The Magos

by Dan Abnett

  ‘Thank you, Cherubael,’ he said.

  The thing, its head lolling brokenly, exposed its teeth in a dreadful smile. ‘That’s all? I can go back now?’ it said. Its voice was like sandpaper on glass. ‘There are many more phantoms up there to burn.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Eisenhorn said.

  The dreadful daemonhost zoomed back aloft into the rain-swept heights of the ruin. At once, the ghastly screaming began again. Light pulsed and flashed.

  Eisenhorn faced Ravenor’s chair. ‘The Fratery has unleashed everything they have tonight to stop me. To stop me talking to you. Daemonhosts of their own. Cherubael has been battling them. I think he’s enjoying it.

  ‘He?’ said Ravenor via his chair’s voxponder. ‘Last we met, you called that thing “it”, my master.’

  Eisenhorn shrugged. His augmetics sighed with the gesture. ‘We have reached an understanding. Does that shock you, Gideon?’

  ‘Nothing shocks me any more,’ said Ravenor.

  ‘Good,’ said Eisenhorn. He looked at Kara and Kys.

  ‘We need a moment, Kara. If you and your friend wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Patience Kys,’ Kys said, stern and hard.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Eisenhorn, and turned away with Ravenor. In a low voice, he began to tell his ex-pupil all he knew about the Divine Fratery.

  ‘Kar… that’s Eisenhorn?’ Kys whispered to Kara as they watched the figures withdraw.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Kara. She was still rather stunned by the meeting, and Ravenor’s brief waring had left her tired.

  ‘Everything you and Harlon have said about him… I expected…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something more intimidating. He’s just a broken old man. And I can’t think why he consorts with a Chaos-filth thing like that host-form.’

  Kara shrugged. ‘I don’t know about the daemonhost. He fought it and hated it for so long, and then… I dunno. Maybe he’s become the radical they say. But you’re wrong about him being a broken old man. Well, he’s broken and he’s old… but I’d rather go up against Ravenor unarmed than ever cross Gregor Eisenhorn.’

  Mathuin’s grenade exploded. The aim had been good, but the device had bounced oddly at the last moment, and had gone off beneath the striding Dreadnought. The machine paced on through the ball of fire, untroubled.

  Mathuin dived for cover as the cannons began pumping again.

  ‘Crap… My turn, I suppose,’ said Nayl. He clicked the setter to four seconds, thumbed the igniter, and ran into the hallway, bowling the grenade underarm.

  Then he threw himself into shelter.

  The grenade bounced once, lifted with the spin Nayl had put on it, and smacked bluntly against the front shell of the Dreadnought.

  It was just rebounding when it detonated.

  The Dreadnought vanished in a sheet of flame that boiled down the hallway, compressed and driven by the walls and roof.

  As it cleared, Thonius saw the Dreadnought. Its front was scorched, but it was far, far from dead.

  ‘Damn. Just me then,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve dabbled in farseeing,’ Eisenhorn said. ‘I know that. Your time spent with the eldar drew you in that direction.’

  ‘I won’t deny it,’ Ravenor replied.

  ‘That makes you bright to the Fratery,’ said Eisenhorn. ‘It illuminates you in the interwoven pathways of the future. That’s why they located you in their prospects.’

  Ravenor was quiet for a moment. ‘And you’ve come all this way, risked all this danger… to warn me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be, Gideon. You’d do the same for me.’

  ‘I’m sure I would. But what you’re telling me is… crazy.’

  Eisenhorn bowed his head, and ran the fingers of his right hand up and down the cold grip of his runestaff.

  ‘Of course it sounds crazy,’ he said. ‘But it’s true. I ask you this… if you don’t believe me, why are these cultist fools trying so hard to prevent our meeting here tonight? They know it’s true. They want you denied of this warning.’

  ‘That I will trigger this manifestation? This daemon-birth?’

  ‘You, or one close to you. The trigger point is something that happens on Eustis Majoris.’

