Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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The statement floated in the air for a while until Agapito realised it was up to him to ask the next question.

‘Are you willing to share those reasons with us, lord?’

‘I must speak with the Emperor,’ replied Corax. ‘We do not know yet whether news of Horus’s perfidy has reached the Imperial Palace.’

‘Surely the Emperor is gifted enough to know when such a tragedy has befallen his realm?’ said Branne.

‘The warp storms may serve another purpose beyond stifling travel,’ said Corax. He looked at his commanders, seeing confusion in their expressions. ‘The warp, the Navigators, the astropaths and even the Emperor are linked together. They derive their powers from its energy, and so the storm cover might shield the Emperor’s far-seeing gaze as much as it blinds the Navigators to the route to Terra.’

‘Do you think Horus will attack the Emperor directly?’ asked Solaro. ‘Does he plan to invade Terra?’

‘Certainly,’ said Corax. ‘He has turned from the Imperial Truth and must either destroy the Emperor or be destroyed. The Warmaster’s actions have set us on a course to this confrontation; there can be no other outcome.’

This was greeted with intakes of breath and thoughtful silence for a few moments. Corax sympathised with his subordinates. The magnitude of what Horus had done was difficult to comprehend.

‘It seems Isstvan will become Horus’s folly,’ said Branne. ‘Even with the backing of so many Legions and the blow he dealt at the dropsite, he cannot hope to stand against the rest of the Imperium.’

‘We must assume the worst,’ said Solaro, before Corax could speak. ‘If those of the other Legions, who we once trusted with our lives, can be turned, we can place no faith in the loyalty of the Mechanicum or the Imperial Army.’

‘You are right,’ said Corax. ‘We have no idea of the true strength of the rebels.’ He stopped. The word ‘rebels’ did not convey nearly enough the gravitas of what Horus and his conspirators had perpetrated. ‘The traitorswill have planned their moves for some time. Horus is prone to grand gestures, to displays of power, but he does not move without due preparation. Be sure of it, he did not act until he was ready, and that must mean he sees now as his best chance of a swift victory.’

‘It’ll be up to us to deny him, of course,’ said Branne, lip curling with anger.

‘Of course,’ said Corax, smiling thinly. ‘It is not in our foes’ interests to see the Imperium destroyed. They look to usurp the Emperor and become the rulers of the galaxy. So they must act quickly, destroying the Emperor and those who will fight with him, before the rest of the Imperium is dragged into the war. No matter what powers Horus has at his disposal, I agree with Branne. The traitors cannot win a long war.’

The legionaries were filing out below, while more were entering from the open doors in the far wall. Dozens of serfs were clearing the tables and bringing out heaps of fresh rations for the new arrivals. Corax looked down, meeting the eyes of the Raven Guard looking up at their leader. There was a dreary defiance etched into the features of those passing below, a moroseness that the primarch did not like.

‘Sergeant Nestil,’ Corax called out, halting the squad leader. The sergeant stood transfixed for a moment, like a target seeing the glint of a weapon pointed in his direction.

‘Lord Corax?’ Nestil replied. ‘How may I serve?’

‘Why so glum, sergeant?’ Corax kept his tone light-hearted. ‘Is the food not to your liking?’

‘I have eaten better, I must admit, lord,’ said the sergeant.

‘I suspect Horus is sitting on a big pile of grox steaks, sergeant. When we have permission from the Emperor, we’ll go and relieve him of them.’

There was laughter from the gathered legionaries, a little thin but better than the depression that Corax had sensed before.

‘Aye, lord, and no doubt Fulgrim has a few fancies too that we could help him with,’ replied Sergeant Nestil, earning more laughs.

‘You can be sure of that, Lancrato, you can be sure,’ said Corax, laughing along with the poor joke.

The primarch waved the legionaries on and turned his attention back to his commanders. His smile faded quickly.

‘We cannot allow the wounds of Isstvan to fester,’ he told them. ‘The Legion is depleted in strength, but it is the injuries to our spirit that are more grievous. We live or die by our successes, and they have been short of late.’

‘We will fight to the last man,’ said Solaro. ‘Yes,’ said Corax. His next words were to encourage himself as much as his companions. ‘Yet it would be better if we could get Horus’s forces to do that instead. We need a victory, something to restore honour and prestige. If we hole up in Deliverance, we surrender the initiative to our foes. That is not how we fight. With whatever force we can muster, we must take the fight to the traitors. We must prove to ourselves and others that they are not impervious, that an assault on Terra is not inevitable. At the moment we have been dealt a harsh blow, but we cannot run forever. The sooner we turn and fight back, the sooner we will sow doubt amongst the traitors and cracks will appear in their alliance.’

