Chapter Text
Heinrix van Calox had skewered himself! He had almost fallen for his heart, almost placed his desires above his duty, and almost conceded himself to temptation in a moment of weakness. He had allowed himself to be fooled into believing there was a future for Isha and him. Together. Had allowed himself to form an attachment. In a panic, he had been forced to forfeit one of his most crucial pieces on the regicide board. He had been a fool. A fool in love. And he could not permit another slip-up. Yet whenever he closed his eyes, she alone existed in his mind. His sweet liability. His sweetest temptation.
“Isha.”
Her name caressed his lips. No! He punched the wall, and the scabbed-over cuts on his knuckles cracked again. Rivulets of blood trickled down the back of his hand to gather lukewarm in the cuff of his shirt. Once the fabric was soaked through, the levee split over, dripping and dripping and dripping scarlet dots onto the floor, and his steps smeared them into long streaks in the strip between the makeshift desk and his bedroom. Three paces up and three paces down. By now, he recognised each noise outside his door: the clanking of footsteps, the chatter of voices, the blaring alarms, the churns and turns of the ship. They were as familiar as the silence inside his cabin, where the whispers of the warp alone kept him company.
He hadn’t contemplated the possibility of his own private happiness, not since he had broken up his entanglement with Achilleas. The encounter on Malfi had been a glimpse into another life. A life he could have lived (with Isha?), had he not been cursed with his abominable powers. He scoffed. Emotions were a liability – his inner turmoil was ample proof of this point. Sentimentality had no place in his reasoning. Before meeting Isha, he had been scrupulous in performing his duties for the Inquisition, the institution to which he owed his life, which deserved his undivided attention. He had never doubted. He had never questioned. He had never wavered. Not once. But now?
The vastness of his feelings threatened to choke him. He would fulfil the obligations his master had placed on him and produce the expected work. This time, however, without deriving satisfaction from a task well executed.
Damnable duty!
Sipping from his recaf, he spat it right back into the cup. Sourness coated his tongue. He twisted his lips as if he had bitten into the rind of the bitter fruits growing in abundance on Guisorn III. It had been days since he had slept, kept awake by caffeine and his racing mind. Now he was ready to walk out of an airlock because he didn’t dare to contemplate walking into Isha’s bedchamber and fulfilling his basest desires with her. How would he manage accompanying her planet-side without making a fool out of himself any more than he already had?
Emperor, he couldn’t stay locked inside his cabin forever!
His self-imposed exile had been worse than torture. And this time, it was not circumstances that kept him from Isha, only his idiocy. Why had he not paused to reconsider his words when it had become apparent that he was hurting her?
Damnable foolishness!
Another punch struck the wall. The impact surged up his arm to whip him out of his ruminations. He stared at the bloody smear, then at the scarlet landscape he had painted on the panelling in his cabin. And on the floor! His mangled fist throbbed in a red-hot beat. Rummaging for a medi-kit, he dripped blood over the desk and onto the surveillance equipment scattered there. At last, he produced a roll of gauze. He clenched one end between his teeth and wrapped the other around his fist, gingerly avoiding opening more cuts and scrapes. He must clean up this embarrassing mess as soon as possible.
But first things first.
He brushed over his face, and the gauze caught in the stubble. Old sweat and copper lingered thick in the cabin, producing a sour-sweet metallic odour that the air recyclers failed to whisk away. He sniffed his armpits. The stink clogging his nostrils was worse than grox dung. He must bathe! After a cold shower and a close shave, he should focus on his next task: hiding the vox bugs in Isha’s quarters. His stomach churned at the notion. His action would drive another nail into the coffin in which their once-budding relationship rested. He cupped his mouth. Perhaps he mustn’t resort to what Isha would perceive as the ultimate betrayal of what little trust was left between them. Perhaps…?
If he were to request aid from Jae Heydari? He resumed his pacing. No. He would commit a voidship-sized mistake involving the Cold Trader in his troubles, apart from the liabilities her support would incur. What else could he do? Write another letter?
Impossible. As impossible as forsaking his duty to the Golden Throne.
