Pariah: Eisenhorn vs Ravenor

by Dan Abnett

  ‘How do you know such details?’ I asked.

  ‘I know the place,’ he grunted.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I worked here once,’ he said. It was a strange and reluctant confession that he seemed to regret the moment it was out of him. I had no time to seize upon it and question him further.

  He left the colonnade and ran down a stone well of stairs that allowed the public and the faithful access to the lower crypts. Stragglers and the infirm lingered here, making heavy weather of their exit from the basilica. They limped and shuffled, physically unsteady or in a state of consternation. Some cried out at the scene around them and chastised themselves.

  We pushed through, and Lightburn shoved some of the malingerers out of our path. The steps were scattered with discarded flower garlands, prayer mats, votive coins and fluttering orders of service. Some of the civilians we shouldered past cussed at us and struck at us with their hands or with such items as they were carrying.

  Near the foot of the stairs, where the well opened out into a broad, flagged landing and the walls were hung with the graven copper plaques of saints and deeds, all festooned like hanging baskets with posted offerings or flowers and ribbons, two of the masked temple wardens appeared, spotted us, and pushed through the throng to reach us.

  I readied my cutro. Lightburn did not break stride or try to turn us back. He strode down the steps to meet them, pushing people out of the way, and then began to berate them in a language I did not understand.

  Instead of attacking, they recoiled from him, and made off in the direction they had come.

  He looked back, grabbed my hand again and pulled me onwards.

  ‘What was that?’ I asked him.

  ‘I told them that the true quarry were heading for the north chancel.’

  ‘In what way did you tell them?’ I asked.

  ‘It doesn’t bloody matter!’ he barked.

  I had to think that it did not, but I presumed he had spoken to them, fluently, in Omnes, the cant or dialect of the temple, a private trade tongue that the juniors of the church use to keep the business of their office in confidence from the public. He spoke it well, and with the authority of use. My Curst man had been a warden once, I fancied.

  Three more of the painted masks appeared, and he ordered them away too, pointing and making an emphatic show. We were almost at the mouth of the stone porch in the west end of the great building. By my memory, Pediment Street lay just beyond.

  ‘He has a car waiting,’ Lightburn growled.

  ‘A car?’

  ‘A motor carriage that has been arranged for him by a friend,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean Shadrake?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Him!’

  ‘And what friends does he have?’ I asked.

  ‘A what-do-you-call-it… a patron,’ he answered. ‘Someone who likes those damned pictures he makes. He has called in favours and old debts to help us.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I think he likes you,’ Lightburn said. He hesitated. ‘I think he likes me too,’ he added, with some reluctance.

  The porch was ahead of us. We ran on, full pelt, seeing daylight beyond the arch, heaving the rumble of daemonic thunder behind us.

  A figure loomed against the light, advancing to meet us. He was a silhouette, but I knew him at once. It was the man from the stairs, the half-crippled man with the sword who had performed such feats upon the bone staircase.

  We skidded to a halt in the stone box of the vast porch, facing him. He had his sword drawn and was glaring at us, as if his patience was worn out and he had expended more strength than necessary locating me and blocking my escape.

  ‘Thorn wishes Gauntlet,’ I heard him mutter into a vox-bead mic, ‘by hallowed path diverted.’

  He took a step forwards, still staring at me. I sensed that Lightburn was ready to attack, thinking him just a man. I knew how futile such an attack would be, and how swiftly the Curst would regret it and die. There was no time to warn him. I willed Renner not to act.

  Then I thought of willpower, and knew that the man was very probably about to unleash his undeniable will upon me again, and oblige me to do whatever he said.

  His mouth began to open, a command forming.

  I twisted my cuff to dead.

  The words failed in the man’s mouth. Struck dumb for an instant, his powerful mind blanked, he staggered in surprise.

  In that moment, Lightburn pulled out his massive revolver, and fired, without hesitation, the heavy-gauge breaching round in the centre-pin chamber of its cylinder.

