Nemesis

   Annotation
 
   
 
   
   The Horus Heresy
   NEMESIS
   Warwithin the shadows
   Horus Heresy – 13
   James Swallow
   (An Undead Scan v1.0)
   1
   For Aaron & Katie—Clear Skies and Good Hunting.
   2
   The Horus Heresy
   It is a time of legend.
   Mighty heroes battle for the right to rule the galaxy. The vast armies of the
   Emperor of Earth have conquered the galaxy in a Great Crusade—the myriad
   alien races have been smashed by the Emperor’s elite warriors and wiped from the
   face of history.
   The dawn of a new age of supremacy for humanity beckons.
   Gleaming citadels of marble and gold celebrate the many victories of the Emperor.
   Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most
   powerful and deadly warriors.
   First and foremost amongst these are the primarchs, superheroic beings who have
   led the Emperor’s armies of Space Marines in victory after victory. They are
   unstoppable and magnificent, the pinnacle of the Emperor’s genetic
   experimentation. The Space Marines are the mightiest human warriors the galaxy
   has ever known, each capable of besting a hundred normal men or more in
   combat.
   Organised into vast armies of tens of thousands called Legions, the Space Marines
   and their primarch leaders conquer the galaxy in the name of the Emperor.
   Chief amongst the primarchs is Horus, called the Glorious, the Brightest Star,
   favourite of the Emperor, and like a son unto him. He is the Warmaster, the
   commander-in-chief of the Emperor’s military might, subjugator of a thousand
   thousand worlds and conqueror of the galaxy. He is a warrior without peer, a
   diplomat supreme.
   As the flames of war spread through the Imperium, mankind’s champions will all
   be put to the ultimate test.
   3
   DRAMATIS PERSONAE
   Execution Force
   Eristede Kell — Assassin-at-Marque, Clade Vindicare
   Jenniker Soalm — Secluse, Clade Venenum
   вЂњThe Garantine” — Nihilator, Clade Eversor
   Fon Tariel — Infocyte, Clade Vanus
   Koyne — Shade, Clade Callidus
   Iota — Protiphage, Clade Culexus
   Officio Assassinorum
   Master of Assassins — A High Lord of Terra
   Sire Vindicare — Master and Director Primus, Clade Vindicare
   Siress Venenum — Mistress and Director Primus, Clade Venenum
   Sire Eversor — Master and Director Primus, Clade Eversor
   Sire Vanus — Master and Director Primus, Clade Vanus
   Siress Callidus — Mistress and Director Primus, Clade Callidus
   Sire Culexus — Master and Director Primus, Clade Culexus
   Legio Custodes
   Constantin Valdor — Captain-General and Chief Custodian
   The Imperial Fists Legion
   Rogal Dorn — Primarch of the Imperial Fists
   Efried — Third Captain
   The Sons of Horus
   Horus Lupercal — Primarch of the Sons of Horus
   Maloghurst — Equerry to the Primarch
   Luc Sedirae — Captain of the 13th Company
   Devram Korda — Veteran Sergeant, 13th Company
   The Word Bearers Legion
   Erebus — First Chaplain of the Word Bearers
   Imperial Personae
   Malcador — The Sigillite Regent of Terra
   Yosef Sabrat — Reeve of Iesta Veracrux
   Daig Segan — Reeve of Iesta Veracrux
   Berts Laimner — Reeve Warden of Iesta Veracrux
   4
   Rata Telemach — High-Reeve of Iesta Veracrux
   Erno Sigg — Citizen of the Imperium
   Merriksun Eurotas — The Void Baron of Narvaji, Agentia Nuntius (Taebian Sector)
   Hyssos — Security Operative, Eurotas Trade Consortium
   Perrig — Indentured Psyker, Eurotas Trade Consortium
   Capra — Citizen of Dagonet
   Terrik Grohl — Citizen of Dagonet
   Liya Beye — Citizen of Dagonet
   Lady Astrid Sinope — Citizen of Dagonet
   5
   вЂњFor those that defy the Imperium, only the Emperor can judge your crimes.
   Only in death can you receive the Emperor’s judgement!”
   вЂ”maxim of the Officio Assassinorum
   вЂњThe monster boasted of what he would do once he conquered the home of the godking,
   little knowing that Nemesis heard his words and took note of them.”
   вЂ”excerpted from texts of the ancient Terran poet Nonnus
   вЂњWe live in peace and pretend at it. But in truth there are always wars, thundering
   unseen around us, just beyond the curve of our sight. The greatest foolishness is that
   no man wishes to know the truth. He is happy to live his life as silent guns cut the sky
   above his head!”
