by William King
“That I shall do, master Ragnar,” said the scribe before flitting off down the corridor. Ragnar gave his attention back to his surroundings. He realised that he was checking for cover, and points of ambush. He was treating these hushed, carpeted halls as if they were a battlefield he was going to have to fight on. It was a measure of his worry that he should be thinking this way.
Superficially there was no reason to be nervous; everything seemed to be fine. The guards looked alert. The people coming and going gave no sign of treachery. It was just him, he guessed. He was on edge. Terra had done that to him. That there were traitors here, and they had not been smoked out, might have something to with it too, he thought sourly.
He strode towards his chamber. He needed rest. No need to be so worried yet, he told himself. No need at all.
“You will strike tonight,” said Cezare, stroking his upper lip with one thick finger.
Xenothan regarded the head of House Feracci warily. In his heart of hearts he loathed the man. For all his power and pride in his ancient lineage, he was nothing more than a mutant. It was an abomination that his type should sully the sacred soil of Terra. He considered these thoughts with bitter amusement. If this man is a mutant, then what are you, he asked himself? The answer came back at once. Better. And despite all the implants and all the bio-surgery, he was at least human.
“Indeed, Lord Feracci. We will strike tonight. You need have no fears. After this evening you will have far fewer enemies.”
Cezare smirked in a way that irritated Xenothan. He would have liked nothing more than to take one of his most interesting toxins and inject Feracci with it. While the man died he could have regaled him with details of which excruciating agony would strike him next. Xenothan was not naturally a cruel man, but Cezare was a mad dog, and should be treated like one.
“The Brotherhood are in place?” Cezare asked.
“Their troops are ready.”
“Your agents?”
“They know what is happening. They know tonight is the night. The death of Gorki is their signal. The way into the Belisarius Palace will be clear.”
“See that you do not fail,” said Feracci, leaning forward to sniff one of the orchids that floated in a suspensor vase before him.
The arrogance of the man is breathtaking, Xenothan thought. Still, that would be dealt with soon enough. Once the Belisarians had been brought low, his patron would want this posturing buffoon ground into the dirt as well. Let me see, thought Xenothan, what would I use on you? Something slow, and something that would ensure that your pride suffered as well as the rest of you.
Borac would make you vomit, he thought, and you would taste again all those subtle foodstuffs you so love to indulge in on your tongue, although this time they would be laced with your own stomach acid. Childish, Xenothan told himself, and not nearly subtle enough. It would be like using avierel, the victims of which voided their bowels as they died in howling agony. Perhaps something that would make him mewl and beg? Scorse suppressed certain centres of the brain that allowed decision-making, thereby reducing its victims to mindless drones.
No, he thought, that was a drug for pleasure slaves. He shook his head slightly. It was a pretty dilemma.
“You are sure the Wolfblades will give you no problem?” It was almost laughable, Xenothan thought, the way Cezare looked around furtively as he said it. It was as if he thought the accursed Fenrisians could overhear him. He felt like saying their senses are keen, but not that keen, milord. But he did not. He kept a carefully schooled look of rapt deferential attention on his face as he said, “None, milord. If any of them get in my way, they shall die.”
“It’s those who get in their way who tend to die,” said Cezare, the way he smiled showed it was not entirely a jest.
“With all due respect, milord, none of those others had my talents.”
“Your talents,” said Cezare with soft mockery. “It’s about time you displayed those highly lauded talents.”
Xenothan let the man’s words slide off him. It would not do to let himself be baited, he thought, but he made a small note in the mental file he kept of all those upon whom he would avenge himself. The list of the living in that file was very short, the list of the dead very long. Someday soon, Cezare would make the transition from one side of the ledger to the other. Not today though, Xenothan thought. Today, he had other business. “I believe you will find the results satisfactory, milord,” was all he allowed himself to say.
“I had better,” said Cezare. “After all the money I have ploughed into your master’s coffers.”
“Tour financial arrangements are something best discussed with him,” said Xenothan smoothly. Take up that challenge if you dare, he thought. Not even Cezare Feracci would want to confront a High Lord of the Administratum without much a better reason than that. It was best to remind him that there were some things that even the head of one of the greatest of the Navigator Houses need fear. He saw Cezare pause to consider this. He knew that Xenothan’s master could crush him just as easily as he was going to crush the Belisarians.
The nice thing about the Navigators was that there was always some House that wanted to do the dirty on its enemies. It was not hard to find allies among the factions, even against their own kin. It was a fact that Cezare was well aware of. Still, he was not going to allow Xenothan to get away with having scored a point.
“How do you propose to deal with the Wolfblades? They seem remarkably adept at avoiding mortal weapons.”
“They are men, like any others, a bit faster, a bit stronger, and a bit more fierce, but believe me there are things in this universe that make even Space Marines seem feeble.”
“And you are one of those, are you?” Cezare made no attempt to hide his mockery.
“I am one, yes,” said Xenothan, with absolute certainty. “And I have weapons against which they cannot prevail.”
