THE WARMASTER Read online

  Varl’s flamers were at work, at the head of Turnabout Lane. Loosing jets of fire, they were burning down the makeshift drapes and rugs strung up by the Urdeshi to block line of sight. Lubba and Mkhet burned out the ropes securing the top corners of the hanging sheets so that they dropped away, and fell, limp and smouldering, against the fronts of the buildings supporting them. Brostin seemed to prefer to hose the drapes, decorating the streets with flaming banners that slowly disintegrated.

  ‘You only have to burn the ropes,’ Varl said. ‘Just bring them down.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ Brostin asked.

  Nomis and Cardass ran up.

  ‘Enemy sighted,’ Cardass told Varl. ‘Two streets that way, advancing fast.’

  ‘Infantry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A lot of infantry?’

  ‘Far too many,’ said Cardass.

  Varl checked his microbead.

  ‘Larks?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Can you see better now?’

  ‘Much better, thank you, ta.’

  Varl turned to his squad.

  ‘Fall back. Come on, now.’

  Lubba and Mkhet made their flamers safe. Brostin looked disappointed and reluctant.

  ‘There’ll be more to burn later,’ Varl reassured him.

  ‘Promise?’ asked Brostin.

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  Larkin had taken up position in a third floor room in one of the plants on Turnabout Lane. He had a commanding view down the thoroughfare. Nessa and Banda were in position in adjacent buildings, and other Tanith marksmen were on nearby rooftops on the other side of the street.

  He settled his long-las on the sill and clicked his microbead.

  ‘Larkin,’ he said.

  A crackle.

  ‘Rawne, go.’

  ‘We’ve made ourselves a kill-box, Eli,’ he said. ‘They’ll be on us in a matter of minutes. We’ll take as many as we can, but–’

  ‘Don’t worry, Larks. You’ve got full companies either side of you and capping the end of the street. Once it gets busy, you’ll have serious support. Let’s just walk them into a surprise first.’

  ‘Happy to oblige,’ said Larkin. He shook out his old shoulders, and took aim. The street was clear and empty. The smouldering rags left by Varl’s flamer squad had all but gone out.

  He waited. He was good at waiting.

  ‘They’re not coming,’ Banda said over the link.

  ‘Shut up, girl.’

  ‘They’ve gone another way.’

  ‘Just wait. Keep your shorts on and wait.’

  A minute passed. Two. Three.

  Larkin saw movement at the far end of the lane. A figure or two at first, furtive. Then more. Assault packs, advancing by squad, weapons at their shoulders, drilled and disciplined. Big bastards too. Sons of Sek. There was no mistaking the colour scheme or the brutal insignia.

  ‘Feth,’ he heard Banda say. ‘Look at the bastards.’

  ‘Keep waiting,’ he answered, calmly.

  ‘There are hundreds of them, you mad old codger.’

  There were. There were hundreds of them, close to a thousand, Larkin figured, advancing urgently down the commercial lane. And many more behind that, he reckoned. This was their way in. This little, dark, undistinguished street was their route to victory.

  ‘Do we take shots?’ Banda asked.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘For feth’s sake, they’re almost on us.’

  ‘Wait.’

  He paused, sighed.

  It was time.

  ‘Choose your targets and fire,’ he said into his microbead.

  He lined up. Who first? That one. That one there. A big fether. An officer. He was gesturing, barking orders.

  Larkin lined up his sights. The man’s head filled his scope.

  ‘Welcome to Eltath, you son of a bitch,’ he breathed, and pulled the trigger.

  The agriboats were huge and old, but now they were on them, Zhukova could feel them shifting slightly underfoot in the low water.

  Mkoll led the way, making so little noise it was inhuman. Zhukova felt like a clumsy fool as she followed him. They went from deck to deck, crossing from one rotting barge to the next, following old walkways and scabby chain bridges. The derelicts were just rusted hulks. In places, hold covers and cargo hatches were missing, and she saw down into the dark, dank hollow interiors of the barges, hold silos that contained nothing but echoes. The place stank of cropweed, a vile smell that had the quality of decaying seafood. The reek of bilge waste and shoreline mud made it worse.

