by Dan Abnett
Kys was already moving past him. At the open hatch, Brade was turning fast, drawing a handgun from inside his coat. Kys slammed into him, driving him round against the brick wall of the cell. She grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the gun with both of her cuffed hands, and simultaneously smashed her left knee into Brade’s kidneys. He grunted, back arching, and she drove his gun-hand into the wall, scraping his knuckles across the rough, whitewashed brick. Immediately, he dropped the weapon, screaming out in pain. He tried to pivot, to swing her off him. Still holding his wrist, she shoulder-barged him face-first into the wall.
Suldon was back on his feet, closing, drawing his own gun. Kys let go of Brade’s wrist, clamped her hands on his shoulder for leverage, and threw herself out into a horizontal body spin. Her bare legs, scissor-kicking, whirled into Suldon, smacking his gun away across the cell and fracturing his cheekbone. He reeled backwards.
But her hold on Brade was weakened. He clawed around, grabbing at her, catching hold of the collar of her paper gown. The left shoulder and sleeve tore away. Kys kicked him in the belly, then grabbed him around the sides of the head with her cuffed hands as he doubled over. She delivered a sharp, vicious twist, snatching the force of it through her arms and her upper body, and broke his neck.
Brade toppled over. Kys had just enough time to duck as Suldon threw a punch at her and, knotting her hands together, drove a blow into his ribs. He staggered back against the wall, flailing out for her. With a growl, she sprang at him, hands outstretched like a diver. Her hands slid either side of his neck, and the metal binder linking them rammed into his throat, smacking his head back against the wall. Suldon made a silent, gagging noise, grappling at her arms. She pushed harder, until the palms of her hands were flat against the wall either side of his head and the binder all but buried in the flesh of his neck. His face went purple and he stopped struggling.
Kys let go and stood back. Suldon slid down the wall into a sitting position, his head flopping over onto one side.
Sholto Unwerth stood in the open doorway, just staring. He looked as if he wasn’t taking much in, as if the world had become a place incomprehensible to him.
Kys walked across the cell and picked up the actuator wand Brade had dropped. She fiddled with the settings then triggered it, and her binders automatically unlocked and fell off. She tossed the wand to Unwerth and he caught it.
‘Get your shackles off. Quickly now.’
Blinking, he did as he was told. She searched the bodies. Apart from some spare change and a pack of lhos, they weren’t carrying much of anything. She took one of the pistols, a sleek little snub-las, and a spare power cell.
Unwerth had freed himself. ‘What… what pertains now?’ he asked.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ Kys said.
‘I do not deserve… that is to speak, I have dishonoured my service to you and your particulars. I never meant to envocal any materialisms, for I undertook my compactness with your master in most high seriousness. But they hurt me. They hurt me and–’
‘Shut up,’ said Kys. ‘Face the wall, please.’
He did so. Kys pulled the torn paper gown off over her head. Both Brade and Suldon were far too big to trade clothes with, but Suldon’s suit jacket, buttoned up, was like a coat on her. She tucked the weapon and the power cell into one pocket, and carried the wand in her left hand.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Do exactly what I tell you and don’t speak.’
Unwerth nodded.
Her own mouth still tingled oddly from the curious thing she had said. Patience had a nasty feeling she was beginning to understand what was going on in the administries of Eustis Majoris. If she was right, then the possibilities were terrifying.
She peered out into the hall. A simple corridor, the locked hatches of other cells on either side. No one around.
With Unwerth in tow, she shut the cell behind her with the wand and started to walk.
In the east, the last vestiges of the storm were grumbling in the low cloud like slow-motion firecrackers. A light rain persisted in the air, enough to keep the alarm posts flashing. The late evening was dark and murky.
Nayl came up the steps of the transit station, and onto an empty street walk. Not even gampers out at this hour. He sheltered under a glass rain cover and coded his hand-vox by the light of the nearby street lamp. Up ahead, the towering peak of Administry Tower Three was visible against the night sky only because of its millions of window lights.
