by Dan Abnett
I glanced around. We were on a broad balcony beneath the lip of the port, perhaps the remains of what had once been a roof terrace for a private apartment.
‘Yes,‘ I said. I paused, considering the prospect. ‘I think–’ I turned.
The angel had already gone.
I went to the rail. I tried my link, but there was no response from Renner or Saur now either. Either the beads lacked decent range, or the mass of cast metal and other materials between me and them was denying a signal.
I looked for Saint Marzom Martyr. It was almost directly ahead of me, and the angle of view approximated that of the image in my mind. If anything, I was now a little too high.
I drew the Tronsvasse, checked its load, then made my way into the apartment behind the roof garden. The glass was all gone from the windows and doors, and the hab was a rotting ruin. Years of rain, storm and long winters had reduced what had once been a luxurious residence to a cave of liquescent filth, where books and drapes and upholstery had been rendered down to mulch and black slime. The air was pungent. I advanced carefully, checking surfaces and frames for signs of warding sigils. A door, swollen to fibrous pulp in its frame, thanks to water damage, gave way after a couple of sturdy shoves, and I let myself into the interior hall. This was a gloomy realm, for the few windows were crazed with dirt. The smell of cold damp was strong, and water plinked from the ceiling.
It was like the landing of a grand hotel, with a black iron staircase descending to the floors below. At least here, things were more steady underfoot. These once elegant residences were part of the port’s original structure, not makeshift additions raised at a later time with scant regard for safety.
I made my way down the iron steps, my pistol raised. I flexed my shoulder, realising how sore it had become. Timurlin’s blade had caught me just the night before, and though the wound had been cleaned, dressed and closed with a plastek seal, it was deep. The exertion of my trip as an angel’s cargo had flexed it, perhaps even opened the wound that was newly healing.
The apartments on the next level down were all ruined spaces too. A through-wind scurried litter along the dirty landing. One floor lower was my guess. There, still more ruins, and one unpromising door. The door had not been cleaned, and was half-screened by a heap of broken railings. But it was, I estimated, in the right location, and the dirt was but a mask so that it would not stand out among the decay.
On close inspection, the door was solid indeed. Under the patina of grime, I could see some mark, a decorative pattern like the geometry of a spider’s web. There were, just visible, hexafoil sigils etched in the ebony door frame.
I considered my approach. Another route in was unlikely. Sometimes, I reflected, directness is better than guile.
I knocked upon the door with the butt of my pistol.
‘Hello?’ I called. ‘I have come to find you.’
To my surprise, a lock system clicked, and the door swung open. I saw pale light beyond.
‘With your permission, I will enter,’ I called out.
There was no reply.
‘And the permission of your wards here,’ I added.
‘Let me know you, and they will let you pass,’ replied a distant voice, speaking in Low Gothic. A woman. I did not recognise it.
‘I am Beta Bequin,’ I said.
‘You are known.’
I took a deep breath, and stepped inside. No secret pain dropped me on the threshold. There was warmth beyond, and a clean, almost perfumed air. Inside the door, the short hallway was screened by wrought-iron panels, where the ironwork had been bent and fashioned into cobweb patterns of great symmetry and craft.
I advanced. Light filtered through a high gate at the end, a gate which also had been worked from black iron in web patterns. The light cast the shadows of that pattern back across the floor to me, covering the hallway’s rich Selgioni rug with elongated cobweb shapes.
‘I come in good faith,’ I called out.
‘You come with weapon drawn,’ the voice answered.
I holstered my gun.
‘This building has its hazards,’ I replied, ‘but my intent is true. I have heard you are in need of help. Of an ally. I think you have reached out to me already, in the hope that I might render assistance to you.’
‘Assistance against what?’
‘Against that which haunts us all,’ I said. ‘Against that which, until recently, you had spent years serving, and which now refuses you reward and recognition.’
‘What is it you speak of?’
‘Not what but whom. The King in Yellow.’
