The man looked back at Horst, returning his scrutiny with the carefully maintained detachment of the well-trained servant. Of indeterminate age, he had the pallid skin so common to the void-born, his grey clothes cut in a style which had been conservative a millennium ago. The only splash of colour about him was an ornate silk sash around his waist, bright threads tracing a design of intricate abstraction which made Horst’s eyes ache and lose focus if he tried to make out the details; despite his obvious immediate suspicion, he soon came to the conclusion that this was a natural consequence of the design rather than a subtle indication of warpcraft. A large collection of keys hung from it, most of them too pitted with rust to have any possible real function anymore, unless it was as some signifier of rank, next to a chalk-smeared slate and a small cloth bag bearing the same design as the one Tweendecker had carried.
After a moment the man bowed deeply, nodded to each member of the group in turn and led the way across the echoing hangar bay.
“Just a minute,” Horst snapped, and the man stopped, almost in mid-stride, before turning back with an air of world-weary patience which managed to convey, without actually saying so, that this happened a lot. “I have a few questions to ask.”
By way of a reply, the man reached into his left sleeve, and produced a slip of parchment, which he handed to Horst with a theatrical flourish, like a street entertainer completing a conjuring trick.
“What does it say?” Keira asked, most of her attention still on the departing delegation. The bustle surrounding them was less now than it had been, the majority of the parked shuttles emptied of their cargo, and she had to raise her voice a little against the increasing roar of engines as they began to depart.
“It says he can’t speak,” Horst said.
“Oh, great,” Keira said. “Can’t they find us one who can?”
The grey-clad steward shook his head, grabbed the slate hanging from his sash, and began scribbling on it with a stub of chalk from the bag at his waist.
Horst glanced at the message. “Apparently, the Minions of Stewardship are forbidden to converse with the passengers,” he said, unable to keep an undercurrent of incredulity from his voice. Prescut shook his head, and scribbled a short, emphatic phrase, before holding the slate up once more. “Sorry, with anyone.”
“That must make their jobs a little difficult,” Drake commented, looking about as baffled as Horst felt.
“Oh, wonderful. We had stewards who wouldn’t shut up all the way out here, and we’re going to be stuck with ones in a perpetual sulk all the way back,” Keira said with feeling.
“It’s a curious custom,” Vex agreed, “but hardly unprecedented. No doubt they’ll be capable of dealing with any requests we might make.”
Prescut shrugged eloquently, and wiped the slate with a sleeve which, now Horst’s attention had been drawn to it, was quite clearly ingrained with chalk dust. To the best of our ability, he wrote.
“That’s comforting,” Horst said. He fought the impulse to shrug in return. “We have some luggage to shift. Can you see to that?”
Prescut nodded, then, without warning, stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle, which echoed around the vast chamber, even managing to make itself heard over the rumble of the departing shuttles. The nearest group of deckhands waved in response, and began to amble over, pushing a cart ahead of them.
Drake flinched at the unexpected sound, his hand flickering for a moment in the direction of his Scalptaker, before he stilled the motion, and smiled apologetically at Horst. “Sorry,” he said. “Took me by surprise.”
“Me too,” Horst said, making light of it, but troubled all the same. Drake had been jumpy ever since he’d first heard they were boarding this vessel, and if he didn’t get a grip soon, he was going to turn into a liability. Perhaps it would be safest to leave him aboard the shuttle with Barda. “If this place is getting to you…”
“I’m fine,” Drake said. “I’ll get used to it.”
There was no time to argue the point, so Horst let it go for now. Prescut was instructing the trio of cargo handlers, in a rapid display of hand-waving which presumably everyone was familiar with, and they began to trot up the shuttle’s boarding ramp with an air of evident purpose.
