‘Our holds are full,’ Salar said.
‘My holds, you mean,’ Peshig said.
‘Your holds, our plunder,’ Salar growled, glaring at the other archon. As ever, he seemed only a hair’s breadth from violence. Being in realspace for such an extended period of time had only made his temper worse. He looked at Hexachires. ‘I’m bored now. And I’m done with this farce of a hunt.’
‘You are done when I say you are done,’ Hexachires said idly. He was alert now. He could sense the simmering discontent of those at the table – all of it aimed, however unfairly, at him. They meant it this time. He’d known the day was coming, but he’d hoped to forestall it for a few more weeks. Time enough for another raid, maybe two. Time enough to pick up some clue as to where Fabius had gone to ground.
Salar stared at him. Not in surprise, but as if trying to decide where to stab first.
‘What did you say to me?’ he asked.
Hexachires ignored both the question and his tone. ‘We are close. I do not intend to lose the trail now.’
‘What trail?’ Peshig said. He pushed himself to his feet. ‘The one your pet strings out before us? That’s a dead end and you know it. You’re just too stubborn to admit your quarry has escaped you. Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.’ He looked at the others, seeking support. ‘No, it is long past time to return to Commorragh in triumph.’ Heads nodded in agreement, and his subordinates pounded on the table. Peshig smirked at him. ‘Cheer up, Hexachires. It wasn’t a total loss… at least for us.’
Hexachires drew himself up. ‘Need I remind you all of our bargain?’
At his words, the exuberance died away. He looked around the table, suddenly aware of how many of them were armed. Then, so was he.
‘I am owed and I will collect. You will help me, or I will consider our arrangement at an end. The Thirteen Scars will divorce itself from you. No more access to our vats, no more aid.’
Diomone turned sharply to stare at him. ‘You can’t do that,’ she hissed.
He didn’t look at her. ‘I am master of the coven. I can do as I wish.’
An oversimplification. He could make as many proclamations as he liked, but if the Synod didn’t agree, he might well find himself made to look the fool. But Peshig and the others didn’t know that.
‘You’re bluffing,’ Peshig said. But there was doubt in his voice.
‘Am I?’ Hexachires folded his hand piously. ‘Test me, pirate.’
Peshig frowned. ‘Well, if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just have to find another haemonculus. And won’t they be interested to know what you’ve been up to?’
Hexachires almost smiled. A good gambit. But predictable.
‘Meaning?’
‘That I – we – are not fools, Hexachires. We have ears to hear, and minds to think, and I have heard enough to make me think that you need us more than we need you.’ Peshig leaned on his knuckles, endeavouring to look like the dashing archon he fancied himself as.
‘And what exactly have you heard?’
Peshig hesitated. Hexachires sympathised somewhat – to reveal too much was to reveal that in fact he knew very little. But to back down now would be to admit weakness before his peers and subordinates. An archon of high standing could theoretically survive a moment of weakness. But one of Peshig’s lacklustre status could not. He was dancing along the edge of his own blade.
‘You know very well to what I am referring,’ Peshig said.
Hexachires laughed. A pitiful gambit. Proof that Peshig had only suspicions. Still, no reason not to play out the hand.
‘Say that I do. What of it?’
‘There are any number of individuals who would pay dearly to know what I know,’ Peshig said. ‘Any of the other covens, for instance.’
‘Are you attempting to blackmail me?’
‘Not at all,’ Peshig said, in a way that made it absolutely clear that he was lying. ‘Merely establishing the parameters of our arrangement.’
‘Allow me a rebuttal,’ Hexachires said. He raised his hand and a fat crackle of blue light shot from his palm. Peshig yelped and sank to one knee, clawing for his sword as he did so. Disorder reigned for a moment as everyone went for their weapons. Hexachires ignored them all, keeping his gaze fixed on Peshig.
‘You would be wise, all of you, to remember who I am. I am master of the Thirteen Scars. I was old when Commorragh was young. I saw the rise of Vect, and I have no doubt I will bear witness to his inevitable downfall. In comparison to me, you are but puling insects, crawling in the garden I have provided for you.’ He looked around the table. ‘I could crush each of you now, with no more effort than it takes to breathe.’
