[Gaunt's Ghosts 12] - Blood Pact Page 30

  Outside the front door, Gnesh looked on in disbelief as his comrade died in the hall in front of him. He took a step forward to try and help him, but Karhunan Sirdar held him back.

  Karhunan pointed down at the doorstep, and Gnesh saw the sigil that had been scratched in the wood and inked with blood: a blood ward, and a lethal booby-trap. Kreeg had stepped right over it.

  “The house is blocked,” said Gnesh. “Can we go around? Is there a side way?”

  “No time,” said the sirdar. He waved Malstrom up.

  They backed away as Malstrom rolled a grenade onto the step, and ducked aside. The blast blew out the rest of the doorframe, dug up the step, and hurled Kreeg’s corpse several metres further down the hall.

  It also erased the blood ward, and broke its craft.

  “In!” Karhunan ordered. “Watch for more wards like that. In. In!”

  Gaunt and his companions heard the crump of the grenade behind them as they came out through the back of Jaume’s house into the dingy rear yards and dark alleys behind the premises. Undisturbed snow lay thick on the wall-tops and in the yard spaces. Through the slow fog, Gaunt could see lank, frost-stiff laundry hanging from washing lines in neighbouring yards.

  “Do you have a vehicle?” Gaunt asked Jaume as they ran through the snow to the end of the yard.

  Jaume shook his head.

  Gaunt had a single clip left in his bolt pistol. He drew the laspistol Criid had left with him, and toggled it to “armed”.

  “For Throne’s sake!” Maggs cried. “Let me go and give me the other weapon.”

  Gaunt ignored him, and drove them down the high-walled spinal alleyway that connected the back gates of the tenement row. Piles of garbage and junk half-filled the space, smoothed out and shrouded by the recent snow.

  They ran as hard as they could, Gaunt bringing up the rear with the weapon in his hand. Twice, he stopped and aimed it at what appeared to be movement behind them.

  Then they heard another dull, gritty blast as their pursuers mined out the ward that Mabbon had left on the back step. It was very quickly followed by bursts of las-fire that stripped through the fog, making it swirl and coil.

  Gaunt raised his weapon again, but the shooting was just loose and haphazard. He wasn’t going to waste precious shots on a target he couldn’t see.

  They had nearly reached a major street adjacent to the one on which Jaume’s house stood.

  “Doctor,” said Gaunt as they ran, “would you please cut Maggs’ bonds? Quickly, please.”

  Kolding fumbled a scalpel out of his kit, and ripped through the twine that was securing Maggs’ wrists.

  Maggs looked at Gaunt.

  “A weapon?”

  “Wheels,” Gaunt replied.

  Maggs nodded, and ran on ahead of them into the broad avenue and the fog beyond.

  Gaunt herded the others out towards the street, moving backwards with his gun braced for any movement in the fog-choked alley behind them.

  Maggs came out into the open. In the broader space of the main thoroughfare, the fog was beginning to thin. He could see the roofs of the buildings on the far side of the street, as well as patches of milky blue sky. The sun was burning through the fog like a halogen lamp.

  There was some light traffic, and a few pedestrians, wrapped up in coats and scarves against the cold. The shop juniors of nearby merchant houses were clearing snow from the pavements outside their display windows. A little way ahead, two cargo-6 trucks had pulled up to let a municipal work-gang unload sacks of salt for road gritting.

  Maggs ran up to the rear truck, and began to climb into the cab.

  “Hey. Hey, you!” the gang boss yelled out, throwing down his spade and hurrying towards the truck.

  “Imperial Guard!” Maggs shouted back, fumbling with the ignition. “I’m commandeering this vehicle.”

  “Oh, right. Like there’s a war on,” the boss retorted.

  “There’s always a war on,” Maggs told him. He started the truck’s engine.

  “Get down from there, now!” the boss yelled.

  Maggs stared out of the driver’s door window.

  “Back off, friend. Don’t make me get out and hurt you.”