“That’s far enough.” Barda appeared at the top of the metal incline, his hand resting ostentatiously on the laspistol Elyra had given him, which he was wearing bolstered openly on his hip. Horst sighed inwardly; despite the young pilot’s assurance that he’d been practising with the weapon, he was probably more of a danger to himself than to anyone else if he drew the thing. Nevertheless, he certainly looked the part, Horst had to give him that, his neat grey flight suit blending into the shadows at the top of the ramp to impart an air of subtle menace even Keira might have envied.
The leading deckhand stepped back a pace. “Naya rushabout, skyborne. Toldus shiftabox, thassit, no underhand.” He shot an anxious glance at the mute steward, and the small group of acolytes accompanying him. “Thassalgood, ritenuff?”
“It’s fine,” Horst assured him, and turned his attention to Barda. “You know what we’ll need while we’re here. Make sure they find it. And nothing else.”
“He’s keen, anyway,” Drake said, his evident amusement at the young pilot’s enthusiasm for his new role overriding his uneasiness, at least for the moment.
“No bad thing, if it’s properly directed,” Horst said, watching as the deckhands descended the ramp again, laden with boxes and bags.
Vex winced as the largest and most muscular of the trio hefted the metal-banded trunk containing his precious demountable cogitator onto the handcart with an audible thud, and muttered a brief prayer to the Omnissiah for its preservation. Noticing his agitation, Keira smiled encouragingly. “It’ll be fine,” she said, without much conviction.
“I hope so.” Vex didn’t seem very convinced of that either. “It took me days to realign the cogwheels and resanctify the vacuum tubes after we got to Icenholm.” His voice dropped. “And the manuscript’s in there. It was the safest place I could think of.”
Horst nodded. The handwritten instructions for operating Adrin’s infernal device were heretical in the extreme, and the sooner they were safely lodged in the Ordo Hereticus library at the Tricorn the better. “Good idea,” he said. The cogwheel device of the Adeptus Mechanicus was prominent on the lid, and he doubted that anyone but a techpriest would dare to open it for fear of drawing down the wrath of the Machine-God. Not to mention the subtle traps Vex had built into the case as a precaution against the rare exceptions whose curiosity or cupidity might overcome their fear; anyone attempting to force the lock would receive a jolt of energy sufficient to incapacitate them for hours, if it didn’t kill them outright.
“Careful,” Drake said, stepping forwards to supervise the loading process, apparently relieved to have found some distracting makework. Content to let him draw the shipfolk’s attention, Horst withdrew up the boarding ramp, to have a quiet word with Barda.
“I’ve given orders to keep this hangar secured,” he said, “but I’d advise against going for a stroll too often. If you see anyone in here at all, vox us at once, and under no circumstances allow anyone else to board.”
Barda nodded, and patted the grip of his laspistol. “No problem there,” he assured Horst, with what the team leader hoped wasn’t misplaced confidence. “The minute you’re gone I’m raising the ramp, and I’m keeping everything sealed tighter than a voider’s purse until I see you walking across the dock out there again.”
“Good man.” Horst nodded his approval, and the young pilot’s chest swelled visibly. He glanced around the cramped confines of the passenger compartment. “But you’ll be in here a long time. Are you sure you won’t find it a bit claustrophobic?”
Barda shook his head. “I’ve made solo supply runs to the outer void stations, a month or more at a stretch. And this is roomy compared to my old bird.” A hint of sorrow flickered across his face at the th
ought of his lost Aquila. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will,” Horst said. “Besides, I’ve a job that ought to keep you from getting too bored.” He turned and led the way into the cockpit, indicating the sensorium suite and the vox-caster. “How well are those going to work in here?”
“It depends what you’re wanting to do with them,” Barda said. “They won’t pick up much beyond the hull, unless Savant Vex can encourage the machine-spirits somehow. But I’ll be able to keep in touch with you and the others.”
“That’s good.” Horst nodded. “How about any other signals traffic?”
“Not a problem,” the young pilot assured him. “I can monitor pretty much any frequency you like.” A faint smile played across his face. “This is an Inquisition vessel, after all. The scanning systems and message filters are far more sophisticated than anything in civilian service.”
