by Dan Abnett
Aemos sipped his hot, sweet drink. 'Base Futu, the language of the Ves-sorine janissaries/
'Really? Are you sure?'
'Reasonably so/ he said. The man has a repatriation bond written on his skin/
I considered this news. Vessor was a feral world on the rimward borders of the Antimar sub-sector that bred a small but hardy population famous for its vicious fighters. Attempts had been made to form a Guard regiment there, but the Vessorine were hard to control. It wasn't that they lacked discipline, but they found loyalty to Terra too cerebral a concept. They were bonded into dan families, understanding simply the material wealth of land, property, homestead and weapons. As mercenaries, therefore, they excelled. They would fight, peerlessly, savagely and to the death, in the Emperor's name, provided that name was stamped on high denomination coinage.
No wonder the attack on Spaeton House had been so direct and efficient. In hindsight it was remarkable any of us had got out alive. I was glad I hadn't known who they were at the time. If I'd been told I was facing Vessorine janissaries, I might have frozen up... instead of charging them head on to rescue Medea.
I took off the cloak Aemos had lent me, and also my leather coat, and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt. The sun was warming the drawing room. I had just taken the pistol out of my belt to check it when Crezia came into the room. She was peeling off surgical gloves and when she saw the gun in my hands, her already sour look became fiercer. She pointed sharply at me and then gestured outside.
'Now/ she said, curtly.
I pushed the weapon into the folds of the cloak on the table and followed her out, across the hall into a sitting room hung with oil paintings and hololithic prints. The shutters in here were still shut and she made no attempt to open them. She turned up the lamp instead.
'Shut the door/ she instructed.
I pushed the door shut. 'Crezia-' I began.
She held up a strong, warning finger. 'Don't start, Eisenhorn. Just don't. I'm this damn close to throwing you out! How dare you c-'
'Medea/ I interrupted firmly. 'How is she?'
'Stable. Just about. She was shot in the back with a laser weapon and the wound was left untreated for several hours. How do you think she is?'
'She'll survive?'
'Unless there are complications. She's on life support in the basement suite/
Thank you, Crezia. I'm in your debt/
'Yes, you damn well are. You're unbelievable, Eisenhorn. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years! I don't see you, I don't hear from you and then you turn up, unannounced, uninvited, armed and on the ran, so it would appear, with one of your party shot. And you expect me just to take this in my stride?'
'Not really, I know it's a terrible imposition. But the Crezia Berschilde I knew could cope with an emergency now and then. And she always had time for a friend in need/
'A friend?'
Yes. You're the only person I can turn to, Crezia/
She snorted scornfully and tugged off her apron. All those years, I was happy to be the one you could turn to, Gregor. And you never did. You kept me at arm's length. You never wanted me involved in your business. And now...' She let the words trail off and shrugged unhappily.
'I'm sorry/
You bring guns into my house-' she hissed.
'I probably shouldn't tell you about the mercenary tied up in my speeder then/ I said.
She snapped round to look at me, incredulous, and then shook her head with a grim smile. 'Unbelievable. Twenty-five years and you roll up at dawn, bringing trouble with you/
'No. No one knows I'm here. That's one of the reasons I came/
'Are you sure?'
I nodded. 'Someone raided my residence last night. Razed it. Murdered my staff/
'I don't want to hear this!'
4Ve barely got out alive. I needed sanctuary and medical help for Medea. I needed to find somewhere I knew would be safe/
'I don't want to hear any more!' she snarled. 'I don't want to be tangled up in your battles. I don't want to be involved! I have a nice life here and-'
"You do need to hear it. You need to know what's going on/
'Why? I'm not going to get involved! Why the hell didn't you go to the arbites?'
'I can't trust anyone. Not even the authorities, right now/
'Damnation, Eisenhorn! Why me? Why here?'
'Because I trust you. Because my enemies may have every known associate of mine on the planet under observation, every arbites precinct, every office of the Ministorum and the Imperial Administratum. But our relationship is secret. Even my closest friends don't know we were ever associated/
'Associated? Associated? You know how to flatter, you pig!'