  Within his force chair, Ravenor was numb. ‘I won’t lie, Gregor. My current investigations focus on that world. I was en route to Eustis Majoris when I diverted to meet you here. But I have no knowledge of this Slight. It hasn’t figured in any of my research. I can’t believe that something I will do… or something one of my band will do… will–’

  ‘Gideon, I can’t believe my only ally these days is a daemonhost. Fate surprises us all.’

  ‘So what should I do, now you’ve warned me? Abandon my investigations on Eustis? Shy away from that world in the hope that by avoiding it I can also avoid this prophecy?’

  Eisenhorn’s face was in shadow. ‘Maybe you should.’

  ‘No,’ said Ravenor. ‘What I should be is careful. Careful in my own actions, careful to oversee the actions of my team. If there is truth in the Fratery’s prophecy, it is surely bound up in the dire conspiracy I am just now uncovering on Eustis Majoris. But I must prosecute that case. I would be failing in the duty you charged me with if I didn’t. After all, the future is not set. We make it, don’t we?’

  ‘I think we do. I hope we do.’

  ‘Gregor, when have either of us shirked from serving the Throne just because we’re afraid things might go bad? We are inquisitors, we seek. We do not hide.’

  Eisenhorn raised his head, and let the falling rain drops patter off his upraised palm. ‘Gideon, I came to warn you, nothing else. I never expected you to change your course. Now, at least, you’re aware of a “might be”. You can be ready for it. That’s all I wanted.’

  Far behind them, the sound of rapid cannon-fire and dull explosions echoed through the tower.

  ‘I think the time for conversation is over,’ said Eisenhorn.

  Thonius’ pockets were not full of munitions and ordnance like Mathuin’s, but he reached into them anyway. In one, a mini-cogitator, in another, two data-slates. In a third, a clasped leather case in which he had wrapped his tools: files, data-pins, fine brushes, tubes of lubricant, a vial of adhesive, pliers and tweezers. All the bric-a-brac that aided him in conquering and tinkering with cogitators and codifiers.

  ‘Carl! Get into cover!’ Nayl was yelling.

  Thonius slid out the vial of adhesive, and wiped the drooling nozzle down the side of the grenade ball, waiting a moment for it to get contact-tacky.

  Then, taking a deep breath, he leapt out of cover into the face of the Dreadnought, and lobbed the grenade. It hit the front casing, and adhered there, stuck fast.

  Mathuin threw himself out of cover, and tackled Thonius, bringing him down behind a pillar.

  The grenade exploded.

  ‘You see?’ said Thonius. ‘You see how thinking works?’

  But the Dreadnought wasn’t finished. The blast had split its belly plates, but it was still moving, still striding, still firing.

  Thonius shrugged. ‘All right… we’re dead.’

  The Dreadnought suddenly stopped blasting. It faltered. A chill swept over the chamber.

  Ravenor’s chair slid into view, heading towards the killer machine. With the force of his mind, he had momentarily jammed its weapons.

  Sudden frost coated the walls, Ravenor’s chair and the Dreadnought. The machine tried to move. Cycling mechanisms shuddered as it attempted to clear its guns.

  A tall figure strode past Ravenor, heading for the Dreadnought. It held a runestaff in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. Its robes fluttered out behind it, stiff with ice.

  ‘Holy Terra!’ exclaimed Nayl. ‘Eisenhorn?’

  A second before Ravenor’s mental grip failed, a second before the cannons resumed their murderous work, Eisenhorn swung the sword – Barbarisater – and cleft the Dreadnought in two. Th
e sword-blade ripped along the fissure Thonius’ cunning grenade had put in it.

  Eisenhorn turned aside, and shielded his face as the Dreadnought combusted.

  He looked back at them all, terrible and majestic, backlit by flames.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said.

  With their Dreadnought gone, the remainder of the Fratery force fled. The warband and the two inquisitors slaughtered many as they made their escape into the storm.

  Tugging one of her kineblades out of a body with her mind, Kys watched Eisenhorn ripping his way through the faltering hostiles around them.

  ‘Now I see what you mean,’ she said to Kara Swole.

  ‘I’m done here,’ Gregor Eisenhorn said. He looked back across the bridge span to the tower. Screamlight was still dancing around the summit. ‘Cherubael needs my help now. I should go and see how he’s doing.’

