“Thank you, no.” Vex glanced round, wondering why Drake wasn’t dealing with this, then realised for the first time that his colleague wasn’t with him. That was disturbing, though no real cause for alarm. The crowds were so thick in this street, it would have been easy to become separated without noticing.
Well, finding the Guardsman again should be a simple matter of logic. Vex recalled the way he’d come with a fair degree of accuracy, and this peculiar mock village would undoubtedly be laid out to some underlying street plan. If he retraced his steps to the previous corner, he would probably see Drake taking the same route he had.
“Suit yourself, sir,” the street peddler said, and moved off, pushing the cart ahead of him like a battering ram, scattering passers-by with cheerful indifference. Most of the ones inconvenienced were passengers, Vex noted dispassionately, those whose distinctive garb and void-born pallor marked them out as native Misericordians stepping nimbly out of the way without breaking stride. “Haaaaayberries! Get your haaaaayberries! I won’t be round tomorrow! The donkey’s…” The voice cut off as he turned a corner, subsumed into the general babble surrounding him.
Vex reached the end of the street, and glanced both ways, vaguely surprised to see no sign of Drake in either direction. The buildings were pressing in a little closer than he remembered, their tile roofs overhanging the narrow thoroughfare, and he dismissed a sudden flicker of unease. The luminators in the metal sky above cast the shadowless light of perpetual noon, offering no clue as to orientation, but logical deduction should suffice. If he just kept going in the same direction, he’d eventually reach the edge of this urban masquerade, and then it would simply be a matter of skirting it until he found the way back to the Beyonder’s Hostelry.
He raised a reflexive hand to the comm-bead in his ear, before remembering that, like Drake’s, it was back in their quarters; the miniature voxes were rare and expensive enough to excite unwelcome comment if anyone noticed their presence, and they’d been reluctantly relinquished in the interests of anonymity. How much we take the Omnissiah’s gifts for granted, he thought ruefully, until we no longer have them.
Picking out the nearest alley mouth on the other side of the street, between a shop selling boots and a patisserie, neither of which interested him particularly, he started down it, fighting an irrational urge to run. At least there were fewer people down here, he thought, with some relief.
* * *
The Ursus Innare, the Warp,
Date and Time Meaningless
“I’m not sure it was wise to intervene,” Elyra said quietly. The three wyrds were asleep, so far as she could tell, rolled in their blankets on the other side of the firepit, where lumps of oily shale flickered and flared fitfully. “We’re supposed to be trying to blend in.”
“No we’re not. We’re supposed to be the hardest bastards on the ship,” Kyrlock replied, his voice equally low. “We made a big impression when we took Kantris down; even if most of the people around us didn’t see what happened, they heard about it, believe me. If I hadn’t challenged that cocky little arsewipe we’d have made ourselves look weak, and a few of them would start to wonder why.”
“I see.” Elyra nodded thoughtfully. She was playing the part of a former bodyguard to a minor Secundan aristocrat, fleeing a bounty warrant with a pack full of her former employer’s jewellery, which had explained her proficiency with a laspistol to the satisfaction of the Shadow Franchise operatives who’d arranged their passage on the ore scow. Behind the carefully constructed facade of sociopathic detachment, however, she was out of her depth in this dog-eat-dog environment. Kyrlock, on the other hand, had grown up in it, so she was inclined to trust his judgement.
Kyrlock shrugged. “Tumble rules, basically. We slapped him down, so we’re top canids again. Until the next time.”
“The next time?” Elyra asked.
Kyrlock shrugged again. “There’s always a next time.” He looked pointedly at the distant flickering of the bandits’ fire. At the moment none of the men around it seemed intent on causing trouble, just sitting sullenly, exchanging remarks in an undertone, but Elyra could almost see the tension hanging in the air above them. “We shook his leadership; he’ll have to do something to keep his followers in line.”
“Come after us, you mean?” Elyra asked.
