To keep him safe.
Laspistol still raised and out in front, the figure stepped closer to Governor Tobias Grail.
They knew the pict recorders were recording everything, that evidence of what had happened here would be found by the right people; they would make sure of it. That when he woke up, the real Russart would be charged with murder, and a new governor would be appointed to the mining world of Aranium.
The figure sorted through the items Grail had kept hidden away; but took only one, an old military medal.
The figure looked up and made sure the recorder above got a decent image of that borrowed face, then withdrew again. It was a face that had been altered using the drug polymorphine, made to look like Grail’s second, while the man himself slept in his own quarters. It had been easy enough to get to him, incapacitate him; easy as well to get to the governor’s chambers ahead of its owner.
Easy enough for her, thought Vess, a member of the Officio Assassinorum’s Callidus Temple. A highly trained killer. She’d been here, observing, for some time. One of the slaves during the exchange with Dhane; one of the girls at Madame Ellada’s; a nameless woman at the ball. Making sure the psykers’ predictions would never come to pass. That the Dark Gods and their forces, who had been using greed and paranoia to manipulate Grail, would never gain control of this planet.
Vess left quietly now, the same way she’d entered; faded into the shadows, barely seen, her task finally completed. It always started off the same way, but would end up different every time: would twist and turn, getting on with business until the job was done. Until her work was finished. There was no satisfaction, no feelings either way.
Because it wasn’t about pride or principle. It was about the Emperor. It was about the Imperium and those who opposed it. All about holding the line.
And its enemies had lost another battle here today.
‘This is a kindness.’
His eyes opened, as her voice rustled above him and around him, like leaves on the wind. Panicked, he flailed, searching. But she wasn’t there.
For an instant, he thought it was over. That he’d made it. Then, like the splash of something far away, but drawing steadily closer, her voice echoed through the tunnel again.
‘This is a kindness.’
Her words reverberated through him and he knew that it would never be over. Could never be over until she had what she wanted.
So Padmar Tooms rose, gasping. As he had every time before, and would, until she was satisfied. He could feel her touch all over him. All around him, and in him. He felt it deep in the meat of him, like a hook in his belly, pulling him up when he just wanted to fall and sink. The water lashed up against him, colder than cold, and hard. Stones made rough messes of his palms and face as he swayed from one side of the passage to the other, and the dark and the light went around and around until he couldn’t tell which side was up and which was down.
Every time he fell, there she was.
‘This is a kindness.’ That was what she’d said. That was what she always said, in a voice like falling rain and cracking ice.
Tooms fell again, heavy and full. Her kindness moved in him, readying itself. His stomach clenched, his bowels knotting up, and he rolled onto his back in the water, hands pressed to his mouth. Trying to keep it all in. His head jerked back, struck the stones.
Jostling the past loose from the present.
Tooms stopped, and lifted a fist.
In the darkness somewhere ahead, something heavy moved through the water. The sound grew louder. As if whatever it was, was coming closer.
Behind him, the other underjacks came to a halt. Five of them in all, counting him, the stories of their lives etched on scarred faces and darting glances. Not long stories, by any stretch. But familiar ones, to a man like Tooms.
They traversed the narrow tunnel single file, walking carefully through the knee-deep water. There were paths to either side of the stream, but only a fool trusted those, unless he had no other choice. The soup was slippery and smelly, but it wouldn’t crumble unexpectedly beneath your feet. Tooms glanced at the man behind him. ‘Cover the lantern, Skam.’
Skam, a narrow-faced Aqshian with hair the colour of damp ashes, quickly hooded the lantern he held, casting the sewer tunnel into darkness. The Aqshian hefted the fyresteel hand-axe he held, his dark eyes narrowed above the handkerchief he wore about his mouth and nose. ‘Want me to look?’ he whispered, his voice muffled and hoarse.
Tooms waved him to silence. No reason to cause a fuss, if they didn’t have to. That was rule number one for an underjack. Or it had been, in Tooms’ day. Things had changed, of late. Greywater Fastness wasn’t what it had been, but then, neither was Tooms.
He was old now. Maybe the oldest underjack left in the city, if Agert were dead. He’d never been a soldier, but he’d fought in wars aplenty, down in the deep dark. He wore battered leathers, and waterproof boots. His knives hung within easy reach, and a heavy, iron-headed truncheon slapped reassuringly against his thigh. Swords were almost useless down here. No room to draw one, let alone swing it, in most passages. Only a fool carried a sword.
Proper underjacks knew that. Had known that. They’d known what it meant, to work down below. That it was an honour, not a punishment. Times had changed and not for the better. Once, men had fought for the right to patrol the soup. Now, that duty went to the last chancers and the no-hopers. Once, only the best had gone down into the depths, and people had cheered when they’d returned. But now, no one cared if they came back at all.
Except this time. This time, Agert was gone. And if Agert was gone, something truly bad had happened. Even them above, who never set foot down here, knew that. Too many had disappeared of late. Too many had gone into the dark, never to be seen again.
The splashing continued, as whatever it was slid on by, on its way to wherever it wanted to go. In the dark, every sound was magnified. Every intake of breath, a roar. Every splash, a tidal wave. And beneath it all, the steady murmur of the water.
When the sound of splashing faded, Tooms said, ‘The lantern.’ The lantern was duardin-made, and the oil would burn forever, if properly tended. Even the deepest shadows were no match for its glare.
Light flared. Around Tooms, stone walls stretched into the dark, their lines broken by ornate archways and alcoves that shaped the water’s flow. The stones had been worn smooth by a century of water, and soft, green things grew across the walls – the only green in the city that he knew of. Buttresses held up the ceilings, their surfaces carved to resemble the stern face of what he assumed was some god or spirit of the duardin. As the light of the lantern swelled, they seemed to scowl.
Above, the streets were narrow trickles of stone and metal, winding their way through the city. But down here, the streets were rivers, and Tooms knew them all. Maybe he was the last man who did. That was why he was here. ‘Come on,’ he said.
‘What was that?’ one of the others – Huxyl, the Chamonian – whispered, his fingers tight about the haft of his own truncheon. Huxyl was short and dark, and wore a bit of obsidian, carved to look like a serpent, about his neck. He whispered to it, sometimes, when he thought no one was watching.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Tooms didn’t look back.
