“Only if you have to,” Horst said, wondering if she was joking, and more than half convinced that she wasn’t.
Keira yawned and stretched, and then clambered to her feet. “Well, if that’s it, I’m off to clean up and get some rest. Sounds like I’m in for a busy day.”
“Probably best,” Horst agreed, trying not to notice the way her synsuit clung to the curve of her buttocks as she left the room.
“What about us?” Drake asked, recalling him to the present. “We can’t go back there. The nobs know we’re Inquisition operatives, and the servants think we’re lackeys.”
“I know.” Horst nodded in agreement. “She’ll have to go in alone.” Noticing Drake’s dubious expression, he smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, she can take care of herself.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Drake said, “but what are the rest of us going to do? Just sit on our hands waiting for Vos and Elyra to call?”
“No.” Horst shook his head. “Hybris has managed to locate Tonis’ surviving relatives on Sepheris Secundus. You and I are going to pay them a little visit.”
TWELVE
The Fathomsound Mine, Sepheris Secundus
098.993.M41
From the air, the great gash in the earth where the Tonis family clung grimly to their holdings resembled nothing so much as a suppurating wound, the encrusted scabs of waterlogged spoil that surrounded it for kilometres reminding Horst uncomfortably of hardening pus. As Barda banked the shuttle gently to the left, descending slowly towards one of the villas clinging precariously to the lip of the vast chasm, the former arbitrator was able to get his first real view of the pit, and shook his head in bemused surprise.
“I was expecting something like the Gorgonid,” he said. “Smaller of course, but nothing as weird as this.”
Drake, who occupied the seat next to him, leaned across for a better view. “The Fathomsound’s unique,” he said. “No one really remembers if the lake’s always been there, or if the workings broke through into an underground river one day and the pit flooded, but there’s nowhere else like it on Sepheris Secundus.”
Horst could believe that. Instead of the endless turmoil of the pit under Icenholm, which he’d become almost familiar with during his stay in the suspended city, the shadowy crater below them was filled with black water, extending further back beneath the overhanging lip of the workings than it was possible to see from this altitude. Almost in the centre of it, like the misshapen pupil of a dark, malignant eye, a jumble of ramshackle buildings and other structures floated like surface scum. Only as the tiny flecks surrounding it resolved themselves into boats was he able to appreciate the full magnitude of the waterborne slum that the serfs were unfortunate enough to call home. “How deep is it?” he asked, unable to keep a note of awe from his voice.
“No one knows,” Drake said. “Deep enough for all kinds of wild stories though.” He shrugged. “The usual peasant bogeymen. Some of the serfs believe there’s a drowned city at the bottom, with Emperor knows what living in the ruins, but the water pressure’s too great for anyone to have really got down deep enough to see. Anyone who’s got back up again, at any rate.”
“You’d be surprised how many peasant bogeymen you run into in this job,” Horst told him, enjoying the brief expression of discomfiture that crossed Drake’s face, before the former Guardsman nodded thoughtfully.
“A week ago I’d have thought you were jerking my chain saying that,” he said, “but after what we saw at the Citadel…” He broke off, and tilted his head towards the narrow door leading to the shuttle’s cockpit. “Are you sure the flyboy’s still keeping his mouth shut?”
“Pretty much,” Horst said, “and the inquisitor must think he’s a low security risk, or he’d never have allowed him back on-planet in the first place.” Nevertheless, he’d kept the young pilot on constant standby since their patron had departed from the system, along with the shuttle Inquisitor Finurbi had requisitioned from Captain Malakai. Barda’s superiors in the Guild hadn’t argued, and the pilot seemed quite happy with the arrangement, no doubt relieved to have the shield of Inquisitorial service between him and any unfortunate consequences of the loss of his Aquila for as long as possible. “I noted his cooperation in my last report.”
