by Dan Abnett
I lay on the floor, my right arm and leg churning, trying to get the other half of my body to work. A palsy had set in from my scalp to my toes on the left side. I had gone blind in my left eye and my mouth on that side was slack.
The toy blades had been envenomed. This was death.
Or something very much worse.
Blackness seeped in. I went fully blind. Then the world ceased to exist.
CHAPTER 21
Leverage
I woke up slowly, as though I was thawing out of ancient ice after a million years.
My body hurt all over, especially my left arm and left calf. My head throbbed.
I remained lying down. I was on a settee in the corner of a large room with a high ceiling. A blanket had been draped over me. I was still wearing Laurael Raeside’s garments, though they were now very dishevelled, and marked with many splashes of pigment dust.
This was not the commune. I had been taken to another building. The floor was metal, covered with a large tapestry rug. The walls were stone. The ceiling was whitewashed plaster. The room had large windows on two sides, through which a pale daylight streamed, though they were shrouded by white muslin drapes so I could not see out from where I lay.
I waited and listened for a while. I could hear the sounds of a city outside, and was fairly sure it was Queen Mab. I was quite high up, because the background street noise came from below, and I heard various bells chiming at intervals. One noteworthy peal came from my left. It was low and slow, and I knew it was the clock tower on Saint Baal under Toilgate, which had a distinctive dull note and always struck the hour late.
So it was just after dawn, and I was in a high building in the south of the city, east of Toilgate, which meant I was probably east of the Faeronicus commercia and the riverside junkmoots. Several buildings fitted the bill in that district, including the Universitariate of Chasopar Toilgate, the Orphaeonic School of Music, the Tarmos Rubricatory, the Honourable Frater Guildhall, and the Ecclesiarchy basilica and mission, none of which seemed likely venues.
Tentatively, I turned my head to review the rest of the room.
I was not alone. Two high-backed armchairs had been placed side-by-side in the opposite corner. The dolls sat in them, watching me. They were sitting as small children sit in adult chairs, with their feet up on the seats.
The girl doll sat in the left one, silent. Her gown was torn. She had her hands in her lap. She was holding her bun of human hair. Her glass eyes had tipped down to stare at it, as if in loss. Every now and then, she rolled her eyes up to stare at me, and then back down at her treasured hairpiece.
The boy doll was still stained bright red in the face. He was staring at me too, bright glass eyes in a red visage. His wooden mouth was clacking open and shut. As I watched, he wriggled to the edge of the seat, lowered himself onto the floor, waddled across to a low wooden dresser that stood against the wall by the door, and helped himself to nuts from the earthenware bowl that stood on top. He filled the pockets of his velvet coat with them. Then he toddled back to the chair, clambered up into it, sat back, and took out the nuts, one by one. Staring at me, he cracked each shell with a clasp of his little wooden fist, and then tossed the broken kernels into his mouth. His mouth went clack-clack-clack on its wooden slots.
They were both quite chilling. It was the intensity of their stares, the fixedness of their grins, the blankness of their expressions. They were bright-eyed and smiling, but that was not the feeling their faces conveyed.
The room was plain and ascetic, and the furniture, though good, was very puritan. I decided, though it seemed unlikely, that of the places I could think of, this seemed most to resemble the Ecclesiarchy mission.
The door opened. I feigned sleep. Under my eyelids, I saw Lupan enter. He looked harried and pale. He was carrying a large buckled bag of black leather. He set it down on the floor, opened it, and drew out a small metal case in which lay a syringe and several glass vials. He began to prepare the syringe, presumably with a shot of some stimulant designed to wake me.
‘You won’t need that,’ I said, sitting up.
He jumped, and then stared at me for a moment before putting the syringe away again.
‘You’ve caused a deal of trouble,’ he said. His tone was sour.
‘Really? I don’t recall you being the one who was attacked in the damned emporium. When my employer finds out–’
Lupan gave me a pained expression that said he was tired of playing.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let’s not pretend. Why don’t you tell me your real name and we can begin this process.’