  The boom rang around the roofed compartment of the porch, as loud as doomsday. The shot hit the big man’s centre mass squarely, and smashed him off his feet. He flailed backwards for several metres and landed very hard, flat on his back.

  The Curst and I leapt past his body and ran into the daylight.

  The third section of the story, which is called

  FEVERFUGUE

  CHAPTER 30

  Beyond Wastewater

  The daylight was fierce. A strong, bland sun burned down on Pediment Street out of a white sky. The light made me squint.

  The sky was not empty. Huge columns of filthy brown smoke were issuing from the vast basilica behind us, besmirching the sky and creating a heavy, foggy pall across the southern part of Queen Mab. Where the estuary wind came in off the marshlands and stirred it, the smoke twisted like ooze, and seemed, now and then, to form frightening faces that leered down at the city below.

  The street, a broad thoroughfare, and the ones adjoining it, were all of a confusion. Citizens flooding in panic out of the great Ecclesiarchy building had mingled with crowds gathering to witness the spectacle. There was a great noise, and a great fear. People were shouting, bells were ringing and officers of the watch were caught in the human tide, helpless as driftwood.

  We looked around for Judika, but there was no sign of him, nor any hope – so I calculated – of achieving such a goal. The Curst kept us moving towards some destination he had in mind, and our path was made rather freer by the fact that my blank aura was causing people to shy away from us without knowing why.

  Lightburn didn’t seem to be bothered by it. The burdener had a rather admirable knack of taking everything in his stride.

  All around us, people were jabbering like lunatics.

  There was a little yard on the south side of Pediment Street where vehicles could draw up to deliver to the alms houses. There were several motor carriages there, most of them cargo vehicles, but one was a handsome motor landau with a servitor driver.

  As we approached, the side door of the painted carriage opened, and I saw Lucrea. She waved at us, beckoning frantically with her dye-stained hands.

  ‘Padua! Padua! Come!’ she cried.

  We ran to the vehicle. I switched my cuff back. I didn’t want my presence to alarm Lucrea. She was quite highly strung.

  Constant Shadrake, unshaven and wolfish, was in the carriage with her.

  ‘There’s my girl!’ he exclaimed, taking a lho-stick out of his mouth to talk.

  ‘Where’s Judika?’ I asked him.

  ‘Who?’ he replied, with an idle frown.

  ‘The handsome boy,’ Lucrea scolded. ‘Padua’s friend.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Shadrake, uncaring. ‘He went off. Now, my dears, there’s too much commotion here. We must be gone.’

  ‘We must wait for him,’ I said.

  Shadrake looked at me.

  ‘We came here for you, my sweet thing,’ he said. ‘It is not safe here. It is time to leave. My dear, after such an effort to rescue you, we will not lose you again.’

  I glanced at Lightburn.

  ‘He says you found me with your glass,’ I said to Shadrake. ‘That was very clever of you.’

  He shrugged a self-conscious ‘it was nothing’ shrug.

  I held out my hand. Shadrake looked slightly put out.

  ‘Your sighting glass,’ I said.

  He handed it out of th
e carriage to me with a tut.

  I took it. I think it was the first time I had actually held it. I was surprised by the weight of it. I raised it, and looked towards the basilica.

  It was an unbalancing feeling. Light seemed to squirm inside the old glass, making my stomach flip. I saw the world, but it was distorted. Angles were flexed and lines were bent. Dimensions and proportions were not reliable, and neither were colours. Everything was tinted by an unnatural cast, and the very sunlight was stained. I saw strange radiances and auras, especially in the smoke rising from the stricken monument, which, through the glass, was especially disturbing to behold.

  The vision made me feel woozy, but I persisted with it. I was sure that the glass, a curious object if ever one existed, was somehow able to image and interpret the shadows, ripples and currents of the empyrean, which rolls like an ocean just outside our mortal universe, or so the Secretary always taught us. Shadrake would have perceived me, because, as a pariah, I would have been a hard, unyielding blot in that fluctuating sea.

  Judika surely would be too.