  ‘I will be vigilant,’ Ravenor said.

  Eisenhorn knelt, and pressed his gnarled hands flat against the side of the chair.

  ‘The Emperor go with you. I’ve said my piece. It’s up to you now, Gideon.’

  Eisenhorn rose and looked at the others. ‘Mamzel Kys. Interrogator. Mr Mathuin. A pleasure meeting you.’ He nodded to each of them. ‘Kara?’

  She smiled. ‘Gregor.’

  ‘Never a hardship seeing you. Look after Gideon for me.’

  ‘I will.’

  Eisenhorn looked at Harlon Nayl, and held out a hand. Nayl clasped it with both of his.

  ‘Harlon. Like old times.’

  ‘Emperor protect you, Gregor.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Eisenhorn said, and walked away, back across the bridge span towards the tower where the screamlight still flashed and sparked. They knew they would not see him again.

  Unless the future was not as set as it seemed.

  Malinter fell away below them, vast and silent. Nayl piloted the transport into low orbit, flashing out signals to their ship.

  Once the nav was set and automatics had taken over, he turned his chair on its pivot, and looked at Ravenor.

  ‘He wasn’t the same,’ he said.

  +How do you mean?+

  ‘He seemed so sane. I thought he was mad.’

  +Yes. I thought that too. It’s hard to know whether I should believe him.+

  ‘About what?’

  +About the dangers ahead, Harlon. The risks we may take.+

  ‘So… what do we do?’

  +We carry on. We do our best. We serve the Emperor of Mankind. If what Gregor said comes to pass, we deal with it. Unless you have a better idea.’

  ‘Not a one,’ replied Nayl, turning back to study the controls.

  +Good,+ sent Ravenor, and wheeled his chair around, returning to the cabin space behind where the others were gathered.

  Nayl sighed, and looked ahead at the turning starfields.

  The future lay ahead, its back to them, saying nothing.

  GARDENS OF TYCHO

  The nature of Master Dellac’s line of business had never come up in conversation, and Valentin Drusher was in no position to ask impertinent questions. Certainly, Master Dellac was a successful man, one of the most conspicuously wealthy citizens on that dusty stretch of the Bone Coast. Drusher had an idea or two, but decided it was probably safer not to know. He just did what he was told. Two visits a week, after hours, to Master Dellac’s mansion up in the hills, providing his specialist services on a private basis, in return for an agreed wage. And no questions asked, either way.

  Sometimes, Master Dellac would supplement Drusher’s payment with a gift: a smoked ham, a packet of expensive, dainty biscuits, perhaps even a bottle of imported wine. Drusher knew he could get good prices selling these items on later, but he always kept them for himself. It wasn’t that he was greedy, or some kind of epicure (although, Throne knows, it had been a long, long time since Valentin Drusher had known any luxury in his life). It was simply because there was a line Drusher wasn’t prepared to cross. So many aspects of his life, his respectability, and his good character, had been eroded over the years, he held on tight to those he still had.

  Besides, he was a meek man, and he was too afraid of getting caught.

  Late one Lauday evening, Drusher was making the return journey from Dellac’s house to Kaloster. Drusher went to and from the mansion on foot, a solid journey of an hour each way. Dellac never offered him transport, even though he had a driver. Drusher tried to consider the biweekly trips the sort of decent exercise a man of his age ought to be getting, but by the time he returned to his habitat on Amon Street, he was always weary.

  The sun had gone, leaving the sky over the small coastal town stained like pink marble. A night wind was picking up, sifting white dust from the dunes across the town road, and Kaloster itself seemed shuttered and dark.

  There was no nightlife, no remission from the frugal, small-town quiet. But in addition to the payment in his coat pocket, Drusher carried a piece of good brisket in his satchel. He would eat well for the next few nights at least.

  Amon Street was a tenement slope running down from Aquila Square to the rusty wharfs and the condemned fishworks. The buildings were drab brown with age and neglect, and their roofs were in need of repair. The air in the street stank because of the lime burners just across the way. Drusher rented rooms on the fourth floor of number seventy.

