Deathwing

by Neil

  Graian was also concerned about the ship’s new astropath, Shivania. This was her first trip out with the Dea Brava; her first trip aboard any space-faring vessel, in fact. She had been assigned to take over from old Bassos, the previous astropath, who’d been with the Fiddeus family all his working life. Astropaths were essential to communication aboard ship, and Graian felt uneasy about the apparent delicacy of the girl, her strange air of feyness. He had trusted Bassos implicitly, who had been a robust and dependable creature.

  Graian mistrusted Shivania’s capabilities, despite the impressive references with which she’d been despatched from the Scholastica of Adeptus Astra Telepathica. She seemed little more than a child, although Graian had to admit, however grudgingly, she had a keen mind. If anything, her ability to transmit and receive information surpassed Bassos’s considerably. His misgivings were instinctual, but until he could identify some fault or another, he had no proper cause for complaint.

  As he walked through the cargo hold, Graian unconsciously ran his fingers fondly over the ribs of the vault. Very quickly, the ship had seemed to become part of his soul. He felt her movements and sighs, each creak and moan, as if he made them himself. Her arched vaults, plated in dull black plasteel, were thickly inscribed with protective runes and totems; she was a virtual fortress. As he’d expected, everything was in order. He knew it was apprehension about the next cargo that was making him jittery. Maybe it was an honour that his father trusted him enough to take the job on, but Graian suspected even the most experienced captain would think twice about stowing a consignment of lacrymata on board. Naturally, most of the legends surrounding it would be exaggerated, but unnerved by the mishaps he’d had to deal with already on this trip, Graian fought a superstitious fear that picking up the lacrymata would only precipitate further dangers.

  Taking one last look around, Graian forced himself to leave the hold and make his way to the camera recreata. All Fiddeus ships had a member of the Ministorum on board, so that cleansing rituals could be performed after each warp shift. As well as being effective in cleaning away any psychic debris, it also boosted the morale of the crew.

  He met Solonaetz in the passageway two decks up, considering the navigator was looking as fey as Shivania nowadays. Navigators were all inclined to pellucid delicacy but Solonaetz’s huge, dark eyes were almost feverish. Graian made a small, formal bow which jerked the navigator’s mouth into a smile, not entirely devoid of mockery. ‘Hard time, Cavagni?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I am tired!’

  SOLONAETZ HAD TO quell resentment of the captain’s officious manner occasionally. What did he expect: his navigators to come bursting out from the blister leaping with joy and vitality? Fiddeus looked offended by his tone, however, so Solonaetz smiled to make amends.

  ‘I always look tired after a drop.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your neck?’

  Solonaetz abruptly dropped his hand. ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Well – get it seen to.’ Graian attempted what was clearly supposed to be a fatherly smile, but which Solonaetz meanly interpreted as condescension. ‘Well, we mustn’t keep Brother Gabreus waiting…’

  Solonaetz shook his head wearily at the captain’s retreating back and followed him up to the rec. ‘Patience, patience,’ he told himself.

  DEA BRAVA WAS coasting serenely towards a cool, blue gem of a world, which could already be seen through the narrow, arched ports of the rec. Solonaetz could barely concentrate on the words of Brother Gabreus’s benedictions, his eyes constantly drifting towards the world they were approaching. He knew Fiddeus was making a pick-up here rather than a delivery and that it was a cargo the Fiddeus clan were especially eager to get their hands on. Because of it, everyone had been promised a bonus when they returned home. Solonaetz presumed this was to over-ride any misgivings the crew might feel about sharing confined space with lacrymata, a potentially destructive material.

  Personally, he felt no apprehension. Recorded incidents of fatality had all derived from negligence, which certainly wasn’t one of Fiddeus’s failings.

  Solonaetz never knew whether to respect or be annoyed by the captain’s nit-picking. He was not that much older than Fiddeus, yet sometimes Solonaetz noticed a jarring immaturity in the captain, which in bitter moments he felt derived from Graian’s lack of hardship in life. The captain tried hard to establish comradeship with his navigator, which Solonaetz was well aware of, but neither of them could ever relax enough for friendship to develop. Solonaetz felt it was something to do with his mutation, ignorant of how adept he was at freezing people off.