Kyrlock nodded. “If he’s stupid enough. Even if he isn’t, we’ve made ourselves the ones to take down if you want to be king of the spoil heap. Someone else might grow a pair before we get where we’re going.”
“I see.” Elyra considered it. Despite her distaste at the idea, it seemed to make a brutal kind of sense. She’d seen enough of life on Iocanthos to know that you could even run a planet like that, if you really wanted to, or simply didn’t care enough to change things. “So we sleep lightly from now on.”
“When don’t we?” Kyrlock asked rhetorically. “Do you want this watch, or shall I take it?”
“You might as well sleep,” Elyra said. “I’m not that tired.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but her mind was too busy to rest. She strained her ears, listening for sounds of stealthy movement in the shadows around them, but heard nothing beyond the familiar scrabbling of the rockrats.
Nevertheless, she slipped her hand inside her pack, and took hold of the laspistol, her thumb resting lightly against the safety catch.
Six
The Misericord, the Warp,
Date and Time Meaningless
Despite the suspicion she couldn’t quite shake, that the Gallery’s appellation was somehow merited in a subtle fashion she was failing to discern, Keira was beginning to enjoy herself. The cheerful bustle around her was a welcome contrast to the cramped confines of the Beyonder’s Hostelry, and for once she had Mordechai’s undivided attention. That was undeniably pleasant, even though she still couldn’t quite bring herself to acknowledge why.
She glanced at Horst, wondering if he was secretly pleased to be spending time alone with her, but his attention was all on the shops and market stalls surrounding them, scanning their contents for any sign of their missing property. Inspired by his dedication, she resolved to keep her mind on the business at hand as well.
“Seen anything you like yet?” Horst asked, and she followed the direction of his gaze; he’d stopped in front of a store selling women’s apparel. Surprised, she halted her own progress, and assessed the goods on display critically. “That one’s definitely your colour,” he said.
“It seems quite practical,” she agreed. The blouse and trousers were loose-fitting, so she’d be able to conceal her weapons easily, and the crimson material appealed to her Redemptionist sensibilities. There was no denying that she needed some fresh clothes, either; she’d been wearing the bodyglove and kirtle since she’d come on board, and they were both getting a little ripe by now. She took a step towards the shop. “It wouldn’t hurt to try it on, would it?”
“Wait a minute,” Horst said, looking at the window a little more intently. A white garment was on display towards the back of the emporium, and although it was half-obscured by the intervening racks, they both recognised it instantly. The robe of a techpriest.
“Can I help you, honoured travellers?” The proprietress, a short woman in a jewelled turban and a purple floor-length gown which didn’t quite match it, glanced up as the two Angelae entered her shop.
“I hope so.” Horst smiled, in an open and friendly manner. “We were just passing, and noticed that white robe over there.”
“You have excellent taste,” the woman observed, nodding judiciously. “That’s an Iocanthan wedding dress, although it would make a perfectly good informal gown…”
“Actually, it’s the vestment of a techpriest,” Keira cut in, keeping her voice conversational, but with just enough of an edge to convey that she wasn’t in the mood for any vapid sales patter. “Quite a restricted market for that, I’d have thought.”
“How lucky that we happen to be travelling with one,” Horst added, “who lost
his luggage when we boarded.” He regarded the woman narrowly. “He’ll be so pleased that we managed to find a replacement.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” the shopkeeper said airily. “I bought it in good faith, and that’s how I’m selling it.”
“I’m sure you did,” Keira said, smiling easily as she suppressed the impulse to get the information she wanted the direct and simple way. “But I’d like to know where you found it. They may have more.”
“Just the one I could see,” the woman said, letting the sentence hang.
“Which would be where, exactly?” Horst asked.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “I’ve a business to run. Sometimes the details get a little blurred. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course I do,” Keira said, removing the robe from the rack. “But I’m sure our friend will be pleased to get this one, anyway.” She turned, and plucked the red suit from the window display. “And I really can’t leave without this. It’s just my colour.” She let the smile harden. “Or we could take our custom elsewhere.”