'Please, Crezia. There a few things I need to do. A few things I need to arrange. A little help I need to ask of you. Then we'll be gone and you'll never have to worry about this again.'
She sat down on a chaise and rubbed her hands together anxiously.
'What do you need?'
'To begin with, your forbearance. After that... access to a private vox-link. I'll need you to summon an astropath, if that's in any way possible, and also have your man purchase clothes and other items for us.'
'The town tailors will be closed today'
'I can wait.'
There may be clothes here.'
'Very well.'
There's a vox-link in my study.'
I went look in on Medea, who was sleeping peacefully in the scrubbed medical suite built into the basement of Crezia's town house, and then retired to the room Phabes had prepared for me. Eleena and Aemos were in adjoining rooms, resting.
1 bathed and shaved, doing both activities on automatic as my mind worked things through. I discovered my body had acquired several new bruises since the day before and a las-graze across the thigh I hadn't even noticed. My clothes were dirty, torn and smoke-damaged, and the breeches were covered in burrs and sticky grass seeds.
Phabes had laid some clothes out in my room, several changes of male attire. I recognised they were my own. I'd kept clothes here over the years, mostly soft, informal wear to change into when I visited. Crezia had stored them. I didn't know whether to be delighted or alarmed. All these years, and she hadn't thrown out the possessions I'd left in her territory. They were fresh too, as if aired or laundered regularly. I realised that Crezia Berschilde had always expected me to return one day.
Perhaps it was the manner of my return that had upset her - that I came back for her help and not simply for her. I couldn't blame her for that. I wouldn't be pleased to see me now, considering the trouble I was in. And not if I had broken all links of friendship two and a half decades before.
The chapel bells were ringing in the town below, calling the faithful for worship. Lakeside inns were opening up, and the smells of roasting and herbs were carried on the breeze.
I chose a dark blue cotton shirt with a thin collar, a pair of black twill trousers and a short flat-fronted summer jacket of black suede. The boots I had been wearing the night before would have to make do, but I scrubbed them clean with a cloth. I wanted to tuck the pistol into my jacket, but I knew how Crezia felt about guns, so I left it, with Barbarisater and the runestaff, under the mattress of my bed. The sacks of scrolls and manuscripts Aemos and I had rescued from Spaeton were with him in his room.
I had little else with me: my signet ring, a short-range hand vox, some coins and my warrant of office - a metal seal in a leather wallet. It was the
first time since Durer that I missed my rosette. Fischig still had that, wherever he was.
As I hung my leather coat up in the wardrobe, I felt a weight in it and remembered I did have something else.
The Malus Codicium.
It was an infernal book, thrice damned. I knew of no other copy in existence. One half of the Inquisition would kill me to get their hands on it, the other half would burn me for having it in my possession.
Quixos, the corrupt veteran inquisitor I had finally brought to account on Far
ness Beta, had built his power upon it. I should have destroyed it when I destroyed him or at least surrendered it to the ordo. I had done neither. Using it, secretly studying it, I had increased my abilities. I had captured and bound Cherubael using its lore. I had broken open several cult conspiracies thanks to the insight it had given me.
It was only a small thing, fat, soft-covered in simple black hide, the edges of its pages rough and hand-cut. Innocuous.
I sat down on the corner of the bed and weighed it in my hands. Splendid mid-morning sunlight shone in through the casement, the sky was blue, the slopes of the Itervalle visible from the rear of the house a soft lilac. But I felt cold and plunged into darkness.
I'd never really thought about why I had saved that hideous work for my own ends. Knowledge, I suppose. Curiosity. I had encountered prohibited artefacts many times in my life, the most notorious being the accursed Necroteuch. That loathsome thing had possessed a life of its own. It stung to the touch. It lured you in and coerced you into opening it. Just to be near it was to poison the mind.
