The Inquisition IV

[Lady_Canoness]

I am sad to report that my work on the Inquisition has hit an unexpected road-block, and that the completion of the Inquisition IV will now take *much* longer than I had anticipated.

 

Microsoft word as well as Open Office are bugging-out and crashing hardcore on my trusty ASUS laptop of 5 years, and oddly enough the word processors are the only programs to cause such issues so far as I am aware. I can't get as much as 10 minutes of writing time on either program without a crash or blue screen. Combine this with my soon-to-be zero free time, and work on the Inquisition IV has ground to a halt.

 

(My computer even had a 5 minute freeze up typing this response. Times are bad, I am afraid, and the only solution may be to replace it altogether.)

 

All the best to you, and I hope to have better news - or, even better, part 14 up soon!

 

-L_C

[Azekai]

That is unfortunate- are you properly supplicating the spirit of your cogitator? :huh:

I suppose writing the next installments in web-based email draft is out of the question?

[Lady_Canoness]

That is unfortunate- are you properly supplicating the spirit of your cogitator? :huh:

I suppose writing the next installments in web-based email draft is out of the question?

 

 

Heh -that's a good idea. I'll find a way.

[Taranis]

I am sad to report that my work on the Inquisition has hit an unexpected road-block, and that the completion of the Inquisition IV will now take *much* longer than I had anticipated.

 

Microsoft word as well as Open Office are bugging-out and crashing hardcore on my trusty ASUS laptop of 5 years, and oddly enough the word processors are the only programs to cause such issues so far as I am aware. I can't get as much as 10 minutes of writing time on either program without a crash or blue screen. Combine this with my soon-to-be zero free time, and work on the Inquisition IV has ground to a halt.

 

(My computer even had a 5 minute freeze up typing this response. Times are bad, I am afraid, and the only solution may be to replace it altogether.)

 

All the best to you, and I hope to have better news - or, even better, part 14 up soon!

 

-L_C

:angry: :D oh no. I'm hoping the best. I love this story.

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Sounds like you are in need of the Blessings of the Ommnissiah

 

I hope you get this sorted soon, I am enjoying this story, as always, and hope to see more.

[Lady_Canoness]

Good news!

 

 

 

After too many months of delay, the stars have (momentarily) aligned! Caught between Army training on the weekends (read: bloody good times!), civie-side work, life, getting a new laptop after the untimely demise of my Old Faithful, and what seems like teeny-weeny bits of free time, I have finally pieced together Part 14 of the Inquisition IV.

Hopefully you are still interested, still care to read the story, and aren't too pissed off at me for not adding to the story in a very long time (I'm sorry :lol: )

 

With no further delay, other to say that I haven't proof-read this because I really wanted to get it out before going away for another weekend of training, here it is after a very long wait.

 

------------------------------------------

 

*Part 14*

 

 

 

Around mid-day the rain got worse. Lashed by high winds, it swept across the city in driving sheets and fell against the high-towers of the Godwyn estates with an unremitting ferocity that pummelled the scurrying people below and drove them indoors while in the skies above shuttles of different heraldries drifted towards the city’s center spire. Inside were nobles from all across Acre, arriving in the lap of luxury and shielded from the elements as they assembled at the House of Godwyn where they were welcomed by a veritable army of servants ready to cater to their every whim. One at a time they stepped from the artificial comforts of their gilded chariots and were hastily escorted to the estate’s interior by entourages numbering more than a common man’s extended family – though not before upturning their noses with indifference towards the cityscape that sprawled below them and the queue of shuttles that circled above.

“Time?” Spider asked, watching over Lee’s shoulder as the pilot deftly manoeuvred through the gusting wind and pelting rain. It was cramped and dry within Meridian’s cockpit – a cutting contrast to the world outside – and former smuggler’s scattered possessions rattled and shook as the venerable shuttle thumped and groaned through the air. A topless dashboard doll with wobbling boobs was particularly vulgar, and the greasy finger prints smearing its paint in obvious areas suggested that it was also equally distracting.

“We’s lookin’ a’ ‘bout se’en minits,” Lee commented casually, his dirt engrained hands on the controls while his eyes scanned over dust-smeared dials from where he sat in worn old pilot’s chair. “Ye c’n tell th’ boss tha’ there’s a bi’ o’ a queue t’ land. Popular place, ‘er mum’s.”

Holding onto the handrails running along the ceiling, the Interrogator backed out of the cockpit without commentary and left Lee to his flying.

Behind the pilot’s stuffy little room at the nose of the shuttle was the communications hub – another cramped little area called the nest – that was filled almost to capacity with a wide variety of cogitators, display screens, and data-readouts all arranged around a single low-to-the-ground swivel chair that had obviously been designed with a smaller person in mind. Constantine sat in it now with his knees practically touching the keyboard, though he turned in the Interrogator’s direction as she stepped back in.

“Seven minutes?” he asked. Spider nodded, and he swivelled forward again leaned closer into the intercom: “Seven minutes, Inquisitor. There appears to be a line-up for landing.”

 

“Good. Tell Lee not to push it and wait our turn.”

+“Shall I inform Meredith and Stone of the delay?”+

“No,” Godwyn instructed him, “keep them going as planned.”

Waiting in Meridian’s sub-level, the Inquisitor had ordered that the two assassins accompanying her be in full battle readiness. Zero with her silver armour and burgundy frill, and Mercy in her dark shadow suit, would accompany the Inquisitor through a side door upon landing – avoiding the nobles that their hangers-on – and heading straight to the command centre where they would oversee the banquet in its entirety from a removed vantage point. Intimidation, the Inquisitor reckoned, would be the best way of securing cooperation, and to reinforce her disposition the Inquisitor had donned her massive suit of black power armour emblazoned with the Inquisitorial crest across the chest.

The sub-level hold rattled and shook through the storm-swept skies, vibrating the walls and causing the twins to sway where they stood holding onto the head-level rails, but Inquisitor remained motionless – her heavily armoured suit keeping her firmly rooted to the deck while her eyes stayed fixed on the wall-mounted chronometer as it slowly counted up towards the seven minute mark.

 

With a shuddering thud the shuttle touched down on the highest landing platform of the tower estates and the Inquisitor disembarked with the giants on the far edge of a rain-slicked tarmac. At least a half-dozen other shuttles of differing shapes and sizes were touched down as well on the expansive black surface, and house envoys and attendants swarmed the noble passengers with rain-shields and heat-lamps before ushering them inside the estate through a pair extravagantly rich bronze doors.

Godwyn and her escort received no such treatment as Meridian lifted off the moment they were clear of her hatches, and, with a storm-filled horizon to their backs, the figures stalked through the rain to a small side-door watched over by an armed house guard. Wrapped in a long storm coat the guard did not question them as they approached, but hastily punched in an access code and opened the door so that the armoured Inquisitor could march through with thunderous footsteps while the giants ducked in after her.

Inside, a guard captain was waiting, and as the door closed behind them he brought a closed fist tight to his chest in salute and bowed deeply.

“M’lord,” he said, his voice echoing off the close walls of what was generally a restricted area, “I have been awaiting your arrival. Lady Godwyn wishes to greet you at once.”

“I’m not her as her grace’s guest,” the Inquisitor corrected him flatly.

“I understand,” the captain nodded his whole upper body in the trio’s direction, “but her Ladyship insists…”

Sweeping a lock of rain-drenched hair from her face with a gauntleted finger, the Inquisitor nodded coolly, and the guard captained bowed again. “If you would follow me,” he asked before smartly turning on his heel and marching further into the estate.

Godwyn did as she was bidden and followed after the captain – the booming of her footsteps effectively silencing whatever noise the assassins were making – and entered through another coded door into what looked like a common corridor of the place she had once considered her home.

The Godwyn estates – much like the estates of other nobles, she assumed – were massive beyond reckoning, comprising of thousands of corridors connecting hundreds of rooms on more than four-score levels across two towers. Inside were vast galleries and dining halls, ballrooms large enough to make Imperial Governors envious, private gardens and greeneries, theatres and music-rooms, and of-course the living quarters and facilities to accommodate the over two-thousand full-time House staff. At the base of the towers were also the public offices – grand areas rarely frequented by the nobility themselves where House business was orchestrated on their behalf throughout their land and across the entirety of Acre.

And those were just the areas considered common knowledge.

Entire stories of the tower estates were off-limits as familial residences and private rooms, then there were security stations and safe rooms, and there were certainly at least a score or more secret rooms that only the highest House authorities knew about. Dungeons and private prisons were common urban legends, though so were private pleasure bars where richly decorated courtesans, or – as some rumours claimed – alien and mutant sex slaves, were kept fulfil the desires of their noble masters.

Growing up as the bastard child of nobility, the young Cassandra had never enjoyed the benefits of noble blood, and, though she had been looked after and educated in the ways of the upper classes, she was frequently picked on by siblings and suffered the abuses of relatives. Her memories of the place, while not terrible, were not what she would describe as particularly good. Her mother had done her best to be kind, but she was rarely around, and instead Cassandra had the most memories of spending time with apprentice servant children, many of whom she had considered friends. One servant boy she had considered more than a friend. She thought she loved him, and at the age of fourteen had experienced her first sexual encounter, though swiftly afterwards she’d been sent to the Schola and a year-or-two after had been selected by the Academy, never to see her mother or her home again… or so she’d thought.

Seeing it through the eyes of an Inquisitor was different – impersonal – and she felt nothing for the portraits and murals of her family history as she followed the guard captain down the opulent corridor to where he accessed another code-locked door carefully amidst that rich cedar panelling.

“This way, if you please, m’lord,” he beseeched her to follow him through the secret passage way, and in doing so she stepped from the plush carpet onto concrete – her armoured feet once again thundering out every step she took. The assassins followed in silence, and the hidden door slid shut once everyone was inside.

“Similar passages run through most of the towers,” the captain explained over his shoulder as they walked. “Each one is linked into a machine spirit to aid in navigation and avoid guardsmen getting lost or confused. They are also specially soundproofed, and designed to allow quick and quiet travel to counter any possible security threat.”

“Are there many of those?” Godwyn asked, looking back to see the twins ducked low under what could have been no more than a seven-foot ceiling.

“No, m’lord,” the captain replied smartly, “though for large functions such as today it allows us to travel to where we are needed without creating undue concern.”

“The nobles are concerned by your presence?”

“Forgive me, m’lord, I misspoke. It is considered a discourtesy to carry functional arms around the nobility. We would not wish to cause offence.”

The notion was ridiculous so far as Godwyn was concerned, but at the same time she knew it was true. Nobility was paranoid by nature and trained to anticipate assassination and games of political intrigue, meaning that no-one was above being a turncoat or traitor lying in wait. Combine paranoia and temperamental behaviour with near unlimited power and the guard captain was right; to cause offence was to court disaster.

“Where is Lady Godwyn awaiting us?” she asked, changing the subject.

The captain did not answer:

“On the other side of this wall,” he motioned with his hand to their left “is the grand ballroom where today’s banquet is being held. We have numerous security precautions already in place, though in extreme cases we can also apply direct firepower through opening these ports – ” he pointed out several long metal shutters around shoulder height that stretched several meters in either direction.

“And this doesn’t offend the nobles?” Godwyn asked, only mildly curious as she followed the officer.

“The guests of House Godwyn are unaware of these security measures,” the officer explained, “though it is likely they have similar arrangements in their estates.”

The Inquisitor did not doubt it. Though wealthy, arrogant, and in many cases oblivious to the plight of others, the high-born of Imperial society were not stupid and would have come prepared. Every action would have been rehearsed, while every word and phrase scrutinized by minders and coaches. Nobles spied on each other frequently, and, through bribery and espionage, pieced together everything they could about the people, places, and defences of everywhere they went.

To think of them as helpless would be a grave mistake, as would be to underestimate the breadth of their schemes.

“Lady Godwyn will meet you through here,” the captain came to a stop outside a sturdy-looking security door and unlocked it with a numeric code; stepping aside once he had done so to allow the Inquisitor passage.

She looked at him; “After you,” and motioned the guard forward.

“As you wish.” He opened the door and stepped through, standing smartly to attention on the other side.

Past the door was a small safe-room, lightly decorated with a couple low tables and cushioned chairs and sofas, and with a select number of landscape paintings placed around the square walls to make up for the lack of windows. Three other security doors led into the room after the one Godwyn had entered – one in the centre of each wall – and from the arched ceiling hung a single chandelier to provide the only light.

