Drake nodded soberly. It was becoming increasingly evident that they were facing a powerful and well-concealed conspiracy, which meant that it was entirely possible they could all be killed before they had a chance to meet Inquisitor Finurbi in person again. If that happened, Horst’s periodic progress reports would enable him, or another group of Angelae, to follow the same trail, preferably to a happier conclusion. “Then let’s try to save him the trouble,” he said dryly.
“What’s our next move?” Keira asked. “Adrin seems convinced. “I’m a genuine scholar from Scintilla, and that I’m at least open to heretical ideas, even if I don’t actually harbour them.”
“That’s excellent,” Horst said, nodding in approval. Keira smiled at the implied praise, and Drake felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. If the man really couldn’t see that, despite her protestations to the contrary, she was besotted with him, he was an idiot. “Do you have any idea how to build on that?”
“Maybe,” Keira said. “He belongs to a study group, where I could drop a few more hints about holding heretical views without committing myself too openly. If there really are cultists among the Conclave, it might tempt them to approach me.”
“Good.” Horst nodded again. “How soon can you move on that?”
“Tonight,” Keira said, swallowing a mouthful of omelette. “They’re holding a meeting, and I’ve already expressed an interest in attending.”
“Excellent.” Horst rose, and returned to the sideboard, helping himself to a fragrant plate of gently steaming offal. “Keep your eyes and ears open, but don’t take any unnecessary risks.” He glanced at her, a trifle warily, evidently expecting some scornful or sarcastic rejoinder, but Keira simply nodded in response.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll stay focused.” Then she smiled at him. “Could you get me some recaf while you’re up?”
“Sure.” Horst poured the drink, stirring in the mix of spice and sweeteners he knew she favoured from the array of bowls standing next to the pot, and handed her the delicate glass cup on his way back to his chair. “That about right?”
Kiera sipped, and nodded, and then smiled at him again. “Just right, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Horst said, with a trace of unease. He glanced at Drake. “Anything from Elyra and Vos yet?”
“They’ve moved out of the drinkhole,” Drake said, determined to keep his mind on the business at hand, despite the unexpected entertainment. “She hasn’t checked in since last night, but according to Hybris’ auspex her vox has shifted about a kilometre. That probably means they’re in the pipeline by now.”
“Can we get a more precise location?” Horst asked. “If they call for extraction or back-up, it would help to know exactly where they are.”
“Already done,” Vex assured him. “According to the overlay, they’re in an old airshaft, leading down to one of the subterranean galleries on the fringe of the Tumble.”
“In the mine itself?” Horst asked. “That sounds a bit risky.”
“Maybe not,” Drake said. “None of the miners would stray into an air shaft, there’s nothing to extract there. Is the gallery still in use?”
“One moment,” Vex said, communing with the data-slate. He glanced up, his eyes focusing again. “Worked out seven years ago, currently leased to the Fratery of Comestibles for the cultivation of edible fungi.”
“You mean we’re facing a conspiracy of mushroom farmers?” Keira asked incredulously.
“I doubt it,” Horst replied, taking a mouthful of his recaf. “They probably have no idea what’s going on down there.”
“Good. I’m starting to get a taste for the stuff,” Keira said brightly, and Horst glanced in her direction again before returning his attention to the tech-priest.
“Who’s renting it to them?” he asked.
“A good question,” Vex replied. “Technically, that part of the mine belongs to one of the barons, but it may have been conferred on one of the lesser houses that owes him fealty.” His eyes lost focus for a moment as he communed with the datanet in binary. “The records will take some time to disentangle.”
Drake nodded his agreement. “I imagine they will,” he said. “Holdings like that tend to change hands regularly among the minor nobility, for all kinds of reasons.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Vex said, chewing absently on a mushroom, his attention already absorbed by the data-slate display.
“I’m sure you will,” Horst said, and then turned to Drake. “Do you feel up to running recon tonight? That should be Keira’s job, but she’s going to be busy.”