   вЂ”attributed to the remembrancer Ignace Karkasy
   6
   PART ONE
   EXECUTION
   ONE
   Object Lesson
   Tactics of Deceit
   The Star
   Gyges Prime was a murdered world, dead now, all but an ashen ember. Around the
   encampment, porous black rock ranged away under a cowl of low mist, the haze
   itself the remains of cities pounded into radioactive dust by countless bombardments
   from orbit. Arsenals of nuclear munitions had been emptied to bring the planet to the
   executioner’s block, and now the cooling corpse of the world lay swaddled in its own
   death-shroud, a virulent and silent pall of radiation that smothered everything.
   Here, in the canyon where the invaders had made their planetfall, high walls of
   shield rock did their best to cut the fiery winds from the shattered landscape. Men,
   such as the soldiers that had crisped and burned like paper in the onslaught, would
   have died for the sake of living an hour outside in this nightmare, had any of them
   survived this long. The invaders had no such weaknesses, however.
   The lethality they laid over Gyges Prime was to them a minor irritant. Once they
   were done in this place, they would return to their warcraft high above and clean the
   stink of the dead planet from their robes and armour as one might wash dried mud
   from a soiled boot. They would do this and think nothing of it. They would not stop
   to consider that the air now passing into their lungs was laced with the particulate
   remains of every man, woman and child that had called Gyges Prime home.
   The planet was dead, and it had served a purpose in dying. The dozen other
   colony worlds of the Gyges system, each of them more valuable, more populous than
   this one, they would look through their mnemoniscopes and watch this ember cool
   and fade. Why choose to attack that world and no other? The question they first
   asked as the warships passed them by had now been answered: for the lesson of it.
   Tobeld did not dwell on this, as he moved around the lee of the temporary
   pergolas set up beneath the wings of the tethered Stormbirds, hearing the mutter of
   conversation among the warriors around him amid the snap of guyropes and windpulled
   fabric. Messages were already coming in from the ships in orbit. The other
   7
   worlds, the orbital platforms, the system defence fleet, all were surrendering. Twelve
   planets teeming with people, giving up their freedom without a single word of
   defiance. Lesson learned.
   The taking of the Gyges system had been a swift and almost cursory thing.
   Doubtless, in decades to come, it would be less than a postscript in the annals of the
   war. No casualties of note had been taken by the warfleet, none that mattered to the
   architect of the conflict that this small venture was but a fragment of. Gyges was
   merely a stone in the path, a path that began in the Isstvan system and wound its way
   across the galaxy towards Terra. Gyges was a passing footstep, beneath which the
   blood of millions left no mark. By conventional battle logic, there was no reason for
   any of the invaders to even step on to the surface; yet still they had come, in this
   small party, for reasons that could only be guessed at.
   Tobeld stifled a cough with his hand, pushing the thick robe of his hood to his
   face to muffle the sound. It came away wet and he tasted copper in his mouth. The
   radiation had killed him the moment he stepped out from the shuttle, him and the
   other serfs brought down from the flagship in order to serve the invaders. The serfs
   would all be dead before sunset. He knew he would share that fate, but it was a price
   worth paying. In the dimness of his dormitory capsule back on the warship, Tobeld
   had used a quarter of the elements of his weapons kit to fabricate a strong dosage of
   counter-radiation drugs; the rest he had turned to the building of the compound that
   nestled inside the finger-long glass vial strapped to the inside of his wrist. He had
   done his best to dispose of the remnants of the kit, but he was afraid some trace might
   still be discovered; and the counter-rads were working poorly. He had little time.
   He passed behind the engine bells of a drop-ship and through the black haze he
   spied the largest of the tents, a low pavilion made of non-reflective cloth. For a
   second, the wind snapped at the entrance flap and showed him a glimpse of things
   inside. He saw what might have been firelight jumping and moving off slabs of
   polished ceramite armour, and wet shapes like animated falls of blood. Then the
   breeze passed on and the sight was lost to him. Still, the confusion of impressions
   made him shiver.
   Tobeld hesitated. He would need to cross open ground to get from the Stormbird
   to the pavilion, and he could not afford to be challenged. He was entering the
   terminal stage of his mission now, after so long. There could be no mistakes. No one
   had come this close before. He could not risk failure.
   Tobeld took a shaky, tainted breath. He had sacrificed a solar year of his life to
   this mission, breaking out from under a cover he had spent half a decade building as
   a minor Nobilite clan cook-functionary. He had willingly discarded that carefullycrafted
   disguise to embrace a new one, such was the gravity of his new mission; and
   through cautious steps, with doses of poisons both subtle and coarse to smooth his
   path, Tobeld had made his way into service aboard the battle cruiser Vengeful Spirit,
   the flagship of Horus Lupercal.
