Shas'o Page 12

  ‘What host?’ Mordaine demanded. ‘There was no…’

  No!

  ‘Tell me, Haniel Mordaine, did you ever wonder why the grand master chose a dilettante like yourself as his interrogator?’ the Calavera asked. ‘A man of modest talents compromised by many vices.’

  Because he believed in me! Mordaine wanted to shout, teetering between hope and terror. Because he recognised the honour beneath my shame!

  ‘Did you ever question why he kept you close above all others?’ that insidious whisper slithered on, cultivating doubts that had always been there, waiting to be unearthed. ‘Why he shared so many mysteries and revelations with an acolyte who lacked the wit to comprehend them?’

  Because he saw greatness where others saw only mediocrity!

  ‘Why he still haunts your thoughts like the imminent shadow of your true self? An annihilating, irrefutable truth,’ the Calavera said, driving the blade home.

  All the tests and the rituals and that ceaseless, soul-wracking assessment…

  Uzochi was going to shoot! Mordaine saw it in the madman’s glassy, hate-ravaged eyes. He fired first, his pistol surging up as if of its own accord. The Calavera made no move as the bolt seared past him and punched through Uzochi’s forehead. The Shark’s mouth gaped open, spilling smoke as his gun crashed to the ground. He stared at Mordaine, but his eyes were empty. There was nothing behind them any more. That vacant condemnation transfixed Mordaine long after the corpse had toppled, for it signified what he’d always been himself: a vessel devoid of substance.

  But no longer… The pistol slipped from his grasp and hope followed it.

  LIGHT

  All roads end in ruin, yet not all ruination is equal. The fall may reap the Void or it may see the Light.

  – The Calavera

  ‘Will I die?’ Mordaine asked some time later. He hadn’t moved. Uzochi’s sightless eyes still held him in thrall.

  ‘You are not possessed,’ the Calavera answered. ‘Your mind has been imprinted with the template of another, but Aion Escher’s spirit is gone. You will experience changes as the new pattern asserts itself, but your self will remain.’

  ‘But will it still be me?’

  ‘I cannot answer that, Haniel Mordaine.’

  ‘I don’t even know if it was me that shot Uzochi,’ Mordaine said bleakly. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’

  ‘Because you want to live.’

  Do I? Mordaine wondered. Or is that the other?

  ‘All of this…’ He gestured vaguely at everything and nothing. ‘My exile with Kreeger, the fall of Vyshodd and that infernal interrogation… You engineered it all to awaken the sleeper inside me?’

  ‘It was one of many synchronous, intertwined objectives,’ the Calavera said. ‘Each facilitated the other. As the revolution galvanised your quickening, so your presence sparked the revolution and both served to enlighten another significant piece. Farsight.’

  ‘No.’ Mordaine shook his head, appalled at the immensity of the ancient’s conceit. ‘I won’t accept it. You couldn’t possibly contrive such a thing. There are too many variables, too much scope for chance to play havoc.’

  ‘Your prisoner awaits,’ the Calavera declared. ‘Is that not so?’

  Hesitantly Mordaine opened the cell door. The room beyond was empty.

  ‘The threads of fate will twist, fray and sometimes snap in the winds of Chaos,’ the ancient warrior said. ‘You are correct that nothing is certain, but much is likely for one who can see.’

  ‘You knew…’ Mordaine was aghast. ‘You knew I would defy you today.’

  ‘I knew nothing, but suspected much.’

  And seeing changes what is seen, Mordaine thought, though he doubted the intuition was his own.

  Later still, Mordaine asked about the xenos.

  ‘He continues his journey,’ the Calavera answered.

  The interrogator didn’t question how or where the alien had gone. The answer would prove a mundane revelation alongside the others. Instead he asked the question that really mattered: ‘Was he truly O’Shovah?’

  ‘Would you trust my answer?’ the Calavera asked in turn.

  ‘What would you gain by lying?’

  ‘What would you gain by a truth you cannot recognise yourself?’ the ancient countered.

  Mordaine closed his eyes, seeking to sever himself from the cat-and-mouse ritual that bound him. He found refuge in pragmatism: ‘What happens now?’

