The Magos

by Dan Abnett

  A graft. A legitimate dossier that has been expertly designed to overfit previous records and eclipse them. Done well – and this had been done brilliantly – a graft would be more than adequate to bypass the Administratum. But we servants of the Holy Ordos had greater and more refined tools of scrutiny to bring to bear. Carl showed me the loose ends and rough edges that had been tucked away to conceal the basic deception, the long, tortuous strands of inconsistency that no one but the Inquisition would ever think to check, for the effort would be too labour-intensive. That was ever the failing of the Imperium’s monumental Administratum. Overseeing hives the size of Urbitane, even an efficient and ordered division of the Administratum could only hope to keep up with day-to-day processing. There was no time for deeper insight. If one wanted to hide something from the Imperial Administratum, one simply had to place it at the end of a long line of diversions and feints, so far removed from basic inspections that no Administry clerk would ever notice it.

  ‘He’s older than he pretends to be,’ said Carl. ‘Far older. Here’s the give away. Three digits different in his twelve-digit citizenry numeric, but changed here, at birth-registry date, where no one would ever go back to look. Berto Cyrus was actually a stillborn infant. The Prefect took over the identity.’

  ‘Which makes him?’

  ‘Which makes him eighty-eight years older than his record states. And therefore makes him, in fact, Ludovic Kyro, a Cognitae-schooled heretic wanted on five worlds.’

  ‘Cognitae? Throne of Earth!’

  ‘I said you’d like it,’ Carl smiled, ‘and here’s the other thing. Its implications are not very pleasant.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Given the scholam’s throughput of pupils over the years, very, very few are still evident in the city records.’

  ‘They’ve disappeared?’

  ‘That’s too strong a word. Not accounted for would be a better term. The ex-pupils have dropped off the record after their time at the scholam, so there’s no reason anyone scrutinising the school’s register in an official capacity should question it. Pupils leave, sign up indentures, contracts, hold-employs, but then these documents lead nowhere.’

  ‘From which you deduce what?’ I asked, though I could see Carl had the answer ready in the front of his mind.

  ‘The scholam is a front. It’s… laundering children and young adults. Raising them, training them, nurturing them, and then moving them as a commodity into other hands. The fact that the pupils are known only by their scholam names means that they can be slipped away unnoticed. It’s quite brilliant.’

  ‘Because they take in anonymous children, give them new identities to provide them with legal status, and then sell them on under cover of perfectly correct and perfectly untraceable paperwork?’

  ‘Just so,’ said Carl.

  ‘What do they do with them?’ I wondered.

  ‘Whatever they like, would be my guess,’ said Wystan, glancing up from his tawdry book. I hadn’t even realised he’d been listening. ‘Those three we’re tracking, they ended up as hired guns, probably because they were handy in that regard. Strong guys get muscle work. Pretty girls…’

  ‘Whatever else we do,’ I said, ‘we’re closing that place down.’

  VII

  The cell was a metal box and smelled of piss. The ginger-haired man opened the hatch and dragged Patience out. She tried to resist, but her limbs were weak and her mind muddy. The ginger-haired man still had his limiter off.

  His name was DaRolle, that much she had learned, and he worked for a man called Loketter.

  ‘On your feet, darling,’ DaRolle said. ‘They’re waiting for you.’ He prodded her along the dim hallway. Patience didn’t know where she was, but she knew it was at least a day since she had been taken from the scholam by these men.

  ‘It’s Patience, right?’ the ginger-haired man said. ‘Your trophy name?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Trophy name. The scholam gives you all trophy names, ready for the game. And yours is Patience, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where are my sisters?’ she asked.

  ‘Forget you ever had any.’

  Loketter, the man in red, was waiting for them in a richly appointed salon at the end of the hallway. There were other men with him, all distinguished older males just like him, sitting around on couches and buoy-chairs, smoking lho and sipping amasec. Patience had seen their type so many times before at graduation suppers. Men of wealth and status – mill owners and merchants, shipmasters and guilders – and Patience had dreamed of the day when one of them would select her for service, employment, a future.

  How hollow that seemed now. For all their grooming, for all their fine clothes and fancy manners, these men were predators. The scholam which she had trusted for so long had simply been their feeding ground.