There was little point in continuing to make them as conscientiously as he had been, since the trading vessel the inquisitor had departed the system aboard didn’t have an astropath among its complement, but the habit was a hard one to break, and Horst had already dispatched two comprehensive summaries of their progress so far to their patron, confident that the messages would be waiting for him at the Tricorn as soon as he arrived on Scintilla. He’d also forwarded the results of Captain Malakai’s investigation at the Citadel of the Forsaken, which, so far at least, had failed to identify any more traitors and heretics lurking unsuspected among the staff. That was one thing to be thankful for, at any rate.
“We’re on our final approach,” Barda’s voice informed them, and Horst noted the absence of an honorific with detached amusement. The young man seemed to feel more like an equal now, a part of the inquisitor’s warband in his own right rather than a mere hireling, and perhaps that was just as well. If he continued to keep his head, and was willing to leave Sepheris Secundus when the time came, he might offer Barda the chance to come with them when they left. A pilot of his skill would be a valuable asset to the team, especially if Malakai could be persuaded to part with the shuttle on a more permanent basis.
“Acknowledged,” Horst responded crisply, turning his attention to the bleak landscape beyond the armourcrys. One of the villas clinging to the lip of the immense overhang was growing larger in the viewport, and he studied the peculiar structure closely as they approached it. Great chains, each link twice the height of a man, had been attached to bolts almost as large as the Rhino personnel carriers he’d ridden in so often as a newly inducted arbitrator, driven into the cliff face where it protruded out farthest over the dark and sinister waters below. From these, the house depended, built on a platform of thick, rusting metal.
As Barda circled, angling his trajectory towards the shuttle pad at one end, Horst could see that a few of the rivets holding the plates from which it was composed were missing, and a blizzard of brown flakes whirled around them, torn free of the corroding surface by the backwash of their landing thrusters. He turned to Drake. “Do these things ever fall off?” he asked, trying to sound as if he was joking.
Drake shrugged. “Not often,” he said, although Horst couldn’t be sure quite how serious he was being in return.
“There have only been three such incidents in the past five years,” Vex put in helpfully from the seat behind, “all in gales of exceptional force.” He craned his head for a better view. “The structural integrity of this particular residence seems to be adequate, at least for the duration of our visit.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Horst said, and returned his attention to the layout of the villa. As he’d expected, large sections of it displayed the aristocratic fondness for coloured glass that he’d noticed in Icenholm, but other parts of the building were plain, the material used in their construction unclear from this altitude, their surfaces covered in once-garish rainstreaked paint. He pointed it out to Drake, and the Secundan nodded.
“Minor family, small holdings, small tithes. Not much income to spare on tarting the place up.” He turned to glance back at Vex. “Pretty much what I was expecting, after what you told us about their status.” Then he leaned across Horst again, examining the architecture more closely. “And it’s all old. Nothing new’s been added for years.”
“Which means?” Horst asked.
“The less a family like this actually holds, the more ostentatious they try to be,” Drake said. “If they haven’t been glassing those walls over, or adding to the building in some other way, they’re either in serious financial trouble or a lot of their resources have been going somewhere else.”
“Any guesses where?
” Horst asked.
Drake shrugged. “You’re the detective. If we were back on the web, I’d say casinos, obscura, or joygirls, but out here in the rubble a drawing room harp recital’s about as close as you get to a wild evening. Maybe their holdings are just getting worked out, and they’re running out of money. It happens.”
“That might explain why their son joined the Mechanicus,” Vex volunteered. “If the family fortune was all but gone, he would have had very few options to look forward to.”
“Got that right,” Drake agreed. “When a minor family goes under, it’s a feeding frenzy. Their baron seizes anything left worth having, and then the creditors move in. If they’re lucky, or bright enough to see it coming, they might get off-planet and disappear, but most of them hold on until it’s too late.”
“What happens to them then?” Horst asked, partly from a desire to understand what might be motivating the people they’d come to talk to, and partly out of morbid curiosity.
