Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  Something in the man’s voice boasted of more. “But you have seen an actual copy,” Hoche said.

  “Two, actually,” Bäcker sounded pleased with himself, like a schoolboy answering a teacher’s question. “In the closed library of the Cathedral of Sigmar. We have reading rights.” He saw Hoche’s horrified expression and laughed. “I was forgetting that your father was a priest. It must be a shock for you, hearing these things.”

  Hoche was stunned. Here was a man who boasted of having read books of Chaos doctrine. Even the thought of such things repulsed him.

  “They are abominations that should be burnt,” he said flatly. “They are things of Chaos, tainted by it. They carry its message and its infection.”

  “They’re books,” Bäcker said, “and they contain words. We study them and use their information to fight back against Chaos. Like an enemy’s plan, it’s much less dangerous if you have a copy.”

  Hoche sat silently. He had been brought up to abhor Chaos. Now he was working with people who joked about it and treated it as something that could be studied and learned without danger. Something clenched in his gut, telling him they were wrong, that they were in deadly peril if they continued. Something was very bad here. He could feel sweat forming on his temples and the palms of his hands.

  Calm down, he thought. Think of Braubach. Braubach is a rational, intelligent, sardonic man. He wouldn’t be here if these people were dangerous. This is only for a few weeks. After that I can leave for active service again, away from here. I can bear it for that long.

  “There are no forbidden texts here, are there?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” said Bäcker. “Bringing heretical tomes into an army barracks? We’d all be burnt on the spot.” Hoche nodded, but he had seen the man’s eyes flick for a nervous instant towards a shelf across the room.

  Street of Tailors. Altdorf

  Afternoon. 3rd day of Nachgeheim

  “Even though we’re not training you as a deep-cover agent, there will be times when you’re going to have to operate undercover or in disguise,” said Braubach. “We’ll give you advice about changing your face and hair, your accent, your walk, all of that. We’ll teach you about creating bolt-holes, emergency equipment caches and safe drop-points for information and things you need to hide in a hurry, how to mark them, and how to find ones that other Untersuchung agents have left. But none of that is as important as your mask.”

  “You mean my disguise?” Hoche asked.

  “Not your disguise, the set of your mind. You still think like a soldier. First we have to get you thinking like an agent, and then we have to teach you how to think like someone else entirely. When you’re undercover, disguised, you must become the person you’re dressed as. Knowing who they are, how they think, how they’ll react to surprises or attack isn’t enough. Don’t pretend to be them, become them.”

  “Like an actor, you mean?” Hoche asked. Braubach scowled.

  “Nothing like an actor. Actors’ disguises are physical. I’m asking you to put on a mental disguise, a mask over your own thoughts. Keep your own thoughts in the background, be alert, monitor and watch what’s going on—but in the front of your mind, think as this new person.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hoche said.

  “You will. You’ve heard of the Tilean spy caught because someone swore at him in his own language, and he swore back without thinking? You must learn to play a new role so deeply that it becomes your life. It’s the only way to survive in the long term, to convince people that you’re who they believe you are, capable of doing what they believe you can.”

  “You’ve done this?” asked Hoche.

  “All the time,” Braubach said. “All the time.”

  Untersuchung Barracks. Altdorf

  Night. 6th day of Nachgeheim

  It was late, and dark. Candles still burned on two desks at the other end of the long room, casting shadows of hunched readers against the far walls. Outside the bells struck nine, the holy hour. The late service would be starting in the temples.

  Hoche put down the papers he was reading, stood and walked casually to a bookshelf across the room from Bäcker’s empty desk, where volumes of ancient Middenheim civic records sat on sturdy shelves, presenting their faded spines to the room. He pulled one down and paged through its dusty history of long-forgotten transactions and taxations. The second and third were the same. On a hunch he bent and peered into the narrow space left between the books on the shelf. There was nothing behind them except white plaster.

