Shattermoon

Book 1: The Long Game

by Dominic Dulley

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

A shattered moon. A secret plan. Last girl standing. Orry and her family are the best conmen in the Quadrant, running elaborate heists to target the ruling families of the Ascendancy. This time should be no different . . . but then Orry goes off-script and everything falls apart. Less than an hour later her mark is dead and she's on the run, accused of a murder she didn't commit. Turns out, the pendant Orry stole is more valuable than even she guessed - and a lot of powerful people want it. When she's unexpectedly rescued by loner spaceship captain Jurgen Mender, Orry knows there's only one thing to do. Even Orry can see the madness of pitting an inexperienced grifter, a space-dog well past his prime and an obsolete spaceship against the Imperial Fleet, the worst of the space pirates and the alien Kadiran, who are getting bored with their uneasy truce with humankind . . . But what other choice does she have?

Release date: May 3, 2018

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

1

The Book Game

The press of sweating bodies crammed into the ballroom made for an oppressive atmosphere. Musky perfumes and pungent local spices caught in Orry Kent’s throat as she gazed longingly at the open doors to the balcony. Beyond them, Tyr’s bloated yellow sun hung low on the horizon, reflected perfectly in the still waters of an artificial lake set in landscaped grounds. After more than a week planetside Orry had adjusted to the lower-than-standard gravity, but she still couldn’t get used to the heat.

She fanned herself as a pair of uniformed footmen threw open the grand double doors to admit the Count of Delf. Milan Larist Soltz was a tall, painfully thin man in a dark, form-fitting tunic, unbowed despite his advancing years. His skeletal frame, short grey hair and smooth-shaven face put him at odds with the corpulent gentlemen who immediately flocked towards him, fingering extravagantly curled moustaches and beards, drawing attention to hair teased into gravity-defying styles. There were women in the press of bodies too, proudly displaying the ersatz youth provided by the latest gene treatments.

Orry curled her lip at the scrum of pampered prigs competing for one of the count’s thin smiles. It was clear to her that here on the capital world more than anywhere, the Ascendancy had lost its way; Delf’s austere personality was a rarity among the decadent Ruuz aristos, where restraint was pretty much a lost virtue.

He’s here, she subvocalised, watching minor nobles, magnates and high-ranking members of the Administrate alike being expertly deflected by Madam Costanza, the count’s major-domo; the severe-looking middle-aged woman stood out amongst these birds of paradise in her sombre charcoal-grey trouser suit relieved only by the crisp white stock around her neck.

Yeah, I know. I’m into the security substrate. Orry’s integuary rendered Ethan’s words with such clarity that her brother might have been standing beside her rather than huddled in a ditch beyond the estate’s distant boundary wall. Ready, Sis?

Where’s Konstantin? She glanced around the packed ballroom, searching for the count’s grandson.

Still with his sick little chums. He hasn’t realised you’ve arrived early.

She stared thoughtfully at Delf. Okay, do it.

Executing now . . .

She saw Costanza hesitate. The major-domo’s eyes glazed for a moment as she focused on her integuary, then she glanced towards one of the ballroom’s several exits. Leaning close to Delf, she murmured something. The count nodded and Costanza strode away.

Orry started making her way around the edge of the dance floor. The dark wood parquet looked ancient; she supposed it had been transported from Earth along with the rest of the estate.

The ballroom running the length of the Delf mansion had tall windows overlooking the extensive manicured grounds. Lights burned in crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling, illuminating the laden tables lining the walls; they left the centre of the long gallery clear for the immaculately tailored aristos to dance to the music of a string quintet. After watching the dancers for an hour it was Orry’s considered opinion that somebody should remove the broom handles from their backsides.

She was nearing the count when a young man in an under-lieutenant’s uniform stepped into her path. The waxed tips of his moustache were drooping in the heat and his face looked a little florid above his high collar, which bore the silver insignia of the Grand Fleet. He snapped to attention, clicking his boot heels together as he jerked his head into a stiff bow.

‘Your servant, miz. Lieutenant Varin Ivchenko at your service.’ She tried to move around him but he blocked her. ‘I wonder if I might have the pleasure of this dance?’

Orry gritted her teeth; she needed to keep an eye on Delf. What was this idiot doing approaching her, anyway? Any one of these simpering Ruuz society girls would be wetting their gussets at all the gold braid on that dress uniform, let alone the sabre dangling from his belt. Why couldn’t he bother one of them?

