[Gaunt's Ghosts 05] - The Guns of Tanith Page 23

  “Oh, feth… this isn’t right,” Feygor growled. “Take them back inside. All of them.”

  The two men groaned.

  “Rusde up some others to help you. We’re going through into that sub-hangar there,” Feygor said, pointing. “I have no idea why you thought this was a good place to dump stuff.”

  “We were just following the others,” Derin said.

  “What?”

  “The guys ahead of us. There was a Munitorium fether with them, and they seemed to know what they were doing.”

  “Go and get that guy over there,” snapped Feygor, indicating the Munitorium chief he’d spoken to. Derin hurried off.

  Fifty metres down the back corridor from them, another hatch opened off the sub-hangar. As Feygor waited for the clerk to arrive, he saw three Ghosts wheeling another cart through, accompanied by a Munitorium aide.

  “Ah, feth…” Feygor said. He was about to shout out when Polio said, “They must be hot.”

  There was something about Polio’s tone that made Feygor look again. The three Ghosts were wearing full kit, including tunics and wool hats.

  “With me,” Feygor said to Brostin and Polio, and moved forward at a jog. “Hey, hey you there!”

  The Ghosts seemed to ignore him. They were intent on getting their cart of missiles into a service elevator.

  “Hey!”

  Two of them turned. Feygor didn’t recognise either of them. And Feygor prided himself on knowing every face in the regiment.

  “What the feth…?” he began.

  One of the “Ghosts” suddenly pulled a laspistol and fired on them.

  Feygor cried out and pulled Brostin into the wall as the shots blistered past them.

  Polio had been a nobleman’s bodyguard back on Verghast, a trained warrior of House Anko. Expensive neural implants, paid for by his lord, gave him a reaction time significantly shorter than that of unaugmented humans. With a graceful sweep that combined instinct and immaculate training, he drew an autopistol from his thigh pocket and returned fire, placing his body without thinking between the assailants and his comrades.

  He dropped the shooter with a headshot. The others fled.

  “After the bastards!” Feygor bellowed. He was on his feet, his laspistol ripped from its holster. Brostin had wrenched a fire-axe from a wall bracket.

  The interlopers pounded away down a side hall and into a stairwell. As he ran, Feygor keyed his headset. “Alert! Security alert! Hangar 45! Intruders heading down-block to level thirty!” The sub-hangar behind them erupted in commotion.

  They burst into the stairwell and heard feet clattering on the steps below. Feygor took the stairs three at a time, with Polio close on his heels and Brostin lumbering after.

  Feygor threw himself against the banister and fired down the airspace. Two hard-round shots ricocheted back up at him. They heard a door crash open.

  The lower door led into a service area, a wide machine shop that seemed menacingly quiet and dark, and which glistened with oil. Feygor charged through the door and was almost killed by the gunman who had ducked back to lie in wait behind the hatch. Two bullets hissed past the back of his head and made him stumble. A moment later, Brostin came out of the door and pinned the gunman to the wall with one splintered whack of the fire-axe.

  Shots rattled back across the machine shop. Feygor spotted one muzzle flash in the semi-gloom, dropped on one knee and fired his laspistol from a double-handed brace. The target lurched back against a workbench and fell on his face.

  There was no sign of the third one. Polio and Feygor prowled forward. Both swung around as they heard a door squeak. For a moment a figure was framed against the light outside. Polio’s handgun roared and the figure flew out of sight as if yanked by a rope.

  Brostin found the machine shop lights.

  Polio checked that the man he’d hit at the door was dead, and returned to find Feygor rolling his kill over on the oily floor. There was no mistaking the man’s grizzled face, or his hands, thick with old scars. The Ghost uniform didn’t even fit him particularly well. But it was a Ghost uniform. Right down to the straight silver warknife in his belt case.

  “Feth!” said Feygor.

  “Look at that,” said Polio. He knelt down. Near to the bloody hole Feygor had put through the corpse, the black Tanith tunic had another rent, a scorched puncture that had been hastily sewn up with back thread.

  “This isn’t the first time this tunic’s been worn by a dead man,” he said.