  Mkoll stopped at the side rail of the next barge and peered down between the vessel and its neighbour. Zhukova joined him and looked down. She saw shadows and, far below, the wink of firelight on the oil-slick water.

  ‘What do you see?’ she whispered.

  He pointed. Ten metres below them, near the water line, there was some kind of mechanical bridge or docking gate connecting the barge they stood on with its neighbour.

  ‘The agriboats are modular,’ he said quietly. ‘They could work independently, or lock together to operate as single, larger harvester rigs.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I guess they could also dock to transfer processed food cargos,’ he mused.

  ‘So?’

  He beckoned. They went to an iron ladder and descended through the rusting decks into the darkness. The barge interior stank even worse. Slime and mould coated the walls and mesh floor. It was as black as pitch.

  Mkoll jumped the last two metres of the ladder, and landed on the deck. Zhukova followed.

  He led her to a large open hatch, and she saw they had reached the rusting bridge linking the two vessels. She looked into the darkness of the neighbouring agriboat.

  ‘They connect,’ he whispered. ‘They connect together. Docked like this, mothballed, the chances are all the agriboats in this graveyard are hitched to each other, all connected. Most of them, anyway.’

  ‘That’s several miles of junk,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘All connected.’

  Mkoll knelt down and pressed his ear to the deck.

  ‘Listen,’ he said.

  Zhukova wasn’t sure she was going to do that. The deck was filthy.

  ‘Listen!’ Mkoll hissed.

  She got down and pressed her ear to the metal flooring.

  She could hear the creak of the ancient hulls as they rocked in the low water, the thump of rail bumpers as the tide stirred one boat against another.

  And something else.

  ‘You could walk all the way from the west point of the bay to the batteries without being seen and without using dry land,’ he whispered.

  ‘If you went through the hulks,’ she replied, horrified.

  ‘The armour push wasn’t the only distraction,’ said Mkoll. ‘The infantry surge in Millgate is a feint too.’

  Zhukova listened to the deck again. The other sound was clearer now. Quiet, stealthy, but distinct. Movement. A lot of people in heavy boots were stealing closer through the bowels of the graveyard ships.

  ‘They’re using the agriboats,’ said Mkoll. ‘This is the main assault. They’re coming in this way.’

  ‘We have to warn Colonel Rawne,’ said Zhukova, her eyes wide.

  ‘No fething kidding,’ said Mkoll. He tried his microbead.

  ‘It’s dead,’ he said. ‘Try yours.’

  Zhukova tried, and shook her head.

  ‘They’re jamming us,’ he said. ‘That buzz? That’s vox-jamming.’

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Zhukova.

  ‘Get Rawne,’ Mkoll replied.

  TWENTY-THREE: THE WARMASTER

  The east wing of the Urdeshic Palace seemed empty, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. Bonin led the way. They passed rooms that were full of abandoned furniture covered in dust sheets, and others that were stacked to the ceilings with boxes and junk. The carpet in the halls was threadbare, and the ancient
portraits hanging from the corridor walls were so dirty it was hard to make out what they were of.

  The crack and boom of the raid continued outside. The air held an uncomfortable static charge from the palace’s massive void shield, as though a mighty thunderstorm were about to break. When they passed exterior windows, they could see the light of the shield outside, encasing the dome of the Great Hill with its magnetospheric glow.

  Time was ticking away. It was already almost two hours since Gaunt had given Van Voytz his deadline. Well, Van Voytz would have to wait for his answer. The east wing was like a warren.

  ‘I thought there would be guards,’ said Beltayn. ‘I mean, he is the warmaster. I thought there’d be high security, trooper checkpoints.’

  ‘I think his authority keeps people out,’ said Gaunt. ‘His sheer authority, forbidding visitors.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Beltayn.

  ‘He is the warmaster.’

  ‘If he doesn’t like company…’ Daur began.

  ‘He’ll have to make an exception,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘But if he forbids people…’

  ‘I’ll take my chances, Ban.’

  It was certainly odd. The central parts of the massive keep, the war room, the command centres, were packed with people and activity, and every corner and doorway was guarded. But as they’d moved into the east wing they found an increasing sense of emptiness, as if they’d gone from a living fortress into some abandoned derelict, a place from which people had hastily evacuated and never returned.