‘What process?’ I asked.
‘Your life is over, girl,’ he said. ‘How well you get to spend your afterlife is up to you.’
‘Well, sitting here listening to your riddles isn’t something I’d choose,’ I said. ‘If you know so much, Master Lupan, you know I have friends, and you know how terrible their punishment will be when they catch up with you.’
I paused.
‘And you know they will catch up with you,’ I added.
He did indeed look sick with fear for a moment. He wiped his hand across his mouth, and checked over his shoulder to see that no one was listening. I felt that included more than just anybody who might be about to follow him into the room. I felt that it included the dolls.
He crouched down facing me. He looked earnest and scared.
‘Help me, for Throne’s sake,’ he hissed, ‘and I will help you… however I can.’
I kept my eyes locked on his to increase his discomfort.
‘How could I possibly help you, sir?’ I asked.
He was agitated.
‘I am in trouble with the owners,’ he confessed quickly, glancing over his shoulder again. ‘With the family. They say I bungled the handling of you, which perhaps I did. They blame me for what occurred. I say they should have given the job to someone more senior, but they didn’t want to give away the fact that they knew what you were.’
What I was. I noticed his choice of words.
‘Now I am in the dog-house and might be demoted,’ he continued. ‘Or worse. The Young Master is very angry with the way things turned out.’
‘Who is the Young Master?’ I asked.
‘Throne, Balthus Blackwards,’ Lupan replied. ‘This arrangement is very valuable to him. Valuable to the family. He is blaming me for jeopardising it.’
‘Arrangement?’ I asked.
He looked at me with contempt.
‘Have you any idea,’ he asked, ‘how long Blackwards has wanted to deal with a piece of merchandise like you or one of your kind?’
I did not ask him what that meant. I presumed he meant a carrier of the pariah gene. Instead, I shook my head.
‘A long time, let me tell you, a long time.’ He frowned. ‘But they would never dare cross the Eight, or get upon bad terms with the King, or in any way interfere with the programme. But now the programme is gone… in disarray… They feel they are able to move in and salvage the scattered assets.’
‘To asset-strip?’ I asked.
He looked stung.
‘No, no. To collect up and safeguard lost assets, and perhaps find new and productive homes for them.’
‘For significant financial reward,’ I added for him.
He scowled.
‘Am I an asset, Master Lupan? Am I merchandise? So far you have not described me in any terms that I like the sound of. So far, in fact, I have been threatened, attacked, drugged and kidnapped. You sent those things after me, whatever they are.’
I looked across at the dolls.
‘We had little time to be subtle. There was an opportunity–’
‘I don’t care, Master Lupan,’ I said. ‘All I know is I have no idea why I should help you.’
Again, he cast a wary glance over his shoulder.
‘They’ll be coming soon,’ he whispered to me. ‘I am supposed to prepare you. I am in disgrace. I fear for my job and my life. If you can give me anythin
g, any damn thing at all that I can use to show the Young Master I am still of value, then I will help you in return.’
‘How will you help me?’ I asked.
He was becoming desperate.
‘However I can. It can’t be in a big way, but in whatever small ways I can. As often as I can. But you have to give me something.’
The man was in fear of his life. I could tell that from his micro-expressions and involuntary body language, and from the terror pheromones sweating out of him. One may act afraid with some conviction, well enough to convince a casual observer, but that level of physical apprehension cannot be faked. Well, it can, but only by the most high-grade operative or assassin.
I was confident that Lupan’s fear was real. I could alleviate it. That gave me a small measure of leverage to exploit. That made him, in the language of Blackwards, my asset. But I knew I had to give him something real, something of value. If I bluffed him with something artificial, he might see through it at once and my chance would be gone. Even if I fooled him for a while, he might find out later, and the repercussions for me might be worse. I had no way of knowing the level and thoroughness of the Blackwards’s intelligence on me, or the Maze Undue. There was every chance that they could see through any lie I told. So, to be sure, I could not tell a lie.
