by Dan Abnett
Ravenor’s own nagging lines of enquiry revolved around two things: the demise of Bifrost, of which I spared no detail, and the nature of Comus, of which I said as little as possible. After the meeting on the slipway, I had sent the angel away, knowing that my blood could call him back at any time. Comus would, once more, hide himself from human sight up in the rooftops and lonely spires of Queen Mab. Ravenor, of course, recognised what Comus was, and that begged more questions in him, as it had in me.
‘This shade then? Too red?’ Kara asked. Her fingers smelled of floral perfume. She had been trying several fragrances, to find one that would suit her ’guise.
‘Yes,’ I said, reaching for the powder pot. ‘Perhaps something less operatic.’
‘I think I have something,’ she replied. She looked at my reflection, and found my eyes. ‘You can trust us,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘I know you believe that,’ I replied. ‘I think in this city, there is very little trust to share around, and it must be rationed.’
Kara’s face fell a little. The right strap of her slip had slid off her shoulder, and she hoiked it up.
‘I believe I can trust you,’ I said, seeing her look. Indeed, I thought so. She was more boisterous and energetic than Medea, and had a deep and surprisingly dirty laugh when amused, but I had come to feel that Kara fulfilled a role equivalent to Medea’s in this outfit. She was the warm heart and the glue.
A grin re-lit upon her face.
‘Something less operatic,’ she said. ‘I think that can be done.’
She bounded out of the room, her bare feet swift as a cat’s, and the candle flames jiggled in her wake. In a moment, I could hear her rattling through a cosmetic case in the room next door.
Trust had, in fact, now been imposed to a degree. On the third day of our operation in the house, I had finally relented and turned on my cuff. This had been an act of faith on my part, for it gave Ravenor full sway, but it was clear foolishness to restrain our greatest asset.
‘I will not look without your permission,’ he had said.
‘I do not know how a mere word from me would prevent you,’ I had replied.
‘There can be civility in all things, even for a psyker,’ he said.
I had shrugged, hands wide.
‘Look for yourself,’ I said. ‘For how would I tell if you were looking anyway?’
In fact, it was possible to tell. Facing the Chair on that third day, I felt his mind sweep into mine, as though someone had opened a door somewhere and let through a breeze. I felt he was a polite visitor, entering the rooms of my mind and looking around, not rifling through every cupboard and drawer. Still, it was an uncanny sensation, and I knew full well that he would not have to dig down the back of a drawer or a blanket box to locate my distrust of him.
He said nothing of that.
‘The ossuary,’ he said, at last. ‘That’s where you found him? This Comus?’
I had known that would be the goal of his first search.
‘Under that, even. The depths of Below.’
‘And you think him of the Ninth Legion?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘King Door,’ he mused.
‘A gate to another realm, I think,’ I replied. ‘I could not explain it. The angel came from there, and could tell me little of it. It may be an open path to the City of Dust, though I could not see how one could cross it. It seemed impassable, except, perhaps, to an angel.’
‘King Door,’ he said again. ‘If one examines that name–’
‘And thinks, as with the Maze Undue, of the Old Franc,’ I cut in, ‘then one arrives at “D’or”, and thus “gold” and thus “yellow”. Yes, sir, that had occurred to me.’
‘I see that.’
Ravenor paused. I smelled a wash of neurohormones.
‘What have you found now?’ I asked.
‘I…’ He hesitated, as though processing details that were startling to him. ‘I am bewildered by these glimpses, Beta. Things you have seen in the last year or so. Traitor Astartes of the Word Bearers…’
‘Inveigled with the Pontifex of the Ministorum–’
‘The elders of this city seem hungry for their own destruction. I had no idea such parties were involved. The Word Bearers are… It is insanity to try to deal with them.’
I nodded.
‘And the Baron Prefect,’ he added, ‘has deep ties with the Ecclesiarchy, so this pact might explain why the Baron is less forthcoming in his aid to us, of late. The Ministorum has great political influence. And what’s this now? One of the Emperor’s Children too?’
