Woman. Psyker. She came to emplate us the night before the raid/
'She personally fixed your identity veils?'
Yes/
'What was her name?'
'Call herself Maria. Maria Tarray/
'Picture her in your mind, Tarl/ I ordered. I got a brief but vivid flash of a sharp featured woman with long, straight black hair. Her eyes were what I remembered most. Kohl-edged, large and green like jade. She seemed to look into my head. I snatched back.
'Are you all right?' Crezia asked.
Yes, I'm fine/
We're going to stop now/ she told me straight. 'Right now/
'Right now?'
That's what I said/
The janissary had sunk back on the bed, his skin puffy and damp. He closed his eyes and moaned.
'He's coming down. Now he's feeling the disruptions of your mind probe/ I could see she was shaking slightly. She'd felt them too, second hand.
'One last question/
'I said we were stopping now and I meant it. I have to stabilise him/
I held up my hand. 'One more. While he's still open. We come back later or tomorrow and he'll have closed up. And you don't want to do this again, do you?'
'No/ she relented.
Tarl? Tarl?'
'Go 'way/
What was the name of your client? What was the name of Maria Tarray's boss?'
The Vessorine murmured something.
What was that?' whispered Crezia. 'I didn't catch it/
I had. Not verbally, but in my mind. Something blocked out, something he hadn't been able to say even before if he'd wanted to. As he collapsed into psi-fugue, the last shreds of his emplated veil melted away and the final name tumbled out.
'He said Khanjar/ I told her. 'Khanjar the Sharp/
ELEVEJM
Adept Cielo.
Death notices.
Dangerous kindness.
Iwoke before dawn. it was still twilight outside, and the curtains of my room swayed in the cold breeze.
I got dressed, and went downstairs. On the way, I checked on Tarl. He was profoundly asleep, curled on his bed. Crezia had made sure he was alright, given him a secondary, mild opiate to reduce his trauma and covered him with a blanket. He'd been out for the best part of fourteen hours. Crezia had almost flipped out with fear when she discovered the captive in her box room was a Vessorine janissary.
I checked Tarl's bindings, and he groaned softly as 1 disturbed the blanket.
Aemos was already up. Drinking caffeine he had brewed himself, he sat in Crezia's study, listening to the early morning vox broadcasts.
'Couldn't you sleep?' I asked.
'I slept fine, Gregor. But I never sleep for long.'
I fetched another cup and poured caffeine from his pot.
'There's nothing about us/ he said, gesturing to the vox.
'Nothing?'
'It's most perturbatory. Not a word, not even on the arbites band.'
'Someone managed to hire eight hundred Vessorine killers, Uber. They have clout. The news has been withheld. Or censored.'
The others will know.'
'How do you mean?'
'Fischig, Nayl. The moment they don't get a response from Spaeton House, they'll know something is up.'
'I hope so. What did you make of our friend's tattoos?'
'Base Futu, just as I supposed. I cross-checked it using the doctor's cogi-tator.' He took out a note-slate and adjusted his eye-glasses. This mark bears witness that Vammeko Tarl, a janissary, is owned by the Clan Etrik, and a bond often thousand zkell will be paid for his repatriation. He is of flesh made and his flesh speaks for him.'
Aemos looked up at me. 'Strange practice.'
Totally in keeping with the Vessorine mindset. Janissaries are objects. Material items. You might as well keep a cannon or a tank as a prisoner of war. They have no political affiliation, no loyalties within the particular frame of whatever conflict they're involved with. No use as a hostage. Putting that little incentive on each one makes dungs clear and simple. Puts a simple price on the matter and dissuades a captor from simply killing them.'
'How much is ten thousand zkell, then?'
'Enough, I should dunk'
What do we do with him when we leave?'
Now there was a question.
I went into the kitchen to brew more caffeine and hunt for bread, and found Crezia juicing ploins and mountain tarberries in a chrome press. Her hair was loose and she was wearing a short, cream silk houserobe.
'Oh!' she said as I walked in.
'I'm sorry,' I said, retreating.
'Oh, don't bother, Gregor. You've seen me in a lot less.'
Yes, I have.'
Yes, you have. Fruit juice?
'I was looking for caffeine, actually/
'How could I forget? Breakfasts on the terrace… me with my fruit and grain- cakes, you with your caffeine and eggs and salt-pork/
I filled a pan from the sink pump and lit the stove. Then I rinsed out the pot. 'I suppose now's your opportunity to tell me 'I told you so'/1 said.
'What do you mean?'
You always said fruit and grain-loaf was the path to a healthy life, remember? You used to go on about diet and fibre and all sorts. Told me my intake of caffeine and alcohol and red meat would kill me/
'I take it back/
'Really?'
'It won't be your diet that kills you, Gregor/ she said, suddenly biting at a fingernail.
You were right, of course. Look at you/
'I'd rather not/ she said, crushing a ploin with excessive force.
You're as lovely as the day I first met you/
'The day you first met me, Gregor Eisenhorn, you were half-comatose with anaesthetic and I was wearing a scrub mask.'
'Ah. How could I forget?'