‘Oh, I think it would take a bit more than that,’ Salar growled. He had his blade half-drawn, and Hexachires could hear its peculiar wasp-hum. ‘And I think if we put our minds to it, we could cut a fourteenth scar into that narrow hide of yours.’
Avara nodded, her blast-pistol aimed squarely at Hexachires. ‘I half thought Peshig was just blustering, but seeing you this defensive? It inclines me to believe that there’s something to his suspicions. And that means the scales are weighted in our favour at the moment.’
Hexachires frowned. It appeared that he’d miscalculated – and not for the first time. He’d thought a show of force would be enough. It seemed, however, that they were no longer inclined to fear him.
‘I wouldn’t fire that weapon, if I were you,’ he said.
‘You’re not me, and I doubt even you could survive at this close range,’ she said flatly. She paused, eyes narrowing. ‘Unless…’
‘Unless, for instance, I had a second singularity device such as the one I tested earlier wired to my bio-functions. Kill me, and this vessel – as well as everyone aboard it – will cease to exist.’ He was rewarded with a communal intake of breath and a flurry of muttered curses. ‘Yes, that’s right – we are at an impasse.’
‘No, we’re not,’ Peshig snarled. He’d got back to his feet with the help of several subordinates. Smoke rose from the scorched shoulder of his robes, filling the cabin with the stink of burnt cloth and skin. ‘We’re returning to Commorragh. You can come, or make your own way. It matters not a whit to me.’
‘I – we – may not get another chance,’ Hexachires said slowly. ‘Our quarry will flee to some hidden lair and we will never root him out.’
‘Let him hide,’ Peshig said. ‘We have been well recompensed for our efforts. Now it is time to quit the field while I still have ship and crew enough to get us home.’
‘You owe me,’ Hexachires began, but even as he said it, he knew he’d lost them. At least for now. Once they’d had time to calm down and consider the matter, they’d see how foolish they’d been. But trying to force his will on them further was a losing proposition. Eventually, one of them would call his bluff. And that might prove highly embarrassing, especially when they discovered that he didn’t actually have a second singularity device. A fact Diomone pointed out in a harsh whisper as they made their way out of the cabin.
‘We only had one of those devices. And the fact that you used it in so rash a manner will be a disappointment to the Synod.’
Hexachires snorted. ‘What is the Synod to me? I am master of the coven, and I have every right to disburse its resources as I see fit.’
‘Except the whole point of this exercise was to spend as few resources as possible in this endeavour. Instead, we’ve lost hundreds of slaves and an artefact worth more than all of Low Commorragh put together. And for what?’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing. He escaped. Again. That’s twice now.’
‘I will catch him. It is simply a matter of time.’
‘Time is something we have precious little of, Master Hexachires.’
Diomone looked at him, her expression grim.
‘Make certain that you don’t waste any more of it.’
‘We are returning to Commorragh, it seems.’
Oleander looked up at Hexachires’ words, hardly daring to believe them. ‘Why?’
‘Circumstances are no longer in our favour.’ Hexachires stood on the other side of the laboratorium, studying the row of helms mounted there. He tapped one. ‘Look at them, Oleander. Your brothers in arms, once.’
‘Not for a long time,’ Oleander said, staring at the helmets. Chort’s was there, and that of Kyross Acturian, the Black Mercy. Selvo Puln’s Mark II death-mask rested alongside the patchwork war-crown of the Broken One. The feathered helm of Herik Stymphalos, and the ragged hood of the Weeping Son, with its still-bleeding sigils. Helmets of all marks and styles, denoting dead brothers. Brothers he had betrayed.
‘Yes,’ Hexachires said. ‘Shame. Perhaps the bonds are not as strong as you swore. You said he would seek refuge with one of them. And yet – nothing. No sign of him.’
