by William King
The Rat's Head was a place where mercenaries and other less salubrious sorts chose to drink when they were down on their luck. If you wanted a throat slit or a pack of butchers to ride shotgun on your next cargo this was the place to come. To tell the truth, it was more Janus's sort of place than his. In the years of their partnership, the rogue trader had always dealt with this aspect of things. He was much more at home among these sorts than Simon could ever be.
At this exact moment, Simon wished more than ever that he had a command deck beneath his feet, and a ship heading out into the Long Dark. He was all too aware of the number of very hard men studying the cut of his cloak and the look of his weapons. With consummate showmanship, he flicked his weighted grey cloak open to reveal the emblem of Belisarius, a great eye flanked by two rampant wolves. Most of the onlookers went back to their drinks. Only the very foolish or the very desperate would risk the wrath of House Belisarius, or the bad luck that came from killing a Navigator.
And they were right to, thought Simon, since that bad luck usually took the form of a quick death. If the Imperial authorities didn't get a man for wasting one of the Imperium's most precious resources, then a knife across the throat or a bolter shell through the brain would come from the very deadly and very scary men the House would send to avenge him.
Despite all of this, Simon was reassured to see that Kham Bell and Stiel were at their usual table at the back of the bar. If he were dead, he would not get any satisfaction from his House's revenge. With the two mercenaries there, not even the hungriest and most desperate of rogues would trouble him for long.
Scattered about the place were the rest of the survivors of Darke's Company. They looked like they had been drinking heavily. He hoped they hadn't been drinking so heavily as to give anything away where an agent of the authorities might hear. No matter how many oaths a man swore, or how loyal he was, or how afraid of his commanders, once the daemons of alcohol got hold of a man's tongue, it would inevitably start to wag. It was a good thing, Simon thought, they would be pulling out in a few days; the sooner the better really.
But what then, what about the next time they hit port? We should never have gone to Typhon. We should never have broken the Interdict. It was only a matter of time before word got out and the Inquisition started showing an interest.
Cross that bridge when you come to it, Simon told himself. Not that it will matter anyway, he thought sourly. The chances are we won't be coming back from this voyage.
Simon strode across the bar and lowered himself into a chair directly facing Kham Bell. On the surface, the old sergeant looked much the same as ever. He was medium height and very broad. A well-trimmed grey beard framed a deceptively open and honest face. Despite years of being roughened by alien suns and winds, his cheeks were still rosy. He looked more like a prosperous yeoman than a mercenary warrior whose name was feared across the sector. It was only the eyes that showed any signs of their Typhon excursion. There was a fear in them that had not been there before, and would probably never leave.
'Good evening, Simon,' Kham said. His voice was deep and resonant, and still held the twang of Crowe's World. He had been one of the first to follow Janus, Simon remembered, and it had been the making of him. The broadsword that seemed almost an extension of his body when drawn was hooked over the back of the chair. A heavy bolt pistol was strapped to his thigh.
'Good evening, Kham; good evening Stiel.' Stiel nodded politely as he greeted Simon in his light, flat voice. Simon felt a faint trickle of fear when he contemplated the man. Not that there was anything frightening about Stiel's appearance: he was tall, slender and good-looking in a dark way. His long hair gave him a faintly effete appearance. Stiel was dressed conservatively in a light green tunic and high leather boots. There was nothing remotely threatening in his manner either. No one would guess what he was from his appearance, which given his chosen profession was good. It was just that Simon knew many of the things he had done.
Most of the crew and the mercenaries thought Stiel was the Star of Venam's senior clerk. Simon doubted that even if he encountered one of the fabled Imperial assassins he would ever meet a more ruthless, dedicated and ferocious killer. Man, woman or child, heretic or fanatic believer, if ordered to slay it, Stiel would, and never for a moment would the expression on his pleasant features change. If Stiel felt any different about things since Typhon there was no sign of it in his face. He was the only one of the three who had passed into the temple's inner sanctum who showed no signs of being haunted. Simon guessed that with the amount of guilt that must steep Stiel's conscience, nothing held any terror for him any more.
