Assassinorum kingmaker, p.20
Assassinorum Kingmaker, page 20
‘We,’ sneered Vossa, ‘are noble pilots of ancient machines. Our–’
‘So it’s we and our now, is it, cousin?’ Sycorax turned on her. ‘Rakkan the Peacemaker has brought the quarrelsome couple together.’
Vossa clenched her jaw at the laughter that followed. Eyes practically bulging in fury.
Got you, thought Sycorax. From the second she’d seen them sniping, she’d known there was something between them. The electric crackle of mutual attraction, suppressed and curdled by the twisted politics. Vossa, after all, seemed so fixated on him.
Sycorax stepped close. ‘Take the loss, cousin. Living with defeat is better than dying with it.’
‘You’ve ruined everything,’ Vossa hissed.
‘Maybe,’ Sycorax said to her, then stepped away and raised her voice. ‘All retire in honour from this fight. Galvan has shown the willingness to kill for his house, Vossa the willingness to die for hers. They are equal in valour. And if Dame Vossa wishes to avenge this loss, well, she can challenge Sir Galvan at the tournament tomorrow through the normal procedures.’
‘It was to the death, Sir Rakkan!’ called a voice in the audience. Sycorax saw a man in red-blue, with a falcon tattooed across his forehead. Lord Lambek-Firscal. ‘Words cannot end a duel, only blood. Vossa called for a death-duel – this cannot be undone.’
‘Correct, lord,’ Sycorax said. ‘That is the ancestral tradition. But I believe it is also tradition that if a duellist’s weapon sheds innocent blood, the bout is cancelled, yes? And though I am not halfway innocent, I am in no way party to this duel.’ In a flash, Sycorax reached out with her free hand, grabbed Galvan’s blade, and slid her hand along it like a sheath.
‘There,’ she said, raising her hand to show the free-flowing blood. ‘Is everyone satisfied?’
‘Vossa will not thank you,’ said Baron Tiberius Kraine. ‘But I do.’ He raised a goblet and Sycorax clinked it, remembering to nod slightly, and colour Rakkan’s cheeks at the compliment.
‘I’d like to get to know my cousins before they kill each other,’ she said. ‘Just for posterity’s sake.’
Kraine put a wide forearm over her shoulders, and steered her towards the wall. ‘I saw you talking to your mother. No doubt she talked about me?’
‘Nothing that bears repeating. You know I don’t like these questions, uncle. I’m no one’s spy.’
‘Of course not, of course not. My pardon. Old habits die hard. You were still young when you left. But you’re no aspirant being shuttled between houses any more – you’re your own man, I respect that.’
Sycorax wondered if that was the case, or if Baron Kraine was an even savvier manipulator than Hawthorn. The best antidote for an overbearing mother, after all, was a slightly distant father figure doling out respect.
The kind of person a young man could build masculine rapport with and confide his family problems to. Problems that might provide actionable intelligence for House Rau.
Sycorax said nothing.
‘Tell me about the war, then,’ Kraine said, crossing his arms and leaning back on a table stacked high with liver-stuffed songbirds. ‘Given the house quite a name, it seems.’
Sycorax took a pull of vin and shrugged. ‘The hereteks came, and we killed them. Mostly infantry and armour. No Knight-on-Knight victories. And the hated arch-heretek, of course. Not much to say – they were vermin and I killed them as such.’
‘And how goes the crusade, at the political level, I mean?’ Kraine stuffed a songbird in his mouth and bit it through the breast. Sycorax could hear the bones crunching between his teeth.
‘Can’t really say. I was at the tip of the lance, mostly. Didn’t meet anyone in command until the end.’
‘Strange, usually crusade leadership shows a Knight of the realm a little more respect. Includes them in strategic briefings, at the very least. That’s how it was when your father and I went on crusade.’ Kraine popped the rest of the bird into his mouth and bit down.
‘The Freeblade’s path is quite different than a full complement,’ said Sycorax. ‘Especially a mere Armiger. I had a formal reception then was mostly left to my own devices to take my chainblade where I liked. Preferred it that way, in all honesty. No Militarum officer was going to issue me an order.’
‘Quite right, Sir Rakkan, quite right.’ Kraine nodded and chewed, then extracted a particularly tough leg, looked at the curled, blackened claws, and threw it on the floor. ‘Still, it sits badly with me. This house used to command more respect.’