  ‘Here she is,’ smiled Loketter. The men applauded lazily.

  ‘Still in her scholam clothes,’ a fat man in green said with relish. ‘A nice touch, Loketter.’

  ‘I know you like them fresh, Boroth. Her name is Patience, and she is a telekine. I’m not sure if she realises she is a telekine, actually. Do you, my dear? Do you know what you are?’

  Loketter addressed the last part of his question at her. Patience flushed.

  ‘I know what I am,’ she said.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Trapped amongst a bunch of perverts,’ she said.

  The men laughed.

  ‘Oh, such spirit!’ said Boroth.

  ‘And pretty green eyes too!’ said another man, swathed in orange furs.

  ‘The wager is seven thousand crowns per half hour of survival,’ Loketter announced.

  ‘Very high,’ said the man in furs. ‘What is the area, and the jeopardy?’

  ‘Low Tenalt,’ replied Loketter, and several of the men laughed.

  ‘Low Tenalt,’ Loketter repeated. ‘And the jeopardy is the Dolors. Although, if she’s nimble, she might make it to Pennyraker territory, in which case the wager increases by another hundred and fifty.’

  ‘How many pawns?’ asked a tall, bearded man in a selpic blue doublet. ‘Standard rules, Vevian. One per player. Open choice. Body weapons only, although I’ll allow a gun per pawn for jeopardy work. Guns are not to be used for taking the quarry, as I have no need to remind you. Gunshot death or disintegration voids the game and the pot goes to the house.’

  ‘Observation?’ asked a thin man in grey robes.

  ‘Servo-skull picter, as standard. House will supply eight. You’ll each be allowed two of your own.’

  ‘Will she be armed?’ Boroth asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Would you care to choose a weapon?’ Loketter asked Patience.

  ‘What is the game?’ she replied. More laughter.

  ‘Life, of course,’ Loketter said. ‘A weapon, Patience? DaRolle, show her.’

  The ginger-haired man walked over to a varnished hardwood case set on a side table, opened it, and revealed the numerous polished blades and exotic killing devices laid out on the velvet cushion.

  ‘Choose, darling,’ he said.

  Patience shook her head. ‘I’m not a fighter. Not a killer.’

  ‘Darling, if you’re going to live for even ten minutes, you’ll have to be both.’

  ‘I refuse,’ said Patience. ‘Frig you very much, “darling”.’

  DaRolle tutted and closed the case.

  ‘Unarmed?’ Boroth said. ‘I’ll take the wager, Loketter. In fact, I’ll double you.’

  ‘Fourteen taken and offered,’ Loketter announced. ‘Taken,’ said a man in pink suede.

  ‘I’m in,’ said the bearded man Loketter had called Vevian.

  Four of the others agreed too, opening money belts and casket bands, and tossing piles of cash on the low, dished table at Loketter’s feet. In ten seconds there was a thousand times more money in that baize bowl than Patience had ever even imagined.

  ‘Begin,’ Loketter said, rising to his feet. ‘Pawns to the outer door
for inspection and preparation. Drones will be scanned prior to release. I know your tricks, Boroth.’

  Boroth chuckled and waved a pudgy hand.

  ‘The game will commence in thirty minutes.’ Loketter walked over to face Patience. ‘I have great faith in your abilities, Patience. Don’t let me down. Don’t lose me money.’

  She spat in his face.

  Loketter smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I was looking for. DaRolle?’

  The ginger-haired man grabbed Patience by the arms and marched her out of the room. They went down a maze of long, brass tunnels and finally up some iron steps into what seemed like a loading dock or an air-gate.

  ‘Go stand by the doors, darling,’ he said.

  ‘What happens now?’ Patience asked.

  ‘Now you run for your life until they get you,’ DaRolle said.

  Patience put her hands against the rusted hatchway, and then pulled them away as the hatch rumbled open.

  She didn’t know what to expect when she looked out. Beyond the hatchway, the shadowy wastes of the slum-tracts stretched away into the distance.

  ‘I won’t go out there,’ she growled.

  DaRolle came up behind her and shoved her outside. Patience fell into the dirt.