“That depends,” Drake said. “Sometimes a relative will take them in, but that hardly ever happens, and there are always strings if they do. Sometimes a good-looking daughter manages to get by in the way you’d expect, and the brighter ones go into service, if they’ve got any useful skills and they can stand saying “yes, sir’, to the sort of people who used to wash their socks. Some join the night life in the Tumble, a few fall all the way to the Shatters, and a lot of them just go nuts. You see them sometimes in the temples, muttering or shouting at people who aren’t there, living on handouts from the priests.” He shrugged. “But most of them just jump.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Vex said, glancing at the screen of his data-slate, before passing it forward for Horst to take a look.
“What is?” Drake asked, most of his attention still on the suspended building. Judging by the way his eyes were flickering from window to window, Horst thought he was probably checking for hidden marksmen or other signs of ambush.
“I set up a vox-link between the slate and the datanet in Icenholm before we left,” Vex explained, “and I’ve just found the Tonis family’s tithe records for the last few years.”
“They seem to be meeting their obligations to their liege lord all right,” Horst agreed, after a quick glance at the screen. “If anything, yields from their holdings are slightly up.”
“Then the money’s going somewhere it shouldn’t,” Drake said flatly.
Trusting his local knowledge, Horst nodded thoughtfully. “That means we need to find out where,” he said.
“We’re down,” Barda’s voice informed them unnecessarily, a moment after a faint bump had reverberated through the fuselage. After a short pause, during which the whine of the engines diminished to a whisper, his eager face appeared through the door to the flight deck. “Anything you’d like me to do while you’re gone?”
“Keep the hatches sealed,” Horst told him, acutely aware that the shuttle was their only way off the pendulous mansion. “Have you still got the laspistol Elyra gave you?”
“Yes.” The young pilot nodded, tensely. “I’ve been practising with it, just in case.”
“Good. Keep your vox circuits open, and if we call, get ready for a fast take-off. Be prepared to give us covering fire if you have to, but I’m sure it won’t come to that. This is only meant to be a routine questioning, so we shouldn’t run into any serious difficulties.”
“Right. Got that.” Barda nodded again. “Anything else?”
“If you’re listening out on the vox anyway,” Vex suggested, “perhaps you could run a broad frequency scan while you’re about it. If anyone here really is involved in the matters we’re investigating, they might try to warn a confederate, or ask someone more highly placed in their cell for instructions.”
“Good point,” Horst conceded, and then glanced at Drake and Vex. “Let’s go and meet the grieving relatives, shall we?”
Icenholm, Sepheris Secundus
098.993.M41
Keira woke instantly, her hand closing around the hilt of the blade beneath her pillow, and then checked the motion a moment before flinging it into the throat of the servant girl hovering diffidently on the threshold of her bedroom. “Yes?” she asked, sitting up, and tucking the knife back out of sight before the maid could catch sight of it.
“Sorry to disturb you, your ladyship, but there’s a message for you. An answer is required, so I was just looking in to see if you were still asleep.” The girl’s gaze flickered down from Keira’s face for a moment, and a well-concealed look of surprise came and went as she evidently registered the faint tracery of old scars webbing her torso.
“That’s fine, Lilith,” Keira said, quietly pleased with herself for remembering the girl’s name. She’d been hired that morning, before the others had left, as Horst thought a lady’s maid about the place would add verisimilitude to her pose as an aristocrat. Plump, dark-haired and immaculately groomed, Lilith filled her well-cut but simple grey gown as though it was the height of haute couture, and walked with a poise almost as assured as Keira’s own, although no doubt this was the result of a very different manner of schooling. Though she concealed it easily, Keira felt a little uncomfortable around the girl. Drake hadn’t had time to instruct her in the niceties of patrician behaviour as he’d promised before leaving with the others, and if anyone was likely to see through the imposture it would be a woman used to the presence of genuine nobility. There was no point in worrying about it, though, she’d just have to do the best she could until he got back, and hope that any gaffes she might make would just be put down to her being an off-worlder. “Could you find me some suitable clothes?”
