It took five minutes before an orderly arrived, during which time the servitor trundled off to inform Sister Livia of Janner's displeasure. The orderly was young, thin and looked as if he'd just seen a Tyrannid Lictor close up. His hands were shaking, Janner noted, as he approached the bed.
"Y-yes, Sergeant?"
"What's going on?" Janner's arm was throbbing uncomfortably now, but this was more important than his ruined arm. The pain, however, leant him a fierceness that was proving useful.
"I don't know what you-"
"Don't give me that rubbish. Obviously, there's something going on or I wouldn't have been left here on my own, would I? Now, tell me, in the simplest terms you can, exactly what is happening in this facility that's got you so frightened."
The orderly blinked. For a moment, Janner thought he might actually begin to cry.
"The Inquisitor has been attacked, Sergeant."
"What?"
"By Mister Vollex. There was a quarantine." The orderly looked around him, as if seeing the ward for the first time. "You should have been informed and examined, but perhaps they didn't get here. It was all a bit chaotic. Yes, it would have been…"
"The Inquisitor?" snapped Janner, pointedly.
"Yes, of course. Sister Livia needed the Inquisitor's authorisation to terminate Mister Vollex. He was the source of the infection. I don't understand why. The Inquisitor went to see Mister Vollex and then…" The orderly shrugged and, again, looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
Janner shot him an icy glare. "I want to see Livia as soon as she's free. Do you understand me?"
The orderly nodded his answer and scurried away.
It was another thirty-five minutes until Livia entered the ward.
Janner stared at her.
"You look like hell."
The Sister Hospitaller folded her arms across her chest and smiled thinly. "Charming as ever, Sergeant Janner. What can I do for you?"
Janner paused before he answered. It was true. She did look awful. Her normally spotless white uniform was spattered with blood; her hair verged on the dishevelled, only held in check by a loosely tied band at the back. But, it was her eyes that seemed to have changed the most. Despite her quietly sarcastic tone, her eyes seemed to have dulled, the vitality in them receding to some hidden space within her. They were hollow. Haunted.
"I'm sorry," he said, softly, and then grimaced as a searing pain flared once more in his injured arm.
Livia moved to his bedside, slipping into an air of efficiency as easily as if it were an old overcoat. She checked his notes carefully.
"You're overdue for surgery," she said, briskly. Putting the notes down, she checked the intravenous line into Janner's arm and tutted to herself. "And your anaesthetic should have been replaced about ten minutes ago. My apologies, Sergeant. We'll have to do better."
Janner looked at her. "How is he?"
She straightened up and thrust her hands into her pockets.
"The truth? Medically, he's in a critical condition. He's lost a kidney and is in danger of losing the other unless he responds to treatment quickly. He's also lost an awful lot of blood, but that doesn't seem to be a problem. Our stocks are high and we've been able to replace it relatively easily. The truth is we've done all we can at this stage. The blade was deflected at the last –"
"The blade?"
Livia nodded, her gaze not quite meeting his. "His own. Vollex took it from him when he… turned." She shrugged. "Do you know if it was clean?"
"Sorry?" Janner's mind was reeling. While it was true that he'd never particularly liked Vollex (their respective backgrounds were too diametrically opposed to engender anything more than a healthy respect between them), the thought that he could have been corrupted so quickly and so totally was almost too much to take. That a man he had known and respected for the better part of twelve years, an Inquisitor no less, was even now fighting for his life was just as hard to comprehend.
"The dagger Brecht wore. Was it clean?"
"As far as I know. I don't think I've ever seen him use it, to be honest." Janner stared at Livia. "Vollex? Vollex tried to kill the Inquisitor?"
"Some kind of infection had changed him or..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes became distant. "No. I think it was more subtle than that." She shook her head. "I don't know." She smiled apologetically. "I'm not much use, am I, really? I'm sorry. I ought to get going." She smoothed back her hair with a blood-stained hand. "I'll make sure one of the orderlies preps you for surgery in the next hour or so. Thesk'll be operating."
Janner grunted. "I'd prefer it if it was you."
Smiling slightly, Livia said, simply, "I'm tired and I need to rest and, well, think."
Despite the pain now throbbing in his arm, Janner returned the smile. He glanced at her hands, saw the fingers worrying at a stray piece of thread on her tunic.
"And clean up, Sister. Don't forget that." He directed his gaze towards her nervous hands. "There's blood on your…" But something in Livia's eyes wouldn't let him finish the sentence.
"Tell me about it," she muttered, turning away to walk wearily out of the ward.
Music, as gritty and all-pervasive as the smoky air, drifted up the stairway as she descended. She'd left Marchmont's henchman unconscious behind the door, twenty-two milligrams of neo-ketamine bubbling happily away in his bloodstream. The laspistol was hidden in her pocket once more, her hand cupped loosely around its grip. The stairs were narrow and the carpet was worn slick in places but her progress was steady. She had, after all, been here before.