  ‘Word of advice,’ called the ginger-haired man. ‘If you want it, anyway. Watch for the Dolors. They use the shadow. Don’t trust black.’

  ‘I don’t t–’ Patience began.

  But the hatch slammed shut.

  Patience got to her feet. Gloom surrounded her. A hot, stinking wind blew in through the nearby ruins, smelling of garbage and city rot.

  Somewhere, something whooped gleefully in the darkness. A lifter rumbled overhead, its lights flashing. When she turned, she saw the immensity of the hive filling the sky behind her like a cliff, extending up as far as she could see.

  She started to run.

  VIII

  There was something wrong with Prefect Cyrus’ face: a blush of burst blood vessels that even careful treatment with a medicae’s dermowand had failed to conceal. He was trying to be civil, and was clearly impressed by his visitor’s apparel, but he was also put out.

  ‘This is irregular, I’m afraid,’ he fussed as he led them into a waiting room where Imperial teachings were writ in gold leaf on the darkwood panels. ‘There are appointed times for inspection, and also for apprenticeship dealings. Take a seat, won’t you?’

  ‘I apologise for the difficulties I’m causing,’ Carl replied. ‘But time is rather pressing, and you came highly recommended.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cyrus.

  ‘And I have… resources to make it worth your while.’

  ‘Indeed,’ smiled Cyrus. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to deal in names,’ Carl smiled.

  ‘Then perhaps I should show you out, sir. This is a respectable academy.’

  Sitting cross-legged on the old couch, his fur-trimmed mantle turned back over his shoulder to expose the crimson falchapetta lining, Carl Thonius beckoned with one gloved hand to Kara, who stood waiting in the doorway. Kara was robed and cowled like some dumb servitor, and carried a heavy casket. As she approached, Carl leaned over and flipped the casket lid open.

  ‘Lutillium. Twenty ingots, each of a weight of one-eighth. I’ll leave it to you to calculate the market price, Prefect.’

  Cyrus licked his lips slightly. ‘I, ah… What is it you want, sir?’

  ‘Two boys, two girls. No younger than eleven, no older than thirteen. Healthy. Fit. Comely. Clean.’

  ‘This is, ah…’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m being very direct,’ said Carl. ‘I should have said this before. This is a matter of the most pleasant fraternal confidence.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cyrus. Carl had just used one of the Cognitae’s private recognition codes, by which one graduate knew another. ‘I’ll just see what’s taking those refreshments so long to arrive.’

  The Prefect bustled out of the room and hurried down a gloomy hallway to where Ide was waiting.

  ‘Bring the others in,’ Cyrus whispered to him. ‘Do it quickly. If this is on the level, we look to earn well. But I have a feeling.’

  Ide nodded.

  In the waiting room, Carl sat back and winked at Kara.

  +The Prefect’s suspicious.+

  ‘Really?’ Carl said softly. ‘And I thought I was bringing such veracity to the part.’

  +Get ready. Nayl?+

  Harlon Nayl grunted as he drove another crampon into the crumbling outer brick of the tower’s side, and played out his line to bring him closer to a ninth-floor window. A terrible updraught from the stack-chasm below tugged at his clothing.

  ‘Ready enough,’ he replied.

  +Harlon’s in position. Carl? You can do the honours.+

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he whispered. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

  Cyrus came back into the room, smiling broadly. ‘Caffeine and cusp cake is just on its way. The cake is very fine, very gingery.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Carl said.

  +They’re closing in. Four now arriving at the west door. Three on the stairs behind Kara. Two more approaching from the floor above. All ex-Guard. Armed with batons. And I read at least one firearm.+

  Carl rose to his feet. ‘Oh, Prefect? There is one other thing I did want to say.’

  ‘And that is?’ asked Cyrus.

  Carl smiled his toothiest smile. ‘In the name of the Holy Inquisition, you motherless wretch, surrender now.’

  Cyrus gasped and began to back away.

  ‘Ide! Ide!’ he screamed.

  Kara hurled the casket, and it slammed into Cyrus’ midsection, felling him hard. He grunted in pain, and several of the heavy ingots scattered across the floor.