“Reckon so,” Drake agreed, before an alarming thought struck him. “I won’t have to glide down, will I?” To his relief Horst was shaking his head, while Keira grinned at him sympathetically.
“The cable will do,” Horst said. “We’ve got a ready-made cover story for you, which means you’ll be able to walk in pretty openly.”
“At least to begin with,” Keira agreed. “If our targets bought Elyra’s story, they’re bound to be looking out for a bounty hunter on her trail. If they think they’ve spotted one it’ll keep her cover solid.”
“Exactly,” Horst said. “The trick will be to fade out of view before you approach the air shaft. If the Shadow Franchise really is running the operation, they’ll have lookouts posted all around the place.”
“I can take care of myself,” Drake said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Horst said, “but try to avoid contact. All you have to do is confirm that our people are there. Keep your head down, and report back as soon as you can.”
“Maybe I should go instead,” Keira said. “If I use the wings, I can get in and out before the meeting tonight. I’m sure Danuld can manage, but I’m a lot better at sneaking around than anyone else here, and it means he won’t have to shake any tails after playing bounty killer.”
“I’ve thought of that,” Horst replied, shaking his head doubtfully, “but it’s cutting things too fine. You can’t risk being delayed and missing the meeting.” He looked sharply at the girl, clearly anticipating an argument, but she simply nodded her head.
“Good point,” she conceded, and grinned at Drake. “I’ll be thinking about you crawling around in the mud while I’m sipping wine and eating sweetmeats.”
“I’ll try to think kindly of you too,” Drake riposted, returning the smile, although he wasn’t entirely sure if it had really been meant for him. He turned to Horst. “What about you?”
“I’ll be trailing Keira,” Horst said. “If she really makes contact with a heretic group, she might need back-up in a hurry.”
“I’m flattered,” Keira said, turning the smile briefly on him. Then she shrugged. “If there’s nothing else to discuss, I’d better hit the books. If I’m going to bluff my way through a philosophy seminar tonight, I’ll have to at least look as though I know what the conversation’s about.”
“I think we’re about done here,” Horst agreed, and Keira withdrew, dropping a final mischievous curtsey in the doorway. As soon as she was out of sight, he turned a perplexed expression on Drake. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“She looks fine to me,” Drake said. “Why do you ask?”
Horst’s air of puzzlement grew more pronounced. “She seems different, somehow. Not quite herself.” He began to look worried. “Hell of a time for her to be sickening for something.”
Despite himself, Drake couldn’t quite suppress a smile. It seemed that his talk with the girl on the terrace that morning was having unexpected repercussions.
“Maybe she’s getting used to playing the lady,” he suggested, “staying in character for the servants’ benefit.” It was hardly the time to mention his suspicions about her feelings for the man, even if he’d been willing to take the chance. None of his business, simple as that.
“You’re probably right,” Horst said slowly, and then smiled. “In any case, it’s a distinct improvement.”
The Gorgonid Mine, Sepheris
Secundus
101.993.M41
The refuge Kantris had led them to was a long, echoing tunnel, the perpetual chill in the air raising goosebumps on Elyra’s arms even through the thick padding of her jacket. A constant wind seemed to be blowing past them, into the depths, and she’d wondered about that until Kyrlock had told her they were in a ventilation shaft of some kind. Hazy about the layout of the mine, she’d simply shrugged and taken his word for it.
“I’ve seen worse,” she said, ignoring his expression of scepticism. If he felt inclined to argue about it, or press her for details, he kept the impulse under control, conscious of the other ears that might be listening.
There were at least a couple of dozen other people sharing the chilly refuge with them, but she had no idea of their exact number, the fringes of the crowd lost in the enveloping gloom. Most were clearly serfs, huddled together in mute, mistrustful groups. There were a few families among them, whose children ran about the place with the directionless energy of the young and unconcerned, or grizzled in their mothers’ arms, depending on age or temperament. Elyra marvelled at the desperation their parents must have felt to subject their infants to such an ordeal, but Kyrlock had simply shrugged when she verbalised the thought.