  Hoche replaced the third volume of records with a thump. Something didn’t sound quite right. He pulled the book out, then pushed it back against the wall, listening to the sound. Then he rapped with his knuckles on the shelf. It sounded hollow. So did the ones above and below it. Fetching his candle, he held it close to the edge of the shelf. He could just see a hairline crack hidden in the grain of the wood.

  Carefully he removed all the volumes from the shelf, putting them on the floor, then put his thumbs against the edge of the shelf and pushed up. The top half lifted like a box lid, revealing a shallow cavity. Inside were four slim books with aged leather bindings. He didn’t try to read their titles. Their concealment was enough to show they were nothing good.

  “‘We’d all be burnt on the spot’,” he thought, and felt himself shiver.

  Old Bridge, Altdorf

  Noon. 8th day of Nachgeheim

  Hoche leaned on the parapet of the river-bridge and gazed upstream along the sunlit waters of the Reik. His thoughts were far from Altdorf and the stuffy room where he had spent the morning being schooled by Hunni von Sisenuf in recognising the signs of wizardry.

  In his mind’s eye he could see Grünburg, a hundred and fifty miles upstream. Mentally he walked its narrow streets, seeing the familiar signs of the businesses, the stall-holders in the Marktstrasse, the temple where his father officiated. He missed his father’s wisdom and advice. The last few days had been bewildering, so much learning and training packed into every hour. He needed perspective, distance, to set it all in place in his mind. A week in Grünburg would refresh his spirits, but until he could get there this mental journey was the only one he could make.

  He stared down into the rolling waters. He had dreamed of drowning twice more, but somehow the Reik comforted him. Upstream, a great river-barge was in mid-river, sailing down from the Talabec docks, its mast half-stepped to pass under the city’s bridges. Should he sail or ride to Grünburg? Riding would be faster.

  Someone grabbed the back of his cloak, pushing him against the parapet. “Gebhard Mannheim,” a voice said, “we arrest you for deserting from the Emperor’s armies.”

  “I’m not—” Hoche said. Someone else put a sword against his throat, and he shut up. Hands grabbed his wrists, pulling them to the small of his back. All Hoche could see of his assailants was the hand holding the sword against his neck. It was a large hand, muscled, used to carrying a heavy weapon. It had a ring on its third finger with the profile of a panther’s head.

  This wasn’t a case of mistaken identity.

  Hoche threw himself sideways and back, into the space where the sword-holder had to be. His shoulder made solid contact with something, sending a numbing jar down his arm but knocking the other man off balance. Someone grabbed for his cloak but Hoche, his arms already behind him, let them pull it off him. He leaped onto the wide parapet and sprinted down it towards the middle of the bridge. The barge was closer now, making good speed with the current, heading for the centre arch.

  He glanced back. A few yards behind him three men, all in anonymous dark leather jerkins, were pushing through the people on the bridge. He turned and drew his sword. The three stopped, their own weapons out. The crowd moved away from them, alarmed.

  “Back off!” he shouted.

  “You’ve caused us much trouble,” said one, the tallest. His voice had an aristocratic edge. The three spread out, approaching him from all sides, blocking his escape.

>   “I was only the messenger,” Hoche said, glancing at the river. It was a long way down and the water was dark and foul. He took four steps to the left. The three followed, not taking their eyes from him. There was no way past them, and one against three was a fool’s fight.

  “We’re at an impasse,” he said. “Can’t we make a deal?”

  “There are no deals where honour is concerned,” said the tall one. “You have stained our reputation and we will pursue you till that stain is erased.”

  “Yes?” said Hoche. “Pursue me, then.” He dropped his sword and leaped out into the sky above the river. The half-stepped mast of the great river-barge was ahead and below him, its rigging stretched out like a cage of cords. He fell towards it, grabbing out at a master-rope with both hands. His grip slipped off it, twisting him off balance, and he was plunging out of control.

  He crashed into the sail with a great sound of ripping canvas, tearing it open, falling through the tear. His body hit the deck hard, and lay still. The sail fell to cover him like a shroud.

  * * *

  Tilted Windmill. Altdorf

  Evening, 8th day of Nachgeheim

  “Unbelievable,” said Hunni von Sisenuf.