‘I’m flattered, Lieutenant,’ she said in her best highborn accent, ‘but I fear I must decline.’

She stepped to one side, but he moved with her, his smile vanishing.

‘I must tell you, miz, that I am accustomed to getting what I want.’

She patted him lightly on the cheek. ‘Not this time, sweetheart.’ She pushed past the startled officer.

Problem? Orry frowned at the tension in her father’s voice.

Just a Ruuz who thinks he’s God’s gift, she told him.

Don’t they all? Okay, you know what you have to do. Just give Ethan the time he needs.

I know, she replied testily. Her father had been drumming the plan into them for the past week, which was troubling – she couldn’t remember the last time Eoin had been this uptight about a job.

Delf hadn’t moved far, but the false security alert Ethan had planted in the mansion’s substrate wouldn’t delay Costanza for long. With his major-domo otherwise occupied, a number of strutting peacocks were pressing for Delf’s attention, so Orry snagged a silver platter of shellfish as she passed a table and used it to forge a path to the count.

‘Buttered redspine, Your Grace?’

He frowned down his long nose at her. ‘No, thank you.’

She turned and handed the tray to an obese gentleman with a walrus moustache and a pair of soot-black goggles covering his eyes. The man took it automatically, smiling at her – then spluttered with outrage as she returned her attention to the count.

Get nearer, Ethan told her.

‘Do you not care for redspine, Your Grace?’ she asked, pressing closer. Delf smelled of expensive cologne and the local brandy he was drinking.

Better, Ethan sent. His pattern’s copying now. Stay right where you are.

Orry hid her exasperation and smiled up at the count.

‘Who are you?’ Delf asked. Another man might have been amused by her intimate proximity, or have seen it as an advance. The count just sounded irritated.

She dropped into a curtsey. ‘Lady Jade Flint, My Lord.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You look familiar,’ he said. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ she replied with a girlish laugh. ‘I am entirely unimportant.’

Delf frowned at her a little longer, as if trying to place her, then blinked. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Flint . . .’ He tried to edge past.

Keep him talking! Ethan sent.

‘This is a wonderful ball,’ she said quickly, standing her ground.

Delf sighed and took a sip of brandy. ‘Your first, I take it?’

‘Does it show?’

‘Perhaps a little. Now—’

‘You should hold them more often,’ she blurted, and immediately cringed as the murmur of conversation around her faltered. Since the death of his son ten years ago, grief had turned Milan Soltz into a recluse. Orry didn’t feel much sympathy for the count; her mother had died ten years ago and she’d managed to get over it.

Delf squinted down at her. ‘Who did you say you were again?’ he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

She smiled sweetly again, trying to think of a way out of this, but rescue came from an unexpected quarter.

‘There you are,’ a familiar voice said from behind her, and she turned to see Konstantin, his full lips drawn back into a strained smile. The young viscount was dressed in a frock coat and cunningly tailored waistcoat which went a long way to disguise his ample belly. He bowed to his grandfather.

‘Did you invite this young lady?’ Delf asked.

‘Yes, Grandfather.’ He shot her a hard look. ‘I’m sorry if she was bothering you.’

The count waved a dismissive hand and turned away.

I need one more minute, Ethan sent.

Konstantin leaned forward and kissed Orry’s white glove. Glancing up into her face, he murmured, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ The singsong tone belied the anger in his eyes.

‘I was being polite, of course,’ she said, trying to sound hurt, ignoring Konstantin’s fingers pinching the bare flesh of her upper arm as he marched her towards a side door.

I’ve lost Delf, Ethan sent.

Did you get it all? her father asked urgently.

No.

Dammit, Orry. You have to get back to him.

She turned her face from Konstantin to hide the integuary-dullness in her eyes. Are you kidding me? Let’s just finish the book game and regroup. There’ll be other opportunities.

Like when? It’s taken me years to— He stopped himself, then spat, Shit on it! Orry had never heard her father so angry. He remained silent for a few seconds, then announced, Okay, you’re right. Let’s just get this fiasco over with. Try not to screw anything else up.

She flushed, determined not to retort.

2

High-Roller

‘Do you have it?’ Konstantin demanded quietly. His breath reeked of wine and sweetsmoke.

Orry forced a smile. ‘Of course,’ she said as he opened a door and ushered her through. She coughed, her eyes watering in the sudden fog of scented vapour. The room was small, with hunting trophies hanging from every wood-panelled wall. She recognised a couple of rare species among the heads and horns, although she thought she’d struggle to name their native worlds.