  The boss saw something in Wes Maggs’ expression that he clearly didn’t like. He backed away sharply, and so did the members of his crew. They watched in bemused wonder as Maggs threw the truck’s transmission into reverse, and jerked the vehicle backwards. Its tyres slipped and scuffed in the snow, and its knifing tail-end knocked down several of the salt sacks unloaded on the curb.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” the boss yelled.

  Maggs ignored him, and continued to reverse along the kerb, the cargo-6’s fat tyres spraying up slush as they whipped and churned. He backed up ten metres to meet Gaunt and the others, who were running along the pavement from the alley mouth.

  Several loose shots sang out of the alley into the street. Most went wide. One clipped a lamp post, and another blew out the headlight of a passing car. The pedestrians in the street froze, and then scattered in terror. More blind shots sliced out of the alley. The display window of a merchant house opposite fractured, and exploded in a billion slivers of plate glass. The two juniors shovelling snow in front of it ducked and ran.

  Gaunt bundled the prisoner up into the back of the truck, and then helped Kolding and Jaume to hoist themselves in. He ran for the passenger door of the cab.

  Pedestrians nearby were shouting and screaming as they ran. The work crew had fled. Gaunt turned, and saw the first of their pursuers emerge into the foggy street from the alley, lasrifle raised.

  Gaunt lifted his laspistol in a two-handed brace and pinched off two quick shots. Both of them hit the Blood Pact warrior, knocking him back into the shadows of the alley.

  Gaunt threw himself into the cab.

  “Go!” he yelled.

  Maggs put his foot down.

  The cargo-6 slalomed away across the snow into the main lanes of the street. A flurry of las-fire and hard rounds lit the air around it, and spattered against the bodywork.

  “Keep down!” Gaunt shouted through the cab’s fanlight.

  It was hard to control the heavy truck with any finesse in the snow. Maggs oversteered, and crunched the front end off a stationary car that its owner had abandoned at the first sign of gunfire. Then the truck side-swiped a small cargo van, shunting it into another vehicle. Bodywork buckled, and windows and headlamps smashed.

  They were gaining speed. One last clip that bashed a car into the flank of a tram, and they were clear, and turning out at the junction into the next street.

  “Which way?” Maggs demanded.

  “The Oligarchy,” Gaunt shouted back. “Make for the Oligarchy!”

  Eyl led his sister through the fog at a run. He was leading her by the hand, and she was holding up the hem of her long dress. Several members of the philia moved with them.

  The witch began laughing.

  “What?” Eyl asked.

  “We’ve made contact!” she cried, pulling her hand out of his so she could clap delightedly. “Karhunan sirdar’s element has made contact. The pheguth is running, but we have the trail again, strong and fresh!”

  She turned her veiled face to look at her brother.

  “He’s out in the open again,” she said. “We have his trail. Upon my soul, he is finished.”

  Inquisitor Rime snapped the dossier shut and slapped it back into Sirkle’s hands.

  “It’s so obvious,” he said, shaking his head and chuckling. “So damn obvious. I was over-thinking it.”

  “Sir?”

  “I was assuming that Gaunt’s message was an oblique reference to some private matter. It’s far less sophisticated than that.”

  Rime began to pace up through the search group towards the front of the line, calling for the senior Tanith officers and the commanders of the S Company brigade. The Sirkles hurried after him.

  “Re-disposition!” he shouted. “We’re moving towards the Olig
archy.”

  “The Oligarchy?” asked Edur. “But there’s no evidence to suggest—”

  “That’s where he’s going,” Rime snapped. “The Tower of the Plutocrat. Look it up on Gaunt’s record. I was an idiot not to make the connection before. How’s the fog looking?”

  “Clearing fast, sir,” reported one of the Sirkles.

  “Put the birds back up. I want marksmen covering us overhead. Only the best.”

  One of the Sirkles hurried off to do Rime’s bidding. Another two escorted Blenner and Criid over from the armoured truck.

  “Feth!” Kolea whispered. “He’s got Tona. And isn’t that Gaunt’s commissar buddy?”

  Baskevyl nodded. “When we get moving, we’d better stay near the front. We don’t want Rime getting there first.”