“Then I’d like you to keep an ear out for anything unusual,” Horst said.
“Will do.” The young pilot nodded, an element of doubt entering his voice for the first time. “The thing is, we’re aboard the Misericord. Pretty much everything here’s unusual.”
“So I’ve heard,” Horst said dryly. Evidently Barda was as impressed by the stories about the vessel as Drake had been. “You’ll just have to use your best judgement.”
“I’ll do my best,” Barda promised, and Horst went to rejoin the others.
“Oh, there you are,” Keira said, a faintly waspish tone creeping into her voice. Evidently the delay was beginning to irk her. The cargo lifter on the adjacent pad, the last shuttle left in the hangar apart from their own, was powering up to depart, gusts of air from its manoeuvring thrusters elbowing their way past the surrounding sound baffles to tug at her hair and kirtle. “I was beginning to think you’d got lost.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Horst said, the tart response almost reflexive; it seemed that despite their recent attempts to get along, they were slipping back into their old adversarial relationship, the habit too hard to break. He turned to Prescut, who had been waiting patiently beside the ramp; as he stepped off it, the metal slope began to rise, retracting back into the belly of the shuttle. “Where to now?”
The question had evidently been asked before, while he’d been talking to Barda, because the mute steward held up the chalkboard at once. The Beyonder’s Hostelry, he read, little wiser than before.
“Lead on, then,” he said, setting out across the echoing metal plain, which had been humming with industrious activity so short a time before. Now the small group of Angelae, the steward and the trio of porters were the only people left in sight, and he felt uncomfortably exposed. After a moment he glanced back at their shuttle, where Barda was still visible in the cockpit, and dismissed the fleeting impulse to wave a farewell.
After a moment Prescut stopped beside a bulkhead door, which cranked slowly open with a squeal of protesting metal as he tapped a numeric code into a data-pad on the wall nearby, and the cavalcade passed through into a wide corridor walled with verdigrised metal, lit at intervals by luminators set into the ceiling. One of the Merciful from the escort detail was waiting there, failing to conceal his bored impatience, and sealed the hatch behind them under Horst’s watchful eye before hurrying off about his duties. A few other shipfolk were passing by on errands of their own, but having little idea of what their liveries and symbols of office denoted, Horst had no clue as to what those might be. No other passengers being visible, they drew a few curious glances, but no one seemed all that interested in either the Angelae or their business.
“One problem taken care of,” Drake muttered, looking a little happier.
Horst nodded. “One less thing to worry about,” he agreed, making slightly more of an effort than he’d expected to need to sound carefree.
Drake shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” he demurred.
Horst shot him another look, hoping the former Guardsman wasn’t about to fall prey to more introspective doom-mongering, but never got the chance to reply. Prescut was opening another hatch, and a moment later they stepped through into pandemonium.
Three
The Misericord, Secundus System
109.993.M41
“Where the hell are we?” Drake asked, his senses suddenly overwhelmed by a barrage of noise and movement. Instincts honed on the battlefield kicked in, and he moved without thinking, taking shelter in the lee of the doorway, already reaching for the rugged revolver in his shoulder rig before his conscious mind took over and registered that they weren’t in any immediate danger. Keira glanced at him, but instead of the expression of sardonic amusement he’d expected, her face was merely reflecting an astonishment as great as his own.
“The main reception deck, I assume,” Vex said, glancing at his data-slate again. “It matches the description here in most significant particulars.”
“Throne on Earth,” Keira said, rounding on Present as the heavy utility door thudded closed behind them, “what part of ‘low profile’ do you people fail to comprehend?”
“I don’t think there’s any harm done,” Horst said, as the steward circled the words Beyonder’s Hostelry on his chalkboard, added an arrow beside it, and scribbled Quickest with an air of bewildered innocence. “No one’s going to notice us in a crowd like this.”
