Nemesis

Reports of terrible things, of black deeds—sometimes the same deeds—attributed to

those in service of the Warmaster and the Emperor of Mankind.

“People who used to talk freely are going silent to me,” she added.

“Because I’m your husband?” Off her nod he frowned. “I’m not an Arbites!”

“I think the Lord Marshal’s men are making it worse,” she said. “Before, there

was nothing that could not be said, no debate that could not be aired without

prejudice. But now… After the insurrection…” Her words lost momentum and faded.

Renia needed something from him, some assurance that would ease what troubled

her, but as Yosef searched himself for it, he found nothing to give. He opened his

mouth to speak, not sure of what he would tell her, and somewhere outside the house

glass shattered against bricks.

He was immediately on his feet, at the window, peering through the slats. Raised

voices met him. Down below, where the road snaked past the stairs to his front door,

he saw a group of four youths surrounding a fifth. They were brandishing bottles like

clubs. As he watched, the fifth stumbled backwards over the broken glass and fell to

his haunches.

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Renia was already opening the wooden case on the wall where the watch-wire

terminal sat. She gave him a questioning look and he nodded. “Call it in.”

He snatched his greatcoat from the hook in the hall as she shouted after him. “Be

careful!”

Yosef heard feet on the stairs behind him and turned, one hand on the latch, to see

Ivak silhouetted in the gloom. “Father?”

“Go back to bed,” he told the boy. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He put his warrant rod around his neck and went out.

* * *

By the time he got to the road, they had started throwing punches at the youth on the

ground. He heard yelling and once again, the name rose up at him, shouted like a

blood-curse. Horus.

The fifth youth was bleeding and trying to protect himself by holding his arms up

around his head. Yosef saw a particularly hard and fast haymaker blow come

slamming in from the right, knocking the boy down.

The reeve flicked his wrist and the baton he carried in his sleeve pocket dropped

into his palm. With a whickering hiss, the memory-metal tube extended to four times

its length. Anger flared inside him and he shouted out “Sentinel” even as he aimed a

low sweeping blow at the knees of the nearest attacker.

The hit connected and the youth went down hard. The others reacted, falling

back. One of them had a half-brick in his hand, weighing it like he was considering a

throw. Yosef scanned their faces. They had scarves around their mouths and noses,

but he knew railgangers when he saw them. These were young men from the loading

terminals, who by day worked the cargo monorails that connected the airdocks to the

vineyards, and by night made trouble and engaged in minor crime. But they were out

of their normal patch in this residential district, apparently drawn here by their

victim.

“Bind him!” shouted one of them, stabbing a finger at the injured youth. “He’s a

traitor, that’s what he is! Whoreson traitor!”

“No…” managed the youth. “Am not…”

“Sentine are no better!” snarled the one with the half-brick. “All in it together!”

With a snarl he threw his missile, and Yosef batted it away, taking a glancing hit on

his temple that made him stagger. The railgangers took this as a signal and broke into

a run, scattering away down the curve of the street.

For a split second, Yosef was possessed by a fury so high that all he wanted to do

was race after the thugs and beat them bloody into the cobbles; but then he forced

that urge away and bent down to help the injured youth to his feet. The young man’s

hand was wet where he had cut himself on the broken glass. “You all right?” said the

reeve.

The youth took a woozy step away from him. “Don’t… Don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t,” he told him. “I’m a lawman.” Yosef’s skull was still ringing with the

near-hit of the brick, but in a moment of odd perceptivity, he saw the lad had rolls of

red-printed leaflets stuffed in his pocket. He grabbed the youth’s hand and snatched

32

one from the bunch. It was a Theoge pamphlet, a page of dense text full of florid

language and terms that meant nothing to him. “Where did you get these?” he

demanded.

In the glare of the streetlights, Yosef saw the youth’s pale face full on; the fear

written large there was worse than that he had shown to the thugs with the bottles and

bricks. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, shoving the reeve back with both hands.

Yosef lost his balance—the pain in his head helping that along the way—and

stumbled, fell. Shaking off the spreading ache, he saw the youth sprinting away,

disappearing into the night. He cursed and tried to get to his feet.

The reeve’s hand touched something on the cobbles, a sharp, curved edge. At first

he thought it was part of the scattering of broken glass, but the light fell on it a