The cutthroat carried no visible weapons, but Simon knew this meant nothing. Doubtless there were one or two poisoned daggers concealed in his wrist sheaths. The ring he wore would have a small needle capable of injecting Daxian mongoose venom, one of the seven most lethal poisons in the Imperial alchemical roster. The chain of the pendant he wore round his neck could be converted to a garrotte at a moment's notice. Simon knew Stiel had once sawed off a man's head with it.
If push came to a shove, Stiel could kill with his bare hands or any weapon known to man. He was also an expert sniper.
Apart from his attractiveness, Stiel looked like a nonentity and spoke like a merchant's clerk. He could pass almost anywhere without comment. Simon knew nothing of his past and had never known where Janus had found him. He knew that of all the people in the universe, Stiel obeyed only the rogue trader, for reasons Simon could only guess.
'Anything new?'
'Prosperity flows,' said Simon with an ironic smile, and slid one of the dreamstones across the table under the concealment of his hand until it dropped off the table edge into Kham Bell's outstretched paw. The sergeant let out a low whistle and passed the gem discreetly to Stiel. The killer looked down and his eyes crinkled. For him, it was the equivalent of a broad grin and a hearty cheer.
'Looks real,' he said.
'It is real,' said Kham Bell. 'Haven't seen its like since I took one off those bastards who killed my sister.'
'Which ones were those?' Stiel asked politely. He was the only man who could have got away with asking the mercenary that question. Pretty much any man Bell killed and plundered bore a startling resemblance to the men he claimed had killed his family. Even a few orks did.
'Winterhome,' said Kham Bell, in a tone that would have warned off anybody except Stiel. The killer just nodded. Simon could have sworn he wore a faint air of amusement. It sometimes seemed that his main pleasure in life, aside from killing people, was tormenting Kham Bell.
Interesting as watching a fight between two such hardened brawlers would be, Simon decided that he had better things to do.
'We have a commission.' That got both their attentions. 'And we have enough money to reclaim the Star and pay off the crew.'
'For whom?'
'I cannot discuss that here.' Both men nodded. The beer hall was not the most secure of places.
'Where are we going?' Bell could not resist asking.
'I cannot tell you that either.' Fairness prompted the Navigator to add, 'I can say that it will be dangerous.'
'That would make a change,' said Kham Bell.
'There is a very good chance that none of us will be returning.'
'It's the same every time we voyage,' said Stiel.
'This time it is different.'
'How different?'
'It may be more dangerous than anything we have ever done before.'
'I was with the captain on Crowe's World,' said Bell. 'What could be more dangerous than that?'
'Where Janus Darke goes, I go,' said Stiel.
'Why are you not with him now?'
'We are in port, and we left him in the Palace of Pleasure. What harm can come to a man like him there? If he needs us, he knows how to get in touch.' Stiel added, touching the comm-net bead on his earring.
'I tried reaching him earlier,' said Simon. 'No luck.'
'He's probably w
ith that high class tart of his,' said Kham Bell. 'Doesn't want to be interrupted.'
'Have you activated his locator?' Stiel asked, more seriously.
'You think something might have happened to him?' Simon countered.
Simon shook his head. 'Janus can look after himself. You need to start getting the men together while I assemble a crew. We're shipping out as soon as we can get provisioned. Tell the men it's volunteers only, double hazard rates.'
'That bad?' said Kham Bell.
'That bad,' said Simon Belisarius.
'Better get the lads together then,' said Kham Bell.
'Get them to the port,' said Simon. 'We blast as soon as Janus checks in.'
Janus Darke looked around the refrigerated chamber and dry-heaved. He would have thrown up, but everything he had eaten earlier was already a messy puddle on the floor in front of him. In his time, he had been on some bloody fields but he had never seen anything like this.