  SIX

  Half-decent food was an understandable rarity on Cirenholm, but the late lunch placed in front of Gaunt and Zweil looked surprisingly inviting.

  “You’ve excelled yourself, Beltayn,” Gaunt told his adjutant.

  “It’s not much, sir,” said Beltayn, though he was obviously pleased by the compliment. “If an adj-officer can’t rustle up some proper meat and a little fresh bread for his chief, what good is he?”

  “Well, I hope you saved some for yourself too,” said Gaunt, tucking in. Beltayn blushed.

  “If an adj-officer can’t fill his own stomach, what good is he to his chief?” Gaunt reassured him.

  “Yes sir.” Beltayn paused, and then produced a bottle of claret. “Don’t ask where I got this,” he said.

  “My dear Beltayn,” said Zweil, pouring himself a glass. “This act alone will get you into heaven.”

  Beltayn smiled, saluted and left.

  Zweil offered the bottle to Gaunt, who shook his head. They were sitting at a table in the stateroom of the merchant’s house Gaunt had co-opted for his officers. It was a little cold and damp, but well appointed. Zweil smacked his lips and ate with gusto.

  “You’re pleased about Caffran?” he said.

  “A weight off my mind, father. He says to thank you for the spiritual support you’ve offered.”

  “Least I could do.”

  “You’ll be busy the next few days,” Gaunt said. “The invasion hour approaches, and men will be looking for blessing and counsel.”

  “They’ve already started coming. Every time I go to the chapel, there are Ghosts waiting for me.”

  “What’s the feeling?”

  “Good, good… confident The men are ready, if that’s what you want to hear.”

  “I want to hear the truth, father.”

  “You know the mood. How’s Operation Larisel shaping up?” Gaunt put down his cutlery. “You’re not meant to know about that.”

  “Oh, I know. No one is. But in the last two days Varl, Kuren, Meryn, Milo, Cocoer and Nour have all come to say penance and receive benediction. I couldn’t really not know.”

  “It’ll be fine. I have every confidence.”

  There was a knock at the door and Daur came in. He looked excited.

  “Captain. Pull up a chair and pour yourself a drink. I can call Beltayn back, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’ve eaten,” said Daur, sitting with them. “Then report.”

  “A little disturbance on the hangar decks earlier. Feygor rumbled some interlopers trying to steal munitions.”

  “Indeed?”

  “They were Blood Pact, sir.”

  Gaunt pushed away his plate and looked at the Verghast officer. “Seriously?”

  Daur nodded. “Three of them dressed as Ghosts and another disguised as a Munitorium clerk. They’re all dead. A bit of a firefight, I hear.”

  “Feth! We should—”

  Daur raised a hand. “Already done, sir. We scoured the vicinity with fireteams and smoked out a cell of them hiding in the basement levels. They must have been there since the liberation, lying low. They didn’t go without a fight. We found they had sneaked about three tonnes of explosive munitions down there. Probably intended to cause merry hell when they were up to strength.”

  Gaunt sat back. “Have you alerted the other commanders?”

  Daur nodded. “We’re coordinating a fresh sweep of the entire city to check for any others that may have slipped the net the first time. No traces yet
, so we may be clean. It may have been an isolated group. We have, however, already identified six locals who were assisting them.”

  “By the throne!”

  “I think the Blood Pact had threatened them, but they’d also paid them well for their troubles. In defaced gold coins.”

  Gaunt pushed his unfinished meal aside. “This has all been handed on to Del Mar?”

  “I believe the interrogations and executions are already underway.”

  “Extraordinary…” Zweil mused. “We free them from these monsters, and still the taint persists.”

  “Sir,” said Daur, choosing his words carefully, “the Blood Part were using disguises. Stolen clothes and equipment. They had obtained at least nine full sets of Tanith uniform.”

  “Where from?”

  “The morgue, sir. When we checked, nine bodybags had been opened and the corpses stripped.”

  “The fething heathens…”

  “Sir, they had everything. Ghost fatigues, webbing, even warknives.”

  Gaunt realised where this was heading. The realisation stunned him. He looked at Daur.