‘Rau, you mean, or Stryder?’
‘Both. You know that two years ago we got an order to muster and follow you?’
‘And why haven’t you?’
‘Because it was an order, not a request,’ Kraine sneered. ‘It’s that damned Guilliman. Thinks he owns the galaxy. Like we’re all his vassals. In the old days, the Imperium remembered that we were allies. Treaty partners. We are far older than they are. Hells, the lowest foundations of Gathering Palace were laid before the Palace on Terra. They used to woo us, send diplomats. Now, we simply get an astropathic communique saying we should rally our lances for war? Not calling on our oaths or honour, but commanding us. Hah!’
‘Perhaps it was an oversight. There is need for urgency, uncle. The Transmuted–’
‘That,’ said the baron, stabbing Sycorax’s chest with a strong finger, ‘is exactly what I fear. An oversight. My boy, you have fought in a crusade and think you know the Imperium, but you don’t. Because let me tell you, planets die because of oversight. A slip-up in the paperwork and a water table never gets restocked. A system gets too quiet, minds its own business, and suddenly a tactical vassal on Terra decides it’s not worth defending from the greenskin savages. If we let this oversight stand, if we turn the other cheek without defending our honour, it will be the death of us. Our rights will never be respected again – and if you ask me, that’s exactly what Guilliman wants. To erode our autonomy. Bring us all in line, numbers on a ledger, easily counted. They’ll want us adopting Imperial law next, I expect.’
‘Surely not.’
‘They did with Castelaide.’
‘What?’
‘Sent them a notice that their native land grant system and census didn’t comply with the Lex. Forced them to accept a monastery of the Sisters of the Ebon Chalice too, and insisted Navy and Militarum servicemen be immune to local prosecution.’
‘They didn’t accept?’
‘They did. The Knights of Castelaide have always been too…’ He mulled the choice of words, then spat one out with venom. ‘Flexible. They felt they had no choice. Their options were to let the Imperials rewrite the treaty, or fight.’
‘Mother said she’d fight.’
Kraine shot him a twinkling glance, as if he’d prised the information loose. ‘No doubt she would, and it’d be just as ruinous as letting the erosion happen. Too soft and you lose your independence slowly, too hard it goes all at once. But if we put up a brave diplomatic front, insist on the mutual respect both we and the Imperium deserve, we can thread the needle. They want our Knights in the field, and they can’t have that if they crush us. Guilliman is ruthless, but he’s not stupid.’
‘What–’ Sycorax started.
‘Father,’ said a deep voice behind Sycorax’s right shoulder. ‘You know I loathe it when you speak like that.’
Sycorax turned, raising her goblet to address the stranger, saw a man in his natural forties – free of juvenat treatments. His left ear was augmetic, a disc inlaid in his skull and punctured by a warren of sensor holes to collect sound. Curly black hair – only partially combed – gave him a younger appearance. His grey eyes peered from below heavy, straight eyebrows.
‘My son,’ Baron Kraine nodded. ‘Lord Bazile Daggar-Kraine.’
‘Lord Daggar-Kraine,’ Sycorax bowed. ‘You were an inspiration to me as a boy. All of us here, politicking, as you represented our houses in the Tyrannic War.’
‘Only the furthest outer edge,’ said Daggar-Kraine, matching the bow. Unlike the dark-haired baron, Daggar-Kraine’s hair was honey-coloured and parted in the centre, falling to his jawline. His short beard had gone white on the chin. ‘I daresay you saw as much combat, with less armour between you and the foe. But if you’ll excuse me’ – he turned to Baron Kraine’ – I have some words for my father.’
‘Say your words,’ said Kraine. ‘We’re all family. And he’ll learn of our… disagreement soon enough. I’d rather he heard it first-hand rather than through the poison filter of the baroness.’
‘Very well.’ He took a goblet from a servant and sipped before starting. ‘Lord Commander Guilliman is our ally. An ally in a difficult position, leading a fractious coalition, with the galaxy torn in half. It is more than understandable that he wishes to simplify some arrangements. Besides, his representative said nothing to me about changing the arrangements when I went to renew our oaths.’