   Two years had passed since the betrayal at Isstvan, the bloody backstabbing that
   opened the way to Horus’ insurrection against the Imperium and his father, the
   Emperor of Mankind. In that time, his steady progression across the galaxy had
   gathered momentum. As this day showed, every system that passed beneath the keel
   of Horus’ warships either swore fealty to him, or else they burned. Worlds and
   8
   worlds, united in the aftermath of the Great Crusade, were now torn between loyalty
   to a distant Earth and an absent Emperor, or to a victorious Horus and his army of
   warlords. The glimpses Tobeld got from his lower-decks vantage point showed an
   armada of turncoat-kindred consolidating power degree by punishing degree. Horus
   closed his steel grip on sector after sector. One did not need to be a tactician to know
   that the Warmaster was marshalling his energies for the advance that had to come—
   an eventual thrust towards Terra herself, and to the gates of the Imperial Palace.
   Horus could not be allowed to take that step.
   At first it had seemed an unassailable objective. The Warmaster himself, a
   primarch, a demigod warrior, and Tobeld just a man. A killer of superlative skill and
   subtlety, indeed, but still a man. To strike directly at Horus aboard the Spirit would
   have been madness, an impossibility. Tobeld toiled aboard the flagship for almost
   five months before he even laid eyes upon the Warmaster—and the being he saw that
   day was one of such magnitude that it set him reeling, the question hard in his
   thoughts. How do I kill this one?
   Conventional poisons were worthless ranged against the physiology of an
   Astartes; they could ingest the harshest of venoms as Tobeld might sip wine. But
   Tobeld was here precisely because poison was his weapon of choice. It could be
   swift; it could be patient, escaping detection, lying dormant. He was one of Clade
   Venenum’s finest tox-artisans; in his apprenticeship he had manufactured killing
   philtres from the most base of components, he had terminated dozens of targets and
   left no trace. And he slowly came to believe that he was capable of this, if fate would
   only grace him with a single opportunity.
   The weapon lay in the vial. Tobeld had created a binary agent, a mixture of
   molecular accelerant gels suspending a live sample of gene-altered Baalite thirstwater—
   a virulent fluidic life form that could consume all moisture within living
   tissues in a matter of seconds. When Horus had announced he would be leading a
   landing party to the surface of Gyges Prime, Tobeld heard the tolling of fate in the
   words. His chance. His single chance.
   There was rumour and supposition aboard the Vengeful Spirit, down on the lower
   decks where the human serfs and servitors toiled. Men spoke of strange things afoot
   on the levels where the Astartes walked, of changes, of apparitions and peculiarities
   in parts of the vessel. Tobeld heard whispers of the so-called lodges where these
   changes took place. He listened to stories of rites made on the surfaces of conquered
   worlds, things that sickened him as much with their nauseating similarity to crude
   idolatry as with their hints of inhumanity and horror. The men who spoke of these
   things often vanished soon after, leaving nothing but fear in their wakes.
   He concentrated on the weapon, listening for the wind to drop. Horus was there,
   no more than a dozen steps away, inside the pavilion with his inner circle—
   Maloghurst, Abaddon and the rest of them—engaging in whatever ritual had brought
   them to this place. Close now, closer than ever before. Tobeld prepared himself,
   forcing away the pain in his throat, his joints. Entering the command tent, he would
   introduce the weapon to the jug of wine at Horus’ side, fill the cups of the Warmaster
   and his senior battle-brothers. One sip would be enough to infect them… and he
   hoped it would be enough to kill, although Tobeld held no doubt he would not live to
   see his mission succeed. His faith in his art would have to be enough.
   9
   Time, then. He stepped out from underneath the Stormbird’s wing; and a voice
   said, “Is that it?”
   A reply, firm and cold, returned from somewhere close at hand in the smokehaze.
   вЂњAye.”
   Tobeld tried to turn on his heel, but he was already leaving the ground, taken off
   his feet by a shadow that dwarfed him, a towering man-form in steel-grey armour
   holding a fistful of his robes. Leering out of the gloom came a hard face that was all
   angles and barely restrained menace. A patchwork of scarification was the setting for
   eyes that were wide with black mirth, eyes that bored into him. “Where are you
   going, little man?” He marvelled at the thought that someone so large had been able
   to approach him in utter silence.
   вЂњLord, I…” It was hard to talk. Tobeld’s throat was as dry as the winds, and the
   grip the Astartes had on him pulled the material of the robes tight about his neck. He
   struggled for breath—but he did not struggle too much, for fear the turncoat might
   think he was making some futile attempt to defend himself and respond in kind.