Two house security officers were already in the room when they arrived, though they said nothing as the Inquisitor directed her lithe assassins towards a leather-bound sofa, and did their best not to look too indiscreetly at the women’s weapons and armour. They were supposed to be professionals, but Godwyn doubted that they’d be very useful if a fight broke out.

“Inform her grace that my patience is finite,” she announced, standing cross-armed near the centre of the room.

The officers did not flinch. They were well drilled at least.

“You can tell me that yourself.”

Lady Elisabeth Godwyn’s voice came as if from nowhere, and at first the Inquisitor assumed that she would be speaking to a microphone, but when she thought about it the older woman’s voice sounded far too close.

Moving only her eyes, she slowly scanned the room. The two security officers did not move. Something about them seemed off.

“Show yourself.”

There was a slight tremble in the air – slight enough that an untrained eye would pass it off as nothing.

From where she perched on the sofa, Mercy’s violet eyes stared into the security officers.

“Captain,” Elisabeth Godwyn’s voice spoke up again, “you are dismissed.”

The captain bowed sharply, and let himself swiftly out of the safe-room.

“Will you dismiss your bodyguards? I wish to speak to you and you alone.”

The Inquisitor was unmoved. “They will stay.”

There was a pause.

“So be it,” the noble-woman sounded resigned.

The air shimmered again – more noticeably this time – then in the blink of an eye the two security officers disappeared and the head of House Godwyn was revealed standing between where the uniformed men used to be.

Dressed in an extravagant layered gown cinched at her neck and running perfectly down her body until it covered her feet, the noblewoman was tall – taller than her illegitimate daughter even when armoured – and beautiful despite her advanced years as generations of careful breeding shone through the creases in her skin. There was no fear in her eyes, nor was there love or tenderness, and when she looked upon her child she did so as one of status and repute looking upon an unknown adversary.

“I see you won’t afford any courtesies even for your own mother when you are a guest in her home,” she looked down upon her daughter and past her towards the two giants perched silently behind at the edge of the safe-room. “So be it. I had hoped that seeing you again would bring some joy to an old woman.”

“That we share the same name is merely coincidence,” Godwyn replied. “I am an Inquisitor, and my courtesy is that I am willing to speak with you in the first place.”

Something in the old woman’s features seemed to crack, making her look even older, but she did not look away. “Very well, then,” she said, “I will not trespass upon your good nature any longer than then is necessary.”

The noble woman turned away from her daughter, and the younger Godwyn watched as she walked to a nearby armchair and tentatively sat so that they faced one-another.

“Forgive my rudeness,” she said brusquely, doffing a pair of silk gloves and laying them carefully across her lap, “but I am not so young as to stand for indefinite periods of time, you understand.”

The daughter looked at her irritably; “What is it you wanted to speak with me about?” she got to the point.

“Two things,” the old woman said after a pause, not looking at her guest; “I do not know how it is you plan on accomplishing the task you have set for yourself, but I have decided that I will not stand idly by and wait for whatever terror you have unleashed to manifest itself! I had hoped your presence here would be for the better – that my own flesh and blood would see a way of redeeming Acre – but it appears I was foolishly mistaken!”

Lounging quietly on the sofa behind their mistress, the twin assassins looked at each other questioningly. The Inquisitor took three steps to stand in front of her mother and dropped her hands to her hips – the joints of her armour hissing in response:

“What are you saying?” she asked.

The noble woman looked up into her face; “I have told the Houses of your presence here, on Acre. I have told them because perhaps now they will realize that the Imperium stands over them with an executioner’s blade, and that there will be no mercy shown for us if we cannot resolve our own shortcomings. You and your ilk are not here to help. I realize now that you only deal in destruction.”

A tear was forming in the old woman’s eyes, but she continued to look fiercely up at her daughter as if daring her offspring to deny her – and she did:

“Are you mad?? Tell me what you have done!” the Inquisitor snapped in a low hiss. “What is it you have deluded yourself into thinking the Inquisition is responsible for?”

Anger lingered in Elisabeth’s eyes. “The chaos in the streets! Do you think me blind? The anarchy, the murder – the assaults in broad daylight that leave numerous people dead! This is not your playground, Cassandra. This is my city!”

So accused, Inquisitor Godwyn let the silence build between them, and sought out an armchair facing her mother as the old noble woman scrutinized her every move with a piercing gaze. She was furious, and breathed sharply in-and-out through her nose as if steeling herself for the Inquisitor’s inevitable and irresistible counter-attack.

But it never came.

Inquisitor Godwyn drew a chair away from the wall until it was directly before the reigning head of House, and seated herself so that her armoured form sank into the groaning chair. For a time they just watched.

“This is my city!” Elisabeth Godwyn repeated, “And I will defend it!”

“No you won’t,” her daughter cut her off. “This city is theirs. You’ve already lost.”

 

***

 

Opulence. Extravagance. Indulgence. Magnificence. Luxury. Wealth.

All were words used to describe the life of Imperial aristocracy, but as Meredith ascended the crystal elevator to the grand ballroom with Stone at her side only two words formed continuously and consistently in her mind: holy s***.

It was everywhere and everything. Breathtaking.

She had never seen so much of it displayed absolutely everywhere. Carpets were impeccable; tapestries were blemish-less; every, single thing was embellished with gold or silver; and not so much as a speck of dust or smudge of grease could be seen on the countless mirror-like surfaces that glinted up from everything from picture frames to door-handles. Even the most mundane things comprised of exquisite works of art – like the hand-engraved bone lift keys – to the carefully wrought doorframes of polished brass that shone over the dozens of doorways they had seen already.

Nobility, it seemed, had an obsession with metal, and had more than enough staff to make sure every piece was kept at its brightest. Melting down a single room’s worth would likely be enough to erect a new Imperial monument, and, from what she understood, the estates had thousands of rooms.

Meredith would be tempted to make her own statue-sized set of regicide, just because.

“I don’t believe this,” Stone said in a pissed-off whisper – his first words since entering the Godwyn estates from the ground level now a score or more stories below them.

The doctor looked up at him; she didn’t believe it either, almost like it was some kind of dream. She bit her lip just to be sure. There she was, pretend-married to the man of her dreams, dressed in the finest clothing to have every graced her skin, and riding a lift that cost more than a life’s worth of wages to join a party with the most influential people on the planet.

At that moment she promised herself to eat, drink, and flirt to her heart’s content. So what if they were here on business? Stone was so rigid and joyless that he’d undoubtedly do all the work anyway, leaving Meredith to enjoy herself to the fullest and maybe get some action. Who knew what deviant tricks these starched blue-bloods had up their sleeves? As a doctor, it was her duty to find out… for purely ‘scientific’ reasons.

“Why are you smiling?”

Smiling? Meredith was positively bouncing on her high-heels. She squeezed Stone’s arm tightly; “This is exciting!” she squealed softly.

“You know they can likely hear everything we say?” Stone cautioned her with a low mumble. “This lift is surely bugged.”

“So what if they can?” she responded. “You want to f*** in the elevator?”

“The sooner this is over with, the happier I will be.”

“You’re never happy anyway. F***ing in the elevator might help you with that. Scientific fact.”

A melodic chime and slight vertigo signalled that the lift had stopped moving and the mirror-like brass doors would soon open.

The doctor grinned, looking up at her escort with a shrug; “To late,” she said, “maybe on the way down.”

The Mordian shook his head. “You need help.”

Meredith was about to respond in jest when the lift doors opened and her breath was taken away before she could make even a peep. The grand ballroom opened before them in all its splendour, and with so many sights, scents, and sounds that it was all the stout doctor could do stay on her feet and try to absorb every aspect of the scene before her one piece at a time. The scope was huge – beyond anything she had ever seen in a private building – with vast walls supported by towering columns and covered with immense tapestries. From the vaulted ceiling high above were draped numerous banners and pennants – majestic, but the meaning of which she could never hope to know – while a colossal chandelier of epic proportions dazzled her eyes with hundreds of individually twinkling lights. At the far end of the room, past the gold banisters of twin stair-cases leading to stepped galleries, roared a fireplace larger than most houses were entire boughs of mighty trees were consumed by flames leaping a dozen feet or higher. How such a thing could be without boiling them everyone alive made her wonder, but she soon forgot all about it as Stone guided her out of the lift and nearly dragged her into the ballroom until she’d recovered enough to start walking.

The shock of seeing such richness on display was staggering, though Stone had recovered sooner than she had and walked with her into the murmuring sea of costumes and faces as more than one-hundred of the wealthiest aristocrats gathered under the vaulted ceiling in a staged encounter of haut-politique. Delicacies and refreshments were as plentiful as fancy dress as cliques of various noble families engaged with one another around the ballroom floor and upper galleries and house attendants navigated between the tides of wealth with trays of exotic foods and drink.

Impossibly flamboyant dress and costumes more complex than the most advanced suits of armour appeared to be the norm, and it was with a sinking feeling that Meredith realized that the finest gown she had ever worn irredeemably marked her as ‘lesser’ among such affluent company. She was a nobody – a nothing – not even worth the effort of eyes being cast in her direction: her arrival with the Mordian went almost completely unnoticed.

Almost.

“Here,” the ex-soldier plucked two glasses of glimmering red wine from a passing servant’s tray and handed one to Meredith as the pretend couple regrouped near the tail-end of a gaggle of gaily dressed aristocrats and their entourages, “this should help get your wits back up.”

The doctor gulped down the first glass in what seemed like a single mouthful and quickly beckoned for the second glass. Rolling his eyes, Stone handed it over and she polished it off just as quickly. The wine was warm with a welcoming hint of spice to it – perfect for fortifying the spirits – and after two glasses the stout woman could feel the fire building in her gut already.

“Begging your pardon, commandant, doctor, if I may have a word?”

Caught off guard, both Stone and Meredith turned to see a striking elderly man with tied white hair and a trimmed moustache and goatee smiling at them from behind a crescent shaped pair of glasses. He was well dressed in richly embroidered clothing, and, looking up, Meredith quickly noted the golden lace frill that emerged from underneath an obsidian tailcoat at the collar and around the wrists of spotless black leather gloves.

Stone looked down at the man from underneath a furrowed brow. The old man, for his part, remained smiling as his own entourage of attendants and hangers-on waited patiently at a respectful distance.

“And you are?” Meredith asked, noting too late that such a question could be deemed offensive by someone rich enough to buy her life from then on.

The old man chuckled – a waxed white moustache twitching on his upper lip. He offered his hand:

“My name is Hercule Columbo. I apologize that we have not met before now, but, you see, I am both friend and confidante to a mutual acquaintance of yours, and at her request I have been preoccupied until now.”

Stone took the offered hand and shook – Columbo beaming at him as he did so – but, somewhat reluctantly, Meredith held out her own hand, palm down. Without hesitation, the old man swooped down and kissed it with remarkable dexterity, and when he rose again the doctor could feel herself turning scarlet.

“If you please?” Columbo motioned that they should follow him.

 

“There, if you like, you may talk freely.”

He had not taken them far, but even so Meredith quickly spotted the subtle genius of the old man’s plan as his entourage fanned out around them to form a protective and impenetrable shifting circle of conversation on the ballroom floor. No-one could get close enough to listen-in without warning, and any eavesdropping device would doubtlessly be drowned out by the veritable walls of noise rising from the old man’s supporters. He was undoubtedly skilled in the way of cocktail parties – as farcical as such a thing sounded at first.

Looking around to ensure their security, Stone cleared his throat. “Who are you really?” he asked point-blank.

Columbo took it in stride; “Hercule Columbo, Master of the Patroclus, free trader, and Inquisitorial asset for…” he crinkled his face in thought, “oh… at least thirty-odd years.” He smiled. “Satisfied?”

Stone adopted the features of his namesake; “No.”

“Well, if you must know,” the older man indulged him with an unfaltering smile, “I usually hold the honour of transporting the Inquisitor to-and-fro from her operational theatres. Oftentimes I will meet the Inquisitor’s agents in person as guests aboard my ship – which, I must add, is a pleasure – though until now I have only had the pleasure of meeting a handful of your present company.”

“Who?”

Meredith glared up at the Mordian – appalled that he could be so continuously rude – but Columbo didn’t appear bothered in the slightest and continued to smile.

