Serpents of Ardemis - Mike Brooks

  Contents

  Cover

  Serpents of Ardemis – Mike Brooks

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Rites of Passage’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  Serpents of Ardemis

  by Mike Brooks

  ‘I never tire of this sight, Chetta,’ said Azariel.

  Lady Chettamandey of the Navigator House Brobantis made her way to her husband’s side. She did so slowly, for her hip pained her, and she relied on her trusty cane of blackened tachydon ivory for support.

  ‘Neither do I,’ she agreed, looking out at the vista spread below them. ‘Ardemis is a beautiful planet.’

  They were standing in the main viewing gallery of the Solarox, the flagship of the Novator of House Brobantis. Azariel had held that rank for twenty years, ever since his father had died, and he’d swiftly carved out a reputation as a skilled diplomat and a fearsome political enemy. Chetta had been by his side for decades, and they’d created two children together; although not without difficulty, since Navigator genetics were a tangle of uncertainty and unexpected mutation at the best of times. Now they focused their energies on building a legacy for their children to inherit.

  And serving the Imperium. That, of course, went without saying.

  ‘No withering remark?’ Azariel said jovially. ‘No scorn? If I didn’t know better, I would have said that you were growing soft.’

  ‘I am not incapable of appreciating beauty when I see it,’ Chetta snapped. ‘My issue is that people too often confuse “beauty” with “something they have worked hard on”. This, on the other hand…’ She gestured towards Ardemis. It was truly a jewel hanging in space: a world primarily of ocean blue, glittering under the benign light of its local star and dotted with the verdant green specks of islands and archipelagos, with the single main continent lurking in the south. Even from orbit, Chetta could see the streaks of cloud trailing from the island mountaintops, and in the shallows she could make out the sweeping, pale shapes of the subsurface reefs created by millions of tiny life forms. And in the midst of one such reef…

  ‘Is that the Glasswater?’ she asked, pointing at a glinting speck of light.

  ‘It could well be,’ Azariel agreed, squinting. His human eyes were not so keen as hers, although the third eye in his forehead had lost none of its potency. That, however, would not be used unless he was guiding a starship through the swirling void of the immaterium, and as Novator, the need would have to be dire indeed for him to deign to bring his considerable ability to bear.

  The vox chimed gently. ‘High lord, high lady – Governor Zellanin’s factor has given clearance to approach. Your shuttle is ready.’

  ‘Thank you, Anja,’ Azariel replied to the ship’s captain. He extended his arm to Chetta. ‘Just remember, my dear – the beauty of Ardemis conceals all manner of dangers.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Chetta replied, ignoring his arm and turning away to stump towards the turbo lifts. ‘Us, for starters.’

  The skimmer flew low over the waves, its anti-grav motors kicking up a fine spray that was whipped away by the gentle tropical breeze. It was a sleek craft shaped like the local water vessels, with a keen prow and narrow hull. It bore little resemblance to the usual blunt-nosed Imperial vehicles, and in fact more than anything else it reminded Chetta of the aeldari spacecraft she’d seen battle against when serving as Navigator in the Pacificum Fleet. The likeness made her uneasy, although it didn’t seem to have any effect on Azariel. Her husband had always had a keen interest in the aeldari – one which he assured Chetta was purely scholarly, even down to the various artefacts he’d quietly collected.

  Chetta didn’t care. The damned things had nearly killed her when they’d gutted the Blade of Macaroth. So far as she was concerned, they and everything they’d ever built or made could burn.

  Ahead of her, however, was something far more impressive than any skimmer. Rising out of the waves was the Glasswater, the floating palace of Baron Archetuch Zellanin, governor of the Ardemis System.

  It was a titanic structure, covering a considerably greater surface area than the main palace of House Brobantis on Vorlese, although it did not rise nearly so high into the sky. Most of its hull was strengthened crystalflex, allowing passengers to go below decks and view the beauty of the reefs, and the fascinating xenoforms that inhabited them.

