‘Fast,’ she said. ‘Well trained, in good condition. How common is cameleo armour here?’
‘Rare.’
‘Then well resourced too. My escort thought they were aiming a weapon, though I did not see it and the subject did not stay to fight.’
‘Why would they intervene in your business?’
‘I judge they were a member of this cabal. We have only seen the foot-soldiers so far — they could not have organised so completely without more formidable troops.’
‘Possibly. Or maybe they were monitoring them, just as you were, or maybe monitoring you. Or maybe something else. This dreadful planet, eh?’ He took another sip. ‘Here’s the important thing — what are you going to do about it?’
‘I have one more location known for cabal gatherings, taken from the abhuman. I have scheduled another raid, this time in force. We will shut it down and take whatever we can. We will not be quiet. If they show up again, as I expect them to, we will be prepared, and I will engage.’
Crowl thought on that, swilling the goblet before him. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Though we’re no closer to learning what they strive for. So far, they’re like any of a hundred cults I have broken here — meeting in the shadows, whispering to one another, talking of a new order and freedom for all. They say they have weapons, and that is something, but for what? I feel a blindness with these people.’
Spinoza felt her impatience rise. ‘They associate without sanction,’ she said, as calmly as she was able. ‘They pledge allegiance to this False Angel, whoever that is. That is crime enough.’
Crowl looked amused. ‘True,’ he said. ‘And their deaths are richly deserved. But do not assume they’re both mad and stupid, Spinoza. We’ve captured two of their lesser lights and killed two dozen more, but still the leaders remain elusive. Perhaps they give these lackeys to us — they can afford to. Consider what they long for most urgently, for they’ll not wait for us to come to them. They’ll be thinking, praying to whatever gods have turned their souls. We are part of those plans, so must move beyond them. All we have is a name — the rest, thus far, is worthless.’
Spinoza realised her fingers were pressing hard into the armrests. ‘I have what you gave me, lord. Perhaps you will offer some guidance, if you feel progress is not swift enough.’
‘Your plan’s sound, Spinoza — I trust you.’
She nodded, suppressing the irritation that boiled away inside her, and tried to frame the words suitably. ‘Very well, lord.’
‘Crowl, please. But I see that you’re unhappy.’
‘Not at all.’
‘And a poor liar, which is a disadvantage in this profession. Tell me what irks you.’
She wanted to say, You do, lord, with your impiety, your lack of resolve. ‘I only wish to see the cabal broken.’
Crowl sighed, and reached for the decanter again. ‘You think I’m too cautious. I don’t blame you. You haven’t been here long, and I know what Tur was like.’ He drank again, a long draught. ‘I look at you and see myself, a century ago. I’d have been angry then, too. I’d have wanted to reach for the flames and fan them. Burn the whole world down, I’d have said, if it only catches a few of those we need to kill. It does you credit, Spinoza, and it amplifies my respect for you, but you’re wrong if you think I’m motivated by pity. I’ve lived here long enough to know what works.’
He leaned forwards, resting his arms on his knees.
‘Fear is like any other weapon,’ he said. ‘It can be exhausted. When you next go into the hive-spires, look at the people. They are afraid, terrified, all of the time. Every waking moment they’re gripped by anxiety. They fear the alien. They fear their neighbour. Any second of any day they might be hauled down to the scrutiny cells by an arbitrator or a priest or — Throne help them — one of us. They’re numb to it. We are numb to it. We forget what the fear of the guilty looks like, for we have made innocence impossible.’
‘But they should be afraid,’ said Spinoza. ‘They should be afraid. Afraid of us, if they need to be, for if they ever stop fearing their protectors then all that waits for them is…’
‘I know it.’
‘Do you?’ Spinoza caught herself too late, and after that she could only glare at him defiantly, the truth of her scorn now out in the open.
Crowl laughed — a low, dry laugh — and sat back in his chair. ‘That’s better, Spinoza. Say what you think.’
‘It is just that… your words,’ she said, trying harder. ‘I know you do not mean them, but-’
‘I mean everything.’
‘-if you were not of this order, I would have to.’ She looked down. ‘Is this a trial?’
‘No, not that. I’m not trying to catch you out. Far from it.’ Crowl placed his empty goblet to one side, his drawn face catching the last reflected light of the sunset. ‘When’s your raid scheduled?’
‘Before dawn, lord.’
He clasped his hands together, pressing the fingertips against one another. ‘I’ll take it over. They’ll be expecting you, if they have any sense, and a more subtle approach might be what is required.’
Spinoza felt her cheeks flush, and she bowed awkwardly. ‘If you wish it,’ she said.
Crowl laughed again. ‘Do not sulk, Spinoza — this is not a demotion. I have another task in mind for you — one that I’ll be very pleased to see you carry out.’
Journeymaster Agister Holbech padded down the winding passage towards his personal chambers, feeling the effects of a twenty-hour shift prey on his aging constitution. His belly flapped across an over-tight belt, his soft-soled shoes slipping atop polished stone flags. Pseudo-flames guttered low in framed candelabras, an antique touch of nonsense that the Chartist guilds were fond of preserving in their private sanctums. Through narrow mullioned windows he could make out the night glitter of the eternal city running west, luminous under low-hanging cloud-banks. There was no moon. There was never a moon, not unless the rad-blooms higher up broke apart for a moment, gifting the terrestrials a fleeting look at the skies that had once been the species’ inspiration to break out into the void.
He reached his chamber and absently tapped the nine-digit cipher into the door-slot. A micro-needle punched a miniscule incision into a pudgy finger, the analytical cyclers whirred, and the lock-lumen winked green. He pushed against the brushed steel surface wearily, and it slid to reveal a cramped and semi-lit interior.
Holbech lurched inside, throwing the day’s tally scrolls onto a low sideboard. Dirty windows on the far wall offered a privileged vista of the nightscape outside — a landscape of jagged spikes, studded with lurid points of light from hab lumens, search-beams, furnace plumes and the glowing swarms of air traffic, all set against the stained churn of the ever-moving thunderheads. The air was hot, humid, like the break point before a storm, except that those clouds never broke — they just boiled and shifted, hemming in the heat, wreathing the world below in a gasping clutch of desiccation.
He was sweating, and he poured himself a long drink — refiltered water, laced with pure alcohol, flavoured with synthetic cardamom. Then he went over to a long couch, the leather real but patched, the steel frame speckled with rust. As he sank down onto it the joints squealed and the coils sagged.
He looked over his apartment, high up on the spire’s western flank. It was a privileged position by most standards, but not as high as he’d have liked; not up into the opulent levels where the air was scraped through filters to excise the grit and the floors were cooled and there were living plants — living plants! — watered from cisterns that the parched multitudes below could have survived off for a year.