Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  He thought: I have to do this. In this room I am not Karl Hoche, soldier, agent, faithful son of a priest, loyal to my god and my emperor; here I must be Karl Hoche, scholar, seeker of knowledge. The information I need may be in that book. There is nothing to fear here.

  He reached out and opened the cover, and he was right: it was just a book.

  Hoche turned the pages slowly, noting the subjects of the essays within: one on the distillation of hallucinatory liquors; another on how to draw magical energy from the corpses of wizards; a third on ritual techniques of thought to cleanse the mind and control dreams; a fourth on the historical links between labyrinths and sites associated with Chaos. Here and there were woodcuts of an intricate and disturbing nature. Hoche was careful not to look at them too closely. There was no sign of marks in the text or observations scrawled in the margins.

  He reached the loose page and realised it was not a page at all. Someone had left a piece of parchment in the book as a place-marker. He turned it over, seeing if the previous reader had noted anything of interest on the other side, and stopped, frozen. There was a symbol on it, drawn neatly in thin black ink. Hoche knew it.

  A circle. A single line led from its centre down to its lower edge, with four short flecks flicked out from its right side. Hoche had seen similar diagrams chalked on stonework or scraped on paving-stones. It was an Untersuchung symbol, used to show the location of hidden items to agents who might need them. Braubach had taught it to him.

  The circle meant a hidden cache. The line indicated its direction, the flecks its distance. The line stayed within the circle, symbolising information, not equipment. The marks were on the right of the line; that meant there was danger or risk involved. To an outsider it would have looked like a scribble or a random arrangement of lines, possibly an alchemical symbol. To Hoche, it was proof he was right. Four feet away, in the direction of the line, another Untersuchung agent had stashed something of value.

  Had it been Reisefertig? It was impossible to say. It could have been Gunter Schmölling as he left the city, or any other Untersuchung agent who had passed through in the last year. It could even have been Pronk.

  He looked up. The silent scholar at the door was staring at him, unmoving. Did he suspect anything? Did the mysterious librarians know this parchment was concealed in the book? If so, did they have any clue to its meaning? Was this all a test, to see if he was really the scholar he claimed to be? The air was still; the candle-flames did not flicker. Hoche put a hand to the back of his neck and twisted his head from side to side as if loosening stiff muscles, glancing back behind him. The bookcase was at least five feet from the table, maybe even six. The line pointed to a space in mid-air.

  Obviously the book has been moved, Hoche thought, it hasn’t lain on this table for a year. But where had it been when the unknown agent put the note in it? No, he would have known it would be moved. But where to?

  Its place on the shelf, of course.

  Hoche leaned over the book again and read on, not focusing on the words at all. Curiosity was burning too hot in his mind. After twenty pages he looked up and let his eyes roam the room, the rows of bookshelves, the regiments of spines and bindings.

  It wasn’t hard to spot, and under his breath Hoche thanked the orderly minds of all librarians. On the far side of the room, on a shelf four feet above the floor, bright among the reds, browns and blacks of the other books, stood twelve white spines and a dark space where the thirteenth would fit. Below them, at the bottom of every section, wooden panels ran between the lowest shelf and the floor. Hoche hoped the one under the Apocryphas was loose. But with his ever-vigilant guard, how could he find out?

  Time to be an Untersuchung agent again.

  He pretended to read on for another few pages, then raised his head and caught the eye of the priest. It wasn’t hard; the man’s stare never left him.

  “Excuse me,” said Hoche.

  The man raised a bony finger to his lips. There was a thin sound of escaping breath, a ‘Shhh’ from a mouth that did not have a tongue. So he was among members of the Ancient Illuminated Readers. Hoche stared back. There was something about his appearance that was wrong, uncomfortable, but he couldn’t work out what it was.