  ‘The mechanisms of this transport are rudimentary,’ the Calavera said with merciful directness. ‘You will master them without difficulty.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ Mordaine asked, aloof and sightless.

  ‘You will continue your journey to Yakov Hive, where the conclave’s retribution force awaits your command, interrogator.’

  ‘My command?’ No emotion. No investment. ‘I was under the impression the conclave had condemned me…’ Mordaine stopped, quelling a flicker of anger. ‘That was another lie, wasn’t it? I was never implicated in the grand master’s murder.’

  ‘Indeed not. You were operating covertly to draw out his enemies.’

  ‘You’ve been covering my tracks from the start,’ Mordaine said levelly. ‘There was no hunt.’

  ‘Only your hunt,’ the Calavera corrected. ‘A hunt which has exposed a xenos conspiracy that extends to the heart of the Tau Empire. It was fine work. I envisage you will be elevated to the rank of inquisitor within two years.’

  ‘And you’ll have your cardinal back on the board.’ Mordaine opened his eyes and confronted the warrior with detached hostility. ‘What if I change sides, Calavera?’

  ‘You will not. Once you recall the reasoning behind your allegiance you will make the same choice again.’

  ‘You expect me to believe your intentions are benevolent?’

  ‘I expect you to recognise that I offer the least of all probable evils.’ The giant inclined his head. Perhaps there was genuine respect there. Then he turned and stalked towards the carriage door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mordaine called after him, feeling a stab of perverse terror at the prospect of his tormentor’s departure.

  Tormentor or mentor?

  ‘I continue the war, Haniel Mordaine.’ The Space Marine yanked the hatch open, awakening the storm outside. ‘Do not linger alone in the Ghostlands,’ he warned. ‘There is danger here.’

  The giant stepped into the bleached fury outside, becoming a shadow and then nothing at all.

  All roads lead to ruin, but at the end of a very few there may be Light.

  It was another stray intuition from the restive sediments of intellect embedded in Mordaine’s mind, but the next impulse was entirely his own.

  ‘O’Shovah,’ he called into the wind and white darkness, ‘wherever you are, xenos, may the God-Emperor watch over you.’

  Smiling bleakly at his heresy, Haniel Mordaine turned his back on the void and went in search of his own annihilating, irrefutable light.

  It was not the sound of the door opening that roused him from his meditative trance. Nor was it the muffled cheers from the stadium below, or the sharp clacking of Cerraine’s stiletto boot heels as she approached his hexcage. It was the rumbling of his stomach. He chastised himself and kept his eyes closed, his back perfectly straight. His hands rested on his knees, palms turned upwards. She had food with her. He could smell it. A stew of some kind. Rich broth. Soft vegetables. A delicious spice he could not place. Greater Good, he was hungry.

  ‘I brought you something special today. Not the usual fare.’ Even through the translator device, her voice was the essence of cordiality.

  No! He would not break down. Not now. He remained perfectly still and focused on his breathing. With each exhalation, he knew, rescue was one second closer. Someone would come for him soon. Then he could eat.

  Af
ter some moments, she started tapping her foot. ‘Don’t you think this has gone on quite long enough? I mean, starving yourself in protest – it’s ridiculous.’ She laughed a little.

  He gave no reply, made no movement. At his unresponsiveness, the friendliness in her voice bled away. ‘What does this prove? Who gains? You think this somehow impresses me?’

  Inwardly, he smiled at her frustration. Her true self was showing. His passive resistance was finally having an effect. His hope grew.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t. Hunger pains are quite out of fashion, not fit even for the groundlings. Now eat, Aun’Shi.’ He could hear a clattering as she passed the bowl through the bars of the hexcage. ‘You have a matinée performance shortly. You’ll need your strength.’

  At last, he opened his eyes. Certain other species in the galaxy would have described her as coldly beautiful, he supposed. Like all Var Sin’da, she was tall and lithe. Her skin was like alabaster, with high cheek bones, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her ears were delicate and pointed. She was elaborately costumed in multiple layers of glossy, bladed armour and silken robes. A belt made of entwined barbed wire hugged her slim hips. Her blonde hair fanned out behind her like the plumage of some fantastic bird and her translator was fashioned as a golden brooch engraved with lascivious silhouettes. Beneath her heavy makeup, her lips were tight. Her eyes burned with anger. All pretences of concern had been dropped. At last, he thought, we have come to a place where we can deal plainly with one another. Demands can be tabled. Negotiations can begin.

