[Ravenor 01] Ravenor - Dan Abnett Page 7

  By then, he had already made an assessment of them. Off-worlders both: an over-dressed youth and an older man, probably muscle. The youth's body language betrayed confidence. The older man was unreadable, but then muscle usually was, in Rickens' ample experience. Until the split-second it decided to act.

  He called up the file onto screen, and carefully set his half-moon spectacles on his face.

  "What we seem to have... a female, lacking citizen validation, work dockets, status codes or visitation permits... physical age twenty-five years standard by approximation, though some traces of juvenat procedures... apprehended in an undersink of Formal D this afternoon having just killed or crippled seven individuals, all local males. The female refuses to answer any questions, but on apprehension she identified herself as Inquisitor Gideon Ravenor."

  Rickens took off his spectacles and looked up at the two men. "This is an old fashioned world, perhaps behind the times with cutting Imperium fashions, but I believe Gideon is still a name reserved for the male gender?"

  "It is," said the well-dressed youth.

  "So, this female is lying?"

  "Yes," the youth replied cordially. "And no. We request you release her into our custody."

  "She is a friend of yours?" Rickens asked.

  "A colleague," said the youth.

  "A friend," the muscle said quietly.

  "Given her crimes, I really can't see how-"

  The youth leaned forward, interrupting Rickens, and set a small black wallet on the table in front of him. Rickens flipped it open. The light of the electrolamps glinted off the Inquisitorial rosette.

  Rickens didn't react. He took a scanner wand from his jacket and played it across the badge.

  "Stackers have been known to fabricate this sort of thing out of tin and glass," he said. He sat back and regarded the wand's readout. "This, however, is genuine. Which one of you is Ravenor?"

  "Neither," said the younger man. "Like the female in your custody, we both work for him. I repeat my request."

  Rickens drummed his fingers together. "It's not that simple. Not at all."

  "You would impede the operation of the Holy Inquisition, deputy magistratum?"

  "Throne of Terra, of course not." Rickens looked at the young man. "But there are protocols. Procedures. I know the Inquisition has the power to run rough-shod over every law and statute on Eustis Majoris. It may demand the release of an accredited agent. But... I would expect such a demand to come from the Officio Inquisitoras Planetia itself. Formally. Not like this."

  "Inquisitor Ravenor does not wish this matter to become formal at all, deputy magistratum," said the older man softly. "It would... I'm sorry, it might... jeopardise the entire nature of our investigation here. We want our colleague returned to us, and all data surrounding her arrest erased."

  "That is beyond my power."

  "Not at all," said the younger man. He leaned forward again. "I see the case file on your display still has a green tag. It is pending, subject to you processing it. You could erase it here. Now. With a touch of your keypad."

  "I would be betraying my office," said Rickens.

  "You would be serving your Emperor," said the younger man.

  The other man said nothing, and that's what did it. Deputy Magistratum Rickens was not easily intimidated, but there was something about the unreadable face of the older man. Rickens had a sudden image of himself, dead in his old, carved cathedra, while these two ominous servants of the Inquisition slipped away into the night. And all for what? For sticking to his tired principles?

  Rickens believed in Imperial justice, and these days he got damned little chance of taking legal action at all thanks to the powers that be. Who was he to stand in the face of the real tiling, however unorthodox?

  "Very well," he said and tapped an erasure code into his cogitator. "You may collect your colleague from holding pen nine at the south entry."

  "Thank you, deputy magistratum. Your efforts will not be forgotten."

  The two men had only been gone ten minutes when Plyton knocked and entered the office cautiously.

  "Sir?" she asked. "All my files on that Ravenor case have... uhm... gone."

  "I know."

  "What did those men say to you?"

  "Forget it, Plyton. Erase it from your mind."

  "But sir-"

  "Do as I say, Plyton. No good will come of it."

