[Ravenor 03] Ravenor Rogue - Dan Abnett Read online

  "I know."

  "Then what?"

  "I have to-"

  "No! No, no! Listen to me! I've thought about this a lot. I think it's... a blessing."

  "Please, Carl, don't try to turn this-"

  "Listen to me!" he hissed. She closed her mouth. "Sorry," he smiled. "I didn't mean to snap, but I really have thought about this. To begin with, it was a problem. A dirty, nasty secret. I thought I would die. All I wanted to be was free of it. Free of... Slyte."

  "Don't say that word."

  He shrugged. "Sorry. Again, sorry. Come closer."

  "No, Carl."

  "Come closer," he insisted, gesturing with his left hand. "I won't hurt you. I couldn't. That's the point. I'm not excusing my state, but what if it's more than just a curse?"

  "I don't know what you mean, Carl," she said, stepping slowly towards him and looking into his eyes. He was crying for real now. Tears ran down his pale cheeks.

  He held out his left hand to her and she took it. He pulled her, very gently, close to him. "What if this is a rare thing? Something we've never seen before? I have a daemon in me, but it is subdued. Imagine that! Subordinate to my will. I own its power, but I am not in its thrall. I can use its power."

  "You're fooling yourself." Kara whispered.

  "What if I'm not? What if I have the fury of a daemon at my disposal, the insight of the warp, but remain pure and true? What a transcendent asset would that be to mankind? What a miracle! Think of the secrets we could learn! I could be something our species has waited millennia for. A man with the mastery of daemons. A rational man with true insight into the warp. Kara, the Imperium would change. The warp would no longer threaten us as such an implacable-"

  "Carl! Carl, please! How many other men have thought the selfsame thing? Slow or fast, the warp is always poison. This is basic to our understanding. I applaud the fact you've kept it contained for so long, but you can't keep it in forever."

  "I don't want to keep it in. Kara, I feel, I really feel, that this is a momentous thing. A daemon slaved to order. An ancient enemy, turned against the darkness. You must give me more time."

  "No, Carl-"

  "More time! I can do this! I have mastered it and I can formulate that mastery so that others can do it too. We can change all creation, Kara. For the good of mankind, we can change thinking and change action, and banish forever our fear of the dark."

  "It's too late, Carl."

  He sighed. He bowed his head. "Throne, you're right," he said in a very quiet voice. "Of course you're right. I'm a fool. Forgive me for all of this. Forgive me for putting you in this situation. You're right."

  "Carl-"

  "I'll tell him. I'll tell him myself. Will you let me do that? Please?"

  "Of course."

  "I'll come clean. Make him understand it was me all along. I'll protect you. Just let me be the one to tell him."

  "All right. Yes. When?"

  "Tonight," Carl said. He smiled sadly. "Oh, Kara, the stuff you know."

  He pulled her close and they embraced in silence for a long time.

  "So, tonight?" he asked.

  "Tonight, what?"

  "That's when I'll tell him."

  "Tell who what?" she asked.

  "I'll tell Ravenor all about it."

  "About what?"

  "Now, you see?" he grinned. "Isn't that better?"

  She laughed. She wasn't sure why. "What were we talking about?"

  "Faith," he said.

  "Oh, yes."

  "Faith gives us purpose, and a mind without purpose will walk in dark places."

  "That sounds familiar. Is it a quote?"

  "I just made it up," Carl said.

  "We should go back. It's late," Kara said.

  "We should. I'm glad we had this talk, Kara. You were right to keep it private."

  He took her by the hand and led her towards the door.

  Patience Kys was standing in the doorway. "This is nice," she remarked.

  "What are you doing here?" Kara laughed.

  "I was looking for you both. Your comms are off."

  "Sorry," said Kara, adjusting her link.

  "How long have you been there?" Carl asked.

  "Long enough to wonder if Belknap should be worried." Kys replied.

  Kara laughed again. "Carl just wanted me to show him where I made devotion. I think there are stirrings of faith in our friend here."

