Ravenor Returned Read online

  ‘Because it turns out his mother’s family name,’ said Wystan Frauka, ‘was Sleet.’

  Thonius unlocked the door and looked in. Skoh sat on the chair. The hunter slowly turned his head and looked at Carl.

  ‘Food?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re a little busy. We’ll get to it.’

  Skoh raised his manacled hands slightly. ‘Getting cramp in my wrists again. Bad cramp.’

  ‘All right,’ said Carl with a sigh. He walked into the room until he was just beyond the reach of the floor chain. ‘Show me.’

  Skoh raised his hands, to show that both of the heavy steel manacles were locked tight around his wrists.

  Carl nodded, took the key from his pocket and tossed it to Skoh. The hunter caught it neatly, unlocked his manacles, and growled with relief. He nursed and rubbed his wrists, flexing them and stretching them out. ‘Hell, that’s better.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Carl.

  Skoh finished his stretching, and locked the manacles in place again. He tossed the key back to Carl.

  ‘Show me.’

  Skoh repeated his gesture, raising his hands so that Carl could clearly see the manacles were tight and secure.

  Carl walked out of the room, and locked the door behind him. His right hand was shaking again. The raid at Tchaikov’s had been a real adrenaline rush, a real ride. He’d done well, he’d got what Ravenor needed. But Skoh had brought him down hard. Something about the hunter freaked Thonius out, even when he was locked up.

  Carl had a sour taste in his mouth and his heart was knocking. He knew he had to get back downstairs and start work on the riddle box. But he wanted to smooth his wits out first.

  He went into bathroom, pulled the bolt on the door, and took the parcel of red tissue paper out of his pocket.

  * * *

  They rode one of the sink-level trains across the eastern quadrant of the city, and climbed off in a filthy substation that the signs said was in Formal J.

  ‘This is where you grew up,’ Patience said. Zael nodded.

  ‘I’m sure I could have found a doctor closer to the house.’

  ‘We need the right sort of doctor,’ Zael said. ‘The right sort, yeah? I mean one who won’t ask questions or anything.’

  Patience couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘Well, there was a guy in my hab neighbourhood. We called him the Locum. I think he’s what you want.’

  Hot, dirty winds scorched up the transit tunnels as other clattering trains approached. Zael led Patience up the iron stairs into the dark dripping sinks of Formal J.

  It was not a good part of town. So much trash and acid wash had accumulated in the lower sinks, most foot traffic came and went on the higher walkways between the crumbling hab-stacks. They passed a few rowdy bars and dining houses, bright with lights and drunken noise, but for the most part it was a slum city, full of poverty-trapped souls who lingered in the doorways of their ratty habs, or sat on the front steps of stacks, passing around bottles without labels. The street air reeked of acid and urine. It reminded Patience a little of Urbitane, the hive stack on Sameter where she’d grown up. But there had been a spark of urgency there, a sense of life fighting to catch a break amid the squalor. Here, it felt like people had just given up all hope.

  They walked for twenty more minutes, into a network of dark lanes and channels between condemned habs. A train rattled past on an elevated rail.

  ‘Here,’ said Zael, leading her into the ground floor of some kind of community building that had been grossly vandalised. The feral slogans of moody clans were painted on the walls.

  ‘Here?’ she queried.

  ‘You saw the sign, right? It said “surgery”.’

  ‘Uh huh. But it appeared to have been handwritten in blood.’

  They entered a broken-down room where a few people sat around on mismatched chairs. An old man, a far-gone, an emaciated addict with the shakes, a worried-looking habwife with a small child, a young drunk with a nasty cut across his brow.

  If this is triage, thought Kys, I can’t wait to see the medicae. Some rancid old quack or backstreet abortionist…

  Zael led her through an inner door. The Locum was busy. A moody hammer was sitting in an old barber’s chair and, by the light of a makeshift lamp, the Locum was stitching up the twenty centimetre gash across his shoulder. A blade wound, Kys was quite sure.

  The room itself was surprisingly tidy, though nothing in it was new. There were a few pieces of medical equipment, tools thrust into a jar of anti-bact gel in a vague nod to sterility.