  One of Sonsal's staff had voxed ahead to inform the house of his master's dinner plans. When the motor-carriage swept them in under the rain-proofed portico, servants were waiting for them in the courtyard. Sonsal descended from the carriage and courteously handed Kys down to the pavement.

  The house, like those of all Petropolis' worthies, was on the surface level. Despite the burning curse of the rain, it was thought improper for the wealthy and the respectable to dwell in the deep sinks. Sonsal's house was in Formal B, one of the three core districts of the city-hive, and the only one given over exclusively to residential buildings. To the north and west rose the many massive towers of A and C, the hub of subsector bureaucracy and government.

  Sonsal conducted Kys into the atrium, where floating glow-globes cast a shimmering yellow light. The walls were lined with hand-printed paper showing a repeat print pattern of the holy skull-cog in gold leaf. More iconography of the Adeptus Mechanicus decorated the iron staircase. Engine Imperial was proud of its association with the machine cult. Like other incorporated commercial firms, it leased tech processes and construction secrets from the guild, and manufactured them under license. The great financial return made it worth the huge lease fees and the pressure of regular inspection.

  Ewer bearers waited for them, and they washed their hands and faces clean of air-pollution in silver dishes of clean water.

  Sonsal invited her to wait in the inner chambers. "I have a small piece of business to attend to, then I will be with you."

  "I'll be waiting," she said, tense with the terrible effort of being suggestive.

  Alone, Kys relaxed and paced in an ornate apartment. A carpet of woven silver thread filigree covered the black tile floor, and the pink-upholstered furniture had heavy, gilt feet and arms. Lead-glass cabinets displayed various pieces of klaylware, and there were a number of ugly oil paintings and hololiths on the walls.

  "You with me?" she said quietly.

  +I am.+

  "You're very faint. Why is that?"

  +I'm tired. That, and the landspar. Very heavy, very dense. Most of the residences in Formal B are made from it. It is particularly resistant to the acidic rain. A rich man does not want to lose status by having his house crumble around him, after all. +

  "So?"

  +It's psi-inert. Dead stone. It's all I can do to hear you and let you hear me.+

  She frowned. "All right, don't wear yourself out. I'll call if I need you."

  She strolled around the room, thought-feeling for niches, hidden panels, hiding places, though she doubted Sonsal would be foolish enough to keep anything in a public room. There was a panel, however, in the west wall, the size of a small door. She could sense its hollow-ness. She traced its catch mechanism delicately with her mind, and then popped it open. The panel swung inward. Behind it was a small, private study, lined with shelves of books, slates and wafers. There was a desk, and a leather suspensor chair.

  She turned her head slowly, feeling around. A particular density in the third drawer down on the left side of the desk.

  The drawer's lock was significantly more complex than those of the other seven drawers. It refused to pop with a simple, blunt thought-thrust. She was forced to analyse it, component by component, comparing and matching tumblers and pins. The intense mental effort made her perspire. Finally, with a triumphant blink, she turned the last drum and heard the lock click.

  Kys reached out a hand and started to slide the drawer open. She saw three, small red-tissue packets lying on top of several envelopes.

  She heard a door handle turn. She slammed the drawer shut
and dashed back into the public apartment, taking a seat by the heavy, leaded window just before Sonsal came in.

  "My dear, are you all right? You look slightly flushed."

  "I'm fine," she said. He was coming towards her. She saw that, in her haste, she had not pulled the panel door into the study fully shut. Another step, and he would see it.

  "Just a little warm," she smiled, standing up quickly and undoing the top four clasps of her dark brown bodysuit. His hungry attention was immediately focused on the exposed V of white skin. Kys took advantage of his distraction and hooked her mind around the lip of the panel door, snapping it flush.

  "Dinner is served," he said. "Shall we?"

