Jaume had helped her pick out the clothes. He had shown some interest in her choices. Apparently, a widow’s dress was called weeds, and the best were made of bombazine, crepe and fine lace. Criid had run her hands across the jet silk of one of the dresses that Jaume was showing her, and thought how ironic it was that she was selecting clothes to allow her to play the part of a widow, when, inside, she’d been a widow since the Gereon Liberation.
Jaume had suggested a particular dress in purple, which, he said, was slighted mourning. The colour change from black to purple denoted that the mourning period had lasted more than three years. The widow was no longer obliged to wear her veil all the time, and she could make sparing use of marginally more decorative keepsake jewellery. A further slighting, to mauve, followed after another year, and signalled the eventual return to the world.
Criid put on the slighted mourning, and the shoes and gloves that Jaume had selected, and then the veil. She decided that the widow she had become was so anguished that she had no time for fripperies like make-up, so she went without.
Commissar Blenner had only just been seated at his regular table when the visitor was announced.
It was a dreadful morning, with the snow still thick, and a hellish fog like artillery smoke, and that on top of a couple of days when the city had been quite turned upside down. He’d heard the most appalling stories about some business up at Section that had sealed the centre of the city off.
At least the snowstorm had stopped. Blenner had a zero tolerance approach to barracks food, so he slipped his driver the usual bonus to convey him through the elemental murk to the Mithredates for a late breakfast of tanzato pastry and thick, sludgy caffeine.
There was hardly anyone there. The staff, in their liveries of crimson, black and gold, seemed glad of something to do, and his breakfast arrived in record time.
‘There is a visitor to see you,’ the majordomo said as he was tucking in.
‘Really?’
‘A lady, sir.’
‘Good show.’
‘She’s asking for you by name.’
‘Twas ever thus.’ Blenner dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘Did she say who she was, by any chance?’
The majordomo nodded.
‘She says you knew her husband, sir. His name was Vergule.’
Blenner frowned. ‘Vergule? I never even knew the man was married. Well I never. All right, you’d better bring her over.’
‘I’m sorry to have to remind you, sir, that ladies are not permitted in the main rooms of the Mithredates,’ said the majordomo, ‘but if sir so desires, I can arrange for her to be conducted to the day room so you can greet her there?’
Blenner glanced down at the breakfast he had barely touched.
‘Oh, all right,’ he said, scraping his chair back, ‘but can you have some caffeine brought through to the day room? And, maybe, the dessert trolley?’
‘Mamzel,’ said Blenner. ‘I’m Vaynom Blenner. I am honoured by your visit.’
The widow was veiled. She stood waiting for Blenner by the windows of the day room, beyond which the phantom white morning was uncurling. Waiters brought in a tray of caffeine and a large trolley of cakes and desserts.
‘Commissar Blenner, it’s good of you to see me.’
‘Not at all. I knew your husband well, and was damned sorry to hear of his passing. I take it that his memorial is what brings you to Balhaut?’
‘Yes, but it’s not what brings me here today,’ she replied.
Blenner offered her a seat.
‘Drink, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you.’ She waited until the club staff had left the room.
‘Something to eat, then?’ Blenner gestured towards the trolley. ‘The crustuko is especially good.’
Forget the crustuko, Criid thought. Look at the almond sepis. What a glorious thing.
‘Thank you, no,’ she said, with great reluctance.
‘How can I help you, then?’ he asked.
‘I don’t need your help, but a mutual friend does.’
‘Indeed. Who?’
‘Ibram Gaunt.’
Blenner stared at her. ‘Ibram?’
‘That’s who I said.’
‘I say, what’s going on?’
‘Gaunt’s in a difficult position,’ Criid said. ‘You’re the only person he can call on for help. I’m the only means of contacting you.’
‘You’re not Vergule’s widow at all, are you?’ asked Blenner.
‘My name’s Criid. I’m one of his Ghosts.’
‘Tanith?’
‘No, Verghast,’ she replied.
Blenner leaned back. ‘Look, this is all rather silly. Is Ibram playing some sort of practical joke? Because I tell you now it doesn’t suit him.’
‘No joke,’ said Criid. ‘There is some necessary subterfuge involved, and for that you have my apologies. I had to get in here to find you.’
‘How do I know this isn’t some trick?’ asked Blenner. He was looking decidedly uneasy.
‘Gaunt sent me,’ she replied. ‘He said to say that the day you first met, you lied to him about your father.’
Blenner snorted. It was true enough. A life time ago in the schola progenium on Ignacius Cardinal, two little boys in a draughty corridor.
‘Very well. What’s going on?’ Blenner asked.
‘I’ll explain it as simply as I can,’ said Criid. She paused. ‘I’ve just got to do this first.’
She got up, and helped herself to a large wedge of sepis from the trolley, yanked back her veil, and began to eat. Blenner watched her with wry amusement.
‘What’s Ibram got himself into now?’ he asked.
She told him, between bites, and detailed the events of the last two days as clearly and simply as she could. Blenner’s amusement turned to concern, and then to something that Criid was alarmed to see looked like fear.
‘On Balhaut?’ Blenner asked. ‘The Archenemy is active on Balhaut?’
She nodded. Blenner turned pale. He’d cut himself a slice of sepis while she’d been talking, but he now showed no interest in touching it.
‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘We have to take it to Section.’
‘No.’
‘For Throne’s sake!’
‘Haven’t you been listening to me?’ Criid asked. ‘Nothing’s safe. We don’t know how deeply the enemy has infiltrated. Gaunt can only trust people he knows personally. He needs you to meet him.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You, sir. You and perhaps a small group of Guard that you trust from your regiment. He needs a bodyguard, fire-team strength.’
‘Oh, this just isn’t on!’
‘And transport,’ said Criid.
Blenner rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘He’s going to be the death of me. This is typical of his nonsense. I have a good mind to go straight to the commissar general–’
‘If that’s your decision, sir,’ she told him, ‘you won’t get out of this room.’
Blenner was silent for a moment.
‘When does he want this meeting?’
‘Four o’clock,’ she said.
‘And where?’
‘He said you’d know where,’ she replied. ‘He said you’d know the place that he’d made sure isn’t there.’
‘What? Riddles on top of everything else?’
‘That’s exactly what he told me to say.’
Blenner rose with a long sigh.
‘You’d better come with me to my barracks. I’ll get things in motion.’
Side by side, they hurried from the day room down the stairs and out towards the club’s main entrance. In the foyer, Blenner looked around for a staffer to order up his car.