Apologise in person?
Stumbling through his lines, he would aggravate his condition and jeopardise his chances of ever reconciling with Isha. No. To rectify his blunder, he required an ally. It pained him to admit it, but the Cold Trader alone could place him back on the regicide board.
***
Once more resembling the imperious interrogator he wished the world to see, he found Mistress Heydari engaged in a card game in a smoke-filled canteen on the middle decks. Hidden behind a pillar, he waited for her to finish fleecing the other players. One by one, they folded or abandoned the table until the Cold Trader was alone, only a massive pile of Thrones and an empty bottle of amasec as company. When she lit a lho-stub, he propelled himself off the column to stroll to her. Halfway there, he froze mid-step.
Impossible!
He blinked a few times. Someone had rigged an announcer servo-skull to play music, and the jaunty tune of a Malfian classic – (Don’t) Be Cruel – wove itself into the murmurs of multiple conversations. A woman leaning at the bar toasted him with a glass gleaming crimson. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opening them again, crewman Val Newmac had vanished into thin air.
The lack of sleep must have finally caught up to me…
Hooking a foot under a chair leg, he towed the chair towards the table where the smuggler lounged. Metal screeched over metal. The Cold Trader observed him with a drag on her lho-stub, and the smoke curled above her in lazy swirls. She flipped a coin from her hoard. It spun on the table until her silver fingers snatched it up and flicked it in the air again.
“Mistress Heydari, a word!” Surprising himself with his forceful tone, he lowered his voice, “I… I require your… services.”
“How the mighty have fallen! Heinrix, may I call you Heinrix? What can I do for you?” Closing a fist around the coin, she afforded him a toothy grin. “Let me guess, you need good old Jae to help with the shambolic state of your love life?”
A fit of laughter drowned out her words. Her throat implant gleamed in the candlelight as she took a pull on the lho-stub and blew the smoke up in his face. An earthy wooden smell assailed his nose. At another time, he would have found it a pleasant scent; now, he coughed.
“Keep your voice down. Please,” he hissed over the wailing of another lively evergreen. Bye Bye Love, the singer crooned almost giddily as if to mock him personally. “There’s no need to inform the whole deck about the contents of our conversation.”
“Oh, I’d say that ship has left Footfall already. Since you thought it was a good idea to threaten the High Factotum in full view of the bridge crew, but be my guest.”
Gripping the backrest of the chair, the metal warped around his fist. Had his interaction with Danrok sparked rumours tarnishing Isha’s reputation and made a mockery of his reasoning?
“You know, you should really make up your mind because right now you’re neck-deep in groxshite. The harp? Lovely gesture, and I’m sure the Isha from a couple of days ago would have truly appreciated the gift. But now? Oh, ashmag, I’d laugh a lot more at the state of your affairs were it not for my friend who suffers from your idiocy.”
“The harp, yes. Would you…” He lowered himself into the chair with the grace of a ship colliding with an iceberg, and the damaged backrest dug into his shoulder like a floe. He settled around the discomfort but failed to ignore the sting. Despite trying to hide his desperation behind his words, he wasn’t sure it had the intended effect. “I am certain your contacts would be invaluable in procuring the item Her Ladyship desires. Name your price, Heydari, and not a peep about it to the Lord Captain.”
“Heinrix, tsk-tsk-tsk, this isn’t my first year in the Expanse nor my first year in business. You believe it’s as easy as snapping a finger, and boom, the harp materialises.” She underlined her words with the matching gesture. It echoed like a gunshot in his mind as the coin flipped back on the hoard. “If it were that simple, I’d have gifted the damn thing to Isha myself years ago. You aren’t the only one who finds the Lord Captain irresistible.”
She sucked on the lho-stub, and the red tip glowered at him as if to provoke a reaction. The tables around them had emptied one by one. Busy with ignoring their conversation, the middle deckers now crowded along the walls and bar. He pinched his nose. He had a rival? And was he stupid enough to seek her advice?
