Uprising, page 31
It felt familiar, as though long rehearsed.
The spear plunged into the sumpkroc through its open mouth, piercing the soft palate, the beast’s hunger and bloodlust causing the blade to drive deep into its brain.
The oar snapped and the dying beast slammed into her, driving the air from her lungs. She was flung from the raft, tumbling through the air like a broken toy. She saw the shadow swoop past, its tawny eyes meeting her own, its expression indecipherable.
Then she struck the sump, the waters almost cool against her burnt flesh. She managed to break the surface; the shore was just in sight.
Three hooded figures stood on the bank, watching.
As she tried to snatch one last breath, the sump swallowed her.
There were voices but the words were garbled. Callused hands gripped her shoulder. She tried to speak, but the effort brought only darkness, then a blessed silence.
The long-sought oblivion was ended by a burning pain in her shoulder. She managed a groan and her good eye flickered open. Hideous creatures bore down on her, their faces stretched into silent screams, flesh desiccated and long dead. She tried to rise but something clamped over her face and darkness found her again.
She awoke in something resembling a bed, the rusted frame softened only a little by stiff blankets. The room was dark, the flickering light of a single candle barely etching the walls. She willed herself upright but her body would not obey the summons. Then darkness stole the candlelight.
There were whispers of dreams: the endless sump; the sumpkroc’s fanged maw; tawny eyes glinting in the shadows. Twice she dreamt she was perched high above the bed with her body lying below, her wounds crudely dressed and face heavily bandaged. She could hear voices, but the tongue was alien to her – a dirge of periodic grunts.
She dreamt of her father standing in the entrance to the Harrow grounds, framed by the fresco of Saint Harriette slaying the dragon. His shoulders were bent, his frame supported by an ebony cane. She stood beside him, both of them staring silently at the expanse of metallic flowerbeds that made up the gardens. The habitat protocols had long since shifted to winter and the greenery was intentionally wilting. Petals fell onto the dying beds.
She wanted to speak to him one last time but could not think what to say.
Perhaps it was only days she spent at death’s threshold, perhaps it was longer – time belonged to the waking world. But there came a point where her eye opened to find she was no longer alone. The figure seated at the foot of the bed revealed little to the candlelight. His head was hidden by a cowl and he was clad in a tunic stitched from rags, the noose knotted about his neck the only decorative element.
But she recognised him well enough. He was of House Cawdor – the bone-pickers.
House Harrow had never had contact with the deranged scrap haulers in the Spire. Even the few she’d encountered in the underhive were little more than rats skulking in the shadows, plucking petty trinkets from the filth and venerating them as relics. But their attire was distinctive enough: hooded robes and sinister masks. It seemed she had them to thank for postponing her death, though the thought was not wholly reassuring given their predilection for burning captives alive.
He raised his head as he spoke. ‘Well met, Mistress Harrow.’
His voice was eloquent, untouched by the guttural tones of the underhive, though she could not place his accent.
Elissa propped herself on her elbow, wincing. The pain was still present, though dismissed to a tiresome ache.
‘…well met,’ she managed before her voice gave out. She could hardly speak; her throat was ash.
He rose, took a bottle from the side table and poured water into a waiting cup. The water was tepid and flush with sediment, but she drank greedily, draining it in desperate gulps.
He was close now. She could see his robes were adorned by shards of glass and metal that shimmered like stars in the candlelight. Beneath the hood he wore a face of flayed skin, the brows and lips still distinct and stretched into a hideous smile. She shivered and lowered the glass, but he gave no sign of noticing her discomfort. He stared at her bandaged arm, his expression unreadable.
‘I thank you, sir,’ she said, her voice a little stronger, ‘but you have me at a disadvantage. I do not know your name.’
‘Isaiah, milady,’ he replied, nodding to her. ‘Welcome back. Some of my flock did not think you would recover.’
She stared back at him with her remaining eye. ‘I do not think I will.’
‘You will,’ he said. ‘The stinger mould is doing its job, though it would work a lot better if we could remove that vambrace. It won’t do much for the scars, but you should be able to use that arm again. We have also set your ankle. You will not be running on it anytime soon, but I think you will be able to walk.’
Though his words were gentle, she could not look away from the flayed mask stretched across his face. House Cawdor always wore masks but most were simple things stitched from stolen cloth.
‘Please,’ she said, hating the weakness apparent in her voice. ‘If you know who I am then you know my life has value. Return me to my House and–’
‘Your family have already announced your death,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘We have been keeping an eye out for the castoffs. Your people always have a clean-out before they inter the newly departed, even when there is no body to bury. We’ve snatched a few trinkets already. You would be amazed at how quickly they can descend to the pit of the hive.’
It made no sense to her. Her stepmother would not have declared her dead. She was the heir, the future of her House. They had told her that. It was the reason she had vowed to avenge her father, to prove her rank and title.
‘…if you return me I–’
‘They will not acknowledge you, not now. Who would break bread with you, or invite you to one of those lavish galas? Do you think they wish to see you hobbling across the ballroom in all your finery?’
She frowned. ‘You seem to know a lot about my family.’
