The Magos Read online

  ‘The Cackle,’ he said.

  ‘You know what that means,’ she said.

  The regia occulta had opened before them. Lightning writhed and fluoresced around its mouth. Corposant crackled. The wind rose.

  Eisenhorn couldn’t look at it. He glanced around.

  ‘I know this place,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been here myself, but you have. The high fells above Antieth. DeKere’s world. You used to tell me about it.’

  ‘Where I was born,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Where you were born the first time. It felt like the right place to bring you so you could be born all over again.’

  She raised her hand to his chin, and he flinched, afraid he would burn her. But she was simply, gently, turning his head, making him look at the gleaming, spitting gateway of the regia occulta.

  ‘This can take you there,’ she said. ‘One step. Forget the rest, forget it all. Go on now. Before it closes again.’

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Take the pathway,’ she said. ‘It is straight and true, and the only one you need.’

  He turned, but she was gone.

  He stepped into the light.

  It twists around him and carries him forward. The world falls away, then stars begin to tumble past him like snow. Faster. A blizzard of stars covering the world, raising deep and silent drifts of stellar motes. A heartbeat. A long winter. Centuries snap and pile into one another, like the cars of a runaway train that has left the rails. He sees the Karanines in early summer, the banners flying from the new guardian fortresses. There are armies on the pass, advancing after the spring thaw, bodies released from the lock of winter to move again. The Udaric hordes, clad in leather and bronze, carrying the skulls of cave ursids on their tribal standards, and bearing too their dreams of finding Vaartuk and deliverance. Their chieftain rides at their head, his warhelm crested with the feathers of a sea raptor. In the woods below, the fortress garrisons muster, sounding the call on brass trumpets that loop around their bodies in a circle. The Karanine Guard, forming tight ranks and shield walls in the mouth of the pass, ready to deploy steel blades and precision discipline against the barbarian invaders, and defend their dreams of stable colonisation.

  Iron discipline against feral chaos.

  Trumpets calling in the woods. Rams horns blaring from the pass.

  Redbeaks still trilling in the trees, oblivious, all those years ago.

  An old man beside a pool, sketching.

  The low summer sun. An eagle flying. A quiver of extimate spaces overlapping.

  A room. A hundred thousand rooms. The people in them. Someone crying. A flame-yellow moon. A bonfire. A Selgioni rug. Laughter.

  A sea that was not a sea. An immaterial ocean, waves rising higher than all the worlds of ever. Glimpsed behemoths sounding deep beneath the raging surface. Laughter, again. Perpetual laughter. A cackle. Whispers. Words that make. Words that build and un-build. An Old Night, its endless dark filled with insects in their trillions. Chirring words that predate the mouths that spoke them. Words that predate all organic mouths. Words etched on white stone.

  An eye that is not an eye. An eye wounded by worms. A wound in space that is not an eye. An influx. An outpouring. A lie. A truth. A father and his eighteen sons. A transgression. A father and his daughter. A dead girl. Another not yet born. Years crumple like paper, overlapped like shuffled cards, out of order.

  A golden throne. A figure on it, too bright to see, too dark to name. A figure in a box. A box that is a golden throne. A golden throne that is just a box. A man that is no longer a man. Something once human kept alive by the throne that surrounds him, seeing all, knowing all, reading the future and trying to forget the past. A mind isolated. A dark place. An old pict, the image of a son who was everything and nothing, and no way of knowing if the image was made before or after, because he looked the same before and after, and because time was crumpling like paper, and perhaps the before had been the after all along.

  A wheatear. A birthplace.

  Something untouchable. Someone too afraid to ever touch.

  A man limping away into blackness, utterly alone, his back turned, carrying on, step after step, for a reason he can no longer remember.

  A fire.

  An ancient city on the edge of a desert. Everything golden with the haze of dust. A shadow city beyond it, a twin. One place that was two, two that were one. An extimate metropolis.

  A city of learning. A city of knowledge. A place of Cognitae.

  A City of Dust.

  Another king. Another throne. All in yellow. Fire and dust.