  ‘Look,’ Azariel murmured, touching her arm. Chetta followed the pointing finger of his other hand and saw a grey-and-blue-scaled back breaching the surface of the ocean for a moment before it slipped back into the depths.

  ‘A great serpent,’ Azariel said. ‘The local superstition is that to see one is an omen of good fortune.’

  ‘Assuming it doesn’t eat you, I take it,’ Chetta grunted.

  Azariel shrugged. ‘The locals consider it the best way to die.’

  ‘Well, I cannot be having with such foolishness,’ Chetta said shortly. ‘And I shall tell a serpent so, should the need arise.’

  The skimmer’s pilot aimed for a small, dark hole in the Glasswater’s flank which, as they approached and scale became truly apparent, yawned wider until it was more than ample to accommodate their small craft. The pilot killed the engines and glided in, then braked with expert nudges of the retro thrusters to bring the vessel to a smooth halt alongside an internal dock, on which stood the welcoming party.

  ‘High lord, high lady,’ trilled the foremost man, as he made a bow. ‘We are so very honoured by your presence. I am Goodsire Tang, aide to his honour, the baron. Please, come aboard.’

  Chetta eyed Tang as Azariel took the step from skimmer to dock in one stride of his long, thin legs. The aide was a slim man in form-fitting crimson livery, with a wispy moustache, and short dark hair that stopped abruptly just below the tops of his ears, leaving the lower sides of his head and the nape of his neck bald. Chetta had seen fighting men before, and from his stance and physique, she would have wagered her favourite shuttle on this man being a bodyguard as well as an aide.

  Chetta huffed her way cautiously along the short gangplank that had been set out, for where her husband was at the upper extremes of the human form in terms of height and limb length, her bloodline occupied the opposite end of the spectrum, being unusually short and stout. Such was the lot of the Navigator: the ability to stare into the warp and read it without having the sanity blasted from your mind threw up unintended and unavoidable genetic consequences. At least she didn’t have scales, or feathers, or completely lack human eyes.

  ‘Mamzel DuVoir is one of our chamberlains, and she will show you to your quarters,’ Tang continued, waving a hand at a dark-skinned young woman with patterns shaved into her short hair, and a collar of similarly patterned black metal around her throat.

  ‘High lord, high lady,’ DuVoir said, with a bow of her own. She gestured to the sleek, six-wheeled groundcar behind her, which bore Baron Zellanin’s crest. ‘Your quarters are some distance, but we have provided transport, if it pleases you.’

  ‘It most certainly does,’ Chetta said with some relief, for her hip would not have relished a long walk. ‘My heartfelt thanks, young lady.’

  DuVoir flashed her a smile that contained gratitude and, Chetta thought, just a hint of surprise.

  The Baronial Ball took place every Terran year, and was the highlight of the social calendar across a dozen systems. However, there was much more at stake than just pointed gossip and the latest fashions.

  ‘I hear the KeWitts are making a serious bid for the outer system mining contracts,’ Chetta said knowingly,
over her flute of damassine.

  ‘Oh yes,’ nodded Colonel Arvashin. She had retired from active service two decades prior, and had since carved out a small but profitable niche manufacturing nicomoss cigars. Much of the nicomoss in question came from an agri world owned by House Brobantis, although due to various legal fronts and registered owners who might not technically exist, the colonel didn’t know that. ‘Lord Serranay sought an audience with the baron as soon as we got underway.’

  Chetta smiled. She had in fact been speculating about KeWitt, who’d been playing the Tarot cards close to his chest, but that was the nature of the ball. Everyone made their play for the various lucrative mining and production contracts on offer in the Ardemis System, seeking their turn with Baron Zellanin, who then awarded them as he saw fit. The process quite possibly allowed for easy bribery, but in Chetta’s opinion the baron just liked the excuse to throw an enormous party, get feted by some of the more important figures in the Imperium, and show off his home.

  ‘And the inner planet, Crona?’ Chetta asked innocently. ‘I hear some very interesting compounds can be extracted from its foliage.’

  Arvashin’s face went quite still. ‘Oh, it’s a death world. The cost of replacing the workforce alone would swallow any profit.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Chetta said. ‘Good luck to whoever tries it!’