‘Are you so sure they will be so easy to break apart, lord?’ asked Agapito. Corax started to walk along the gallery. The great arched windows to his right were shuttered with ribbed steel blocking the view of the warp outside, but he could still feel its presence, like an oppressive atmosphere, a tension that permeated everything. To think that it might be under the control of Horus in some way was disconcerting.

‘Easy? No,’ said Corax in reply to Agapito’s question. ‘Yet there will be disunity. Even under the banner of the Emperor my brothers and I could find cause for argument. Horus may have the ears of some for now, but each seeks to profit in his own way from this rebellion. When it becomes clearer that those goals will not be achieved without great effort, their resolve will wane and their common cause will fracture.’

‘Let us hope we can bring that about,’ said Agapito.

Corax directed a stern stare at the commander, stopping just before the narrow doorway at the end of the gallery. Agapito wilted slightly under the primarch’s unforgiving gaze.

‘We have no room for hope,’ said Corax. ‘We plan and we act. Hope is for dreamers and poets. We have our will and our weapons and we shall dictate our own fate.’

WHEN CORAX HAD departed, Branne, Agapito and Solaro made their way back to the quarters they now shared.

‘Why did you mention hope, brother?’ Branne asked harshly. ‘Do you not remember those same words he spoke at Gate Forty-Two?’

‘It was just a turn of phrase, brother,’ said Agapito, clearly taken aback. ‘Of course I remember Gate Forty-Two. Who could forget that slaughter?’

‘Be more careful with your words in the future,’ snapped Branne. ‘Lord Corax does not need any extra distractions at the moment.’

Agapito looked as if he would argue, but then bowed his head, accepting the admonishment.

‘As you say, brother,’ he said. ‘I will watch my words carefully in future.’

LOOKING AT THE nearly-empty jars in his small case, Pelon wondered how much longer he could make the spices and herbs last. The praefector had said nothing of the crude fare Pelon had been forced to serve him of late – his breeding was far too good and his military experience too long for such complaints – but it nagged at Pelon’s conscience that a noble of Therion should endure the same bland meals as a common serf.

He had done his best to make Valerius’s sparse quarters accommodating, setting out such belongings as the praefector had brought aboard on the narrow shelves and bedside table. Valerius’s full dress uniform and parade regalia were hung on one wall, along with his gold-hilted power sword, but their bright appearance only highlighted the drab, unpainted bulkheads, rather than drawing the eye away from them.

Pelon had managed to procure a few paints and brushes from the ship’s stores, not enough to liven up the whole chamber but sufficient to add some colour to the plain furnishings and the bare tin plates and cups he had taken from the mess. The Raven Guard seemed to revel in their austerity, he had decided, embracing the harsh conditions of their home on Deliverance instead of celebrating the luxuries and frivolities that should have come with compliance. The manservant had never thought he would miss those endless corridors of the old mines, or the empty vistas through the windows, but since coming on board the Avengerhe had come to see the time he had spent on the dusty moon as comparative opulence.

He heard the outer door hissing open and finished his fussing around the small table he had set out for the praefector’s supper. Valerius came into the main chamber and sat down without comment, his eyes passing quickly over the carefully sliced protein slabs dusted with chemyrrh and orthal. The praefector lifted the dented metal cup, its edge painted with a fine line of red by Pelon, to his lips, but stopped before he took a sip. He lowered the cup to the table and finally looked at his manservant.

‘I miss wine,’ said Valerius. ‘A nice carafe of Mastillian red, a glass of bubbly Narinythe. For shame, I’d even settle for a sip of that stuff Prime Tribune Nathor rustled up on Hedda-Signis.’

Pelon said nothing. It was not his place to speak, but to listen. He had overstepped the mark before, back on Deliverance, and no end of trouble had come from it. With everything that had been going on – and he had overheard a lot from the Raven Guard and the crew about events that had taken place on Isstvan – he was happy to be safe and able to concentrate on his sole duty of providing for the praefector.