  "Fancy," said Kys.

  "It's true, it's true," chuckled Carl. "I've grown slack of late, and I'll never make inquisitor without a good record of temple attendance. Kara was just guiding me. I needed a little spiritual focus."

  Patience Kys nodded. "Don't we all? There's been a development."

  "What kind of development?"

  "The kind you wouldn't believe, but Ravenor has to tell you himself. He'd hate me if I ruined his thunder."

  They walked towards the doorway. "What's that?" Kys asked.

  Several curls of bent metal lay on the chapel floor, beside the basin. Tiny bent scraps, like the remains of rings that had been split apart.

  "Just votive offerings," Carl said. He took Kara's hand in his, her left in his right, and led the way out of the chapel.

  There were no longer any rings on his right hand.

  EIGHT

  When they arrived back at the house, evening was falling and Envoy Myzard was just leaving. She stomped past them in the courtyard, flanked by two heavy weapons servitors, heading for her transport.

  "A good man you have there," she said to Thonius.

  "Ma'am?"

  "I've just been rendering my apologies to him. I won't underestimate him again. Get him back to Eustis, interrogator. Get him back on the job. His mind can be uncluttered now."

  As they walked up the steps into the house, they heard the engines of her transport growling as it trundled away.

  Nayl, Plyton, Belknap, Unwerth and the manhound Fyflank were waiting in the inner hall.

  Kara walked up to Belknap and kissed him.

  "What's going on?"

  "Where were you?"

  "At temple. What's going on?"

  "I'm not sure. But Molotch's dead."

  "What?"

  Impelled by a powerful mind, the double doors at the end of the hall opened and Ravenor glided in to face them.

  "Sir?" asked Thonius.

  "It's done. We're done," Ravenor said via his voxponder.

  "We're still leaving?" asked Nayl.

  "Yes, Harlon. We're still leaving, but we can leave happy that there are no more loose ends. Last night, three precincts away, Zygmunt Molotch was located, cornered and slain by Myzard's forces."

  There was a general commotion. Nayl smacked his raised palm against Kys'.

  "So, you were right?" Kara grinned.

  "I was right." Ravenor replied. "My hunch was correct. Molotch was here, just as I suspected. I'm only sorry it wasn't us who claimed him in the end."

  "The bastard's dead!" Nayl chuckled. He did a little dance that made Belknap and Plyton laugh.

  "I can't believe it," murmured Kys. "All this time, all this time, and now it's done."

  "It's over," said Ravenor. "We have no excuses anymore. Eustis Majoris awaits. I'd like us to leave tomorrow, as arranged."

  "Who got him?" asked Belknap. It was a good question, and Ravenor was surprised it was Belknap who asked it. The others fell silent.

  Ravenor had swung his chair away. Now he slowly turned to face them. "Ballack, it appears. It was bloody, at the end, so Myzard told me. There were losses."

  "Losses?" Nayl echoed. He suddenly had the most awful sense of premonition. He felt sick.

  "Fenx tracked him to a house of generation," said Ravenor slowly. His voxponder fumbled with the pace of his words. The monotone made it all the more horrible. "There was a fight. Molotch did for most of Fenx's people, then a stray shot ignited the volatiles and the place went up. Molotch's corpse was identified by gene-fix."

  "Glory!" Thoniu
s whistled.

  "Who... who died?" Nayl asked.

  "Fenx, Ballack, Claudel." Ravenor replied, "the ogryn, Mentator, the gun-hound woman, and the Carthaen, Angharad."

  "Dead?"

  "All of them."

  They were clearing out the house and making ready to head for the port on the transports. Ravenor had gone ahead, with Kys, Belknap and Kara. Sholto Unwerth and his manhound had left earlier that morning to light the ship's engines. Frauka was travelling with Zael in a secure buggy.

  Porters were rolling the last of the luggage out to the carriages. Carl Thonius stood in the yard, finalising their dealings with the tattooed letting agent. Harlon Nayl did a last circuit, checking the empty rooms one by one.