  ‘I will no longer kill for the pleasure of your patrons,’ he said. His voice was low and rough from dehydration.

  Cerraine’s painted eyebrows arched. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is so.’

  ‘Then what will you do?’ She gave a slight smirk. ‘Bait the clawed fiends? Dance like a Solitaire?’

  He refused to be goaded or insulted. ‘I will do nothing,’ he croaked. ‘You will open the door to this cage, and you will release me. You have no other choice.’

  Cerraine looked down and shook her head. It seemed a sympathetic gesture, but he knew better. Sympathy was not to be found in the Var Sin’da.

  ‘Aun’Shi,’ she lamented, ‘how little you know me.’

  He gathered saliva and cleared his throat. His voice regained some of its strength. ‘I know you very well,’ he said. ‘I know that before you acquired me, you had no independence: you were in the servitude and shadow of others. I know that you have since become wealthy because of me, and that I am quite popular with your audiences.’

  Cerraine’s jaw tightened. He took it as a sign of agreement.

  ‘I also know,’ he continued, ‘that you dare not kill me, for it would upset said audience members, and in turn, cost you not only your fortunes, but quite possibly your life.’

  A conflux of emotions raged inside of her: anger at his insolence, frustration at her inability to find a hole in his logic, fear at the possibility of losing her celebrity status. ‘I’ll have my beastmasters force-feed you,’ she said with practiced haughtiness.

  Aun’Shi shook his head. ‘Such a thing is incompatible with my physiology. I would choke and die.’

  The corners of her ruby-stained lips twitched. ‘Then I’ll hang you from a gibbet, and charge the people to watch you starve.’

  ‘You have already admitted that even the most lowly patrons would consider that to be poor entertainment. ‘Better a good day in Shaa-dom than a bad review in Commorragh’’.

  She bristled upon hearing the old theatrical axiom. Mostly because it was true.

  ‘Therefore, since I refuse to participate in your shows any longer, and to murder me would bring about your downfall, you have no choice. You must set me free.’ His argument concluded, and he settled himself once more to wait for her reply.

  Behind them, the door opened slightly and the pale, heavily-scarred face of Skelban, Cerraine’s stagemaster, peered in. ‘M-M-Mistress,’ he stammered, ‘this is the five m-m-minute call.’

  Cerraine’s eyes never left the tau. ‘We may have to hold,’ she answered over her shoulder. ‘It seems there’s a slight problem with the talent.’

  ‘Hold?’ Skelban gasped. ‘But… But…’

  Cerraine ignored his protestations and pressed up against the bars of Aun’Shi’s cage. ‘You know, no one in this city is irreplaceable,’ she growled, ‘and you’re certainly not the last of a dying race. What’s to stop me from simply finding another one like you?’

  ‘M-M-Mistress Cerraine,’ Skelban had now hobbled into the room to stand behind her. The victim of one haemonculi flesh sculptor after another, everything about him was hunched and broken. ‘We can’t hold the show…’

  ‘There are no tau in the Empire who can match my martial prowess,’ Aun’Shi replied. ‘My background and training make me unique amongst my people. That’s why the Aun’t’au’retha chose me.’

  Her eyes flicked up. The little blue alien had given her an opening, and with instincts like a panther, she seized on it.

  ‘Chose you for what?’

  ‘M-m-mistress…’

  ‘What were you doing on that frozen, desolate ball they found you on?’ Cerraine pressed.

  Realising that he had let something slip, Aun’Shi did not reply, but Cerraine had hit a nerve and she was determined to tear the truth free from him.

  ‘Were you in exile? On a mission of some kind?’

  ‘Mistress!’ Skelban yelled.

  Cerraine turned on him with lightning speed. A knife had appeared in her hand. ‘I said hold the curtain!’

  ‘But, M-M-Mistress,’ Skelban looked pained, ‘Cidik is in the house.’

  Her face became frozen. ‘Master of the Revels, Cidik?’