‘Mustn’t grumble, though, Pelon,’ said Valerius, as if his servant was the one who had voiced the lament. ‘Latest estimate says we’re just twelve days from translating into the Sol system. Though judging by their recent success rate, I’d not be surprised if the Navigators took twice that time. It’s exciting though, isn’t it? Terra, Pelon! Won’t that be something of remark?’

Pelon was not sure if he should reply or not. It was difficult sometimes to judge whether he was simply an ear for the praefector to speak into or if his master wanted to engage in conversation. Valerius did not continue, and had a look of expectation that suggested to Pelon that he was waiting for a reply of some kind.

‘I would have never have thought I would see such a thing, master,’ Pelon said dutifully. In truth, he had been exceptionally anxious about the upcoming stop at the centre of the Imperium. No doubt there would be all manner of dignitaries there to greet their arrival. It would be a shocking failure on Pelon’s part if Valerius turned up looking like some ragamuffin officer from one of the professional regiments, but he only had limited resources to launder and repair his master’s uniform. ‘It is an honour that I can scarce believe.’

‘You’re not wrong about that,’ said Valerius, plunging his fork into a piece of synth-squash that Pelon had artfully carved into a slim-petalled flower. An hour’s work was demolished in seconds by the praefector’s chewing. ‘There are lord-commanders of Therion who have not had the privilege.’

‘You seem to be of good mood today, master,’ said Pelon, sitting at the end of the bed as he dared to venture his opinion.

‘I have had a conclave with Corax and the Raven Guard commanders, Pelon,’ said Valerius, between mouthfuls of food. ‘I fear our stay on Terra will be short-lived. As soon as I can secure passage, I am to travel back to Therion to entreat further forces. With the losses the Legion has suffered, and the regrettable sacrifice of my own command, it is desired that I raise a new cohort to fight alongside Lord Corax against the traitors.’

‘It is good that he would entrust such a duty to you, master,’ said Pelon. He regretted his words as Valerius purposefully placed his knife and fork on the half-empty plate and turned a frown on the manservant.

‘Why ever would they not trust me?’

‘I was not speaking of you in particular, master,’ Pelon said hurriedly. ‘Trust has been in short supply of late, is all. Even I get wary glances from the crew as they see me about my business. Times such as these, it’s good the primarch has every faith in Therion to fight for the Emperor.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ said Valerius, resuming his meal. He smiled through the laborious mastication of a faux-grox fillet, his words coming as a mumble. ‘It is quite an important duty. We’ll need every able man and woman who can carry a lasgun. It’ll be like the founding after compliance. Bigger even!’

The praefector finished his supper, washed it down with his recycled water and stood up.

‘Dark times, Pelon, but aren’t all great moments in history seeded in the dark?’ he said, kicking off his short boots and flopping onto the bed. ‘Nobody remembers those who lived in times of joy and plenty.’

‘Indeed not, master,’ said Pelon, collecting up the dishes and cup. He stopped just before the door. ‘Will you need me for the next hour, master? I’ve got some time in the laundries, is all.’

‘No, I think I can be without you for an hour,’ said Valerius, sounding tired. Pelon glanced over his shoulder and saw the praefector’s eyes were closed, his chest already rising and falling gently. ‘Perhaps a little more salt next time,’ the praefector murmured, his voice trailing away into sleep.

‘As you say, master,’ Pelon said to himself with a smile of satisfaction, closing the door behind him.

ONE HUNDRED AND thirty-three days after departing from Isstvan, the Avengerfinally reached the Sol system, heart of the Imperium, birthplace of mankind.

On Corax’s orders, the ship came in and deployed its void shields immediately; it would be incautious to arrive without some form of protection but using the reflex shield had the potential to invite immediate suspicion.

The sensor reports were also flooding in, bringing with them a picture of a star system in considerable turmoil. Dozens of warships, haulers and transports were moving back and forth from the Lunar bases and Terra, navigating their way through layer after layer of minefields, orbital defence platforms and out-system heavy monitors. More still were arriving; there was not an hour that passed without at least two or three ships breaking from warp.

Word was spreading across the Imperium. The warp storms that had so hampered the Raven Guard on their journey also disrupted astrotelepathic communication. Even in the best of conditions it took many weeks, sometimes several months, for messages to be relayed from the heart of the Imperium to its outer reaches. Add to this the violence of the warp tempest and it could still be many months before some systems were even aware of the Warmaster’s treachery.

