He squeezed Maggs’s hand, and the blood welled and ran.
A fit came upon her. It came without warning. Eyl was so shocked by it that he recoiled.
His sister screamed. She had her hands in the sterilising baths, elbow-deep in red liquid, and as she screamed, the right-hand jar shattered. Over six litres of blood product vomited out of the exploded cylinder and gushed across the theatre bench.
Ulrike staggered backwards, pulling her hand out of the intact bath. Blood splashed out across the tiled floor in long, drizzled sprays from her hands. She cried out again, a squeal of rage and pain.
She turned to Eyl.
‘Sister? What is it, sister?’
She was breathing so hard that the front of her veil was sucking in and out. Droplets of blood had caught in the lace net and glittered like cabochon rubies. She raised her right hand and opened the palm towards him. The whole hand and arm was dripping with blood, but he could see the wound across her palm. He supposed she had been cut by broken glass from the exploding bath.
‘Your knife!’ she wailed.
‘What?’
‘He’s got your knife, and he’s bleeding me out of them!’
‘The pheguth? You mean the pheguth?’ Eyl demanded.
She screamed at him again, but this time it was a petulant scream of frustration and anger. She sank to the floor.
‘It hurts!’ she complained. ‘He’s hurt me. He’s cutting the tie!’
Eyl knelt down beside her, and held her tight, rocking her. She sobbed. Her clutching hands made bloody imprints on the tan leather of his coat sleeves.
He heard his men at the theatre door. Her screams had drawn them downstairs in concern.
‘Magir?’ Karhunan called out, unwilling to cross the threshold.
‘It’s all right!’ Eyl shouted back. ‘It’s all right. Leave us. Go back upstairs, and get the men ready to move.’
Eyl felt her wince again in his arms. She opened her left palm and held it out for him to see.
He watched as an invisible edge sliced the palm open.
Mabbon grunted out a breath and clenched his left hand over the basin. His blood spattered out of his fist and collected with the measure they’d already taken from Maggs.
‘Are we done?’ Gaunt asked.
Mabbon nodded.
‘Doctor?’ Gaunt called.
Kolding was just finishing the compression dressing on Maggs’s palm. He got up and came over.
Gaunt handed him the basin. ‘Get a lid sealed on that, then bind the prisoner’s hand.’
Kolding took the basin. He looked scornful and disapproving.
‘Quickly, please,’ Gaunt said. He wasn’t in the mood for the man’s disdain. Gaunt had crossed a few lines in his life, always out of necessity. Some heathen blood-magic ritual felt like one of the worst.
It had better damn-well work.
There was a noise from the refurb’s outer entrance.
Gaunt signalled to Kolding to keep quiet, drew his pistol and hurried towards the entrance.
It was Criid, squeezing back in through the boarded window from the street. Her hair was wet with snow, and she’d obviously been running hard.
‘You’re back sooner than I expected,’ said Gaunt, holstering his pistol.
She shook her head.
‘They’re close,’ she said. ‘We have to move.’
‘No argument,’ Gaunt replied. He bent to pick up his cap. It had been on his lap when he’d been sitting watch, and heard the gunshots.
‘Get any food?’ he asked.
‘There wasn’t time.’
She followed him into the chamber where Kolding was tending Maggs and the prisoner.
‘What the feth happened here?’ she asked.
‘They got to Maggs somehow,’ Gaunt said.
‘What?’
Gaunt stepped through the work curtain he’d half-torn down, and began to retrieve his coat and the items that had scattered from his pocket. Criid followed him.
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Gaunt. ‘The simple truth is, they know exactly where we are, so we need to switch locations. Gather your things and help the doctor.’
‘We need to run,’ said Criid.
‘Maggs is sick, and the prisoner is sick and wounded,’ said Gaunt. ‘The purpose of this entire exercise is keeping him alive, and moving him any distance is going to be contrary to that aim. We’ve moved him too much already. I have to trust the doctor on this.’
‘So where do we go?’ she asked.
Gaunt stopped to pick up his pen and his copybook.
‘I have an idea,’ he replied.
TWENTY-TWO
Contact
‘Will it work?’ asked Ludd, dubiously.
Trooper Brostin looked insulted.
‘Of course it’ll work,’ he insisted. ‘I cooked it up, didn’t I? Just like you asked. I know this stuff.’
‘He does know this stuff,’ said Beltayn.
‘See?’ said Brostin.
Ludd took the small paper twist from Brostin’s permanently grimy paw. It was about four centimetres long, and no thicker than a pencil. The end had been folded down and sealed with what looked like treacle.
‘This isn’t going to be in any way…’ he began.
‘What?’ asked Brostin.
‘Excessive?’ Ludd replied.
The wounded look returned to Brostin’s face.
‘I did it just like you asked,’ he said.
‘All right, all right,’ said Ludd. ‘It’s just that I know your stuff too, Brostin, and for you there’s no such thing as too big.’
Brostin grinned and shook his shaggy head.
‘This is small. It’s cute. It’ll be pretty.’
‘All right,’ said Hark. The small huddle of troopers turned to look at him. ‘You all know what to do. Let’s get on with it.’
Ludd took a deep, calming breath, and walked into the company vox office. It was late afternoon, and it was already twilight outside. Driving snow tapped against the grubby windows.
The room was gloomy and over-warm. The electric filament heater units on the wall were kicking out a dull blast of dry heat, regulated by Aarlem’s automated thermostats. It was stuffy.
There were six large vox-caster units set up in the office; three were active and in use. Signal strength indicators flickered and glowed, and Ludd could hear the background murmur of a thousand voices, as dry and parched as the heat.
The Ghosts’ regular vox-operators had been turfed out when the Inquisition arrived. Three Inquisitorial vox specialists were on station, each manning one of the active casters. They were attentive and diligent men in sober black suits, their ears cushioned in large headphones. They were carefully monitoring all traffic in and out of Aarlem Fortress. Portable memory recorders had been plugged into the three casters to assist with any later transcription work, and the operators were making regular, abbreviated notes on the data tablets that rested beside their right hands.
Their supervisor was a haughty-looking ordo agent called Sirkle. He too was dressed in black, though part of his attire was body armour. He was pacing behind the operators, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally pausing to lean over and read one of the noted comments.
When Ludd walked in, Sirkle glanced at him dubiously. Ludd had only seen Inquisitor Rime at a distance during his visit, but he was struck by the marked facial similarity between Rime and his henchman.
‘Can I help you?’ Sirkle asked.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ said Ludd with what he hoped was a relaxed grin. ‘I was just wondering if there was any news.’