Three Ruuz lordlings were sprawled in chairs around a circular table in the centre of the room, watching a writhing tangle of glistening limbs. The two women on the table wore nothing but the odd scrap of sheer silk, which if anything made them look more naked. The sweat-slick bodies rubbed together amid moans of pleasure, but Orry could see the emptiness in the girls’ eyes. She’d seen it on a dozen worlds or more: women and men driven to desperate acts by hollow bellies – but to witness it here, in the heart of the obscenely wealthy Fountainhead worlds, filled her with fury. She looked away in disgust.

‘Kostya!’ one drunken young man exclaimed. ‘Back already?’

‘Get out,’ Konstantin snarled.

The man hesitated, then a knowing smile spread over his face. As he leered at Orry she imagined his eyes penetrating her gown to the flesh beneath. Resisting the urge to shrink away – or to plaster the lordling’s nose across his face – she kept her eyes on the tiled floor. She suddenly, desperately, needed to take a shower. The three men made unsteadily for a door on the far side of the room, taking the girls with them.

Orry took a seat and watched Konstantin drop into the chair opposite, his eyes blazing. The viscount was a striking young man who might even be handsome if he cleaned up his act. Good bone structure, she reflected, spoiled by puffy, translucent skin and deep shadows under his eyes.

‘Show me,’ he snapped.

She reached beneath her layered skirts, extracted the bundle tucked into her garter and placed it on the table.

Konstantin ignored the flash of leg and snatched at the package like a starving man, long fingers fumbling to remove the protective fabric bag. He yanked the book free and stared at its dog-eared cover, drinking in the faded colours.

Orry thought of the white cotton gloves the curator at the Tannhauser Foundation on Manes had used religiously whenever he handled the book. The week she’d spent as the old man’s assistant had been the longest of her life, constantly dodging his wandering hands as she waited for an opportunity to lift the valuable volume. Konstantin licked his bare forefinger and flicked through the yellowing pages, and her mouth twitched as she imagined the look of horror on the curator’s face at such cavalier treatment.

Folio fever was an expensive obsession among the sons of the noble houses, although few outside of the super-rich Fountainhead systems could afford to play. The hobby was incomprehensible to her; yet another example of the privileged classes having more time and money than anyone had a right to. The excesses of the Fountainhead made her want to puke. What she was doing might be criminal, but to her the real crime was not relieving these inbred pigs of as much of their inherited fortunes as she could.

‘My fee?’ she prompted.

Konstantin dragged his eyes from the book and blinked as if surprised to see her still there. He pulled a soft leather pouch from his frock coat and pushed it across the table, immediately returning his attention to the book, poring over the ancient pages. A pendant dangling from his neck brushed the tabletop and Orry found herself automatically appraising the dull green gem encased in a simple golden setting – antique, she thought, at least a century old, but it was the stone that had caught her interest and, as she looked more closely, her heart quickened. It looked exotic, pre-Withdrawal at least.

You okay, Sis? Your heartbeat is elevated.

She cut the biometrics feed her integuary was sending to Ethan.

And now you’re dead, he observed dryly.

I’m fine, she told him. Just do your own job and stop distracting me.

Loosening the drawstring, she let the pouch fall open on the table. An exotic fragrance rose from the pinch of fine brown powder flecked through with luminescent green. She began salivating as the rich scent of spice paragon clung to the inside of her mouth.

Bellonna was notorious in botanical circles for resisting all attempts at cultivation anywhere but its natural habitat deep within the reflecting caves of the moon Hestor; it flowered only once every seven years, when the moon was in the correct alignment, which made spice paragon, derived from the stamens, one of the rarest and most valuable substances in Ascendancy space.

Figures scrolled in Orry’s peripheral vision as her integuary projected the results of its analysis of the spice onto her visual cortex. She smiled coldly, almost pleased that Konstantin had come up short.

‘This is less than we agreed,’ she said.

He glanced up, irritated. ‘I find myself temporarily embarrassed this month. My grandfather’ – a scowl – ‘is less than generous with my allowance.’

‘Not my problem.’ She performed a quick mental calculation and tried to keep the anger from her face: Konstantin’s ‘less than generous’ monthly allowance was more than most citizens would earn in a year.

‘You can wait a week, can’t you?’ He waved his hand around the richly furnished room and sneered, ‘I’m good for it.’