‘I know enough,’ Isaiah said with a shrug. ‘All of your treasures eventually end up down here, and I spent a little time uphive when we first docked. Have you ever seen the stars?’
She shook her head.
‘I did,’ he continued. ‘I was void-born. By His blessing I saw the galaxy. But there are things out there. Things in the darkness. Once you see them…’ He trailed off.
‘It does not matter,’ he said, returning from his reverie. ‘It all ended when our vessel landed on this hellhole of a planet. My master was to dine with the great Lord Helmawr – it was supposed to be the easiest money we ever made.’ He grew distant again.
‘I saw him, you know. Helmawr. Emblazoned in his finery, his robes gilded, a caryatid on his shoulder. He was like a god amongst men.’
He glanced at her, his eyes blazing beneath the mask.
‘If you take all that away, he’s no different from the lowliest bone-picker. Even with all his power, Helmawr is but a pebble against the majesty of the God-Emperor.’
‘How did you end up here?’ Elissa asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps Helmawr betrayed us, perhaps we cheated him. I wasn’t important enough to know. But something went wrong. The ship was seized and his enforcers took care of most of the crew. My master and I ran, first to Hive City and then to the underhive. I had to do terrible things just to survive – to save him, to save us both. I should have burned for it.’
Isaiah glanced at her, his icy eyes blazing with the faith of a zealot.
‘But the God-Emperor offered me a means of redemption, and though I dwell in the lowest abyss in this hellish world, though I shepherd the very worst of House Cawdor, I am grateful for the chance He has granted.’
Isaiah turned his back to her as he reached up to unclasp his mask before placing it on the bed beside him. He turned back around, his face still wreathed in shadow.
‘Every day I pray for Him to guide me, that I might find something of worth for Him in this pit. And even though He does not answer, I never lose faith.’
He glanced at her, only his eyes visible beneath the hood.
‘Do you pray, my child?’ he asked.
‘I… I have,’ she said, remembering the knife.
‘And did He answer?’
‘Not in the way I hoped.’
‘No, He rarely does,’ Isaiah said with a ghost of a smile. ‘But He led us to you. We found you before there was even word of your death, Elissa of House Harrow. Do you know your House’s patron saint, milady?’
She did not answer. He rose, crossed the room and lifted the candle from its stand on a rusted crate. He opened the box and retrieved a roll of parchment, unfurling it reverently before her. It took Elissa a moment to recognise it, the image bleached by the sump. It was the torn page from the trawler’s raft. She could make out the faint image of a warrior brandishing a spear against a terrible beast.
‘This is Saint Harriette. She slew the dragon in the name of our Emperor, only to perish from the pool of pestilent blood that seeped from its wounds. Like you, she died slaying the beast, and like you, the God-Emperor chose to preserve her.’
Elissa stared at the image – an echo of the fresco in the Cathedral of House Harrow – and she finally understood.
‘It was a sumpkroc,’ she murmured.
‘It was a sign. You have been chosen.’
‘Chosen?’ she spat, her rage burning away the fear. ‘I lost an eye, I lost my face – I lost everything! This is how He chooses His followers?’
‘The glory we gain first blinds us with its lustre,’ he said, leaning closer, the candle revealing his face.
He might have been handsome once, but his skin was now marred by inscriptions, passages of holy texts carved from brow to chin. ‘Outsiders do not truly understand,’ he said. ‘We do not wear masks to hide our faces. My once-master bore the sin of pride, and by his lead I followed. I was granted the chance to free myself of such failings, but regrettably my master found he could not accept the God-Emperor’s grace. I carry his sin with me as a reminder to be better.’
She glanced to his mask of stretched skin. Realisation dawned.
Isaiah smiled. ‘The God-Emperor may have marked you, but by doing so He has granted you the chance to be better. Your suffering is His gift.’
As she heard these words, something inside her broke.
‘I cannot,’ she said, voice cracking. ‘I cannot… I was meant to die out there, I know it. I yearned for it before the end. Then the knife appeared… It was my way out and I should have taken it. I should have taken it and let it be over. I cannot live like this. I cannot be… this.’
He watched her as she sobbed, before gently taking hold of her chin, raising her head to meet his gaze.
‘Listen to me,’ he whispered. ‘Elissa Harrow died on the water – you carry her face and name no longer. I have prayed and you are His answer. It knows this, and that is why it delivered you to us.’
He glanced upwards. She followed his gaze.
Something was watching from the rafters – a shadow, ever so slightly darker than the gloom that encompassed it. Tawny eyes peered down at her.
‘I thought it was a dream…’ she whispered.
‘It is a caryatid,’ Isaiah said. ‘It followed you, and none would risk opposing it. To anger such a creature is to assure an unpleasant demise. It seems quite taken with you.’
The creature soared downwards, landing gracefully on the bed beside her. It was holding something: a masquerade half-mask. She recognised the design, though the decorative gold leaf had been picked clean and the ivory-coloured face was stained and cracked. She could just make out a faded beauty spot beside the mouth – a golden dagger, the symbol of House Harrow.