  Eight waiting. Eight points. Eight shots.

  Blood. Inheritance.

  The King beckons. Cyclopean daemons, too vast to comprehend, kneel at his throne in chains and fealty, whispering un-words.

  Chirring like insects.

  Like ticking clocks.

  Like cackling light.

  Like crackling fire.

  ‘You’re here now.’

  A voice.

  ‘Isn’t this where you want to be? Where you’ve been walking to your entire life? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  Eisenhorn opened his eyes. Dust fogged his vision. His mouth was full of sand.

  He was face down.

  He hauled himself up, spitting and coughing, trying to clear the dust from his throat. The light around him was golden and fogged with powder. A haze.

  ‘The city’s right here,’ said the voice. ‘You’re at the gates.’

  ‘W-which city?’ Eisenhorn could barely speak.

  ‘The City of Dust,’ said the voice. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m right here too,’ said the voice.

  Eisenhorn looked up. The figure looked down at him.

  ‘Hello, little thing,’ said Cherubael.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Eisenhorn. ‘How–’

  ‘You called me,’ said Cherubael. ‘I came because you called me.’

  Eisenhorn tried to stand. The daemonhost reached down to help him.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  Cherubael looked hurt.

  ‘But… you called me,’ he said. ‘To help you. That’s what you always do. That’s why you made me. In the end, you see, I’m the only friend you’ve got. Which says a lot, I think you’ll agree.’

  ‘I didn’t call you,’ said Eisenhorn. He got to his feet. He looked at the city shimmering in the distance beyond the veil of golden dust.

  ‘Oh, but you see, you did,’ said Cherubael. The daemonhost hovered in front of Eisenhorn, his broken chain dragging in the dust. ‘From the hidden way.’

  ‘The regia occulta?’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ said Cherubael. ‘I knew there was a proper name for it. The re-gi-a o-ccul-ta. You called to me as you walked along it.’

  ‘And you came?’

  ‘It’s what a friend does,’ grinned Cherubael.

  Eisenhorn shook his head. The fire had gone out. The pain had gone. All the pain had gone, in fact.

  ‘I can’t have,’ he began. ‘I don’t control you like that. I have never been able to. It takes months to bring you out, constant effort to bind you and keep you contained. The very limit of my mind and my will just to get you to stay calm. I didn’t call you. And even if I did, in my madness, I couldn’t keep you tame.’

  ‘You can now, Gregor,’ said Cherubael.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ Cherubael laughed. ‘I like it, actually. The fight is gone. The constant struggle, me and you, all that pain and heartache. Blanked out. You call me and I come. That’s how it works now. I cannot even begin to resist you. I prefer it this way.’

  ‘This is an illusion,’ Eisenhorn said to himself. ‘It’s just… another stage of the Torment. Another mind-trick…’

  Cherubael glanced around. His chain rattled.

  ‘Who are you tal
king to?’ he asked.

  Eisenhorn looked at him.

  ‘This isn’t real,’ he said to the daemonhost. ‘You’re not here. I’m not here. I didn’t call you, and I know for damn sure I couldn’t control you. My psykana’s burned out. I must be close to death. The end-stage delusions of the Torment.’

  ‘No, you’re not dead,’ said Cherubael. ‘Not dying. Not hallucinating. You’ve simply arrived. This is the place you were always going to, and you’ve got here. I’m impressed. Honestly. I don’t say that to people very often.’

  ‘The place?’ asked Eisenhorn.

  ‘Physically,’ said Cherubael, ‘and metaphysically. I suppose you get to decide which matters more. The physical place is the City of Dust, inside the City of Queen Mab, on Sancour, in the Angelus Subsector. The year is 500. Give or take a year. Metaphysically, well… that’s up to you.’

  ‘Sancour?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Absolutely dreadful place, between you and me, but not my choice. You call the shots, now. You did… you did want to be here, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eisenhorn. ‘I… I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s where she asked you to go,’ said Cherubael. ‘That untouchable of yours, you know, whatsername…’

  ‘Alizebeth.’