This was just the beginning, Corax sensed. Dozens of ships would become hundreds, thousands perhaps. For the moment Horus had the element of surprise, but the behemoth that was the Imperium was being roused to confront this new threat. The resources of the Emperor were vast, but ponderous; but once they had achieved a critical momentum they would be unstoppable. Of this, the primarch was certain. Horus’s only chance of triumph was a swift victory, and Corax would do all he could to ensure that such a thing would not happen.

After the standard delays in bringing the scanners and communications arrays online after the warp transit, the Raven Guard found themselves being insistently hailed by the Wrathful Vanguard, a strike cruiser of the Imperial Fists Legion. Captain Noriz was threatening all manner of violence if they did not identify themselves.

It was clear from Noriz’s hails that unexpected visitors were not welcome.

‘This is the Avenger, battle-barge of the Raven Guard,’ replied Branne, with Corax standing beside him. ‘We are carrying Lord Corax to Terra. Please ensure we have a clear path.’

There was a delay before the Imperial Fists communication returned. Even with audio-only exchanges, there was a noticeable time lag between message and response, indicating that the Wrathful Vanguardwas several hundred thousand kilometres away.

‘You are not authorised to proceed. Power down your shields and prepare to receive a boarding party. Failure to comply will be treated as an act of aggression and you will be destroyed.’

Corax laughed at this, but Branne was in no mood to bandy words with the Imperial Fists captain.

‘Watch your tone, captain! Lord Corax will be meeting the Emperor in person. If you have a problem with that, perhaps Rogal Dorn himself would like to come aboard and discuss it. If you have finished insulting my primarch, provide us with escort to get us to Terra without further interference.’

‘I am not at liberty to indulge you, primarch aboard or not,’ came Noriz’s terse reply. ‘All non-sanctioned vessels are to be inspected. If you have not noticed, one legionary’s word to another doesn’t count for much anymore. We will board and if you refuse, your vessel will be destroyed.’

His jaw clenching with anger, Branne reached for the transmit button, but he was stopped by Corax. The primarch gently pushed the commander aside and bent down to the communications array.

‘Captain Noriz, your attention to duty and protocol is admirable,’ said the primarch, his deep voice edged with humour. ‘I am more than happy to welcome a delegation from my brother’s Legion aboard, but please dispense with the threats. This is a battle-barge carrying several thousand legionaries; you have a strike cruiser with a complement of fifty legionaries.’

More silence followed, longer than the previous pause.

‘Please identify yourself.’

Sighing, Corax shared a glance with the others around him before he activated the transmit switch.

‘I am Lord Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard, Saviour of Deliverance, Commander of the 27th and 376th Expeditions, acting Marshal of the Therion Cohort and lauded conqueror of a thousand worlds. Please come aboard and I will show you my other credentials.’

Static buzzed across the network for a while, until Noriz had conceived a suitable reply.

‘I will lead the boarding party, Lord Corax. Please lower your shields in preparation.’

Corax gave a nod to the technicians at the defence control station and stepped back from the communications panel.

‘Be nice, he is only doing his duty,’ the primarch told Branne. ‘The quicker we sort out this inspection, the sooner we can be on our way.’

‘Aye, but he doesn’t have to be so stiff about it, does he?’ said the commander.

‘He’s an Imperial Fist,’ replied Corax. ‘He can’t help it.’

Though he kept his tone light, the primarch was wary. He was sure there was nothing on board the Avengerthat would cause problems, but he had an instinctual aversion to close scrutiny. He suppressed his apprehensions and motioned for Branne to welcome Captain Noriz.

THE SCRAPING OF a rock chisel smuggled from the mineworkings rang tinnily from the walls of the small cell. Reqaui sat in the corner of the room whittling away at a lump of slag, the form of his latest creation not yet discernable. Corvus lay on the small mattress, listening intently to the old man with his eyes closed, his hands behind his head. It had been only two years since his discovery; two years of moving from prison block to prison block while his body had grown to that of a twelve-year old. Reqaui was only the latest in a line of imprisoned dissidents and anti-establishment intellectuals who had learned of Corvus’s existence and volunteered to teach the strange boy what they knew of people, politics and history.

It was the one area Corvus really hadn’t known anything about. His technical knowledge was vast, encapsulating the greatest scientific learning of mankind. Corvus could identify the molecular composition of the walls, the door and the bed. He knew the biological processes that had formed the cataracts in Reqaui’s eyes. The old man had turned down Corvus’s well-meant offer to surgically remove them, saying it would arouse suspicion in the guards.