“Mercy and her twin sister Zero – enchanting creatures both – Mr. Normandy – who I have known as long as the Inquisitor herself, I have spoken to Mr. Constantine, though alas have yet to meet him in person, and most recently I have had the pleasure of being host to the young woman, Spider. If you think it necessary, I can also tell you of your predecessors – Emperor, rest the souls of those who are departed, and guard those who live still.”

The men looked at one another, but Meredith wasn’t about to go unheard.

“Well, I’m convinced,” she announced loudly, then looked up at the trader with a beaming smile of her own; “I’m Meredith, as you likely know, and this is Iliad Stone. Not a commandant, but a soldier all the same.”

The Mordian may have grumbled something, but the doctor ignored him:

“So, what ‘word’ did you want to have with us?”

Hercule Columbo did not waste words cutting to the chase: “The Inquisitor has briefed me on what you are here to do,” he began, “and has asked that I lend my services to you in whatever way possible.”

“So how is that?” Stone asked.

The trader motioned that he would tell them; “By your stance I am going to take the liberty in guessing that you are not accustomed to the art of intrigue. Am I correct?”

Meredith chuckled, feeling the wine come to her face. “Oh, very! Intrigue me, good sir; intrigue me!”

Stone shot a ‘you’re crazy’ glance in her direction, but Columbo was unflappable in his good nature.

“Well, it is not an art I can teach you at the drop of a hat, or – ” he glanced at Meredith with a grin, “at the bottom of two wine glasses.”

“A-ha!” she tapped her left nostril with a sly wink. Stone rolled his eyes, again.

The trader continued; “From what I have gathered, the representatives from the House of Styme comprise your objectives, and you are to eavesdrop upon them by any means necessary. Correct?”

“Correct,” Stone agreed.

“Good,” Columbo nodded, his demeanour suddenly stiffening, “then you should know that you have your work cut out for you. You cannot just walk up to anyone here and extract information. Even though it is an open environment, they’ll have you marked from across the room and make it impossible to achieve your objective. Keep in mind that likely half the people in this room have similar tasks to yourselves, and that the other half is tasked to guard against it.”

“That’s great,” Stone complained, drawing a somewhat sympathetic look from the old man; “What in the warp are we supposed to do?”

Columbo asked for patience; “If you please, I have been doing this for a long time. Granted, I am no nobleman, but I should be able to give you an edge over the others in this ballroom.”

“Give us an edge?” Meredith asked, looking between the two taller men. “Aren’t you helping us here?”

“Only indirectly,” Columbo clarified with an appreciative nod, “but that in itself should be enough.”

So far as Meredith was concerned, however, it wasn’t. “Look at us;” she told him, “we stand out more than anyone else here! Even the help is better dressed!”

“Standing out is a calculated advantage,” Columbo corrected her much to the doctor’s disbelief, though the Mordian seemed to buying in to what he was saying, “though allow me to continue…”

 

***

 

The one-hour mark since insertion had just passed when Meridian’s communication hub chimed with an incoming transmission:

+“Meridian, do you read?”+ said the Inquisitor’s voice with a familiar underline of static.

Leaning forward in the nest’s turning chair, Constantine thumbed the voice release button; “Constantine here. I read you, Inquisitor.”

There had been an impromptu radio silence for the past forty minutes with no contact from either the Inquisitor or Stone and Meredith. It was not entirely unexpected, given the circumstances, but it did mean there was little to do aboard Meridian as she circled the skies above the city. For the most part, Constantine had chatted back-and-forth with Lee in the cockpit and occasionally monitored street level activity through Meridian’s sensors, while Spider had made herself scarce in the on-board cabins. There was action on the streets and a few minor riots had broken out amongst the refugees near the spaceport, though from the comm-chatter and thermal imaging it seemed that the arbites had it well under control.

+“Good. Relay to the infiltration team to stand-down from previous orders and adopt a wait-and-see approach. Level 5 security encryption.”+

The last part of the transmission came as a surprise; “Inquisitor, can you say again and confirm the level of security?” Constantine asked after some trepidation.

+“Level 5, Mr. Constantine,”+ the Inquisitor repeated herself. +“Be aware that this is a priority message and cannot be intercepted.”+

Even though there was no way she could see him, the logistician found himself nodding in agreement. “Understood.” Level 5 security encryption was serious even by Imperial operational standards, and was typically reserved for communiqués of paramount importance as each recipient needed be individually identified by frequency and manually patched into pre-determined network. Once the network was established with all recipients (an effort in and of itself that could take a very long time) encrypted transmissions would begin frequency hopping every tenth of a second in a process that would throw off any attempts at interception. Even so, frequency hopping was not impervious to interception, however, so every thirty seconds the level 5 security transmission would have to be terminated and patched in to a new network – a process that made long messages exceptionally arduous to relay.

In his career, Maxwell Constantine had only ever worked with two level 5 transmission for the Imperial Navy. This would be his third, though thankfully it was a very short message.

+“Good”+ the Inquisitor continued. +“You are also to contact Tanner and have him rendezvous with Mercy and Zero for the ground level extraction of two subjects.”+

“Understood.”

Constantine knew better than to ask for more detail when none was offered, but a stand-down order and ground-level retrieval did not bode well in his books: there was no-way that the Inquisitor deviating from her own plan could be good.

+“Carry out your orders. Godwyn out.+

“Stone, Meredith, come in please,” the logistician began as Meridian banked into another curve through the rain-filled sky.

+“We read you.”+

It was Stone, and voice in the background it sounded like he and the doctor were already neck deep in nobility.

Constantine depressed the transmission key: “Switching frequency to Alpha-Theta-Five-One. Confirm and read-back.”

Stone’s voice sounded gruff; +“Give me a minute…”+ there was a long pause of silence, followed eventually by; +“Confirming. Alpha-Theta-Five-One.”+

Circling in the nest at thirty five hundred feet, Constantine manually adjusted his comms readout over to AT-51 and waited. Spider stepped in through the through the hatchway leading back to the hold and listened in silence.

+“Checking in.”+ Stone’s voice filled the small room. Constantine punched in the randomly generated cryptographic code and waited for five small red lights to turn green as the code was automatically conformed to his recipient. Another flick of a switch, and the designation AT-51 became scrambled and shifting – the frequencies hopping too quickly for the readout to keep up. If anyone had been listening in at the beginning, they would now be lost.

Behind him, the Interrogator folded her arms around her sternum. Meridian’s communication’s nest might not be pretty, but it sure worked well when you needed it to.

“Radio check,” the logistician began formally, his voice steady.

The noise had become slightly reduced in Stone’s surroundings; +“Loud and Clear.”+ The crypto was working.

“Stone, you are ordered to stand-down from your current assignment and await further orders. Wait and see. I say again, wait and see.”

The Mordian wasn’t long in response. +“Acknowledged.”+

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean??” Meredith hissed through her lips while doing her best to remain calm and poised as her eyes raked the upper galleries for anyone who might be watching them.

Stone remained grim; “How should I know?” he stated bluntly. “We have our orders.”

Standing with them as they slowly moved their way across the ballroom floor in the midst of the protective entourage, the lines on Columbo’s face deepened and stretched. “Stay calm,” he cautioned, his own lips barely moving underneath his moustache as he talked, “orders or no, blowing your cover here would be ill advised…”

The Mordian rolled his broad shoulders and grunted something into his wine glass, beckoning a servant with a tray of delicate appetizers to come closer. When he had moved on again, the ex-soldier spoke in a low growl; “Do you have an exit strategy, Mr. Columbo?”

The trader gave him a hard look; “I am staying,” he said, “and so are the two of you.”

Meredith didn’t like it; “Meridian,” she mumbled discretely into her comm. as Stone and the old man kept an eye out, “do you read?”

 

“What just happened?”

Constantine didn’t have an answer. He checked his readouts and diagnostics, but according to the instruments in the nest everything was fine, green across the board, with no inkling as to why communications would suddenly fail.

“Lee, what’s going on up there?” he shouted forward to the cockpit instead of answering the Interrogator who was standing over his shoulder. “Are we in some kind of interference?”

“Naw,” the pilot’s voice drawled back through the open hatch, “ever’thin’s gud up ‘ere.”

“Raise the Inquisitor,” Spider instructed, but Constantine had already guessed that it wouldn’t work:

“Inquisitor, this is Meridian, come in please. I say again: Inquisitor, this is Meridian, come in please.”

Nothing. Dead air. No connection.

“They’ve blocked all communication from inside the towers,” he deduced, arching his fingers and chewing on his lower lip while keeping a calm veneer as his mind raced through possible emergency actions. “They’ve likely detected our signal and cut it off…”

“Would that be a normal response?” the Interrogator did not sound convinced.

Pursing his lips, Constantine glanced between the screens before him; everything was green – loss of communications was not his wrong-doing.

“We were signal-hopping with a high-level encryption,” he theorized. “If whoever was monitoring the frequencies couldn’t tap in, then I think it plausible that they’d kill it all and cut their losses.”

“Try other frequencies.”

The logistics officer did as he was told, but nothing was working. The estate had become impenetrable.

Swearing under her breath, Spider turned darted from the nest back into the hold. Constantine didn’t bother watching her go. In desperation to find something that worked, he changed channels from the towers to the ground: “Tanner, this is Meridian, do you read.”

+“Loud and clear.”+ the cadet responded almost immediately. Groundside, the chauffer was on the ball.

“Good,” the relief seemed to sink in as he said it, “You are to move in immediately for a ground-level extraction of two subjects. Mercy and Zero will meet you there. Copy?”

+“Copy. Tanner out.”+

Constantine was just leaning back into the nests worn swivel and wondering what could possibly be happening down on the surface when Spider re-entered the small communications room through the adjoining hatchway;

“Call Tanner back from the pick-up.”

“What?” Constantine sat up; “Why?”

“Just do it!” the girl looked adamant, and he was about to comply when it hit him – the sudden compulsion to disobey:

“No.”

The Interrogator took a step towards him in the already cramped nest – her piercing eyes digging into him where he sat.

“I have orders!” he said heatedly as a flush of sudden anger and indignation rose up from somewhere hidden instead his chest. “Loss of communications with the Inquisitor doesn’t change the words of command!”

“You don’t get it,” she hissed down at him, “it’s a set up! They know about the pick-up!”

“All the more reason to get whoever they are out,” the officer contented, “Mercy and Zero can handle themselves.”

The Interrogator wasn’t about to let it go, however, and the spider tattoo tightened around her features as her face pinched in rage. Her hands grasped the armrests on either side of his chair and Constantine steeled himself for an onslaught, but, just as it appeared that she was about to launch her new offensive, her expression suddenly changed, and her eyes wandered as she backed away towards the open hatch.

Flustered and breathing rapidly, Constantine looked away and distractedly smoothed the hems of his coat. “I’m following orders!” he snapped. “I know you don’t give a s*** about the chain of command, but I do! You can damn well learn to respect that!”

He looked up at her to see if his words had sunk in, but surprisingly the younger woman wasn’t looking at him: her eyes were closed and her chin tucked in close to her chest while she braced herself against the shuttle’s interior – like some invisible force was pressing her back.

Alarmed, his anger evaporated, and Constantine quickly pushed himself out of the swivel seat. He’d opened his mouth to ask if she was alright and had put one foot in front of the other when it hit him – a spew of bile jumped from his open mouth and splattered down his front and onto the deck as his stomach somersaulted in his chest and his knees quaked and collapsed. He fell to all fours and shook, his head suddenly throbbing and his eyes stinging like mad. More bile jumped into his mouth as his forehead thumped into the deck.

And then it vanished. He was fine.

“Lee!” Spider was shouting, stepping over the logistician’s struggling form; “Get us out of here! We’re under attack!”

The pilot was shouting something back, but Constantine didn’t hear it as he pulled himself back into his chair and earnestly peered at his readout displays.

Nothing.

He blinked. He felt fine and spat more bile down his chin onto the floor. The screens were blank. What was she on about? He was about to ask her as much when the proximity alarm started to sound its slow, mournful wail.

“Ah shi’! ‘Old on!”

Constantine was still caught in disbelief when Lee banked fiercely and threw Meridian into a quick dive – hurling the logistics officer off his chair and scrambling between the desk and the wall as Spider braced herself in the cockpit hatchway.

Two contacts had appeared on the radar display, and by their positioning there was no doubt that they were on intercept trajectory and holding fast. Holding – Maxwell Constantine hauled himself back into position and fastened the safety harnesses – the contacts were holding; they weren’t projectiles.

