In response to the overwhelming, not to say: annoying, rude, insane, desperate and pathetic, inquires I have recieved regarding my long running prosecution of the Edwards case. I have decided to make certain portions of my private notes on the subject available for selected readership with the Ordo. Those without Magenta Gold clearence or above should turn away now, those with vermillion or lower should kill themselves immediate for having violated security directive 221-alpha-c, and on general principles. This goes double for certain agents of the Ordo Malleus. You know who you are.
I first became aware of Edwards during the suppression of the Emerald Sky cartel, a group of Xenofiles who had been attempting, with some success, to extract some of the basic tenents of Aldaeri Farseeing techniques extracted from a captured soul stone and combining it with a combination of warp craft and parlor tricks. These were, as such prognostications always are, completely insane and useless. And yes I have read the Mirror of Smoke, dont at me.
The one occurence which convninced me that this was not your run of the mill coven of escaped madmen, bored spire wives and mental degenerates was the scene we found when the arbities assault team I was directing broke down the door to the Sinhala Observatory and stormed their lair. There was a good deal of shooting, though mostly on our side because the would be diviners had not, as the say, seen this one coming but when the smoke cleared, an excuse beside their base incompetence was offered. Every one of their auguries, from evicerated scrub fowl, to micro precipitation mirrors bore exactly the same stigmta. Nor, for once, were these stigmata difficut to read. Each one formed a single word, repeated ad nausem throughought the ruin of the observatory.
Edwards.
I first became aware of Edwards during the suppression of the Emerald Sky cartel, a group of Xenofiles who had been attempting, with some success, to extract some of the basic tenents of Aldaeri Farseeing techniques extracted from a captured soul stone and combining it with a combination of warp craft and parlor tricks. These were, as such prognostications always are, completely insane and useless. And yes I have read the Mirror of Smoke, dont at me.
The one occurence which convninced me that this was not your run of the mill coven of escaped madmen, bored spire wives and mental degenerates was the scene we found when the arbities assault team I was directing broke down the door to the Sinhala Observatory and stormed their lair. There was a good deal of shooting, though mostly on our side because the would be diviners had not, as the say, seen this one coming but when the smoke cleared, an excuse beside their base incompetence was offered. Every one of their auguries, from evicerated scrub fowl, to micro precipitation mirrors bore exactly the same stigmta. Nor, for once, were these stigmata difficut to read. Each one formed a single word, repeated ad nausem throughought the ruin of the observatory.
Edwards.
-Inquisitor Tilda Chastain, Ordo Hereticus
The heavy trod of arbites boots echoed down the stone stairwell, a half a dozen armed and armored men reaching the first checkpoint after the length of the first corridor below ground. The security team bolted up from their cafe and holovids, incredulity wiping across their faces at the sudden presence of a handful of enforcers at the door. Out of the group, a fellow with a visored helm and a square jaw that could shatter cement stepped forward, offering alpha-level clearance from the Lord Governor himself. After a brief minute checking the credentials, security marked it as green. The doors slid open, and the contingent moved on without another word.
The prison below Chateau Auclair was carefully guarded knowledge, with only the closest aids and allies of the Auclair family even aware of its existence, much less its inhabitants. It was an exclusive club, used for political prisoners and business rivals, or men the family wished to torment at their leisure. More rarely, it was used for subjects that has been caught so recently and at such short notice, to hold them until the local arbites could show up and shuttle them to a more deserved location. That, however, had not happened for some years.
Square-jaw, a sergeant better known as Moab, had been contacted for just such an assignment. The authority came from the top, giving him leave to handpick the escort. He chose his five best men, each having served over fifteen years in the arbites, and two of them having been inducted into the cult of the changer of ways for nearly ten, like him. He was unaware of why this prisoner was so significant to his lord, but all would be revealed when the time was right. Regardless of their beliefs, his men would follow his orders to the letter.
Passing through another checkpoint, he was stopped just before entering the prison by the lone security staff, a skinny man in fatigues and a helmet that was too big for his cracium. He held up a hand to halt Moab and his arbites. "Wait, whoever you're here for, these are electronically sealed. I have to open the cell myself, and I can't allow you to use the bypass. I must escort you."
"Very well." Moab agreed with reluctance. His voice was a barely suppressed growl at the best of times. "We're here for prisoner 04A325."
The sentry did not seem intimidated by the inflection in Moab's voice. He opened his datapad and idly thumbed the screen, pursing his lips until he gave a snort. "Oh, that one. He's a handful, just came in two days ago. He should be in cell A24, near the front. Follow me."
The troupe of seven men stepped into the grid of the prison, turning left, passing doors of reinforced steel with slits one could open to view at eye level. The lighting was low, and while various prisons would have jeers or angry yelling, each cell here was locked tight, the walls between them a meter thick. The best they could hear was scratching, or a faint echo that could just be a trick of the mind. Moab noticed the lack of decorum, all white walls of rockcrete with no sigil as to indicate their location. He briefly wondered if they brought in the prisoners blind and only removed the cloth when they passed the last checkpoint to give a psychological aspect to their imprisonment. There could be hundreds of people in here who did not know their own gaolers.
The sentry stopped at a nondescript door, a small console at the right side of the steel door. He removed a card from his belt, placed it on the indicator, and began to type down the code to open it. One of the arbites opened the steel slit to peer in, but the sentry shook his head. "You won't be able to see in there. We keep it dark most of the time."
"Valdor, get a light." Moab ordered. One of the arbites took up a lumen, flipping it on, unholstering his laspistol in the process just as the bolts popped open on the door. The sentry and Moab exchanged a look, before the sentryman pressed a button, allowing the door to swing open. Arbites Valdor turned the lumen into the dark of the cell, stepping in gingerly as he moved the light back and forth, up and down, pistol trained where the light traveled. It took a good ten seconds for him to turn around, his eyes showing his bemusement.