  ‘Yes! If we don’t begin on time…’

  Cerraine hushed him with a wave of her manicured hand. As important as it was to keep her customers happy, it was doubly so for Cidik. As a minister of Vect, the ruler of all Commorragh, it was his job to superintend each and every gladiatorial game and bloodletting performance. If it were found lacking, say, by starting late, he could close her down with a word.

  ‘A slight change,’ she said to Skelban. ‘Start the show, but have the beastmasters parade the spinebacks around the ring first. That will buy a few minutes for you to bring up the other three from storage.’

  ‘But M-M-Mistress, everyone is expecting to see him.’ Skelban pointed at Aun’Shi with a bony, elongated finger.

  ‘And they will,’ she purred. ‘Now go, quickly.’

  Skelban shuffled out with surprising speed. When he was gone, Cerraine withdrew a small device from her cleavage and turned back to face the hexcage.

  ‘Aun,’ she said slyly. ‘In your language it means “priest”, yes?’

  ‘It has many facets, that word.’

  ‘Priest being one of them?’

  ‘A more accurate translation might be “shepherd”.’

  ‘Shepherd. Even better. You have a responsibility then to protect your flock from harm. You would lay down your life in order to spare theirs.’ She pressed her palm against the bars of his cage, muttered something he couldn’t quite catch, and then stepped back.

  ‘You are free,’ she said.

  Aun’Shi remained perfectly still, sensing a trap. ‘I am free to go?’ he asked cautiously.

  Cerraine shrugged. ‘Free to go. Free to stay. The door will automatically release in one minute, and then we shall see.’

  ‘See what?’

  Cerraine smiled with wicked delight. ‘Why, see where your loyalties lie.’

  She squeezed her thumb against the side of the small device. The hexcage began to descend through the floor on a lengthening chain. A moment later, Aun’Shi found himself high above the darkened arena. The lights were lowered in preparation of the show. Everything was cast in gloom, but Aun’Shi was qu
ite familiar with the space by now. He had, after all, spent most of his time here since his capture. It was like being inside a tall barrel. As he had come to understand it, the architecture was considered classical among the Var Sin’da. They called it a playhouse. He knew it to be a killing floor.

  The main fighting area was covered with white, hard-packed sand, the better to show off the spilled blood and viscera of the performers. From experience, he also knew that there were trap doors hidden underneath from which trained monsters and automated killing machines would randomly burst. The walls were filled with recessed seats, stacked in multiple levels; the wealthiest patrons sat up top where they could be seen by everyone in attendance while those with less to spend had to sit closer to the ground. There was a single, large archway cut into the ground level through which slaves or monsters entered and their piecemeal remains could exit. Across from that was the gallery: an open platform decorated with lavish couches and chairs where Cerraine would seat and entertain important guests. Directly above that was a proscenium filled with musicians.

  He was still descending through the darkened air when the cage jerked to a stop. An announcer’s thunderous voice called out his name and lights bathed him. From somewhere out beyond the blinding haze, a crowd cheered. He had not been exaggerating when he had told Cerraine that her audiences loved him. It was true. He was unique, and therefore, he supposed, of great interest to beings who thought they had seen it all. Moreover, he was on a winning streak. They thrilled to see him pitted against ever more difficult foes, and when he survived to fight another day, their fervour grew. They filled the seats to see if this was the day it all came to an end, and if it wasn’t, they were still satiated by the carnage he wrought. Throughout Commorragh he was billed as Ainn tonesh geyse, the ‘fighting blue man’. Each battle was expected to be his last, but time and again he walked away. The Var Sin’da loved him for that in their own sick fashion.

  His eyes adjusted quickly and he looked below to see what they had prepared for him this day. On the sands a trio of hulking beasts clawed at the dirt and howled in blood lust. Their backs were covered with long spines. Their eyes were wide, black saucers. Thick metal collars were fixed around their necks and lengths of barbed chain held them in place. Aun’Shi had seen this many times before. The bottom of his cage would vanish momentarily, and the second his feet touched the ground the collars would pop off. After that, it was unscripted, impromptu violence. Either he would die for the audience’s amusement, or kill for their pleasure.