The thing that had once been Fat Roj lay on the ground in front of him. Most of his blood was sprayed over the walls. His entrails had erupted from his stomach and lay like coiled ropes about him. Janus could see the purple of internal organs, most likely the liver or spleen. His heart lay on the floor where Janus had dropped it when he emerged from his trance. The blood still covered his hands.
What have I done, Janus wondered? Horror and remorse filled him. He could not remember anything at all after Fat Roj had torn off the little finger of his left hand. He looked down at it and could not quite believe his eyes. The flesh was smooth. Instead of a bloody gaping hole where his finger had been, there was a smooth expanse of white flesh. He felt no pain. All he felt was tired and a little numb.
Janus looked around. Something flapped on the end of a meat hook. It looked like a carpet or a tapestry except that it was the wrong colour and dripped blood. Inspecting it closer, he made out some coloured patterns, then realised that they were tattoos. He was looking at the skin of Roj's chief henchman. A taxidermist could not have removed it so cleanly. That pinkish blood-dripping thing on the floor would be the man himself then. The body looked up at the ceiling, his blackened tongue protruding, his eyes, the only human thing about him now, wearing an expression of utter horror.
Weariness overwhelmed Janus. He slumped down on his knees and glanced around. Bodies lay sprawled here, there and everywhere. Limbs dangled from hooks. There was blood all over the place. It looked like a daemon had run amok with a chainsword but Janus knew it had been no daemon. It had been him.
He considered his options. What should he do? The right thing would be to give himself up to the Inquisition. There was no way he could kid himself now. He was possessed of evil mystical powers. The light of the Emperor no longer shone on him. His soul was forfeit. There was no telling what he might do if he allowed himself to run free. If what he had done here was an example, there was no end to the harm he might wreak.
Part of him argued that these men had deserved it. They had stood by and either watched him be tortured or had helped torture him. The Emperor alone knew how many deaths Fat Roj had been responsible for. But what if next time it was not a gang of murderous thugs? What if next time it was a group of children? There was no telling where this could lead, and he could not say he had not been warned. Everybody in the Imperium knew what happened to unbound psykers. They had it drummed into their heads from the first day they were old enough to attend temple school.
Something else nagged at Janus. He studied the bodies, then counted them, and checked against his memory. There were only seven corpses. Where was Weezel? The little man's body should surely be noticeable among the ones he had killed. After all, he had been much smaller than any of the others, an informer not a bruiser.
How could you tell if he was here, Janus asked himself? It looked like somebody had punched a hole into the bodies' abdominal cavities, pushed in a grenade and stood back to watch the explosion. Even so, he felt certain that he would have recognised Weezel's body. None of the severed limbs fitted Weezel's either. They were all too big. He guessed his subconscious was nagging at him, trying to tell him something. The informer had escaped.
This was not good news. Even if Weezel did not report this to the Inquisition, which was likely considering the circumstances that had brought Janus here, and the part the informers had played in them, he would still inform the Syndicate. They would not stand still for one of their own, and a high-ranking boss like Fat Roj at that, being killed in this way. They were like the Navigator Houses; they would never stop hounding him until he was dead. It would not matter where he went now, or how he tried to hide; there would be a price on his head. It was only a matter of time before the bounty hunters showed up. And they were quite capable of finding some way of letting the Inquisition know what had happened here too.
Slowly the enormity of what he had done here seeped into his mind. Unarmed, he had killed more than half a dozen heavily armed and very tough men. It was a feat he could only have managed by calling upon the powers of darkness, by receiving aid from the accursed powers of Chaos. It came to him that he was one of those things he had been warned about since his earliest childhood, one of those to be constantly guarded against, to be reported to the authorities as soon as they were discovered. He was a psyker.