   вЂњHush, hush,” said the other voice. A second figure, if anything larger and more
   lethal in aspect than the first, stepped from the smoke. Tobeld’s eyes instantly fell to
   the intricate etching and jewelled medallions adorning the other Astartes’ chest,
   symbols of high rank and seals of loyalty among the Sons of Horus Legion. He knew
   this warrior immediately, the laughing face and the shock-blond hair, without need to
   survey the rank sigils upon him, though. Luc Sedirae, Captain of the 13th Company.
   вЂњLet’s not make a song and dance of this,” Sedirae went on. His right hand flexed
   absently; he wore no gauntlet upon it, showing to the world where the limb had been
   lost and replaced by an augmetic in polished brass and anodised black steel. The
   hand had been taken from him in battle with the Raven Guard at Isstvan, so it was
   said, and the captain wore the wound proudly, as if it were a badge of honour.
   Tobeld’s gaze flicked back to the warrior holding him, finding the symbols of the
   13th Company on the other Astartes. Belatedly, he recognised him as Devram Korda,
   one of Sedirae’s seconds; not that such knowledge would do him any good. He tried
   again to speak. “Lords, I am only doing my duty as—”
   But the words seemed to curdle in his throat and Tobeld choked on them,
   emitting a wet gasp instead.
   From behind Korda, following the path that Tobeld had taken around the parked
   craft, a third Astartes emerged from beneath the shadows cast by the drop-ship. The
   assassin knew this one, too. Armour the colour of old, dried blood, an aspect like a
   storm captured in the confines of a man’s face, eyes he could not bring himself to
   meet. Erebus.
   вЂњHis duty,” said the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, musing on the thought.
   вЂњThat is not a lie.” Erebus’ voice was soft and almost gentle, raised only slightly
   above the low keen of the Gyges winds.
   Tobeld blinked and felt a tide of terror growing to fill him. He rose on it, caught
   by the icy certainty of the moment. Erebus knew what he was. Somehow, Erebus had
   always known. All his careful subterfuges, every piece of flawless tradecraft he had
   employed—the Word Bearer walked towards him now with a swagger that told the
   assassin it had counted for nothing.
   10
   вЂњMy duty is to serve the Warmaster!” he blurted, desperate to stall for time, for a
   moment more of life.
   вЂњQuietly,” warned Erebus, silencing him before he could say more. The Word
   Bearer threw a glance towards the command tent. “Nothing will be gained by
   disturbing Great Horus. He will be… displeased.”
   Korda turned Tobeld in his grip, like a fisherman evaluating a disappointing catch
   before tossing it back into the ocean. “So weak,” he offered. “He’s dying even as I
   watch. The boneseekers in the air are eating him inside.”
   Sedirae folded his arms. “Well?” he demanded of Erebus. “Is this some game of
   yours, Word Bearer, or is there real cause for us to torment this helot?” His lips
   thinned. “I grow bored.”
   вЂњThis is a killer,” Erebus explained. “A weapon, after a fashion.”
   Tobeld belatedly understood that they had been waiting for him. “I… am only a
   servant…” he gasped. He was losing sensation in his limbs and his vision was
   starting to fog from the tightness of Korda’s hold.
   вЂњLie,” said the Word Bearer, the accusation clicking off his tongue.
   Panic broke through what barriers of resolve still remained in Tobeld’s mind, and
   he felt them crumble. He felt himself lose all sense of rationality and give in to the
   terror with animal reaction. His training, the control that had been bred into him from
   his childhood in the schola, disintegrated under no more than a look from Erebus’
   cold, cold gaze.
   Tobeld flexed his wrist and the vial came into his hand. He twisted wildly in
   Korda’s grasp, catching the Astartes fractionally off-guard, stabbing downwards with
   the glassy cylinder. Motion-sensing switches in the crystalline matrix of the vial
   obeyed and opened a tiny mouth at the blunt end, allowing a ring of monomol
   needles to emerge. Little thicker than human hairs, the fine rods could penetrate even
   the hardy epidermis of an Adeptus Astartes. Tobeld tried to kill Devram Korda,
   swinging at the bare skin of his scarred face, missing, swinging again. He did this
   mindlessly, in the manner of a mechanism running too fast, unguided.
   Korda used the flat of his free hand to swat the assassin, doing it with such force
   that he broke Tobeld’s jaw and caved in much of the side of his skull. Tobeld’s right
   eye was immediately crushed, and the shock resonated through him. After a moment
   he realised he was on the ground, blood flowing freely from his shattered mouth and
   nose into a growing puddle.