‘Just so,’ I replied. ‘Two Traitor Legions I know of stalk this city, hunting for a way into the Yellow King’s domain.’
‘What I see here of this Teke, I am amazed you survived.’
‘I am too.’
‘And now I see how you did,’ he said. ‘Deathrow.’
‘Ah, yes. Him. I accept I have omitted to mention him.’
‘So, your estimate was incorrect, Beta. Three Traitor Legions. In all fairness, I must ask – did Gregor’s open affiliation with the Alpha Legion not impress upon you the extremity of his heretical leanings?’
‘Look into my head, sir, into my soul, and tell me how clearly delineated good and evil seem to me. Nothing can be trusted, nothing aligns where it should align, and archenemies make friends of each other–’
‘The sad truth is,’ he replied, ‘that is the story of our cosmos. I do not say that to alarm you, but my experience has ever been that our Imperium, behind its bright banners and proud sermons, is far from the solid edifice we like to imagine. It is, at best, decayed and stagnant, and at worst rotten through.’
‘Then you answer your own question, sir, I think.’ I took a seat and perched facing him. ‘The Endless War of Mankind is most acutely realised here in this city – parties and powers of all kinds and breeds, intermixed in a broil of murky intrigue. The issue, as it seems to me, is that none of us have any idea of the war’s nature. Not here. We impose our own rules of good and evil, of Throne and Infernal, because we have been raised to understand that reassuring binary concept, and our faith in the Imperium depends upon it. But in Queen Mab, everything is ravelled and knotted. I fear our greatest weakness, sir, is that we do not even begin to understand the scheme or scope of the war. We do not know who opposes who, or why. We do not know which side we are supposed to be on. We do not even know on which side we currently stand.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘The true prize is unknown to us, so we can only guess at where all the players fall in relation to it.’
‘Your theory is that it’s a quest to find the God-Emperor’s true name through Enuncia,’ I said.
‘And thus command power over all things,’ he said.
‘But that may not be it at all,’ I said.
‘I agree,’ he replied. ‘And a true determination of that scheme has been my objective since I arrived here on Sancour. That is why I tolerate the company of a known Cognitae killer, and it’s why you consort with murderous angels–’
‘And Gregor was content to keep a daemon and Alpharius in his retinue,’ I finished. ‘We are all heretics, sir, or none of us are. This war dissolves all differentiation, and is of such import, clearly, that it demands we consider anything a potential ally. I ask you to remember that, should Gregor have survived and we chance to meet him again.’
‘I do not need to be convinced,’ said Ravenor. ‘And although I can see you take it seriously, Beta, I advise even greater caution from you. I sift through your memories and see other faces. You have learned how dangerous the Blackwards are–’
‘Their alignment?’
‘Self-interest,’ he replied, ‘as it has always been, as far as I can see. They are, in the old sense of the term, rogue traders. They are above nothing when it comes to prese
rving their legacy. And this face in your mind, whom you seem to regard with only minor caution – Alace Quatorze. She is of the Glaw dynasty.’
‘So she said.’
‘And the name means nothing to you?’
‘Not really.’
‘The most reviled heretics, Beta. You had no idea who you were dealing with at Feverfugue. I am only thankful she was but a minor and worthless branch of that foul dynasty.’
‘What is the next step you intend to take?’ I asked him.
‘There are options,’ he replied. I realised only then that his voice was soft and very reassuring. For the first time, I was hearing it, his true tone, directly in my mind as it had once spoken in life, and not manufactured by crude transponders. ‘I see one appeals to you.’
I could not deny it.
‘I have shared my mind with you, Gideon,’ I replied. ‘Now will you share the book with me?’
The commonplace book of Lilean Chase, so small, and so innocent in its pale blue cover. It lay beside me in the candlelight as I made myself up, Kara fussing in and out behind me. Ravenor had handed it over after that conversation, and had confessed that he had made no headway with it.
