[Dark Heresy 01] - Scourge the Heretic

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  Horst hesitated, trying to orientate himself, and then set off after Drake, who had begun to stride away with complete confidence. The roadway was broad here, surfaced in blocks of toughened glass, which formed an intricate mosaic of an Imperial eagle wreathed in orange flames, and Horst found himself squinting a little against the glare. From this height, about midway up one of the smaller spires, most of the city lay spread out below them, scintillating in the ever-present glow, so that they seemed suspended above a glittering jewel, all but filling the gap between the mountains. The pit of the Gorgonid mine was lost to view entirely, the gaps in the superstructure through which it could be glimpsed lower down appearing merely as darker shadows, flaws in the heart of the gem, which only enhanced its beauty. Somewhere on those lower slopes was the villa they’d left a few hours ago, although he couldn’t be sure where. He suspected that Drake could have pointed it out without a second’s hesitation.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, dodging around the crowds queuing to embark on the cable car that had brought them up here, swaying gently on what had seemed little more than a thread, one of hundreds festooning the suspended city like a bustling cobweb. He’d expected to descend the same way, but Drake had bypassed the cable car station, and was angling towards a narrow gap he’d barely even noticed between two buildings at the far end of the thoroughfare.

  “You asked me along for my Secundan perspective,” Drake said, stopping at the edge of the street. A thin staircase, barely wide enough for one person to traverse at a time, descended into the shadows beside him. “And that was it. Everyone here knows their place in the pecking order, and that waste of oxygen we’ve just been talking to’s near the top of the heap. Politeness means deference on Secundus. The more polite you tried to be, the less important you made yourself look to him. That’s so ingrained in the local culture, even an Inquisition rosette can only counterbalance so much of it.”

  “I see.” Horst nodded, taking the point. He’d got so used to the fear and deference his status as an agent of the Ordo Calixis conferred that he’d almost come to rely on it, and finding that weapon blunted was both strange and disorientating. No wonder his enquiries had been so frustrating. The idea that some of the people he’d interviewed might have lied to him, might even have done so without hesitation or fear of the consequences, was new and disturbing. “Then you did the right thing.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Drake smiled, hesitantly, and Horst returned it. “I realised what was happening almost as soon as we walked in there. I couldn’t say anything to you in front of history boy, so I just tried to be snotty enough for both of us.”

  In spite of himself, Horst laughed. “I think you managed that well enough,” he said. “Where are we going now?”

  “Down here,” Drake said, standing aside for a heavily pregnant young woman in some kind of servant’s livery. Secundan sense of hierarchy notwithstanding, it seemed, the general hiver’s convention of descending pedestrians giving way to climbers on the narrow vertical walkways apparently held sway here too. The girl smiled her thanks, with a deferential dip of her head, and disappeared into the milling crowd. As he began to descend, Drake turned to look back at Horst. “Maybe we can narrow that list down a bit before we give it to Hybris.”

  “Then lead the way,” Horst said, beginning to descend the stairs after him.

  Icenholm, Sepheris Secundus

  096.993.M41

  The wind on the terrace of the villa was rising, tugging at Vex’s robes, although absorbed in the rites he was administering he hardly seemed to notice the discomfort. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?” he asked, checking everyone’s harnesses for the final time, and concluding the appropriate prayers with a dollop of sanctified oil on what he’d rather unnervingly referred to as the Emperor bolt. Elyra had been puzzled by that, until Keira had grinned at her and Kyrlock.

  “If it breaks,” she’d said, “you’ll just have time to say ‘Oh, Emperor!’ before you hit the ground.” At which point Kyrlock had turned even paler, and Vex had smiled, pointing out that in actual fact at this altitude you would have enough time to articulate an entire sentence if you had sufficient presence of mind to frame one, and then looked puzzled as both women had dissolved into tension releasing giggles.

