The Vorbis Conspiracy (Warhammer Crime) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2022-09-24T00:00:00+00:00

SKIN DEEP

Darius Hinks

Villem Samasser looked out at the endless Paavo rain. His reflection stared back at him from an armaglass window, suspended over a smog-clogged abyss and circled by iron-clad leviathans. Airborne freighters wheezed through the downpour, landing lights blinking on smoke-blackened hulls and plasma engines rumbling in their guts. Beyond the freighters and the fumes lay the great, rusting carcass of the city: a collision of hab-towers and manufactoria, stacked, crammed and heaped in such grotesque profusion that it seemed to be drowning under its own weight, clawing at the clouds, grasping for air. ‘Even in Varangantua,’ he said, watching groundcars drive past, far below, ‘after everything that’s happened to the city, there’s still hope. People still believe. They just need something to cling to.’

The room was a sharp contrast to the bedlam outside, an oasis of space and minimalism where dark, polished surfaces reflected elegant, chromed curves. Stylishly contorted chairs and silk drapes spoke of wealth far beyond the reach of the masses outside. Samasser had avoided hosting the meeting in one of his grandest rooms, but even here, away from his private chambers, it was impossible to hide the truth: he was a very rich man. Nothing in the room was ugly or utilitarian. Even Samasser’s white priestly robes were exquisite, each part lovingly tailored from genuine wool. There was a single ornament in the room – a spotlit sculpture in a crystalflex display case. It was no larger than Samasser’s fist and it was clearly ancient: a crumbling, eyeless gargoyle. According to the antique trader who sold it, the gargoyle was taken from the grounds of the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra. A fragment of the most sacred structure in the entire Imperium. If that was true, it was worth more than most Varangantuans would earn in their entire lives. But, like most things in Varangantua, it might not be what it seemed.

There were dozens of people in the room with Samasser. His assistant, Kozay, was dressed in robes similar to Samasser’s, but the rest of the gathering could not have been more varied. There were senior representatives from guilds and merchant combines alike, and despite their wildly different attire, all of them radiated the same aura of unassailable wealth. There was only one man who looked out of place in such luxurious surroundings. He was dressed in dirty overalls and he fidgeted with his hands as he listened to Samasser. Stazov’s hair was not neat and glossy, like Samasser’s, or hidden beneath an expensive periwig, like some of the dignitaries standing around him; it was a patchwork of stubble, marred by sores and old scars, and his face was drawn and lined, making him look much older than his nineteen years. Everything about him was worn and grey, apart from his eyes. They were sunken and red-rimmed, but they shone with an unusual intensity. ‘There isn’t much for them to cling to,’ he said, speaking quietly.

Samasser turned from the city to look at his guests, smiling warmly at the guilders and traders then staring intently at Stazov.

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