‘Prove to me you can help me,’ I said. ‘Tell me where I am.’
His hands were shaking. I could hear footsteps approaching along the hallway outside.
‘The mission house,’ he hissed. ‘The mission house of the Ecclesiarchy on Phoenician Square.’
‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘Since last night,’ he said. ‘Eight hours!’
‘How many floors up are we?’
‘For Throne’s sake!’ he squeaked. ‘Six!’
‘Who is about to enter the room, Master Lupan?’
His agitation was now extreme.
‘The Young Master. The Young Master and some private agents! Bodyguards.’
‘What is he coming here to do?’
‘Sell you. Sell you, of course!’
‘To who, Master Lupan?’
He clamped his hands to his head in frustration and panic.
‘To his holiness the Pontifex Urba of Queen Mab!’ he squealed. ‘Now please! Please, give me something in return!’
I looked into his eyes.
‘My name is Alizebeth Bequin,’ I said.
CHAPTER 22
A purchase on behalf of the Pontifex
The door opened, and Balthus Blackwards entered the room. Lupan got up and stood back, his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. The dolls, I noticed, also slithered forwards off their seats, dropped to the carpet and stood to respectful attention.
I did not rise.
Blackwards was dressed in a dark green suit with a shirt of pale violet. The shirt had a small ruff, and its lace cuffs extended beyond the sleeves of his jacket. An intricate silver brooch was pinned to his left lapel. His face was set hard. As on our previous meeting, he looked down his nose at me. I had drugged him unconscious then, though I had not directly intended to. I sensed that he was angry about that, and wished he could exact some penalty for daring to affront his person so.
My value stayed his hand.
He entered the room flanked by four agents. They were bodyguards, trained in personal protection. Three were male, and one was female. They wore similar black coats of ballistic cloth over dark blue bodygloves reinforced with silver link mail. They were understated, but I could tell they were of the highest professional standard. They walked like dancers, ready at a microsecond’s notice to react or move. Their faces were expressionless. Each one had a tracery of silver wire inlaid in his or her skin from the right temple, down the side of the face and down the throat, a jagged marking like the depiction of a lightning strike. This was the sign of a neural embed, an augmentation to accelerate their reflex reaction times. I could see no obvious weapons on them, but the coats allowed for the concealment of sidearms or even short swords. In a church precinct, I presumed it would be blades.
More than their bearing and their deportment, and the signs of their expensive augmentation, I knew they were of the very finest quality because that’s what Balthus Blackwards would employ.
‘Is she ready?’ he asked Lupan.
Lupan nodded.
‘Why don’t you ask her?’ I suggested. ‘She can hear you quite clearly.’
‘Tell her that the last time I spoke directly to her, it cost me pain and discomfort, several expensive servitors, and other sundry damage to stock and fittings,’ Blackwards said to Lupan.
Lupan opened his mouth and turned to me.
‘I heard him,’ I said. I looked back at Blackwards.
‘Why don’t you bill me?’ I asked.
He looked down his nose at me. His lip crinkled.
‘I will offset my expenses and inconvenience against the price that you are about to fetch. It will be adequate.’
He smiled. It was the most disagreeable smile I think I have ever seen.
Time to manoeuvre.
‘I fear that the Eight will not thank you for disbursing their property so freely,’ I remarked, not in the slightest knowing what the Eight might be.
Blackwards stiffened. The name evidently carried weight.
‘It does not concern me,’ he replied, off-handedly.
‘Does it not?’ I asked. I rose to my feet and tossed the blanket aside. ‘Do you know what I think?’
‘I am not interested–’
‘I think the King will want you dead, Balthus Blackwards,’ I said. ‘I think the King will want you punished most cruelly for interfering with the programme. You, and all those who stand with you.’
I said this for the benefit of the bodyguards, though none of them reacted.