   вЂњErebus was right, sir,” Korda said, the voice woolly and distant.
   Tobeld’s hand reached out in a claw, scraping at the black sand and smooth rock.
   Through the eye that still worked, he could see the vial, the contents unspent, lying
   where it had fallen from his fingers. He reached for it, inching closer.
   вЂњHe was.” Tobeld heard Sedirae echo his battle-brother with a sigh. “Seems to be
   making a habit of it.”
   The assassin looked up, the pain caused by the simple action almost
   insurmountable, and saw shapes swimming in mist and blood. Cold eyes upon him,
   judging him unworthy.
   вЂњPut an end to this,” said Erebus.
   Korda hesitated. “Lord?”
   11
   вЂњAs our cousin says, brother-sergeant,” Sedirae replied. “It’s becoming
   tiresome.”
   One of the shapes grew larger, coming closer, and Tobeld saw a steel-plated hand
   reach for the vial, gather it up. “What does this do, I wonder?”
   Then the vial glittered in the light as the Astartes brought the assassin’s weapon
   down and injected the contents of the tube into the bruised bare flesh of Tobeld’s
   arm.
   Sedirae watched the helot perish with the slow, indolent air of one who had seen
   many manners of death. He watched out of interest to see if this ending would show
   him something different from all the other kills he had witnessed— and it did, to
   some small degree.
   Korda placed a hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his screams as the helot’s
   body twitched and drew into itself. On the Caslon Moon during the Great Crusade,
   the captain of the 13th had drowned a mutant in a freezing lake, holding the freakthing
   down beneath the surface of the murky waters until it had perished. He was
   reminded of that kill now, watching the helot go to his end from the poison. The
   hooded servile was drowning dry, if such a thing were possible. Where he could see
   bare skin, Sedirae saw the pallid and rad-burned meat of the man first turn corpsegrey,
   then lose all definition and become papery, pulling tight over bones and muscle
   bunches that atrophied as the moments passed. Even the blood that had spilled onto
   the dark earth became cloudy and then evaporated, leaving cracked deposits bereft of
   any moisture. Korda eventually took his hand away and shook it, sending a rain of
   powder from his fingertips off on the winds.
   вЂњA painful death,” remarked the sergeant, examining his fingers. “See here?” He
   showed off a tiny scratch on the ceramite of the knuckle joint. “He bit me in his last
   agonies, not that it mattered.”
   Sedirae threw a look at the command tent. No one had emerged to see what was
   going on outside. He doubted Horus and the rest of his Mournival were even aware
   of the killing taking place. They had so much to occupy them, after all. So many
   plans and great schemes to helm…
   вЂњI’ll inform the Warmaster,” he heard himself say.
   Erebus took a step closer. “Do you think that is necessary?”
   Sedirae glanced at the Chaplain. The Word Bearer had a way of drawing attention
   directly when he wished it, almost as if he could drag a gaze towards him like a black
   sun would pull in light and matter in order to consume it; and by turns he could do
   the opposite, making himself a ghost in a room full of people, allowing sight to slide
   off him as if he were not there. In his more honest moments, Luc Sedirae would
   admit that the presence of Erebus left him unsettled. The captain of the 13th could
   not quite shake the disquiet that clouded his thoughts every time the Word Bearer
   chose to speak. Not for the first time, despite all the fealty he had sworn to the Luna
   Wolves—now the Sons of Horus in name and banner—Sedirae asked himself why
   the Warmaster needed Erebus so close in order to prosecute his just and right
   insurrection against the Emperor. It was one of many doubts that he carried, these
   days. The burden of them seemed to grow ever greater with each passing month that
   12
   the Warmaster’s forces dallied out here in the deeps, while the prize of Terra herself
   remained out of reach.
   He gave a low snort and gestured at the corpse. “Someone just tried to kill him.
   Yes, cousin, I think Horus Lupercal might consider that of interest.”
   вЂњTell me you are not so naive as to imagine that this pitiful attempt was the first
   such act against the Warmaster?”
   Sedirae narrowed his eyes at Erebus’ light, almost dismissive tone. “The first to
   come so close, I would warrant.”
   вЂњA few steps more and he would have been inside the tent,” muttered Korda.
   вЂњDistance is relative,” Erebus replied. “Lethality is the key factor.”
   Korda stood up. “I wonder who sent him.”
   вЂњThe Warmaster’s father,” said Erebus immediately. “Or, if not by the Emperor’s
   direct decree, then by that of his lackeys.”
   вЂњYou seem very certain,” Sedirae noted. “But Horus has made many enemies.”
