He began to worry. Could the Imperator break through the barrier by muscle and momentum?
‘How much time do we have?’ Plome called, as they dragged it through darkened rooms, keeping a steady distance between them.
‘Don’t concern yourself with that,’ said Kyne. ‘The batteries will hold. Keep focused.’
‘I can’t help concerning myself!’ Plome protested.
The Imperator bucked against his cage, jerking Plome’s arm. Plome swallowed and forced it back, his pudgy hand trembling.
Crake went ahead into the audience chamber where they’d set their trap. It seemed like he’d aged half a lifetime since they were here last.
‘Watch you don’t trip on the cable across the doorway,’ Crake warned them as he hurried over to a trolley rack of resonators. He crouched down in front of it, aching from the weight of his pack and the multiple cuts and bruises he’d sustained.
Kyne backed into the room. The Imperator was dragged through with him, stiff-legged and stumbling. Plome came last, pate glistening.
Crake hit the switch to activate the outer defences. A row of resonator masts against the wall hummed into life, sealing the room.
The Imperator sensed what Crake had done, saw the summoning circle in the middle of the room, and finally understood what they had in store. He redoubled his efforts to break away, struggling wildly. The force of it caused Plome to trip. He sidestepped and just about retained his balance, but his hand wavered: the harmonic arc cylinders were no longer aligned. For a moment the Imperator could move again. He lunged, trying to escape, but Kyne calmly shifted to his left and the Imperator froze again with a howl of frustration.
‘Let’s get this done,’ said Kyne, his artificial green eyes burning into Plome’s. Plome swallowed and nodded. Kyne backed into the summoning circle, stepping through the double row of rods and spheres. Plome stepped forward. The Imperator went with them, fighting every inch of the way.
Come on, come on! Crake thought to himself, his hand poised over another switch. Hurry up!
Kyne stepped out of the circle and tried pulling the Imperator in. Plome pushed from behind. The Imperator wavered on the threshold, resisting for all he was worth. Plome let out a cry of effort and exasperation. And then Kyne and Plome lurched, the Imperator stumbled forward, Crake hit the switch, and it was done.
Crake slumped to the floor, plonking himself on his arse. The Imperator howled and thrashed, but he was contained. Once a daemon was in the circle there was little chance of getting out of it, and there were enough batteries and backups here to keep him trapped for half an hour or more.
Exhaustion swept over him. He met Plome’s eyes across the room. The politician looked dazed. Then the two of them began to laugh, little chuckles of disbelief.
They’d caught him. They’d actually caught an Imperator.
Plome walked unsteadily over to Crake and offered his hand. Crake let himself be pulled to his feet. Plome blew out his breath, gave Crake a nervous smile, and patted him on the arm.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That was hairy.’
‘Welcome to the world of field daemonism, my friend,’ said Crake, who was feeling expansive and elated. ‘You’ve just gone where few have dared to tread.’
Plome mopped his brow and adjusted his pince-nez. ‘Shouldn’t say I’ll be in a hurry to tread there again,’ he said. Then his eyes glittered. ‘But we got one, didn’t we? We showed those bastards what real daemonists can do!’
‘They’ll write about us for years to come, just you see if they don’t,’ Crake replied.
Plome coughed. ‘Yes, well. After daemonism is declared legal, I hope. I have my career to think of until then. Not to mention my neck.’
‘We’re not done yet,’ said Kyne gravely, from the other side of the room. ‘Crake, take the readings.’
His tone brought Crake down to earth again. He glanced at the Imperator, trapped in the circle, and was reminded what a dangerous creature they’d caught. He’d been overconfident in the past, and it had cost himself and others dear. Kyne was right: they were not done yet.
Plome helped him get his pack off his back, then shooed him away when Crake offered to return the favour. ‘I can take care of myself. It’s down to you two now. Go on.’
Crake went over to the oscillator, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back. It was a pleasurable agony. His muscles had stiffened and he hurt in two dozen places, and he still couldn’t hear properly. A great tiredness had settled on him. After this, he planned to sleep for a week.
After this, he thought. He could finally believe there would be an afterwards. A time where he might find himself in Samandra’s arms again.
The sound of gunfire outside filtered in through the grey windows and the whistling in his ears. Best not to think about that yet. There was still the matter of the battle outside. And even if he survived, Samandra might not.
No. She’ll win through. She’s like a force of nature. Nothing can stop her.
He told himself that, but the thought of her out there made his stomach knot, and he put it from his mind as best he could.
He knelt down gingerly in front of the oscillator and recorded the Imperator’s primary resonances. Halfway through scribbling them down, he stopped as the enormity of the information in his hand hit him. This was the key to defeating the Imperators. To the population at large they were beings of supernatural power, divine enforcers like the will of the old gods made flesh. But the daemonists would show them otherwise.
He finished jotting down the frequencies and put them in his pocket. ‘Got them,’ he called over his shoulder. It seemed a weak line for an occasion so momentous.
Kyne, meanwhile, had finished his preparations. The Imperator was facing Plome and staring at him with an unwavering gaze, as if calculating the amount of pain he’d visit upon the politician when he got out of there. Kyne walked up behind the Imperator, reached into the summoning circle, and in one quick movement he seized the Imperator’s wrist and snapped a manacle on it. The Imperator, surprised, tried to turn, but Kyne grabbed the other arm, twisted it behind his back, and secured the other wrist.
Crake was amazed that Kyne dared to reach into a summoning circle that way. Even though the daemon’s power was nullified by the walls of the summoning circle, it seemed a reckless thing to do.
But Kyne wasn’t finished. He grabbed a fold of the Imperator’s mask in his fist. With one quick jerk he pulled it free, and the face of the Imperator was revealed.
Crake had seen one before, but it did little to prepare him. There was something instinctively repellent about them. Their cadaverous, pinched features and white skin made them corpselike. Their eyes had yellow irises like a bird of prey. Rancid gums and jagged teeth guarded a black lipless cave of a mouth. No tongue moved within.
‘Spit and blood,’ Plome gasped, and turned away.
This was where Kyne’s expertise came to the fore. Crake had devised the method to catch the Imperator, but there was still one question remaining: how did you interrogate a creature who couldn’t speak? Imperators had no tongues; they’d seen that in the past. Perhaps the Awakeners cut them out to preserve their secrets, or perhaps to keep them servile: it wouldn’t do to give daemons a voice. Although, judging by what Crake had seen of the Lord High Cryptographer, it appeared they’d gained one anyway.
Kyne provided the answer to the question. A collar that made men speak the truth. It was something like Crake’s golden tooth, but more powerful and focused. Kyne had used it in interrogations before; now he’d adapted it, thralling in a daemon that could read the vibrations of vocal cords and make them understandable. Once more, Crake was filled with admiration at the Century Knight’s skill with daemonism. But then he remembered that his own rough artistry had done what even Kyne could not, and he felt a swell of pride.