  The food was excellent. Little bowls of spiced goshran, followed by stuffed pettifowls that had been imported from off-world, then a kuberry sorbet wrapped in a parchment of filo pastry. The sommelier kept their glasses filled with a series of fine wines that matched each course to perfection. When Sonsal wasn't looking, Kys glanded an antioxidant to keep her head clear. His conversation was poor. He kept telling her about the various vintages, how difficult some had been to procure, how hard it was to import decent pettifowl these days, the secret of the spices that made the difference between good goshran and great goshran. He wanted to impress, and like many wealthy, empty men, his conspicuous wealth was the only thing he could think of using.

  She nodded and smiled, and hung on his every word through sheer force of will. Her act was working. They both drank too much, but where she was glanded against it, he became loose-tongued and over-familiar. Gently, she mind-stirred the air-molecules around him, heating him up and making him sweat. Then she started to custom-build her own pheromones to suit his very-readable templates, and steer them towards him. By the end of the meal, he was intoxicated in more ways than one.

  He ordered the sommelier to pour them a large amasec each, and then dismissed him and all the serving staff.

  Sonsal raised his glass, dabbing his sweaty neck with his other hand. "My dear Patience," he said. "This evening has been a delight. The entire day too. I have placed my purchases in the vault. Perhaps we could go and admire them later? I have some other pieces you might find most enchanting."

  "That would be nice," she smiled.

  "I want to thank you again," he said.

  "Please, Umberto. There's no need. This fine meal has been more than enough. You're spoiling me."

  "Impossible!" he declared. "Nothing could spoil a woman of such infinite beauty."

  "Umberto, you will turn my head with such compliments."

  "Such a fine head. Of such infinite beauty," he said, getting up badly and sloshing his drink.

  She kept a smile on her face, but watched him carefully.

  "How is your amasec, Patience? It's forty year-old Zukanac, from the mountains of Onzio."

  "It is wonderful, but I fear I have drunk too much already. Any more, and I might forget myself."

  He leered.

  "My tolerance for good drink is low these days," she continued. "It dulls the senses, don't you find? I have travelled widely, and know there are other intoxicants that freshen and clear the mind most wonderfully. Sadly none are available on such a proper world as Eustis Majoris."

  He considered this for a moment. "You never did tell me what you do," he said.

  "I have a modest, private income. I travel. I explore. It is most... liberating."

  He nodded knowingly. "Then you are open to experiences. How delightful. Set your amasec aside, Patience. I have something else you might enjoy."

  He walked unsteadily over to the hidden panel door, opened it and disappeared for a moment. When he came back, he was cupping something in his hand. "I think you'll find Eustis Majoris is less proper than you thought. This will clear our heads. It will relax and refresh us. So that we might enjoy the rest of this perfect night."

  Kys made sure the smile she gave him showed nothing but total approval of that prospect.

  Two, small hard shapes, each one wrapped in red tissue paper. He led her by the hand over to a chaise and set the red parcels down on the lacquered top of the low table nearby.

  Then he kissed her.

  "What are these?" she asked. It had taken a great deal of resolve to accept the kiss and not kill him with a sternum punch.

  "They are flects. Have you heard of them?"

  "No," she said. "Umberto, I thought you might have been talking about obscura or lucidia."

  "Obscura is far too addictive and debilitating for a man of my station," he said, sitting down beside her. "And lucidia is too coarse. It has an unpleasant low, I find."

  "These flects then... what are they?"

  "Like nothing else. Wonderful. Liberating. New. You will not be disappointed."

  He began to unwrap one, slowly teasing out the tissue paper.

  "Where do they come from?" she asked. He shrugged. "I mean, how do you come by them?"

  He finished his amasec and set the glass down. "I have a contact. A fellow who provides. It is very unofficial. Now then-"

  She reached out a hand and set it on his. Then she leaned forward so her mouth was very close to his ear. "There's something you should know, Umberto," she said.

  "What... what is that?"

  "I am an agent of the Imperial Inquisition, and you are in very big trouble indeed."