  ‘Yes, A-liz-e-beth. She asked you nicely.’

  ‘It was just the Torment in her form.’

  ‘She asked you nicely anyway. She asked you a favour. A last favour. Save her daughter. I suppose that’s what you’re going to do. You’d do anything for her.’

  The daemonhost saw Eisenhorn looking at the spectral city.

  ‘Or have you changed your mind, Gregor?’ he asked. ‘Are you still tempted? One final push to bring the Archenemy down?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if any of it was true.’

  ‘Seems to me you have a choice. Do the right thing, or do the right thing. I know that doesn’t sound like a choice. You know what I mean. Do the big thing that matters, or the small thing that counts.’

  ‘Can’t I do both?’ asked Eisenhorn.

  ‘I don’t know?’ asked Cherubael. ‘Can you?’

  Eisenhorn didn’t reply.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Cherubael, ‘it comes down to what matters most. To you. Obligation to… you know… I don’t like to say His name. Let’s call Him the Rot-God-King. Or obligation to those who counted on you. Personally, I mean. Let’s call them… and here’s another word I don’t like to use… friends.’

  ‘I don’t have any friends,’ said Eisenhorn.

  ‘No, you don’t, and I’ve always liked that about you,’ said Cherubael. ‘But… How can I put it? Friends have you. People have befriended you, to their cost. They have stuck to you. They have stayed with you. They have been loyal through everything. You’ve just never really been loyal back. Which is odd, because loyalty is your big thing.’

  ‘The two things have always conflicted,’ said Eisenhorn.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I want to do the right thing,’ said Eisenhorn. ‘I have always wanted to do the right thing. I’m damned because of it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I choose both. And choosing both means I don’t start here.’

  Cherubael sighed.

  ‘We’re not staying then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not. I have something to finish. I have to… retrace my steps.’

  ‘Have I got to carry you?’

  ‘I don’t think you do.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cherubael. ‘I’ll be waiting for you then.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Like a good boy. That’s what you want. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll wait right here until you get back. See you in… oh… about twenty years.’

  Eisenhorn looked at the daemonhost and shook his head.

  ‘Off you go,’ said Cherubael. He gave a little wave. ‘Good luck and all that. That is what friends say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why…’ said Eisenhorn. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’

  ‘Well, because, quite frankly,’ said Cherubael, ‘and please don’t tell anyone, but right now you scare the absolute shit out of me.’

  Eisenhorn smiled.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Cherubael. ‘I didn’t think you could do that any more.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Eisenhorn.

  He raised his hand.

  The fire leapt up.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Whatever Day Yesterday Was

  Davinch clutched Gobleka’s shoulder for support.

  ‘You get him?’ he asked through swollen lips.

  ‘I got him,’ said Gobleka.

  They stared down at Eisenhorn’s body. It was crumpled against the handrail, propped up in a half-sprawled, half-kneeling position. His eyes were closed, and the empty injector was slipping from his limp fingers.

  ‘Nothing’s happening,’ said Davinch.

  ‘I thought I heard him scream,’ said Gobleka.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ said Davinch. ‘It came from his mind, not his mouth. Goran, why isn’t he–’

  ‘Just wait,’ said Gobleka.

  ‘For what?’ asked Davinch. They looked at each other. They both knew the symptomatic progression. They’d documented it in enough test subjects. After the antigenic was administered, a subject lapsed into violent, thrashing seizures that could last hours or days. The skin blistered and peeled. Sometimes it fell off completely. Even for them, it was hard to watch.

  After the frenzied agony, every test subject had become still, a few moments of calm that preceded death. None had survived except Sark, and Sark’s first exposure had resulted in a six-hour ordeal of fits, screaming and haemorrhaging.

  But Eisenhorn had just become comatose. Twenty-five seconds had passed since Gobleka had stabbed the injector into his neck, and he was silent and still.

  ‘It didn’t work,’ Davinch said. ‘I think we killed him.’

  Gobleka crouched down and put his ear close to Eisenhorn’s mouth.