Stick to the plan, Orry, her father told her. Don’t get clever. Just take the damn spice and get out.

She reached for the book.

‘Wait!’ Konstantin slammed his hand down on the volume.

Orry looked at him expectantly and he licked his lips, glancing round the room. ‘Take something . . . anything. My grandfather will never notice.’

Orry . . . Eoin warned.

‘Let me see your pendant,’ she said.

‘No.’ Konstantin closed his other hand around the green stone. ‘Not this.’

‘Fine.’ She snatched up the slim volume and began replacing it in its bag.

‘If you like jewellery, Mother had hundreds of pieces far nicer than this one – you can take your pick.’ Konstantin watched the book disappear into its bag, his brow lowered. ‘This is ridiculous – I demand you give me that book.’

Orry closed the spice pouch and slid it back across the table.

Aurelia Kent! Eoin snapped, making her feel about five years old.

Konstantin ignored the pouch and leaned closer. ‘You know who I am,’ he said quietly. ‘You would do well not to make an enemy of me.’

She gazed levelly at him. ‘Threats, Your Lordship? Do you really want to go there?’ She smiled. ‘I wonder what your grandfather would say if he found out where we first met, or how much you spend on your various vices.’

The viscount’s eyes flashed and she waited for him to master his fury.

‘You noisome little quim.’ He reached up, removed the pendant and set it on top of the pouch.

Costanza’s on the move, Ethan told her. She’s heading your way.

Orry grabbed her prizes and tossed the book to Konstantin. ‘Nice doing business with you. I’ll show myself out.’

‘You do that. Fuck off back to your hovel.’

‘Charming as ever.’ She curtseyed, and slipped from the room.

Her integuary bracketed Costanza immediately, providing biographical data as the woman strode across the dance floor. She looked furious.

Orry ducked into the crowd and threaded her way around the edge of the ballroom. As she passed through the double doors leading to the entrance hall she glanced back to see Costanza enter the smoking room.

Outside, the early evening air was heavy and languorous, scented with orange blossom. The sky was a darker red than usual in the late twilight and Perun, the larger of Tyr’s two moons, was already visible as a vast crescent above the trees. The lights of habitats and processing stations glinted at the moon’s edge; drive-flares marked the passage of ships coming and going. The sky above the capital world was a busy place.

She tapped her foot as she waited beneath the carriage porch, watching the latecomers arriving to distract herself. An elderly couple clambered stiffly from a driverless limousine and it hummed away to make room for the next arrival: the bug-like autocar Ethan had subverted that afternoon. She smiled with relief as she climbed into the back seat and arranged her skirts carefully around her.

Home, James, she told her brother.

Yes, modom.

Cut it out, you two, Eoin sent.

The autocar drew away, gravel crunching beneath its honey­comb tyres. The burning torches lighting the long driveway cast flickering shadows as it passed.

Okay, Costanza and Konstantin are on the move again, Ethan reported. They’re heading for the gate, just like we thought. Damn, we’re good.

She saw the lights of the crenellated gatehouse up ahead. A personal flyer sat on the grass beside the stone structure and three figures stood in the road, blocking her way. The autocar’s headlights illuminated Costanza and Konstantin as it slowed to a halt. A muscle-bound footman holding an extendable baton accompanied them.

Orry took a deep breath and let it out slowly as the three approached the autocar. She lowered the window.

‘I believe you have something that belongs to us,’ Costanza said.

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ Orry enquired.

‘My name is Madam Costanza. I represent His Grace, the Count of Delf.’

‘Just give it back—’ Konstantin began, stepping forward.

Costanza held up two fingers and the young man fell silent, face flushing.

‘Return the pendant and the spice,’ she told Orry, ‘and you may leave.’

‘Not keen to share this with the count?’ Orry asked, playing for time. Where the hell is Dad?

‘His Grace does not need to know every detail of his household’s business.’

‘And if I don’t give it back?’

There was a snap as the footman flicked his wrist, extending the baton to its full length. Konstantin grinned, but Costanza’s face betrayed no emotion.

‘I see,’ Orry said. ‘In that case—’

She stopped as headlights played across the scene, dazzling her. Costanza and the others shaded their eyes as a black high-roller turned through the open gates, barely missing the top of the stone archway. The interlocking plates of the vehicle’s single giant wheel reminded her of a lobster’s armoured back. It stopped and the plates slid over each other with an oily rasp, deforming the wheel to lower its small central cabin to the ground. A gullwing door hissed open and her father stepped out. He wore a crisp grey suit and was clean-shaven for once, his tangle of sandy hair slicked neatly back.