The caryatid’s mouth split open, baring its needle teeth in a manner somewhat akin to a smile.
Isaiah rose, his mask now in place again. He reached for his belt, unsheathing a blade before reversing it and offering the handle. She knew her knife well enough, even in the dark. She took it, feeling its familiar weight in her good hand.
‘It is time to choose your end,’ he said, turning from her. ‘If you are strong enough, you should join us downstairs. It is time to pray, Sister Harriette.’
He departed, leaving her alone with the winged caryatid.
It still clutched the mask.
She studied it for a while before turning her attention to the knife. The blade was sharp enough, it would only take a moment.
Her gaze then slid to the creature sat beside her. It wore an almost human face, except for those eyes. Its pupils had swollen in the candlelight, the slits now wide enough to swallow the iris, leaving only a tawny halo, a dying star.
Her left arm was heavy, laden with the silver vambrace. But she raised it weakly, her blistered fingers closing around the ivory mask.
CUT AND GUT
ROBERT RATH
Word on the hab-block was that Arsonia Vayne had killed one of her own a while back. Torched the girl with a hand flamer and gave her the long drop off a refinery tower. They said the girl, Rink Scavino, was skimming on the protection racket that Vayne and her Promethium Queens charged on every fuel train running in and out of the Palatine Cluster.
Word on the hab-block was wrong: she hadn’t been skimming.
Rink Scavino died because she’d been Servalen’s informant.
And because of that failure, Servalen – the scrutinator primus of Lord Helmawr’s most august Palanite enforcers – had come here to St Thekla Docks. Walked narrow, crowded streets, where people wore gauze masks and respirators because the air was toxic.
And she went to the market, hoping that history wouldn’t repeat itself. Hoping this time they would get Vayne.
St Thekla Wet Market ran downhill between two narrow towers that stretched up seventy storeys, forming a canyon of rank smells, babbling voices and crowds. Electric signs extended so far into the street they overlapped in the centre, giving the impression that you were descending into a tunnel. Through the tangle of obstacles, you could see grey light on water. The St Thekla Docks, gateway to Runoff Bay.
The last part of the inland ocean that still existed within Hive Primus.
There was a market for everything on Necromunda. Weapons. Augmetics. Human organs. But people came to St Thekla for fish.
Servalen watched, entranced, as the market vendor worked.
Bubbling aquarium tanks stood before the man’s stall. They rose in tiers, like stairs, or the growing terraces on some far-flung agri world. Each tank teemed with wriggling fish, the scrabbling limbs of crustaceans, or the pulsing suckers of octopods. All pressed together, tight as the crowd watching.
‘New catch,’ called a fishmonger. ‘New catch, hooked just before dawn.’
With practised hands, the vendor dipped into a tank and caught hold of a whiskered bottom feeder. She hoisted it out, the fish’s scales flashing an iridescent turquoise as the tail beat the air, throwing droplets in panic. She slapped the gaping creature on a cutting block so ancient and scarred that it dipped in the middle.
Her wide knife did its work. Crunching down behind the gills, meeting spine, turning and slicing the length of the squirming fish right to the tail. The vendor peeled the side of meat away, exposing the cancerous growths that clustered within its flesh; tossed the cut into a trash bin, flipped the fish, severed the other flank. She laid the prized section – the head and its attached organs – on a bed of rust-coloured ice.
The fish was dead, but didn’t know it. Gills opened wide in gasping spasm, exposing their fibrous interior. Lungs inflated and deflated. Its whiskered mouth yawned in confusion.
Buyers jostled in, inspecting the slick, balloon-like organs. One, with a jeweller’s loupe pressed in his eye, asked to test the liver. When the vendor nodded, he lanced it with a long needle. The probe came away coated with green bile that glowed like the pastel signs above.
The fish’s meat was too toxic to eat. Runoff Bay was true to its name. Chemical outflows had poisoned the water, triggering a massive marine die-off.
But the creatures that didn’t die developed a resistance to the environment. Evolved to catalyse the toxins, store them. The deeper the fish, the thicker the contamination and, therefore, the purer the chems inside its liver.
The buyer took a snuff from a plastek narco-inhaler. Licked the bile-soaked needle. His eyes rolled back. Veins bulged in his neck, muscles tensing and swelling.
A pause.
‘Abyssal,’ breathed one of the buyers.
‘Ninety-five per cent pure,’ the monger added. ‘Will double the punch of any stimm. And I got nineteen others from the same haul.’
Suddenly everyone in the crowd began shouting, waving credits.
This was what these buyers had come for. Indeed, it was the only reason anyone cared about St Thekla Wet Market. They were here for the fish.
But Servalen wasn’t. She slid her narrow frame through the crowd to escape being crushed in the sudden bidding war. Buyers ran past her, trying to see what had caused the commotion.
Though in a way, Servalen was here for a different kind of fish. The big fish.
She was here for Arsonia Vayne.
Vayne’s Escher cartel charged protection on every shipment of fuel that ran in and out of Hive Primus. But Servalen’s boss, the right honourable lord provost marshal, couldn’t care less about that – that was a problem for the Promethium Guild.