Marchmont would be in his office to the rear of the building, probably nursing a hangover. The man knew how to oil the wheels of business. Dranguille grimaced. The taste of the Kevlian brandy Marchmont had served at their last meeting still lurked at the back of her mind like a thief with a sledgehammer. Once was enough, thank you.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. The light here possessed a grainy crepuscular quality. Ordinary objects – a coat screwed up on a chair; a small drinks cabinet perched on spindly legs – seemed to loom into her line of sight. Having one eye covered didn't help, she supposed.
She could go one of two ways here. To her left was the main bar area. A pair of darkwood doors, their peeling varnish overlaid with a thin patina of grime, opened onto an assortment of tables, chairs and booths with a small bar on the near wall just to the left of the entrance way.
Two long strides took her to the doors and she opened one of them slowly so she could peer in undetected. She quickly saw she needn't have worried. At this time of day, there were only a handful of men in the bar – Marchmont's mostly, she realised – and they were too preoccupied to notice the door moving. They were all looking at the girl dancing on the small stage in the far corner, their attention held by her small, sinuous movements. The music was loud and earthy, a slow, subtle rhythm on which was built a simple, repetitive melody. Flecks of reflected light – evidence of some kind of skin dye or body paint, probably - glittered on the girl's skin and her eyes were directed demurely downwards as she danced.
Dranguille's eyes narrowed in distaste, but she silently reproached herself. Marchmont's business practices were not her concern at the moment and, besides, the girl was giving her as perfect a distraction as she could hope for. Satisfied that she didn't need to worry herself about the men in the bar area, she headed back the other way – towards the warren of private rooms and offices at the rear of the establishment.
She moved swiftly now, her laspistol out. Many of the rooms she passed were storerooms, their contents full of illegally acquired goods, most of them payment for one piece of information or another. Dranguille suspected that the goods didn't stay there for long. Marchmont's business dealings were legendarily complex. A shipment of lho received as payment for one scheme could easily be used as leverage for another.
A muffled sound brought her up short and she glanced around, sharply. In the stillness, she heard the sound again, this time more clearly. Someone nearby was sobbing quietly – although whether it was out of pain or frustration, she couldn't quite tell.
It wasn't anything to do with her, she told herself, but the inquisitive side of her nature just couldn't resist. There were two doors near her, both set into the left hand wall. She edged forward cautiously, her booted feet making little sound on the plush carpet, and examined the doors with a practised eye. One had a simple functional steel handle; the other sported a more decorative brass one. She tried the brass one. Locked.
The sobbing started again, this time more urgent. Dranguille shot the lock off and burst into the room, her pistol ready for another shot if needed.
What she saw brought her up short. The room was, as she had suspected, used as living quarters, although she hadn't quite expected the opulence that greeted her on her entry. Heavy drapes hung over hard wood panelling on the walls, the carpet was a deep rich blue and the bed that dominated the room was made from heavy Brachian wood, its thick mattress covered with sumptuous lilac silk sheets that shimmered in the subdued lighting. Tied to the bed and writhing like a particularly angry fish caught on a line was a dishevelled, distinctly feminine and oddly familiar figure. Eyes as dark as night glittered angrily at her and the muffled sound started again. This time there was no mistaking it for cries of pain.
And there was no mistaking the woman's identity either. The bronzed skin; the elaborate chiffon blouse and thin ruffled skirt; the chestnut hair tied back to keep it out of the sharp-featured, angular face; the glittering brooch – intricately worked silver, surrounding a sapphire as large as Dranguille's thumb – at her breast: this was Eloise LaFayette, Marchmont's second in command, confidante and, so Dranguille had often speculated, lover.
Dranguille covered the space between the door and the bed in three long strides and reached out to loosen the gag that had been tied around the woman's mouth. It came away easily enough and, for a brief moment, the two women stared at each other.
"What the hell's happened to you?" they snapped, more or less simultaneously.
She couldn't even begin to explain what had brought her here.
Livia stared at the door to Brecht's quarters, took a deep breath and pushed. It refused to give and she rested her head against its cool, metal, frustratingly unyielding surface and felt a tide of bitterness wash over her that was as painful as it was unexpected.
Of course it would be locked. What kind of a fool was she?
The kind that left an injured Inquisitor alone with a corrupted psychopath, the oh so detached and oh so bloody rational part of her mind reminded her. Thank you. Thank you very much.
She couldn't begin to explain why she was here, but she thought it might be something to do with looking for answers – answers that, even if he were conscious, Brecht would probably not provide. That was the problem with working for the Inquisition. Not only were they good at discovering secrets; they were just as good at keeping them.