‘Treaty,’ growled Kraine. ‘You went to renew our treaty. We do not give oaths to Guilliman.’
‘What is a treaty, father, but an oath on paper? An oath we intend to honour the terms agreed?’ Lord Daggar-Kraine shrugged. ‘It is semantics. Lord Commander Guilliman will not break his agreement provided we honour ours. And ours insists that we come to the common defence when called.’
‘Come when called,’ said Baron Kraine. ‘Those are not Rau words.’
‘Our house broke its oath once, father,’ said Daggar-Kraine.
‘How dare you compare this situation to that dishonour.’ Kraine spoke low, nearly whispering, stepping close to his son. It might have been subaudible were Sycorax’s ears not so sharp. ‘What would you have had the ancestors do? Make us traitors to fulfil an oath? March at the side of Horus?’
‘Of course not. Morvayne and his brood were deeply misguided in putting their oaths to forge world Ataxes above sense. When Ataxes went with Horus, Morvayne went too. Foolishly, it turned out. I don’t know why you even let Stryder needle you over it – we showed loyalty to our Imperial allies. But if we fail our oaths – our treaties, if you must – once again we will develop a reputation as mercurial.’
‘You are young, son. You don’t realise what the Imperium is capable of.’
‘And you, father,’ Daggar-Kraine responded, sipping, ‘are old. And because you are old, you no longer think beyond orbit. Dominion is not its own fiefdom. We are but one Knight in a greater lance. If the lance charges together, we will survive. But if we all break off on our own, we will be destroyed. We can’t all of us be Freeblade – no offence meant, dear cousin.’
‘None taken,’ said Sycorax. She covered Rakkan’s flush of embarrassment by taking a songbird’s beak between her fingers and twisting off the head, taking pains to mimic how a Knight standing behind the baron had used the sharp beak as a handle to place the skull between her teeth. The savoury brain was not bad – the crisped feathers, though, she could’ve done without. ‘I feel positively spoiled by this homecoming. Particularly the vin, good Dominion vintage. Banish it with a tap.’
They clicked goblets.
Daggar-Kraine turned back to his father. ‘You say I don’t know what the Imperium is capable of, but I do. And unlike you, who hasn’t left this world in decades, I’ve seen it myself. Under Guilliman, it’s capable of change. Of shaking off the stagnation of ten thousand years. And we must be capable of change as well.’
‘You see the kind of insurrection I have to live with?’ said Baron Kraine, flashing a tight smile at Sycorax. ‘Never have children, my boy, they’re worse than those rebellious vassals out in the hinterland. I should recall Fontaine and his suppression force, let him take Axefall to you.’
Daggar-Kraine tsked. ‘If he’s up to it, he can try. How long does it take our august executioner to crush a rebellion? He’s been out there three months.’
‘Perhaps he needs some help,’ said Sycorax. ‘I have yet to pledge to a member of court.’
‘You won’t pledge to Rallan Fontaine, surely?’ growled Baron Kraine. ‘Man’s a bore. And more importantly, a Stryder. Here’s some advice – while the Master of Judgement seems like an exciting position, it’s all dry legalism.’
‘And everyone hates you,’ said Daggar-Kraine, draining his goblet and tossing it on the floor to be retrieved. ‘If I were you, I’d pick something closer to power. Less polarising.’
He beckoned and a vassal ran to him with another goblet, kneeling to the floor before proffering it upward with both hands and a bowed head.
‘I’ll tell you what you want,’ said the baron. ‘A good Rau master. Yuma’s needed a squire for years.’
‘Refuses to take one,’ said Daggar-Kraine. ‘Says all the young ones these days are soft.’
‘But you,’ said the baron. ‘You’re a crusade veteran. He might just make an exception…’
‘…if I put in a good word,’ the baron finished, his voice blurred by the playback on the groundcar’s spool-slug player.
‘Excellent pivot,’ said Koln, arcing them around a tight turn on the dirt road and downshifting into the straight. The high-beam headlumens of the groundcar painted the moors that rose up around the dirt track. ‘As Kingsward, Yuma has good proximity to the High Monarch, and it looks like you’ve gotten us in the door.’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘Yuma? Dangerous. Loyal. Stoic. But that’s just my impression through documents and interviews.’