  "Harl?"

  "Hello?" Nayl stuck his head out of the vacant room he had been inspecting. Maud Plyton was jogging up the staircase. She had a piece of paper in her hand.

  "Message for you."

  "Message?"

  "Came in by closed vox about ten minutes ago. Last thing Carl fielded before he shut the system down."

  Nayl took the slip from her and opened it.

  "Problem?" Plyton asked.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Uh, the look on your face?"

  "No, no problem," he said. "Get going."

  Maud nodded and hurried away. He waited until she was gone, and then read the slip again.

  It was from an unrecorded source, anonymous.

  It read, "Spared by the genius."

  Nayl stared at it for a long time. Then he took out his link.

  PART TWO

  The Wych House of Utochre

  ONE

  The door is half open. The door is old and made of wood. A very ordinary old door in a very ordinary frame. It swings hack and forth slowly on its hinges, pushed and pulled by a wind that comes from neither side of the door, a wind that comes from somewhere else. The door is waiting...

  The factor's name was Stine. This piece of information emerged early on in what turned out to be over twenty minutes of loquacious preamble. Stine liked to talk. It was part of his performance.

  +Stick with it.+

  Every factor they had made approaches to (every factor in every hall in Berynth, most likely) had his own version of the performance, some variation of the mercantile courtship dance, the wooing of the customer. It was all part of the purchasing experience. Customers expected it.

  There would be a warm greeting, a guided stroll from the reception chamber into the factor's display rooms, an offer of refreshments and a steady, light flow of conversation leading to a more specific extolment of the merits and traditions of the hall the customer had chosen to patronise. Certain themes were developed by the factor, with practiced verbal skill, designed to snag in the customer's thoughts and stay there: luxury, exclusivity, quality. The customer was, after all, going to spend a great deal of currency.

  And the customer wasn't a customer. That was too coarse a term. He or she was an emptor. Just as the factor wasn't a salesman or a shopkeeper. There were standards of decorum in Berynth.

  +He's going on and on and on.+

  +Stick with it.+

  Stine had met her at reception. The hall stood at the northern end of the Promenade St. Jakob, an area of up-hive Berynth densely and famously packed with noted hall premises. The deep street-stacks outside were tiered with ouslite walkways and black iron railings, and strung with thimble lamps, a cavernously dark place of rising black towers, some of which grew up through the hive's great armoured roof like a sea urchin's thorns. He wore a patterned coat and a practiced smile. Reception was a wide, inviting vault panelled in varnished wood.

  Stine had bowed and led her back through the show galleries into the main chamber of display Pools of emerald light contained glass showcases in the gloom. The floor was panelled with bronze slabs, and centuries of footsteps had worn a bright patina pathway across them. There was a simple wooden desk, faced by some leather sofas, and he invited her to sit down. Stine talked all the way. His performance, it seemed, would be all about words. Some of the factors she had so far encountered favoured a discreet approach, or a humble one, or allowed the emptor to lead the conversation. He was prolix. He, said Stine, was the ninetieth Stine, uninterrupted, to serve in the post of factor for Stine and Stine's Hall. That was a legacy, a family business. Stines had been at Berynth for sixteen centuries. The hall was one of the oldest, their marks amongst the most noteworthy in the sector.

  "Here," said Stine, "you may admire the hall's marks, on this trinket." He held it up in front of a magnifying viewer for her to inspect. His hands were overly pale and well manicured, looming in the lens. The trinket had more pearls in it than some oceans. "The Stine mark."

  "I see it repeated, in stylised form, upon your doublet coat," the emptor remarked.

  Stine simpered, delighted that she should notice. He complimented her, extensively, on her eye and her intelligence.

  +I think he wants to marry me.+

  +Shush. Stick with it+

  Stine was very taken with this particular emptor: an elegant woman, well dressed, moneyed. Custom had been slack in the last few weeks, with few clients of note delivered by ferry ship to inspect the halls.