‘This is private property,’ Costanza told him. ‘You’ll have to leave.’

Eoin reached into his jacket – making the footman raise his baton – and produced a gold arbiter’s badge. The footman paled and lowered the weapon.

Costanza stepped back as Eoin approached Orry. He peered at her, looking genuinely pissed off, then straightened. ‘This woman is under arrest,’ he said.

Konstantin glanced at Costanza.

‘On what charge?’ she asked.

‘Dealing in stolen antiquaries. We’ve been following this one for weeks.’ He held out a black-gloved hand to Konstantin. The viscount stared dumbly at it and Eoin sighed. ‘Give me the book and I’m sure we can keep your name – and His Grace’s – out of the newsfeeds.’

Konstantin stiffened. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Just give it to him,’ Costanza snapped.

‘But—’ He flinched as she stepped closer and reached into his coat. She withdrew the book in its protective bag and handed it to Eoin.

‘I can see you’re sensitive to matters of state,’ she murmured. ‘This person is in possession of an article of jewellery – a family heirloom – together with a substantial quantity of spice paragon. You may keep the spice as evidence, but I must ask for the return of the pendant.’

Orry held her breath as Eoin glanced at her. She wouldn’t put it past her father to hand the damn thing back just to teach her a lesson. His lips twitched and he turned to Costanza.

‘Are you trying to bribe a member of the Arbiter Corps?’

‘What? No!’ For the first time, Costanza looked flustered.

‘Any items the detainee has on her will be processed and marked as evidence. After her trial you are free to submit a written request for them all to be returned.’

Costanza closed her mouth. ‘Very well,’ she said heavily.

He opened the autocar’s door and Orry climbed out. She kept her eyes on the ground, looking subdued, as he led her to the high-roller’s cab and placed her in the back seat.

‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ he told Costanza. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

The vehicle swayed as he got in. Orry kept silent as the wheel reformed, hoisting the cab a metre into the air. The engine hummed, and the high-roller pivoted and moved slowly away. The last thing she saw as they turned out of the gate was Costanza berating Konstantin while the footman, clearly uncomfortable, tried to pretend he wasn’t there.

She slumped into her seat, feeling the tension drain out of her.

‘Even short, that spice is worth at least twenty grand,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Not bad for a few weeks’ work.’

Eoin switched the controls to automatic and twisted in his seat to glare at her. ‘This was never about the damned spice. I wanted Delf’s integuary pattern.’

‘Why?’ Orry asked angrily. ‘You still haven’t told us why – but anyway, it was impossible—’

‘Never mind.’ He clenched his jaw and turned away.

‘Look, I did my best, all right? This whole thing was way too complicated from the start. Whatever happened to “keeping it simple”? That’s what you always taught us – so what’s changed?’

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to find another way to get the old bastard’s pattern.’

She stared at the thinning hair on the back of his head. The growing bald spot made him look vulnerable somehow, no longer the infallible, indestructible figure of her childhood.

‘Is everything okay, Dad? You’ve been acting weird since we landed here.’

‘I’m fine.’ He turned to face her again. ‘And another thing: what the hell was that with the pendant? What have I told you about going off-script?’

‘Come on, he was short,’ she said defensively. ‘If I’d just taken the spice he would’ve smelled a rat.’

‘Don’t give me that! You just wanted the pendant. I’ll bet it’s exotic. What is it? Departed?’

They sped along the boundary wall, the ancient bricks illuminated by the soft glow of the high-roller’s lights.

She pouted. ‘I don’t see what the problem is, Daddy. We got the spice and we’ve got the book back. The pendant’s an added bonus. Maybe we can use it to arrange another meeting with Delf.’

‘Don’t Daddy me. You’re not eight years old any more, Orry.’

She slumped back in her seat.

‘Although,’ he continued with the ghost of a smile, ‘your idea might not be the worst one I’ve heard today.’

She grinned.

Any chance of getting me out of this ditch sometime soon? Ethan enquired over the family channel.

Anyone following us? Eoin asked.

Nope. They’ve gone back to the house. Ethan chuckled. I wouldn’t want to be in Konstantin’s shoes.

You couldn’t afford Konstantin’s shoes, Orry pointed out.

Not even with my cut?

Maybe one.