  A large black transporter with big chrome headlamps was parked just down the street. Drusher noticed it as he was fumbling for his key, but paid it little heed. He went up the narrow wooden staircase to his door.

  It was only when he stepped into his little room, he realised someone was already there.

  The man was robust and rather ugly. Heavy-browed with a shock of thick, dark hair and a shapeless, asymmetric face, he wore a thick, high-buttoned suit of black serge and a heavy leather stormcoat, also black. He was seated, casually, on the wooden pole-back chair behind the door, waiting.

  ‘What are you–’ Drusher began, his voice coming out thin and reedy.

  ‘You Drusher?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes. Why? What are you doing here? This is my–’

  ‘Valentin Drusher?’ the man pressed, glancing at a small data-slate in his left hand. ‘Magos biologis? Says here you’re forty-seven. Is that right? You look older.’

  ‘I am Valentin Drusher,’ Drusher replied, too scared to be offended. ‘What is this about? Who are you?’

  ‘Sit down, magos. Over there, please. Put your satchel on the table.’

  Drusher did as he was told. His pulse was thumping, and his skin had become clammy. He had an awful feeling he knew what this was about.

  ‘I’m Falken,’ the man said, and briefly flashed an identity warrant at him. Drusher swallowed as he glimpsed the silver seal of the Magistratum, attached to which was a small orange ribbon that denoted the Martial Order Division. ‘How long have you been here on Gershom?’

  ‘Ah, fourteen years. Fourteen years this winter.’

  ‘And here in Kaloster?’

  ‘Just eighteen months.’

  The man looked at his data-slate again. ‘According to Central Records, you are employed by the Administratum to teach Natural History at the local scholam.’

  ‘That’s correct. My papers are in order.’

  ‘But you’re a magos biologis, not a teacher.’

  ‘Employment prospects on this world are not great for a man of my calling. I take what work I can. The teaching stipend offered by the Administratum keeps a roof over my head.’

  The man pursed his lips. ‘If the employment prospects for your kind are thin on the ground, magos, it begs the question why you came to Gershom in the first place. Let alone why you chose to stay here for fourteen years.’

  Despite his fear, Drusher felt piqued. This was the old injustice again, back to haunt him. ‘When I came to this world, sir, I was gainfully employed. The Lord Governor himself was my patron. He commissioned me to produce a complete taxonomy of the planet’s fauna. The work took seven years, but at the end of
it, complications arose…’

  ‘Complications?’

  ‘A legal matter. I was forced to stay on for another two years, as a witness. All the money I had earned from the commission ran out. By the time the case was settled, I could no longer afford passage to another world. I have been here ever since, making a living as best I can.’

  The man, Falken, didn’t seem very interested. In Drusher’s experience, no one ever was. On a downtrodden outworld like Gershom, everyone had their own sob story.

  ‘You keep glancing at your satchel, magos,’ Falken remarked suddenly. ‘Why is that?’

  Drusher swallowed hard again. He had never been any good at lying.

  ‘Sir,’ he said quietly, ‘could you tell me… I mean, would things go better for me if I made a full confession now?’

  Falken blinked, as if surprised, then smiled.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ he said, sitting down to face Drusher across the low table where the satchel sat. ‘Why don’t you do just that?’

  ‘I’m not proud of this,’ said Drusher. ‘I mean, it was stupid. I knew the Magistratum would find out eventually. It’s just… things have been so tight.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Administratum pays me a stipend for my services, along with certain ration benefits as per the Martial Order. This is of course contingent on me not… on me not supplementing my earnings.’

  Naturally,’ nodded Falken. ‘If you break the terms, there is a penalty. It can be severe.’

  Drusher sighed, and showed Falken the contents of his satchel. ‘There is a man, a local businessman, who employs me, two evenings a week. It is a private arrangement. He pays me in cash, no questions asked.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two crowns per evening. He has a daughter. For her, he retains my services…’

  Falken looked at the things Drusher was showing him.

  ‘You do this with his daughter?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes he watches.’

  Falken got up. ‘I see. This is a pretty picture, isn’t it?’ For some reason, Falken seemed to be stifling a smile, as if something amused him terribly.

  ‘Am I in serious trouble?’ Drusher asked.