“Fifty thrones,” the shopkeeper said. Horst glanced pointedly at the price tags, which totalled considerably less, and dug some currency out of his pocket. “Oh yes, it’s coming back to me. Cuddy in the lower market. He has a lot of second-hand items, if you get my drift. All bought in good faith, of course.”
“Of course,” Horst said, handing her the money.
The shopkeeper smiled. “I’ll just put those in a bag for you, shall I?”
The lower market turned out to be a maze of stalls, jammed into the confluence of three main thoroughfares apparently entirely at random, funnelling visitors and shipfolk alike through a quincunx of commerce. Cuddy’s was bigger than most, and had a large sign above it proclaiming ownership, so Horst was able to spot it quite easily; but actually reaching it through the dense and eddying crowd had proven frustratingly difficult. If Keira hadn’t been with him he might never have got to it at all, but she slipped between the obstructing bodies with a stream of ingenuous apologies, and the judicious use of elbow and knee, to clear a path for him.
“There.” Keira pointed to a shirt Horst recognised as one of Drake’s favourites, and reached out a hand to grab it. A few moments later they’d managed to recover half a dozen items, far fewer than they’d originally lost, and none of them of any particular significance, but Horst felt his spirits rising as he handed a fistful of coins to the stallholder. They were clearly on the right track.
“You’ve a good eye, young madam, that you have,” Cuddy said, as the currency disappeared. “Was there anything else you’d be wanting?”
“That all depends on what else you’ve got,” Keira replied, managing to look pleased at the compliment and slightly slow-witted, which clearly disarmed the stallholder. “We’re travelling with a techpriest who lost his luggage, and we heard you might know a Receiver who could help him recover it.”
“Sorry.” Cuddy shook his head dolefully, as though his inability to help was a mortal wound to his self-esteem. “I did have one of their robes in a while back, but it’s already gone, and there wasn’t anything else in the batch with a cogwheel on it.” His expression grew faintly suspicious as realisation belatedly dawned. “You’ve just bought everything else that came in with it.”
“Some of our property got mislaid at the same time,” Horst said blandly. “But I don’t see why you should be left out of pocket. I’m sure you paid for everything in good faith.”
“Just so,” the merchant agreed, with a sidelong glance at a Merciful patrol forging through the crowd nearby, articulating apologies and profanity in roughly equal measure. “Legitimate salvage,” he said.
“Our friend’s very anxious to recover one item in particular,” Keira said. “A metal-bound box, about so big.” She spread her hands to indicate the size of the cogitator case. “Mechanicus sigils all over it, so it’d be hard to miss. He’s offering a substantial reward.”
“I can pass the word along,” Cuddy said, a spark of cupidity kindling in his eyes, “but he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Anything like that I’d have been offered; not many here can shift that kind of merchandise.” He shrugged, and pointed to a nearby tavern. “You could try talking to Verren anyhow, he’ll be over in the Dancing Ambull I should think. At least if he’s still got some money left.”
“Thank you,” Keira said, with a dazzling smile, which the storeholder reciprocated in a faintly sheepish fashion. “You’ve been very helpful.” To Horst’s surprise she remained cheerful as they began making their way towards the hostelry, and he found himself wishing she could be like that a little more often. She glanced at him, clearly elated by the progress they’d made. “Do you think Hybris and Danuld are having this much luck?”
Drake paused at the intersection of two alleyways, and glanced in both directions. Neither looked particularly promising, but at least the crowds had thinned out here, so he was able to make better time. He was certain that Vex would have realised they’d got separated by now, and would probably be retracing his steps, but the maze of twisting alleyways made any attempt to find him problematic at best.
As he looked around, hoping to find some kind of clue where to go, he caught sight of movement in the distance. A small group of passengers, their clothes unmistakably of Secundan cut, were striding along an intersecting alley; if he hadn’t happened to be looking in that direction he would have missed them entirely, as they disappeared behind the corner of a building in a matter of seconds.