“I suppose not,” Drake agreed. The deck was vast, two or three times the size of the hangar bay they’d landed in, huge marble columns rising to support a ceiling covered in decorative frescoes. Nothing like the one they’d seen before, he noted cynically, not here, where graphic depictions of the terrors of the warp might alarm the passengers; instead, the ceiling had been split into three roughly equal segments, each one given over to stylised representations of the worlds between which the Misericord perpetually moved. Sepheris Secundus was roughly overhead from where Drake was standing, cheerful and preternaturally healthy-looking serfs wresting chunks of ore from the ground, while benevolent barons patted them on the shoulders with expressions of solicitous concern, or made obeisance to a royal personage of uncertain gender who was laying a lump of rock on an altar to the Emperor.
“That one’s Scintilla,” Keira said, pointing to the most distant mural, where a tower the size of a city rose from a storm-flecked ocean, over which the clouds were parting to allow the hand of the Emperor to descend protectively above it. “The Lucid Palace.”
“Does it really look like that?” Drake asked, staring in awestruck wonder at the building where the Sector Governor lived, and from which the entire Calixis Sector was governed.
“More or less,” Horst said. “Fewer angels flapping about the last time I saw it.” Keira shot him a sharp glance, no doubt doing her best to ignore the casual impiety.
“So that must be Iocanthos,” Drake said, craning his neck to look up at the third great painting, where noble warriors clashed amid the garish ghostfire blooms. It seemed a remarkably bloodless battle to him, most of the casualties falling unmarked, as though they were about to get up again, like children playing at orks and Guardsmen.
“Yes, it must,” Keira said. Then she grinned ferally. “Wouldn’t give those pretty boys much of a chance against the real thing, though.”
Intrigued, Drake was about to ask if that meant that she’d been there, met, perhaps even fought, the perpetually feuding warriors who ruled the place, but there was little time for conversation. After only a couple of steps into the echoing concourse, it was all he could do to keep track of his companions among the throng of people surging through it.
Everywhere he looked there was movement, passengers drifting from the great bronze doors leading to the main docking bays towards the far end of the huge arena, breaking and eddying around the marble columns, while shipfolk moved through and around them in a complex dance. Many were stewards like Prescut, expertly herding their charges like ovinehounds, while pretending to defer to them, while others carried the baggage of the new arrivals, arguing loudly the whole time in th
e same patois as the deckhands Prescut had pressed into their service.
All levels of Secundan society seemed to be represented here, Drake thought, even the serfs, although he was surprised to see so many of those. Most of the nobles had brought servants with them, of course, in some cases entire retinues, but a large group of peasants was visible wandering through the hall, apparently unsupervised, gazing at their surroundings with awestruck apprehension.
“Who are they?” he asked, and Prescut shrugged, scribbling for a moment on his slate.
Cargo, Drake read. His incomprehension must have shown on his face, because Horst elaborated before he could ask the obvious question.
“New thralls,” he explained. “For the DeVayne Incorporation.”
Drake nodded. The Incorporation was one of the sector-wide Great Houses, its fortune founded on the manpower it provided wherever the Imperium needed it, and its agents were constantly buying the labour contracts of serfs from the royal family and the noble houses of Sepheris Secundus. Uncounted numbers were dispatched off-world every year, to Emperor knew where, but there were always more where they came from, and for many of the serfs toiling in the mines the dream of being selected by the men in grey was the closest they could ever hope to come to the idea of escape from the burdensome lives they led. Of course things weren’t likely to be any better wherever they ended up, but they could hardly be worse, and at least they would be different.
Drake watched, as they were herded out of sight by a group of the Merciful, in a different direction to the general drift of passengers.
“Warp charms, only twenty thrones, get ’em while I’ve got ’em,” a hawker chanted, weaving his way though the crush with one eye perpetually cocked for a flash of approaching armour. “Protect your soul in transit, guaranteed to repel any daemon, or your money back.” He stopped in front of Keira, and dangled a cheap medallion with a picture of the Emperor on one side and a crudely engraved prayer on the other in front of her face. “How about you, pretty lady?”
[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing Page 4