  ‘He’s still breathing,’ he said.

  Davinch shook his head.

  ‘Not for long,’ he said. ‘You hit him with a full dose. He was already weak–’

  ‘Strong up here,’ said Gobleka, tapping his temple with his index finger.

  Davinch continued to look dubious.

  ‘Well, I think that’s the problem,’ he said. He walked over to the med kit and started to sponge the blood off his face with a sterile dressing. Each wipe made him grimace. ‘That’s the thing they always said about him. Iron will. He probably tried to fight back. Resist, you know. You don’t resist the antigen. Resisting makes it worse. You’ve fried him. Brain-dead. That’s probably just an autonomic response you’re seeing. His body spinning down.’

  Davinch suddenly recoiled and cried out in alarm.

  Eisenhorn had lurched forwards without warning. He was on his hands and knees, his eyes closed, sweat dripping from his face. He was trying to rise, but the cuffs around his wrists were hindering him.

  ‘Get him up,’ Gobleka ordered.

  They battled to raise Eisenhorn to his feet. As Davinch held him upright, Gobleka slapped Eisenhorn around the face a couple of times.

  ‘Wake up! Can you hear me?’

  Eisenhorn’s eyelids fluttered.

  ‘Eisenhorn?’ whispered Gobleka. He dragged Eisenhorn’s right eyelid up with his thumb, expecting to see a blood-blown iris, or worse.

  ‘Great spirits of the dark…’ he whispered in wonder. He started to laugh.

  ‘What?’ asked Davinch. ‘What is it? Gobleka, what?’

  Gobleka turned Eisenhorn’s face so Davinch could see.

  ‘Damn,’ Davinch said.

  Eisenhorn’s eyes were shining with violet light.

  ‘Voriet needs to rest,’ said Drusher.

  ‘No time,’ replied Nayl.

  ‘He needs to rest,’ Drusher insisted.

  ‘I know he does, magos,’ said Nayl. ‘But there is no time for that.’

  Macks lea
ned over the rail and looked down.

  ‘That fire’s bad,’ she said. The air around them was already hazed with smoke. It was dirty and black, and making them cough. Far below, the sump was a blazing sea of flames, a furious petrochemical fire that was beginning to choke the tower with murky, toxic smog.

  ‘On the plus side,’ she said, ‘I guess it will take out the Loom.’

  ‘There’s that,’ said Nayl. ‘But we have to find an exit. Another ten minutes, and it won’t be possible to breathe in here. Besides, that fire’s going to climb.’

  ‘I can go on,’ said Voriet. Drusher could tell he was lying. Every time Voriet coughed because of the rising smoke, it aggravated the pain of his broken bones. He looked dead on his feet.

  Nayl put his arm around Voriet to support him and began to climb the next staircase. Macks and Drusher looked at each other then followed. They could feel the intense heat from below. They followed the stairs up to another inspection catwalk, traced that to its end and took the next set of metal steps up. The Loom’s whirring mechanisms were wafting strange circles and hoops in the slow smoke, like ripples in water.

  ‘Do you think he’s dead?’ Macks asked Drusher.

  ‘Eisenhorn?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You heard that scream,’ said Drusher.

  ‘I felt it,’ she replied. ‘I don’t want to think what they might have done to him to make him scream like that.’

  Nayl paused to look up. The eerie light was still glowing above them, but the smoke in the air had made it foggy.

  ‘Just a few more levels,’ Nayl said. ‘At the main gantry, there was an exit into the rest of the fortress. That’s how me and the magos got in. I think that’s the only way out. Can you do that, Darra?’

  Voriet nodded. His face was pinched and pale, and beaded with dirty perspiration. His clothes were sticking to him.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ said Nayl.

  Voriet reached out with his good hand and caught Nayl’s arm. Nayl stopped.

  ‘Back up,’ he hissed to the others.

  There was an animation on the platform ahead of them, a skeleton that had been bleached white. Odd symbols had been scratched into its bones. It limped towards them, fixing them with the tiny green pinpricks of light that served as its eyes.