Like me, and like Gregor, Gideon had not been able to determine the significance of the number 119, nor the linguistic nature of the dense text inside the book. Gideon had not seen its like before, anywhere, and he had made a long and detailed study of languages and cants. He agreed with my conjecture that the script seemed numerical, in some form, almost like a very long string of numbers. But his expert knowledge, far greater than Gregor’s, aligned with Gregor’s: it was not binaric, or any other version of number-based data-code known to be used by the Adeptus Mechanicus. And though the characters seemed more like numerals than letters to both of us, there was no way of knowing their corresponding values. We needed to know the language it was written in before we could decrypt it.
Even with the original book to study, I had made no progress, but I was increasingly certain that 119, rather than denoting the number of the book in some sequence, somehow described its contents, like a title, and furthermore represented a key to its decipherment. I know Gideon had worked hard at the decoding, and was a man of no mean intelligence, but his small team lacked a dedicated savant. They had, to begin with, used the resources of the Baron Prefect’s court, but that was now withheld, and I believed Gideon was reluctant to trust such material to unreliable parties anyway. I believed, and Ravenor agreed, that it was time to exploit the odd and eccentric relicts of the city as our helpmates. I had come to feel that the city’s outcast and overlooked souls were the most, or perhaps only, trustworthy allies at our disposal. In truth, I had come to feel myself as one of them. I would find poor, mad Freddy Dance again, and I would consort with his quirky circle.
Or, at least, a face they recognised would. Therefore, before the looking glass, I put on the identity and mantle of Violetta Flyde once again.
‘Is this a better colour?’ Kara asked. She had returned with an enamel tube of lip-lacquer in her hands. Now she was wearing nothing but a silk robe, open and untied. She had a dancer’s frankness, which startled me, a confidence in her own flesh, though I confess, if I had her body, I would be unashamed to show it.
‘Yes, much better,’ I answered. ‘Are you not dressed yet?’
‘It will only take a moment,’ she said. ‘I am choosing a bodyglove. Crimson, or green, do you think?’ She held up a garment in each hand for consideration.
‘It depends,’ I said. ‘What would your guise wear?’
Kara frowned, a crease between her plucked eyebrows.
‘I don’t… know what you mean,’ she said.
I started to explain, but she stopped me at once.
‘Your voice is different, Beta,’ she said. ‘A little softer, and more clipped with the tone of the aristo classes.’
‘That is Violetta’s voice,’ I replied, using it. ‘I am sinking into character, so I can be ready, to speak like her, and think like her. Are you not doing the same?’
‘I just dress up and improvise,’ she said. She chuckled. ‘If I get lost, Gideon can always drop a useful hint into my mind. Is this what you call a function?’
‘It is,’ I said.
‘Full immersion in a character? One you know backwards and forwards, from birth day to–’
‘Yes.’
She shrugged. ‘I have worked undercover many times,’ she said. ‘I have lived as other people, but never with such calculation or study.’
‘I find that strange,’ I said. ‘I was taught – trained – that the development of functions was a primary field tool of Ordo agents, that it was a skill all needed to possess.’
‘You were trained by the Cognitae,’ she admonished with a wink.
‘Is there a difference?’ I asked, and that made her laugh her dirty laugh.
‘I’ll learn from you, then,’ she said. ‘Already, you seem like a different person. It is quite disconcerting.’
‘I’m not there yet, but Violetta is almost in place.’
‘At least my poverty in such precise play-acting is not an issue tonight,’ she replied. She had chosen the green bodyglove, and dropped her robe to the floor to pull it on. ‘I have no starring role tonight. I’m just background colour and backup. I’ll have eyes on you from a distance.’
‘How’s your Mabiçoise?’ I asked.
‘Decent enough to buy a drink and chat up a barfly,’ she replied, in passing good Mabiçoise.
‘And how is Patience when it comes to functions?’ I asked.