“Those are ships!” he shouted over the audible whine of the engines protesting Lee’s sudden manoeuvres. “Those are ships!”

“I f***in’ see ‘em!” Lee shouted back, sounding more annoyed than anything. “They’s no’ gunna get us tha’ easy!” He took Meridian for another spin – Spider gritting her teeth with the effort of holding her body in place. Through the cockpit window the city was growing clearer, and closer. “F***in’ shoo’ me!” the ex-smuggler swore at his pursuers, laughing through his teeth, “I dare’s ya!”

“Are you insane!?” Constantine shouted – Meridian suddenly levelling off just enough to skin the tops of the highest towers before dipping down into their midst. Lee grinned – the boobs of his bawdy dashboard-doll were spinning all over the place as the shuttle rumbled and shook. “They’re not going to fire on us over a city!”

Spider shot him a contemptuous glance before turning her attention back out the cockpit window. “Not everyone plays by the rules, navy boy!”

“No!” Constantine shouted back. “Shooting at us here is crazy! It just is!”

“Well, ‘scuse me if I don’ give ‘em th’ chance!”

The contacts on the readout were getting more and more distant – Lee’s evasive manoeuvres were working; soon they’d lose contact altogether. There wasn’t much time to get their hopes up, however, as another, more panicked, alarm started to sound.

“We’re painted!” Spider shouted, turning her attention from the cockpit window to the readout and back again before launching herself from the hatchway and dashing back through the nest and into the hold.

“An’ ya thou’t they woul’nt shoo’ a’ us…” Lee snorted, diving Mereidian dangerously low in between the buildings and bending her around corners with mere metres to spare. “Kee’ an eye on tha’ conta’!”

Constantine was doing just that. Both contacts were on screen at long range, though one had somehow managed to achieve and, even more miraculously, maintain a lock on Meridian’s signature. The contact’s targeting apparatus would have to be top-notch – the equivalent of an Imperial interceptor at least – but, so far as Constantine could tell, it hadn’t fired, and it wasn’t gaining either.

“Lee, this doesn’t make sense!” Constantine did his best to keep his voice level as the shuttle rumbled, twisted and shook through her pilot’s attempts at evasion; “Those contacts aren’t dogfighters. Why are they following us?”

The pilot grunted and cursed.

“What??”

The ex-smuggler spat something that sounded more than a little annoyed: “Can’ talk righ’ now! Flyin’!” then proceeded to coax his vessel into the next turn with a stream of loving words.

Constantine’s eyes were glued to the radar screen: “Keep going, keep going! We’re losing them! Just a little more!” the two blips representing the enemy vessels were slowly being dragged to the peripheries of the readout with every passing second that Lee executed another daring manoeuvre. “Almost there! Almost – !”

The panicked beeping of the proximity alarm turned into a steady scream as a tiny, fast moving third contact originated from one of the enemy marks just as it slipped off screen.

“They’ve fired! They’ve fired! Incoming!”

“S***! S***! S***!”

Meridian banked hard to port – jolting Constantine back in his seat and snapping his neck backwards in a painful jerking motion.

“‘Old on!” Lee shouted a little too late.

His neck smarting in pain and his heart thundered in his chest, the former navy officer watched as the projectile closed the distance with alarming speed.

Spider re-appeared through the hatchway with a dark bruise already forming across her forehead from where she’d banged it into a bulkhead. She didn’t say anything, but held herself steady and watched the tiny contact get closer and closer.

“Three seconds!”

“S***! C’mon baby!” Lee dove into another spiral that brought the rain-corroded side of a building terrifyingly close.

“Two seconds!”

Meridian trembled and roared in defiance as her helmsman pushed her further than ever before.

“One second!”

Spider closed her eyes.

The wailing stopped. The contact disappeared. Constantine waited for the inevitable explosion, but it never came. Everyone held their breath – any moment now their world would surely end.

Nothing.

It never happened.

“YES!” Lee was the first to speak, levelling Meridian off and climbing back to an acceptable height where they were not in imminent danger of colliding with a building; “F***! YES! Ha-ha!”

Constantine pushed a hand through his hair and started to smile, then to chuckle, then to laugh until his voice joined Lee’s maniacal laughter in defiance of death.

Only Spider stayed quiet, and withdrew without a further word.

 

*

 

Noblewomen did not weep, nor did they show weakness or frailty. In them was trusted the silent and unyielding guardianship of their House, for while their husbands and other men of high stature duelled with words and bluster, the women were always expected to be the foundation upon which their men rose to glory. They were to be as solid and unyielding as the greatest of fortresses, as cold and daunting as mighty glaciers, and as mysterious and unmoving as deep and silent waters.

Such was how they were taught and raised, groomed from an early age for a life-long war of posturing and intrigue, but every war has casualties, and no warriors escape without scars. Scars that mark, and – though well covered – run deep, and can be reopened into gaping wounds.

“I do not think I am deserving of kindness, and yet you show me it all the same. I am grateful.” Deflated and alone, Elisabeth Godwyn slouched in her armchair in the most unladylike of ways with her chin propped in the palm of her hand. She had been like this since the Inquisitor’s bodyguards had departed and she was left alone with her daughter.

Sitting opposite the noblewoman, her armoured form weighing down the chair she had pulled away from the wall, Inquisitor Cassandra Godwyn remained passive and unmoved, tapping the arched fingers of her left and right hand together with soft metallic clicking.

“Taking them from here isn’t an act of kindness,” she corrected her mother. “If they are skilled like you claim then the Imperium will have use for them, but it won’t be an easy life, and their hardships will make the troubles of their lives on Acre seem menial.”

“You don’t know how Acre has poisoned this family.”

“And you don’t know how the Imperium expends those who serve. I cannot guarantee their safety.”

“I understand, but I would see them realize their potential, not fester and rot like all the others who stayed here.”

The sentiment was one that Inquisitor understood, and indeed she had all her life. There was great potential to be found in people – for good or ill – and it was that potential that led her to foster and educate the talents of some people, and persecute those of others. To use the noblewoman’s own words, her mother was old and poisoned, her potential spent, with nothing left but to stave off disaster for her home. It was for that reason she had beseeched her estranged daughter to take from her part of her House she believed still to be pure. Inquisitor Godwyn had accepted, but it was not out of sympathy.

“Your grandchildren will be safe for now with my agents even if their father tries to stop them from leaving,” she assured the old woman who sat before her. “They will come with me when I leave this world, and I’ll do what I can to see them put to good use.”

“They are your niece and nephew, Cassandra,” Elisabeth said with a sorry smile that wavered on her face. “They share your blood.”

She said those words like they should have meant something, but they didn’t, and the Inquisitor cleared her throat so that they might get back to the task at hand. The noblewoman’s mood darkened, and abandoned her look of frailty as she sat up straighter in the armchair:

“You are certain of what you have told me?”

The Inquisitor slowly inclined her head, her penetrating blue eyes strained on the other woman; “Yes.”

“Then this terror is of our own making,” Lady Godwyn summed up their discussion over that past hour, when her daughter had revealed the source of the seemingly random violence in the city streets.

Again, the Inquisitor nodded. It had not been easy convincing the noblewoman of the existence of a clandestine group quietly orchestrating abductions, murder and anarchy, that the turmoil amongst the refugees was of their design, and that, worst of all, a noble house could be partially or wholly behind it.

It had not been easy, but it had been necessary.

“Tonight you shall learn the full extent of their dealings,” Lady Godwyn continued. “When the nobles convene after the banquette, then you shall see the dealings of these sinister men around the rest of Acre, and, if it as is pressing in lands of other Houses, then perhaps there will finally be action and the offending House stamped out.”

It would hardly be that simple – they both knew it, and they both kept it to themselves – but it was somewhere from which they could start and see the Inquisition and the nobility of Acre working together.

“What would you have the House of Godwyn do, Cassandra?”

“I need you to stand aside and follow my lead,” Inquisitor Godwyn said through sullen lips. “Letting slip that I am here has made my job difficult and puts my people in danger. I will need time and your cooperation to correct that.”

The old woman took her fault in stride;

“So be it. I – ”

The sound of a door opening to her left stole the Lady’s attention, and uniformed House officer strode quickly in.

“Begging your pardon, my Lady,” he saluted, and waited to be addressed.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Lady Elisabeth Godwyn rose from her seat and confronted the man while the Inquisitor remained seated in silence.

“There is an incident,” the officer rapidly confessed, “a matter of top-level security protocol. The commander wishes to advise you on appropriate measures.”

The officer was clearly agitated – likely due to inexperience – but Lady Godwyn remained calm and composed.

“I see,” she turned to her guest who was still seated. “Inquisitor, if I may be so bold, would you please see to the well-being of your agents? I will see to the commander and confer with you promptly.”

Inquisitor Godwyn came to her feet with a nod of agreement. “Officer,” she addressed the guard, “Have one of your men take to the nearest command centre.”

 

*

 

The twin giants were already in the inner courtyard by the time Tanner arrived, and by the look of their stance and the confused expressions of the two people dwarfed them it was clear that they had not been waiting overlong. Not waiting for him to stop, the assassins approached the car as soon as he slowed enough for them to open the doors and bustled their human cargo inside the coach before ducking in themselves and slamming the doors behind them.

Neither of long-limbed women said a word.

“What is going on?” one of the strangers demanded in a bossy tone that betrayed by how tiny and helpless he looked sandwiched between two statuesque killers.

Tanner glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. He was a young man, likely in his early twenties, and was dressed up as if he had been snatched from the middle of an aristocratic soiree. On reflection, that was probably what had in fact happened.

Tanner closed the tinted partition between compartments just to be safe.

“Meridian, Tanner here – I’ve made the pick-up, and I am on my way out.”

Meridian's crackling response sounded a little too relieved: +“Understood Tanner. That’s great news. Really glad to hear it. Head to designated safe-house 3 and await further orders. Out.”+

[Aqui]

Hopefully you are still interested, still care to read the story, and aren't too pissed off at me for not adding to the story in a very long time (I'm sorry :lol: )

 

Still interested? Check. Still care to read the story? Check. Pissed off? Negative!

 

I'm glad you're okay, and whilst I've read the story (and loved it as usual), I'm much too tired to be able to give any input on layout etc, short of saying that some of the paragraphs could do with having a space between them for clarity.

 

Otherwise, welcome back, glad you're having fun and am looking forward to part 15 ^_^

[Lady_Canoness]

Glad to hear it Aquilanus!

 

Turth be told, I planned to have part 14 cover more, but it was getting just a little too long, so it has been divided between 14 and 15. We'll see how long it takes me to get that out!

[Aqui]

Glad to hear it Aquilanus!

 

Turth be told, I planned to have part 14 cover more, but it was getting just a little too long, so it has been divided between 14 and 15. We'll see how long it takes me to get that out!

 

It'll be out when it's ready ;) We'll keep a reading light on ready and waiting for when it does :P

[Chapter Master Onyxius]

So happy that you are back! For awhile the Inquisition was starting to get worried :P

[Azekai]

Huzzah! Glad to have you back Canoness!

[Taranis]

IT'S ALIVE, IT'S ALIVE!

It's so good to get a chapter again. :D

It's another great chapter as usual, though with a few typos etc. Our hunger for news easily let's us turn a blind eye to those small details. ;)

 

It'll be out when it's ready ;) We'll keep a reading light on ready and waiting for when it does :wink:

Hear, hear. :P

 

I believe we are quite a few with a reading light on ready. <_<

[Lady_Canoness]

Thanks boys :P

 

I'm sitting in camouflage pants as I type this (woop woop for weekend training!) and as I mentioned my time is very constrained when it comes to writing. I'll try to get the next part out without making you wait for too long, as both parts 15 and 16 should prove to be quite... interesting :)

 

Let's just say that things get complicated on numerous levels!

[Pulse]

Damn i have so much to catch up on, not even finished the second story yet............

[Lady_Canoness]

Damn i have so much to catch up on, not even finished the second story yet............

 

Sounds like you should get on top of that - you still have all of III to go through (and three was fun!)

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

yay! Its back!

 

And im sad I only just noticed this haha. Good update, enjoyed it. Was it worth the wait? Yea, I'd say so!

[Lady_Canoness]

Typos are likely abound, but I'm not about to fret over them ;)

 

I'm just glad I got that chance to write this!