  ‘They’re still with us,’ muttered Bonin. Gaunt looked back down the hallway. Sancto and the Tempestus detail, their faces impassive, were following Gaunt at a respectful distance. Gaunt had tried ordering them to go back or to remain in the command centre, but Sancto had firmly refused. Protecting Lord Militant Gaunt was his duty. He would go wherever Gaunt went.

  ‘At least they’ve hung back at my request,’ said Gaunt. ‘And they haven’t tried to stop us.’

  ‘That’s because their orders are simple,’ said Bonin. ‘No one’s told them to stop you. Not yet, anyway. I suppose we’ll find out if a warmaster’s direct and angry order overrules a bodyguard command.’

  He held up his hand suddenly, and they stopped. Bonin moved ahead to a half-open panelled door. He pushed it wide.

  It was a bedchamber. Not a lord’s room – they’d passed several of those, vaulted chambers with beds raised on platforms, the walls adorned with gilded decoration. This was the room of a mid-status court official, a servant of the house. The wood-panelled walls were smoke-dark with old varnish, and the drapes were closed. The only light came from a single glow-globe on the night stand beside the large four poster bed. The stand and the floor were stacked with old books and data-slates. A portable heater whirred in one corner, shedding meagre warmth into the chilly room. That was the sound Bonin had heard.

  ‘No one here,’ he said.

  Gaunt looked around. It was a handsome enough room, but dank and dusty. Surely the bedroom of a servant or aide. This was not the accommodation of a man whose authority dominated a sector of space. The bed hadn’t been slept in, though it had clearly been made up months or even years before and never used. The sheets and coverlet were grey with dust and there were patches of mildew on the pillows.

  ‘Sir?’ said Daur.

  He’d walked around to the other side of the bed, the side with the nightstand. Gaunt went to look.

  There was a nest on the floor beside the bed, half under it, a nest made of old sheets, pillows, the cushions from sofas and grubby bolsters. More books and slates were muddled into the lair, along with several dirty dishes and empty, dirty mugs. Whoever used this room didn’t sleep in the bed. They hid beneath it, to the side away from the door, in the darkest part of the chamber, curled up in the kind of fort a child would make when he was scared at night.

  Gaunt had seen that kind of paranoia before. He’d seen it in soldiers, even in officers, who had been through too many hells. Sleep eluded them, or if it came, they slept with one eye open. They always faced the door. They would sleep in a chair, or in a dressing room, so they could watch the bed that was in plain view of anyone entering the room, and remain unseen.

  Sancto and his men had reached the bedroom door and were looking in at them.

  Gaunt glanced at Sancto.

  ‘Stay there,’ he said.

  ‘Sir–’

  ‘I mean it, Scion.’

  ‘Door, sir,’ said Bonin. He pointed at the wall panels.

  ‘What?’ asked Gaunt.

  Bonin held out an open hand towards the wall. ‘I can feel a draught.’

  He walked to the wall, ran his hands along the moldings of the panels, and pressed. A door clicked open.

  Gaunt pushed the door wider. It was dark beyond. He could smell old glue, dust and binding wax.

  ‘Everyone stay here,’ he said.

  Gaunt stepped into the darkness. It was a passageway, crude and narrow, just a slot cut in the stone fabric of the keep. He adjusted his augmetic eyes to the low light level and made his way along, skimming the stone wall with his left hand. A dusty curtain blocked the far end of the passage. He drew it back.

  The room beyond was a library. Its high walls were lined with shelves stuffed with ancient books, rolled charts, parchments, file boxes and slates. Gaunt presumed he must be in the base of a tower, because the shelf-lined walls extended up into darkness, as high as he could see. Linked by delicate, ironwork stairs, narrow walkways encircled every level. Brass rails edged each walkway, allowing for the movement of small brass ladders that could be pushed along to reach high shelves. Several large reading tables and lecterns stood in the centre of the room, their surfaces almost lost under piles of books and papers. Some were weighed open with glass paperweights, and others were stuffed with bookmarks made of torn parchment. Gaunt saw old books discarded on the carpet, their pages torn out and cannibalised as a ready source of page markers. There was a litter of torn paper scraps everywhere. Reading lamps glowed on the tables, surrounded by pots of glue, rolls of binding tape, tubs of wax, book weights, pots of pens and chalk sticks, magnifying lenses and optical readers. Motes of dust whirled slowly in the lamp light, and in the ghost glow cast by the single lancet window over the tables. It was warm. More portable heating units chugged in the corners of the floor, making the air hot and dry, but there was a bitter draught from the open vault of darkness overhead.