  “I need to make water,’ he whispered, and stood up. It wasn’t a great excuse, but it would do. The priest nodded and took the blindfold from his pocket, gesturing Hoche over. Hoche gauged the distance between them and took three short steps towards the man. Hand on shoulder, leg out, push the right way—and the priest was falling to the ground face first, Hoche twisted behind him to land on his back, driving the air from his lungs as they hit the bare wood floor.

  He didn’t have much time. He quickly gagged the man with the blindfold and tied his hands with his cloth belt, then moved to examine the panel he had noted earlier. It was loose but he couldn’t prise it free with his fingers.

  The Reader’s knife had fallen to the floor, and Hoche picked it up. The handle felt strangely shaped, but there was no time to worry about that. He slid it into the gap at the edge of the panel, prising it apart. The loose wood front came free, revealing a space beyond and a piece of parchment in it, a page torn from a large book, folded into quarters. Hoche reached for it. It was dusty.

  Time was running out. He should be running now, but he needed to know what the paper said: it might indicate something else in this room. He unfolded it and held it up to the light from the nearest candle. There were words scrawled in one of the margins, as if written in a hurry: “The one you seek, I left in the care of Saint Olovald. Beware: you are among worshippers of Tzeentch.’

  ‘The one you seek’ had to be Andreas Reisefertig, but who was Saint Olovald? And Tzeentch worshippers? It seemed unlikely, but Father Willem had warned him that some of the librarians had turned to darker ways. Here was proof.

  He caught the stare of the man struggling on the floor against his bonds, and gazed at him in horror and hatred. His soldier-self wanted to kill him, his Untersuchung training urged him to question him—hard with no tongue but there were ways. Then he heard a creak from outside and knew his time was up. He had to get out now, before the other Readers returned.

  He crossed to the door and twisted its handle. It would not move; it must be locked. He probed the keyhole with the dagger but something was blocking the blade. The noises outside were getting closer.

  He put his shoulder to the door, ramming it, but with no effect. He grabbed the chair and battered it against the door’s panels. On the second blow one of them cracked, and he hit there again and again until it shattered, then he dropped the chair and pulled the pieces away. There was brickwork on the other side.

  It was a false door.

  From behind him came the sound of a sword being drawn, and he snatched up the dagger and turned. A bookcase had swung back to reveal a passage. The other three Readers stood at its mouth, two with crossbows and one with a sword. The one in the middle moved the end of his bow. Hoche weighed the dagger in his hands, sensing it wasn’t balanced for throwing, but he was out of options.

  He shrugged as if surrendering and began to raise his hands, then hurled the knife at the three people in the doorway and sprang as they flung themselves out of the way, ramming one with his shoulder. For a second he thought he was through, then a crossbow caught him across the back of the head and he staggered, tripped over another Reader’s leg and fell. The men collapsed in a heap. He felt his wrists grabbed and bound, and a blindfold was looped over his eyes. He was dragged to his feet. The point of a dagger dug into his neck and he was pushed forward.

  “This is a mistake,” he said. “I’m not who you think I am.” Panicked thoughts cleared for a second. “I am your brother in Tzeentch, come from Altdorf to make contact. I bring news.”

  Predictably there was no answer.

  Had the other Untersuchung agent, the one who left the message, been through this too? How far were they going to go? He was fairly sure he could withstand a beating, but w
ould they torture him? Were they going to cut his tongue out?

  He threw himself forward, trying to break away, feeling the dagger-tip rip against the left side of his neck. For an instant he was free of their hands, then his face slammed into a wall and, stunned, he slumped against it. What happened? Then he remembered the morning’s entry, and a right turn in the corridor before the room. His neck hurt. Something trickled down his skin. He was bleeding.

  He was pulled upright. Someone pushed him from behind and he stumbled forward a few paces, his shoulder hitting a wall. Somewhere a door opened and he felt a breeze. The smell of filthy canals was strong.

  Something looped around Hoche’s ankles and was drawn tight, and a moment later someone shoved him hard in the small of the back.

  He lost his balance and fell. And with the disorientation and the panic, suddenly he had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He had been here before.