  “In broad daylight, on a major thoroughfare,” said Bruno Veldt. “Extraordinary.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” Hunni said.

  The back room of the Tilted Windmill was warm with the late-evening air. Sounds from the main room filtered through the closed and curtained door. The three sat around the end of the long table closest to the door. Hoche’s right leg was stretched out across a chair, his sprained ankle heavily bandaged. Under his shirt, more bandages encased his broken ribs. After the surgeon had left, his colleagues had invited him out for an evening’s drinking, and although his better judgement had told him he needed rest, he felt the need to be around people this night. Partly, he admitted to himself, he was lonely. Partly, he also admitted, he was scared.

  “I was lucky,” he said.

  “Lucky you didn’t end up in the Reik,” said Bruno, and guffawed. Nobody else did. The room fell silent; one of those strange silences that drift over conversations. A ghost passing through the room, Hoche remembered his mother saying, a reminder to everyone present that they will die.

  “How are you finding the Untersuchung, Karl?” Hunni asked. “Is it what you expected?”

  Hoche laughed. It hurt his ribs, and made him cough, and that hurt his ribs more. “What did I expect?” he said. “I expected to deliver a letter and go back to my regiment.”

  Hunni and Bruno exchanged a look. He went back to his tankard; she turned back to Hoche. “Well, how are you finding us?” she asked.

  Hoche stared, his gaze unfocused. It was a fatuous question, but this was his first real chance to spend informal time with his colleagues, and he knew Hunni was only trying to be friendly. Like many intellectuals he had known, there wasn’t much depth to her social skills. “It’s Braubach,” he said. “I can’t get a handle on Braubach.”

  “Gottfried?” Hunni said. “Yes. He’s a… He can be a difficult man. He’s not been the same since…” Her voice trailed off.

  Hoche said nothing. Hunni eyed Bruno.

  “A year ago?” she said.

  “A little more,” said Bruno. “Sommerzeit last year.”

  Hunni turned back. “Braubach spent the last nine years pursuing a cult of hidden learning across the Empire,” she said. “Last summer he located their headquarters and leader here in Altdorf, under our noses. There was a big raid. It didn’t go well.”

  “It went astonishingly badly,” Bruno said. “All the cultists escaped and the building burnt down, destroying everything in it. Then the next morning Braubach’s assistant, a lieutenant called Andreas Reisefertig, disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Hoche asked.

  Hunni sipped her beer. “He took a horse from the stables and left the city before dawn. There were rumours that he’d tipped off the cultists, that he’d been a cultist himself or a mole on the inside. Nothing was proved, no blame was placed, but the whole thing crushed Braubach. He’d trained Reisefertig, you see? Nine years of his life, and he’d achieved nothing except creating a turncoat. That’s why he’s so cynical about the world. It’s a protection, his armour against everything else.”

  “Instructing you is the first thing that’s interested him since,” Bruno said. Hunni glanced across the table.

  “Not quite,” she said. “There was that girl.”

  Bruno looked blank for a second. “Oh yes,” he said, reaching for his tankard.

  “A girl?” asked Hoche.

  “A recruit, training to be a deep-cover agent,” Hunni said. “She and Gottfried began to get close. Then they had to finish because she was assigned.”

  “Who was she? Where was she assigned?” Hoche asked. Evidence of Braubach’s humanity interested him. He sat up, his broken ribs grated, and he grunted with pain. Hunni examined him.

  “That’s need-to-know, Karl,” she said. “Everything about deep-cover agents is. You should know that.” She looked at him, her dark eyes filled with suspicion. Even among colleagues over a friendly drink, Hoche realised, there were things that were not asked. He took a long swallow of beer to drown his questions about forbidden books and whether there had ever been any cultists in the Untersuchung. Those would wait.

  Cathedral Square, Altdorf

  Afternoon. 14th day of Nachgeheim

  Rain drizzled on Hoche and Braubach as they entered the great square of the Cathedral of Sigmar. Traffic was light, people driven off the streets by the first of the cold autumn rains, though a few hawkers and barrow-boys still stood by their stalls. Braubach looked up at the great building.

