Garro (The Horus Heresy Book 42) by James Swallow

Author:James Swallow [Swallow, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2016-10-19T08:12:32+00:00

Twelve

Puppets

Bound by law

Decision

Kelkinod had been waiting for her when she returned to the work tiers. Tallery imagined that he had been searching for her, by the florid cast of his face and the anger in his close-set, beady eyes.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. ‘A summons was transmitted over the watch-wire four hours ago! You did not respond.’

She brushed off the hand that grasped at her sleeve. ‘Not that it is any concern of yours, but I went down to the deep stacks. I had to check something.’

He jogged to keep up with her long-legged strides. ‘This is most irregular. I demand you halt this instant and explain yourself.’

‘What I have to say is for the ears of the new curator only,’ Tallery retorted. Her dislike and her distrust of the other scribe had hardened into a full and complete loathing.

Kelkinod had gaped like a landed fish. ‘He has barely set foot in the building! You cannot simply barge into his chambers and demand attention.’ He gave a snort of derision. ‘After your failure, I would expect you to stay out of sight.’

‘What did you say to me?’ She rounded on him at the accusation.

‘You failed to complete the tasks the centrum office assigned to you.’ He shot back the words, as if her misdeed was the highest of all crimes. ‘You have put us behind schedule! Curator Lonnd’s dockets remain incomplete, and that lies at your door, Tallery. You were told to expedite them.’

‘Something more important came up.’

‘More important than our documentation?’ The other scribe scoffed. ‘Are you deluded?’

She pushed past him towards the door of the curator’s office. ‘I don’t have time for this conversation. Get out of my way.’

Kelkinod watched her go, spluttering with impotent ire. ‘You’ll be lucky if you aren’t sent to count spent bolt shells on some back­water forge world before the day is out!’

Curator Lonnd’s replacement had set up in his predecessor’s workspace, and all trace of the previous occupant had been erased. The great desk, the couch, the sparse human touches about the place, all were gone. Now the chamber was featureless and gloomy, lit only by the faint light of a hololith table, and filled with the staccato chatter of fingers on a bone keyboard.

Tallery approached slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. ‘Sir? My name is Katanoh Tallery, I am a Scribe-Adepta Second Classificate. May I address you?’ At first, the new curator did not respond to her presence. She saw a thin, drawn face emerging from a heavy hood, eyes fixed upon a ghostly, projected screen floating between them. She pressed on. ‘Curator, I must speak with you on a matter of the greatest urgency. I have discovered criminality at work in this office. Treachery, sir.’

The motion of fingers over keys halted at her last words, and Tallery heard the faint buzz and whir of clockwork mech-implants.

‘I have a set of shipping logs here from the eighth and eleventh dock sectors,’ she said hesitantly. ‘These are just the most recent examples.

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