnar recognised wolf and elk. Strange how some variant of these creatures could be found on thousands of worlds. Ragnar supposed they must have been borne outwards with the original migration fr
om Earth. This idea brought him back to the realisation that this was where it had all started. This was the home world of the Emperor — this was where humanity had originally come from. It was an awesome thought, although he doubted it was passing through the minds of any of the revellers who surrounded them.
It was a testimony to the cosmopolitanism of the crowd that surrounded them that when Torin and Haegr made their way towards a table, no one paid them the slightest attention. It was not something Ragnar was used to. On any world save Fenris a Space Wolf could expect to be greeted with awe and not a little reverence. Of course, it was entirely possible, looking at this crowd, that the revellers were simply too drunk to have noticed three armoured giants moving through their midst.
Haegr had already bellowed orders for food and drink. The landlord greeted him as if he were a long lost brother. “The usual?” he asked.
“The usual!” Haegr bellowed.
Moments later a massive tankard of ale splashed down in front of Ragnar. “Skal!” roared Haegr and raised his stein.
“Welcome to Terra, Ragnar,” said Torin.
“Glad to be here,” said Ragnar, and found to his surprise that it was true. The ale was cold and went down well.
“Not as good as Fenrisian ale, but it will do,” said Haegr. He had already finished one tankard and was proceeding to another. It took a lot of ale to get through a Space Marine’s ability to metabolise poison, and Haegr was obviously helping it along with a beaker of whisky. A few moments later what looked like two whole roasted sheep were set on the table in front of him.
“Are we going to eat all of this?” asked Ragnar.
“This is mine,” said Haegr. “Here’s yours now!” His gesture indicated that another dead and roasted animal was about to be delivered to their table.
“This is just a starter for Haegr,” said Torin, and seeing Ragnar’s look added, “I am not joking. Dig in, or he’ll eat yours before you can have a mouthful.”
From the other side of the table came a noise like a chainsword going through a side of beef. Ragnar was astonished to notice how much of the meat on one of Haegr’s sheep was already gone. Two loaves and a slathering of butter had gone with it. He tore off a haunch of his own and bit into it. It tasted good. The juices flowed over his tongue and down his throat. He washed them down with more ale, some whisky and then some bread.