  I spotted him before I’d even realised it. I was distracted by a glimmer of light that reminded me of Grael Magent’s awful, bloodshot luminosity. As I turned to look at it, it vanished, but my change of angle revealed a small yet very solid form indeed.

  Judika was on the far side of the street, beside one of the basilica’s entrances. He was pressed against the wall in the shadow of the door, huddled as though he was hurt. People fleeing the temple floor rushed past him without sparing him a second glance.

  I handed the glass back to Shadrake, and set off at once, dodging and weaving my way across the teeming street.

  ‘Hey!’ Shadrake yelled after me. Lightburn, with a sigh, set off at my side. He had seen where I had been looking, and had spotted Judika too.

  It took a while to get to Judika. When we finally walked up to him, he didn’t seem to recognise me at first. He was shaking, as though he was very cold, and his skin was blotchy and pale. Sweat sheened him, and soaked his clothes. He was clutching himself, his arms around his torso, as though his ribs were broken or he had taken a wound in the side.

  ‘Judika?’

  I had to say his name three times before he looked at me.

  ‘Beta?’

  ‘We’re leaving now, Jude. Shadrake’s waiting. We can go.’

  He nodded, still shaking. The nod provoked a cough, and he was wracked by a grating, painful bout of coughing for a moment. I touched him to support him. His skin was clammy and far too cold.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I asked.

  He coughed again. The cough was rasping and dry. There was a prickling edge to it that sounded painful.

  ‘I went in to find you,’ he said. Each word was a struggle. ‘Some horror was unleashed. I ran, but it has left its mark upon me.’

  ‘Where?’

  He shook his head, coughing again.

  ‘Through my spirit,’ he said. ‘I think I will recover, but it has drained me for now.’

  ‘Help me get him to the carriage,’ I said to the Curst. Lightburn nodded.

  We half-carried Judika back to the motor carriage. Shadrake seemed almost disappointed to see him. We got inside the compartment – Judika, Shadrake, Lucrea, Lightburn and myself – and Shadrake ordered the servitor to move off. The motor carriage, drive plant rattling, edged out of the yard and began to creep through the traffic south along Pediment Street. Many people were fleeing that way, on foot or in vehicles. Shadrake pulled on the cord that governed our vehicle’s horn in an attempt to clear a path for us.

  I helped Judika settle in a corner seat against the frame of one of the windows. The carriage was well appointed, with rich red velvet upholstery and gold fringes. The compartment ceiling had been painted to show a trompe l’œil sky of clouds and playful cherubs. There were vermeil gas lamp sconces on the wall.

  It was a fine carriage.

  ‘Whose coat of arms is that?’ I asked, pointing to the door.

  It took over an hour to clear the hubbub around the basilica quarter and move south into the districts east of Toilgate. In shabbier, less busy streets, the carriage was able to make better time along the cobbles.

  The cones of smoke from the basilica rose like some grim premonition behind us, obscuring even the mountains in the west.

  Woadhouses, which was the name by which this district was known, had originally been the land above the marshes where early settlers had cleared the timber and raised the first villages that had grown into Queen Mab. It was not a salubrious quarter. The habs were no longer made of wood, but they were dreary and bulk-rise, and had been unimproved and left to decay. Water damage stained rockcrete walls and plastered shingles. Tiles were patched and incomplete. Pavements and patches of waste ground were overgrown and cluttered with rusting refuse. I knew I was closer than I had been in many years to the marshes of my birth, but if this proximity was anything to go by, I had little wish to explore further.

  People had come out of their habs all along Woadhouses Row to observe the distant smoke and commotion. They were of poor, rough stock, and eyed our passing carriage warily.

  We passed forlorn zones of industrialisation, many parts of which were foreclosed and abandoned. Commercial premises were shut up and boarded, and store sheds looked empty and forgotten. We began to see the flat, grey mirrors of Wastewater, the vast network of overflow reservoirs that surrounded Woadhouses, tanking water from the marshes as a reserve for the city. They were like small seas, or lakes contained by dykes in low country. They were dismal in the flat light, their surfaces shivered by winds. A few habs, sheds and pylons marked the edges of the rockcrete beds. Our road ran through the landscape on an embankment. This lowly, dank part of Queen Mab felt stagnant and decayed, as though the sapping, undermining ministry of water beneath the waterlogged ground was slowly washing the life from it.