   The Word Bearer gave a slight smile and shook his head. “None of concern on
   this day.” He took a breath. “We three ended this threat before it became an issue. It
   need not become one after the fact.” Erebus nodded towards the tent. “The
   Warmaster has a galaxy to conquer. He has more than enough to absorb his attention
   as it is. Would you wish to distract your primarch with this triviality, Sedirae?” He
   prodded the corpse with the tip of his boot.
   вЂњI believe the Warmaster should make that choice for himself.” Irritation flared in
   Sedirae’s manner and his lip curled. “Perhaps—” He caught himself and fell silent,
   arresting the train of thought even as it formed.
   вЂњPerhaps?” echoed Erebus, immediately seizing on the word as if he knew what
   would have followed it. “Speak your mind, captain. We are all kinsmen here. All
   brothers of the lodge.”
   He deliberated for a long moment on the words pushing at his lips, and then
   finally gave them leave. “Perhaps, Word Bearer, if matters such as these were not
   kept from Horus, then he might wish to move along a swifter path. Perhaps, if he
   were not kept ignorant of the threats to our campaign, he might—”
   вЂњPush on to the Segmentum Solar, and to Earth?” Erebus seemed to close the
   distance between them without actually moving. “That is the root of it, am I right?
   You feel that the measured pace of our advance is too slow. You wish to lay siege to
   the Imperial Palace tomorrow.”
   вЂњMy captain is not alone in that regard,” said Korda, with feeling.
   вЂњA month would be enough,” retorted Sedirae, showing teeth. “It could be done.
   We all know it.”
   Erebus’ smile lengthened. “I am sure that from where the warriors of the 13th
   Company stand, it doubtless seems that simple. But let me assure you, it is not.
   There’s still so much to be done, Luc Sedirae. So many pieces to be placed, so many
   factors not yet ready.”
   The captain gave an angry snort. “What are you saying? That we must wait for
   the stars to be right?”
   The smile faded and the Word Bearer became grim. “Exactly that, cousin.
   Exactly that.”
   13
   The sudden coldness in Erebus’ words gave Sedirae a moment’s pause. “Clearly I
   lack your insight, then,” he grated. “As I fail to see the merit in this leisurely
   strategy.”
   вЂњAs long as we follow the Warmaster, all will be as it should,” Erebus told him.
   вЂњVictory will come soon enough.” He paused over the corpse, which had begun to
   disintegrate into dust, pulled away by the winds. “Perhaps even sooner than any of us
   might expect.”
   вЂњWhat do you mean?” said Korda.
   вЂњA truism of warfare.” Erebus did not look up from his examination of the dead
   assassin. “If a tactic can be used against us, then it can be used by us.”
   Dawn brought with it the clouds, and under the mellow amber glow of the rising sun,
   the bright jewels of the Taebian Stars began to fade away as pure blue washed in to
   lighten the darkness of lost night. Pressed to one window of the coleopter’s cramped
   cabin, Yosef Sabrat took a moment to pull the collar of his greatcoat a little tighter
   around his neck. The long summer season of Iesta Veracrux was well and truly over,
   and the new autuwinter was on the horizon, coming in slow and careful. Up here, in
   the cold morning sky, he could feel it. In a matter of weeks, the rains would come in
   earnest; and not before time, either. This year’s crop would be one for the record
   books, so they were saying.
   The flyer bumped through a pocket of turbulent air and Yosef bounced in his
   seat; like most of the craft in service with the Sentine, it was an old thing but well
   cared for, one of many machines that could date back their lineage to the Second
   Establishment and the great colonial influx. The ducted rotor vanes behind the
   passenger compartment thrummed, the engine note changing as the pilot put it into a
   shallow port-side turn. Yosef let gravity turn his head and he looked past the two
   jagers who were the only other passengers, and out through the seamless bowl of
   glassaic at the empty observer’s station.
   Sparse pennants of thin white cloud drifted away to give him a better view. They
   were passing over the Breghoot Canyon, where the sheer rock face of red stone fell
   away into deeps that saw little daylight, even at high sun. The terraces of the
   vineyards there were just opening up for the day, fans of solar arrays on the tiled
   roofs turning and unfolding like black sails on some ocean schooner. Beyond,
   clinging to the vast kilometre-long trellises that extended out off the edges of the
   cliffs, waves of greenery resembled strange cataracts of emerald frozen in mid-fall.
   Had they been closer, Yosef imagined he would be able to see the shapes of
   harvestmen and their ceramic-clad gatherer automatons moving in among the frames,
   taking the bounty from the web of vines.
