A storm of gunfire had ruined the expensive furniture and decorative fittings. Five corpses lay twisted at various points on the floor. Fischig, his visor raised, was hauling a sixth man up into a high- backed chair. The man, wounded in the right shoulder, was wailing and crying. Fischig cuffed him into place.
'Upstairs?' Fischig asked me without looking round.
'Clear/1 reported.
I walked round the room, eyeing the dead and examining items left scattered on tabletops and bureaux.
'I know some of these men/ the chastener added, unsolicited. 'Those two by the window. Locals, low-grade labourers. Long list of petty convictions on both/
'Hired muscle/
'Seems to be your man's way. The others are off-worlders/
'You've found papers?'
'No, it's just a hunch. None of them have got any ID or markers, and I haven't found a cache anywhere/
What about this one?' I walked over to join him by the prisoner he had cuffed to the chair. The man coughed and whined, rolling his eyes. Unless he possessed unnaturally boosted strength thanks to drugs or hidden aug-metics, this man wasn't muscle. He was older, spare of frame, with grizzled salt and pepper growth on his chin.
'You didn't kill this one deliberately, did you?' I asked Fischig. He smiled slightly, as if pleased that I had noticed.
'I– I have rights!' The man spat suddenly.
'You are in the custody of the Imperial Inquisition/ I told him frankly. 'You have no rights whatsoever/
He fell silent.
'Off-worlder/ Fischig said. I raised an eyebrow. Accent/ Fischig explained.
I'd never have detected it myself. This was one of the reasons I used local help whenever I got the chance, even a potential troublemaker like the chastener. My work takes me from world to world, culture to culture. Slight differences in dialect or incongruities of slang regularly pass me by. But Fischig had heard it at once. And it made sense. If this was a leader rather than muscle, one of Eyclone's chosen lieutenants, then the odds were he was from off-world.
'Your name?' I asked.
'I will not answer/
'Then I will not have that wound treated for a while/
He shook his head. The wound was bad and he was obviously in considerable pain, but he resisted. I was even more certain he was a ringleader. He was no longer shaking or whining. He had switched in some mental conditioning, no doubt taught by Eyclone.
'Mind tricks won't help you/ I said. 'I'm much better at them than you are.'
'Go screw yourself.'
I glanced at Fischig out of courtesy. 'Brace yourself.' He stepped back.
Tell me your name/1 said, using my will.
The man in the chair spasmed. 'Saemon Crotes!' he gasped.
'Godwyn Fischig/ spat the chastener involuntarily. He blushed and moved away busying himself with a search.
Very well, Saemon Crotes, where are you from?' I didn't employ any will now. In my experience, it took only one blow to loosen mental defences.
'Thracian Primaris/
'What was your job there?'
'I was trade envoy for the Bonded Merchant Guild of Sinesias/
I knew the name. Guild Sinesias was one of the largest mercantile companies in the sector. It had holdings on a hundred-plus planets and links to the Imperial nobility. It also, as Betancore had informed me just that morning, had a trade launch berthed at the Sun-dome landing stage.
'And what work brought you to Hubris?'
'That same work… as a trade-envoy/
'In Dormant?'
'There is always trade to be had. Long-term contracts with the authorities on this world that require the personal touch.'
'And if I contact your guild, will it confirm this?'
'Of course/
I walked around behind him. 'So what brought you here? To these private apartments?'
'I was a guest/
'Of who?'
'Namber Wylk, a local trader. He invited me for a mid-Dormant feast/
'This dwelling is registered to Namber Wylk/ Fischig put in. 'A trader, as he says, no priors. I don't know him/
What about Eyclone?' I asked Crotes, leaning down to stare into his eyes. There was a ripple of fear in them.
mo?'
'Your real employer. Murdin Eyclone. Don't make me ask you again/
'I don't know any Eyclone!' There was a ring of truth to his voice. He may well not have known Eyclone by that name.
I dragged up a chair and sat down facing him. 'There is an awful lot of your, story that doesn't add up. You're found here consorting with recidivists who we can connect to a planetary conspiracy. There are charges of murder to be considered – a lot of them. We can continue this in far more intimate and comprehensive circumstances, or you can make me like you more by filling in some details now/
'I… don't know what to tell you
Whatever you know. About the Pontius, perhaps?'
A dark, stricken look crossed his face. His jaw worked for a moment, trying to form words. He quivered. Then there was a liquid pop and his head fell forward.
Throne of Light!' Fischig cried.
'Damn it/ I growled, and bent down to lift Crotes's limp skull. He was dead. Eyclone had left failsafes in die conditioning that would trigger at certain subjects. The Pontius evidently was one of those.
'A stroke. Artificially induced/
'So we know nothing?'
We know a great deal? Weren't you listening? For a start we know the Pontius is the most precious secret they protect/
'So tell me about it?'
I was about to, at least evasively, when the shutter barring the far wall to the climate extremes of the world outside the dome blew out. Hidden charges fired simultaneously. The metal sheet splayed outwards into the freezing dark. The blast-force threw both Fischig and myself to the ground.
A millisecond later, the shattered crystal in the portal blew back in at us, carried by the hurricane power of the Dormant winds outside – a blizzard of billions of razor-sharp slivers.
FIVE
Covered traces.
The Glaws of Gudrun.
Unwelcome companions.
Deafened by the blast, I had wit enough left to grab Fischig and roll with him out through the terrace doors as the emergency shutter clanked down from its slit in the hardwood ceiling. We lay