I had reached the inner gate.
‘In what manner did I reach to you?’ the voice asked.
‘At the Lengmur Salon,’ I replied. ‘By way of the voicer, who was silenced for her efforts.’
‘I reached to a person I knew once,’ said the voice, ‘and who aligned with a man who I thought trustworthy.’
‘You would trust a heretic?’
A light laugh.
‘Heretics are the only ones worth trusting,’ the voice said, ‘for they have everything to gain and everything to lose. But you are not that person any more, I fear. You have altered your path, and you side with those I fear I cannot trust at all.’
‘Because?’
‘Because the Inquisition is not a subtle instrument. It cannot modify its attitude to the likes of me to accommodate my existence.’
‘I beg to differ,’ I said. ‘The Inquisition as a whole, yes. But I will vouch for the man I work for. Accommodation may be found. We can help you, in return for your help. A mutual arrangement. I am authorised by his command to make you this offer.’
‘The Ordos will say anything to get their way,’ the voice replied.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but let us at least say those things face to face.’
There was a lengthy pause.
‘Come, then. But turn on that limiter.’
I adjusted my cuff and slid the gate open.
The apartment was large and very fine. It had once been a stateroom dwelling for wealthy visitors, perhaps a grand duke or margrave. The long wall of south-facing windows had been tinted to reduce the glare of the afternoon sun, and the air swam with a cool, green light. Beyond the windows, a terrace overlooked the city sprawl.
It was a broad, spacious and well-appointed situation. The cobweb motif was repeated on the dark wallpaper, the carpet and even the soft furnishings. It was etched into the glass of the wall mirrors, of which there were very many. They were of many shapes and designs, as if collected by an enthusiast. Some were dim and foxed with age, where the silver backing the glass had corroded. Others were bright and crystal fresh. Incense burned in a gold tray on an onyx side table.
She sat facing me in a very high-backed porter’s chair of brown leather. Her hair was deep red, and she wore a rust-coloured gown, just as she had the last time I had seen her in the side doorway of Lengmur’s. As then, she looked nothing like herself. She was Timurlin’s Zoya Farnessa, whoever ‘Zoya’ was.
But now I saw her, with all faculty of awareness, I could read through her disguise, and cast away her expert function. It was Mam Mordaunt, mentor of the Maze Undue.
‘Hello, Beta,’ she said.
She smiled at me. The exquisite chrome xenos-tech pistol she was aiming at me did not.
CHAPTER 21
Which is of quizzing and reflection
‘I believed you dead for the longest while,’ I said. I tried to express no fear or trepidation, despite the weapon levelled at me. It would have disappointed her.
‘The Maze fell,’ she replied. ‘We executed Hajara. We wash up where we may, wearing other faces. You, Beta, have worn many.’
‘You’ve been watching me.’ This was not a question. At the Maze Undue, we had used the quizzing glass to study our assigned targets
and prepare. I had no doubt these mirrors were of that strange nature, for Mam Mordaunt had been an expert in such espial craft.
‘You presume that from my looking glasses?’ she asked.
‘I was told that by your perfecti, Verner.’
She mused on this.
‘Is he coming back?’ she asked.
‘No, mam.’
She sighed. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘He tried to kill me,’ I replied. ‘But, no. It was done by another.’
‘And done with artistry,’ she said, ‘for he gave up his true name.’
‘He had little choice, in the end.’
Her eyes, ever dark, seemed darker.
‘Then… Ravenor killed him.’
I shook my head. ‘Ravenor took the truth from him, but Thaddeus killed him.’
I watched her face for reaction. There was none.
‘I have seen,’ she said mildly, ‘that Saur walks with you. Such a false soul. A turncoat.’
‘I do not know what he is,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t either. His memory has been redacted. What was done to him?’
