Anarch - Dan Abnett Page 11

  At the far end, just inside the hatch, Lord General Barthol Van Voytz was waiting. There was a wet semi-circle on the floor at the hatch sill where the wind was blowing the rain in. Van Voytz had put on his finest uniform, the breast ribboned with medals. Accompanying him were a dozen other senior officers and adepts and a phalanx of heavy Urdeshi storm troops. Gaunt recognised their leader, Kazader of the 17th.

  The storm troops were set either side of the hatch, rigidly at attention with weapons presented. They were as immobile as granite. Kazader matched their pose, but Gaunt could tell Kazader was watching him approach out of the corners of his eyes. Kazader was one of Van Voytz’s inner circle. There was bad feeling there.

  Van Voytz turned as Gaunt came up, and the party of officers turned with him. All snapped a salute in unison. Van Voytz’s salute was a nanosecond slower than the rest. It wasn’t because Barthol was an older man, Gaunt thought. He wasn’t slow. That tiny delay was micro-aggression. A way of showing his resentment without being directly insubordinate.

  Gaunt returned the salute.

  ‘At ease,’ he said. ‘The Emperor protects.’

  Van Voytz stepped closer, making a respectful head-bow with a smile on his face. All for show.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, like an old friend.

  He held out his hand, and Gaunt shook it. Like we’re all pals together, he thought. No grudge, no bitterness. He wants to stay relevant inside high command, and if that means making a show of friendship to a man who blocked his plans, a man whom he once regularly sent to do death’s work…

  Gaunt smiled. The informality of the handshake wasn’t for his benefit. It wasn’t a gesture of reconciliation. It was for the officers looking on. Look at me. I am Van Voytz, the old wardog. I am so tight with the Lord Executor, I get to bypass protocol and shake his hand.

  ‘Has the transport arrived?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘It touched down some minutes ago,’ said Van Voytz, ‘but no one has yet emerged.’ Gaunt noted how Van Voytz avoided the honorific of ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’, yet could not bring himself to risk an ‘Ibram’.

  ‘Awaiting security clearance from the war room,’ said Gaunt.

  Van Voytz nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.

  ‘Then we have a moment, Barthol,’ said Gaunt, drawing him to one side. Van Voytz went with him eagerly, but his expression was tight.

  ‘There’s bad blood between us, Barthol,’ Gaunt said quietly.

  ‘Not at all, not at all…’

  ‘We need to work together, Barthol,’ said Gaunt firmly. ‘This is a precarious time. High command needs to be of one mind and one purpose. So don’t deny it. There’s bad blood here.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And there always has been.’

  Van Voytz looked both shocked and pained. ‘Now, sir–’

  ‘Since Jago, and there’s a lesson there. I learned it the hard way. Duty and service over friendship. My duty was to your command then, and it was what it was. I see a bigger picture that you always urged me to appreciate. Now your duty is to me. Our roles are reversed. It’s uncomfortable for you, but at least I’m not sending you into a killing ground.’

  Van Voytz cleared his throat, and sagged slightly.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ he replied.

  ‘You were on the path to disgrace, Barthol. Macaroth wanted your head on a stick.’

  ‘I was merely putting the safety of the crusade first–’

  ‘I know. I know that. Which is why I talked the Old Man down, and found you a staff position that allowed you to retain your rank and privileges. No direct command, I know, but that may come in time.’

  ‘If I behave myself,’ rumbled Van Voytz.

  ‘Feth’s sake, it could have been an outworld command for you. The arse-end of everywhere. Or a penal regiment. I covered your back because I know you’re a fine officer. Don’t piss on that respect. What took place in the command chamber–’

  ‘You don’t have to explain yourself, Ibram,’ Van Voytz said with a long sigh.

  ‘I don’t. And I won’t,’ said Gaunt. ‘I drew you aside to tell you that I don’t have to explain myself. Do we have an understanding?’

  Van Voytz nodded. He saw the look in Gaunt’s eyes, steel-cold eyes that Van Voytz’s orders had cursed Gaunt with a long time before.

  He straightened up and saluted.

  ‘We do, my lord,’ he said.

