Either that was genuine, or Mordach was a very good actor. Just as before, with Udmil, Zidarov felt the sincerity in the words. Just as before, he felt the wrongness under them. And yet, the severed finger was there in front of him. It would be checked out, but he had no reason to believe that it wasn’t Adeard’s. Sending a message in that way was classic Vidora, just as it was classic behaviour from any of a dozen other criminal gangs. Maybe even trade houses.

‘My current line of enquiry concerns relations your son may have taken up with certain protection organisations,’ he said, going carefully. ‘He may have come into contact with them while working for you in Gargoza. If he did, and became involved with them in some way, that might have drawn him into trouble.’

Mordach looked unconvinced. ‘So you’re pursuing that?’

‘It’s where I’m looking. We have a lot of resource on this right now. It’s not an easy route, but we do have some leads.’

‘They’re dangerous people.’

‘Very much so.’

‘He wasn’t perfect, not perfect at all, but I find that hard to believe.’

‘It’s just a line of enquiry.’

‘Do you have any others?’

‘Some of his contacts are proving hard to trace. I was given a name – Erina. Or possibly Eruna. An acquaintance of Adeard’s. Perhaps you might know of her?’

‘Never heard the name.’

‘Well, we’ll keep looking. And the sanctioner patrols have his description. For now, that’s where we are.’

‘Not very far.’

‘It’s a big city.’

‘And full of deceitful games.’

‘Yes, you’ve made your point. This isn’t one of them. But I–’

‘–had to check. Well, now you have. I think that means we’ve said all we need to, now. You’ll be keen to get back out there.’

Zidarov smiled dryly, and got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

‘A pleasure. Next time I offer you one, make sure you have something to give me in return.’

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The rain fell in spatters now, fizzing against the field on the Luxer’s windscreen. There was a lot of it to come, building the static, making everyone irritable. When the deluge finally launched, people would welcome it for a few days, before they started to moan about the culverts overflowing and the damp cobwebbing across their hab-ceilings. After weeks of it, with the sewers flooding and the bloated bodies floating up through the city, they would be praying to the Throne for it to end.

Zidarov drove back to the Bastion. The sky was clotted and whorled, bearing down heavily on the spires below, blotting out the weak light and making the rockcrete look dull and sullen. His mood was similarly bleak. His intuition – the thing he had learned to rely on most – was misfiring badly.