“What else have they got to look forward to?” he countered. “They’ll spend their whole lives down here otherwise, or somewhere just like it.” He looked at the gaunt and haggard faces of the adults suspiciously. “You’d do better wondering what they did to raise the price of their passage.”
Elyra nodded soberly. She’d often seen what desperation could drive people to, in her years of service to the Inquisition, and had no doubt that many were here as the result of some reckless criminal act.
Apart from the families, there were many men, and a few women, who sat alone, or in huddled groups of two or three. Like the parents and their children, they all carried small bundles of possessions, perhaps everything they owned, which they clung to as much for reassurance as the fear of theft. A handful were better dressed than the serfs that surrounded them, their faces etched with even greater misery if that were possible, and Elyra wondered if they were former servants who’d fallen foul of their employers, as she was pretending to have done, or luckless aristocrats whose fortunes had declined too far and too fast for them to have found any other way of escaping their debts.
None of their fellow refugees seemed inclined to engage in conversation, however, Kyrlock’s visible weapons creating an intangible cordon around them, which no one dared to breech, apart from the occasional curious child, who would turn and run as soon as Elyra smiled in their direction. The pair of them looked like trouble, that much was obvious, and everyone else already had more than enough of that.
“This looks like a well-established route,” Elyra said quietly, rejoining Kyrlock after a short and necessary trip to the makeshift midden that her nose had led her to with little difficulty.
Kyrlock glanced up. “How can you tell?” he asked.
Elyra made a grimace of disgust, the stench still hammering at her sinuses. “An awful lot of people have been through here,” she said, “just trust me on that.”
“OK.” Kyrlock nodded. Then he took a tighter grip on the shotgun. “Company’s coming.”
Elyra turned her head, feeling the faint crackle of tension against her skin, like the first presentiment of a distant thunderstorm, which meant the presence of another of the warp-touched in close proximity. “I know,” she said.
Shadows were moving in the depths of the tunnel, further into the mine, and she strained her eyes, trying to make them out. A small group of people stumbled out of the darkness, and she shuddered in spite of herself, recognising the taint they carried. They were a motley group, a trio of youngsters, two boys and a girl, all in their teens, and an older man, who seemed to be in his mid-thirties. The juvies were all dressed soberly, in clothes not too dissimilar to her own, while the adult wore a long coat against the chill, its fabric of noticeably higher quality than the garments of his protégés.
As they reached the straggle of refugees, the ragged crowd seemed to part, making way for the new arrivals, as though they could feel the corruption of the warp seeping from the bodies approaching them. A second or so later, Elyra realised that the innate deference of the serfs was responsible for their actions, not the miasma of psychic energy she alone could feel. Their leader glanced up, meeting her eyes, and she knew he’d recognised her at once for what she was.
“You’re gifted,” he said, approaching to within easy conversational distance, where his voice wouldn’t carry as far as the other refugees. His little group of acolytes hung back, staring at her mistrustfully.
Elyra nodded, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Takes one to know one,” she said easily.
The man nodded, dark oiled ringlets brushing against the shoulders of his expensive coat. “Can you do anything useful?” he asked casually.
Recognising the implicit challenge, and responding in the way most rogue psykers would, Elyra smiled ferally in response. “Want to find out?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous. Most of the wyrds she’d encountered before had been marginally sane at best, and wouldn’t think twice about using their talent aggressively if they felt threatened.
The man smiled. “I don’t think you need to demonstrate,” he said quietly. He gestured around them, taking in the crowd of refugees. “Not in front of the sheep.” He glanced briefly, and without interest, at Kyrlock. “I take it this one already knows what you are.”
“He does,” Kyrlock agreed, raising the shotgun, “and he doesn’t give a flying rut about it if she can get him off-planet. Think about that, if you want to give us any grief.”