  “Agreed,” said Kolea. He shouldered through the gathering press of men, and tried to get to Criid.

  “Tona. Tona!” he called. She heard him, and saw him. She looked pale. She gave a little wave with cuffed hands.

  “That’s far enough,” said one of the Sirkles, blocking Kolea’s path.

  “I want to talk to my sergeant,” said Kolea.

  “She’s in Inquisition custody, so that’s not possible just now.”

  “But—”

  “Get back to your duty, major,” Sirkle told him.

  As the search group got ready to switch its focus, Edur caught a moment with Captain Tawil, one of the S Company officers.

  “Rime does not make a kill on Gaunt or the asset, all the while we can do anything to prevent it. Are we clear, captain?”

  “As glass, sir,” said Tawil. He snapped his hellgun up across his shoulder, and ran towards his waiting men to give them instructions.

  Edur watched him go. The commissar drew his bolt pistol, and checked the load. Then he holstered it and checked the charge of the short-frame laspistol that he kept in a shoulder rig under his coat as a back-up piece. Given the sledgehammer effect of the bolt pistol, Edur reasoned that he might soon have need of the laspistol’s finesse.

  He looked up at the sky. The fog was lifting rapidly now, and the sky was a bowl of clear, glassy blue.

  Out of the east, Edur heard the rising whine of gunship engines as the Valkyries swung in to join the hunt.

  Pretending to be rearranging the latest crop of notices on the bulletin board, Nahum Ludd executed an expert bit of loitering around the doorway of the vox room.

  The afternoon had cleared, and turned bright and sharp, and outside, he could hear men whooping and shouting as they played bat-and-ball out on the snowy quad.

  Something caught Ludd’s attention. He peered through the half-open door, and watched the activity going on between Sirkle and the vox-; operators. He tried to lip-read.

  Sirkle suddenly strode out of the vox room, and Ludd quickly started to pin up the week’s duty roster. Ludd waited until Sirkle had disappeared. Then he hurried to Hark’s office.

  “What’s the matter, Ludd?” Hark asked, looking up from his desk.

  “Something’s going on,” Ludd said. “Sirkle just got very excited. I think I overheard him saying something about leaving Aarlem to rejoin his master. Sir, I think they’re onto something. I think they’ve figured out it’s the Tower, too.”

  Hark swore and threw down his stylus.

  “We’re getting perilously close to the point where I end up doing something I know I’m going to regret,” he said. He got to his feet. “Let’s check in on the temple.”

  They went out into the hallway. Sirkle had reappeared, and was talking to one of the vox-operators near the door to the vox room. At the far end of the hallway, Dalin Criid suddenly ran into view. He skidded down to a walk in a hurry as soon as he spotted the ordo agent in the hallway.

  He saw Hark and Ludd, made eye contact with them, and flicked a tiny gesture that they should follow him with a minute tilt of his head.

  Hark walked up to Sirkle.

  “Developments?” he asked.

  “You’ll be informed in due course, should they concern you,” said Sirkle.

  “Well, you know where to find me,” replied Hark and walked on down the hallway.

  He and Ludd entered the temple house. Beltayn was manning the set with Dalin and Rerval, with Merrt left to watch the door.

  “Well?” asked Hark.

  Beltayn had the phones pressed to his ear.

  “It just woke up,” he replied. “It’s coming from a different source, and the codes are wrong, but I think it’s genuine. I’m just waiting for the handshake.”

  No one said anything for a minute. Then the vox-caster crackled into life. “Stronghold, Stronghold, this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood, please respond.”

  Hark took the mic-horn from Beltayn. “Nalwood, Nalwood, this is Hark. Where the feth have you been?”

  “Nice to speak to you too, Hark,” said Rawne, sitting back in the comfortable leather armchair. “We ran into a few difficulties at our previous location, so we’ve been forced to reposition, over.”

  He glanced up at Meryn and Daur standing behind him in the small office. The vox-caster, a compact model, was set up on a sideboard in the corner of the room. They could smell obscura smoke drifting up from the parlour below.