If his life could change for the worse, it had undoubtedly done so this instant. Heydari flicked the ash off her lho-stub. Producing another bottle from under the table, she took a swig and then offered him the amasec. He stared at the Cold Trader. His mind churned to the out-of-tune melody of A Fool Such As I. Could nobody shut that infernal torture machine off?
“I’ve sat at the negotiation table with all sorts – not just loot hunters or smugglers either, but with xenos. And I never in a thousand years would have thought negotiating with an agent of the Inquisition would be my easiest one yet. You’ve forfeited the game before we even started playing, you know that, yes?”
This had been a terrible mistake. He soared from his seat to bow with the frostiness of the wintry winds found on Guisorn III. “Excuse me, Mistress Heydari.”
She patted his unbandaged hand. “Sit back down and listen. I won’t help you because I like you, but because Isha is dear to me and has been miserable the past week. Having said that, you won’t get any advice from me on dealing with my friend, apart from: Why don’t you get on with it and throw yourself at her feet? Might at least get a chuckle out of her… or a kick to the kidneys.”
Too numb to react to her taunting, he dropped back into the chair. He hadn’t anticipated retiring from the table with his dignity intact; however, receiving confirmation about Isha’s state of mind hurt. He was the reason she felt miserable, and there was no excuse for his behaviour.
“I know my situation is complicated, and I might have expressed myself poorly.”
“Well, isn’t that the understatement of the millennium? First, you look like you need a stiff drink.” She angled for a glass and wiped it clean on her coat before filling the tumbler to the brim. “Second, you don’t need to worry about possible rivalries. At least not from me.”
“How do you mean?”
She nudged the glass in his direction. Evaluating the swill, he grimaced in disgust, only to empty the drink in one draught. The alcohol pummelled him right in the stomach, although it wasn’t enough for him to suffer the consequences of drunkenness. With or without his powers. Heydari refilled his tumbler, and he demolished the second drink as fast. Now the amasec coated his mouth in woodsmoke. When she topped up the glass a third time, he snatched the bottle from her and poured himself a more measured serving.
“To dispel the notion of a possible rivalry between us and to make sure I live another day, let me tell you: the Lord Captain is my best friend and was never more and never less than my best friend.” She stubbed out her smoke on the table, smudging ash across the surface, then flicked the stump into the room. “This is fortunate for you because while I have had my heart coveted by proud men with hard eyes, gentle maidens with sensual voices, imperious lords and fierce leaders, Isha wasn’t among them. Not for lack of trying on my side, to be frank, but I respect my friend’s wishes. Thus, consider yourself lucky. I won’t say a word more about the topic, and I won’t get further involved in your relationship woes out of respect for the Lord Captain.”
He drained the third glass. This time, relief accompanied the warmth spreading in his gut. At least he had no other rival on the ship for Isha’s heart apart from his ineptitude. He tapped the empty tumbler on the edge of the table.
“How did the Lord Captain and you meet?”
“Can’t forget the Interrogator in you for even one second, can you? Not even drunk.”
“Mistress Heydari, it takes a lot more than a bottle of amasec to get me drunk. Fortunately.” He poured himself another drink before offering the Cold Trader the flask. “And I’m not asking out of professional interest but curiosity. Yours is an unusual friendship.”
“What happened with that fist of yours?” She gestured at his bandages. Specks of blood had mottled the pristine white gauze. “Stuck it into a meat grinder?”
He rolled the tumbler between his hands, and the cold glass warmed in his palms. “Mm, a redecoration of my cabin…”
“I see. That bad?”
“Worse.”
He knocked back his fourth drink. Although he didn’t sense the alcohol in his bloodstream yet, at the edges of his consciousness, drunkenness approached on velvety paws. Perhaps being drunk would improve his mood? It couldn’t worsen it. Muted chatter filled the canteen when he emptied the bottle into the tumbler. Someone must have finally shut off the busted servo-skull.
“I assumed with your talents, you could just heal yourself?”
“Not…” He rubbed his neck. “Not this time.”
“I see… A masochist, are we?”
“Pardon…?”