“Far from it,” the man said, with a hint of amusement. “Please put the gun down.” Kyrlock’s knuckles whitened with the effort of trying to hold the weapon on aim, but its barrel dipped anyway, to point harmlessly at the cavern floor.
“So that’s what you do,” Elyra said, contriving to sound unimpressed.
“She’s a pyro,” one of the teenage boys said suddenly, spasming. A trickle of drool ran out of the corner of his mouth. “I can see the flames in her aura.” His voice was cracked and reedy, and Elyra fought down a moment of panic. If he was a telepath, he might be able to read a lot more than that. Then reason reasserted itself. Her blocks would be secure against an untrained talent, even if he was able to read minds, and there was no guarantee that this lad could, since all he’d demonstrated so far was a knack for divination.
“Thank you, Ven,” the man said, glancing around briefly, and then returning his attention to Elyra. “He’s a sensitive. Limited at the moment, but with the right training, who knows?”
“If he doesn’t burn out, or the Black Ships don’t get him,” Elyra said.
The man nodded thoughtfully. “Neither of which has happened to you. You must have been in hiding for a long time, and mastered your gift on your own.”
“It happens,” Elyra said neutrally.
“I know. I’m another case in point.” The man smiled, in a self-deprecating fashion. “But not all our kind are as lucky, which is why I try to help them whenever I get the chance.” He looked across at the trio of teenagers. “I send the most promising off-world, where they can find a safe refuge.”
“How very generous,” Elyra said. “What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing, beyond the satisfaction of knowing I’ve saved a life that would otherwise be blighted, and cut short.” The smile became a failed attempt to convey sincerity. “My friends and I think of ourselves as a charity, working to make the galaxy a happier place.”
“How nice,” Elyra said, her mind racing. Carolus’ instincts had obviously been correct, the people-smugglers providing a conduit between worlds for rogue psykers, but there was clearly more to it than that. This man, whoever he was, had all but told her in plain Gothic that he was part of a wider conspiracy, but how far across the sector it spread was still a mystery. What sh
e said in the next few seconds would determine whether she would still be able to follow the chain to its next link, or perhaps be unmasked as an Inquisitorial agent, with fatal consequences. “I hope you enjoy your trip.” She turned to Kyrlock. “Pack up your stuff, we’re leaving.”
“What?” Kyrlock had given up trying to regain control of the shotgun, leaving it hanging limply from his hand, but he was still quick enough on the uptake to cling doggedly to their cover story. He picked up his rucksack in his other hand, glaring at her angrily. “You said you were going to get us off-planet!”
“I am. Just not this trip.” Elyra shrugged her backpack into place. “Kantris can make other arrangements for us.” She glanced contemptuously at the trio of teen psykers, a few paces behind their enigmatic mentor. “I’ve spent years learning how to hide what I am, and I’m not going to risk getting caught by the Inquisition because there’s a wyrd crèche along for the ride.”
“Good point,” Kyrlock said, following her lead.
The man smiled. “I don’t think you need worry too much about that,” he said. “They’re all housebroken, and one of my associates will pick them up on arrival.” He paused, waiting for her to ask who his associates were. When she remained silent, he went on. “Don’t feel you have to change your plans on our account.”
“It’s too big a chance,” Elyra said. “I’ve survived this long by keeping my head down, and I’m not about to start taking stupid risks now.” For a moment, as she began to turn away, she wondered if she’d overplayed her hand. Then the man spoke again.
“Suppose you didn’t have to keep your head down any more,” he said quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elyra asked, checking the movement.
The man looked her in the eyes, his sincerity as palpable as if he’d just sworn on the aquila. “My associates would be prepared to offer you refuge too,” he said. “You’d be protected, your gifts made full use of, and you’d never have to fear the Black Ships again.”
[Dark Heresy 01] - Scourge the Heretic Page 25