 

 

*Part 15*

 

Meredith was on her sixth glass of wine by the time Stone ushered her from the ballroom and hustled her into the adjacent powder rooms and parlours that honeycombed around periphery. It was quieter there with only a few solitary guests loitering away from the noise of the party, none of whom paid any attention to the tall man as he forcefully marched his stout companion into an empty fitting closet and closed the door.

More than a little tipsy, the doctor was tripping over her own feet and didn’t realize that she’d been sat down on a small love seat until the Mordian suddenly seem a whole lot taller than normal. She blinked and scratched her nose absentmindedly. The room had started rotating inside her head, and she had to glare at the papered walls in order to keep them from slipping away on her.

“You’re a disgrace,” Stone was saying amongst other things, but Meredith didn’t catch all of it: the floor was trying to escape too, and she had to be extra careful to keep it where it was. Normally when she was drunk she was happy, she remembered, but she wasn’t happy now. With this much alcohol in her blood she should be trying to seduce the soldier with an easy lay, but she wasn’t doing that either. Her face felt heavy.

“You’re drunk!”

No s***.

“What is the matter, Stone…?” she rocked forward in her seat until her hands cupped her tingling chin and her eyes were pointing pleasantly, but unintentionally, at the crotch of the Mordian’s perfectly formed trousers; “Are we in spies in enemy land? I should be more careful, shouldn’t I? I might let something slip…” she started to laugh.

Her pretend husband was saying something else, but either she wasn’t listening or it didn’t make any sense. The floor was trying to sneak away again, but the doctor was quick, and she didn’t let it. Where had the old man gone? Columbo. Did he leave them, or did they leave him? She didn’t remember. She hadn’t been paying attention.

“It’s part of my plan…” she announced with a crooked, sloppy smile. “I’m a doctor… a real doctor… and real doctors plan for s*** like this, donnyaknow?”

Stone might have said something, but she was too busy inside her own head.

“My purse, good sir!” She shot a hand out in no particular direction, and waived it around until she felt the new handbag she had purchased for her outfit land in her fingers. Absentmindedly, she started to rummage through it until she found what she was looking for – a small leather-bound case belted together with a pair of worn braided straps. With fumbling hands she flipped it open and placed the set of twelve syringes gently on the loveseat beside her with a dramatic flair;

“Ta-da…”

“What the hell are those?” the Mordian backed a couple of paces away so that Meredith could only see his shining shoes spinning along with the rest of her surroundings.

“I’m a doctor… and a scientist,” Meredith somewhat explained; “I’ve experimented.”

“Those are drugs?”

“Everything’s a drug.”

“You know what I’m talking about!”

“I’m sorry, but I only speak medicae. I don’t understand your primitive bumbling.”As Stone watched, she extracted a syringe, held it up so she could properly see it, and carefully poked it into her bare, left arm – injecting the contents with a steady hand.

She closed her eyes, took two deep breathes, and blinked them open again.

Any doubt that the soldier may have had about her being crazy quickly vanished: she was definitely very, very unbalanced. Giving her sharp objects and permission to use them had been a terrible idea from the very beginning.

The doctor smiled – a big, toothy grin – extracted the needle from her arm, and looked up at Stone;

“All better,” she said with a victorious smirk.

The Mordian was skeptical; “Bulls***.”

Deftly capping the empty syringe, Meredith placed it back with the others and stood up on very steady feet. She bound up the case and placed it back in her handbag, turning to her man once she was finished with a grin on her face.

“We’re alone now,” she touched his arm softly, though he still looked down at her like she was completely insane, “and anyone who saw us come in her thinks I’m pissed drunk.” Meredith removed her hand, and walked around Stone to the door, pausing when she reached it; “What do you say we find a way out of here?”

 

***

 

 

Stripping away its fancy ornaments and frivolous décor, the ballroom was little more than a massive space with terrible acoustics, blanketed with a jumbled mass of individual conversations that rose up and covered the air with the impenetrable din of voices speaking all at once. It was an eavesdropping nightmare. Fortunately, the House of Godwyn had invested a substantial sum in countering this obvious shortfall, and in a nearby command centre hidden within the estate walls had concentrated a vast array of surveillance equipment with the singular goal of seeing, and hearing, everything, at which point the data was displayed over three dozen readouts that were monitored by House guards. It was impressive, and as Inquisitor Godwyn oversaw the localized espionage she could not help but feel a grudging respect for the abilities of the Imperial elite – not because of the vast amount of information the command centre was gathering, but for how little substance the spied-upon guests were yielding.

The nobles were paranoid, but even though they were watched and overheard their training in counter-espionage was almost at the level of the Imperial Inquisition itself.

Most conversations were spoken in code, though, instead of a jumble of nonsensical words or some special language, the codes were buried in casual conversations. They could be speaking of the weather and how much they hated it, though every second sentence there would be a word with special significance that in itself was disguised, thereby perfectly concealing the true topic of conversation. It would be clear by body-language and repetition that they were not in-fact conversing about their chosen topic (and this in itself was only noticeable through intuition) but it was nearly impossible to guess what it was the real conversation contained.

Other methods of counter-espionage were equally clever, though on a much more technical level. Some nobles (those who could not be bothered to speak in a laborious code) employed an aural damping device that projected an audible conversation around the speakers – essentially giving the perception of them speaking at a normal level. To anyone listening, it sounded just like a casual, free-flowing conversation, but by watching closely one could notice that their mouths did not match their words, and that the real conversation was being masked by a false projection. Using minimal or erratic lip movements the speakers could therefore throw-off anyone attempting to discover their words through reading their mouths. It was aggravating, and even the Inquisitor found that she was unable to follow their conversations. The only counter was likely to get within close proximity of the speakers – something their protective entourages would no-doubt make impossible.

“Our analysts will spend months going over every second of recorded footage,” the command centre’s supervisor explained in a hushed tone as the Inquisitor oversaw the House guards at work, his own eyes never leaving the sea of faces rendered on the screens; “it will take time, but we will know what they are saying eventually.”

Arms crossed, the Inquisitor was unimpressed. “You need better analysts.”

A secondary display, smaller and off centre from the images of the ballroom floor, caught the Inquisitor’s attention. It showed a corridor away from the ballroom that skirted the tower’s perimeter, and though usually empty a surveillance servitor had picked up some activity.

Godwyn approached the display for a better look as the servitor’s field of vision canted towards the source of movement coming down the hall and focused on a solitary figure dressed all in black. It focused, zoomed in, and small red indicators started crop up on display as it ran primary scans including movement speed, surface temperature, and exact location. Localized defensive protocols were activated and put on stand-by. A single command prompt appeared on screen: +terminate?+

Having spotted the servitor, the figure in black stopped, then smiled and put his hands in his pockets – not trying to run or hide as the estate’s security system waited authorization to end his life.

“Where is that?” Godwyn asked as the command centre’s supervisor drifted over to her side and stared coolly at the figure on the screen.

“The East Gallery Promenade,” the man replied softly with just a hint of bristling indignation at the figure’s unprecedented appearance and apparently calm demeanour for being where he shouldn’t be. “Undoubtedly one of the guests has thought himself clever, and slipped away from the soiree. How unfortunate that he is mistaken. Some guards will encourage him to not stray where he does not belong.”

The Inquisitor held up her metal hand; “Don’t do that,” she stopped him, still watching the screen as a thin frown crept across her features. “Have one of your men take me to him instead.”

 

It took only a matter of minutes for one of the House guards to escort the Inquisitor through the labyrinth of hidden passageways running behind the estate’s walls, during which the man dressed in black did not wander very far at all, in fact he was still standing as he had been on screen when she stepped from a hidden doorway onto the Promenade not more than thirty feet away from him. Hearing her, as well as noticing her black-armoured frame from the corner of his eye, Hercule Columbo turned and cast an easy smile in her direction. He had been expecting to see her, and not a trace of surprise could be found anywhere about him.

“I had hoped that I would capture your attention in some way,” he said in a casual tone, glancing away for a brief moment, “but I don’t think it is safe to talk here, correct?”

He had been looking at a rather imposing bronze statue of muscular bald man, naked, and crouched atop its pedestal as if ready to pounce. As artwork it was rather ugly – a rendition of testosterone and masculinity that seemed very out of place amongst the refined opulence of the Godwyn estate – though as the Inquisitor approached, the statue’s electric, glowing eyes gave it away for a cunningly disguised (and likely very well armoured) combat servitor. Had it been activated it would have no-doubt crushed the old trader into a fine paste, though for the time it remained crouched like a menacing third-party.

“I’ve seen several of those,” Columbo admitted with a nod towards the statue. “I imagine they’d be quite an obstacle for any would-be invader.”

Unimpressed by the servitor’s novelty, the Inquisitor drew forth her rosette, activated the security runes on its underside, and waved her badge of office before the statue’s mechanical eyes – the inbuilt damper temporarily severing the servitor’s uplink to the command centre and guaranteeing their privacy for at least a few minutes.

“What are you doing here, Columbo?” she was rather frank as she tucked away her rosette and met his eyes expectantly.

“Naturally, I wish to report my findings,” the trader replied, the younger woman’s ill mood failing to affect his own dapper demeanour.

“I told you that you would be debriefed afterwards. Instead you are wasting valuable time seeking me out.”

Columbo remained unfazed and in good humour – his age and experience providing him the ability to weather almost any kind of storm; “I do recall that,” he agreed, “though I dare say that I’ve learned all I can. The delegates from House Styme have departed.”

The news caught the Inquisitor by surprise.

The early withdrawal of what could be an influential House was unprecedented, and not what she expected. The former because a House with Styme’s political standing had much to lose by not making its voice heard at a gathering of the nobility, and the latter because if the House of Styme really was involved with the turmoil erupting around Acre then it follow that a gathering of the nobles would be an opportune time to build alliances and cast enemies into disarray. There was no clear advantage to not participating.

“You’re certain of this?” the Inquisitor asked for confirmation.

The trader nodded; “Quite certain.”

“Did you gather any motives? Why would they bother to show up at all if they planned to leave all along?”

“I don’t know,” the old man confessed with a pensive frown, “but it was common knowledge on the floor that the Inquisition was present.”

“Yes, I know that. It is unfortunate.”

“Indeed. And your agents did not do a good job at blending in.”

The Inquisitor nodded; “I know – that was the idea.”

Impressed, the trader arched an eyebrow. “Use them to draw the attention away from the other black sheep – me.” He nodded along with her; “Very well played, Cassandra.”

“Did it work?”

“I believe it did,” Columbo replied. “The departure of Styme was fairly hush-hush. They were not making a statement by doing so, and I don’t think everyone is yet aware of their departure. Dare I say that I don’t believe it to be political manoeuvering?”

He was probably right, but then again the chances of uncovering a clear-cut answer to anything regarding Imperial aristocracy were slim to none. There would be more than one reason behind the actions of House Styme, and Godwyn just needed to count on finding them before otherwise suffering their consequences.

“Get back to the party and keep your ear to the ground,” the Inquisitor instructed her old friend, turning to leave as she did so. “You and your entourage may exfiltrate at your discretion.”

The old man bowed at the waist; “The banquet is scheduled to begin shortly. I will remain for that, but depart soon thereafter. After supper is when the nobles will hold their counsel, and I doubt there will be anything said hasn’t been said already…”

“Good,” Godwyn accepted this, finding the doorway hidden in the wall and signalling the guard to open it from the inside, “you’ve done well, Hercule.”

 

They parted – Hercule Columbo making his way unimpeded back to the ballroom, while Inquisitor Godwyn followed her guide back to the command centre. The trader’s information made matters interesting, and caused Godwyn to wonder just how much influence the nobility exerted over the events occurring on Acre. If House Styme could afford to throw away an opportunity to approach any of the other Houses on neutral ground, then how minor was the role of Acre’s nobility? Had Styme found a way of circumventing the nobles? If so, its infiltration was deep-rooted indeed, and would require much more in the way of resources to excise. She would have to brief Inquisitor von Draken thoroughly.

+“Inquisitor, this is Meridian, come in please!”+

Even though distorted, Constantine’s voice in her ear sounded harried. She touched a finger to the metal implant on the left side of her skull and depressed the small stud tucked into the corner:

“Go ahead.”

+“Inquisitor? Do you read?”+

“Yes,” she said, though the tone of her agent’s voice set her on edge. “What is it?”