‘The programme is gone!’ Blackwards spat. ‘It is ruined and burned! I am merely showing initiative and enterprise, salvaging what may be salvaged. The King will understand that.’
‘We will see,’ I said. ‘We will see if the emporium is still trading in another year or more. I suggest you let me leave, Balthus. Let me leave now. I will go to the King and beseech him for mercy on your behalf. I will tell him you helped me. I will not mention that you tried to sell me.’
Blackwards made a face that suggested he had tasted something sour. He looked at Lupan.
‘I thought you said you could convince her to be cooperative?’ he said. ‘They will be ready in an hour to view her and she is still filthy and unkempt. If she speaks to his holiness in this way–’
‘She will not,’ Lupan insisted. ‘She certainly will not.’
He glanced at me quickly.
‘Will you?’ he asked. ‘If they think you are troublesome, or that you are not what we say you are, then things will go even worse for you!’
And for Blackwards, I wanted to answer, but I needed to maintain what little in the way of an ally I had established in Lupan. So I said nothing and remained sullen.
‘I will have her ready, sir,’ Lupan told the Young Master. ‘She is beginning to cooperate. I believe she is simply apprehensive of you, but who wouldn’t be?’
Lupan let out a little nervous laugh, which Blackwards did not join in with.
‘I think I have a measure of understanding with her,’ Lupan added. ‘I have, for instance, learned her name.’
Blackwards raised one eyebrow.
‘Her name?’
‘Her true name, sir.’
‘She has thousands, one for every function that programme sent her out on. She’s lying.’
‘I don’t believe so, sir. The name was Bequin. Alizebeth Bequin.’
Blackwards thought about this. Then he took a deep breath and walked towards the door.
‘I want her ready downstairs in forty-five minutes, Lupan,’ he ordered. ‘No excuses.’
Blackwards left the room, his bodyguards escorting him like moons around a parent planet. Lupan looked at me.
‘You must be careful of him,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘For my sake!’ he cried.
He bent down, opened his black bag, and took out a clean grey bodyglove, a plain black tunic dress, and a brown wool robe with a hood, such as a monastic might wear. All were neatly folded.
‘Clothes for you. I’ll bring water so you can wash.’
‘I’m not getting washed or changed with you in the room,’ I said.
‘I will wait outside,’ he assured me.
‘Nor will I stand those things being in here,’ I added, pointing at the dolls, which had climbed back into their seats the moment Blackwards made his exit.
‘Very well,’ said Lupan.
He left and came back shortly afterwards with a washing basin, a cloth and a jug of warm water. He set them on a side table. From the bag, he also produced a comb, a nail brush and file, a water bottle, and some bread and cheese wrapped in waxed paper.
‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he said. I was, though I hadn’t dared to admit it to myself.
‘Make yourself presentable,’ he said. ‘Quickly, please.’ He went to the door, and nodded to the dolls.
With what seemed to me to be reluctance, they slid off their chairs again, and tottered out of the room. The girl doll, still holding her bun of human hair, swivelled her eyes to look at me as she went past.
As he pulled the door shut, Lupan looked at me and said, ‘Quickly now.’
As soon as the door closed, I started to eat, and to sip water from the bottle. It occurred to me that the food and drink might be laced with further drugs, but I took a calculated risk. Hunger and thirst were beginning to impair my mental performance, and my physical energy was at a very low ebb after the chemically-induced sleep.
As I ate, bread in one hand and bottle in the other, I paced the room, looking under and inside what little furniture was there. I put the food and drink down, and checked the windows. Lupan had not lied. I was six floors up in the great mission house. Below me, far below, lay a rain-swept Phoenician Square. Worshippers were gathering for the midday services in the mighty Basilica Saint Orphaeus, which the mission house adjoined and served. Other worshippers, pilgrims from far away and off-world, were queuing up at the booths along the side of the square to buy votive candles and file past the shrines, or visit the famous frescoes where the magnitude and glory of the God-Emperor could be briefly experienced.