"Sir, there's no one in here." Valdor reported.
"What!?" Moab barked, and the Sentry looked incredulous. He took out his datapad and searched the database, before shaking his head. Moab looked at him expectantly, grinding his bovine teeth.
"This is the correct cell. He should be in here." The Sentry proclaimed.
"We he isn't," Moab growled angrily, ready to commit some act of violence. His masters were unforgiving, a trait he shared.
"I know where he is!" A wild new voice croaked. The group whirred, lasguns and lumen turning to the left, but the hallway was empty. Seconds later, they realized the slit on the next door over was open. Moab saw the sentry's look of complete surprise. He could gather that was supposed to be impossible from the inside. Moab approached the steel door, keeping his men back.
"Where is he?" Moab asked simply. Out of the darkness, a pair of eyes set on a wrinkled, aged face appeared inches from the opening. The eyes spoke of insanity, endless years kept in the dark ravaging this one's mind. There was a small cackle, as if the question was the funniest thing you could hear this side of Holy Terra.
"He said he'd be on the third floor! He'd be waitin' for ya! Haha!" The voice said, and the laughter echoed in the cell until Moab closed the slit, turning to his men, who looked at him to make some sense of this unexpected development.
"What floor is the party?" Sergeant Moab asked the sentry, already knowing the tzeentch-cursed answer.
20 minutes before...
The wind was soft and warm, which was good news. Neil felt it would be unlucky if he had to change into his suit in a downpour. Of course, infiltrating the party through being captured and escaping, letting his men into the walls from within being the only way they could gain access was definitely touch and go. The Emperor had a funny way of showing his favor sometimes. Orm folded his former garb up, stashing it in a satchel to be carried to their ship in the escape. The ex-bounty hunter was a good shot, but his bedside manner and housekeeping was impeccable. No wonder he didn't make it as a hunter.
To the left of Orm, Skit triple checked his longrifle in preparation for their escape. The diminutive former guardsman was obsessed with the thing, carrying it everywhere like a nervous dog with a stress toy. Granted, ratlings were obsessed with a lot of things, particularly food and thieving. Neil could relate, the thought causing the small-time rogue trader to grin.
Grantz snapped for Neil to pay attention. The captain turned back to his second. "Stay still, I need to fix your tie."
"You worry too much," Neil remarked.
"If you're going to fit in and get to the orb, we need you to look like you belong there." Grantz reminded him. He was a good seneschal, able to curb Neil's worst impulses, which worked well with Neil improvising where Gantz would be stuck in the mud. They had partnered up just a few years ago, but it had been a solid working relationship thus far.
"C'mon, it's a party of rich traders. It's pretty likely they'll be a bunch'a hairy short stacks with ugly, drooping faces." Neil said, glancing at Skit to see if he agreed, though the ratling's lip quivered. Neil waved his way, shaking his head. "Hey, your face is not droopy." He assured him. Skit visibly brightened.
"Syntax, Neil." Grantz said.
"We're about to do a job, I can take a sleeping pill later." Neil said. Grantz opened his mouth, then closed it. Neil winked to assure his second he was messing with him. "Don't worry, this thing is called the Edwardian Vigil. If there's something I'm supposed to succeed in nabbing, it's this. Plus it'll look good on the dashboard. I'm thinking with a Sebastian Thor bobble-head."
Gantz finished typing up his tie, and retrieved Neil's sidearm. An autogun with 9x19mm bullets in the magazine. It wasn't Neil's usual, but the privateer captain had used it enough to guess something was off when he took it in his hand. It was a bit light. "Gantz you're slacking, there's no bullets in the mag."
The senechal blinked, then shook his head. "You're right, sorry. Forgot to load it," he confessed, and handed him a magazine. Neil slid it in with a satisfying click, turned the safety on and placed it in his jacket. It was at that moment a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness across the roof. It was a lithe, atheltic figure who moved like a catachan lurking in the gloom. When he reached the light, his red eyes were visible, almost glowing from the distant lights of the wall. His pale, bald head shined like a beacon under the planet's moon. It was lucky they were on the rooftop, or Zale would have been spotted.
"Bombs planted," the Tenebrian remarked, laconic as ever. An abhuman hailing from the planet of Tenebrae, it was a jungle world, not quite dangerous enough to be labeled as a death world, but close enough for most people's reckoning. The vast, endless tracks of wilderness there were in perpetual darkness save for two terran months of the year, when twilight marred the sky. The Tenebrians were a pallid people and experts of survival and scouting.
"Horus's jockstrap!" Neil exclaimed when he appeared, having thought Zale was going to go back to the ship before the fun began. Zale looked at him with his neutral expression, but after awhile Neil could catch the small inflections of his personality. This one was incredulity. "I hate saying this to a friend, but you really need to shower when we get back to the Firestorm, Zale. You're about fragrant as avain poop, and twice as pale."
"Aye Captain," He said, saluting.
The window pane open, Gantz slid a rope around Neil's waist to lower him into an empty wing of the estate, Orm grabbing it too to help in the task. Once inside, Neil would locate the item and stay out of attention, mostly. Once the arbites reached the party, they would cause enough commotion looking for him that he would slip out the back, and then when they entered the undercity, they would collapse the tunnel behind them, allowing the group to escape. Gantz tightened the rope. "Don't bring too much attention to yourself."
"You can go down instead, if you like," Neil offered with a smirk. When Gantz gave him a look, Neil grinned, and was subsequently lowered into the manor, the sounds of high gothic chatter down the corridor audible even from his position.