   The coleopter rumbled again as it forded an updraught and righted itself, giving a
   wide berth to the hab-towers reaching high from the cliff top and into the lightening
   sky. Acres of white stucco coated the flanks of the tall, skinny minarets, and across
   most of them the shutters were still closed over their windows, the new day yet to be
   greeted. Most of the capital’s populace were still slumbering at this dawn hour, and
   Yosef did in all honesty envy them to great degree. The hasty mug of recaf that had
   been his breakfast sat poorly in his stomach. He’d slept fitfully last night—something
   that seemed to be happening more often these days—and so when the vox had pulled
   14
   him the rest of the way from his dreamless half-slumber, it had almost been a
   kindness. Almost.
   The engine note grew shrill as the flyer picked up speed, coming in swift and low
   now over the tops of the woodlands that bracketed the capital’s airdocks. Yosef
   watched the carpet of green and brown flash past beneath him, trying not to get lost
   in it.
   A word from the low, muttered conversation drifting between the jagers came to
   him without warning. He frowned and dismissed it, willing himself not to listen,
   concentrating on the engine sound instead; but he could not. The word, the name,
   whispered furtively for fear of invocation.
   Horus.
   Each time he heard it, it was as if it were some sort of curse. Those who uttered it
   would do so in fear, gripped by some strange belief that to speak the name would
   incur an instant punishment by unseen authority. Or perhaps it was not that; perhaps
   it was a sickening that the word brought with it, the sense that this combination of
   sounds would turn the stomach if said too loudly. The name troubled him. For too
   long it had been a watchword for nobility and heroism; but now the meaning was in
   flux, and it defied any attempt at categorisation in Yosef’s analytical, careful
   thoughts.
   He considered admonishing the men for a brief moment, then thought better of it.
   For all the bright sunshine that might fall upon Iesta Veracrux’s thriving society,
   there were shadows cast here and some of them ran far deeper than many would wish
   to know. Recently, those shadows ran longer and blacker than ever before, and men
   would know fear and doubt for that. It was to be expected.
   The coleopter rose up to clear the last barrier of high Ophelian pines and spun in
   towards the network of towers, landing pads and blockhouses that were the capital’s
   primary port.
   The Sentine had dispensation and so were not required to land at a prescribed
   platform like civilian traffic. Instead, the pilot moved smartly between a massive pair
   of half-inflated cargo ballutes to touch down on a patch of ferrocrete scarcely the
   width of the flyer. Yosef and the pair of jagers were barely off the drop-ramp before
   the downwash from the rotor became a brief hurricane and the coleopter spun away,
   back up into the blue. Yosef shielded his eyes from the dust and scattered leaves the
   departure kicked up, watching it go.
   He reached inside his coat for his warrant rod on its chain, and drew out the slim
   silver shaft to hang free and visible around his neck. He ran his thumb absently down
   the length of it, over the etching and the gold contact inlays that indicated his rank of
   reeve, and surveyed the area. Unlike the jagers, who only wore a brass badge on
   street duty or patrol, the reeve’s rod showed his status as an investigating officer.
   The men from the flyer had joined a group of other uniforms who were carefully
   plotting out a search pattern for the surrounding area. Behind them, Yosef saw an
   automated barrier mechanical ponderously drawing a thick cable lined with warning
   flags around the edge of the nearest staging area.
   A familiar face caught his eye. “Sir!” Skelta was tall and thin of aspect, with a
   bearing to him that some of the other members of the Sentine unkindly equated to a
   15
   rodent. The jager came quickly over to his side, ducking slightly even though the
   coleopter was long gone. Skelta blinked, looking serious and pale. “Sir,” he repeated.
   The young man had ideas about being promoted beyond street duty to the Sentine’s
   next tier of investigatory operations, and so he was always attempting to present a
   sober and thoughtful aspect whenever he was in his superior’s company; but Yosef
   didn’t have the heart to tell the man he was just a little too dull-witted to make the
   grade. He wasn’t a bad sort, but sometimes he exhibited the kind of ignorance that
   made Sabrat’s palms itch.
   вЂњJager,” he said with a nod. “What do you have for me?”
   A shadow passed over Skelta’s face, something that went beyond his usual
   reticent manner, and Yosef caught it. The reeve had come here expecting to find a
   crime of usual note, but Skelta’s fractional expression gave him pause; and for the
   first time that morning, he wondered what he had walked into.
   вЂњIt’s, uh…” The jager trailed off and swallowed hard, his gaze losing focus for a
   moment as he thought about something else. “You should probably see for yourself,
   sir.”
   вЂњAll right. Show me.”
