‘He’s a freak.’
‘He’s got eccentric qualities, certainly,’ Gaunt agreed.
Maggs snorted.
‘He’s obsessive compulsive,’ he said, ‘and what’s with the shades?’
‘The doctor is an albino, Maggs,’ said Gaunt. ‘Didn’t you see? The dark glasses are to protect his eyes.’
‘He’s still a freak.’
The caffeine was brewing. Maggs took out the gun he’d taken from the doctor and examined it.
‘I wonder where he got this? It’s ex-Guard issue.’
‘Is it loaded?’ Gaunt asked.
‘Yeah. Ten rounds.’
‘So we’ve got that, your laspistol, and my bolt pistol with one clip left.’
It didn’t seem to be much to work with. Both of them had put on a sidearm that morning, Gaunt because it was a uniform requirement, and Maggs because service regulations stated that an appointed driver should bear a pistol, or similar, fit for defensive purposes. Neither of them had even buckled on their Tanith warknives.
‘We’re deep in the stinky, aren’t we, sir?’ asked Maggs.
Gaunt nodded.
‘I’m afraid so, Maggs.’
‘The Blood Pact,’ said Maggs, searching the kitchen cupboards in the vain hope of locating some sugar, ‘they‘re after this man? The one with the fethed-up face.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s key to this whole thing, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask who he is?’ Maggs said, looking sidelong at Gaunt from the open cupboards.
‘It’s probably better if you don’t know,’ Gaunt replied.
Maggs shrugged.
‘Well, you know,’ he said, ‘I don’t see it like that. Right now – and I say this with the enormous deference that a specialist like me owes to his commanding officer – right now it seems to me that I’m the only person you can count on, and vice versa, may the Emperor help us both. So, I think maybe you need to tell me more than you’d usually tell me.’
Gaunt thought about it.
‘You’re probably right,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Maggs with a laugh, ‘we’re not going to become friends or anything.’
‘That’s a relief.’
Gaunt rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Then he said, ‘His name is Mabbon. He holds the rank of etogaur, and he was an officer in the Blood Pact before switching allegiance to the Sons of Sek. He was on Gereon when I was on Gereon.’
‘Old scores?’
‘I never met him. The thing is, he’s carrying vital intelligence. Serious high-grade stuff. That’s why the Blood Pact wants him dead. That’s why we’ve got to keep him alive.’
‘Shit,’ said Maggs.
‘Exactly.’
Maggs wiped three chipped enamel cups with a damp cloth from the sink, and set them in a row to receive the caffeine. They heard footsteps on the stairs. Maggs looked at Gaunt.
Doctor Kolding appeared in the kitchen doorway. His scrubs were badged with blood. He was still wearing his blue-tinted glasses.
‘I’ve done all I can,’ he said.
‘Will he survive, doctor?’ Gaunt asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Kolding replied.
‘Well, feth load of good you are!’ Maggs exploded. ‘What kind of fething doctor are you, anyway?’
‘I only work on the dead,’ said Kolding softly.
‘What?’ Maggs exploded.
‘I perform autopsies for the Health Department. I don’t usually work on the living.’
‘Now you tell us! You’ve got the fething sign outside!’ Maggs yelled.
‘Maggs,’ Gaunt said sharply.
‘The sign’s always been there,’ Kolding said, ‘for generations. This was my father’s practice. Right up to the war.’
‘And now you’re a meat carver? A corpse butcher? Feth!’
‘That’s enough, Maggs,’ said Gaunt, scraping back his chair and rising to his feet.
‘Oh, tell that to Doctor Death here!’
‘Maggs!’
‘Have you any idea how fething important that patient is?’ Maggs shouted into Kolding’s face.
Kolding flinched.
‘That’s really enough, Maggs,’ said Gaunt in a voice that had a rod of steel running through it. ‘Why don’t you go out and check on the car?’
‘The car’s fine,’ said Maggs.
‘The car’s shot to pieces and they’ll be looking for it,’ Gaunt corrected. ‘Go and check it. Make sure it’s secure. Make sure we’re secure. All right?’
Maggs, simmering, sighed and nodded. He handed the doctor’s old pistol to Gaunt, took a swig of caffeine from one of the enamel cups and left without another word.
‘I apologise,’ said Gaunt. He gestured for Kolding to sit at the table, and set a cup of caffeine in front of him.
‘There’s no need.’
‘Will the patient survive?’
‘I have worked on the living,’ said Kolding. ‘For many years, as a junior in my father’s practice. I am qualified for human work. But these days, the city is empty. The streets are dark and quiet. The population has never really returned. I need to supplement my workload with autopsy work for the Health Department, or this place would have to close.’
‘The war ended your father’s business?’
‘The war ended my father,’ said Kolding. ‘He died. So did his assistants and nurses. I was the only one who lived.’
‘Will the patient survive?’
‘I have stabilised him, and repaired the blood vessel damage. We need to wait for another half an hour to see how the coagulant healing meshes take. His blood pressure concerns me. If he is still alive in a hour, I think he’ll be alive in fifty years.’
Gaunt sipped his caffeine. It seemed awful. The truth was, it was simply battlefield quality. Maggs had thrown it together according to trench conditions. Gaunt realised that he’d been spoiled by too many months of fancy quality caffeine. This, this dark murk that Maggs had concocted, was caffeine like the Guard drank it, the bitter taste of the zone and the dug-out.
It was dire, and it was the best drink he’d had in a year.
‘Where did you get the pistol?’ Gaunt asked.
Kolding looked down at the old weapon. It was lying on the worn top of the kitchen table.
‘It’s the pistol that was left behind.’
‘Left behind?’
Kolding hesitated. It wasn’t so much as if he was trying to find the right words, it was more as if he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say them.
‘It was left behind. Afterwards. The night my father died. My father and his assistants.’
‘Doctor, did they die here?’
Kolding took off his tinted glasses and carefully cleaned one lens.
‘My father had set up a triage station. Injured men were pouring in from everywhere. There was fighting in the streets all round here.’
‘I know. I was here.’
‘Then you’ll know what it was like. Mayhem. The streets filled with smoke. Noise. Some soldiers came. They were enemy soldiers. They broke in while we were treating the injured.’
‘How old were you, doctor?’ Gaunt asked.
‘I was sixteen,’ Kolding replied.
In the street outside, the snow was silently obliterating all lines and angles. The whiteness of the flakes caught the streetlamp light like blobs of molten metal spurting from ruptured armour. Wes Maggs pulled his jacket close and rubbed his arms. His breath wreathed out of his mouth like gun smoke.
He trudged up the street through the thickening snow cover, wet flakes pelting his face. The night was as black as Rawne’s soul, but there was a phantom radiance coming up off all the surfaces on which the snow had settled. It had rounded kerbs, softened walls and blunted iron railings. It had deformed windowsills and gutter lines, and it had upholstered all the vehicles parked up the hill.
They’d left the staff car near the top of the street, tucked in beside some railings. Maggs hoped it would start all right. There hadn’t been time or light enough to check if anything vital had been punctured. In the time it had been sitting there, tanks could have drained or hydraulic fluids leaked away.