by Dan Abnett
‘Pure sentiment,’ Eisenhorn responded.
‘Well, I have a friend, and I’m going to help her.’
‘This is a dangerous location, magos, and you are no combatant. You don’t have the skill-set to do her any good.’
‘So help me,’ said Drusher.
‘No,’ said Eisenhorn. ‘Macks is not a priority.’
‘That there, sir, is why you don’t have any friends,’ said Drusher. He turned away. ‘I’ll go do whatever I can. You go do what you need to do. I hope this isn’t goodbye, but I think it probably is, and so I wish you well in your efforts.’
He walked down the platform and began to descend the stairs. Eisenhorn stood and watched him for a while. Then turned, limping painfully, and disappeared in the opposite direction.
Drusher stopped and looked back. Eisenhorn was gone.
‘Throne,’ he muttered to himself. He had been quite sure Eisenhorn was going to change his mind and come after him. The old bastard really was as cold as stone.
And now Drusher was alone. He had no clue what he was going to do or how he could achieve it. Eisenhorn had been right. Valentin Drusher was no fighter. He wasn’t going to last a second against any of Gobleka’s ruthless minions.
He was way out of his depth. He had been since the moment Harlon Nayl had hammered on his front door.
He continued down the steps. For what little good it might do, he took the gun out of his coat pocket and clutched it tightly.
It took a while to reach the base levels of the tower. Longer, in fact, than Drusher fancied it should have taken, as if the tower were much taller than any real tower could be, as if its dimensions stretched down into impossible depths.
He moved slowly, hugging the shadows, flinching every time a metal step or platform panel creaked under him. The constant movement and whirring of the huge Loom’s gears around him kept making him start. He jumped at every shifting machine part, imagining each motion to be the movement of some Cognitae henchman stalking him.
Finally, he climbed down through the huge, wrought-iron girder frame that supported the weight of the Loom. The frame was as substantial as a major road bridge, and its fabric was built into the walls of the tower. Further high-tension steel cables were cross-anchored around the frame to support the immense weight.
Looking down from a catwalk that ran under the heavy frame, Drusher saw a platform built out from the tower wall in the void beneath. It was large, ragged and uneven, a patchwork of steel plates and flakboarding. It looked like part of the hull-skin of an old ship that had been peeled away and repurposed as flooring. Where it extended out over the void, it sagged and became more frayed, its feathered edge dangling above the darkness below.
Below it, the tower walls continued down into the dark still further, but Drusher could see a glint in the blackness that suggested the very base of the tower was filled with promethium, or some other dark, viscous fluid. Beneath the level of the great iron frame, everything was slightly sheened with oil, every surface tacky with a fine, brown stain. The Loom had run, so Jaff had said, for centuries. Precision engineering required lubricant to keep it moving smoothly. Drusher imagined the constant tending and attention the Loom above him had received over the years, the regular application of lubricant and grease to the gears and cogs. Movement and gravity combined to gently remove the lubricant from the Great Machine, and this is where the residue ended up, draining into a sump in the tower’s base, a deep well of pooling waste oil.
There was a row of cages on the ragged platform. They looked like the metal box cage that had contained Sark: six cages, placed against the tower wall. Nearby was a small laboratory station, an old auto-medicae unit and some metal storage bins. The whole area was gloomy, lit only by dozens of fat candles ranged around the platform and the work area. It looked uncomfortably like a shrine, like a place of unwholesome ritual.
By the flickering yellow light of the candles, Drusher could see that two of the cages were occupied. He moved around for a better look. A rough metal staircase ran down from the catwalk to the edge of the platform. The hunched figure in one of the cages was Germaine Macks. A crumpled body lay in the cage beside her. The floors of the other cages were littered with blackened human bones.
Drusher crept to the head of the stairs. There appeared to be no one else around. His heart racing, he climbed down the stairs.
Macks looked up and saw him as he stepped onto the platform. She lurched to the front bars of the cage and peered out at him.