  As dusk settled, we found ourselves heading along a metalled track around the rim of Wastewater’s darkest and most mysterious pool, a vast mere of silted water, towards a grim, black range of trees. This, Shadrake told me, was the last surviving part of the original woodland that had stood before the rise of Queen Mab.

  Through the long and increasingly depressing journey, we had sat quietly in the jolting carriage. I was rather too stunned and exhausted by the day’s events to frame proper questions about our destination or purpose, and Shadrake was evasive. He opened several bottles of amasec, and lit numerous lho-sticks, with the chatting, giggling Lucrea as his partner in revels. He told me that the coat of arms was the crest of his patron family, and that they had lent him the car as a favour, and that we were running to their estate as a place to lie low, out of the way. When I asked him why they were being so helpful, he told me that they owed him a consideration or two, and he had promised them a painting of me. They trusted his judgement in the quality of models. Their name, Shadrake said, was Quatorze. They were old blood. I would like them.

  I had not heard of them.

  He refused to be drawn further, and acted as if it was all an exciting surprise to come. He drank. Lucrea laughed and played the viol to accompany some silly songs. Lightburn sat in grudging silence, and accepted a few pulls on the bottle of amasec.

  Judika sat at the window, huddled under a coat, shivering still and gazing out at the black, bleak water sliding by outside.

  Every now and then he coughed. I could tell he was ill. It was a dry cough and each bark was accompanied by a crackle like vox static.

  Shadrake tried to change the subject by asking me what had happened in the basilica. I offered little. I sat back, exhausted, and let the rocking of the carriage lull me.

  When I woke, the carriage had turned its lamps on and was rattling down a long lane of black mire under a tunnel of ancient trees. The trees seemed to be covered in shadows rather than leaves. In a clearing ahead, also canopied by dark and venerable trees, lay a house, a stone pile of considerable size.

  ‘Aha,’ said Sh
adrake, by now drunk as a lord. ‘Here we are. Feverfugue.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Which concerns the home of the Quatorze

  The house was called Feverfugue. This I was told, not shown. There was no sign of a nameplate on the black iron gate or the peeling front doors.

  It was a place of some scale, with several wings. The main bulk was built of a blue-grey stone not local to the prefecture of Hercula. The stone looked wet, as though the climate had sheened it with slime. Either that, or it naturally glistened like snakeskin. The roof was low-gabled and composed of black tiles that resembled the scales of a larger reptile. It was not in good repair. Moss clad stretches of the roof, and hung from some of the limp gutters. The windows were lightless and dull in frames that had rotted in the marsh air. On all sides, the lawns were overgrown to weeds, and the trees imposed, blocking out the light with their black shapes, drawing themselves halfway across the aspect of the house like a fan across a demure face. Feverfugue had been built in the old woods, but the woods had already begun to reclaim it.

  When we arrived, in an evening that was creeping down around the small lights of our carriage like a fog, it appeared that only one person lived in the whole of the place. Shadrake had spoken of the Quatorze as a ‘they’, as a ‘family’, as ‘patrons’, but it was quickly revealed that he had simply been referring to their past. They were ‘they’ in as much as they were old blood, a noble lineage, but ‘they’ were simply Alace Quatorze, the last of the line.

  She had servants and servitors to attend her, and run the house of Feverfugue, but she was a solitary being. She had been beautiful, and was still, I suppose, but she was very old. Juvenat treatments had preserved her. She was like a priceless antique: in perfect condition, but rare and delicate.

  Her servants, all dressed in livery as blue-grey as the snakeskin stones of the place, brought us from the carriage into a hall lighted with many tapers and candelabra. The gloom was rendered golden, though there was a quality to the marshland light, evening at nightfall, that made everything appear as if it had been washed out or diluted by the excess water in the region.