‘No, I meant Lord Daggar-Kraine. He strikes me as interesting. With an interest in the big picture that’s lacking in his elders.’
‘That’s true,’ said Koln, tilting her head.
She slowed slightly and pulled to the centre to avoid a roadside bonfire. Serfs celebrating the eve of winter tournament. Sycorax saw their wan faces raise as the low groundcar slapped past – a vehicle entirely foreign to this place and its auto-carriages. Silver as a smoked blade, with a curved aerodynamic body.
‘He’s a tempting prospect,’ Koln continued.
‘For king?’ Sycorax clarified.
‘We’d have to work for it,’ warned Koln. ‘He’s fifth in the Lists.’
‘So we kill the other four.’
‘Subtle,’ Koln snorted. ‘Might be worth it. Baron Kraine’s dislike for the lord commander and Baroness Hawthorn’s resentments are not isolated examples. From the vox-captures I made at the feast, this place is bubbling over with sedition.’
‘Servants as well?’
‘No, the ichthus is rotting from the head it seems. It’s mostly the privileged that are souring on the Imperium, which is a problem since they control everything – and after all, it’s the Knights we need for the crusade, not the serfs.’
‘Think it stems from the High Monarch? He doesn’t seem to speak much apart from through his herald.’
‘He will at the tournament tomorrow. It’s tradition. And tradition matters here.’
A blip in their micro-beads.
‘Looks like we’re in transmission range,’ said Koln. ‘Raithe, what are you up to?’
‘Solving a problem,’ said Absolom Raithe, as he reached inside the open door of the auto-carriage and disengaged the hill brake. He had to reach over the body of the driver, slumped on the wheel, his lifeless foot next to the velocity pedal.
Raithe popped the engine from idle to active, and dropped the corpse’s boot on the pedal. He slammed the door as the vehicle rolled forward, picking up speed as the downhill momentum took hold. Five miles an hour. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
It was doing thirty when it hit the cliff edge and disappeared, somersaulting down through the air as it passed the grey slate of the rock face.
The carriage struck on its roof, hitting the sea’s surface with a slap and bobbing for a moment, bubbles boiling the water around it in bursts of escaping air as the incoming surf tilted it back and forth – slowly sinking until the tyres vanished.
‘Executed an ocean dump. The continental shelf drops deep here, they won’t find the vehicle.’
‘Tell me you left one alive,’ said Koln in his ear.
‘He was forthcoming,’ said Raithe, emotionless. ‘Hardly had to push. They’re Symphonia Dask’s men, off-worlders mostly, brought in so they have no previous ties to the houses. Led by Sir Hortius Sabban, nasty character. Dask’s unofficial squire and dirty-work man. Which presents a difficulty.’
‘What?’
‘She’s expecting him to report back in forty minutes. Which is hard, considering he’s in a chilled drawer in the Stiletto, and in no condition to talk.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘Think on your oaths before you swear them. Consider Lady Sakkaran, who in high spirits swore to never remove the mail coat Queen Favla-Astair gifted to her at Midwinter Feast. She kept her word, and now her bones lie at the bottom of Lake Vadlar. We celebrate her for choosing eternal honour over temporary life, but had she chosen her oaths more carefully, she might have had both.’
– Lucien Yavarius-Khau, High Monarch of Dominion, from his Meditations on the Code Chivalric
‘So,’ said Sycorax. ‘What are we going to do now?’
The enemy operative lay in the morgue drawer, his head ending just above the lower jaw. The orphaned lower palate and tongue left enough for roughly a quarter of a dental impression.
‘We have a name,’ said Koln. ‘We have audio and vid-clips. And we have twenty-two minutes. Sycorax, could you pull off a mimic in time to meet Dask? We could learn a lot from the debrief.’
‘Difficult without a full face to study and reconstruct.’ Sycorax flipped through still images on a data-slate. ‘I could create an approximation, get through a few checkpoints, but it won’t be convincing in a conversation, especially if Dask knows him well. The look will be off. It’ll be missing the mannerisms, gait, hairstyle, little tics. We won’t have time to launder the blood off his clothes. She’s a trained counter-intelligence officer, she’ll get suspicious. And even if I could extrapolate from footage, doing that and arriving in time is impossible. Did you have to take a headshot?’
