‘We tried to move on, but there was shooting,’ said another.
‘You’re esholi?’ she asked.
The ayatani looked at her in surprise. The term was quite obscure, and they hadn’t expected to hear it from an outworld Guardsman.
‘We are,’ the first one said. ‘Pilgrims come to the side of the Saint.’
‘Pilgrims getting in the way,’ muttered Maggs. ‘This is a war zone.’
‘We walk where she walks, and go where she goes,’ said one of the esholi.
‘This is no place for you–’ Maggs began.
‘That’s enough, Maggs,’ said Criid. ‘How many more of you in here? More out the back? No? Then come on out.’
They led them back onto the street. The esholi blinked at the daylight and shivered.
‘We cannot escort you,’ said Criid, ‘but head that way. Head west. When you reach the main thoroughfare, turn north. There’s an aid station in Faylin Square. Move quickly. Don’t look back.’
The esholi nodded. One tried to give Criid a sprig of islumbine. She refused it, and urged them on their way.
‘Who walks into a war?’ Maggs asked as he watched the ayatani move away.
‘I heard the fleet was having trouble with pilgrim ships,’ said Ifvan. ‘They’re trying to keep them off-world, and most ships haven’t got the vittals to stay in orbit.’
‘How do they even know she’s here?’ asked Mkvan.
‘Same reason we’re here doing this fething stupid job,’ said Criid. ‘Faith in something bigger than ourselves.’
Maggs had raised his weapon.
‘More of them,’ he said.
Across the street, another group of pilgrims had appeared from cover. There were more than twenty of them, wearing the blue robes, lugging bundles of possessions. Apparently encouraged by the sight of Criid’s team allowing the other pilgrims to pass, they had come out of cover to refill their water-flasks from the broken fountain. They were all small and thin, stooped with age and fatigue. They reminded Criid of birds coming to drink.
‘Fething idiots,’ said Criid.
‘I’ll move ’em on, captain,’ said Maggs. He crossed the street. Criid could see the confidence coming back into him. He’d taken a knock, but she’d made him push on. Now they’d saved a few lives, some tally in his head was beginning to even out. He was more like his old self, the smart-mouthed Wes Maggs who’d spit in the eye of anyone, including death.
More like his old self, she thought, but not whole. The kids with their empty stares and bloody faces would haunt him from now on. Another piece of a good man chipped away.
‘You cannot stay here,’ Maggs said to the esholi around the fountain. They looked at him silently.
‘You have to move,’ he said. ‘Get walking, that way. That way.’
‘Will you kill us, soldier?’ asked the leader of the group. He straightened up slightly. He had some height when he wasn’t hunched over, but it was hard to determine his age. He was rail-thin and haggard, and his skin lined and weathered, from long pilgrimages outdoors and meagre rations.
‘No,’ said Maggs. ‘No, I won’t. Just get moving. Get your things and move that way. Head west. What’s your name?’
‘Hadrel,’ said the man. His eyes were as oddly flat and lightless as his tone.
‘You’re an ayatani?’
‘I am Hadrel.’
‘You need to get your group to move, father. You understand? Fast as you can. Off this street, head west.’
Hadrel glanced at his followers. They picked up their things and began to walk.
‘That’s it,’ said Maggs. ‘Off you go.’
Criid walked over to him.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘With them?’ Maggs asked, gesturing to the departing pilgrims. ‘Shell-shock, I’ll bet. They were just weird with me. Like they didn’t care.’
‘They’ve probably been through shit,’ said Criid. ‘And since when were ayatani not weird? You’ve met Zweil?’
Maggs smiled.
‘They’re alive, Maggs,’ said Criid. ‘When they get food inside them and their wits together, they’ll offer thanks to the trooper who pointed them to safety.’
The House of Ghentethi sat halfway up the hill where Vapourial Quarter became Albarppan Quarter. It was a substantial manse made of worked ouslite, its street windows tall and blue. To the rear of its significant plot lay adjoining manufactory buildings and craft halls, high roofed and raised from local stone. Chrome chimneys vented from the furnace hall.
The house had survived the recent conflict in the district unscathed, but the Ghentethi had not so successfully weathered the past few generations. They had once been one of the most significant dynastic claves on Urdesh, lay-tech makers allied to the might of the Mechanicus. Their power had dwindled during the long years of the war as the Mechanicus relied less and less on the machine shops of the dynastic claves. Ghentethi holdings had reduced from three dozen properties of shop halls in the southern districts of Eltath to this one little fortress of industry, manufacturing bayonets, buckles and focus rings for the Urdeshi regiments.
In the main salon, the rain against the street windows washed the chamber in blue, moving patterns, like the bottom of a pool. Jan Jerik, ordinate of the clave, prodded the fire in the huge, ornate stove with a poker, and then closed the grille. He eyed his guests warily. They had done eating and now sat in silence.
Jan Jerik was a proud man, well-dressed in a dove-blue jacket and embroidered waistcoat. The silver keys and ciphers of his rank as ordinate hung around his neck on a long chain. His white shirt was high-collared, and the boss of his walking cane was the engine motif of his beloved clave.
Jan Jerik had nursed doubts about the endeavour since its first whispered suggestion. But Ghentethi came before everything, and it was his duty as ordinate to ensure its prosperity and survival. Since the earliest days of the dynasts, clave-wars had been fought in all manner of ways, and open violence was the rarest form. Trade wars, espionage, assassination… these were the arsenals of the Urdeshi claves. Clave-loyalty, survival, wealth and knowledge were the touchstones. Despite its risks, and its distasteful aspects, the endeavour promised unprecedented trophies of wealth and knowledge for Clave Ghentethi. He would have been remiss, as ordinate, in ignoring the opportunity.
He heard a knock from below, someone banging repeatedly against the street door. Jan Jerik nodded to a footman, and the footman hurried away to answer.
‘The last few,’ said the leader of his guests, rising to his feet. His accent was strong.
‘They will be made welcome, sir,’ said Jan Jerik, ‘as you were made welcome.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ replied Corrod.
The footman returned, leading the visitors from below. They shuffled in, and stood, dripping wet, glancing around the high-ceilinged salon at the old murals.
‘This place is… secure?’ asked their leader.
‘Yes,’ said Corrod. ‘You’re the last to arrive.’
‘They’re sweeping the streets,’ said the new arrival. ‘Searching. Hunting.’
‘How close?’ asked Jan Jerik nervously.
‘We’ll be gone before they arrive to search your property, ordinate,’ said Corrod. ‘Provided everything is in place as you promised.’
‘It is,’ said Jan Jerik. ‘Everything that was requested.’
‘And the access?’
‘Remains open, sir,’ said Jan Jerik.
‘Do we have data?’ asked the leader of the new arrivals. ‘Reliable intelligence?’
Jan Jerik took a packet of documents from inside his embroidered waistcoat. He unfolded them and spread them on a small side table. Corrod and the leader of the new arrivals looked over his shoulder.
‘We believe the location is here,’ said Jan Jerik, pointing to a section of the hand-drawn map.