  “You’re talking about Cuu, aren’t you?”

  Daur sighed. “Yes sir, I am. A man dressed in Tanith uniform, wielding a warknife, carrying defaced coin. It’s no longer so simple.”

  “Oh feth,” Gaunt murmured and poured himself a glass of wine. “It is. Cuu’s a stone killer. We’ve got him.”

  “With respect,” said Daur. “Maybe we haven’t. I don’t like Cuu, but he maintains that all he is guilty of is looting the coins. What if he’s innocent? There’s now a reasonable doubt.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Colonel-commissar, you went to the wire for Caffran on the basis of reasonable doubt. Doesn’t Cuu deserve that kind of loyalty too? He’s a Ghost just like Caffran.”

  “But—”

  “But what? He’s a Verghastite? Is that it?” Daur rose angrily. “Sit down, Daur! That’s not what I meant”

  “Really? Tell that to all the Verghastites in this regiment tomorrow when Cuu goes to the wall.” He marched out and slammed the door. “What?” Gaunt growled at Zweil.

  The old father shrugged. “Man’s got a point. Cuu’s a Ghost. He should expect the great and honourable Ibram Gaunt to fight his corner just as much as he did for Caffran.”

  “Cuu’s a killer,” Gaunt echoed.

  “Maybe. If you’re expecting me to confirm or deny that on the basis of confession, forget it. I am a sponge for secrets, for the good of men’s souls, but I do not leak. Otherwise men would not trust me. Only the God-Emperor hears what I hear.”

  “The Emperor protects,” said Gaunt.

  “Are you biased?” Zweil asked impertinently.

  “What?”

  “Biased? Towards the Tanith? It’s often thought you are. You favour the Tanith over the Verghastites.”

  “I do not!”

  Zweil shrugged. “It’s just the way it seems sometimes. To the Vervunhivers especially. You value them, appreciate them, even like some of them, men like Daur. But you always look to the Tanith first.”

  “They’ve been with me longer.”

  “No excuse. Are the Verghastite second-class members of this regiment?”

  “No!” Gaunt slammed down his glass and got up. “No, they are not.”

  “Then stop making it seem as if they are. Quickly, before the Tanith First comes apart at the seams and splits down the middle.”

  Gaunt was silent. He gazed out of the window.

  “How many times in the last week have you mentioned Corbec in your addresses to the men? Keeping them updated on his progress? And how many times have you mentioned Soric? Two chief officers, both beloved of the men, both ostensibly valued by you… both dying. But Corbec is in every rousing speech you make. Soric? Forgive me, Ibram, but I can’t remember the last time you even mentioned him.”

  Gaunt turned round slowly. “I refuse to accept that I’m as biased as you say. I have done everything to induct the Verghastites properly and fairly. I damn well know there is rivalry… I—”

  “What Ibram?”

  “If you can even think this is true… and if Daur thinks it too, as he most obviously does, I will do what I have to. I will show the regiment that there is no division. I will demonstrate it so there is no doubt. I will not have anyone believing that I somehow favour the Tanith. The Ghosts are the Ghosts. Always and forever, first and only. It doesn’t matter where they come from.”

  Zweil toasted Gaunt and drained his glass. “I take it you know how to do that?”

  “Yes, though it goes against my ethical judgment and sticks in my throat, I do. I have to fight for Cuu’s life.”

  They notched up twenty kilometres doing circuits of the secondary dome’s promenade and then picked up the pace and took the thirty flight central dome stairwell at a sprint.

  By the time Kolea’s section arrived back in the withered park ground set aside for exercise, they were panting and drenched with sweat.

  “Fall out,” Kolea said, his own breaths coming in gasps. He leaned over against his knees so that his dog-tags swung from his neck, and spat on the ground.

  The men flopped down in the dust or shambled off to find water. Across the grey, dead grass, Skerral and Ewler’s sections were doing callisthenics, directed by Sergeant Skerral’s booming voice.

  Hwlan tossed Kolea a water bottle and the sergeant nodded his thanks before taking a big gulp.

  The section felt light, and he didn’t like it. There had been a few casualties during the assault, but Rawne had promised to rotate some men up from lower platoons to make up the balance.

