Horus Rising by Dan Abnett Page B

good, very good. I had been told our languages were largely the same, but that there were some accent and dialect differences.’ He trailed off.
    The old woman said something that might have been ‘What?’ or might have been any number of curses or interrogatives.
    ‘You have food?’ he asked. Then he mimed eating.
    She continued to stare at him.
    ‘Food?’ he asked.
    She replied with a flurry of guttural words, none of which he could make out. Either she didn’t have food, or was unwilling to serve him, or she didn’t have any food for the likes of him.
    ‘Something to drink then?’ he asked.
    No response.
    He mimed drinking, and when that brought nothing, pointed at the bottles behind her.
    She turned and took down one of the glass containers, selecting one as if he had indicated it directly instead of generally. It was three-quarters full of a clear, oily fluid that roiled in the gloom. She thumped it onto the counter, and then put a thimble glass beside it.
    ‘Very good,’ he smiled. ‘Very, very good. Well done. Is this local? Ah ha! Of course it is, of course it is. A local speciality? You’re not going to tell me, are you? Because you have no idea what I’m actually saying, have you?’
    She stared blankly at him.
    He picked up the bottle and poured a measure into the glass. The liquor flowed as slowly and heavily through the spout as his ink had done from his pen in the street. He put the bottle down and lifted the glass, toasting her.
    ‘To your health,’ he said brightly, ‘and to the prosperity of your world. I know things are hard now, but trust me, this is all for the best. All for the very best.’
    He swigged the drink. It tasted of liquorice and went down very well, heating his dry gullet and lighting a buzz in his gut.
    ‘Excellent,’ he said, and poured himself a second. ‘Very good indeed. You’re not going to answer me, are you? I could ask your name and your lineage and anything at all, and you would just stand there like a statue, wouldn’t you? Like a Titan?’
    He sank the second glass and poured a third. He felt very good about himself now, better than he had done for hours, better even than when the muse had flown back to him in the streets. In truth, drink had always been a more welcome companion to Ignace Karkasy than any muse, though he would never have been willing to admit it, or to admit the fact that his affection for drink had long weighed down his career, like rocks in a sack. Drink and his muse, both beloved of him, each pulling in opposite directions.
    He drank his third glass, and tipped out a fourth. Warmth infused him, a biological warmth much more welcome than the brutal heat of the day. It made him smile. It revealed to him how extraordinary this false Terra was, how complex and intoxicating. He felt love for it, and pity, and tremendous goodwill. This world, this place, this hostelry, would not be forgotten.
    Suddenly remembering something else, he apologised to the old woman, who had remained facing him across the counter like a fugued servitor, and reached into his pocket. He had currency – Imperial coin and plastek wafers. He made a pile of them on the stained and glossy bartop.
    ‘Imperial,’ he said, ‘but you take that. I mean, you’re obliged to. I was told that by the iterators this morning. Imperial currency is legal tender now, to replace your local coin. Terra, you don’t know what I’m saying, do you? How much do I owe you?’
    No answer.
    He sipped his fourth drink and pushed the pile of cash towards her. ‘You decide, then. You tell me. Take for the whole bottle.’ He tapped his finger against the side of the flask. ‘The whole bottle? How much?’
    He grinned and nodded at the money. The old woman looked at the heap, reached out a bony hand and picked up a five aquila piece. She studied it for a moment, then spat on it and threw it at Karkasy. The coin bounced off his belly and fell onto the floor.
    Karkasy blinked and then laughed.