“What would those be?” said Cezare. His face was smooth, but his interest was obvious. Weapons that could prevail against Imperial Space Wolves would be worth a fortune on the open market, and Cezare, for all his pretensions of being an aristocrat and a connoisseur of art, was at heart a merchant. A mutant and a merchant, thought Xenothan with some contempt. It was hardly a happy combination.
“There are certain secrets it is best not to be privy to,” said Xenothan quite truthfully. “Secrets men have been killed for knowing.”
Cezare nodded, able to take the hint, and yet Xenothan could see the wheels moving behind his eyes. Here was a man who would never rest until he had found out what Xenothan was talking about. Not that it truly mattered. He would be dealt with long before those plans came to fruition.
It would never do for him to know what only very few in the Administratum knew. That within certain dark and almost forgotten departments of the Inquisition, there were small units of scholars and alchemists who had been working on the Adeptus Astartes problem since the time of the Heresy. It was a problem having such powerful, uncontrollable and near invulnerable groups at large within the Imperium, particularly as they were under no man’s direct control. These hidden inquisitors had for millennia been working on methods of controlling or even slaying the Space Marines, and their research had borne strange fruit.
Xenothan smiled, thinking of the vial of potent toxin he carried on his person. It acted directly on the gland that the Space Marines used to neutralise poisons, temporarily overloading and confusing it. Ultimately, it turned the gland itself into a weapon against its owner. When the poison entered a Space Marine’s system, he would be paralysed for a short time — not enough for an ordinary man to take advantage of — but for someone like Xenothan, a heartbeat would be more than he needed.
Of course, the poison was rare, produced only from the first blossoms of the rare Mercurian Swamp Orchid, and it was very secret. It would never do for enemies of the Imperium to acquire it, or for the Astartes to find out about all of those black research programmes. But it did exist, and Xenothan possessed some. Soon
he would use it. He had to confess that he was quite looking forward to it. It had been a long time since he killed a Space Marine. Tonight, he thought, he would kill many.
“You look like a cat who just swallowed a canary,” said Cezare.
Xenothan smiled, although he was inwardly shocked by his lapse. “I am merely thinking of your impending victory. Tonight, at one stroke, all of your enemies will be removed and the Belisarians will be your puppets.”
“Why do I find it so hard to believe the prospect of my victory makes you so happy?”
“Because it is our victory. Tonight your enemies die. Tonight I get to kill them. Tomorrow you will be primus inter pares - first among equals— which we both know means you will be lord of all Navigators.”
“Very well. See to it that nothing goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong from my end. See that your pawn keeps his part of the deal. If he does not, many people will have cause to regret it,” Not the least you, my over-ambitious friend, thought Xenothan. It was gratifying that he did not have to speak the threat aloud for Cezare to grasp it.
Ragnar could not sleep. It would not come. Something was not right. He could feel it in the air. The beast within him snarled, and he understood its unease, if not its source. He rose from his bed and strode through the corridors. He passed Haegr’s chambers but the big man was not there. Tonight he was on duty.
He took himself off to the library. He wanted to find a book, something that would distract him. He was surprised to meet Gabriella in the corridor. She was garbed in her dress uniform and smiled at him. “You are up late,” she said. “Or is it true that Space Wolves never sleep?” She smiled to show him she was joking.
“I could say the same for you.”
“I have been attending the Celestarch. We were all summoned to conclave. With Gorki’s death will come a great deal of horse-trading as the Houses seek to gain advantage in the negotiations for the throne.”
“You think Misha Feracci will get it?”
“Not if Lady Juliana has any say in the matter.”
“The conclave has ended?”
“The Celestarch has gone to the Vaults to consult with the Elders.”
Once more the mysterious Vaults, Ragnar thought. What is down there?
“She fell into step beside him. Where are you going?”
“I thought I would visit the fabled library of Belisarius.”
“You have decided to become a scholar now?”
“I am hoping to find a history sufficiently tedious to bore me to sleep.”
“What is it? You look pensive.”
“I had not realised I was so easy to read.”
“You would not be had I not spent ten years in the service of Wolves. Now I can tell a thoughtful frown from an angry one.”
“I do not know. There is something in the air tonight that I do not like.”
“You sound like Valkoth. He was saying the same. He ordered the patrols redoubled before he escorted the Celestarch to the Vaults.”
“Did he now?” Ragnar was not reassured. If he were not the only Wolf to feel like this, perhaps there was something more to it than mere unease. Valkoth was a veteran. His instincts for danger would be keen.
“Yes. He has Torin and Haegr supervising the guards. He muttered something about wishing more of the Wolfblades were here but they were needed elsewhere.”
Ragnar nodded. There was a small pattern emerging here. This evening there were far fewer Wolfblades present than normal. If someone knew their schedules they could choose such a night to strike.
But it was a big if. Those were facts known to very few outside the inner circles of the Belisarius clan.
Still, he thought, what could possibly go wrong here, within the fortified stronghold of Belisarius?