‘It’s Nayl. Anything yet?’
‘No, Harlon. Still nothing.’
‘I’m in the tower approaches now. I can wait here all night if necessary.’
‘Understood. I’ll let you know as soon as we get anything.’
Nayl put his vox away and stared up at the lights.
‘Come on, Patience,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, girl. Give us a sign.’
Though she hated to admit it, Kara suspected Belknap knew what he was talking about. There was something infinitely reassuring and calming about the candlelit majesty of a great Ecclesiarchy building.
Nightsong was due to commence in a few minutes, and a small congregation was gathering. Knowing that the temple elders would look unfavourably on a hand-vox chiming in the middle of mass, Kara went back out into the towering vestibule and made a call.
‘Kara. Have you heard anything from Patience yet?’
‘We haven’t, I’m afraid,’ I told her.
‘Look, just so you know, my hand-vox will be switched off for the next half an hour or so.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m attending nightsong,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to disturb the ceremony.’
A pause. ‘I don’t remember you ever attending nightsong, Kara.’
She felt awkward suddenly. ‘I just… I just felt like it, Gideon. Belknap suggested that a little religious observance might be good for my soul and help with the healing process. He’s quite old-fashioned, I think. Anyway, the idea appealed to me. I’m such a heathen most of the time. Besides, all of us could do with a prayer or a blessing right now, couldn’t we?’
‘I suppose so. Kara, is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘There’s something in your voice…’
‘Honestly, Gideon.’ She glanced at the guide pamphlet she’d taken from a nearby table. ‘I’m just deciding… deciding whether to take nightsong here in the grand templum or next door in the sacristy.’
‘What did you say just then?’ I asked. Carl and Zeph looked over at me.
‘I said I’m just deciding whether to–’
‘No, at the end there. Did you say “sacristy”?’
Zael got up from the sofa and walked right over to my side.
‘Yes, the old sacristy. It adjoins the grand templum according to this guide, but it’s much older. I quite like the sound of it.’
‘I told you,’ Zael said. ‘I told you. I had a dream.’
‘Kara?’ I said on the link. ‘Can you tell me why you’re there?’
‘Because Belknap–’
‘No, Kara. That place especially. You say you’re at the grand templum. That’s in Formal A, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. What’s the matter?’
‘Why there?’
There was a hesitation on the line. ‘Belknap suggested I should go to temple for the good of my soul. So I thought, if I’m going to do that, I might as well go to the biggest. That’s here. The grand templum. Gideon, have I done something wrong?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But you may have done something very right. Kara, as you’re there, could you do something for me?’
‘Anything.’
‘Could you go to this old sacristy for me and take a look around. Just take a look.’
‘All right. Can I ask why?’
I was aware of Zael’s bright eyes staring down at me.
‘It’s probably nothing. Just an odd coincidence. But there’s also a chance, ju
st a chance, that we’re experiencing some confluence of fate. Something preordained. Something Zael saw in a dream.’
‘I see. Well, all right.’
‘Just check it out for me. If the God-Emperor or His agencies of fortune are smiling our way, I’d like to take advantage of it. Like you said, we could all use a blessing right now.’
‘I’ll take a look and call back shortly,’ she said and closed the link.
‘What was that about?’ Carl asked me.
‘I’ll tell you if it turns into anything,’ I said. ‘Still nothing from Patience?’
Carl shook his head. ‘Something else, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve had my cogitator’s support engines processing the material Kys sent us all evening, trying to translate it or make some sense out of it.’
‘And?’
‘Still no sense. It’s absolutely meaningless. Random. Except…’
‘What?’ asked Zeph.
‘It’s burned out the support engines. Completely erased the index drive. They both just died on me five minutes ago.’