Her brother sighed. At the moment, I’ll settle for not being in a ditch.

Five minutes, Eoin told him.

Orry pulled out the pendant and stared at the stone. She stripped off one long glove and brushed the ball of her thumb over its surface. It felt silky, frictionless. Definitely exotic – could the Departed have made it? The thought was tantalising.

She reached up and fastened the pendant around her neck.

3

Konstantin’s End

Konstantin Larist Soltz, 3rd Viscount Huish, stumbled onto the lawn at the rear of his family seat and whirled to stare up at the light streaming from the ballroom windows. The music sounded muted out here, battling with the constant chirp of the stemhoppers.

He raised his bottle in silent salute to the distant figures taking the air on the balcony. His frock coat and waistcoat lay somewhere back towards the house; purple wine stained his shirt as he lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed.

Stumbling, Konstantin turned his back on the house and staggered towards the lake. Perun was still visible over the far horizon, illuminating the night with its ghostly blue light, while Veles, its smaller companion moon, climbed from behind the mansion’s elaborate chimneys, lending a surreal rusty glow to the landscape.

‘Bitch,’ he muttered, slurring the words, then laughed. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. ‘Fucking twister,’ he added for good measure. ‘Fucking . . . fucking whoredog.’

As much as he wanted to believe he’d known something was wrong about her from the start, the truth was, he’d not had a clue. He lived for those ancient books – they might have become the gentry’s latest obsession, but even his so-called peers didn’t understand the smell of them, the feel of the paper against his skin, the covers and illustrations – and the words. Of course, many of the books were available electronically, some were even still in physical print, but that was hardly the point: these volumes had been made on Earth, the rarest of them predating even the First Expansion. His heart quickened at the thought, even through the numbing effects of the wine.

He hoped the arbiters took her to the fucking cleaners. The thought brought a twisted smile to his lips. Costanza had given him the usual tongue-lashing and made it plain he was to keep the whole affair quiet to avoid any embarrassment to the old man. That was a shame. If only there were some way to give evidence, to twist the knife and guarantee a hefty sentence. It was a pity they no longer executed antiquities runners.

For some reason Costanza had been particularly angry about the loss of the pendant – fuck knows why. Sure, it was a family heirloom, but the mansion was full of the damn things – and anyway, he was the heir. He did like that trinket, though. Something about the dull green stone made him feel – what? Powerful, he supposed, when it was around his neck. Hopefully the arbiters would hand it over once that bitch had been incarcerated for the rest of her thieving life.

A warm breeze rustled the trees as he reached the lake’s edge. Bulrushes lined the shore and Konstantin could make out the dark shape of the boathouse some distance away. He raised the bottle again to drain it, coughing as he took too much of the velvety wine. He spat out the dregs and flung the bottle out over the water. It spun in a lazy arc before raising a white splash in the darkness.

Damn, but his head hurt. He frowned as the throbbing in his skull grew suddenly worse: overindulgence had never made him feel like this before. He gripped his forehead as a sudden pain stabbed behind his eyes and turned, trying to walk back towards the house – but his legs gave way, pitching him to the soggy ground. He groaned as the pressure in his head built quickly until he thought his skull would burst. Mud oozed wetly between his grasping fingers, sticking his shirt to his belly. He tried to scream, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. His vision blurred, greying at the edges.

A red glow in the trees caught his attention as it moved lazily, trailing a streamer of light, and he gasped as a tall figure wrapped in a cloak stepped from the shadows to regard him with eyes like burning coals. A short man appeared beside the dark figure, keeping a stubby, pistol-like device pointed at Konstantin.

The viscount opened his mouth, only to have it fill with muddy water. He managed a gurgling whimper before darkness overcame him.

*

The pressure was still there when Konstantin awoke, but at least now the headache was bearable. He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. Everything looked wrong, and it took a few seconds for his befuddled brain to make sense of what he was seeing. Suddenly his fuzziness and the sharp pain in his ankles made sense: he was hanging upside down – in the boathouse, by the looks of it – dangling a foot above the floorboards.

He squirmed wildly, and discovered his hands were bound behind his back. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘What the devil is this? Let me down!’

He fell silent at the scrape of boots on the wooden floor behind him and twisted in an attempt to see who was there, but succeeded only in sending spikes of agony through his legs. His anger died, replaced by a sour fear deep in his belly.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hiding behind bluster. ‘What do you want? Do you have any idea who I am?’ H