  “Do I want to know what sort of difficulties, Rawne? Over,” Hark asked over the line.

  “Probably not. Our comms went down. We’ve managed to locate an alternate resource, thanks to our bestest new friend, Mr. Csoni.”

  Lev Csoni was sitting in the outer office under the watchful eyes of Varl. Taking them over to his own gaming club, The Eight of Wands, on Brigantes Street, and allowing them free use of his vox had seemed like a small price to pay for his continued existence. Csoni had even let them use one of the big maroon limos that had brought his strike squad to Zolunder’s. The rest of the team was waiting with the car.

  “Tell me all about it later, Rawne,” Hark said. “Things are moving fast. Gaunt’s surfaced.”

  “Where?”

  “As far as we can be sure, he’s due to show at the Tower of the Plutocrat at four.”

  Rawne looked at the long case clock in Csoni’s office. It was a quarter to, gone.

  “That’s cutting it fine,” he replied. “The Tower’s long since fallen, hasn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  “But it used to be by the Oligarchy Gate on the way into the High Palace?”

  “Correct again.”

  “The place we’re at is further north than Zolunder’s. It’s a twenty-five-minute trip from here, especially with snow on the ground.”

  “Then shake your arses, major.”

  “I was about to,” Rawne said, already rising to his feet. “Anything else I should know before I hang this up? Last chance.”

  “Be advised, there’s likely to be Inquisitorial interest in this, as well as forces from Section, and maybe even the PDF. If the balloon goes up, you could be looking at a five- or six-way free-for-all.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “The Emperor protects, Eli.”

  “Thanks, Viktor. See you on the honour roll.”

  “Good fortune, major.”

  “Nalwood out.”

  Rawne threw the switch that killed the vox, and tossed the mic-horn onto the desk.

  “Let’s move,” he said, picking up his weapon.

  “If we’ve got to get there quickly, let me drive this time,” said Meryn.

  “Oh feth off,” said Daur. “There’s nothing wrong with my driving.”

  “You drive like an old woman,” said Meryn.

  “And you will cry like a little girl if I have to shoot you somewhere semi-vital below the waist,” said Rawne, “so do as Daur says and shut the feth up, Meryn.”

  They entered the outer office. Varl and Csoni looked up.

  “Are you done?” asked Csoni.

  “It pains me to say it, Mr. Csoni,” said Rawne, “but we must now bid you farewell, and cut you loose.”

  Rawne l
ooked down at the seated man, and sighed.

  “Mr. Csoni, for you, I’m going to break the habit of a lifetime and keep my word. I’m not going to pop you to guarantee your silence. Throne, it would be so much neater and simpler if I could, but I made a promise. You get to live.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” Csoni exclaimed, and then started to cry.

  “One thing, Csoni,” said Rawne, bending down to look the man in the face, “you do not want to be the man who makes me regret a decision.”

  “I don’t?” sobbed Csoni, looking up.

  “You don’t,” nodded Rawne.

  “Oh, you really fething don’t,” laughed Varl. “You screw him over, he will hunt you down like a rabid larisel, and feth you up so bad, you won’t be able to—”

  “Thanks, Varl,” said Daur. “I think Csoni gets the picture.”

  “I do. I do!” said Csoni.

  The four of them thundered down the club’s back stairs to the rear yard, where they’d stowed the limo. Rawne brought Varl up to speed on what Hark had said.

  “Feth,” said Varl. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said, ‘The Emperor protects’,” Daur said.

  They came out into the snowy rear yard. The big maroon limo with its chrome furniture was parked beside the access gate. The figures standing around it jumped to attention as they saw the four men come into view.

  “You know the full version of that blessing is ‘The Emperor protects the virtuous’, don’t you?” asked Varl as they ran for the car.

  “Yeah?” said Meryn. “Well, we’re screwed then.”

  The precincts of the High Palace, as its name suggested, sat at the summit of the gigantic, gently sloping peak, above the river on which Balopolis was built. The Oligarchy, a vast acreage of governmental structures and ancient colleges and chapels, formed the mantle, with the palace itself as the crown.