  Typically, Graian asked Solonaetz if he’d like to accompany him down to the planet’s surface. Solonaetz winced inside as the captain made awkward references to the delights to be found below. Salome Nigra was one of those legendary places of the space-lanes, rumoured to be home to a thousand thousand illicit pleasures, all of which were available to discerning travellers for an appropriate fee.

  Solonaetz, an unfailing cynic – perhaps a burdensome trait of his kind – knew it was the inhabitants of the planet herself who had engineered and now maintained this reputation. He considered it to be a tourist retreat of the most tawdry kind, and would have preferred to curl into his sleep-cell for a well-earned rest rather than force himself to endure the pantomime of being shocked and delighted by what they might find below. Fiddeus, however, insisted the trip would do Solonaetz good and even in the face of mordant uninterest kept on insisting until the navigator gave in.

  ‘We can visit our contact, Guido Palama, organize delivery of the cargo and then the rest of the drop is ours…’ Graian said, with a boyish grin, which Solonaetz had to admit was almost endearing in its innocence.

  ‘If you like – though, as you noticed, I’m in a little pain.’

  ‘Your totems look worn, Sol. Perhaps you should have them renewed. I’m sure Gabreus could do that for you before…’

  Solonaetz’s hand absently clutched the Navis Nobilite amulets hanging from his throat. ‘At the risk of sounding irreverent, it is not a spiritual injury,’ he said, stemming any sharpness in his voice. ‘An aromatic rub should do the trick. I intended to visit Hermes Foss before the last drop, but it slipped my mind. Relic of old duty, you know.’

  Graian nodded gravely. He barely spoke of Solonaetz’s previous commission, emitting a restraint that made Solonaetz feel vaguely like a defrocked priest. Often, he wished people would just ask him blatant questions about his past and be humanly curious. Inside, he needed to talk about it, but he suspected old man Fiddeus had charged everybody with the dire command not to upset him in any way by raking up old hurts. Gomery Fiddeus was a good friend of Solonaetz’s own father; the commission had been a favour.

  ‘Well,’ Graian said brightly, rubbing his hands together, ‘maybe we can find you a sweet young hetaira gifted in the arts of massage. As you know, the city of Assyrion is famed for its therapy shrines. A far more stimulating experience than having old Foss grinding away at your bones, eh, Sol?’ He laughed.

  Solonaetz smiled thinly and inclined his head. ‘As long as we carefully inspect the aromatics before submitting to the treatment, of course.’ He felt a weak surge of expectation. Perhaps the planetfall wouldn’t be as gruelling as he’d feared.

  SEVERAL OTHER CREW members were gathered in the shuttle, intent on visiting Assyrion, Brother Gabreus amongst them, which caused a certain amount of good-natured mockery. Gabreus settled himself fussily into a seat, pretending to be affronted. ‘May your tongues be black!’ he said grandly. ‘All I seek is an assortment of puissant fumes. This you all know, so caw away, as you like! We’ll see the grins wiped from your faces when we’re back in the warp and only my incenses keep the effluent of Chaos from your sweet, untainted minds!’ He wriggled his considerable frame into a comfortable position. ‘Come, pilot, let’s away! Night spreads her black, feathered fan upon the bosom of Assyrion and I, for one, want to be on the stre
ets before the essence-blenders close shop!’

  ‘Well said, brother!’ Graian agreed. ‘Pilot, all are aboard. Activate the elementals of the portals!’

  The cramped shuttle was filled with the excited atmosphere generated by those who expected to sample exquisite dissipations in the near future. The pilot acknowledged his captain’s request with a carefree gesture and made to seal the ports.

  A sharp cry stayed his hand. ‘Hold!’ Someone was scrambling in through the doorway in a flutter of viridian robes. It was the astropath, Shivania.

  ‘Shivania!’ Graian said, unable to control his surprise. ‘I really don’t think Assyrion is the sort of place…’

  ‘Enough, captain. I have eyes in the back of my head, if not the front! I’ll be safe enough, especially with all these gallants to protect me!’

  None of the party looked especially flattered by that, chaperoning a blind girl not having been on their agenda for the evening. The shuttle fell ominously quiet. Shivania seemed oblivious of the response or else ignored it. She found her way to a seat, as nimbly as any sighted person, turning her head back at Graian. She was wearing an embroidered mask over the upper part of her face. The two thread-woven eyes stared at the captain owlishly. ‘You’re not going to deny the permission, are you, sir?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Well, we do have… business,’ Graian began, in the voice of someone who was wondering how he could eject the girl without offending her.