  ‘Indeed,’ Arvashin agreed, with a slightly forced laugh. Her face brightened more genuinely as a group of three arrived and began helping themselves to the pastries next to which she and Chetta were standing. ‘Ah, Lord KeWitt! We were just talking about you!’

  Serranay KeWitt was himself a Novator, but whereas Azariel dressed in sober, severe suits, where the quality of the tailoring was apparent only to those who recognised the sheer opulence of the fabrics used, Lord KeWitt favoured flowing robes in silver-trimmed purple, with a solid silver half-mask that covered his face from the cheeks up, leaving only two holes for his human eyes. The line of his jaw was strong and both his visible skin and his physique fell well within the realms of human normality, so his lineage was not immediately apparent. If he removed his mask and opened his pineal eye, however, any normal humans unlucky enough to meet its gaze would quickly lose their minds as they stared into the horrors of the warp that were reflected in its depths.

  ‘Were you, indeed?’ KeWitt said with interest. His voice was a pleasant baritone, and unaccountably put Chetta in mind of honey-laced amasec. ‘And what did I do to attract the attention of two such fascinating ladies?’

  ‘The colonel was telling me about your bid for the outer system mining contracts,’ Chetta said bluntly. ‘It’s an area of interest for you, then?’ She tried to make her tone of voice as bored as possible, as though it were meaningless small talk to her.

  ‘What about this system isn’t interesting?’ KeWitt responded. Behind him a young man, one of the two people who’d accompanied him over, rolled his eyes. ‘The reefs of this planet alone could occupy an entire clade of magi biologis for years. People talk of the serpents, and I’ll grant you that they’re impressive, but some of the microorganisms–’

  ‘How dare you?!’ the young man demanded, addressing a servant with a tray of glasses and momentarily drowning out the beginning of Lord KeWitt’s zoology lecture.

  ‘Your lordship?’ the servant asked, wide-eyed. Chetta recognised that expression: it belonged to someone who’d realised that someone far more powerful than them had decided they’d made a mistake, and that they could do nothing to stop what was coming.

  ‘Do you know what this means?’ the young man demanded, pointing at the turquoise sash he wore from his right shoulder to his left hip. ‘Well?’

  The servant gaped. ‘I…’

  ‘It means,’ the young man continued, ‘that I am a viscount of Stregalia! And you presume to offer me a tray of drinks with your left hand?’

  Chetta frowned. Stregalia was a small system, some way from Ardemis, with no customs she was aware of about the etiquette of offering drinks to its minor nobility with one hand or the other.

  ‘Outrageous!’ Colonel Arvashin snorted, turning on the servant the full power of a disapproving expression that used to quell mess hall fights in seconds.

  The other of KeWitt’s companions, a lady in a dress that appeared at least eighty per cent black ruffles, actually reached out and tipped the tray. The glasses fell to the floor and shattered, spilling alcohol and shards of crystal everywhere. Heads turned nearby as the ugly sound rang out above the gentle music, and the servant found themselves the centre of attention.

  ‘Careless,’ the true culprit tutted. ‘That will come out of your wages, I’m sure.’ She sniffed. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to clean that up?’

  Chetta ground her teeth. KeWitt had stopped talking in favour of swivelling on the spot to sniff disapprovingly at the poor servant, who was positively wilting.

  ‘No,’ Chetta snapped, ‘they won’t.’ She stumped past KeWitt and placed one arm around the servant’s shoulder, turning them away from their antagonist. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Anagy, milady.’

  ‘Well, Anagy, you go and find a different part of the hall to serve, and if anyone takes issue with that then you send them to speak to me, do you understand?’

  Anagy nodded, hope warring with fear in their eyes.

  ‘Good,’ Chetta said. ‘Now, off you go. I’ll find someone to take care of this mess.’ Anagy hastened away, not looking back in case it was all just a cruel trick. Smart thinking, in Chetta’s opinion.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Chetta turned slowly and deliberately, partly to annoy the speaker but also to make sure she didn’t slip in the gradually widening puddle of alcohol, and stared up into the narrow, angry face of the ruffled woman.