And what secrets did she need to know? Well, the answer to that question was easy enough. She didn't need to know anything. She had been seconded to the Inquisition's facility on Phrysia Secundus for well over three years now. She knew her relationship with Brecht was not an equal one. Her role was clearly defined and very limited. So what did she want to know?
Livia closed her eyes and held her palms against the door. What she would like to know, she supposed, is just what had happened at the Querin mansion. No one had told her, but the injuries to Janner – las bolt to the upper arm and shoulder – and Elinore – superficial burning consistent with exposure to high voltage power lines and, oddly enough, extremely low temperatures – spoke their own eloquent language. But knowing what was not the same as knowing why.
Why had Brecht come out of the wreckage of the top floor of the Querin mansion with such slight injuries? Why had Vollex turned? Why did she have to be the one to –
She bit her lip and turned around, leaning against the door. And that was what was really troubling her. There was no use running from it any more. Her killing of Vollex had been violent and desperate. The muscles of her forearms and fingers still ached from the strain of tightening that little piece of plastic around his neck. Emperor, she could still feel the sensation of it biting into the flesh of her palms.
Was that what this was really about? She'd killed a man? Perhaps that was it, after all. She'd spent all her career trying to save life; if she was going to take it, she at least wanted to know why.
In the room behind her, something rattled gently. Livia stiffened and felt her heart quicken. That was impossible, wasn't it? There were plenty of Inquisitors Livia had heard of who kept odd, exotic pets, but Brecht wasn't one of them. She turned slowly to face the door again, bending her head low to try and hear more clearly. Seconds passed. She licked her lips, frowning. She must have imagined it. After all the stress of the last few hours, it was only to be –
The rattling sounded again, muffled but somehow harsh at the same time. She leaned closer, ignoring the fringe that flopped down into her eyes. The strange rattling sound had been longer this time, although she was still no closer to understanding what was causing it. Perhaps if she held her breath, tried to calm the urgent beating of her heart…
"Ah, Sister Livia. There you are!"
She leapt back from the door like a scalded cat and whirled to face the newcomer. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she tried her best not to look guilty as the tall, thin form of Adjutant Jerachin Smyre walked briskly towards her.
As far as she knew, Smyre was one of Brecht's longest-serving staff. Certainly, he had been in his post when Livia had first joined the Inquisitor's retinue three years ago. Yet, she knew almost nothing about him – other than that he was very good at his job.
Smyre was carrying a data slate and he glanced at it now. His thin, lined face broke into an unexpectedly warm smile as he looked up again.
"There are one or two things on which I'm afraid I need your decision."
Livia was taken aback. "My decision?"
"Yes. With the Inquisitor indisposed at present and Interrogator Dranguille absent on her assignment, you're the highest ranking operative currently on station."
"But Thesk –"
"Medicae Investigator Thesk has relinquished all claims to authority in this facility except when pertaining to matters of a strictly surgical nature." Smyre's grey eyes twinkled in the dim corridor lighting. "His exact words, actually."
Livia took a moment to digest this. She nodded slowly. "Alright, then. What do you need me to do?"
Holding out the dataslate, Smyre's tone of voice became, if anything, more deferential. "The most pressing matter is that of the current quarantine. A decision needs to be made on whether it should be extended to the surrounding environs, kept in place as is or lifted."
Thoughtfully, Livia took the dataslate and scrolled through the reports on it. "No other incidence of infection?" she murmured.
"No. But, then again, not everyone's been checked out yet. There is, of course, the chance that Interrogator Dranguille and her team might be carrying the infection."
Shaking her head, Livia said, "No, I don't think so. In fact, I don't think we're even dealing with an infection. At least, not in the pathological sense." She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. "Has there been any word from Junior Magos Heirati yet? A sample was sent to his laboratoria for analysis."
Smyre frowned. "He's yet to file a report."
Livia returned the data slate to him. "Then I'm not making a decision until I've had one." She arched an eyebrow. "Does that seem reasonable, Adjutant?"
"Eminently so, Sister."
"Then I'll go and see if I can chivvy him along." Livia smiled as she turned away. "I like a challenge."
Adjutant Smyre watched the figure of Sister Livia walk briskly down the corridor and sighed the small self-satisfied sigh of someone who has performed a simple, yet profoundly significant task and done so to the best of his ability.
Tucking the dataslate under his arm, he was about to turn away, when he paused, keeping himself perfectly still. He glanced sharply to the door to Brecht's quarters. Had he just heard - ?
But the doorway remained silent and unassuming and, after a moment or two, Smyre moved away.
Approximately eleven seconds later, a muffled, rattling – like the sound a die might make in its shaker – skittered nervously on the surface of the corridor's stillness. By that time, there was no one around to hear it.