He choked on his drink. Thumping his sternum, he wheezed against the fire blazing a path down his throat. Not the way he would have expressed it. His relationship with pain was complicated (in more ways than one) and none of the Cold Trader’s business.
“We haven’t spoken about compensation for my help,” Heydari said. “So how much…?”
“If it’s concerning Thrones, I can access funds…”
“I wasn’t speaking about money, no. What can you offer me for my time, goodwill, and silence?”
“No games, Heydari. Spit it out. What do you want?”
“Seeing you squirm is already a good start,” she grinned. “And you know you won’t live this down, yes?”
He gripped the table until the bandage was soaked with blood. Of course, he knew. It was a trade he was willing to make in exchange for Isha’s happiness.
“Go on, or do you admit that it’s not within your capabilities to procure the desired item, Cold Trader? Because then you’re wasting my time!”
“My trade means knowing the right people and non-people, having the right connections, and making sure the precious goods find their way into the hands of my no-less-precious customers. The difficulty in acquiring the harp is not Thrones, Heinrix; it’s knowing who owns one and how willing they are to part with it. We can’t order one from the Calixis sector, can we now?”
“So get on with it! If you require my talents to persuade someone to part with the instrument, I’m your most obedient servant.”
He downed the glass. The alcohol struck his brain like a colossal gong announcing his impending drunkenness as he bowed in a mock gesture.
“No need to torture someone… I was simply pointing out that finding one is the tricky part, not the retrieval.”
“Yes, you said so many times. So many times, in fact, that I begin to wonder if it’s not a ploy of yours to persuade me to part with whatever it is you want me to part with. Do you want to requisition Inquisitorial resources?”
“Funny word you’re using there, Interrogator. I’m not requesting anything since I’m rather attached to my head staying on my neck. But should the need arise in the future – hypothetical speaking – and you find yourself capable of accessing the vast treasure troves of information your dainty organisation holds, it would be of immeasurable help.”
“To acquire the harp? Or are you implying you wish to…?”
“Well, knowing that an Inquisition agent owes me a favour,” she twirled a lock around her augmetic finger, “could be a most lucrative asset.”
“I see.”
He straightened himself, but his brain continued lounging at the backrest. With the flick of a hand, he concentrated his Psykana on clearing the alcohol from his bloodstream. And sobered up. He was playing a risky game in more than one way. Although he could explain the funds away (it wouldn’t be the first time he had to buy his way into information), access to Inquisition resources was a different beast. The Cold Trader had placed him under Zugzwang. Every move brought disadvantages; however, not making a move meant forfeiting the game and any hope of a cordial relationship with Isha.
Don’t think about more… You can’t allow yourself to venture beyond friendship. Remember, love is a liability.
“I can agree to that,” he said reluctantly, and stood up, “within limits. Don’t overplay your hand, Heydari. Even on a winning streak, it’s best to know when to call it quits. When can I expect delivery?”
Flinging her head back, she cackled, “Shereen, you haven’t understood a word of what I said.”
“Beg your pardon?”
A wave of spices and smoke smothered his senses as she sauntered towards him. He took a step back. Into the chair. Stumbling over the chair leg, he steadied himself on the warped backrest. The pain in his grip injected more sobriety into him.
“The harp will neither be a fast acquisition nor will it be enough to make up for your blunder. So listen up, because this is the last piece of free advice, and I feel you’re as slow as a grox today: no amount of presents or letters will make things right with the Lord Captain. No, only you can do that.” Looking him square in the eye, she stabbed his chest, and the augmetic finger bored into the corded muscles like a drill. “You must decide what’s more important: Isha’s happiness or your whatever. Simple as that. Oh, and kneeling might help, too. Lots of kneeling. Last I heard, the Lord Captain likes her men on their knees and begging.”
With that final wisdom dispersed, she strutted away. Her words echoed in his mind as bleak as the wind howling over desolate plains. He had already lost. He had chosen his duty over his desires, and he saw no way out of this predicament without losing himself further in the complexity of his feelings. Although he would never cease caring for Isha, or loving her…
Damn!