  “Absolutely positive,” Elyra said, almost firmly enough to convince herself. The harness of the glidewings felt strange, tight against her torso, and she tried to persuade herself that this was the reason her breathing felt a little rapid. She glanced over the edge of the balustrade and raised her arms, feeling the breeze fill the aerodynamic sails attached to them, and almost overbalanced.

  “Careful,” Keira said, reaching out to steady her, and then hopping up to crouch on the railing with easy confidence. She unfurled her own wings, and turned them to the wind, looking like a hawk about to take to the air.

  No, Elyra thought, not a hawk, an eagle, a living avatar of the Imperium, about to swoop on the enemies of all that was good and holy, talons extended to smite them with the Emperor’s own wrath. Despite her trepidation at what she was about to do, the image amused her. If she kept this up, she’d turn into a Redemptionist herself. Breathing one of the prayers her father had taught her, and summoning up the image of the quiet chapel in which he’d preached the Emperor’s word aboard the void station she’d called home until her fateful meeting with Carolus, she clambered up awkwardly beside her friend.

  “Nothing to it,” Keira assured her. She’d donned the synsuit again, and most of it was mimicking the matt black finish of her wings and harness. Unlike the garishly coloured sets, patterned like strident butterflies, which Elyra and Kyrlock had purchased from a sporting goods emporium that afternoon, the assassin’s wings had been extensively customised for speed and manoeuvrability, characteristics she’d have little chance to use this evening, escorting her colleagues down to the surface. She glanced at Kyrlock, who was still hanging back, his face pale in the dimming light of the late evening. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes,” Kyrlock snapped irritably. “If I’m going to break my rutting neck, I might as well get on with it.” He glanced at Vex, and moved his spatchcocked orange wings experimentally. “That way to gain lift, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Vex assured him. “Although you shouldn’t have to worry too much about that. Steering will be the main thing. I’m told it’s a relatively easy skill to master.”

  “That’s right,” Keira agreed cheerfully. “These things take a bit of practice to get used to, but they’re pretty simple really, and it’s not as if you need to do any fancy flying. More of a controlled plummet.”

  “If that’s supposed to make me feel any better about this, it isn’t,” Kyrlock snapped.

  By way of an answer, Keira stepped into her steering stirrups and dived off the balustrade, opening her arms and letting the growing wind catch her wings. She swooped low over the roofs of the tier below, and then turned and ascended on the thermals rising from the mine, circling the villa lazily. There were still several score of glidewingers gyring around the high spires, where the light was better and the young aristocrats who practised the sport were closer to home, but this low down she had the sky to herself. Faint streaks of red from the westering sun were beginning to suffuse the gentle glow of ambient illumination, lowering the general light level to something close to the Secundan norm. Outside the cone of reflection, dusk would already be shading into night.

  If they didn’t go now, Elyra told herself, they’d never be able to see well enough to find a landing spot. Placing her trust in the Emperor, as she had done since childhood, she leapt into the void.

  “No, really?” Drake smiled easily, and sipped at the first mug of decent ale he’d enjoyed since enlisting in the Imperial Guard. They’d found a buttery catering to the myriad of servants working the middle levels of the Spire of the Golden Wing without much difficulty, blending into the rest of the clientele with an ease that had clearly surprised Horst, but wh
ich Drake, used to the subtle social game that characterised all human interaction on Sepheris Secundus, had been counting on. Their sober garb, in what was clearly high quality material, marked them of sufficiently high rank in the hierarchy of service to pass unchallenged, and he’d played the part of a naturally sociable man willing to pass the time of day with his inferiors well enough to have left a generally favourable impression on everyone he’d conversed with since they’d arrived.

  The real bonus, though, had been the food and drink. As he’d surmised, most of it had come from the stores of the minor nobility who inhabited that part of the spire, rejected as being not quite up to the required standard by their chefs, or perhaps just having passed the optimum time for its consumption. Having grown used to the leavings of the palace kitchens during his time as a Royal Scourge, Drake had a far more refined palate than most Imperial citizens of his humble status, and relished the chance to indulge it again. He remained mindful of the purpose of their visit, however, and inclined his head towards the younger of the two women currently sharing their table. “You’ve actually met the Prince?”

