by Dan Abnett
He bent down in the edge of the crowd and picked up a small piece of the broken glass phial Garnis had slipped on.
‘A present,’ he said. ‘A deodand for your master.’
‘I’m sure he’ll love it,’ said Leyla Slade. ‘Wait.’ she added.
He paused. She licked her right index finger, reached out, and wiped away one last lone speck of blood from his face that she’d missed earlier.
‘Thank you.’ he said.
They stepped out into the bright day and the bustling crowd swallowed them up.
TWO
AT HER MASTER’S mind-whispered instruction, Patience Kys opened the courtyard gates to let them in.
She didn’t move from her seat on the stone bench. One nod of her head, one blink of her green eyes, and invisible hawsers of telekinetic power drew the heavy timber doors open. The lower edges of the doors scraped slightly on the ground, and lifted a small cloud of dust from the dry cobbles. The doors made a juddering, rumbling sound as they swung in. Fierce patches of yellow sunlight invaded the quiet shade of the courtyard through the opening gates.
Nayl, Thonius and Plyton came out of the house to watch the arrival.
Nayl’s expression was unreadable. The skin of his shaved scalp had caught a touch of sun. He wore a tight grey bodyglove reinforced with articulated ceramite plates around the shoulders, neck and torso. He stood at the top of the house steps, in the shadow of the entrance archway, adjusting his gloves. He made no attempt to conceal the Hecuter Arms Midgard bolstered on his left hip.
Maud Plyton emerged to stand next to him. She had taken to wearing Navy surplus fatigues since quitting the Magistratum. Today, she had chosen a one piece, zip-front flight suit of shabby khaki, heavy-laced combat boots, and a white undervest. The unflattering fit of the unisex clothing accentuated her large, slightly thickset frame, a build that contrasted sharply with the very delicate pinch of her features. She wore her dark hair cropped short, a Magistratum regulation she had found it hard to abandon.
Carl Thonius, slender and trim, wore the bottom half of a black body-glove and the high, patent leather boots of a ceremonial cavalry officer, complete with rowel spurs that clinked when he walked. On his upper half he wore a purple tail coat with gold trim. Open, the coat framed a rectangle of scrawny white chest and washboard stomach above the glove’s waistband. His long fingers were covered in rings, and his hair was dyed black and roughly chopped into a mane. He was a long way from the fey, fussy, impeccably dressed dandy who had first joined the inquisitor’s company a decade before.
‘Do we know who it is?’ Nayl asked him.
Carl shook his head. ‘Not a clue.’
Across the yard, Kara and Belknap emerged from another doorway. Kara was short, voluptuous, her bright red hair stridently clashing with her lime green vest and white pantaloons. Belknap, dressed in simple black combat trousers, was a slim man of average build, his hair short and unremarkably brown, his face unexceptionally ordinary except for a sleepy glitter of intense wisdom and reassurance in his eyes. Those eyes had seen a lot, as a battlefield medicae. They would see a whole lot more as the private physician to an inquisitor’s warband.
Patience Kys, tall and feline, rose from the bench at last and joined Kara and Belknap. In her dark brown bodyglove, she seemed all legs. Her black hair was hanging loose, but as she walked, she reached up with her hands, gathered it, and twisted it into a neat tail that she secured with a silver pin.
‘Brace yourselves.’ she said. ‘I smell trouble.’
The envoys entered the courtyard. First, an outrider on a long, low, powerful warbike, its engine issuing an indignant splutter that resonated around the courtyard walls. Then, one after another, three Chimera carriers, like monolithic stone blocks, their track sections clattering and squealing. The carriers were finished in a matt grey, as if they were supposed to be incognito. As if a trio of thirty-eight tonne armoured vehicles could be incognito. Their turbines grumbling, they drew up on the lower part of the courtyard, side-by-side. Six psyberskulls droned in with them, and took up hovering stations, like dragonflies.
A second outrider, low on his machine like the first, brought up the rear. This second bike raced around the parked carriers, and halted, revving. The rider put one foot down and sat up.
In a line: bike, carrier, carrier, carrier, bike.
+Close the gates.+
Kys nodded, and obliged. The gates rumbled shut.