  Gaunt looked back at the hatch. The rain was still falling.

  ‘Someone check on the transport,’ he said. Sancto made to move, but Kazader sternly broke line, held up a hand to halt the Scion, and strode out into the rain.

  ‘And keep him in check too, Barthol,’ Gaunt murmured sidelong to Van Voytz. ‘He’s got a bigger streak of resentment in him than you have.’

  ‘Kazader’s good Guard,’ Van Voytz replied. ‘He’s got the makings of a high career. A generalship in a few years. In fact, I dare say, he reminds me of you.’

  ‘Exactly my point,’ said Gaunt.

  Gaunt returned to his escort.

  ‘This is peculiar,’ said Laksheema.

  ‘You’ll find that a lot as far as she’s concerned,’ Gaunt replied. He glanced at Kolea. Gol looked tense and fidgety.

  ‘Gol?’

  Kolea shrugged. ‘She’s not out there, sir,’ he said. He nodded towards an anteroom adjoining the hall.

  ‘Really?’ asked Gaunt.

  Kolea shrugged again.

  ‘Come with me,’ Gaunt said. ‘Stay here,’ he added firmly to the others.

  The pair crossed to the side door. Gaunt saw a single raindrop glinting on the gold handle.

  He opened the door. The shifting air shivered the hundred candle flames burning in the anteroom. It was dark, like twilight, but Gaunt’s eyes automatically reset.

  She was standing in the centre of the room. She turned to face him, and lowered the hood of her simple woollen cloak. Her combat boots and fatigues were equally worn and filthy, and the silver breastplate she wore – part of an articulated, Urdeshi-made combat carapace that also covered her arms and upper thighs – was chipped and tarnished. The only things that shone were the pommel of the sword sheathed on her left hip, the gold grip of the autopistol holstered on her right, and – somehow – her face.

  Gaunt dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.

  She stepped forward, took his hand, and raised him back up.

  ‘Ibram,’ she said. ‘Lord Executor.’

  ‘Beati,’ he replied. ‘We were attending upon you without.’

  ‘I require no formality,’ she said.

  ‘The warmaster sends his apologies that he could not greet you in person–’

  ‘Again, no formality.’

  ‘There will be feasting and ceremonies in due course,’ said Gaunt. ‘Once the crisis is behind us–’

  ‘And I will endure them. For now, there’s work to be done.’

  She was small. She looked up into his eyes. It seemed she had not changed. Perhaps a fleck of grey in her short black hair. She looked like the Esholi girl he had first met on Herodor. Sanian. The green eyes had not altered.

  Her presence had. The room felt charged, as if some powerful electric or magnetic force had been loosed upon it. There was a faint scent of islumbine.

  ‘It has been a long while for us,’ she said. ‘Our paths have diverged, now they come together again.’

  ‘I hope there is a purpose to that reunion,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Yes. To bear witness to victory. The Anarch is broken.’

  ‘He fights on.’

  ‘And so he is at his most dangerous. Together we will prevail, for the Throne. I faced him. He set a trap for me, but I confounded it and I hurt him.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘After Ghereppan. We broke his malicious efforts there. S
hattered them and shattered his control of the field. Immediately, I pushed on into Oureppan, believing it to be his stronghold. It was headstrong, I suppose. But there was such a chance. Not just to vanquish him on the field of war and drive his forces to rout, but to finish him.’

  Gaunt realised she looked very tired. She had come to Eltath directly from the heat of combat. She had not taken time to rest or clear her mind. He wondered how inexhaustible her divine strength really was.

  ‘I led an assault on the Pinnacle Spire at Oureppan early yesterday. It was a trap laid for me. A warp snare. But it failed. He fled. His ship was as damaged as he was. He has hidden to heal his wounds.’

  ‘But he’s close?’

  ‘Too close. Our focus shifts here now. The last part of this business.’

  ‘Your forces?’

  ‘Are moving up country. I have left good people in charge. Ghereppan is secured. Oureppan will be by tomorrow. The brigades that stood with me there are now driving the Archenemy out of Lartane and the Northern Claves. They will be with us in, perhaps, ten days. I wanted to lead them in person, but the warmaster summoned me.’