  For a moment, Gaunt was overcome by a memory. High Master Boniface’s room in the schola progenium on Ignatius Cardinal, a lifetime before. He felt like a child again, a twelve-year-old boy, all alone and waiting for his future to be ordained.

  He stepped forwards. His hand rested on the hilt of his power sword. He did not know what he was expecting to defend himself from, except that it might be his own resolve. Coming here, he felt, he was going to make enemies, one way or another.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  Something stirred above him in the darkness. He heard brass runners squeak and rattle on rails as a ladder shifted.

  ‘Is it supper time already?’ asked a voice. It sounded thin, exhausted.

  ‘Hello?’

  Someone shuffled along a walkway two storeys above him and peered down. A small figure, his arms full of books.

  ‘Is it supper time?’

  Gaunt shrugged, craning to see.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m looking for the warmaster. For Warmaster Macaroth. It is imperative I see him. Is he here?’

  The figure above tutted, and hobbled to the end of the walkway. He began to climb down, precarious under the weight of the books he was trying to manage. He was old. Gaunt saw scrawny bare legs and heavy, oversized bed socks made of thick wool, patched and darned. He saw the tail of a huge, grubby nightshirt hanging down like a skirt.

  The man reached the walkway below, somehow managing not to drop any of his books. He looked down at Gaunt quizzically, frowning. His face was round, with side-combed hair turning grey. He
looked unhealthy, as if he hadn’t been exposed to sunlight in a long time.

  ‘Warmaster Macaroth is busy,’ he said petulantly.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Gaunt. ‘Sir, can you help me? It’s very important I speak with him. Do you know where he is?’

  The man tutted again, and shambled along the walkway to the next ladder. A book slipped out of his bundle and fell. Gaunt stepped up neatly and caught it before it hit the floor.

  ‘Fast reflexes,’ the man remarked. ‘Is it supper time? That’s the real issue here.’

  ‘I’m sorry–’

  ‘Is it supper time?’ the man asked, glaring down at Gaunt and trying to keep control of the books he was lugging. ‘Not a complex question, given the great range of questions a man might ask. You’re new. I don’t know you. Has the usual fellow died or something? This won’t do. The warmaster is very particular. Supper at the same time. He is unsettled by change. Why don’t you have a tray?’

  ‘I’m not here with supper,’ said Gaunt.

  The man looked annoyed.

  ‘Well, that’s very disappointing. You came in as if you were bringing supper, and so I assumed it was supper time, and now you say you haven’t brought any supper, and my belly is starting to grumble because I had been led to believe it was time for supper. What have you got to say to that?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Gaunt replied.

  The man stared down at him. His brow furrowed.

  ‘Sorry is a word that has very little place in the Imperium of Man. I am surprised to hear the word uttered in any context by a ruthless soldier like Ibram Gaunt.’

  ‘You know who I am?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘I just recognised you. Why? Am I wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ibram Gaunt. Former colonel-commissar, commander of the Tanith First, formally of the Hyrkan Eighth. Hero of Balopolis, the Oligarchy Gate and so forth. A victory record that includes Menazoid Epsilon, Monthax, Vervunhive-Verghast, Bucephalon, Phantine, Hagia, Herodor, so on and so on. That’s you, correct?’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘I know you’re good at catching. Help me with these.’

  The man held out the stack of books in his arms and released them. Gaunt started forwards and managed to catch most of them. He set them down on one of the reading tables and went to pick up the few he’d dropped. The man clambered down the ladder. He looked Gaunt up and down. He was significantly shorter than Gaunt. His stocky body was shrouded in the old, crumpled nightshirt, and Gaunt could see the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the yellow shadows under his eyes.