‘Valentin? Oh Holy Throne! Valentin!’
He smiled at her and put his finger to his lips. The pistol was still in his hand. He put it in his pocket and shushed her properly.
‘Keep your voice down, Germaine,’ he hissed.
He hurried over to her cage. She looked up at him with wild eyes. She was filthy, and the side of her face was swollen and badly bruised. He knelt down and looked in at her. She grabbed his hand through the bars.
‘What did they do to you?’ he asked.
‘Hit me,’ she said. ‘Clubbed me with a rifle stock. I’m all right. Don’t look so worried, Valentin. Just get me out of here.’
He let go of her hand and started to examine the cage. There was plainly a door, but there was no lock, no keyhole. He tried to pull the door open.
‘I’ve tried that,’ she said sarcastically.
‘I’m sure you have.’
‘He closed it with a word,’ she said.
‘Who did?’
‘The one who clubbed me. Big bastard. Black hair. Freaky violet eyes.’
‘Gobleka,’ said Drusher.
‘Well, when I get out of here, he’s a dead man,’ she said. ‘He killed Garofar and Edde.’
‘Both of them?’ asked Drusher.
‘Cold blood. I had surrendered, and he just…’
Her voice trailed off.
‘Hadeed deserved a better end than that,’ she said miserably. ‘They both did.’
‘What do you mean he closed it with a word?’ asked Drusher, trying the cage door again.
‘I came to as he was putting me in here,’ she said. ‘He swung the door shut, then said a word, and it was locked fast.’
‘Enuncia,’ said a hoarse voice from the next cage. Drusher looked up. The other prisoner was Voriet. He was a mess. His throat and forehead were black with bruises, and his eyes were halfway swollen shut. The interrogator tried to struggle into a sitting position, but he was clearly in agony.
‘They used Enuncia,’ Voriet said. It sounded like his throat was full of blood.
‘Do you remember the word he used?’ Drusher asked Macks.
She shook her head.
‘It wasn’t really a word,’ she said. ‘I didn’t understand it.’
‘Do you know anything of Enuncia that might help us, Voriet?’ Drusher asked.
‘I would have used it already if I did,’ Voriet replied. ‘Eisenhorn keeps that knowledge to himself.’
‘How are you hurt?’
‘Broken arm, smashed hand,’ replied Voriet. He gestured to his face and throat with his left hand. ‘And this.’
‘Where is everyone else?’ Macks asked Drusher urgently.
‘Nayl’s dead,’ said Drusher. ‘Jaff too. She was the one who betrayed us.’
‘Jaff?’ Voriet said.
Drusher looked over at Voriet.
‘She was one of them, sir,’ Drusher said. ‘A Cognitae spy in your midst. She was the one who sicced that thing on us in Helter fortress.’
‘I can’t believe it…’ Macks whispered, rocking back in amazement.
Voriet was clearly shaken by the idea.
‘Audla?’ he whispered, uncomprehending.
‘She was Cognitae,’ said Drusher.
‘But she… We trusted her,’ said Voriet.
‘Trust seems to be a real issue with you people,’ said Drusher. ‘Anyway, she’s gone now. Eisenhorn… He dealt with her.’
‘Eisenhorn’s alive?’ asked Voriet.
‘Yes.’
‘Why isn’t he with you?’ asked Macks.
‘He had better things to do,’ said Drusher. He ran his fingers along the door edge again.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
Drusher glanced at Voriet.
‘Priorities. Isn’t that right, interrogator?’ Drusher asked. ‘Stopping Sark, stopping all of this, it’s what matters to him. We’re all expendable.’
‘Screw him,’ snapped Macks.
‘It’s unfortunate,’ said Voriet. ‘But I understand. This heresy must be brought to an end. We are of less consequence.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Drusher sarcastically. ‘Duty.’
‘We are sworn to our duty, sir,’ said Voriet.
‘Even renegades and rogues?’ asked Drusher. ‘I know all about him, Voriet. And he knows all about you.’