The young man appeared relieved on the other end of the comm. +“Inquisitor, we’ve experienced a comm. blackout on-board for the past twenty-two minutes. During that time we’ve had no contact from either yourself or infiltration team. Status unknown. We’ve also come into contact up here. I say again; we came into contact up here. A pair of unknown enemies engaged us and fired upon us. No damage, and we shook them without identifying.”+

Again, this new information caught the Inquisitor by surprise. Air traffic was the norm above the city yet the ability to detect and intercept an unmarked shuttle spoke of vast resources in both ground and air infrastructure, and to her knowledge the only entities to commandeer such an effort would be the local Arbites and House authorities. If either one was compromised…?

“At what time was this?” she asked.

“At least fifteen minutes prior to now, if not more,” the logistician replied, putting the attack roughly in the same time as the withdrawal of House Styme.

“Can you explain the source of the comm. interference?”

+“Negative, Inquisitor. Though I suspect it originated from the Godwyn estates. Communication with groundside elements was unimpeded.”+

“Are Tanner and his passengers secure?”

+“Yes, Inquisitor.”+

Still following her guide back to the command centre, she waited until they arrived at the outer door before dismissing him, and, when the guard had departed and she was confident that she would not be overheard, issued her new orders to Meridian:

“Constantine, our cover here has been compromised. Tell the infiltration team to withdraw, and get Meridian back to the penthouse.”

+“Understood, Inquisitor. Do you require extraction?”+

“No,” she replied promptly without need for thought. “I’ll make my own way back. Have everyone stand-down until my return.”

Constantine’s response was swift – a by-product of his Navy training, no doubt; +“Understood – carrying out your orders now.”+

Calling Meridian off and disengaging her remaining agents from the area of operation was necessary, so far as Godwyn cared. Her people were not expendable, and if someone was truly onto them then she would leave no easy targets.

Pulling her heavy pistol from its holster, she cocked it, and flicked the safety off before sliding the weapon back in place.

+“Inquisitor,”+ it was Spider’s voice this time; +“A word?”+

“What is it?”

Her student gave pause before speaking – a sign to her mentor that the younger woman was only telling her what she thought to be of high importance – and carried on in a clear, deliberate demeanour: +“Inquisitor, the actions taken against us are all directly connected, and I sense there is more yet to come. Keep your guard up.”+

Spider ended it there, but Godwyn didn’t need to have a psyker’s unnatural abilities to know that her Interrogator still had more to say: “Noted. What else can you tell me?”

+“Not much you can use right now,”+ the other woman continued, +“but I get the feeling that we’re not the centre of our enemy’s attention. We’re an opportunity target.”+

An opportunity target?

“That’s one hell of an opportunity…” Godwyn commented dryly.

+“Yeah,”+ Spider shared her scepticism over the idea of an Inquisitor being a target of opportunity for anyone, +“but, whatever it is, it is leaving a rippling affect all around it. This is big, Inquisitor, and I think we should expect it to get bigger.”+

The exact meaning of the Interrogator’s words were unclear to her – doubtlessly much of it would be lost in translation as the young woman tried to recreate her warp-seen visions in simple words – but the general sentiment was one which she could well understand.

“Thank you, Spider. I’ll debrief your further at a later time.”

+“Roger.”+

The feed between master and apprentice ended, and Godwyn entered the command centre on her own time. Inside was much the same as when she had left it, though the all-seeing eyes of House surveillance had now shifted to a beautifully elaborate banquette hall, and covered it from all possible angles. Long tables illuminated by golden candelabras were lined with matching sets of antique silverware and hand-decorated china, while bountiful platters of exquisite food were set along their spines by an army of servants, and gallons of fine wine were dispensed by specially crafted servitors that had silver-spouted appendages in place of hands.

Like everything else dreamed up by nobility, the wealth of food on display at the banquet was astounding and defied belief. Anything desirable was present in copious amounts, no expense was spared, and not detail was overlooked. The affluence of the affair was sickening, as the air itself was likely laced with some expensive spice to encourage the appetites of the already engorged – the already lascivious – to become even more so, and indulge to the absolute maximum of their ability. They would become, at this very moment, like gods of excess – indulging to the point where thought, desire, and being were all suffocated into a single writhing mass under the weight of entitlement.

The very thought of it was sickening, and it seemed as if somehow watching all of it unfold through three-dozen read-out displays in the sterile surroundings of the command centre was like watching a disease – a rotten infection – sweep through the healthy tissue of a human body.

Disgusting.

Fortunately, however, the Inquisitor did not have to suffer overlong as the supervisor noted her entrance into the command centre and hastened to her side with noted urgency.

“Your pardon, m’lord,” he said with a short bow as she walked to the centre of the room and cast a disapproving over what she saw on the pic-screens, “but I have message for you most urgent from my Ladyship…”

Godwyn indicated that he should continue.

“My Ladyship wishes that you see her at your earliest convenience.”

“Isn’t the banquet about to start?”

The supervisor nodded that it was. “My Ladyship has stated that she will see you prior to the banquet.”

The supervisor had already arranged for an escort, and, with little more to gain from watching the guests gorge themselves, the Inquisitor took her leave.

 

Elisabeth Godwyn had elected to wait for her in another one of her safe-rooms. It was code locked like all the rest, but when her escort opened the way for her the Inquisitor was admitted into a larger room than before, arranged to be comfortable like a study, and where the far side of the wall was fixed with a facsimile of a window-scene that looked out over the city. The lights were off when Cassandra Godwyn arrived, and as the door slid shut behind her with a soft click the only source of illumination came from this imagined cityscape, bathing the room in a soft blue.

There was no noise.

To the left and right were bookcases that reached to the ceiling, and across the floor, facing the false window, were two armchairs and a sofa separated by small end tables between them. The noblewoman herself was seated in the middle armchair, and though she would have heard the Inquisitor enter decided not to face her, and continued to stare dreamily at the make-belief city before her.

Godwyn did not speak, and took slow, measured steps around the seating arrangement – each armoured footfall pounding against the carpeted floor.

“What is it you have to tell me?” the Inquisitor asked, reaching the window herself and studying the clever artistry that went into making it appear so real. Even silent rain-drops had been made to fall on the window’s surface. Very relaxing.

Lady Godwyn didn’t offer a response, and the Inquisitor became annoyed. She turned to face the older woman, but her Ladyship’s eyes were still staring at the window. The large opening in her throat grinned outwards.

Godwyn just looked at it.

Blood had poured from the gaping wound and soaked through the front of her layer gown before pooling in a dark, sodden mass in her lap and leaking down the floor. Her features were expressionless, her eyes empty and staring ghoulishly forward, and even in the darkness her skin was white. There was blood everywhere, it seemed, but no blood on her hands.

The Inquisitor wetted her lips and briefly looked away, before moving to the corpse and and closing its eyes. Once there, she just looked at it.

This was her mother. What was left of her. This was what had given her life.

Should she be sad?

Should she feel anything?

After so much death, the daughter found it hard to feel anything at all.

People died. People were killed. Did it matter who?

Had this woman meant anything to her?

Instead of searching for feelings, Godwyn searched the body for anything of use. She gathered the rings from her mother’s fingers and the blood-stained jewelry from around her neck. Underneath the gown’s blood-soaked layers was a small box-like object with several adjustment dials. She pressed one, and the holographic representation of two House officers suddenly appeared. Very useful – deactivating it, she stowed the gadget along with the others.

When she had completed her search she took a few paces back to survey the scene, and only then did the magnitude of what had happened sink in.

Lady Godwyn, her mother, had been assassinated.

House Styme had made its move, and by removing the head of House Godwyn in such a deliberate fashion they expected to send waves of panic and disorder throughout the rest of the nobles. Word would spread, and all of them would turn upon each other – a witch hunt of sorts – as each levelled accusations against their rivals, in effect immobilizing the nobles. Styme, of course, would have an easy out. They left early – perhaps they would even use it to say that they had seen it coming and wanted no part. Perhaps they could use it to rally more support even as it wreaked havoc across the political scene.

Even she, Inquisitor Godwyn, would fit in to their scheme.

There would be an investigation into the assassination and the Inquisition would become embroiled in the affairs of the noble Houses, fuelling the flames of discord.

At least, that is how the masterminds of House Styme would have planned it to unfold.

They did overlook one detail, however.

Drawing her pistol, she cleared the round in the breach and loaded a specially crafted conflagration round in its place. Snapping the breach closed, she leveled the pistol at centre of mass and fired – the roar of the gun filling the quiet space and the whoosh of flames leaping to consume the body.

Elisabeth Godwyn was dead, though not at the hands of a faceless assassin. She was dead at the hands of a righteous Inquisitor. House Godwyn would crumble as a result and might never recover, but the nobles of Acre would remain strong, wary of the executioner’s blade. The truth would never be known.

When the flames subsided and all that remained of her mother was a charred husk, Inquisitor Godwyn holstered her weapon and bid a last farewell, before going to the door and letting the world know what she had done.

[Aqui]

And the intrigue really begins! ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

And the intrigue really begins! :o

 

 

That's kind of the idea... ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

Part 16 rolls in as a shorter snippet into the consequences falling upon Godwyn's companions. A brief interlude in the main plotline - a calm that foreshadows a coming storm.

 

Headsup all you people who took bets on who would live and die, we're nearing that part of the story...

 

*FAIR WARNING* There are scenes in part 16 that some may find distasteful.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

*part 16*

 

The flash-fires of rioting leapt up through the rain-filled darkness that blanketed the sprawling city as Meridian swept home to her landing high above the streets below. The Adeptus Arbites had failed to completely quell the riots during daylight, and though they had originally thought that the coming of night would dampen the unrestful spirits of the rioters the onset of darkness only seemed to spur their rage further; the black skies like oil fueling the speed at which the mobs spread. It was still containable – affecting only tiny, divided areas of the city – but it was growing, and in certain parts – the industrial barrows and space ports especially – the city wardens were losing ground. They had called for support and support was coming… eventually.

As Lee disembarked from Meridian’s lower hold, however, he couldn’t care less about what has happening in the streets miles away. They’d had a close call earlier, and after every close call he wanted a drink. It was a tradition leftover from his smuggling days, since hard work deserved recognition, and after some cajoling he convinced the cantankerous Spider to join him, though Constantine insisted on staying behind until after he had documented whatever it was he liked to document.

The bar Lee liked to go was about a half-block away above a daytime food outlet. It was called ‘the Night’s End’, a name that suited it since, on the few nights he had been granted off since arriving on Acre, Lee always managed to end up there. The establishment appeared very respectable – much higher class than most of the places around the Imperium that he was used to – and it was popular with the locals. No street runners or nightly violence here, in fact the ex-smuggler could often count on being the dirtiest bastard in the place whenever he walked through the door.

Coming up the covered steps out of the rain, Lee followed Spider inside and immediately felt the warmth of the air caress his wet hair and face. He paused to enjoy it – closing his eyes and breathing in the smells of food and drink, the sounds of chattering conversation and clinking glass, the brush of warm air being cycled over top of him… He smiled. When he opened his eyes the bartender was glaring at him. Sour prick – he clearly didn’t know how to enjoy life.

Spider had taken a spot at the bar a ways from a group of loud regulars, and Lee strolled over in no big hurry to join her – lazily looking around the room as he did so. The bar itself was long and only about half-full, making eavesdropping and interruptions unlikely, while the tables and few booths by the dark windows were generously stocked with animated groups of all ages. No loners, no silent partners watching and waiting, nothing that clearly stuck out as a threat… no lawmen. Good. A safe, happy group of people. What he would have done for every bar to be like that in his past…

“M’ usual, barkeep!” Lee quipped plopping himself down on the stool next to Spider on the side closest to the door.

The barman looked at him with a raised eyebrow; “I don’t know you,” he replied in a heavy, local accent.

“Name’s Lee Normandy,” the pilot passed a callused, dirt-engrained hand over the countertop on a friendly gesture. Perhaps too friendly. The barkeep didn’t touch it. “An’ now w’ know ea’ch’ther,” Lee concluded his own mini introduction. “M’ usual will be Bloo’ Al’er bi’er, please.”

“You mean the Blood Ardour Biter?” the barman corrected him with the name of a local favourite as he fished a fresh glass from an overhead rack and moved instinctively towards the tap without really waiting for a response.

“Exac’ly wha’ I said,” Lee ushered him with a happy grin.

A clear pint glass brimming with dark red liquid and a cream head was placed down in front of him on the worn brass countertop. The pilot pawed it closer with a nod of thanks.