  ‘And you came.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gaunt became aware that there were others in the room. Two Guard soldiers, standing outside the ring of candles. They had assault weapons braced and ready across their chests. One was a small woman with an angular face and glossy dark hair. She wore the black-and-mulberry long coat of the Jovani Vanguard, and Gaunt noticed the insignia of the Collegia Tactica on her collar. The other was a man, his simple battle dress dark and ragged.

  For a moment, Gaunt thought–

  The Beati turned, and gestured to them to stand down. ‘My seconds,’ she said to Gaunt. ‘Captain Auerben and Major Sariadzi. All the rest of my chosen people are with the main force moving north.’

  The pair put up their weapons, and saluted, the simple salute of troops who were weary from the field and who had seen everything. They had marched with the Saint. A Lord Executor was nothing impressive.

  ‘My lord,’ they both said.

  Gaunt took their salute.

  ‘You remember my officer, Major Kolea–’ he began.

  The Beati had already turned to Kolea with a bright smile.

  ‘Gol,’ she said.

  He tried to bow again, but she took his wrists and kept him on his feet.

  ‘It is good to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Is it?’ asked Gaunt.

  She glanced at him sideways with a quizzical smile.

  ‘I crave your indulgence for a moment, Beati,’ Gaunt said. He pulled open the anteroom door and called out into the reception hall.

  ‘Inquisitor?’

  Laksheema strode in, followed by Grae. Gaunt closed the door in the faces of Van Voytz and anyone else following.

  Grae and Laksheema stared at the Beati for a moment, as if surprised at the sight of her. It took a second for them to register the magnitude of her presence and see she was much more than a scruffy girl dressed like a gutter-trench auxiliary.

  Grae dropped to his knee. Laksheema bowed respectfully. Gaunt saw an involuntary tear welling in her eye.

  ‘Introductions can wait,’ Gaunt said. ‘Beati, I want you to vouch for this man, for Gol, in front of these people. Let them witness it.’

  ‘And if you can’t vouch for me,’ said Kolea, ‘then speak that truth too. Right here. Let it be over with.’

  The Beati frowned. She looked at Kolea with deep intent, as if she was seeing through him. He averted his eyes, flinching like a man waiting in a foxhole for a shell to fall.

  She stepped closer to him, uncoupling the cuff-lock of her carapace unit and removing the glove. With a bare hand, she reached up, and turned his face to look at her. She ran her fingers down his cheek, then traced lines up across his scalp, reading the map of his old scars beneath his hairline.

  ‘Know that I know this man,’ she said softly. ‘From Herodor. He has remarkable courage, but then so do many of the infamous Ghosts, not least their commander. But in Gol Kolea of Vervunhive, there is a singular strength. A fortitude I’ve seen in only one in every hundred thousand. In you, Sariadzi, that day on Caliber Beach.’

  Behind her, the solemn major blushed slightly.

  ‘And perhaps you, Auerben,’ she added. ‘We have not known each other long, but I sense your potential.’

  The woman laughed. The olive skin of her face was marked from collar to cheekbone by an old pyrochemical burn.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, my lady,’ said Auerben in a dry rasp.

  ‘This strength is something I yearn for,’ said the Beati. ‘It is… I can’t describe it. But those I choose to be close to me, those I make my seconds and my instruments, they all have it. And Gol Kolea was, I think, the first instrument I made.’

  The Beati looked at Laksheema.

  ‘You have doubts, lady,’ she said. ‘I see them in you. You are wary.’

  ‘Major Kolea’s reputation is formidable,’ said Laksheema, ‘but there are concerns that the Ruinous Powers have touched him. Made him a conduit…’

  The Beati shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘Well, the darkness has touched him. Burned him. Tormented him. But he is not of its part. The fortitude remains intact. You have no reason to mistrust him.’

  She withdrew her hand. Tears were streaming down Gol’s face.

  ‘I think that will be satisfactory,’ Gaunt said to Laksheema.

  The inquisitor paused.

  ‘I cannot question that verdict, my lord,’ she replied. She wiped the corner of her eye with her knuckle.