For all of that immense knowledge, Corvus knew little enough about people. It was if his education had been cut short before that lesson had been learnt, leaving him bereft of the subtleties of human nature, a blank slate waiting for more information to be written upon it. He was aware enough to know he was very naive in this regard, and his first tutor, Manrus Colsais, had swiftly exhausted his own store of wisdom concerning the human condition. So had begun the process of Corvus’s education, hidden amongst the masses of the prison-mine that he now knew was called Lycaeus.

‘That was the end of the third Facian dynasty,’ Reqaui was saying. Motes of detritus floated in the air and created a grey patch on the flagstoned floor around the elderly agitator. His chisel continued its work, seemingly independent of his whitening eyes, which were fixed on a point somewhere near the dim light globe set into the ceiling. ‘With the usurpation by Neorthan Chandrapax, the First Settlements began. Lotteries were held for the colonists, so great was the urge to leave Kiavahr’s smoke-ridden cities and polluted seas. In a way, it was the first time in seven hundred years that anything like a democracy was in effect. Regardless of station, every family was given equal chance to be crew on the ark-boats being built. Of course, the higher-ups weren’t being stupid. While everyone had an equal chance to participate, only the elite would be in charge as officers. The new colonies would have mayors from the old families, the College networks would still be in place and the workers would still be the downtrodden in their new lives.’

‘Someone’s coming,’ said Corvus, hearing beyond the walls the distinctive tramp of boots and the specific noise of the door at the far end of the corridor opening. ‘Flash inspection!’

‘Quick, lad, you know what to do,’ said Reqaui, bounding to his feet with sprightly energy.

Corvus rolled off the bed as Reqaui scattered the evidence of his hobby with a sweep of his foot. The old man stuffed the chisel and lump of slag into a pocket sewn into the bottom of the mattress, while Corvus moved aside the old tin bucket that served as a latrine. He could hear the clank of the locks being unwound from the main lever further down the corridor, and a moment later the latch on the cell door sprang open with a rusty screech. The door swung outwards on its spring, opening onto the brightly lit corridor, letting the thudding of the boots into the cell.

‘I don’t have to hide,’ said Corvus, hesitating as he lifted up the slab that concealed the crawlspace he had dug through the core rock beneath the prison block. ‘I can only hear six of them. It wouldn’t be any trouble to kill them.’

‘Oh, not trouble for you, for sure,’ said Reqaui, scowling. ‘But where there’s six, there’s six thousand. Think you can take on all of them, do you?’

‘I could try,’ said Corvus.

‘Not yet, lad,’ said Reqaui. ‘Not ’til you know what’s worth fighting for. Told you before, what you have is a gift, but it could be a curse too. Gotta be right, when you kill a man. Gotta mean something.’

Corvus sighed and slipped into the dark space under the floor. He dragged the slab back into place and fumbled in the dark for the matches and candle stub. The youth did not really need them – there was enough light trickling through from the crack around the loosened slab for him to see perfectly – but Reqaui had provided them for Corvus’s comfort and he felt honour-bound to make use of them.

As the candle flickered into life, its light gleamed from Reqaui’s carvings that Corvus had placed on a narrow shelf that ran the length of the crawlspace. There were all kinds of animals and birds, some complete, others just heads or faces. Each seemed a grotesque parody of the creatures locked inside Corvus’s head, but Reqaui assured him that they were real, true-to-life representations of mutant creatures that dwelled in the slime pools, acid grottos and sprawling enzyme marshes of Kiavahr.

Corvus wondered much about this world. He had seen it several times through the armorplex windows on the transit galleries, like a red and blue eye glaring up at Lycaeus. Manrus had explained that Lycaeus was a prison, on a moon orbiting Kiavahr. The first prisoners had been sent here centuries ago, for speaking out against the coronation of the Fourth Dynasty. Then the mineral deposits had been discovered, and more and more were found guilty of dissent and sentenced to work to death in the burgeoning mines.

That much Corvus had understood, even if Manrus had spelled it out in no uncertain terms that such political imprisonment was immoral. To remove one’s enemies made sense to Corvus, especially if they could be turned to a more profitable endeavour. It was the condemnation of the families that Corvus had not fully understood. Again, he could perhaps justify the imprisonment of those related to the first agitators and demagogues, because there would be grounds to suspect a criminal’s beliefs might be shared by those around him. What stretched Corvus’s comprehension was the continued internment of those born and raised in the mines.