The carriers shut down their engines. Exhaust fumes drifted away, up and out of the yard.
‘Leave this to me,’ said Nayl.
‘Why?’ asked Carl.
‘Look at my face. Am I about to take any shit?’
Carl smiled and nodded. ‘No. And I like that about you.’
Nayl looked at Maud. ‘Got a piece?’
‘I thought they were friends?’
‘No such thing, girl. Go get a piece and stay inside behind the door.’
Maud looked back at Nayl, waiting for the punchline. Then she realised he was serious and disappeared back into the house.
Harlon Nayl left Thonius on the steps and stomped down into the sunlight. He walked towards the line of vehicles. The hovering psyberskulls whirred and buzzed, bobbing slightly, as he came into range.
The two outriders had killed the engines of their warbikes and rocked them over onto their stands. Both dismounted. They were clad in matching scale-armoured bodygloves, smeared in dust, which made them look like extensions of their matt-black and bare-metal bikes. They removed their helmets, yanking free the skeins of wires and plugs that linked them to the weapon-systems of the bikes.
The rider on the left was a young male, tall and slightly built, with long white hair that shook free and loose the moment his helmet was off. He looked at Nayl. He had the most distressingly blue eyes.
‘We greet the master of the house, and humbly thank him for this audience.’ he said. His voice was soft and clear, like rainwater.
‘The greeting is returned.’ said Nayl. He flicked his eyes up at the hovering psyberskulls. ‘A little too many guns around for this to be cordial.’
The young man smiled broadly. ‘I apologise.’ he said. He took a control wand from his hip pocket and waved it. With a low murmur, the skulls deactivated and sank to the courtyard floor. ‘That was rude. Just a precaution, you realise.’
He pocketed the wand, hung his helmet on the antlers of his bike and walked towards Nayl.
‘Interrogator Gall Ballack.’ he said, extending a hand the moment he’d peeled the glove off.
‘Nayl.’ said Nayl, shaking the hand.
‘I know.’ said Ballack. ‘I have studied the records. I’m an admirer of your work. Where’s Ravenor?’
‘By that, I suppose you mean Inquisitor Ravenor?’ Nayl replied.
Ballack pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Presumptuous of me, and lacking respect. Of course, I meant Inquisitor Ravenor.’
‘He’s inside.’
‘My senior has come to speak with him.’
‘Perhaps your senior would like to get out of his tank and come in, then.’ said Nayl.
Ballack snorted a laugh. ‘You know, Harlon, I think she might just do that.’
There was a series of pneumatic clanks, and the boarding hatches of the Chimeras began to open. Over in the shadows, Kys jerked her head at Kara, and the pair of them slipped away into the house. Belknap, slightly at a loss, stayed put.
The second outrider had taken off his helmet. He was a she. A very tall she with long braided, beaded hair.
‘Shit.’ whispered Harlon Nayl.
+Great Throne of Terra.+
‘You’re seeing this?’ Nayl murmured.
+Of course.+
‘She’s the dead spit.’ Nayl said.
+It’s uncanny.+
‘This will be weird for you, then, I guess.’
+I can do weird, Harlon. I’m a professional.+
‘Even so.’
+Bring them in. Let’s get this done.
+
PEOPLE DISMOUNTED FROM the carriers: two dozen troopers with mixed weapons, all of them wearing the rosette of the ordos: an old man with a cane; a tiny, child-framed woman in selpic blue leading a pair of servitor gunhounds; an ogryn slaved to a massive plasma cannon; a woman and a man in long leather coats; a quartet of rubricators with their writing machines; a man in shiny jet body armour; and another woman, ash-blonde, slender, dressed in a long gown of ochre Hydraphur silk. She was impressive. The sight of her made Nayl suck in his breath.
Then the chief envoy. Her body was armoured in red plate and she walked with a limp. Every centimetre of her armour was engraved and covered with seals. The parchment scrolls hung off her like feathers, as if she was fledged like a bird.
+Well, I should be flattered, I suppose.+
‘Yeah,’ whispered Nayl. ‘Why?’
+That’s Inquisitor Myzard. Senior secretary to the Ordos Helican, and Lord Rorken’s immediate subordinate.+
‘Throne, they’re not playing around then, are they?’