  Sonsal started to cry. Sobbing at first, then deep bellows of despair woven up with anger. He curled up on the chaise like a child, kicking his feet.

  "Shut up," she said.

  His weeping became so loud, the apartment door opened, and a houseman peered in.

  "Go away," Kys said, slamming the door shut with a stem blink.

  "Please! Please!" Sonsal sobbed.

  "Shut up. I won't lie. This is not good for you."

  "My office! I will be disgraced... sacked! Oh, God-Emperor, my life is at an end!"

  She stood facing him. "Disgrace? Yes, most likely. An end to your illustrious career with Engine Imperial? I should think so. A prison term, with hard labour? You can probably bet on that. But if you think this is the end of your life, you are sadly mistaken. You have no idea how bad life can get before it ends. Trust me."

  "P-please!"

  "Umberto? Are you listening to me? Umberto?"

  "Yes?"

  "Stop sobbing and pull yourself together, or I'll introduce you to the nine principles of real pain. You believe me when I say I can do that, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." She crouched down facing him, and he shrank away, wiping snot from his nose, his eyes puffy and red. His scale lorications had partially extended across his face, triggered by his weeping. "You are in the hands of the Inquisition now, Umberto Sonsal. It requires information from you. Your real fate depends upon the fullness of your answers."

  Sniffing, he sat up. "H-how do I know you're not lying?"

  She reached into her thigh pocket and fished out the rosette.

  "See?"

  He started to cry again.

  "Oh, shut up! Umberto, picture the near future... the many possible near futures. On one extreme, I walk out of this room and leave you here to get on with your empty, privileged life. You never see me again, and the Inquisition never comes to your door. To reach that future, you have to answer every question I ask you to my satisfaction."

  "All right..."

  "Here's the other extreme. You answer badly. I kill you, here and now, and drop your fat corpse into the river."

  His lip began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears again. She could tell he was fighting hard to stay in control. As hard as she had done to pretend to like him.

  "In between those extremes, there is the future where I expose you, drag you to the marshals, get you charged and locked up and generally ruin the rest of your miserable frigging existence."

  "I understand."

  "And there's one final extreme. An extreme extreme. Far worse than me just killing you and dumping your corpse. I call my superiors and they take
you away. What happens to you after that is, I can assure you, far worse than a quick death. So... which future do you like the look of best?"

  "The one where you walk away."

  "Good. Who is your dealer?"

  Sonsal rocked back on the couch. "He'll kill me," he said.

  "Futures, Umberto, extremes..."

  "All right! His name is Drase Bazarof."

  "And who is that?"

  "One of my line chiefs at Engine. He's sink-scum. But he knows people."

  "Where does he live?"

  "I don't know! A sink-stack somewhere! I don't socialise with scum like that!"

  "But his residence will be logged on your personnel manifest, right?"

  "I suppose so."

  "We'll look in a moment," she said. She walked over to the dining table and took a slug of her amasec. "Who does he supply? Besides you?"

  "He keeps his business out of the workplace except for me. The machine guild inspects our premises so often. But he's said things to me about his stack. He sells there, I think."

  "He has a supplier. I mean, he must get these things from somewhere. He doesn't make them."

  "I have no idea who. You'll have to ask him."

  "I will. Calm down, Umberto. You're quaking like a leaf."

  "I'm scared. I'm scared of you. I'm jumpy. Would it be all right if I just used this look to calm my nerves and-"

  "You're kidding, aren't you?"

  He hung his head and gazed at the tiled floor.

  "Where's your manifest?" she asked.

  Sonsal accessed his work database using a codifier in the corner of the apartment. His hands were shaking. The codifier was a curved valve screen set over an intricate mechanism of brass tubes and wires. The enamel keys of the touchboard had long, stiff arms.

  Sonsal pulled up the Engine Imperial info-strata, opened the various document files with his personal codes, and decompressed the manifest. Then he left her to read it and wandered back to the couch shakily.