The people of Lycaeus were no longer just prisoners, they were a colony, of families and children, whose entire lives would be spent in the stuffy false atmosphere contained by the energy domes and mineworks. No child could be accused of insurrection, surely?

Manrus had explained carefully that Lycaeus was a prison only in name now. It was a slave factory, its purpose to provide resources for the great manufactories of the world below. That had made Corvus angry, especially when Manrus had revealed that only a few hundred members of the tech-guilds, the descendants of the old Colleges, benefited from the mass industrialisation. Manrus considered this deeply unfair, and therefore so too did Corvus.

Corvus listened to the guards above shouting for the prisoners to stand in the corridor for inspection as he crawled along the narrow tunnel, admiring the skill with which each sculpture had been fashioned. Every feather, scale and hair was rendered in fine detail, etched from the hard slag by that tip of chisel.

The candle flame flickered slightly as someone moved across the false flag above. There was a strange hollow thump and Corvus froze, realising he had not replaced it properly. There was a confused exchange between the guards and two further stamps on the offending slab.

Corvus blew out the light and retreated to the far end of the hideaway, some three metres from the entrance. There was a scraping noise as a knife was inserted into the narrow gap between the flag and its neighbours.

Bunching his muscles, Corvus formed his hands into fists and bared his teeth, ready to slay those who could discover him. He must not be found. Over and over, from everyone through whose wardship he had passed, he had been told this: do not be found. He was an anomaly, something beyond the understanding of the Kiavahrans. If they discovered him, he would be taken away.

Corvus did not want to be taken away. He had friends here. Friends like Ephrenia and Manrus and Reqaui.

The slab lifted up and the beam of a flashlight flickered around the tunnel mouth.

‘What have we here?’ said one of the guards, ducking his head into the opening.

Corvus shrank back as far as he could, pressing himself against the jagged rock wall, eyes narrowed. The beam of the torch moved towards him and stopped when it reached the shelf of sculptures.

‘Seems Raqaui’s been up to his scrimshawing again,’ said the guard. Corvus did not detect much malice in the man’s tone.

‘Leave it be,’ said another voice from above. ‘It does no harm. More paperwork for us if we report it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said the guard squatting above the hole. ‘It is contraband, and if someone else finds it, we’ll be up for penal shifts, or worse.’

‘Let me see.’

The guard moved away and his helmeted head was replaced by another, this time with the silver strip across the nose guard that signified a wing corporal. He flashed the torch around some more, the beam of light coming to rest directly on Corvus.

The youth tensed every muscle, ready to leap forwards and tear off the corporal’s head the moment he tried to raise the alarm.

To Corvus’s amazement, the corporal said nothing. He played the flashlight around the tunnel for a few more seconds, its beam twice more moving slowly over Corvus, and then stood up.

‘You’re right,’ said the wing corporal. ‘Not worth reporting that. We’ll get him to hand over whatever he’s using as a tool, might use it as a weapon otherwise.’

The slab slammed down with a ring that shook Corvus. He squatted panting in the dark, unable to work out why he had not been discovered.

Eventually the boots thudded away and the door creaked shut again. There was a gentle rap on the concealing slab.

‘You still down there, lad?’

With a laugh of relief, Corvus crawled to the slab and pushed it up, glad to see Reqaui’s perplexed, bearded face.

‘Still here,’ said Corvus.

‘I thought they’d find you for sure,’ said Reqaui, helping Corvus up through the hole, though the youth needed no such aid. ‘I swear they was looking right down there.’

‘They did,’ said Corvus. ‘They didn’t see me. How’s that possible?’

Reqaui shook his head and slumped onto the mattress while Corvus replaced the slab, this time ensuring it fit as snugly as possible.

‘How’s anything possible where you’re concerned?’ said the old inmate. ‘How’s it possible a baby boy’s found a kilometre deep inside a glacier? How’s it possible he pulls off the head of a grown man? How’s it possible he ages five times faster than any other folk? There’s all sorts that’s possible when we’re talking about you.’

‘They looked right at me, and didn’t see me…’ The possibilities were flashing through Corvus’s mind. He thought how wonderful it would be to travel the wings without concern, moving from one block to the next without the guards ever noticing him. Deep inside himself, from some place of instinct rather than intellect, he knew this was something he could do. Like all of the other gifts he had been given, this was an ability that was meant to be used, though to what purpose he still was not sure.