  The Locum had his back to them as he worked. He was of medium build, slim and wiry. His hair was light brown, and he was wearing heavy lace-up boots, black combat baggies, a black vest and surgical gloves.

  ‘Get in line,’ he called. ‘I’ll get to everyone in turn.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Zael.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ the Locum said and turned. Kys saw his face. Strong, calm, rather lined and care-drawn. His eyes were blue and fiercely intelligent. Right now they were a little puzzled.

  ‘Zael?’ he said. ‘Zael Efferneti? That you, kid?’

  ‘Hey, Doctor Belknap.’

  ‘Throne, Zael. I haven’t seen you for… a year or more. Someone said you were dead.’

  ‘Not me,’ Zael shook his head.

  ‘Good. That’s good. Who’s this?’ Belknap asked, looking over at Kys.

  ‘She’s–’

  ‘A friend of Zael’s,’ said Patience. ‘I need a medicae. He recommended you.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing. But I need a medicae to come with me and treat two other friends of Zael’s.’

  ‘You need a medicae,’ said Belknap, ‘go to the local infirmary. Public ward.’

  ‘I need a certain type of medicae,’ Patience said smoothly.

  ‘Yeah? What type is that?’

  ‘The type who sews up a moody hammer’s gangfight wounds, no questions asked.’

  Belknap looked back at Zael. ‘Dammit, boy! What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?’

  ‘Nothing bad, I swear,’ Zael said.

  The Locum turned back to his work.

  ‘Will you come?’ Patience asked.

  ‘Yes. For Zael’s sake. When I’m finished here.’

  They waited an hour while he treated the people in line. Then Belknap put on an old, ex-military stormcoat, picked up a black leather practice bag and followed them out onto the sink-street.

  ‘You not going to lock up?’ Kys asked him.

  ‘Nothing worth stealing,’ said Belknap. ‘And round here, if you lock a door, folk will kick it in just to know why.’

  They caught a sub-train and rattled back across the quarter through the dark, labyrinthine foundations of the hive. Just the three of them, alone in a vandalised carriage.

  Kys noticed the old dog-tags on a chain around Belknap’s neck. He didn’t seem more than thirty, thirty-five, although prematurely aged.

  ‘Guard vet?’ she asked.

  ‘Company field medic. Six years. I mustered out when the chance came along.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t stand the sight of blood.’

  She smiled. ‘And really?’

  He looked up at her. His eyes, always half-closed, as if squinting at something bright, they were really something.

  ‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said. ‘I’m not about to tell you my personal business.’

  ‘Okay. But between Guard service and sewing up stab-victims in a sink-level ruin, what?’

  ‘Nine years as a community medicae. I had a practice in the fourth ward of Formal J.’

  The carriage rocked violently as the train rode over points in the dark. Kys, who was standing, steadied herself against the handrail.

  ‘Why’d you stop?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t. I still serve the fourth ward in Formal J.’

  ‘Yeah, but not officially. You’re a backstreet guy.’

/>   ‘That’s me. A real vigilante.’

  ‘So? Why?’

  The overheads flickered on and off for a second as the jolting disrupted the live rail. The carriage flashed into strobing blue darkness. Then bare white light again.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions,’ said Belknap.

  ‘I’m inquisitive,’ Kys said. ‘Professionally.’

  +Leave him alone. Stop asking him stuff.+ Zael sent.

  Kys still wasn’t happy about him being able to do that. And when he did it, it hurt a little. He hadn’t refined his talent.

  +I’ll ask him what I like, Zael.+ she nudged back. +We’re gonna trust him with Kara and Nayl. I wanna know we can.+

  Belknap looked back and forth between them, smiling slightly. ‘What was that?’ he asked, pointing a finger at her then him. ‘You two got a private code or something?’

  ‘Or something,’ said Zael.

  ‘What is it? A gang code? Number of blinks? Secret signals?’ Belknap shook his head sadly. ‘Yeah, I’ll lay money it’s a gang code. She’s definitely connected, that one.’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ said Kys.

  ‘And you,’ Belknap said looking at Zael. ‘I always hoped you’d escape, you know. Not slide in like all the others. I always said that, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did,’ admitted Zael.