“And for you?” the barkeeper turned to Spider.

“Red wine.”

The look on the barman’s face made it clear that he didn’t like the woman sitting at his bar. The tattoos, the hair, or the attitude – or maybe all three and then some – seemed to be intruding on the place like a bad odour or something else equally offensive. At least no one else seemed to mind, yet.

“We got three kinds,” he said, folding his forearms across his chest in unwelcoming manner.

“Then I’ll have a bottle of the priciest.”

The bartender gave her a hard look, something which she returned without flinching, then moved off to retrieve her order.

When he was safely out of range, Lee nudged her with his elbow. “Wha’ w’s tha’ about?” he asked in an innocent whisper.

“F***ed if I should know,” Spider replied in a tone that made it obvious that she was hiding something. She was still watching the barman, and kept doing so until he returned with a bottle in one hand and a wineglass in the other. The glass he set down in front of her, then unsealed the bottle and placed it beside the glass.

“Anything else?” he asked Lee, not as polite as he used to be and doing his best to ignore the woman who was pushing the wineglass to the side.

“‘S’all gud,” Lee raised his glass in the man’s direction with a nod, placing it back down on the counter only after he’d moved off to tend to his other customers.

Spider had already seized the bottle by the neck and was knocking it back with deep gulps. People were starting to stare.

‘Cheers’ Lee thought to himself, tucking into his drink and smacking his lips with satisfaction at the smooth spiced flavour, the lingering after-draught, and of course the full-bodied heat that made Acre’s brews so appealing on his pallet. These people sure did know how to make good excuses for coming in from the rain. Not that Spider would know – five swigs in and she’d be sick within seconds if she kept it up. Fortunately, she came up for air just as Lee was about to take the bottle out of her hands, smacked it back onto the counter, and shivered involuntarily at what must have been a very unpleasant aftertaste.

There seemed to be a pause all throughout the Night’s End as what felt like every eye in room waited to see if she’d either pick the bottle back up or vomit all over the counter. When neither one happened, it felt like a withheld breath was collectively released as the bar went back to normal conversation and forgot about the weird tattooed woman at the bar. Or maybe Lee was imagining the whole thing.

“Rough day,” he said in a low voice, sliding his stool closer to the Interrogator’s and keeping his head down.

She was breathing heavily, the fingers of one hand flexing around the quarter-empty bottle of wine while the other arm was tucked-in to prop her up as she leaned inwards towards the counter. “Yeah,” was all she said. Not much of a talker.

“You ‘kay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You don’ seem gud.”

Silence. She wasn’t going to answer that one, and Lee knew he wasn’t going to make her. All he could do was make nice and be there if and when she decided to open her shell.

Her tattooed fingers were still flexing around the base of the wine bottle. There were words – a name that he recognized.

“You kno’ Nerf?” he nodded towards her right hand, taking another sip from his beer as he did so. She was giving him an awkward look when he put the glass back down. Lee took that moment to mentally slap himself: she had his name tattooed across her fingers – obviously she knew him, and obviously he left a mark on her.

“Damn gud man,” he said in a way of withdrawing the question as he turned his gaze forward at the collection of spirits across from them arrayed neatly on shelves, “sa’ed m’ life, boss’ life too. Loa’s o’ times. Tha’ w’s bac’ a’ least…” he had to screw up his weathered, leathery face to think about it, “se’en? Eigh’ years ago? ‘Do ya belie’e I looked younger bac’ then? Yea… lon’ time. Diff’rent peeps too. Li’l Su, boy Alexan’er… ‘course Mers wa’ still ‘round,” he grinned, “always liked ‘er…”

“You knew Nerf?” she asked like she hadn’t understood a word he’d just said. Her voice sounded funny.

“Yea’ I knew ‘im. We w’s buds.”

The bottle was back up and she was drinking again.

“Stop it, yer gunna b’ sick,” Lee tried to take it from her, but she only took a few swigs before putting it on the table. Her eyes were wet when she looked at him next.

“He’s dead, you know that?”

Lee wasn’t that surprised, to be honest; people tended to die in service of the Inquisition. Sometimes he thought they were the lucky ones. Sometimes.

“E w’s a damn gud man,” Lee repeated what he’d said earlier.

“Doesn’t make a difference, though, does it?” The way she was looking at him made it seem like she thought he had an answer – maybe something she hadn’t thought of – something that would make everything better. Vindication. She was drunk.

He discretely checked the wine bottle: half-gone.

He shrugged; “I can’t answer tha’,” he said calmly. “Lotta gud pe’ple die. Lotta m’ friends. I jus’ fly. S’all I do,” he shook his head gently from side to side as she looked imploringly into his face and blinked away the tears. “S’ not m’ place t’ answer tha’ kinda question…”

She smiled, then shook her head, then smiled, then shook her head again. “It doesn’t make a difference!” And then she got angry; “Doesn’t make one f***ing difference! F***ing dead!”

She banged the bottle on the table and buried another fitful swig – choking halfway through so that wine spurted down her chin.

Lee reached out instinctively, but she shook him off; “Don’t touch me! You don’t know what it’s like!”

He backed off and Spider got to her feet, appearing somewhat torn as to what she intended to do next. She didn’t have enough drink in her to fall on her face or forget where she was, so Lee wasn’t too worried as she lurched off into a full stride march for the door and pushed it once the wrong way – cursing it loudly when it didn’t budge.

The bartender and half the bar were now watching.

“I go’ ‘er covered,” Lee reassured the barkeep, producing more than enough coin to cover the Interrogator’s expense, “she’ll b’ fine.”

By process of elimination, Spider got the door open and disappeared outside into the rain without another word – the cold backdraught of her departure acting as her final farewell. He knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

Lee swivelled back around on his stool, now drinking solo. “C’n I git ano’er?” he asked, even though his first wasn’t close to half done. He wasn’t about to follow her. He had some drinking to catch up on.

In time, his second drink arrived and the Night’s End went back to normal, forgetting Spider had ever happened, and resuming its chorus of happy chatter and loud-mouthed discussions. Lee spotted a fair-faced and fair-bosomed waitress half way across the bar and – following a conversation of glances, nods, and suggestive suggestions – determined she wasn’t even remotely interested in him. Damn. Age, rough living, and rough drinking seemed to have stolen all of his charm. The ex-smuggler didn’t let it get to him, however, and instead engaged the bartender in conversation:

“I ‘ear’d tha’ there ‘re sum fierce riots ‘round yer town,” he said, tucking into his drink as he did so.

“Aye,” the barkeep agreed, “fookin’ foreigners and refugees causing us grief!”

“I’m no’ a re’fugy,” Lee mentioned with a sly grin.

“You’re still a foreigner.”

“A ‘fo’reigner wi’ coin.”

“Aye,” the local agreed, “and you’re welcome so long as you can keep that coming.”

“Gla’ t’ hear.” Friendly bunch. He’d be drinking in silence from now on.

The door opened again, and moments later Maxwell Constantine hopped onto the stool Spider had vacated moments before.

“I made it!” he said somewhat triumphantly, clapping Lee on the shoulder. “I have to say I didn’t expect to leave after everything that happened today, but most of the work can’t be done until the others get back, so I figured why not?”

The pilot gave him a warm welcome; it was good he came.

“Barkee’!” he waved the man over with a raised hand, “git a roun’ fer m’ friend!” And his respectable friend, at that; the young Constantine was quite the gentleman and should serve as a reminder to the locals that not every foreigner was dirty or tattooed. Maybe the barkeeper noticed this, and maybe he didn’t, but the burgundy coloured beer appeared in front of the logistician double-quick and with some degree of politeness attached.

“Where’s Spider?” Constantine asked after he’d tested the spiced beverage with a nod of approval and the creamy foam clung to the edges of his golden moustache. “Didn’t she come with you?”

“Yea’ she bugger’d orf, tho’. Go’ too mo’ t’ drin’ too fas’.”

“What?” the young man seemed genuinely surprised, much to Lee’s surprise. “When? Where did she go?”

The pilot shrugged and took another draw on his beer; “Dunno. Sh’ jus’ grabb’d ‘er drin’ n’ left a few min’s ago.”

Constantine half stood up; “We should go after her.” but Lee caught his arm and shook his head in a definitive manner;

“Nah, w’ stay ‘ere.”

“Why?” the younger man sat back down, but made it clear he wasn’t happy. Dropping his voice he added; “You realize there are hostiles out there? She could be captured!”

“Sh’ll b’ fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Max, trus’ me: le’ ‘er go.”

He was shaking his head. “We have to keep tabs on our people. I’m going to find her.”

He stood up again, but again Lee was on to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him back onto his seat.

“Le’ me explain sut’in t’ ya, Max,” he peered into the younger man’s eyes – his own weathered face and matted, grey mane inches from Constantine’s smooth and golden hair – “s’ sut’in I learned th’ ‘ard way.”

Constantine cast a few discreet glances around the bar, but he was listening.

Lee let go of his arm. “There’s a diff’rence b’tween bein’ loyal an’ bein’ a tool. Big, big diff’rence…”

The younger man appeared confused. Did he really need to be hearing this from Lee?

The ex-smuggler drained his beer to the suds and savoured the flavour for a moment. Around them, the conversations in the bar carried on at an easy rate. Lee reached for his second glass.

“Y’ see, I been with th’ boss since th’ begin’in,” he said.

Constantine nodded along with him. He’d heard something along those lines before, but he didn’t really know where the ‘beginning’ was, or what had happened since then.

“Tha’s ‘bout… thir’y t’ for’y years,” the pilot let his hand waver midair to show he wasn’t exactly sure about that point, “bu’ t’ paint a pict’ure fo’ ya, I was th’ one t’ show ‘er around Meridian fo’ the firs’ time. So ‘s been a while.”

“Excuse me, but where are you going with this aside from reliving your history?” Maxwell Constantine interrupted now that Lee was talking about what he’d been doing before the young man was even born.

“I’ll get t’ tha’,” the weathered airman asked for him to be patient, “drink yo’ beer.”

Constantine indulged him, savouring the rich, full-bodied taste as the beverage went down.

Lee nodded, satisfied. “Y’ see, Max, yer still young…”

“Where are you going with this, Lee? How much have you had to drink?”

“No’ e’nugh, anyway,” he continued, “I wanted t’ tell y’ tha’, e’en as heck’er all these years, I ‘ave no illusions abou’ wha’ I am…”

He span the cool glass gently between his fingertips, making small circles on the countertop with a quiet rattling noise. Constantine watched him, his own pint-glass stationary on the brass counter – a cool sweat gathering along its surface with wet spots marking where his fingers had been.

“I kno’ wha’ I am,” Lee continued, “an’ I’m a tool.”

Constantine gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean by ‘tool’?” he asked.

“I mean tha’ th’ boss trus’s me to do m’ job an’ not fly Meridian int’ th’ dirt, but tha’s it.”

The logistician dipped into his brew; “Thirty or forty years is a long time,” he said, talking while his eyes were elsewhere than on Lee’s worn, tanned features, “I’m sure she trusts you more than flying the shuttle – though you are damn good at that, by the way.”

“Nah,” Lee corrected him with a shake of his head, “thir’y years ‘s a lon’ time to know wha’ a person ain’t. I ain’t no hero, an’ I failed when sh’ needed me.”

Constantine raised an eyebrow; “How did you fail?”

The older man shrugged; “By jus’ doin’ m’ job…”

There was a long silence as both men consulted their drinks and the answers that only came through the bottom of a glass. When they were done, they ordered another round.

“Y’ see,” Lee was the first one to continue, “anyone c’n do a job, bu’ no’ ever’one c’n be loyal.”

“What’s the difference?”

The pilot chuckled; “Typ’cal military a’tit’tude…”

“No, really. The scripture’s say that loyalty to the Throne is by doing one’s task diligently and without hesitation. Have you got another definition?”

“Rule num’er one,” Lee was chuckling again, “fergit th’ scriptures!”

Constantine did a double take and quickly checked over his shoulders to make sure Lee hadn’t spoken too loudly. Their conversation was straying dangerously close to heresy.

“No, really… fergit ‘em! Yer line o’ work needs y’ t’ b’ able t’ think on yer feet,” he tapped his temple, “need a brain in there. Navy shut tha’ off, bu’ y’ need t’ turn it back on: don’ turn tha’ on, an’ yer no better th’n me.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Think ou’side th’ box!” Lee placed his drink on the counter, needing both hands free for emphasis. “Tha’s wha’ I’m sayin’. Wha’ y’ do needs t’ be mo’e than yer job. Th’ only way th’ boss’ll trust ye is if y’ can thin ou’side th’ box an’ see the bigger pic’ture of wha’ is goin’ on!”

