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The Hand of Harrow – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Hand of Harrow

Denny Flowers

Lord Harrow raised his hand.

The theatre fell silent, all eyes rising to the royal box. There was a tremble to his movement, his gaunt fingers twitching as they curled about the throne’s gilded armrest. But his eyes were clear and, though his voice lacked power, his words still carried weight.

‘My friends,’ he said, addressing the auditorium. ‘Once again, we stand together in celebration of our house, our family and, most of all, our future. On this night we bid farewell to our children, for the next time we see them they will be fully fledged members of our house. This is a path paved with trial and trepidation, but I know that every single one of them will exceed my expectations.’

Caleb didn’t think it was a bad speech, but he held only half an ear to it, his focus on the ruby signet ring adorning Harrow’s left hand. He remembered the dingy office in the depths of Slag Row, where Mr Kreep had first outlined the plan. Everything hinged on that ring.

‘The museum can only be accessed by the ring’s wearer,’ Kreep told him, his voice but a whisper. ‘Cameras, alarms, security measures – the ring bypasses everything. Once you have it, you merely stride down this passageway and open this door.’

‘And without it?’

‘You’re either incinerated or decapitated at about the halfway mark.’

Caleb leant closer, pretending to scrutinise the schematics splashed across the far wall. Kreep certainly made the job sound compelling: a priceless artefact languishing in a disused museum with sophisticated, but easily circumvented security. It was the perfect target – low risk, high reward.

Why was he nervous?

‘Care to share your thoughts?’ Kreep said. ‘Surely the underhive’s ninth most dangerous man isn’t intimidated by a simple burglary?’

He grinned expectantly, his artificial eyes gleaming. Since his ejection from House Delaque, Kreep had replaced his bulky ocular implants with lifelike replicas of crystal blue. The effect would have been less disconcerting if he still remembered how to blink.

‘What’s our exit strategy?’ Caleb asked, playing for time.

‘You leave via the window,’ Kreep replied, tracing with his finger. ‘Security protocols are deactivated providing the ring-wearer remains in the museum. That way he or she can take their time with the exhibits. But there’s a flaw in the system. Not only does the internal security go down, but so does the shielding on the outer hive. I have access to a drainage valve a few levels below the museum. Your partner makes a short climb, cuts a hole through this access port, and the two of you grav-chute to safety.’

A short climb. Kreep had a gift for speaking from both sides of his mouth. In a sense it was a short climb; the hive was both mountain and pit, the spires of the upper houses stretching to the mesosphere, the tendrils of the underhive infesting the planet’s crust. Set against this vast scale the path outlined on the schematics was nothing, little more than half a mile. But it was a vertical climb, through acid rain and choking ash clouds, across the twisted frame of the outer hive.

He glanced at Iktomi. The ratskin stood a little behind him, keeping the office’s doorway in her line of vision. She studied the proposed ascent, her eyes framed by the crimson scars worn by her tribe. She nodded.

Lord Harrow was still addressing the crowd.

Caleb blinked, trying to focus on the moment. Whatever his reservations it was too late to back out now. Iktomi would be scaling the hive’s exterior. Until he deactivated the museum’s security system she would be stranded out there. The ratskin was as tough as anyone he’d ever met, but even she had limits. No one could survive long in those conditions. He needed the ring.

He made his move, picking a path through the throng towards a stairway that led to the upper balcony. Most of the revellers ignored him, intent on Lord Harrow, but more than one glanced as he passed. He looked nervous, but why shouldn’t he? He was dressed as a valet, but clearly a flustered one, cringing and bowing as he earnestly made his way through the crowd, a shining pocket watch clearly visible in his hand. A few of the nobles, resplendent in their finery, eyed his drab attire with contempt or sympathy; most paid him no attention at all. He was a servant, and from all appearances a bad one at that. Why would anyone waste time on him?

The stairway was not unguarded. The two men were not especially imposing, at least not physically. But Caleb knew them from their stance: proud, even arrogant, but always in perfect balance. Always alert. They were most likely enforcers, or the nobles’ equivalent.

Caleb lowered his head as he approached, stumbling through a carefully crafted speech. He had forgotten his master’s prize heirloom and had been sent to retrieve it. If he was delayed, if his master was left waiting but a moment more, the consequences would be dire. Neither seemed particularly convinced by his story, but it was their job to be suspicious. A brief retinal scan seemingly confirmed his credentials, and neither guard wished to waylay him and risk offending one of the nobles.

‘Our opening will be the debutantes’ ball,’ Kreep had told him. ‘There are so many protocols and sacraments to observe that the whole process is virtually automated. Once your biometrics are added to the data logs you will become just another cog in the machine. They won’t even notice you.’

That part still didn’t sit well with Caleb. Kreep was a skilled info-broker and still maintained contacts from his time in House Delaque, but it was difficult to believe even his influence extended this far uphive. Something didn’t sit right. It was the second most troubling part of the job.