  “Met him?” The girl, who was dressed in the livery of the Conclave’s servants, laughed a little tipsily. “I’ve still got the bruises on my arse from taking in his amasec. Hands everywhere, that one.”

  “Not just his hands, if you give him half a chance,” the other woman said, brushing her mousy brown fringe from her eyes, and the two women laughed together raucously.

  “Not that he isn’t generous, mind,” the first one said. “He gave Ennith that lovely whatsit, you know, with all them jewels on it. Might even be worth a go or two for something like that.”

  “That’s the thing, though, innit?” her friend demurred. “It’s not exactly guaranteed. Just your luck to get him on a night when he’s distracted with affairs of state or some such malarkey, and it’s just ‘thank you very much, where’s me breakfast?’ in the morning.”

  “True.” The younger woman sighed ruefully. “But you never know till you try, do you? And at least he’s a gent, not like those lads from the Guild of Tableware Polishers. Think they’re the Emperor’s gift, they do.” She glanced up at Drake, her glass already empty, and he waved the hovering sommelier over to recharge it. Like all the buttery staff, a gratuity and a few quiet compliments about his serving skills had been sufficient to engage at least his peripheral attention for most of their tenure at the table. The girl’s eyes narrowed a little. “What did you say you did again? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Of course we don’t.” Horst had grown a little more accustomed to the way status was established, having sat through several such conversations and observed Drake’s responses. Recognising an implicit challenge, he mimicked the affable tone of a Secundan responding in a friendly manner to a social inferior. “I’m the household amanuensis, and my associate here is the majordomo.” It was a variation of the answer Drake had given in previous exchanges, and the former Guardsman smiled a little, pleased with the progress Horst had been making towards blending in.

  “I see.” The young woman nodded, a little intoxicated. “That’ll account for those nice manners of yours.” She glanced at her friend for confirmation. “Didn’t I say when we walked in, those two look like they’ve got nice manners?” The older woman nodded. “You talk a bit funny, though, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “My friend’s from off-world,” Drake said easily, “here to inspect our household before her ladyship arrives.

  “She doesn’t spend a lot of time on Sepheris Secundus, but we like to think whenever she graces us with her presence she’ll find everything to her liking.”

  “'You work for an off-world family?” The girl looked at Drake with awestruck respect. “We didn’t know there was one of those in the spire.”

  “Well if there is, it isn’t ours,” Drake said, wondering if he’d gone too far. The arrival of a noble from offworld was a very juicy piece of gossip indeed, and would be all over the city within hours, at least those parts of it inhabited by servants. “Our mistress inherited a small villa on the northern slope about a century ago, and maintains it for the odd occasion her business brings her here. Hardly fitting for the permanent residence of someone of her status,” he glanced at Horst in the manner of a Secundan aware of perhaps crossing the line in implying a degree of criticism of the behaviour of an employer in front of a superior servant, “but she spends so little time here that it suits her well enough.”

  “Indeed.” Horst nodded, apparently aware at least that some kind of response was required, and by luck or instinct choosing one that consolidated Drake’s credibility in the minds of his small but rapt audience. “The lady Keira is a woman of refined, but simple tastes. Even at home on Scintilla she prefers composing poetry to the demands of the social season.”

  “That’s class, all right,” the younger woman agreed, a trifle glassy-eyed. “Sounds like she’d fit right in with our lot.”

  “They certainly sound a fascinating group,” Drake agreed, dragging the conversation back to the topic he’d been hoping to raise, with a grateful glance in Horst’s direction. “Although I suppose none of them could be as interesting as a prince of the blood royal.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” the older servant said, apparently agreeably surprised to find her drink replenished. “There’s plenty of ’em at least as wayward as he is. In different ways, mind.”