  ‘No apology offered?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘She should not apologise for doing her duty,’ said the Beati. She glanced at Laksheema. ‘But Major Kolea should now be taken into your circle of trust.’

  Laksheema nodded.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Gaunt told Laksheema and Grae. As they withdrew, he turned to Kolea.

  ‘Your mind at rest now?’ he asked.

  Kolea nodded.

  ‘Then go down. See to the company here. See your children.’

  Kolea nodded again. ‘Thank you–’ he began to say.

  Gaunt shook his head.

  ‘Get on with you,’ he said.

  Kolea smiled, rubbed his reddened eyes vigorously, and walked out.

  ‘There are things going on here,’ said the Beati. ‘For such great suspicions to exist, for such–’

  ‘There are,’ said Gaunt. ‘We need to talk. At length.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘I wondered,’ he said. ‘When you came here, I wondered who would be with you. I wondered if Brin–’

  She placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘Brin Milo has gone,’ she said gently. ‘I’m sorry, Ibram. He stood with me during the assault on Oureppan. Brave to the last. He, and many others, including a warrior you know. Holofurnace of the Iron Snakes. It was a hellish fight. We won the day and hurt the Anarch Magister, but they were lost in that struggle. Caught in the warp snare and never recovered.’

  The Beati gestured to Sariadzi, who stepped forward with a small bundle wrapped in a khaki ground sheet. She took it and handed it to Gaunt.

  ‘Just… yesterday?’ Gaunt asked. ‘Milo died yesterday? After all these years, and–’

  The Beati nodded. ‘I have not had time to rationalise the loss,’ she said quietly. ‘Brin stood at my side longer than any other. I will grieve when this war permits me space to do so.’

  She pressed Gaunt’s hands around the bundle.

  ‘I felt I should bring these for you,’ she said.

  Gaunt looked down, and slowly unwrapped the bundle. It was a set of Tanith pipes, old and worn, the same set Brin Milo had been playing the day Gaunt first met him.

  Eight: Deploymen
t

  ‘Well, Throne be blessed,’ said Blenner. ‘Major Kolea? Back from the dead?’

  ‘Back from somewhere,’ replied Kolea.

  ‘Well, welcome anyway,’ said Blenner. He offered up a little shrug, suggesting he was about to give Kolea a brotherly embrace, but Kolea looked distant. Blenner turned the shrug into a smoothing of his tunic, as if that’s all he had intended to do in the first place. ‘Welcome to our new home.’

  Kolea glanced around. Blenner was the first person he had encountered since descending to the undercroft.

  ‘Temporary home,’ he said. ‘Our homes are always temporary.’

  ‘Well, that’s indeed the truth of it,’ Blenner replied cheerfully. ‘Ever marching on, no bed to call our own. But this is better than some. I recall a billet on Sorclore where the lice, I tell you–’

  ‘What’s the smell?’ asked Kolea.

  ‘Yes, there is a smell,’ said Blenner. ‘An aroma. Latrines, I gather. Backing up. It’s the fething weather.’

  Kolea glanced around at the whitewashed stonework. The overhead lamps ticked and flickered.

  ‘And the lights?’

  ‘Another maintenance issue, I gather.’

  ‘What are our numbers here?’ Kolea asked. ‘I was told two companies…’

  ‘Uhm, E Company and V Company, along with the retinue, of course.’

  ‘And they’re all accommodated? Needs met?’

  ‘Well, Major Baskevyl has that in hand. That and the maintenance issues. I gather–’

  ‘You gather?’ asked Kolea. ‘You seem to gather a lot, commissar, but nothing seems gathered to me. You must be one of the ranking officers here. Why aren’t you supporting Bask and getting things fixed?’

  Blenner looked stung. ‘I do what I can, major,’ he said, then added, ‘What they’ll let me do.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Blenner dropped his gaze and his voice. He seemed miserable. Four women from the retinue went past, carrying baskets of laundry. When Blenner spoke, it had an air of confidentiality.

  ‘Did you hear about Low Keen?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, briefly. Gendler and Wilder. And Ezra.’