Four men in dark suits went by, their feet clattering on the stone floor. Once they were out of sight, Kys and Unwerth came out of cover and moved on. She wasn’t sure if it was just terror, or a fierce determination to do as she had told him, but Unwerth was managing to be very stealthy. He slipped from shadow to shadow, watching for her every gesture. She felt sorry for him. She’d loathed him during the voyage, but now realised he was touchingly loyal. He had suffered so much because of them.
I’m going to get you out, she decided. I’m going to get you to safety, Master Unwerth. It’s the very least I can do.
They crept along the dark passageways of the secretist enclave. They sidled past open doorways that looked into rooms where hard-faced personnel worked at data-engine consoles, rooms where men in protective clothing bent over sheets of paper laid out on underlit glass tables, rooms that looked like library annexes, rooms where pneumatic tubes delivered message cylinders into racks for the operators to open and sort.
Kys could hear a distant humming, a vibration that quivered the floor, as if heavy machinery was working nearby. She pointed the actuator wand at a wall panel and lit up a hololithic building plan in the air. Hangar. That was what she wanted. Two floors up, a stairwell just along to–
Someone was coming. She wanded open a door and pulled Unwerth into the shadows of the arch. Two secretists went past, cannon-hounds straining at their leashes.
They stopped a few metres beyond the doorway, starting a conversation with someone they’d met coming the other way. Kys heard one of the secretists snap at his servitor to heel.
No going that way.
She took Unwerth by the hand, shuddering a little as her grip encountered his missing fingers. She led him along the dark passage behind the door she’d wanded open. The humming grew louder.
The tunnel broke at a T-junction. They went right, and she wanded open another hatch.
The chamber beyond was enormous. They were overlooking it from a gantry walk. This was the source of the noise.
Below them, a large number of gigantic machines rattled and spun, circling streams of light and coherent energy around their spindles and rushing gears. Tiny figures moved around the machines beneath them, adjusting and fine-tuning the rate of flow. Processing flow.
Kys did a quick calculation and counted sixty machines. Data-looms. The secretists had sixty data-looms, working in unison.
‘Holy Throne,’ Kys breathed. Even the Administratum centre on Thracian Primaris only had four looms to process the planetary data-flow. Carl had once told her that Scarus itself boasted thirty looms, through which the accumulated business of the sector was handled. The stuff he knew.
Sixty looms…
‘Not this way then,’ she smiled at Unwerth. They turned back and headed up the tunnel again. The tech-adept coming around the corner nearly slammed into them.
‘Who–’ he began to say. She coshed him with the wand, and then shot him through the temple with her snub-las once he was on the ground. The background roar of the looms covered the brief report.
They hurried on up the tunnel to another hatch. She checked the nearest wall-panel again, studying the hololith.
‘Stairwell,’ she said. ‘This is good. We can reach the hangar from here.’
‘That is most profuse,’ Unwerth nodded.
Kys waved the actuator wand at the hatch. Nothing happened. She did it again, and again. Then she tapped the wand and examined it.
The casing was fractured. Some of the studs no longer worked. Clubbing the adept with it had been a bad idea.
‘Oh, for Throne’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘Give me a break…’
She looked round. Unwerth had disappeared.
‘Sholto?’ she growled, taking out her weapon. ‘Sholto, Throne help me, where the hell have you–’
He hurried back into view out of the tunnel’s shadows. He was clutching a small, battered tool kit that he’d recovered from the dead adept.
‘In all pertinacity–’ he began.
‘Don’t even start. Can you open this door?’ Kys snapped.
Unwerth knelt down, opened the tool kit and produced a powerdriver.
‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘Cross your fingers. I would, but malfortunately I don’t have enough–’
‘My fingers are crossed, Sholto. Do it.’
Eight
Boneheart and Molay were waiting for Revoke in the bustling main hall as he stepped out of the elevator.
‘Is he here?’ Revoke asked.
‘Arrived ten minutes ago,’ Boneheart said. ‘We put him in private audience three. Monicker’s watching him.’