He struck his palm. If he had ruined every chance at happiness in the name of his assignment, he had better focus on his work!
***
With the dust, the scent of disuse rose as he wedged himself behind one of the massive pipes that segmented the storage compartment. He pressed a fist against his nose, and the sneeze died in his chest as a whimper. Lying in ambush for Isha’s attendant, he dared not shut his eyes, or he would fall asleep on the spot in the red-tinged twilight. Instead, he concentrated on the faint hissing of steam above him.
After an eternity of waiting, the door slid open—startling him awake. A shadow on the wall crept closer. Sucking in a breath, he tensed his muscles, ready to pounce. A cloaked figure lunged at him.
Why did you murder me? Tell me! Was it worth it?
A female voice filled his head. He looked around. The room was empty! Or was it? A clammy sheen coated his forehead when a hand brushed against his biceps. He whipped around. He was alone. Or was he?
Another door hissed open. He froze. A man exited the compartment leading to Isha’s rooms. Without confirming if the attendant was alone, he rammed the servant into the opposite wall. A bone crunched at the impact.
“Emperor’s tits, what in the Imperium–”
The hand over his mouth cut off the man’s cursing.
“If you make a sound, I will end you! Nod, if you understand.” The attendant inched his head up and down in his palm, hot puffs of air dampening his skin. “Is the Lord Captain in her quarters right now?”
Instead of an answer, a few ragged gulps slipped the man’s throat. Before releasing the servant from his hold, he pressed the spot on the carotid artery to restore function to his limbs. The attendant fell calm. Too occupied with breathing to contemplate anything else.
“The question?”
Grabbing the man’s collar, he lifted him off the ground.
“What… What are you doing…? I will not–”
“Did you forget in whose presence you find yourself?” Although his voice didn’t rise above a whisper, the force of its message rippled over the attendant’s face. “Answer the question, and you might yet live.”
“I’m a dead man walking. I know you Inquisition types. You won’t get a peep out of me. I’d rather die for Her Ladyship–” He gasped. “W-what is this? W-w-witch!”
“Your blood just started boiling in your veins. It is an unpleasant way to die, but I am sure Lady von Valancius appreciates your sacrifice.”
***
Back in his room, he slumped on the chair, not a care for the mess decorating the floor or the desk. Staring at the carmine streaks on the wall, his mind swirled. He had betrayed Isha’s trust. His actions had barred any prospect of reconciliation should she discover the truth. She would never forgive him. Fulfilling his duties, surveilling the Lord Captain, and gathering as much information as possible were his tasks, not indulging his foolish heart. Carried away by his emotions, he had almost forgotten himself. That couldn’t happen again. Sentimentality had no place in his life as much as he wished otherwise. Bounding from his seat, he resumed his pacing. And yet, Isha had stirred long-forgotten, impossible feelings in him, feelings the cruellest torture could not force him to confess, although he had confessed them to her freely. At least in writing. His foolishness (no, the truth!) scrawled onto paper in black ink. For a fleeting moment, he had dared to yield to his dream, but he knew best how dangerous his dreams could be.
No!
His fortitude would see him triumphant. He had survived far worse struggles. If only he could numb his heart’s desire and steel his resolve. Switching the receiver on, he tuned it to the frequency of the vox-bugs in the Lord Captain’s quarters. The rushing of the waterfall in the bath filled his cabin. He changed to the second bug. Muted noises from the bridge echoed through the lift shaft. Another click. Silence. Then the tick-tock of the grandfather clock broke the static frizz. It unnerved him in its steadiness. Still, he left the line open after he had connected the vox-recorder with the receiver.
He should go to sleep. Concentrating on the warp’s whispering, the sounds of the vox-recording answered. The ship must have translated back into realspace in the Telikos Epsilon System, home of Janus, while his attention had been otherwise occupied. Suppressing a yawn, he headed to the bedroom. At the threshold, he glanced back at the bloody mess in the study. Cleaning that up was tomorrow’s problem. Without undressing, he slipped under the cold sheets and into a fitful sleep.