The agriboats were huge and old, but now they were on them, Zhukova could feel them shifting slightly underfoot in the low water.
Mkoll led the way, making so little noise it was inhuman. Zhukova felt like a clumsy fool as she followed him. They went from deck to deck, crossing from one rotting barge to the next, following old walkways and scabby chain bridges. The derelicts were just rusted hulks. In places, hold covers and cargo hatches were missing, and she saw down into the dark, dank hollow interiors of the barges, hold silos that contained nothing but echoes. The place stank of cropweed, a vile smell that had the quality of decaying seafood. The reek of bilge waste and shoreline mud made it worse.
Mkoll stopped at the side rail of the next barge and peered down between the vessel and its neighbour. Zhukova joined him and looked down. She saw shadows and, far below, the wink of firelight on the oil-slick water.
‘What do you see?’ she whispered.
He pointed. Ten metres below them, near the water line, there was some kind of mechanical bridge or docking gate connecting the barge they stood on with its neighbour.
‘The agriboats are modular,’ he said quietly. ‘They could work independently, or lock together to operate as single, larger harvester rigs.’
‘So?’
‘I guess they could also dock to transfer processed food cargos,’ he mused.
‘So?’
He beckoned. They went to an iron ladder and descended through the rusting decks into the darkness. The barge interior stank even worse. Slime and mould coated the walls and mesh floor. It was as black as pitch.
Mkoll jumped the last two metres of the ladder, and landed on the deck. Zhukova followed.
He led her to a large open hatch, and she saw they had reached the rusting bridge linking the two vessels. She looked into the darkness of the neighbouring agriboat.
‘They connect,’ he whispered. ‘They connect together. Docked like this, mothballed, the chances are all the agriboats in this graveyard are hitched to each other, all connected. Most of them, anyway.’
‘That’s several miles of junk,’ she said.
He nodded.
‘All connected.’
Mkoll knelt down and pressed his ear to the deck.
‘Listen,’ he said.
Zhukova wasn’t sure she was going to do that. The deck was filthy.
‘Listen!’ Mkoll hissed.
She got down and pressed her ear to the metal flooring.
She could hear the creak of the ancient hulls as they rocked in the low water, the thump of rail bumpers as the tide stirred one boat against another.
And something else.
‘You could walk all the way from the west point of the bay to the batteries without being seen and without using dry land,’ he whispered.
‘If you went through the hulks,’ she replied, horrified.
‘The armour push wasn’t the only distraction,’ said Mkoll. ‘The infantry surge in Millgate is a feint too.’
Zhukova listened to the deck again. The other sound was clearer now. Quiet, stealthy, but distinct. Movement. A lot of people in heavy boots were stealing closer through the bowels of the graveyard ships.
‘They’re using the agriboats,’ said Mkoll. ‘This is the main assault. They’re coming in this way.’
‘We have to warn Colonel Rawne,’ said Zhukova, her eyes wide.
‘No fething kidding,’ said Mkoll. He tried his microbead.
‘It’s dead,’ he said. ‘Try yours.’
Zhukova tried, and shook her head.
‘They’re jamming us,’ he said. ‘That buzz? That’s vox-jamming.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Zhukova.
‘Get Rawne,’ Mkoll replied.
Twenty-Three: The Warmaster
The east wing of the Urdeshic Palace seemed empty, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. Bonin led the way. They passed rooms that were full of abandoned furniture covered in dust sheets, and others that were stacked to the ceilings with boxes and junk. The carpet in the halls was threadbare, and the ancient portraits hanging from the corridor walls were so dirty it was hard to make out what they were of.
The crack and boom of the raid continued outside. The air held an uncomfortable static charge from the palace’s massive void shield, as though a mighty thunderstorm were about to break. When they passed exterior windows, they could see the light of the shield outside, encasing the dome of the Great Hill with its magnetospheric glow.
Time was ticking away. It was already almost two hours since Gaunt had given Van Voytz his deadline. Well, Van Voytz would have to wait for his answer. The east wing was like a warren.
‘I thought there would be guards,’ said Beltayn. ‘I mean, he is the warmaster. I thought there’d be high security, trooper checkpoints.’
‘I think his authority keeps people out,’ said Gaunt. ‘His sheer authority, forbidding visitors.’
‘Really?’ asked Beltayn.
‘He is the warmaster.’
‘If he doesn’t like company…’ Daur began.
‘He’ll have to make an exception,’ said Gaunt.
‘But if he forbids people…’
‘I’ll take my chances, Ban.’
It was certainly odd. The central parts of the massive keep, the war room, the command centres, were packed with people and activity, and every corner and doorway was guarded. But as they’d moved into the east wing they found an increasing sense of emptiness, as if they’d gone from a living fortress into some abandoned derelict, a place from which people had hastily evacuated and never returned.
‘They’re still with us,’ muttered Bonin. Gaunt looked back down the hallway. Sancto and the Tempestus detail, their faces impassive, were following Gaunt at a respectful distance. Gaunt had tried ordering them to go back or to remain in the command centre, but Sancto had firmly refused. Protecting Lord Militant Gaunt was his duty. He would go wherever Gaunt went.
‘At least they’ve hung back at my request,’ said Gaunt. ‘And they haven’t tried to stop us.’
‘That’s because their orders are simple,’ said Bonin. ‘No one’s told them to stop you. Not yet, anyway. I suppose we’ll find out if a warmaster’s direct and angry order overrules a bodyguard command.’
He held up his hand suddenly, and they stopped. Bonin moved ahead to a half-open panelled door. He pushed it wide.
It was a bedchamber. Not a lord’s room – they’d passed several of those, vaulted chambers with beds raised on platforms, the walls adorned with gilded decoration. This was the room of a mid-status court official, a servant of the house. The wood-panelled walls were smoke-dark with old varnish, and the drapes were closed. The only light came from a single glow-globe on the night stand beside the large four poster bed. The stand and the floor were stacked with old books and data-slates. A portable heater whirred in one corner, shedding meagre warmth into the chilly room. That was the sound Bonin had heard.
‘No one here,’ he said.
Gaunt looked around. It was a handsome enough room, but dank and dusty. Surely the bedroom of a servant or aide. This was not the accommodation of a man whose authority dominated a sector of space. The bed hadn’t been slept in, though it had clearly been made up months or even years before and never used. The sheets and coverlet were grey with dust and there were patches of mildew on the pillows.
‘Sir?’ said Daur.
He’d walked around to the other side of the bed, the side with the nightstand. Gaunt went to look.
There was a nest on the floor beside the bed, half under it, a nest made of old sheets, pillows, the cushions from sofas and grubby bolsters. More books and slates were muddled into the lair, along with several dirty dishes and empty, dirty mugs. Whoever used this room didn’t sleep in the bed. They hid beneath it, to the side away from the door, in the darkest part of the chamber, curled up in the kind of fort a child would make when he was scared at night.