  ‘Oh, leave her be!’ Solonaetz said. ‘I’ll be glad to offer you my arm, Shivania.’ He smiled at the captain.

  ‘What about your neck?’ Graian asked. He looked disappointed, if not mortified.

  Solonaetz shrugged. ‘It can wait. We’ve all been cooped up for weeks. I for one would not deny a person the chance to stretch their legs on solid ground if they desire it!’

  ‘I thank you, navigator, for your courtesy!’ Shivania said formally, but there was laughter in her voice, mocking laughter. She directed the needle of her attention at the priest. ‘Ministorum duties planetside, brother?’

  Gabreus shifted uncomfortably. ‘Of a kind. Naturally, I would have offered to accompany you but…’ he began, but Graian silenced his apologies.

  ‘Come, come, the matter is settled. Let’s fly.’

  ASSYRION WAS A remarkable confection of a place. Her streets were paved in pearled marble, her towers rose, tier upon tier, aflutter with the pennants advertising which services could be found within. Sulky eyes, painted on silk, gazed through laced fingers, the perfumed breezes causing them to ripple as if alive. Graian had already made up his mind: he wanted the navigator with him when he visited the Palama residence, so Shivania ended up joining them. Rather than use public transport, the captain insisted they walk on foot to admire the city sights. Solonaetz was disappointed. The main form of conveyance was provided by elegant open carriages drawn by beasts of burden native to the planet; creatures that seemed to be an absurd blend of camel and wild dog. He would have liked to ride in one. Perhaps later he and the astropath could hire one for a while.

  Shivania, extending her heightened senses to encompass all they passed, kept up an awed commentary, which Solonaetz could tell soon began to get on Graian’s nerves.

  Palama House was situated in the heart of the Aromatics district; a sweeping pale leviathan of a residence, with many low, sprawling workshops to the rear. The air was so filled with the reek of perfume-blending, Solonaetz’s and Graian’s eyes began to water profusely. Shivania, being blind, did not experience this discomfort.

  Presenting themselves at the soaring main entrance, its elegance enhanced by its classical simplicity, Graian and his companions were shown by an imperious servant into an understated yet exquisitely furnished salon near the front of the house. Refreshment was brought: pale, fragranced wine and tender wafers perfumed with local flower essences. Shivania exclaimed that Salome Nigra must be a world created solely for the pleasure of astropaths. ‘The stimulus is for the nose, the nose!’ she enthused. ‘Who needs physical sight in such a place?’

  Graian and Solonaetz, still wiping their eyes with kerchiefs, were inclined to agree with her.

  GUIDO PALAMA MADE a grand entrance after a suitable time had elapsed. He was a tall, well-built man, his handsome face set in a perpetual smile. After a short, polite enquiry as to his visitors’ journey, health and opinions of the city, he settled immediately to business.

  ‘So,’ he said, leaning back in his silk-cushioned chair, ‘you essay an entreaty to the Dark Lady of Nepenthe!’ He helped himself to a biscuit, nibbling thoughtfully. Graian and Solonaetz had both leaned forward expectantly. ‘My family have captured the essence of the mystic flower for centuries,’ he continued. ‘Mysteria Hypno Morta – a prayer, her name, a prayer!’ He sighed. ‘We call her the lacrymata, the moonskin, the last breath of a favoured concubine. Mysteria – dark maid of the hidden caves. Fragrant, fragile bloom, whose fleeting kiss is spiritual joy, whose bitter juice is oblivion!’ He smiled.

  The speech was obviously a sales pitch, Solonaetz thought. However, the plain truth would be lacking in romance. The Palamas grew a rare flower in underground catacombs, whose perfume was highly narcotic and whose essential oil was a deadly poison if ingested. It could also be sold for ridiculous amounts throughout this corner of the Imperium. Naturally, such an honest description would not have excited Graian’s desire for purchase as much, but then, why bother anyway? The Palamas were rigidly discerning about who they dealt with in the world of commerce. The fact that Graian was here at all indicated the sale had already been finalized with the Fiddeus clan back on Terra. Graian was just a courier. Guido Palama obviously liked to romance his merchandise.