  ‘Do you know,’ the ruffled woman demanded, mainly through her nose, ‘who I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ Chetta said.

  Eyebrows rose triumphantly. ‘Well then–’

  ‘I said I knew, not that I cared,’ Chetta cut her off. ‘You’re Ganalyn Furova, the third daughter of her eminence Heda Furova of Naila Prime. You’re disowned and, the last I heard, damned near financially bankrupt. Morally, of course,’ she continued into Ganalyn’s increasingly horrified expression, ‘you were bankrupt long ago. I have absolutely no interest in your opinion.’

  ‘You’re disowned…?’ the viscount said, unconsciously taking a step away from Ganalyn.

  ‘And you,’ Chetta said, waving her finger under his suddenly alarmed nose. ‘Making up a reason to pick on a servant, just to avoid getting bored by the lord you’ve been toadying around? I’d slap you with my left hand, if I wasn’t worried about disinfecting it afterwards.’

  The viscount’s nervous glance at Lord KeWitt wasn’t exactly an admission of guilt, but it was very close to one.

  ‘And colonel!’ Chetta continued, rounding on Arvashin. ‘I remember when you referred to Imperial nobility as “a bunch of lily-fingered popinjays who couldn’t find their arses with both hands and an auspex”! But now you’ll side with these bullies, and watch a governor’s daughter humiliate someone because she feels like it?’

  Arvashin’s lips tightened so much they practically disappeared. ‘That conversation happened when we were drunk–’ she began, her voice quavering with suppressed anger.

  ‘When you were drunk,’ Chetta corrected her. ‘I’d expected the fighting women of the Galladian Ninth to hold their liquor better, in all honesty. And Lord KeWitt,’ she finished, turning to her fellow Navigator.

  ‘And what buried secret from my past are you going to unearth to discomfort me, Lady Brobantis?’ he purred.

  ‘None,’ Chetta told him. ‘I simply wish you to know that I agree with the young viscount over there – you have an entrancing voice, Serranay, but you are utterly dull. Good evening to you.’

  She turned and stumped away from them,
circumnavigating the dance floor towards the whole roast grox that occupied a table on the far side. As she did so, she touched her comm-bead, which was disguised as an earring.

  ‘What is it?’ Azariel’s voice asked her. ‘Was that glass I heard breaking, or just you shattering someone’s dreams?’

  ‘A little of both,’ Chetta grunted under her breath. ‘Arvashin’s bidding for the Crona contract – she practically froze when I mentioned it. For someone who can face down a hive fleet bioform without flinching, she’s got no nerve for trade.’

  ‘Good. We can outbid her easily, so long as we know to do so.’

  ‘And the KeWitts are definitely going for the outer system,’ Chetta continued. ‘Arvashin tried to head me off from her own intentions by dropping me in it with Serranay, and I’ve never seen anyone dissemble so fast. He had a complete biological spiel prepared, just to avoid talking about the asteroid belt.’

  ‘That’s more concerning. They could match us. We’ll need more details – he could even be luring us in to make us commit resources to a big bid on something he’s not going for at all. Any chance that you can dig further?’

  ‘Not with Serranay,’ Chetta snorted. She picked up a plate. ‘I may have told him that he’s utterly dull.’

  ‘Chetta...’

  ‘I know, I know, but he is. Even if I’m sure that it’s partially on purpose.’ She tried to balance her plate in the same hand as the one that held her cane, but it wasn’t possible, so she looked up to attract the attention of a nearby servant. ‘Excuse me, would you mind?’

  ‘Of course, milady,’ he said with a smile, quickly and efficiently using tongs to deposit two pinkish slices of roast grox and a portion of sliced capsi roots onto Chetta’s plate.

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned away from the table and surveyed the dance floor. ‘Any luck at your end?’

  ‘I’ll get my audience with the baron the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Emperor save me,’ Chetta grunted. ‘I’m not sure I can stand making small talk for that long.’