Skorpeus moved towards the lower entrance. The guards here were fewer and saluted him as he passed. He returned their salutes easily and nodded to those he knew So far, so good, everything was going according to plan. He circled and stopped to speak to the two at the security console.
“Everything in order?” he asked. They nodded and saluted.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. Lord Valkoth has ordered a third order alert this evening.”
Inwardly Skorpeus cursed. The Wolves were wary indeed. Valkoth’s instincts were sound. He hoped the Wolfblade had not picked up anything from his scent. No, it was impossible. They could not read him and the proof was that he was still here. If they could sense anything he would be in an interrogation cell, right now.
Calm down, he told himself. There will be no cell for you. One way or another. The poison capsule will see to that. There was no need for such thoughts. Had not the stars foretold he would become Lord of Belisarius? It would be so even if he required Cezare Feracci’s help. There would be time enough afterwards to show Cezare that he would be no mere catspaw. Now all he had to do was let Cezare’s tame assassin in.
He made a mental note to find out how the Lord Feracci had managed to corrupt one of the Imperium’s most deadly killers. Such knowledge would be an invaluable tool.
“We know, sir, but still it’s all clear.”
“Very good,” he said, striding behind the men at the console and studying the holosphere. Security in the area was indeed all clear. Except for one thing. He glanced left and right and saw no one. He slid the weapon from its holster and put it to one of the men’s backs. He pulled the trigger. The man fell forward, coughing blood.
“What is going on?” he asked the other guard. The man looked at him confused. “Is he sick?”
“I don’t know, sir—” The man’s words were cut off as the blast took him in the kidneys. The traitor pushed him aside and sat down in front of the holosphere. He passed his hands over the master control runes and began the cryptic invocations that would open the secured doors.
He knew that at best he would have only a few minutes. The tech-adepts would most likely assume that this was some sort of system error, and send someone to investigate. Unless those accursed Wolfblades sensed something, he thought. Well, it was too late to worry about that now. Green lights changed to red as the security doors opened. There were several of them, and their locations were known to but a few. They were meant for evacuating the palace if things went terribly wrong.
Tonight, though, they would be used for another purpose.
He rose from the command desk and moved to the security doors. They slid open to reveal a mass of black-clad masked figures led by the man he recognised as Xenothan.
“What is this?” he asked the assassin. “You need help to kill one woman?”
“There’s been a slight change of plan,” said Xenothan. Only then did Skorpeus realise that the gun in the assassin’s hand was pointing directly at him. It was the last thing he ever saw.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Xenothan looked down the corridor. It was all clear, as he had expected. Already the Brotherhood men were fanning out, heading for their objectives. Some stripped off their coveralls to reveal the uniforms of Belisarius servitors, others moved towards the lower depths in full military gear. A few squads moved with feral grace into the vents overhead. Two men moved to the console and began patching themselves into the security systems.
It was amazing, Xenothan thought, just how much damage a well-motivated team could cause in a contained environment like this. The very self-sufficiency in air and water that made the palace a mighty fortress could turn into a dreadful weakness once the walls were breached. Contaminated water and air would see to that.
Don’t be too sure, he told himself. There were backups for the backups and many, many layers of security. It never paid to be over-confident. Still, this mission had been planned for decades, and he was fairly sure they had accounted for all contingencies. He smiled and his facial muscles flexed, pulling his skin into a new configuration. He looked almost exactly like Skorpeus now, and he had the man’s dress uniform and security talismans. There had be
en no blood. The poison dart had seen to that.
He doubted that anybody except another Navigator could tell that his implanted pineal eye was an artful fake, and if any Belisarian Navigator got that close, he was a dead man. Then there were the four Wolfblades, Xenothan told himself with relish — they would see through the disguise in a moment. His scent would give him away if nothing else did. Still, the same thing applied to them as applied to the Navigators. If they got that close they would be dead.
“Let’s get going,” he said. The fanatics moved on with gratifying swiftness.
Sergeant Hope watched the new servants move down the corridor. One of them was very pretty, he thought, perhaps once he was off-duty he would seek her out for a chat. Just then he noticed something from the corner of his eye. He turned swiftly and saw a man he did not recognise wearing the uniform of the House. The man moved with a sense of urgency. A squad of troops followed behind him.
“What is it?” Hope asked.
“Security breach,” said the officer. “Come with me.”
“We can’t leave our posts,” said Hope. He tried not to sound as if he was keen to avoid work. He tried to sound like a man who was doing his duty. “We have to guard the inner core.”
“Lot of precious books in that library,” said the officer. “But the order comes straight from Valkoth.”
There was something in the man’s tone Hope did not like. “Show me the authorisation.”
“Certainly,” said the man, holding out his hand. There was something metallic in it. It was the last thing Hope noticed before his brains decorated the wall.
“What was that?” Ragnar asked.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Gabriella. “But then I do not have the keen senses of a Wolf,” There was a note of mockery in her voice and a challenging expression on her face. It vanished when she looked at Ragnar.
“Wait here,” he told her, moving down the corridor, his feet near silent on the ancient flagstones.