  +Move!+

  Kara threw off her drab robe, and flew forwards as the first rigorist came in through the doorway. Guns were forbidden in the scholam, but that didn’t prevent this man from carrying one. Weapon scanners around the entry gate screened visitors for firearms. But lutillium, apart from its monetary worth, had value as a substance opaque to scanners.

  Rigorist Ide raised his handgun as he came in. Kara, on her knees, reached into the fallen casket and produced the Tronsvasse compact hidden between the layers of ingots.

  ‘Surprise,’ she said, and buried a caseless round in his forehead. The rear part of Ide’s skull burst like a squeezed pimple, and he fell on his back.

  She got up, shot the sprawled Cyrus once through the back of the thigh to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere, and swung to face the door. The next two rigorists burst in on Ide’s heels, batons raised, and she shot out their knees. Thonius winced and covered his ears.

  In the hall outside, the other rigorists backed in terror from the sound of gunfire. Then a shaped charge blew out the casement behind them in a blizzard of glass and leading, and Harlon Nayl swung into the hallway. He had a large automatic pistol in his left fist.

  ‘Any takers?’ he asked.

  One ran, and Nayl shot him through the heel. The others sank to their knees, hands to their heads.

  ‘Good lads,’ Nayl said. He took a neural disruptor from his belt in his right hand and walked over to them, cracking each one comatose with a fierce zap from the blunt device.

  In the waiting room, the air threaded with gun-smoke, Kara turned to face the opposite doors as other alerted rigorists crashed in from the stairs. Knill led them, and didn’t even blink at the sight of the small woman with the handgun. He flew at her.

  ‘Ninker!’ she complained, and shot him. The round penetrated his torso and didn’t slow him. He crashed into her and knocked her flat.

  Souzerin and another rigorist named Fewik were right behind Knill. Fewik knocked Carl over with a blow from his baton, and Souzerin raised the battered bolt pistol that he’d carried since his days in the Commissariat. He fired at Kara, but managed only to blow off Knill’s left foot and his left arm at the elbow.

  Nayl appeared at the opposite door, and ye
lled a warning that Souzerin answered by lifting his aim and blasting at the doorway. Brick chips and wooden splinters exploded from the jamb. Kara reached out from under Knill’s dead weight, and shot Souzerin up through the chin. The rigorist left the ground for a moment, then crashed back down dead. Nayl reappeared, and put a round through Fewik’s back as he turned to flee.

  Nayl helped Kara out from under the half-dead brute.

  ‘Nobody help me up then,’ Carl complained.

  Panic had seized the scholam. I could feel it, breathe it. Hundreds of children and young adults, terrified by the explosions and gunshots.

  And a deeper panic, a deeper dread, that emanated from the minds of the rigorists and tutors.

  I hovered towards the main gate, Wystan at my side, and ripped the ancient doors off their hinges with a brisk nudge of my mind. Inside the entrance way, half a dozen tutors and rigorists were running towards us, hoping for a speedy exit.

  +I am Inquisitor Ravenor of the Holy Ordos! Remain where you are!+ I don’t think they understood the manner of the command, though several involuntarily defecated in fear as the telepathic burst hit them. All they saw was a lone man approaching beside a strange, covered chair.

  +Now!+

  My psi-wave threw them all backwards violently, like the pressure blast of a hurricane. Windows shattered. They tumbled over, robes shredding, flying like dolls or desperately trying to grip onto the floor.

  Wystan lit a lho-stick.

  ‘What I like about you,’ he said, ‘is that you don’t muck around.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I had switched to voxponder and now I activated my built in voxcaster. ‘This is Ravenor to Magistratum Fairwing. Your officers may now move in and secure the building as instructed.’

  ‘Yes, inquisitor.’

  ‘Do not harm any of the children.’

  IX

  I had expected to find many things within the scholam: evidence of abuse and cruelty certainly, damaged souls, perhaps even answers, if I was lucky.

  I had not expected to find traces of psyker activity. ‘What’s the matter?’ Kara asked me.

  +I’m not sure.+

  We moved down the long hallways, past the frightened faces of pupils herded along by the Magistratum officers, past whimpering tutors spread against the old walls as they were patted down for concealed weapons. The traces were slight, ephemeral, fading, like strands of gossamer clinging to the brickwork. But they were there.