‘Nothing I know of,’ she replied. ‘I last saw him in the turmoil of the Maze’s destruction. We were all fleeing. Thaddeus is a master of both attack and defence. I remember him saying… years ago now… that he had trained in certain disciplines that would fortify his mind if he was ever captured. Synaptic countermeasures that he could trigger by means of a key phrase or mantra in extremis. They would sterilise his memories and wipe his thoughts, so he had literally nothing to tell, not even under torture. I suspect, Beta, Saur did it to himself.’
‘He made himself forget, then forgot he’d done so?’
‘He was captured, wasn’t he?’ she said. ‘Captured by the enemy he feared the most, one he knew would show him no mercy. So yes, I imagine so. Synaptic countermeasures are not subtle. They would wipe even the memory of his own forgetting. I imagine he may be pitied, and forgiven. But you went to the enemy rather more willingly.’
‘There was duress,’ I replied. ‘I was alone and forsaken. I was hunted by many. I made my own path and my own choices, the best choices I could.’
‘To become a servant of the cruel Inquisition?’
‘Mam, my whole life I believed I was a servant of the Ordos,’ I said. ‘You raised me that way. It did not seem such a great step.’
Her painted eyebrows rose slightly, and she pursed her lips.
‘I suppose not,’ she replied. ‘So you may be forgiven also.’
‘I didn’t come here for your forgiveness,’ I replied. ‘I came because you are the one alone and forsaken, hiding in fear of your life. He that you served has turned his back on you, taken your secrets, and left you with nothing. You need an ally, or you will not leave Sancour alive. More than that, I believe you need revenge.’
‘My, Verner did talk a lot, didn’t he?’
‘Is it not so, mam?’
She sat back in the tall chair, her face passing into green shadow. Her weapon lowered, resting on her lap, but I did not relax. It could rise and find me again in a moment. I knew her capabilities.
‘I find myself disadvantaged,’ she said quietly. ‘All has gone to ruination, and past friends have turned away. The plans I have been part of are undone, or wrested from my grasp. And yes, beyond survival, I think I do yearn for some payback. There is a spite in me. The King in Yellow has usurped the Cognitae’s ambitions, and distorts them for his own means. We had a great plan, Beta, one centuries in the making, and about to bear fruit, but the King has taken it from us, along with all our methods and technical accomplishments, and debased it into something monstrous. My desire to see him punished for that is very great. But I do not think you can offer me anything I need. I am glad to see you, Beta. Glad to see you alive. And I am touched that your concern for me was so great that you came to find me at no little risk. I have enjoyed this visit. But our paths from here are very different.’
‘I don’t think they are,’ I said. ‘And, with respect, this is no social call. We hunt for the King. We can offer you protection in return for your inside knowledge. You have information that would be vital to us. It will take us where we need to go, and bring you the payback you hanker for.’
‘I cannot see me collaborating with the Inquisition, can you?’ she asked, a tiny smirk on her lips. ‘At the side of Gideon Ravenor? I don’t think so.’
‘But you could with Eisenhorn? Who, if anything, has been a greater foe of the Cognitae down the years?’
‘He was different,’ she said sullenly. ‘An enemy, yes. But a heretic too. I know things about him, child. The things that happened to him on Gershom. The things that made him smile again. He was an outlier, for whom rules and laws no longer applied. I despised him, but he would have seen the merit of my participation, and he would have made an excellent instrument of vengeance.’
‘He’s dead,’ I said.
‘More’s the pity. And Ravenor lives. The more noble man, and the harder to like. I cannot side with him, Beta. And I don’t think you should trust him either.’
‘I don’t believe you have many alternatives, mam,’ I replied.
‘Is that a threat, Beta?’ she asked, amusement oozing into her voice.
‘An observation,’ I said. ‘Queen Mab is hardly overflowing with viable allies.’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I am considering several felicitous options. There are many parties in play, some with great power behind them.’