‘There are others. He’s trained so many of us, over the centuries. The Consortium numbered two hundred souls at its height.’ Oleander forced himself to meet the empty, accusing gazes of the broken helms. Most of them had simply been faces in the crowd. He’d sparred with Puln on occasion. The former Iron Warrior had been a fair-to-middling duellist, and a pleasant conversationalist, unlike poor Tzimiskes. Stymphalos had been mad, and Acturian terrifying. The Weeping Son had only ever spoken in riddles, and the Broken One barely spoke at all, save to mimic what others said.
But they had all been brothers. Not of blood. But by choice. Each had chosen to forsake their Legions, their destinies, and learn at the feet of the Clonelord. And then, like Oleander, they had left. Unlike him, they had stayed in contact with their mentor. A secret brotherhood stretching across the galaxy. A brotherhood now being hunted down and slaughtered, with his help.
Once, that might not have meant much to him. Once, he’d laughed as he’d killed those he’d once called friend. But there was an ocean of time between past indiscretions and this, and he felt sick to think of it now.
‘It is almost done. You have stalled long enough.’
Melusine spoke from just over his shoulder. He didn’t turn, and gave no sign he’d heard anything at all. Hexachires had taken to watching him closely, since her first visit. She laughed softly, and he felt the tell-tale lurch of daemonic magics.
‘Brave Oleander. The truest knight. He will thank you.’
‘Will he? Will any of them?’
She clasped the sides of his head. ‘Maybe not. But the clowns were right. This is the only way.’ She kissed the faceplate of his helm gently. ‘And you are the one to do it.’
‘Strange that you and they would be aligned in this.’
‘We are not. We are merely trying to reach the same destination.’
‘Why? Why is he so important?’
She stepped back, and the smile slipped, just for a moment. ‘He is not. None of this is. It is but one more gambit in the great game. We are all just pawns, and we must move as the players dictate.’
‘Is that your way of saying you don’t know?’
Melusine laughed, and the sound made his hearts ache. ‘I thought I did once, and maybe I will do so again. But for now, I am just trying to stay in step with an ever-changing rhythm.’ She made a playful pirouette and tapped his helm with her claws. ‘It is what it is, and what will be, will be. I have seen it all play out before, and now I am trying to remember how it goes.’
‘And what if you make a mistake?’
Melusine paused. ‘I will – but not yet.’ She smiled. ‘When I do, the end will be close. And you must be ready – ah.’ She turned and her expression sharpened.
Hexachires was watching them. Oleander was certain of it. The haemonculus’ hand was moving towards his robes, reaching for something. Melusine went to him, and peered into his mask.
‘I see you, little bug,’ she said, in sing-song tones.
‘And… I… see… you.’ Hexachires’ voice came as if from some great distance. His movements did not increase in speed, but Oleander could sense the urgency of them.
Melusine laughed, and was gone a moment later. Time snapped back and Hexachires’ hand shot forward, holding a crystalline device.
‘Gone,’ he said in frustration.
‘She does that,’ Oleander said.
‘I told you to tell me when she reappeared.’
‘It’s not like she warns me.’ Oleander pointed to the device. ‘What is that?’
‘You’re being impertinent.’ Hexachires pulled out the pain-baton and gestured meaningfully with it. ‘Shall I punish you?’
Oleander bowed his head. ‘If it pleases you.’
Hexachires stared at him for a moment, before returning both devices to his robes. ‘Not at the moment. Frankly, I suspect you’re starting to enjoy our little disciplinary sessions a bit too much. It’s taking all of the fun out of it. I shall have to devise some new means of chastising you.’
Oleander said nothing. Hexachires sniffed. ‘I can smell it on the air still. It’s growing bold. What does it want?’
‘I told you – to taunt me.’
‘Yes, but why come back to do so more than once? What game is it playing?’ Hexachires leaned forward and caught Oleander’s chin, forcing him to look up. ‘Tell me that and perhaps I’ll spare the next name on your list.’
Laughter greeted this comment. Hexachires shoved Oleander back and turned.
‘Who dares? These are my private quarters.’