  Then he hit the water. He flailed, and kicked, and sank as the cold canal closed around him. Something heavy tied to his legs was dragging him down. He struggled against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles but the water had swollen the cord and any slackness was gone.

  His lungs burned. His heart roared. He thrashed against the bonds that held him, the weight that pulled him deeper, struggling to hold onto life, consciousness, who he was.

  The water swallowed him and crushed him. He was drowning in darkness.

  He had felt this death before.

  His lungs burst, and he breathed in the black water.

  He sank.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Old Friends

  He dreamed he was buried deep under the ground, in darkness and solitude. Something had been planted inside him, some dark and vile seed, and it was growing within his body, drawing its strength from his flesh and weakening him. The awful way it grew, spreading its thin tendrils through his veins and muscles, growing out of him like mistletoe or some strange rot, was a slow and gradual thing, but he dreamed this dream a long time.

  “You’re not dead.”

  Consciousness floated and sparkled above him, like sunlight seen through river water. He swam towards it.

  “Lie still. Don’t move. You’re very weak.”

  His eyes were still blinded. No, the room was dark. He was lying in a soft bed, the mattress distorted by the weight of someone sitting beside him. He felt very tired. His thoughts were shadows and mist.

  “You’ve been very ill, at Morr’s door, but the physician says you are getting well now. Don’t try to move. Can you hear me now? Can you speak?”

  Hoche flexed his stiff lips, croaked, “Yes.”

  “Good. Know that you are safe, and sleep.” The weight lifted from the mattress and moved away. A door closed. Hoche wanted to ask him so much, to learn what had happened to him, but he was too tired. Sleep fell over him like a soft veil.

  “How long have I been like this?” he asked a while later.

  “Six days,” Erasmus Pronk said. The little man rose to his feet and walked to the window, pulling open the heavy curtains to let daylight flood in. Outside the sky was overcast, heavy with potential rain. In the small room on the top floor of Pronk’s house on Duck Street, the atmosphere was no less pregnant.

  “Six days,” Pronk repeated. “You were unconscious for the first day, then the fever took hold. You nearly died. Hardly surprising, with so much Doodkanaal water inside you. That place is a disgrace, little better than a sewer.”

  “I thought I was dead.” Hoche paused, reaching for a tumbler of water on the table beside his bed. His arm was weak and his hand shook, rippling the water as he sipped it. His thirst was terrible. “How did you save me?”

  “Dear boy.” Pronk looked mock-shocked. “You don’t think we’d let someone out on their first training mission without some kind of back up? It was important that you thought you were working alone, but we were following every step of the way. They threw you into the canal, and we pulled you out.”

  Hoche felt a sense of bitter despair. He had failed embarrassingly badly. He would have died if not for the little man whose help he had disdained. And all this would be in Pronk’s report to Altdorf. Like many times before, he asked himself what he was doing in this job and this role, and he yearned to be a soldier again.

  Pronk must have seen his expression, because he laughed out loud. “Don’t count yourself a failure, Karl. You got into one of the Ancient Order’s libraries, they think you’re dead—which is always a useful thing for a secret agent—and I don’t believe they broke your cover, or they’d have treated you a good deal worse. Not so bad for your first time out. No permanent injuries either—that cut on your neck has festered a little, but keep that poultice on it and it’ll be fine in a week. Did you find anything in the library?”

  “Tzeentch worshippers.” Hoche slowly hauled himself up to a sitting position. “Who is Saint Olovald?”

  “Saint Olovald? One of the saints of Manaan, the city’s patron-god, but not a major one.” Pronk walked to the window. “There’s a church to him not far from here, but it’s quite run-down. Look, you can see it.” He pointed to a spire a few hundred yards away.

  “I believe Reisefertig may be associated with it,” Hoche said. “I found a note, hidden by an Untersuchung agent. It said someone had been left there.”

  Pronk scratched his chin, his fingernails rasping against the coarse grey of his stubble. “Well, at least that implies he’s not dead—it’s not used for burials. Do you know who left the note, or how long ago?” He sat back down on the bed.