For a moment he thought nothing of it, then a belated sense of realisation kicked in. The group was moving confidently, with evident purpose, the first passengers he’d seen who looked at home here. Of course they might just have taken passage on the Misericord before, and knew their way around because of that, but it was also possible they were up to something illicit. Either way, following them would at least feel more purposeful than wandering around the warren of alleyways at random, attracting the amused attention of the shipfolk.
Easing the Scalptaker loose in its shoulder rig, Drake set out after his quarry.
Vex was beginning to feel considerably discommoded. Despite the rigorous application of logic, he was still lost, and beginning to suspect that, contrary to all reasonable expectation, the Gallery of Sin conformed to no underlying principle of design. Suppressing a sigh of irritation, he turned down another alleyway which looked as though it was going in the right direction, but which, like so many others, veered off on a different heading entirely about halfway along its length. Then his spirits rose. A trio of fellow passengers were walking towards him, the first people other than shipfolk he’d seen for some time. Perhaps they’d be able to give him directions that actually made sense. Heartened at last, he began to pick up his pace.
“It’s him!” The leader of the group raised a hand, and pointed. “The techpriest! He’s carrying it!”
A lifetime of devotion to dispassionate logic had done nothing to quell Vex’s innate survival instincts: indeed, his years of service to the Inquisition had honed them to a degree most of his colleagues would have found astonishing. By the time the other two men in the little group had broken into a run he was already moving, diving for the meagre cover afforded by an odiferous metal bin overflowing with rubbish. As he landed behind the fortuitous refuge, trying not to wonder what the small objects which had squashed under his weight were, a blizzard of razor-edged ice shards clattered from the galvanised plate.
Psykers! A visceral loathing for the warp spawn flooded through him, and he drew his autopistol, mouthing the prayer of accuracy as he pulled the trigger.
The round impacted on the wall, millimetres from the head of the leader, who twisted aside at the last possible second; Vex had been certain that his aim was true, and expressed his displeasure with another couple of rounds. Again, the fellow evaded both shots, something which should have been impossible.
There was only one logical explanation: he was a wyrd too, a seer of some kin
d, able to predict where the bullets would impact.
That made two out of three, which meant that the third man was probably warp-touched too; a hypothesis confirmed a moment later as a ball of flame erupted into existence and hurtled down the alleyway towards him. Vex ducked back behind the bin, feeling a burst of heat as the fireball impacted against the metal, his nostrils choked with the sudden stench of burning garbage.
Popping up again he fired, not bothering to waste any more ammunition on the precog, and saw the pyrokine stagger, before another blizzard of ice crystals sent him diving for cover once more. His position wasn’t good, he had to admit; he’d managed to wound one assailant, but the other two were still very much in the game.
The Dancing Ambull was crowded, and clearly catered for passengers as well as shipfolk; glancing around as they entered, Keira noticed almost as many Secundan fashions as Misericordian guild liveries among the clientele. Like the rest of the Gallery of Sin, it tried to maintain the illusion of being part of a planetside village somewhere, although if anywhere like this had ever existed on Scintilla it had done so before millennia of industrialisation had expunged every trace of the bucolic from the globe. Keira found the whole thing curiously soulless, like the make-up on the faces of the joygirls circulating among the customers with varying degrees of hopefulness or resignation, obscuring the real person beneath with a false smile and a painted complexion.
“Sorry.” One of them bumped into her and moved on, her deadened eyes resting on Horst for a moment before registering that he appeared to be with Keira, and the young assassin felt an unexpected pang of pity for the girl, instead of the fierce contempt she usually reserved for sinners.
To hide her confusion, she spoke. “Don’t mention it.” The girl turned back, clearly surprised to be treated with any kind of courtesy, especially by a passenger, most of whom probably regarded her as little more than a commodity, and Keira smiled in the open, friendly fashion which had proved so effective with the stallholder. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for a man named Verren; I gather he’s something of a regular here.”
[Dark Heresy 02] - Innocence Proves Nothing Page 10