On the far side of the auditorium Lord Harrow’s speech had almost concluded. It was clear the old man was tiring, but there was still iron in his closing words.

‘I now bid farewell to all of our debutantes,’ he said. ‘But most of all I bid farewell to my daughter Elissa. It saddens me that the girl I love so much will soon be gone, even though I could not be prouder of the young woman who will one day take my place. But the time for words is over. My family and friends, please let me present our future!’

With this the theatre went dark, all except the main stage, which was now bathed in an amber haze. Music rose from the orchestra, the symphony soft and soothing, like honeyed wine. The curtain rose to reveal a spiral staircase of burnished bronze. Arm in arm, the debutantes descended, mirrorglass robes flowing from their shoulders, the mesh so fine that it rippled in the sudden breeze. Caleb sniffed, his eyes drawn to the main intake fan. He’d never smelt air like it: fresh and so sweet that it was almost sickly.

He risked a glance to the royal box, where Lord Harrow slumped in his throne. His arm hung limp by his side, the signet ring loose on his gaunt fingers. But his eyes were clear and fixed upon the performance. The debutantes had silently reached the main stage, their footsteps stifled by micro-stummers embedded in the heels of their ripperskin boots. With practised grace they fanned out into a semicircle, their robes falling from their shoulders. Each wore a corset or waistcoat of sombre black emblazoned with the Harrow family crest: a golden blade on a scarlet field. Most were also bedecked in shimmering headdresses forged in the forms of beasts and birds. Some wore wings upon their backs crafted from gold-leaf. A single feather was worth more than he saw in a cycle.

He crept along the balcony, his gaze flitting from the performance to the royal box. With the audience intent on the stage the old man seemed to have shrunk further into his throne. He motioned to his attendant, who lifted a gilded respirator to his lips, and he drank deep, emerald fumes wafting about his face. As Caleb watched, his posture shifted, straightening, his hands twitching involuntarily, the ruby ring sliding a fraction down his finger.

‘The dance is your opening,’ Kreep had explained. ‘The audience will be too busy cooing over the performance to pay you much attention. Harrow’s own daughter is one of the debutantes this year, so the old man will be particularly distracted. Just slip the ring from his finger and replace it with this replica. It’s simple sleight of hand.’

Caleb took the ring, pocketing it. Kreep had worn a broad smile, though the expression didn’t extend to his artificial eyes.

‘I thought pickpocketing was One-eyed Tippet’s forte?’

‘I no longer work with him,’ Kreep replied, his expression barely flickering.

On the main stage the dancers lined up for the minuet, the debutantes taking centre stage. Behind and beneath them the rest of the ensemble shuffled from the shadows with faux awkwardness. Their costumes were neither elaborate nor finely wrought: stained leather and tarnished iron cobbled together with wire and chain. Some wore extravagant wigs in neon pink, styled into crests and spikes the length of a sword’s blade. Others were clad in vivid survival-suits bedecked with hazard markings. Their faces were dour as they assembled on the left of the stage, loose wires trailing in their wake.

On the right a trio of performers bumbled into place. Their movements were clumsy, restricted by bodysuits so padded that the performers were almost as wide as they were tall. As one they flexed their swollen frames, eyes crossed as they stared blindly into the crowd. There was laughter.

Then came a commotion in the orchestra pit, the musicians stuttering their way through a carefully crafted cacophony as dancers scuttered between them, rummaging through sheet music and stealing drumsticks. As they crept onto the stage the nearest turned and bowed to the crowd, wax dripping from the candles flanking his helmet. He gave a slack-jawed grin, exposing blacked-out teeth. Despite himself, Caleb found his gaze lingering on the stage as he approached the enclosed entrance to the royal box. Perhaps it was satire. Perhaps this was honestly how the nobles saw them. For it was clear even to him that the dancers were dressed as a crude parody of the underhivers.

The orchestra surged to life as the debutantes extended their hands. The faux-underhivers took them with graceless bows, pirouetting about the stage. As the pace quickened the underhivers stumbled and dithered, the debutantes remaining perfectly poised, heads held high, each with one hand clasped behind their back, the other directing their partner like a puppet on a string. On the next pass the underhivers staggered, almost falling as they seamlessly switched partners. The debutantes turned, feet wide, arms spread like wings, their fingers curled into talons. The music had risen to a crescendo now, the string section sawing at their instruments, the beat pounding like a hammering heart.

His own heart was pounding too. He was close now, close to the biggest score of his career. He’d heard the stories, that the Harrow family held an artefact from another age, a treasure known only as the Hand of Harrow. Some said it was a weapon so powerful that it could topple a hive, others that the ancient technology could cure any illness, or even stave off death itself. He didn’t know for sure, but that wasn’t what worried him. What worried him was that, from what he could tell, Kreep didn’t know what it was either.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Inferno! Volume 4 in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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