‘What do you mean, magos?’ asked Voriet.
‘That you joined his rogue band to watch him. That you affect sympathy to his cause, yet all the while you operate at the bidding of your ordo masters. He’s suspected you from the start.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Voriet.
‘By all means, deny it, Voriet. It’s probably safer. But he knows what you are. And he keeps you close because he hopes you will learn and see for yourself the legitimacy of his work. And vouch for him to your masters.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ growled Voriet.
‘Look where you are, Voriet,’ said Drusher. ‘In a cage, in a Cognitae stronghold in… What’s the word? Extimate space. The Immaterium Loom hums, sir, making weapons called graels to form an army that the Cognitae’s King in Yellow will unleash against Terra. Look at the evidence, and tell me this is not a battle that the Holy Ordos should be fighting. They should listen to Eisenhorn. They should help him, support him. Not declare him a heretic.’
Voriet didn’t reply.
‘Where are you getting this from, Valentin?’ Macks asked, wide-eyed.
Drusher shrugged.
‘From the lips of Eisenhorn himself,’ he replied. ‘And from the mouth of the traitor Jaff. But it doesn’t matter, Germaine. It’s not business for ordinary people like you and me. It is way above us. It’s part of a greater, darker cosmos that we are barely aware of in our day-to-day lives. So, I’m just going to get you out of here, and then we can go somewhere far away and forget all about it.’
‘How?’ she asked.
‘How what?’
‘How are you going to get me out of here?’ she asked.
‘That,’ he conceded, ‘is a problem. This damn door won’t budge. And I don’t know any magic word to open it.’
Drusher sat back and thought. He got up and wandered across to the workstation. It was cluttered with dirty surgical equipment and glass sample tubes he was quite certain he didn’t want to touch. He looked around for a tool or instrument he could use to lever the door open. As he searched, his movement wafted the flames of the fat candles dotted around the work space. There was nothing useable in any of the drawers. He checked the storage bins. Surely some tools, a crowbar…
Nothing. Just junk and more old medicae supplies.
‘Wait,’ he said suddenly. ‘Wait, wait, wait.’
‘What?’ asked Macks. She and Voriet stared at Drusher as he hurried back to them. Drusher pulled the gun out of his pocket and looked at it.
‘Custom bullets,’ he said. ‘That’s what poor Nayl said. Custom bullets, like the one he used to finish that undead thing. Etched by Eisenhorn himself. Like amulets to break this magic.’
He aimed the weapon at the door frame.
‘Whoa, whoa!’ Macks cried in alarm.
‘What?’ asked Drusher. ‘I know I’m not very good with guns, but…’
‘I don’t care what that thing’s loaded with,’ said Macks. ‘You’re aiming point-blank at cast iron, Valentin! It’ll ricochet… or you’ll miss the bars and hit me.’
‘The marshal’s right,’ said Voriet. ‘That’s not going to work.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Drusher. He laughed sadly. ‘I was almost feeling heroic for a second there.’
He paused, then turned the gun around in his hand and fumbled with it until he managed to eject the clip.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Macks.
Drusher slid the top bullet out into his palm. He tucked the gun and the clip away in his coat pocket and held the bullet up to the light.
‘There’s a word etched on it all right,’ he said, squinting at it. ‘Throne knows what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘So?’ asked Macks.
‘I need to…’ Drusher said, thinking. ‘I need to make a cast, or…’
Clutching the bullet, he went back to the workstation and carefully picked up one of the candles. Its flame guttered and twitched. Wax dripped off its base and dribbled down his fingers. He used an old, glass specimen slide to scrape up hot, soft wax from the desktop.
He went back to the cages quickly and began to shape a lump of soft wax on the door frame, roughly where a lock would have been.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Macks.
‘Concentrating,’ said Drusher as he worked. ‘Damn, this stuff is surprisingly hard to work with. There…’
‘Now what?’ asked Macks.