Myzard limped across the yard to Nayl. She looked up into his face. She had once, Nayl could tell, been a beautiful woman: strong, articulate, animated. Her face was lined now, contoured by extreme age. Her hair was straw gold.
‘Are you the interrogator?’ she asked in a brittle, tired voice. ‘Are you Thonius?’
‘This is Nayl, ma’am,’ Ballack said gently. ‘The, ah—’
‘Thug,’ Nayl suggested with a rogue’s smile, extending his hand.
Myzard grinned and shook his hand. ‘I like you already,’ she warned. ‘Where’s that bastard Ravenor? I need to have words.’
‘As I just said, he’s inside. And I’m sure he’s got some of his own.’
Myzard laughed again. ‘I do like you. Spunky. Let’s go and talk to Gideon, shall we?’
‘Allow me to lead you in, ma’am,’ Thonius said, hurrying down the steps with a hand extended. ‘I’m Interrogator Thonius. My master is awaiting your pleasure.’
Myzard sniffed. ‘I’ve been awaiting my pleasure for sixty-eight years.’ She glanced at Nayl. ‘Possibly I’ve found it now, though.’
Nayl looked at Carl and mouthed, ‘Help me’. Carl smiled. ‘This way, ma’am.’
They filed in past Nayl, up into the house. The gunhounds barked at him as they were led by. The woman in ochre, the ash-blonde, turned Nayl’s head as she passed. She didn’t look at him.
They had gone in towards the house and only the female outrider remained, standing by the parked vehicles.
Nayl walked over to her.
‘We had better go in,’ he said.
She nodded. She was taller than he was.
‘I have to ask.’ he said. ‘Esw Sweydyr?’
‘You know the Carthaen clans?’
‘I knew one of their number once. A long time ago. Arianhrod.’
‘My mother’s sister. I am Angharad.’
He made the sign of the aquila. ‘Harlon Nayl. You should know, my master was deeply in love with your aunt, a long time ago.’
‘I know this too. I know she died by his side. She was the reason I joined the Inquisition’s service.’ Angharad returned his respectful aquila with the fist-punch to sternum salute of Carthe.
He waited while she untied her long, sheathed sabre from the war-bike’s frame.
‘Let’s go in,’ he said.
‘Let’s.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking… what’s its name?’
She cinched the sword harness tighter around her shoulder.
‘Evisorex.’ she replied.
THREE
I SIT WAITING for them, in a pool of sunlight in the drawing room. I have banished my party to the far corners of the house, just in case. The only ones I allow to be present are Carl Thonius, leading the visitors in, and Harlon Nayl, bringing up the rear.
Nayl is walking with the woman Angharad. I find I am insanely jealous. Arianhrod was the only woman I ever loved, in my physical life. She died just a few short months before I was maimed and reduced to this state, and somehow, tragically, that had made it better. If Arianhrod had still been there, I would have…
Killed myself. Killed myself, without a doubt.
But she had died first. I had coped with all of my loss.
And now… her doppelganger appears. A Carthaen swordswoman so physically reminiscent of my long lost love it is painful.
I turn my chair to face Myzard,
‘Gideon,’ she announces. ‘Good to see you.’
+And you, Ermina. Do you have any objections to thought conference? I can kick in my voxsponder.+
‘Mind’s fine,’ she says, and sits down on a tub chair that groans.
‘Meet the others,’ she says. ‘D’mal Singh.’
The tiny woman with the gun hounds nods. The hounds snuffle and whine.
‘Tarkos Mentator.’
The old savant, bent on his cane, also nods.
‘Shugurth.’
The ogryn bows.
‘Interrogator Claudel and Interrogator Gonzale. Interrogator Ballack.’
The man and the woman in the long coats snap to attention. Ballack inclines his head with a smile, his face framed by his long white hair.
‘Angharad Esw Sweydyr.’
The towering swordswoman beside Nayl makes no movement whatsoever.
‘Inquisitor Fenx.’
The man in the black body armour makes the sign of the aquila.
‘And this is Inquisitor Lilith.’
The woman in the ochre gown with the ash-blonde hair offers me a respectful nod.