  ‘I know the odds were stacked against you, especially in a dirt-box like the J. But I hoped. You have a good brain on you, Zael Efferneti. If you’d stuck to scholam, trained maybe, got a decent trade. You could have contributed. Made a life for yourself, against all those odds. But I guess the easy option was always going to suck you in.’

  Kys suddenly, oddly, felt rather protective. Zael looked like he was going to cry.

  ‘Zael didn’t take any easy option, doctor,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the real truth, isn’t it?’ the medicae said. ‘The life you people choose, it looks easy. A few risks, a fast fortune. But it’s never easy in the end.’

  Kys caught Zael’s eye and they both started laughing.

  ‘I say something funny?’ Belknap asked.

  ‘Hysterical,’ said Kys. ‘Now tell me. Why did you quit the community practice?’

  Belknap’s compelling blue eyes stared straight up at her. ‘I didn’t. You want to know? Okay. I was disbarred. The Departmento Medicae struck me off and stripped me of my practice. They took away my credentials because I was found guilty of serious malpractice. Okay?’

  +Throne, Zael! You brought me to him? We need a medicae, not an incompetent!+

  +Ask him why.+

  +What?+

  +Ask the doc why he was struck off.+

  ‘Why?’ asked Kys.

  ‘I said. Malpractice. Serious professional misconduct contrary to my oath as a Medicae Imperialis.’

  Kys shook her head, reached into her pocket and threw a handful of change at Belknap. ‘Next stop, get off. Find your own way back. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. We’ll find someone else. Someone competent.’

  Zael got up. ‘Tell her!’ he cried. ‘Tell her the reason, doc!’

  Belknap glanced at him. ‘It doesn’t matter, Zael.’

  ‘Tell her!’

  ‘It’s my business.’

  Zael turned to Kys. ‘They disbarred him for fraud! It was a cash thing! He was only trying to… for Throne’s sake, doc, explain it to her! I don’t know how to describe it!’

  Belknap breathed in deeply. ‘My community practice had a budget. It was nothing like enough. You’ve seen the way it is down in the J. I could barely cope. Malnutrition, low-grade pollution disorders, addiction, chronic disease. People were dying – really, actually dying, I mean – because I couldn’t afford the treatments for everyone. So I tried to work the system. I filed false subsist vouchers, claimed for practice expenses that didn’t exist, defrauded the welfare system, just so I could bulk up my budget and afford the things I needed. The things my patients needed. The Administratum caught me, fair and square. Tore up my licence, kicked me out and told me I was lucky not to get a custodial.’

  ‘See?’ said Zael to Kys.

  ‘So you just practise now anyway?’ Kys asked. ‘As a rogue medicae?’

  ‘Listen, mamzel friend-of-Zael’s. The formal infirmaries automatically deny treatment to any clan members injured in street clashes. Any drug addicts. Any persons who’ve lost their subsist code. Any child who doesn’t present with a registered parent or guardian. The Administratum, by its own figures, recommends there should be one practising medicae for every five thousand citizens of any Imperial city. You know what the split is here in Petropolis? One medic for every hundred thousand habbers. A hundred thousand, so help me! You think the God-Emperor of Mankind is happy that’s the way it is here? I’m just trying to even down the stats!’

  The train rocked. The lights went on and off again quickly. The train was pulling into a sub-stop. Belknap collected up the scattered change.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Zael. It might be way too late, but be a good boy, all right?’

  The train shuddered to a halt. The auto-hatches opened.

  Belknap got up, but Patience was right in front of him. ‘My name’s Patience Kys,’ she said.

  ‘Patrik Belknap,’ he replied.

  ‘Isn’t that Medicae Patrik Belknap?’ she asked.

  They looked at each other for a long moment.

  ‘Sit down, sir,’ she said. ‘You’ll do.’

  He sat. ‘Patience Kys, eh? I look forward to finding out your real name.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she replied.

  The hatches slipped closed and the train began to pull away.

  Nine

  Across the hive, out where Formal Q met the bay, the occulting lighthouse was blinking into the night. It was one of the twenty-nine station lighthouses that warded the curved seaboard of Petropolis.