What am I going to do, he asked himself? All the wealth the dreamstone represented meant nothing now. Once Weezel spoke into the wrong ears, no amount of money could save him. His former position would be no protection. His charter would be revoked, his remaining property impounded. He would have no rights under law.
He realised that he had made a mistake. He doubted if even Stiel could be counted on after what had happened here. He needed to get a move on, to get out before the assassin arrived, or bounty hunters or the Inquisition showed up.
Fortunately, there was no shortage of weapons. He picked up his own blade and pistol, and helped himself to the guns of two of Fat Roj's henchmen. He took several bandoliers of ammunition and a knife. Shivering he pulled himself to his feet and headed towards the doors. The blood, now a frozen puddle of red ice, crunched beneath his feet.
Weezel raced through the night-shrouded streets. Every shadow menaced him. Every pool of gaslight was a momentary refuge from the horror that dogged his heels. Every moment he half expected a heavy hand to descend on his shoulders or to feel a blast of agony that would tell him Darke had caught up with him.
His skin crawled at the memory of what the trader had done. Had he not witnessed the scene with his own eyes he would have scarcely believed it. One of Roj's men had been turned inside out, his internal organs erupting through his flesh, his ribs emerging like ivory spears from his skin. Fat Roj's own intestines had burst forth from his huge gut and strangled him. The others had run to aid their boss, unaware that they were running to their doom.
Weezel, his instinct for self-preservation honed by decades of survival in the Warrens, had taken a different tack. While they had run towards the insanely laughing thing that moments before had been Janus Darke, he had rushed out of the door and slammed it closed behind him. Not that he had expected to stop the monster for more than a few moments, but instinct had made him want to put something solid between himself and the combat.
Now his lungs burned and his chest felt like it was on fire. Molten lead flowed through his limbs. Weariness threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that he could not run another step, and yet he somehow forced himself to stumble on. Just one more, he told himself. Lift your foot. And again. His soiled britches stuck to his legs. The chill of the refrigerated chamber seemed to have sunk into his bones.
Reeling with fatigue, his foot slipped in a puddle of slimy ordure and he plunged headfirst onto the pavement. All around people looked at him, wondering whether he was drunk. A few of the more likely looking lads were already starting to move in his direction, seeing him as easy prey. He forced himself to sit upright and fumbled in his jacket pocket for his hook-knife. Seeing that menacing gesture the boys backed
off.
Slowly, it dawned on Weezel that he was still alive and that he was surrounded by people. Darke had not found him. And the chances were he would not be able to find him among the press of bodies. For a moment, tears appeared in Weezel's eyes, and he dragged himself to his feet. The first thing to do was find a refuge, a bolthole where Darke would never find him.
The next thing to do was decide who would pay him the highest fee for the very interesting information he now knew about the high and mighty rogue trader Janus Darke.
EIGHT
ON THE RUN
Simon Belisarius sighed wearily and strode over to the enormous observation window of the departure lounge. Down below, he could see the ramp that led up to the shuttle bay, where one of the Star of Venam's landing craft now lay. Loading drones, forklifters and customs officials raced around like worker ants in a hive. To Simon, who had spent a large part of his adult life around docksides, it was a reassuring sight. And as doubtless the Emperor knew, he was greatly in need of reassurance.
He cast his mind back over the preparations needed. As far as he could tell everything was in order. He had dispatched the eldar's golden argosy back to House Belisarius via bonded courier, along with a detailed description of events so far. If nothing else, he would go down in history as a man who had redeemed part of his House's debt to the eldar.
He had visited the bankers at Commercial House and deposited three quarters of the dreamstones with them, as security against a draft worth more than the value of a hive city. The stones and his position as a Navigator were all the security those merchant princes required. He had cleared off the rogue trader's debts to the chandlers, provisioners and countless others. Having received their money they now clamoured for more business. The shipwrights who had refitted the Star of Venam had signed releases, meaning that they were clear to lift from Medusa. More provisions were already being shipped aboard under Stiel's supervision.