But the Codicium was silent. It always had been. It had never seemed alive, like the other toxic, rustling volumes I have encountered. It had always been just a book. The contents were disturbing, but the book itself...
I wondered now. The moment it had come into my possession, things had started to change. Starting with Cherubael and on, on to the bleak events on Durer.
Maybe it was poisoning me. Maybe it was twisting my mind. Maybe I had crossed far too far over the line without realising it, thanks to its baleful influence.
Perhaps that was a measure of how evil it was. That it was painless. Invisible. Insidious. The moment you touched the Necroteuch, you knew it was a vile thing, you knew you had to resist its seductive corruption. You knew you were fighting it.
But the Malus Codicium... so infinitely evil, so subtle, seeping slowly into a man's soul before he even knew it.
Was that how a servant of the Emperor as great as Quixos had become a monster? I had always wondered why he had never seen what he was becoming. Why he was so blind to his own degeneration.
I opened the drawer of my night stand and put the book inside. As soon as we were clear of Ravello, I would have to deal with it.
I went down to Crezia's study and found the vox-link. There was a hololithic pict unit too, and I tuned that in. Morning broadcasts, weather, planetary news. I watched for some time but there was no mention of any incident in the Dorsay region. I had anticipated as much, but it was still unnerving.
I used the vox and listened in to the Imperial channels, eavesdropping on arbites frequencies, PDF transmissions, Ministorum links. Nothing. Either no one knew what had happened the night before at Spaeton House, or they were staying ominously silent.
I needed an astropath. If I was going to contact anyone, it would be off-world. I had no choice.
I really couldn't trust anybody on the planet.
The flier was still parked in the back courtyard. Phabes had been good enough to run a power cable from the house and the craft's batteries were recharging.
It was hot in the yard. Insects buzzed in the thick spill of flowering bucanthus that covered the side wall.
The mercenary was awake. He twisted his head from side to side as he heard me approach, blind and dumb.
I tore the tape from his mouth and then filled a dish-cup with water from a bottle I had borrowed from the kitchen. I held it up to his mouth.
'It's just water. Drink it.' He pursed his lips and turned his head away.
'You'll dehydrate in this heat. Drink.'
He refused again.
'Look, if you dehydrate, you'll become weak and far more vulnerable to my questions and mind probes.'
He paused and swallowed, but then shied away from the cup again as I brought it up.
'Have it your way,' I said and put the dish down. The Vessorine were famously hardy. It was said they could go without food or water for days when battle demanded it. If he wanted to show off, it was fine by me.
I rose and went over the body of the speeder carefully. I had borrowed a scanner wand from Crezia's study, and set it to detect high and low band signals... transponders, beacons, codes. I found nothing. For good measure. I swept the Vessorine too. Both flier and prisoner were clean. If the mercenaries were looking for us, they wouldn't find us because of the craft or pilot.
It had taken me half an hour to sweep the vessel. I went back to the pilot. The mid-morning sun was now high enough to throw sunlight in through the flier's side hatch, and he was obviously feeling the heat because he'd drawn his legs up into what shade remained.
I offered the water again. No response.
'Tell me your name/ I said.
His jaw clenched.
'Tell me your name/ I repeated, using the will now.
He shuddered. 'Eino Goran/ His voice was dry and slurry.
'And before it was Eino Goran, your name was what?'
'Nngh...'
His resolve was strong. The Vessorine were a blunt race, with a high frequency of untouchables. Part of their martial training was to learn methods of resisting interrogation, and at first I thought he might have some well-developed mind-trick to wall out psychic impulsions.
But as I questioned him further, I began to suspect it was more to do with the emplated identity he was wearing. I'd tried to pick it away, but it still wouldn't budge. Crude and simple it may have been, but it was psychically riveted into place. Part of that profound fixture, I was sure, was acting as a screen. It wasn't that he wouldn't answer. He couldn't.
'Gregor?'
I looked out of the hatch and saw that Crezia had come out into the yard. 'Gregor, what the hell are you doing?'