  “What do you think of Sigmar?” he asked.

  “Sigmar?” It was an odd question. “He is our god and my patron, in whose temple I was blessed at my birth. He was the foundation of the Empire and he is its salvation, our hope in times of need. He fights for us against the evils of the world. He—”

  “Beyond the doctrine,” Braubach said. “Have you ever seen the hand of Sigmar or felt his guidance? What has Sigmar ever done for you?”

  Hoche was confused. Was this a test? “As I have said. Sigmar is my patron, my strength and guide.”

  “You’re fortunate,” Braubach said. “You’ve never had to question your faith.” He stood, looking up at the great steeple as it thrust up into the grey sky. Rain ran down his face.

  “I’ll warn you,” he said, “times will come and you’ll be confronted with things that rip away all the nice words you’ve ever learned about the gods. That’s when you’ll find if Sigmar really is your strength. We can’t train or test you for that, and yet it’s something that all Untersuchung agents have to meet. But remember this, when it comes: Sigmar’s not a strong god, and he’s not a wise god. Some would say that he isn’t even a sane god. But in the stretch, he and your sword are the only true allies you have.”

  Hoche said nothing, because he could think of nothing to say.

  “Enough of that. Let’s get to work.” Braubach wiped the rain from his face and walked on around the square, stopping outside a house on the unfashionable side. Its shutters were closed, its plaster discoloured and peeling, its front door shut. He pointed to it.

  “At ten bells yesterday, a man came out of there wearing a crimson cloak and a flat hat in the Tilean style,” he said. “He was carrying a book under his cloak. You have four hours to bring me that book. Think you can do it?”

  “Yes,” Hoche said, “if he’s still in the city. Where will you be?”

  Braubach took a step back. “Work it out,” he said. “This is a training exercise, not a game of ‘Where’s Waldermeier?’.” He walked away towards the cathedral, stopping to talk at the stall of a damp orange-seller. Hoche then stood and considered. Should he ask the street-traders first? No, the man might have left a footprint by the door: it would be useful to know what shoes he was wearing. He put all thoughts
of whether his teacher was a heretic to the back of his mind, knelt and studied the wet ground.

  Tilted Windmill. Altdorf

  Evening, 16th day of Nachgeheim

  Braubach rapped his knuckles on the red leather cover of the book in front of him, and looked over at Hoche. “Well done. Very impressive,” he said. “Your instincts for tracking and searching are well honed. However, you need to work on a couple of things.”

  Hoche grinned back at him, a foam moustache from his pint of dark ale crescenting his upper lip. “Like what?”

  “Observing when people are lying to you,” said Braubach. He wasn’t smiling. “This is the wrong book. The right one was next to it on the shelf. But you took the Tilean at his word, and accepted the first one he offered.”

  “I had a sword to his throat!” Hoche protested.

  “But he could tell you weren’t prepared to use it, and you didn’t realise,” said Braubach. “For that mistake, you forfeit your beer.” He pulled the tankard across the table and drained half of it in a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tomorrow we start you on face-reading. Also interrogation techniques: how to ask questions so they get the right answer, and how to avoid giving answers to people you don’t want to know your business. That includes resisting torture.”

  “What? Is that necessary?” Hoche asked.

  “Almost certainly not.” Braubach finished the beer. “But it’ll keep us out of the rain.”

  Oldenhaller warehouse, Altdorf docks

  Night. 32nd day of Nachgeheim

  The warehouse door creaked open and the light of a lantern shone through the crack, illuminating the stillness and emptiness. Two cloaked and cowled figures crept in from the night.

  “Nobody here,” said one.

  “He said two bells,” said the other.

  Hoche snapped open the hood of his own lantern, filling the centre of the room with a circle of light. “I bring greetings from Ernst’s mother,” he said.

  The two men moved into the circle, their steps confident. “I hear she is much changed,” said the first, completing the pass-phrase. His Middenheim accent was strong.