  Hoche shook his head, feeling the bandage around his neck shift with the movement. “No. I didn’t recognise the writing.”

  “There haven’t been any other agents in town for four months at least,” Pronk said, “and if something has been at Saint Olovald’s that long, it’ll wait another day till you’re fit to be up and about.” Hoche was about to protest that it was too important, but Pronk stilled him with a raised hand. “No, no. This is your mission, I wouldn’t dream of taking it away from you.”

  Perhaps he’s right, Hoche thought. At least this is a chance for me to do something on my first assignment more impressive than almost drowning.

  Pronk had hired a carriage to take them to Saint Olovald’s. Hoche had thought it unnecessary, but it wasn’t until he had sat at the bottom of the house’s stairs and panted to get his breath back that he realised how weak his forced rest had made him. The vehicle’s iron-rimmed wheels clattered and rang over the cobbles of the narrow streets, scattering pedestrians. The area they were entering, on the largest of the Suiddock’s islands, was run-down and shabby.

  “An ants’ nest of scum and villains,” Pronk said. “And more inside the church. I’ve made enquiries. Drunks, derelicts, people with nowhere else to go. Still, it’s had a few miracles ascribed to it, and they say its priestess is a good woman. Maybe she can help.”

  The carriage stopped outside the church and Pronk helped Hoche down. It was a strange, squat and solid building, built of white stone discoloured by moss, lichen and dirt. Hoche guessed it was at least a thousand years old, built centuries before Marienburg and the Wasteland had split from the Empire to form a separate country. Unlike its city, the church had not prospered since: its stonework was worn and in need of repointing and paint. Seagulls perched on the roof.

  “Not a prepossessing place,” Pronk said.

  Hoche smiled. “An Untersuchung agent should never judge by appearances.”

  Together they passed through the worn arch of the porch, through the battered wooden doors and into the body of the church. Even before his eyes could adjust to the dim light, he smelled the decay and destitution of the place. Then, as the darkness cleared, he saw it was as Pronk had said. The pews were occupied with the poor and the desperate: filthy people in filthy rags, cripples, idiots, the hopeless and the mad.

  A woman moved away from a slumped figure on one of the pews and came toward them. She was in her late twenties, Hoche guessed, w
ith light-brown hair, long and tied back, a hard face and plain bluish-grey robes that had seen better days. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she had a half-formed smile on her lips.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to the temple of Saint Olovald. Are you here to pray?”

  Hoche looked at Pronk, waiting for him to reply. He was used to the chain of command and the short man was his superior in the Untersuchung. Instead, Pronk deferred to him with a smile: “I am merely an observer,” he said, then turned to walk slowly down the aisle towards the altar, stopping to peer at the faces of the people gathered in the pews.

  Hoche swallowed to clear his throat. “Sister, I am looking for a man who may have passed through your church in the last year. Possibly he came to you injured and needing healing. My information is not complete.”

  Her half-formed smile neither grew nor faded. “I hope you seek this man for good ends, and do not wish him ill.”

  Hoche smiled back. “He is a friend and former student of my master. We are worried for his safety.”

  “In that case I will be pleased to help.” Her expression didn’t change. Did she know he was lying? Her smile seemed to mock his deception. “What is your friend’s name? What does he look like?”

  “He is—” Hoche stopped. Reisefertig would have been unlikely to use his real name, and although Braubach had described him—tall, dark, late twenties—he would have almost certainly changed his appearance too. That was basic Untersuchung training. For the first time Hoche understood how difficult tracking a renegade secret agent was going to be. “He may have been much changed,” he finished lamely.

  The priestess began to reply, but a cry from deep in the church stopped her as they both turned to look. The cry came again, louder, a howl of shock and sorrow. Hoche ran to it, the weak muscles of his legs protesting. Behind him, the priestess’s sandals clattered on the tiled floor.