‘He sent a list of instructions,’ Molay said. ‘Requirements, is what he called them. I have to say, he’s got some front. But we’re working to meet them.’
Revoke nodded.
‘Do you trust him?’ Boneheart asked.
‘His abilities?’ Revoke said. ‘Yes. I’ve done some background. His credentials are impeccable. He’s the best there is. Do I trust him as a person? No, not at all. But we’re going with it anyway.’
The three of them started to walk. ‘There’s another thing,’ Boneheart said. ‘We picked up a girl from Administry Tower Three today. Seemed like a regular sublim event at first, but we’re pretty sure she’s one of Ravenor’s people.’
‘I know,’ said Revoke. ‘Suldon called me direct. The telekine, right?’
Boneheart nodded. ‘Thing is, Toros, if there was any doubt she was one of Ravenor’s own, it’s gone now. Routine cell check found Suldon and Brade dead. She’s loose.’
Revoke stopped. ‘Loose in here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Damn it. I’ve got to do this thing now and with any luck it’ll make using the telekine redundant. Ravenor should be dead by morning. But find her. The both of you. Personally see to it she’s caught and killed.’
Boneheart and Molay nodded.
Behind them, an elevator hatch opened and the chief provost stepped out. All the junior servants in the hall stopped what they were doing and curtseyed or bowed.
‘Get lost,’ Revoke whispered to Boneheart and Molay. ‘I’ve got this to handle.’
They nodded and hurried off.
Trice advanced across the hall to join Revoke. Trice was wearing his most opulent robes of office, and three servo-skulls circled around him. A senior cipherist, in a hooded cape of red velvet, followed him, bearing a small metal casket with reverence.
‘Toros,’ Trice smiled.
‘He’s waiting for us, sir,’ Revoke replied, bowing.
‘Then I’m eager to get this over with. I’ve just been with the Diadochoi. He’s in an especially foul mood. It seems he’s heard rumours of a problem, and is annoyed that I’m withholding the details. I’ve tried to be circumspect. If he discovers Ravenor is active and hunting here on Eustis, he’ll lose it completely. You know how he is about Ravenor.’
‘Sir.’
‘Then let’s make that happen,’ Revoke suggested. He opened the door to private audience three and ushered Trice and the cipherist inside.
Monicker was standing just inside the room, a fizzle of empty air. She bowed.
At the far end of the long table sat Orfeo Culzean. Leyla Slade stood behind him, her arms folded as tightly as her expression.
Revoke closed the door and sealed it.
‘Chief provost,’ Culzean said, rising to his feet and bowing gently. ‘An honour.’
‘Master Culzean,’ Trice replied. ‘I have heard a lot about you.’
‘All bad, I hope,’ Culzean replied. ‘Let me start by saying, just for the record, the attempt on your life that I orchestrated… Well, that was nothing personal.’
‘Understood.’
They shook hands.
‘Sit, please,’ Trice said. Revoke pulled out a chair to accommodate the chief provost.
‘You have a problem,’ Culzean began, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. ‘An individual, let’s call him Subject R.’
‘Let’s call him That Bastard Ravenor,’ Trice smiled.
Culzean nodded and grinned back. ‘So noted. An individual that you want to track, locate and destroy. I have the means to achieve this. The skills, the weapons. I’ve already forwarded my requirements to your people. I trust they’re all to your satisfaction?’
Trice sat back. ‘How will you find him? We’ve searched, but so far we’ve failed.’
‘With respect, sir,’ Culzean said. ‘You’ve used psykers, as I understand it. Ravenor is too skilful to fall for that. My intel shows he uses untouchables, a resource he inherited from his mentor, Eisenhorn. With an untouchable active nearby, Ravenor would be just a blank to the very best of your mind-slaves. He’s cunning, sir, he blocks his mind from prying eyes.’
‘So how do you intend to locate him, Master Culzean?’
‘I will be using the Thief, chief provost. An incunabula. I believe you are aware of its work.’