  Solonaetz noticed Palama was looking at him keenly. ‘Naturally, you wish to see… for yourselves,’ their host said, with a wider smile.

  THE CATACOMBS WERE accessible via a single door in the heart of the Palama workshops. Violet glowstrips illumined the worn stone steps that led downwards into a damp murk. Shivania slipped her arm through Solonaetz’s as they descended. ‘Can you smell her?’ she whispered. The navigator could feel her trembling.

  ‘Is this what you came down here for?’ he asked in an undertone. It was possible. Astropaths, being psychic and therefore mystically inclined, would be bound to be interested in the lacrymata. Shivania squeezed his arm. She did not answer.

  ‘Here the beds of lesser maidens,’ Palama intoned when they reached the bottom. Terraces of peaty soil, black as grave-dirt, swept away into the dimness, micred with pale stars; the blooms themselves. ‘Mysteria Puella,’ Palama said. ‘She is destined for the warm throats of ladies of the grand houses of all the worlds. A decoration, merely mimicking the forbidden sensuality of her elder sister.’ He plucked a single bloom and presented it to Shivania. ‘For you, my dear. Press her well between the pages of your mea libra and she will greet you with a benediction whenever you go to inscribe your meditations.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Shivania said. She sniffed the flower cautiously. ‘Mmm. Here, Solonaetz!’

  He leaned over to sample the perfume. Its first note was bright and fruity, descending for a brief flirtation with the carnal bloom of musk before rising to a final crescendo of riotous spring flowers. ‘Excellent! You will look forward to your inscriptions from now on, I think!’

  Palama led them further into the breathing dark. Solonaetz’s skin prickled with a weird excitement. He felt as if a thousand sighing creatures of the night were shifting restlessly on black satin couches around him; vampire beauty concealed from sight beneath a venomous mat of narcotic flower flesh.

  ‘And here,’ Palama whispered reverently ahead of them, ‘the boudoir of the lady herself. Have care, my friends, she sleeps and dreams.’

  Solonaetz heard Graian gasp. He himself was holding his breath, but not for long. Ahead of them, a gloomy crypt spread into infinity, its tiers snaking between massive columns and arches. Each tier was overflowing, indeed gravid, cancerous and alive with convoluti
ons of shimmering fleshy whorls. Bloom upon bloom crawled over their sisters, engulfing, tumbling, sending out whippy suckers festooned with tumescent buds and the perfume…

  Solonaetz had to suppress a groan. The sorcerous elixir of it seethed and flexed upon the tongue, the throat, reaching down with limber fingers to the belly and groin. No simple cadence here, but a hectic symphony of aromatic notes. The first was fruity too, but this was the over-ripe, giddy eruption of autumn in full swell, sweeping lustily down to a dark woodland of musk and sandal spiced with civet and ambergris, rising orgasmically to the exuberant scream of spring; jasmin, asphodel and creamy rose. Flowers of the flesh. Solonaetz swallowed thickly, dizzy with the aroma that was playing havoc with his sense of reality, never mind his more carnal senses. At his side, Shivania was motionless. Her touch had become vague upon his arm.

  Palama let them all sample the agonizing ecstasy of it for a few moments before clearing his throat and saying, ‘Well, I trust you are satisfied, Captain Fiddeus. Perhaps we can repair to the salon once more to arrange delivery of your consignment.’

  RATHER OVERCOME, AND silent because of it, Graian, Solonaetz and Shivania eventually emerged into the streets once more. Shivania toyed gently with the bloom Palama had given her, settling it safely behind a talismanic pin on her robes. They reached the tourist quarter, almost unaware of how they had got there. Cafes and bars lined streets that radiated out from quaint squares, discrete alleys limned with globes of deep red light leading to areas of more lascivious delights. The aroma of cooking food did something to dispel the enchantment of Palama’s crypt, and Solonaetz suggested the three of them choose one of the cafes to sample local cuisine. Shivania agreed enthusiastically, but Graian, looking sheepish, mumbled something about going to find the rest of their party. Solonaetz, fighting the urge to poke fun and discomfort the captain, merely smiled and told him he and Shivania would meet him back at the spaceport in three hours, ship’s time. Graian gratefully scuttled off down one of the alleys.