“Of course, my lady.” Lilith started bustling through the closets, which were stuffed with items Keira didn’t recognise. Drake had evidently been busy while she had bathed and rested, slipping easily into his assumed role of majordomo. “I think something like this might be appropriate.” She extricated a kirtle patterned in violet and blue. “Goes nicely with that unusual hair colour of yours.” She hesitated. “If it’s not too forward of me to mention it, madam.”
“I don’t think so,” Keira said, trying to hide her uneasiness. She’d spent most of her life relating to people either as allies in the never-ending war for the soul of the Imperium, or as enemies of all that was good and holy to be dispatched as swiftly as possible. The girl’s deference was subtly unnerving, and she didn’t know how she was supposed to react to it. Then inspiration struck. “I’ve spent so much time on Scintilla, I’ve really got no idea what’s appropriate here any more.” She moved to the edge of the bed, swung her feet to the floor, and began to slip into her underwear.
“It’s a very distinctive look,” Lilith said. “Half the ladies in Icenholm will be copying it before the season’s out, you mark my words.” She picked up a brush from the dressing table, and began to do something to Keira’s hair. After a moment the impulse to strike out, snapping the girl’s neck, faded, and the strange sensation began to feel quite pleasant. “There, that’s got it a little more tidy.” Lilith stepped back, tilting her head critically to one side. “Although we’ll have to do something about it properly later on. I don’t know what your last attendant was thinking of, letting it get into that state.”
“Quite,” Keira agreed, tugging the dress on, relieved to discover that Drake had made sure it was sufficiently loose for her to fight in if she had to, despite a superfluity of lace and an excessive amount of embroidery. “Just so long as I look respectable enough to receive a message.”
“Oh, you do that, my lady.” Lilith smoothed a few creases, and handed her a pair of slippers encrusted with garish beadwork butterflies, into which Keira slipped her feet.
The messenger was waiting for her in the villa’s main reception room, an earnest young man in a livery Keira recognised at once from the briefing materials Vex had left for her to digest. There was no reason why the woman she was pretending to be would be able to distinguish it from the household colours of any other
Secundan noble family, however, so she kept her face impassive as she entered the room.
“You have a message for me, I’m told,” she said, inclining her head quizzically.
The young man bowed deeply. “From my master, the Viscount Adrin,” he declaimed, in a voice as clear and resonant as a cathedral chorister chanting the responses. To the right noble Lady Keira Sythree, his most humble greetings, and the welcome due a fellow scholar of the Conclave of the Enlightened. “Should the noble lady find such a prospect agreeable, my master has the honour to propose a meeting at the Lodge of the Golden Wing, two hours past the setting of the sun, to confer upon her all due rights and privileges of access to their archives, and perhaps discourse a little upon matters of the intellect.” He paused, inhaled, and looked at her expectantly. After a short silence, during which Keira wondered if she was supposed to respond yet, or if he was merely catching his breath, he asked “How say you?” in the tone of a playhouse minion giving a prompt.
Keira shrugged. “Might as well,” she said. “I’ve nothing else planned.”
The messenger raised an eyebrow. “That is the substance of your reply, my lady?”
“It is.” Keira nodded. “Does it sound ambiguous in any way?”
“No, my lady, both clear and succinct.” The young man cleared his throat. “And this is the message you wish me to convey, verbatim?”
“If that’s the usual procedure, I suppose so,” Keira said, beginning to feel irritated by the pointless formality. “I’m afraid I’m rather new to all this. On Scintilla we have voxes.”
“Voxes. Quite.” The messenger made a slightly strangulated sound behind his floppy lace collar. Then he bowed deeply from the waist. “By your leave, my lady.”
“By all means.” Keira turned towards the door, inexpressibly relieved to see her lady’s maid hovering there. “Lilith will show you out.”
[Dark Heresy 01] - Scourge the Heretic Page 18