  This woman was something different. She had taste. She was beautiful, if you liked that kind of thing.

  He was telling her a little more about the business, about the fact that he was not as accomplished in the lapidary work as his many brothers, which is why he was the factor. He left the skilled lapidary to his kin, who could "assay and value", so he boasted, with their bare hands.

  But he sensed she was becoming bored. That happened. She had stopped sipping the amasec he had fetched out on a lacquered tray, and she no longer picked at the candied ginger in the little finger bowl. A good factor noticed these details. A good factor knew when to up the tempo and move the courtship towards the consummation of purchase.

  "Are you looking for a particular piece?" he asked, walking around the simple hardwood desk with its velvet panels. He took out his keys and opened the doors of the nearest plate glass displays. Recessed fans murmured in the invisible ceiling of the chamber of display. It was a comfortable twenty-two degrees, with the right amount of humidity and air-flow to keep emptors fresh and relaxed. Outside Berynth, it was a murderous sixty below.

  "I am," said the emptor, sitting back on one of the leather sofas and crossing her long legs. "Or rather, a particular piece for a particular purpose. A society wedding on Gudrun. I won't use names-"

  "Of course not!" the factor said with a bow.

  The emptor smiled. "But the match involves some people of influence. Of blood."

  "I understand."

  "The son of a governor subsector."

  "My word!"

  +Oh, try to stay in the realms of reality, please!+

  "Shut up."

  "Pardon?" asked the factor with a slightly bewitched blink.

  "Nothing. I said, my niece... the bride... deserves something special."

  The factor bowed again. "I do understand. And, if I may make so bold, financially...?"

  He let the deadly word hang.

  She shrugged. "Nothing less than a quarter million," she said mildly.

  For the third time, he bowed. "Oh, ma'am. I have a few trinkets that may well please your eye and your taste."

  +I think I just made him very happy.+

  +Well, that's all he's getting. I'm not paying for a quarter million crowns' worth of anything.+

  +Except information?+

  +Except that.+

  She kept her grin fixed. Oblivious, the factor began to lift red satin trays out of the display cases. Several servitors appeared from the shadows, took each tray as he lifted them out, and brought them over to her, holding them so as to display them. The servitors were old and worn, but of great mechanical quality. She realised that the hall cultivated a slightly worn, slightly Spartan feel, so that the pieces would glow by comparison. It was all very clever, very judg
ed.

  "A design for the throat is always appreciated. These on the first trays are allochromatic zalachite, with red gold. I have them in diamond too. Cabochon cut is usually preferred."

  "They're delicious."

  "Or a jewel setting for the brow? Sapphire, with opal and signet. Black silver or chased adamite are very sought after."

  "This one is nice," the emptor said.

  The factor came over, lifting the piece from its tray with a midwife's care. The jewels shone in the light. The lights above the desk were well placed to make jewels scintillate at that particular point in the chamber.

  "The chrysoberyl? Yes, a favourite of mine. Note the glorious asterism. Would you like...?" he asked, holding it up.

  "Please."

  "Glass!" the factor called, and other servitors hurried forward, holding up looking glasses all around the client. The factor placed the necklace around the emptor's throat and fastened it.

  She admired herself.

  "Has she your colouring?"

  "I am somewhat paler than my niece," the emptor said.

  "Then something with cygate or quofire? Tourmaline, perhaps? I have a pendaloque-cut tourmaline with the most stunning dichroic properties."

  "You know your business, sir."

  She tried on three or four more pieces. The servitors held the looking glasses perfectly still.

  "I worry," she said, at length, "this is a nuptial gift. It should be for the groom as much as the bride. He is my brother's son, after all."

  The factor paused. "And the bride is your niece?"

  "Did I say that?"

  +You said that.+

  "You said that, I'm sure."

  "By marriage, I mean. You know how it is, in the dynastic melee that is court life."

  "Court... life?"

  "Yes," she replied.

  +Did I get away with that?+

  +He's too awestruck to notice. Play up the court thing. He thinks you're anonymous nobility.+