The laughter redoubled itself, echoing eerily through the chamber. Quaquaversal and cacophonous, it grated against Oleander’s enhanced senses, threatening to deafen him. Wracks collapsed, clawing at their skulls and moaning. Hexachires clapped his hands to the side of his head and whirled in place, searching for the intruder.
Then, all at once, the sound ceased. It was replaced with the soft jangling of bells, and the shuffle of footsteps. A colourful figure slid out of nowhere, moving from one place to the next in the blink of an eye. The figure’s movements were at once erratic and precise – almost ritualistic, but without obvious purpose.
‘Veilwalker,’ Oleander said. Hexachires glanced at him.
Sylandri Veilwalker bowed effusively. ‘Me. We. Us.’ She bobbed to her feet and spun her staff across her shoulders, catching it with her other hand. How she’d got into the laboratorium without them noticing, Oleander couldn’t say. Nor did she seem unduly concerned by the large number of wracks now aiming weapons at her. ‘And she,’ Veilwalker added, looking around, as if in search of someone.
‘Are you in it together, then?’ Oleander asked.
Hexachires shot him a warning glare. ‘Quiet, Oleander. Say nothing to this creature.’
‘Creature is it, oh Lord of Knives? How rude,’ Veilwalker began. ‘And after all I’ve done to aid you, Hexachires Ulthiliad.’
Hexachires stiffened.
Veilwalker laughed. ‘Yes, I know your name. Who you were, before the fall of the empire and the long retreat to Commorragh. Just an artist, then. A scribbler of pedestrian portraiture. Not even well known. And yet look at you now.’
Hexachires drew himself up. ‘Yes, look at me. Whatever I was, I am now master of the Thirteen Scars. And you are nothing to me, little clown.’ He pointed a clawed finger at her. ‘You helped me, true, but for reasons of your own. Why are you here now?’
‘First, a story,’ Veilwalker began. She pirouetted about the haemonculus, forcing him to turn to keep her in sight. She moved faster and faster, until she seemed little more than a blur of colour. Finally, she slid to a halt behind Oleander, and pressed the length of her staff against his throat, pinning him against her. She was stronger than she looked.
‘Count Sunflame languishes in durance vile, his only hope the daughter of his jailer, whom he woos with desperate passion…’
Oleander drove an
elbow into Veilwalker’s midsection – or tried to. She was gone before the blow could land, circling him lightly, but always keeping her mask tilted towards Hexachires.
‘I am in no mood for stories, clown,’ the haemonculus said. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To talk, nothing more.’
Hexachires glided close. ‘So talk.’
‘You resist the flow of the preordained narrative,’ she said pointedly. ‘Return to Commorragh. Gather your forces. This pitiable collection of characters will not be enough to do what must be done. But we can help you, if you let us…’
‘What sort of help?’ Hexachires leaned close. ‘And how much will it cost me?’
‘Let us say that our interests coincide,’ she said. ‘As they have coincided with those of many others, in many stories, both well told and yet to be written.’ She shrugged. ‘Such is the nature of grand comedy. Farce is a whirlpool of coincidence – ever widening, ever deepening, and all the characters drowning in the same dark waters.’
Hexachires was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he began to laugh. ‘I see now,’ he murmured. ‘I see it clearly.’ Still laughing, he pointed a clawed finger at the Harlequin. ‘You used me. You sent him to me – he admitted that much, early on. Never the name, of course, but it is too great a coincidence.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Veilwalker said.
Hexachires turned. ‘Why?’
‘As we said, our interests coincide. You push, we pull. Eventually, the point of the story will spring loose of the claggy soil.’
‘And what if I have no interest in being a… mechanism in your little story?’
‘Then you will be cut from it, and a new character introduced. Plot is a tyrant, and needs must when the story drives.’ Veilwalker spun her staff from hand to hand, and there was something bluntly threatening about the motion – a sort of graceless power. Oleander thought Hexachires saw it as well, for he retreated slightly.
‘And if I do as you say?’
‘Your part of the story ends well,’ Veilwalker said, and her voice seemed different – deeper and more savage. Not the voice of a clown, but of something older and more vicious by far. ‘But cross us, and it will not end at all.’
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