I got out of the flier and drew her back towards the garden doors. The Vessorine had undoubtedly heard her use my name. It couldn't be helped.
That man's tied up like damn cygnid!' she said.
That man would kill me given the chance. He's tied up for all our sakes. I have to ask him questions/
She glared at me. She had changed into a long gown of blue satin with an epinchire trim. Her straw-blonde hair was tightly braided behind her head and held up by two golden pins. She was beautiful and haughty, just as I remembered her. Crezia had high cheekbones, a generous mouth, and pale brown eyes given to expressions of passion and intelligence. The only passion I had seen in them since my arrival had been fury.
'Like a cygnid/ she repeated. 'I won't have it. Not in my house/
Then what do you suggest? Have you a secure room, one that can be locked from outside?'
'Provide you with a cell for him? Pah!' she scoffed.
'It's that or the flier/
She thought about it. 'I'll have Phabes clear out a box room upstairs/
'No windows/
They all have damn windows! But the room I'm thinking of has just a small vane-light. Not big enough for anyone to get through/
Thank you/
'I want to check him over/
It was no good arguing. She inspected the man carefully.
'Don't be alarmed. I'm Doctor Cr-'
'He really doesn't need to know your name. Or mine. Think about it/
She drew a deep breath. 'I am a doctor. I'm only going to check on your health. Do you have a name?'
He shook his head.
'He's using the name Eino Goran.'
'I see. Eino, this situation is unpleasant, but if you co-operate with me, and with Gr... with my associate here, it will work out for the best. Soon.'
Associate. I could feel the spiteful relish she put into that word.
Crezia looked at me disapprovingly. 'He needs to drink and eat. Drink particularly, in this heat.'
Tell him, not me.'
You need to drink, Eino. If you don't drink, I'll have to put you on a fluid drip/
He allowed her to feed him the dish, and sipped slowly.
Very good/ she said. Then to me, 'His bonds are far too tight/
'T
hat's not going to change/
'Then get him up and walk him round a little. Tie his hands the other way/
'Later perhaps. If you knew what he was, what he has done, you wouldn't be so humane/
'I'm a officer of the Medicae Imperialis. It never matters what they've done/
We went back into the drawing room.
'His identity is emplated. I need to get past the barriers/
'To find out who he really is?'
To find out who he's working for/
'I see/ She sat down and bit at a fingernail. She always did that when she was troubled.
'You have medical stocks here. Zendocaine? Vulgate oxybarbital?'
'You're joking?'
I shook my head and sat down opposite her. 'Deadly serious. I need a psychoactive or at least an opiate or barbiturate to loosen his will power/
'No. Absolutely no way/
'Crezia...'
'I will not be party to torture!'
'It is not torture. I'm not going to hurt him. I just need to open his mind/
'No/
'Crezia, I am going to do it. I have the mandate of the Holy Inquisition to perform interrogation, and these circumstances permit me an even greater latitude of emergency powers. Wouldn't you rather it be done under your expert supervision?'
In the latter part of the afternoon, we brought the Vessorine inside, and put him in the box-room Phabes had cleared. There was nothing in the room but a bedframe and mattress. I removed his blindfold and then covered him with the autopistol as Aemos removed his bindings.
Crezia looked on, pointedly saying nothing about the weapon.
'Unfasten your tunic again/ I said.
Crezia started to say something but I cut her off. 'You'll need to get at his arm, won't you, doctor?'
There was another reason for getting him to disrobe. Aemos carefully studied the man's tattoos, making notes. The Vessorine just stood there, stripped to the waist, sullen. He refused to make eye contact.
I noticed he was slender but whipcord tough. The marks of old scars dotted his torso. I'd taken him to be a reasonably young man, but either he was older than he looked, or his short life had been barbarically tough.
Aemos finished. Til get it translated properly. But it's what I thought it was/ He turned to go downstairs. I stopped him and passed him the pistol.