  “Oh yes.” The younger one nodded vigorously, and then appeared to regret it. “They’re all obsessed with something: Technomancy, classical drama, the Emperor’s Tarot, you name it. Except Viscount Adrin, he’s into a little of everything, talks to everyone.”

  “Well you’ve got to expect that, I suppose,” the older one interjected. “He is the Social Secretary.” She looked across at Drake. “That means he organises things for the members, finds rooms for the study groups to meet in, sends us around with the drinks and snacks, that sort of thing.”

  “A vital job,” Drake agreed, straight-faced. “I’ve no doubt the Conclave would fall apart without him.”

  “He’d like to think so, right enough,” the woman said, “but if you ask me, that little weedy one does most of the work. Adrin just floats around the place taking the credit, and talking to that tech-priest friend of his.”

  “Tech-priest?” Horst asked. “I didn’t think they had any friends, apart from servitors.”

  The two women laughed immoderately at the feeble joke.

  “Old Tonis isn’t so bad, actually,” the younger one said, once she’d got her breath back. “At least he looks at you like you’re there when he wants something, which is more than most of the others do. And he keeps his hands to himself, unlike most of the rest.”

  “Probably just as well,” her friend said. “He’s got so many augmetic bits he’s probably got… you know, augmetic bits.”

  Steeling himself against the inevitable howl of hilarity, Drake began to wonder if the information they’d just uncovered, valuable as it was, was being obtained at too high a price.

  Above the Gorgonid, Sepheris Secundus

  096.993.M41

  As they left the nimbus of reflected light around the city, Keira soared, feeling the surge of air beneath her wings buoying her up like the light of the Emperor’s word. She banked easily, riding the thermals rising from the vast scar in the earth below, the concentrated body heat of uncountable serfs mingling with that of cooking fires and the labouring engines of the vehicles that conveyed the day’s scrabblings of ore from the tally sheds to the stockpiles. Fresh clean air rippled across her face, the chilly sting of it invigorating, and she fought down the impulse to laugh. No one would hear her, but the habits of the hunt were deeply ingrained, and stealth was of the essence.

  Her companions flew steadily, maintaining a relatively straight course, and Keira soared around them, keeping an eye on their progress. There would be little she could do if either of them screwed up really badly, but they both seemed to be get
ting the hang of it, too scared or sensible to do anything other than use the lift the glidewings gave them to descend slowly towards the ground. Elyra smiled a little wanly as Keira swooped by, her face a mask of concentration, and the assassin dropped a few metres, catching air to slow her progress, falling back to check on Kyrlock.

  For a moment, back at the villa, she’d wondered if his courage was going to fail him after all, but as she’d turned to make a rising pass over the roof he’d clambered convulsively onto the balustrade and jumped, just after Elyra. Now, to her amusement, a fierce, exultant grin was stretching the skin of his face, and he yelled a greeting as she flew past.

  ’emperor’s bones, what a rush!”

  Keira waved, relieved, and pointed a little to the left, towards the landing site she’d picked out. Kyrlock nodded, and adjusted his course, a trifle awkwardly, but with growing confidence.

  Leaving him to it, Keira soared ahead again, intent on shepherding Elyra down safely. The Guardsman’s earlier apprehension might have been forgotten in the exultation of the moment, but the potential neck-breaking part of the descent was still to come.

  Icenholm, Sepheris Secundus

  096.993.M41

  “The lady Keira?” Drake asked, leaning on the rail of a cable car station he’d led them to shortly after leaving the buttery. The evening was well advanced, and the projecting platform was almost empty, affording an uninterrupted view of the softer splendour that Icenholm presented by night. Everywhere the two men looked, the lights of the glass city were coming on, turning the daytime jewel into something more closely resembling the galaxy that the scudding clouds permanently obscured, lit from within by a myriad of individual lanterns, which together cast a warm, serene glow across the vitreous landscape.