  The private flier swung down out of the sky, through the squalling rain. It landed on its eight jointed legs in the centre of the stone dock, and then, wings cased, walked itself over until its body hatch was under the rainguard awning.

  The entrance was lit with fluttering candles and glow-globes. Magus-clancular Lezzard and about forty of the Fratery’s seers stood in the wind, waiting.

  The body hatch opened, three figures dismounted and strode, side by side, towards the doorway.

  Orfeo Culzean, business-like in a blue suit, flanked to his right by Leyla Slade, dressed in dark red. Her right hand was poised on the butt of the handgun holstered in the small of her back, and she scanned left and right, watching for movements out amongst the dark and the rain-blurred lights of the vehicle.

  At Culzean’s left walked Saul Keener, the notorious unsanctioned psyker. He had prospered over the years by offering his skills via Petropolis’s black market, and he was always in demand. He was a short, dumpling of a man. His fine clothes spoke of his wealth and his build positively screamed of the obscene high living his art had afforded him. Keener displayed the symptoms of an obsessive-compulsive. He was constantly rubbing his beringed, sausage fingers together, and he had a great many tics and quivers that flapped his round, jowly face.

  Keener held the trigger-orb in his fat hands. He’d had it close to him for several hours, so as to build a sympatico with the incunabula.

  ‘We look upon you, Orfeo,’ Magus-clancular Lezzard said.

  ‘Magus-clancular, thank you for this greeting. Thank you to the Fratery for making us welcome here.’ Culzean’s molten voice somehow cut through the sound of the rain and the flier’s panting jet-pods.

  ‘Enter,’ Lezzard said. He turned, his exo-skeleton hissing in step with Culzean. Slade and the psyker came behind, trailed by the body of the fraters.

  ‘Everything’s prepared?’ Culzean asked as they walked down the entrance hall of the old lighthouse.

  ‘Everything, to your requirements. It’s all prepared.’

  ‘The device I sent you? It’s safe?’

&nbs
p; ‘Perfectly safe, Orfeo.’

  They came out into the basement chamber of the lighthouse, a drum of a room, formed from local stock brick and dripping from the sea. The correct number of tapers – three thousand, one hundred and nine – were lit about the place. The device sat in the centre of the floor, silent, surrounded by the scribings. The marks on the stone floor formed a perfect pentagrammic ward. They had been made with bone ash; or at least Culzean hoped so, or the night would come to a very sudden, very messy end.

  Inside the outer scribings, the cages of payment waited. The poor human vermin within the iron boxes mewled and scratched.

  ‘Locals?’ asked Culzean.

  ‘Mostly,’ said Lezzard. ‘But some of the fraters too. Those who have suffered the Unholy Macula and who are no use to us as seers.’

  ‘Anything you need to update me on? Anything new? New determiners? Has the Fratery’s meniscus revealed any changes?’

  ‘Some,’ Lezzard gurgled. He nodded to Stefoy, and the seer handed Culzean a clump of papers on which recent seeings had been scribbled.

  ‘No. Not important. No,’ Culzean said, sorting through them and crumpling some to throw aside. ‘This, interesting. A change in the clouding, here, just an hour or two ago. Suddenly, the prospect is more likely. Why?’

  ‘We have not yet fathomed it,’ replied Arthous. ‘But we are pleased.’

  ‘Curious,’ Culzean continued to stare at the scrap of paper. ‘There is a name here. What is it?’

  Leyla Slade leaned over and looked. ‘Belknap, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Belknap. Fascinating.’ Orfeo Culzean threw the crumpled paper away and looked at the next. ‘Now this…’ he began.

  ‘We were pleased by that reading,’ Lezzard said. ‘It supports your instinct. That man, high-born and powerful though he might be, is the key at this time. The most potent determiner. If he continues in his path, the prospect will fail.’

  ‘So nice to be vindicated,’ Culzean grinned. ‘Saul, would you like to take your place and we can get started. I sense a scratchy impatience within the device. Magus-clancular? Withdraw your fraters.’

  Lezzard turned and ushered his followers back, until they were lost in the darkness of the basement, behind the candles. Culzean could see their augmetic eyes glowing in the gloom like a gang of cyclopses.