+Lilith. I’ve read your work and admired it. You have, I understand, a particular interest in the eldar xenotype.+
‘I have, sir. And I have read your work too, and adored it,’ she answered.
+Thank you.+
‘Well, now every one loves every one else,’ says Myzard, ‘let’s get to business. Gideon, you have to stop. You are this close to being branded a rogue.’ She holds up her left hand and pinches the forefinger towards the thumb to indicate the distance.
I open the slot on the fore casing of my chair and display my blue rosette.+I am operating under Special Condition, and my Lord Rorken knows this.+
Myzard folds her hands. ‘Such an understanding goes only so far. It’s time to stop.’
‘Molotch is still out there,’ Thonius says.
+My own interrogator, Carl Thonius,+ I send.
‘We’ve met,’ says Myzard. ‘Yes, Molotch is out there. But he’s a loose end that others can deal with. You are requested to stop.’
+Requested?+
Myzard sniffs. ‘Ordered. Requested is so much more mealy-mouthed. We’ve been requesting you for months and you’ve been avoiding us. Now it’s an order.’
+From my lord?+
The senior envoy nods her head. Fenx steps forward and draws a sealed data-slate from his belt pouch. He holds it awkwardly for a moment and stares at my chair.
‘Is there somewhere… somewhere I can insert this?’
‘I’ve an idea,’ mutters Nayl from the back of the room.
Myzard sniggers. ‘Play nice, Gideon. Dataport?’
I open a dataport on the side of my chair unit and Fenx loads the slate. I open it, spin it out, and extend the hololithic display around me in my dark cocoon of virtual light. The missive has been recorded by my Lord Rorken personally. It is as if I was standing next to him. He looks tired, frustrated. He says my name. I kill the rest of the sequence. I don’t need to see any more. Rorken is the only man I answer to, and he has spoken.
+All right. I’ll come back in. There, it wasn’t so painful, was it, Ermina?+
‘Thankfully no, Gideon. Look, you have to understand you’re not about to be censured. Rorken is pleased with your work. So am I, dammit. On Eustis, you did an extraordinary thing. You stopped something that could have destroyed everything. All of us.’
+Oh, so you have read my report?+
‘Cover to cover,’ says Lilith. ‘
But it is the very magnitude of the event that forces your recall, sir. Enuncia alone, and the collective knowledge of it gathered by your team, must be examined in forensic detail. A – forgive me – curt report is not enough.’
‘And there is the matter of Eustis Majoris itself,’ says the savant Mentator. His voice is as involved and thready as old, fused wiring. ‘What matter might that be?’ Thonius asks. ‘The damage,’ says Mentator. The destruction. The deaths.’
+Am I to be held responsible?+
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Gideon,’ Myzard says, getting to her feet and looking around the room. ‘It’s going to take years to rebuild the subsector capital. This whole region is in crisis, you understand? Crisis?’
+I know what crisis means.+
‘Eighteen planetary governments about to fall. There are currency issues. Faith issues.’ Interrogator Ballack was speaking fast, quietly. ‘A loss of belief in Imperial rule. General unrest. Strikes and civil disobedience on nine major planets. A mutiny at the Navy yards on Lenk. The list is extensive. I won’t bother you with every detail, but you need to understand… if Molotch had succeeded, he would have busted this sub-sector, this sector even, apart at the seams. You stopped him. But the price of you stopping him was still extensive. Scarus sector is damaged and fragile. Repairing the infrastructure will take generations. We need your help.’+My help?+
‘It is essential that you and every member of your team is extensively debriefed,’ says Interrogator Gonzale. ‘That process might take months. We can learn from you, inquisitor. And what we learn from you may save us years in the rebuilding process.’
‘Put simply,’ says Myzard, ‘you can’t just make a big old mess and leave others to clean it up.’
I know this. I have been avoiding it. It is a necessary part of any inquisitor’s work. After the Gomek Violation, I spent three years in restorative, cooperative study with the planetary government. After the Nassar case, my old master Gregor Eisenhorn devoted the better part of a decade on Messina, tidying up behind himself. After the Necron Wars, Inquisitor Bilocke, blessed be his memory, set aside the remainder of his life to repairing the governments and substrate of the Tarquin Stars. Myzard is still looking around.