‘She, I’m afraid, is always Patience,’ Kara replied, balancing on one foot to wriggle the tight ’glove on. ‘But that will serve tonight, I think.’
I hoped it would. Patience Kys, for better or for worse, was to be my lead partner in the night’s endeavour. I trusted she had the talent for such a duty. At least, I felt, she was exactly the kind of exotic creature who might fairly fascinate the likes of Oztin Crookley.
We tried, first, the salons and meeting houses of the bohemian quarter around Saint Celestine Feygate, which thronged with the usual permissive society. It was mid-evening, the street lamps were all lit, and the dining rooms were on their second or third service, with patrons still to seat. There was no sign of Crookley’s circle at Lengmur’s, nor at Zabrat’s, nor at the caffeine house adjoining the Old Almanac Booksellers.
From there, we turned to the Two Gogs, only to find it closed, for the most part. The Gogs, it appeared, had suffered in the late storm, like so many properties in the city. It had lost a good many roof tiles to the plundering wind, and a fierce quantity of rain had got in, drowning the fore-bar and the kitchens. Regular business was suspended, though the owner was clearly so keen to resume trade that, even by evening lamplight, a small gang of labourers was at work, on double-pay, up ladders to patch the roof and make good the gutters. Carpets, rugs and table linen had been hung up outside to dry. I noticed one workman occupied repainting the trademark figures at the door in yet another range of gruesomely unsuitable colours. I wondered how the colours of the carvings had been compromised by the heavy rain, but perhaps it was just a thing that was done from time to time, not when repair was warranted, but upon the mercurial whim of the owner. Perhaps he had merely come into another job lot of unwanted paint.
A modicum of service had been maintained in the yard and street before the Two Gogs. Plank benches had been set up, and casks of sack dragged out, the bar staff selling by the mug out of doors to a gathering crowd. A fire, of some concerning ferocity, had been lit in the yard, and over it a half-grox was roasting, the spit turned by a blackened kitchen servitor. Flat breads stuffed with slices of the roast meat were selling well. A fire-spitter entertained the crowd, pacing the flame-lit yard in his motley, lighting his wands off the roast-fire, and belching great plumes of rushing combustion to the oooohs and aaaahs of
those watching, especially those standing close enough to be in danger of ignition. Tumblers and dally-dancers cavorted about the place, some in a most lewd and suggestive display, while an old woman played the helicon and a boy thumped a tambor, and the crowd clapped. The dancers were all masqued in the carnival style, very garish and merry, and some performed alarming tricks of contortion. They gathered coins in their caps and bowls from the onlookers.
As Violetta, I scanned the firelit crowd, but could see no familiar faces in its mass. I glanced at Kys and Renner, by my side.
‘Where next then?’ Kys asked.
‘Perhaps The Physik?’ I ventured. ‘Or–’
Kys held up a slender hand to cut me off, and nodded at the crowd. Kys, as Kara had suggested, was just Kys, though she had chosen a lustrous black bodyglove for this evening excursion. Her guise was as my lifeward, so her regular demeanour was entirely appropriate.
‘Wait,’ she said.
One of the masked dancers, quite the most limber and gymnastic, had cartwheeled close to us, and was pausing to gather tips in a tin cup. She came to us, cup out, and I saw that it was Kara behind the mask.
‘A coin for good chance, a coin for thanks?’ she said, rattling her tin.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Kys replied.
Kara winked at me from behind her fox-head mask.
‘The pot-boy says Crookley cares not to sup in the evening air,’ she whispered, ‘and he finds the rowdy-dow-dow of the crowd boorish. He’s taken off to The Shoulder for the night.’
I plunked a couple of coins in her cup.
‘Thank you, fine mamzel!’ Kara cried aloud. ‘May the angels of the Throne watch over you!’ She turned, and bounded away into a handspring.
‘The Shoulder,’ I said. ‘That’s on Mereside Row, isn’t it?’