‘Just let it cool for a second,’ he said. ‘Talk to me.’
‘What?’
‘While we wait,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m scared out of my wits here, Germaine. Talk to me. Tell me something.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Something. Something from the old days that was good. I still think about the old days, you know? I think about you. I was a useless husband.’
‘I knew exactly what you were when I married you,’ she said.
‘So you should have known better?’ he laughed.
She managed a smile.
‘We both should, Valentin,’ she said. ‘You are an extraordinary man, Valentin. A magos biologis. Your life is driven by your work. As is mine. We both should have known better. We shouldn’t have been such damn optimists.’
‘Optimists or romantics?’ he asked.
‘Both,’ she admitted.
‘When did we stop being optimists, Germaine?’ he asked.
‘About fifteen years ago in Tycho City,’ she said, smiling.
‘It’s a shame,’ he said. ‘I think… I think I should have made more of a life. Made time for things. Been more than a magos. I think we should be optimists again.’
‘Do you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘because then there’s a better chance of this working.’
He bent down and tested the wax blob.
‘Let’s see now,’ he said. He took out the bullet, lined up the word etched on its case and gently pressed it into the wax. When he took the bullet away, a mirror print of the inhuman word was impressed in the blob.
‘Now what?’ Macks asked.
Drusher tried the cage door. It was still locked fast.
‘We wait,’ he said. ‘It may take a moment for the charm to take effect.’
‘You’re just making this up as you go along, aren’t you?’ said Macks.
‘Story of my life,’ he replied. ‘All made up as it goes along. Preposterous and unlikely. Like one of poor Hadeed Garofar’s faerie tales. Everything’s felt like that, especially since you came to the Bone Coast to find me. Fantastical and unnatural and following a set of rules no one has bothered to explain to me.’
‘It could work,’ said Voriet. He had pulled himself up close to the bars of his cage to watch. ‘The charm marking… It could break the word-lock. Enuncia conflicting with Enuncia.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Drusher.
Macks rattled the cage door.
‘It doesn’t seem to be,’ she said. He could hear her rising tension.
‘Just be patient, Germaine. Give it a moment.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not in he
re.’
‘Tell me about True Heart,’ he said, trying to distract her.
‘What?’
‘Did you wear it specially, or do you always wear it?’ Drusher asked. ‘I bought you that bottle years ago. If you used it regularly, it wouldn’t have lasted. Did you keep buying it?’
‘To remind myself of you? You wish.’
‘So you wore it specially?’
She shrugged.
‘It was in a drawer. I just thought–’
‘It would help you convince me,’ said Drusher quietly, ‘if you smelled the way I remembered you. It would make me feel like you still cared. Make me believe it was more than an official visit.’
Macks sighed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be. It was clever. You were just doing your job. Subliminal persuasion.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry I put it on. I mean, that’s why I put it on. To put you at ease. To remind you of a time when we were close. But I’m sorry I did it.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
She looked at him through the bars.
‘Because it reminded me of a time when we were close too,’ she said.
Drusher reached his hand in through the bars, and she took it.
‘It’s going to be all right, Germaine,’ he said. ‘You and me, side by side, insane adventures.’
‘Which you always hated.’
‘I think of them fondly in hindsight,’ he said. ‘They were high jinks compared to this.’
‘It isn’t working,’ she said.
‘The reassurance?’
‘The wax charm,’ she replied. She let go of his hand and shook at the cage door again.
‘Just be patient,’ he said.
‘There’s no time for patience, magos,’ said Voriet sharply.
Drusher looked around. The woman with the cropped, red hair was coming down the steps onto the platform. She stared at him, smiled and drew her sidearm.
EIGHTEEN
Dead or Alive
Drusher ripped the pistol from his pocket and aimed it at her.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Not another step.’
The woman’s smile broadened.
‘That’s the bitch who hurt me,’ said Voriet.
‘Her name is Streekal,’ said Drusher. ‘Streekal, right?’