The young man was sceptical, and peered over the lip of his glass at the pilot who was looking earnestly back at him. “If you know this, then why aren’t you doing it?” he asked once he’d placed his glass back down.

Lee shrugged for what must have been the fifth or sixth time. “Missed m’ chance,” he said, looking at the breast of the other man’s coat instead of at his face; “I don’ get an’other chance at it. Screw’d it up.”

Regret. It was a look Constantine had seen before, and now it was written all over the ex-smuggler’s face. Such a look was a sign of deep sadness in oneself, a failure, something in the past that haunted men in their shadows. It was something Maxwell Constantine wanted to avoid, but was the pilot right, and was he, Maxwell Constantine, following along in Lee’s footsteps and the footsteps of many others? He’d always figured that he’d been brought into the Inquisitor’s service to do a job, and that when that job was done he’d be sent back to where he came from. Back to the Navy. He didn’t know if he wanted that, truth be told, but then again he’d never given it too much thought. The Inquisition had always felt… temporary – too good to be true. He hadn’t thought of making it his career – following an Inquisitor until he died. And yet here was Lee Normandy – someone who had done just that. The twins were like that as well, and what about Meredith? Stone? He’d never asked them about where they saw themselves going. How many other people had been in Inquisitor Godwyn’s service indefinitely, and how many of them had died while in it?

“How did you go wrong?” Constantine asked him after a moment of silence, but Lee wasn’t about to tell. He was still here – still alive – but the pain of failure was still too close. The pilot buried his third pint and let the silence stand.

“But it is only a job,” the young man continued as Lee ordered his fourth amidst the comfortable noise at the Night’s End. “I get paid for the services rendered!”

Lee shook his head slowly from side-to-side. “Ye ne’er leave th’ service o’ th’ Inquisition.”

It became clear at that point that he had said all he was going to say, and even though Constantine still had questions there was nothing more he could get out of grizzled pilot other than long sighs and empty stares. Annoyed, he finished his warm beer and glanced around the bar:

Everyone else appeared to be having a good enough time – care-free; no fear of imminent death and no worries about bald-headed strangers who lurked in the night. To them, regret might be treating someone poorly, or forgetting to something they thought important. Their woes were about business, family, and making ends meet. They were enviably oblivious to the bigger picture, and, maybe, so was he.

Deciding that he’d had enough, the Navy logistician slapped his empty glass down on the bar, dropped a couple of coins down beside it, and rose from his stool under the bartender’s unscrupulous gaze. Lee didn’t try to stop him, and only nodded half-heartedly as Constantine marched from the Night’s End and swept through the door into the darkness.

Rain continued to fall in heavy droplets from the black sky and he turned up his collar while his boots crashed through the lakes of water forming on the roadside – sending miniature waves lapping further into the street. There were people out here also – dressed in heavy raingear and carrying rainshields as they scurried through the streets – but none of them seemed to care about the man in the Navy greatcoat who stormed through their midst. Didn’t they know about the riots happening elsewhere in their city? Did they care?

For some reason he felt angry, and his face started to burn despite the raindrops running from his hair down along his nose and brow. Is that how these people lived? In ignorance?

He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going at this point – he was just walking somewhere in the night. He wasn’t going back to the penthouse – not yet – and was starting to question if he even wanted to. It would be easy to get lost in this city and just never go back. Would the Inquisitor find him? Would she care? If Lee was a nobody and had been in her service for long that Constantine had been alive, then what would it matter if he, with barely any time in her service at all, decided to go AWOL? His life was over. He would be trapped by the Inquisition until he died or ended up a broken man like Lee. Maybe death was the trick – the only way to be outside of the Inquisition’s jurisdiction. Maybe the ignorance of the everyday Imperial citizenry was indeed something to envy. Maybe the joke was on him, and the entire galaxy laughed at his folly for voluntarily opening himself to the horrors that filled it.

The rain was starting to soak through, and his hair and coat were completely saturated by it. He’d forgotten how cold it could be.

Still angry, he sought out shelter in a covered alleyway lit by several orange glow globes hung suspended from its arched ceiling. Stepping out of the storm, the echo of rain followed him along the narrow walls as he climbed the few steps taking him off street into a long, curving corridor of blackened storefronts and novelty shops that were closed up for the night. During the days of better seasons, the slim alleyway would have likely been a bustling little culvert of activity nestled into an overbearing city where the populace could meander and browse through its cosy shops, but at night when the rain fell it was echoing, shadowy place with no people in its winding passageways, and what felt like mere memories of another life decorating dark windowsills and barred doors.

Rolling draughts of wind pushed loose pieces of garbage down through the air as if adrift on an invisible current.

Turn a few corners, and suddenly Constantine felt very alone. It was calming, but at the same time it set him on edge.

His steps felt loud and intrusive.

A shiver ran down his spine, and his hand drifted unbidden towards the pommel of the sabre sheathed at his side.

His stomach suddenly cartwheeled up into his chest.

“Why are you following me?” Spider’s voice demanded from an unseen angle. It sounded annoyed, angry, and hurt. It sounded drunk.

Spinning around, he saw the Interrogator sitting in a corner next to closed storefront with her knees together and back to the wall. Her head was lolling to one side, and a smashed wine bottle glittered in blood-red shards at her feet. Her mouth was half open as bleary eyes glared up at him.

“Why the f*** are you following me!?”

The echo of her voice merged with that of falling water to the point of sounding barely human.

“I’m not following you,” Constantine replied with a sour glare. The tattooed young woman was a mess. Her mousey hair was wet and sticking to her face and her wet clothing was disheveled. Anyone to come across her would likely have mistaken the Inquisitorial adept for a junkie, stoned and alone in the night.

“Don’t lie to me…” she slurred, her head rolling from one side to the other though her eyes remained fixed on Constantine.

“You’re a damned mess!”

She didn’t like the words, and with great effort managed to climb up the wall to a standing position – falling into it as she tried to stand as her boots crunched glass underfoot. It looked like it could have been a litre bottle, and, by looking at her state, was clearly enough to knock a person off their feet.

“You’re a liar! Stop lying!” she pushed away from the wall and managed a couple of staggering steps towards him – a confused anger covering her face as she swayed on the spot.

Constantine turned to go, regretting even talking to her in the first place.

“Maxwell, stop… please.”

Her voice was more pleading now, and he stopped; turning around to face her a second time. The Interrogator closed her eyes, her breaths coming heavily as she slouched and swayed. “Why do you run from me?” she asked with closed eyes. “Are you scared?”

“No,” he answered with disgust, sweeping his coat indignantly as he folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t like her, he could admit that to himself, but she didn’t scare him, and seeing her like this made her pitiful.

“You don’t like me,” she seemed to pull the words from his very thoughts, “…you never have. Why?”

“You’re drunk!” he nearly shouted at her.

The scathing words must have touched a nerve, as her eyes opened and she suddenly stood up straighter.

Her jaw was trembling, and a hand tucked inside her soaked overcoat to something concealed at her belt. Constantine knew what it was before it came out, and was not surprised to see the combat blade appear in her closed fist when her hand remerged. He couldn’t help but swallow the lump that appeared in his throat.

“I never liked you either…”

She was about eight feet away from him, and the logistician’s hand moved to his sword and tightened around the handle. He would not attack her, but he would defend himself if necessary.

A cruel smile crept onto Spider’s lips and she took a step towards him, knife held low with its point to ground.

He did not flinch, and remained resolute as she took another step forward – closing the distance between them one careful pace at a time. Their eyes remained locked.

Soon they were down to four feet. If he drew his sword now, Maxwell Constantine was unsure if he’d managed to strike her before the foot-long fighting knife gutted him. He held his own. The pommel would have to be his first strike, as she was now too close for his blade to be effective.

She got right up into his face – so close that he could smell the powerful odour of wine on her breath and count her eyelashes – before he blinked, and in that fraction of a second she kissed him.

His eyes popped open, Constantine’s look of surprise starting directly into what he would remember as a drunken look of curious resentment. In an instant her hand was on his crotch, feeling him through his trousers.

Constantine buckled almost as if she’d stabbed him in the midsection and instinctively shoved her away. She staggered a few feet to the wall and thumped against it – the knife clattering from her fingers and her hands held up weakly like a gesture of surrender. Her face was still drunk, and the lips that had kissed him were still slightly parted while her eyes teased him with scorn.

“Don’t…” he said in way of an explanation, awkwardly looking back the way he had come as a potential escape route.

“What’s the matter?” there was a mocking curl on her lips. “Don’t know how to handle a woman?”

Spider parted the front of her cloak with clumsy hands, revealing a rain-soaked over-shirt under which the swelling of her two breasts were clearly defined.

The heart in his chest was starting to throb somewhere near his throat as his eyes stared unbidden at her chest – the rise and fall her breathing moving it up and down while Constantine found himself needing to remember to breathe.

Managing to blink, he looked up at her mocking face. He wanted to hate her – to remember everything he disliked about her to begin with – but it was hard now that he had her like this, and that wasn’t the only thing that was getting hard.

“You’re too drunk to think clearly,” he said, trying to convince himself that he didn’t want this to happen more than trying to convince her.

“So?” Even drunk she was challenging him in ways he did not like. “Touch me. I won’t say no.”

She wouldn’t, but he couldn’t – everything in his brain was telling him to leave, but everything in his body was making him stay.

She slipped off the wall and stood in front of him, her lips finding his and gently sucking them until he kissed back. It seemed to be good, a release, and it was what she wanted. Her hand found him again and he welcomed it, pushing against her as her fingers ran up and down against the fabric of his pants. Soon she was pushing back, sandwiching her hand between them. Still kissing, she guided him to her hips and buttocks and he squeezed and pulled on her with increasing longing as her tiny moans of pleasure edged him on.

Caring was gone, and he was helpless; like a fly caught in the spider’s web.

 

They f****d; there was no other word to describe it.

There was nothing loving or intimate about what they’d done when they were hidden in the night, and as he walked back to the penthouse alone Constantine couldn’t help but hate himself for what he’d done. They’d been like animals, feeding each other’s bodies. He’d gone into her without a word – the image of his hands gripping her tattooed hips burned into his mind – and she’d just let him do it. She’d moan and close her eyes – not even watching as he fed himself on her bare flesh, and when it was over… nothing. There had been nothing. He’d pulled up his trousers, made some lame excuses that she didn’t reciprocate, and left – walked away into the night. For all he knew she was still there.

Gritting his teeth, he smacked himself on the forehead for his idiocy. He should have had more control. He was better than that!

Yet he was still walking away.

Thoroughly wet and shivering, he momentarily considered turning around and going back thinking that it might somehow make a difference, but the more he thought about the further his feet carried him in the other direction. There could be no going back from this. The only way was forward, and that was where he was going, wherever the road would lead him.

Maybe he’d walk all night. Maybe he’d walk forever.

[Aqui]

It's certainly a change of pace from the rest of the story and whilst you had given fair warning at the start, it was unexpected (the participants I mean, not the...act) Who'd have thunk it?

 

Looking forward for the next bit as ever :D

[Lady_Canoness]

A new year and a short update!

 

Almost 2 years to the day since I started writing about Inquisitor Godwyn, I'm pleased to announce my intent to write a fifth and final book in the Inquisition series - The Inquisition V! It's in the conceptual stages and you can doubtlessly expect to see the return of a few characters and even some new ones!

 

On another note, work is progressinig on part 17 of IV, and - though I can't yet say when it will be out - I pleased to say that the pace is picking up as we pass the mid-way points of the story and move towards wrapping it all up! Lot's still left to happen, however, and some of you may have some darned good guesses as to what!

 

-L_C

[Taranis]

Happy new year, and thanks for for the update/teaser. :D

Great content and development of the story. As usual. And surprising twists! I hope the young desperados doesn't get too many new emotional scars. They could perhaps be good for each other? For as long as they serve in her inquisitioness secret service. Not many survive long enough to grow a beard. :cry:

[Taranis]

Double post. :cry:

[Brother-Sergeant Bohemond]

Shes a great character that you have developed. In many ways, I miss the innocence she used to have.

 

It will be interesting to see what happens in the rest of this, and to the next one.