  What Kolea particularly noticed was the gaping hole left by the three who had disappeared since their arrival on Phantine. Nessa and Nour, sidelined for special ops by Gaunt. And Cuu.

  Kolea didn’t know what to think about that.

  “We should maybe visit Cuu tonight, if we get the passes,” Lubba said as if somehow tuned to Kolea’s thoughts. It was likely the subject was on every mind in the section.

  “What do you mean?” Kolea said.

  “Go see him. Wish him well. That’d be okay, wouldn’t it, sarge?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Lubba, the squad’s flamer operator, was a short, thick-set man covered in underhive tattoos. He leaned back against the fence. “Well, we won’t be seeing the poor gak again, will we?”

  “What?”

  “He’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. Against the wall,” Jajjo said.

  “Only if he’s guilty—” Kolea began. “I can’t believe Cuu, even Cuu, would do a thing like that.”

  “Doesn’t matter though, does it?” said Lubba sitting up again. “Old Gaunt put his balls on the block to get Caff released. He won’t bother this time. Fact is, I reckon Cuu was the trade-off. Cuu in exchange for Caff.”

  Kolea shook his head. “Gaunt wouldn’t do that—” Several Verghastites laughed. “He wouldn’t!”

  “Caff’s Tanith, ain’t he? Much more valuable.” Kolea got up. “It doesn’t work like that, Lubba. We’re all Ghosts.”

  “Yeah, right.” Lubba sat back and closed his eyes.

  There was a stillness for a moment, broken only by Skerral’s distant yells. For the first time, Kolea felt the mood. The feeling that gnawed at the Verghastites. The feeling they were second-class. He’d never sensed it before. He’d always got nothing but respect from Gaunt. But now…

  “Come on!” he said, clapping his hands. “Up and into the shower block! Go! Mess-call’s in twenty minutes!”

  There were moans and the men got despondently onto their feet. Kolea trailed them back towards the park hatch.

  Ana Curth, dressed in old combat fatigues, was sitting on a rickety bench at the end of the path near the hatch. She was leaning back with her legs stretched out and crossed, reading a dog-eared old text.

  “Good book?” Kolea asked, pausing by her.

  She looked up. “Gregorus of Okassis. The Odes
. One of Dorden’s recommendations. Either I’m very stupid or I’m just not getting it.”

  “So,” Kolea said, turning to watch the men on the far side of the park doing star jumps. “This is just a little down-time between shifts?”

  “Yeah. I like the fresh air.” He looked round and saw the ironic smirk on her face. “Actually. I was waiting for you. Obel said you’d be bringing your section back this way at the end of training.”

  “Me?” Kolea said.

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I felt like meddling where I wasn’t wanted. Got a minute?” He sat on the bench next to her.

  “Remember what we talked about back at Bhavnager? You confided in me.”

  “I did. Who have you told?”

  She slapped him playfully on the arm with her text. “No one. But that’s the point. You should.”

  “Not this again.”

  “Just answer me this, sergeant. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  Kolea opened his mouth to reply and paused. He was taken aback. “Of course I’m not. Unless you count enlistment in the Imperial Guard as a death wish.”

  She shrugged. “People are worried about you.”

  “People?”

  “Some people.”

  “Which people?”

  Curth smiled. He liked her smile. “Come on, Gol,” she said. “I’m not about to—”

  “I let you into my confidence. Seems only fair you trust me as far.”

  She put the text down and stretched her arms. “Got me. Okay. Fair enough. One of the people would be Varl.”

  “I ought to—”

  “Not say anything to him,” she cut in, flippantly. “Confidences, remember?”

  “All right,” he growled.

  “Varl… amongst others, I think… believes you’re taking unnecessary risks. They think it’s because you’ve lost your wife and kids, and that you’re looking for a… what was it? A reuniting round.”

  “Reunion round.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s it. That’s what they think, anyway. But I know better, don’t I?”

  “So?” He picked up her text and began thumbing through the pages. Poems. Long, old poems like the kind he’d struggled through in Elementary Grade twenty-five years before.