‘I’ve met several,’ I said. I wandered over to the nearest wall of mirrors and gazed into their surfaces. There was my face, many times over, small and large, clear or clouded, distorted by old glass or convex forms, run through with fractures and crazing spiderweb cracks. But beyond my face, beyond the room behind me, shadows lurked in some of the glasses, the quizzed images of far places and other rooms. A shadow in a chair, another at a desk, another pacing a high room. Little shadow-plays of animation, like the picture-box flickers of dim zoetropes.
‘You have collected a great number of quizzing glasses,’ I said.
‘A hobby,’ she murmured. ‘They entertain me. Quizzing glasses, scrying plates of obsidian, flect shards from the Mergent Worlds…’
‘They are more than entertainment, mam,’ I said. ‘You’re watching your prospects, just as you watched me. Evaluating the best candidates to side with.’
She laughed, and rose. I had forgotten how tall she was, how elegant her motion. She joined me, the pistol in her hand, and stared at the mirrors. I could smell her perfume, though it was not hers, not the fragrance she had worn of old. It was something new, something of chypre or fougere, chosen to suit her new function. Behind it, though, I detected the slight smell of lho-sticks. She had always smoked, though never in our sight, a vice she had clearly maintained, though it was not part of her newly constructed persona named Zoya. I saw it as a flaw, a tiny weakness. She had assumed a new function almost perfectly, shaming the skill of her pupils like me, yet she had not been able to quit her habit. I imagined her alone in this apartment, smoking to steady her nerves, afraid of the whole world.
I had just seen through the mask she had always worn.
‘What do you think, Beta? Anything promising?’
‘I can scarcely make them out,’ I replied.
‘Look closer, child. You know how to work a glass, or was my tuition so poor?’
I looked. The shadows were just shadows, tiny quivering shapes making barely significant motions, filmed by age and wear and foxed silver. Then one, the one at the desk, turned slightly, perhaps to speak to someone beyond the frame of the mirror, and the light caught his face for a second.
‘Blackwards,’ I said.
‘Balthus Blackwards,’ she said.
‘So he yet lives,’ I said. ‘You would consider him?’
‘Unlikely,
’ she replied, ‘for his fortunes have diminished since the incident at the basilica last year. But he is not without appeal. The Blackwards are in for their own gain, and commerce runs in their genes. They are mercenary, and thus more open than most to manipulation. I still have access to Cognitae reserves. I could buy his cooperation with a sum that would make him swoon.’
‘Balthus perhaps,’ I agreed, ‘but not the devils he sides with.’
She glanced at me. ‘And what would you know of them?’
‘You’ve watched me, mam. You must know I was at the Basilica Saint Orphaeus that day. I saw them face to face. I do not think the Word Bearers are suitable partners to build a relationship with.’
‘They are indeed unwholesome,’ she admitted, ‘and I doubt they can be trusted any further than your man Ravenor. They certainly can’t be bought. And if they have a sudden change of mind, they would not be held by any deal Balthus could make.’
‘I’m surprised he’s still alive,’ I said. I saw another image moving, remotely viewed in another frame. The partial glimpse of a face.
‘That one I don’t know,’ I said, pointing.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘I’m surprised. That’s Naten Misrahi, seneschal to the Baron Prefect. I’m quite astonished your paths haven’t crossed. The Baron Prefect is anxious to maintain his authority on Sancour, and it’s slipping fast. He is out of sorts with the Ordos, and seeks alternate backing. Misrahi is his fixer. You should watch him.’
‘I will,’ I said. I gestured. ‘Now that face I do know.’
In another frame, the figure pacing the high room had stopped, and daylight had sharpened her profile.
‘Alace Quatorze,’ I said. ‘Of the Glaw dynasty. Also living, then. She was very knowledgeable, but I felt she was weak. No spine to her, no drive. Besides, mam, she has made unwise allies. The Emperor’s Children are more vicious than might be imagined.’
‘I don’t have to imagine,’ she said. ‘I’ve met them. A brief encounter with the one named Teke. Thankfully, I was well warded. It was hard to tell what he wanted more – to kill me, or copulate with me.’