She would come home. The city was huge. He’d talk to Brecht, get something in place. It would all be worked out, just as it had been before.

He needed to sleep. He needed to clear his mind.

Thud-tick-thud.

She would come home.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

But by the next morning, she hadn’t.

Zidarov woke, alone, and went through his morning routines. Milija had gone out ahead of him. As ever, they were barely exchanging words, barely catching sight of one another. That was the price they both paid, the toll of duty in the municipal agencies. The Emperor protected, they had always been told. He also demanded, so it felt like. He extracted. He laid the burdens heavily upon His subjects, never letting them rest, always asking for more.

The familiar journey to the Bastion passed in a fog of heavy rain. Away north, thunderheads were gathering. His scar, which had been dormant for a while, now throbbed incessantly.

Once he arrived, he went straight to his cell. Brecht was not at his. Zidarov hung his drenched coat up, activated the terminal, and sat down. He put in a call.

‘Gyorgu, this is Agusto. Where are you?’

‘Out and about. What do you want?’

‘A favour. I’ll come to find you.’

‘Ha. I’ll await with interest.’

But there was work to do first. He inputted the clearances, then pulled up the feed from the personnel scanner he’d fixed to Udmil’s groundcar. While the cogitators were chuntering, he poured himself some caffeine and heated a jejen roll.

He steeled himself for disappointment. The device might well have been detected, whatever Scribo’s boasts about its capability. Even if it had survived, all he might get back was hours of useless footage, recording nothing of interest.

It was soon clear that the first fear was unfounded. He had several hours of holo-footage stored, and as far as he could see the device was still functioning. He settled down in front of the main lens, and started to analyse.

He saw the groundcar again – the black six-wheeled monster. Using a control column, he panned out, widening the scan-range. The car was stationary, with the driver lounging outside, just as he’d left him. Nothing much appeared to be happening for a long time. Then the driver got a summons, and started the engine again.

Zidarov used the holofield’s logic engine to pan. In grainy, green-glow outlines he saw the private club Udmil had been visiting. It was odd, to see the same gold statues again, this time translucent and flickering. The people in the street walked past, the same mix of strange hairstyles and extravagant clothes. Rainfall interfered with the holofield’s integrity, making the picture shake and stutter.