Several orbital craft broke from the tree cover behind the main attack, launching from secret hangars in the woods behind the house. One was hammered out of the air by a trooper with a rocket launcher. Another two made it five kilometres down the valley before they were incinerated from above by the watchful Defence of Stalinvast.
Another, a fast and heavily armoured model, evaded the cover sweep and headed west. The Defence of Stalinvast launched a trio of fighters after it, and they eventually brought it down in the open sea after a lengthy
chase. Only weeks of forensic recovery might reveal who had been aboard any of those craft, and mere was no guarantee that an answer would be forthcoming even then. Smart money was on the likes of Lord Glaw, Lady Fabrina, Gorgone Locke, Dazzo the Ecclesiarch and the nameless pipe-smoking man. Certainly, none of those persons were among the anguished scum rounded up by the guard or by naval security.
Ninety minutes after it had begun, Pacification 505 was signalled as 'achieved' by Major Joam Joakells of naval security.
Only then did the launch carrying Commodus Yoke move in.
i
TWELVE
In the ruins of the great house.
Murmurings.
Uprising.
It was noon, but the night storm had persisted, and the fitful rain washed the colour out of the sky and doused the burning sections of House Glaw. A terrible, blackened ruin, it stood on the hilltop, its windows burned out, its roofs ragged, tiled lengths of beam, billowing grey and white smoke.
I sat in the yard, leaning back against the mudguard of an Imperial Guard troop carrier, sipping occasionally from a cut-glass decanter of amasec. My head was bowed. I needed medical attention and painkillers, a psychic restorative, a good meal, neural surgery to the hundreds of wounds Locke had inflicted, a bath, clean clothes…
More than anything else, I needed a bed.
Troops marched past, crunching their boots in time on the wet stone. Orders sang back and forth. Occasionally, a fighter ship made a pass overhead and vibrated my diaphragm with the throb of its afterburner.
My head swam. Fragments gathered and conflated in my unconscious and spilled over. Each time, I shook myself awake. The blank-eyed man was there, in the back of my head. I didn't want to think about him, and saw no place in this event for him, but his image lingered. Once, I was certain, he was standing across the yard from me, by the scullery door, smiling at me. I blinked him away.
I was still caked in blood, sweat and filth. Pain and fatigue clung to me like a shroud. A corporal from the naval security detail had recovered our
confiscated possessions from Urisel Glaw's apartment, and I had pulled on a shirt and my button-sleeved leather coat. The trooper had handed me my inquisitorial rosette, and I clutched it now, like a totem.
Eager men of the 50th Gudranite Rifles jostled Glaw House staff through the yard. The prisoners had their hands behind their heads, and some were weeping.
Somebody slid down next to me on the cold flagstones and leaned back against the greasy track assembly of the carrier.
'Long night/ Midas said.
I passed the decanter to him, and he took a long swig.
"Where's Aemos? The girl?'
'Last I saw, the savant was bustling around somewhere, making notes. I haven't seen Alizebeth since we freed them from the pit.'
I nodded.
'You're half-dead, Gregor. Let me call up a launch and get you to Dor-say/
'We're not done here/1 said.
Procurator Madorthene saluted me as he approached. He wasn't wearing his starchy white dress uniform now. In the coal-black armour of naval security, he looked bigger and more commanding.
'We've made a body exam/ he said.
'Oberon Glaw?'
'No trace/
'Gorgone Locke? The churchman Dazzo?'
He shook his head.
I offered him the decanter with a sigh. To my surprise, he took it, sat down with us and drank a mouthful.
They're all probably cinders in the craft that tried to escape/ he said. 'But I'll tell you this. Before it torched the two boats running the valley, the Defence of Stalinvast was sure it read no life signs/