   Skelta led him through the ordered ranks of wooden cargo capsules, each one an
   octagonal block the size of a small groundcar. The smell of matured estufagemi wine
   was everywhere here, soaked into the massive crates, even bled into the stone flags of
   the flight apron. The warm, comforting scent seemed cloying and overly strong
   today, however, almost as if it were struggling to mask the perfume of something far
   less pleasant.
   Close by, he heard the quick barks of dogs, and then a man’s angry shout
   followed by snarls and yelps. “Dockside strays,” offered the jager. “Attracted by the
   stink, sir. Been kicking them away since before sunup.” The thought seemed to
   disagree with the young man and he changed the subject. “We think we have an
   identity for the victim. Documents found near the scene, papers and the like. Name
   was Jaared Norte. A lighter drivesman.”
   вЂњYou think,” echoed Yosef. “You’re not sure?”
   Skelta held up the barrier line for the reeve to step under, and they walked on,
   into the crime scene proper. “Haven’t been able to make a positive match yet, sir,” he
   went on. “Clinicians are on the way to check for dentition and blood-trace.” The
   jager coughed, self-consciously. “He… doesn’t have a face, sir. And we found some
   loose teeth… But we’re not sure they were, uh, his.”
   Yosef took that in without comment. “Go on.”
   вЂњNorte’s foreman has been interviewed. Apparently, Norte clocked off at the
   usual time last night, heading home to his wife and son. He never arrived.”
   вЂњThe wife report it, did she?”
   Skelta shook his head. “No, sir. They had some trouble, apparently. Their
   marriage contract was a few months from expiration, and it was causing friction. She
   probably thought he was out drinking up his pay.”
   вЂњThis from the foreman?”
   The jager nodded. “Sent a mobile to their house to confirm his take on things.
   Waiting on a word.”
   16
   вЂњWas Norte drank when he was killed?”
   This time, Skelta couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. “For his sake, I hope so.
   Would have been a blessing for the poor bastard.”
   Yosef sensed the fear in the other man’s words. Murder was not an uncommon
   crime on Iesta Veracrux; they were a relatively prosperous world that was built on
   the industry of wine, after all, and men who drank—or who coveted money—were
   often given to mistakes that led to bloodletting. The reeve had seen many deaths,
   some brutal, many of them sordid, each in their own way tragic; but all of them he
   had understood. Yosef knew crime for what it was—a weakness of self—and he
   knew the triggers that would bring that flaw to light, jealousy, madness, sorrow…
   But fear was the worst.
   And there was much fear on Iesta Veracrux these days. Here out in the ranges of
   the Ultima Segmentum, across the span of the galaxy from the Throne of Terra, the
   planet and its people felt distant and unprotected while wars were being fought, lines
   of battle drawn over maps their home world was too insignificant to grace. The
   Emperor and his council seemed so far away, and the oncoming storm of the
   insurrection churning sightless and unseen in the nearby stars laid a pall of creeping
   apprehension over everything. In every shadowed corner, people saw the ghosts of
   the unknown.
   They were afraid; and people who were afraid easily became people who were
   angry, directing their terror outwards against any slight, real or imagined. Today’s
   killing was only the newest of many that had rolled across Iesta Veracrux in recent
   months; murders spawned from trivialities, suicides, panicked attacks on illusory
   threats. While life went on as it ever did, beneath the surface there lay a black mood
   infecting the whole populace, even as they pretended it did not exist. Had Jaared
   Norte become a victim of this as well? Yosef thought it likely.
   They moved around a tall corner of containers and into a small courtyard formed
   by lines of crates. Overhead, another cargo ballute drifted slowly past, for a moment
   casting a broad oval shadow across the proceedings. A handful of other jagers were
   at work conducting fingertip sweeps of the location, a couple from the documentary
   office working complex forensic picters and sense-nets, another talking into a bulky
   wireless with a tall whip antenna. Skelta exchanged looks with one of the docos, and
   she gave him a rueful nod in return. Behind them all, there was a narrow but high
   storage shed with its doors splayed wide open. The reeve immediately spotted the
   patches of brown staining the metal doors.
   He frowned, looking around at the identical rust-coloured greatcoats and peaked
   caps of the Sentine officers. “The Arbites are inside?” Yosef nodded towards the
   shed.
   Skelta gave a derisive sniff. “The Arbites are not here, sir. Called it in, as per the
   regulations. Lord Marshal’s office was unavailable. Asked to be kept informed,
   though.”
   вЂњI’ll bet they did.” Yosef grimaced. For all the grand words and high ideals
   spouted by the Adeptus Arbites, at least on Iesta Veracrux that particular branch of
   the Adeptus Terra was less interested in the policing of the planet than they were in
   being seen to be interested in it. The officers of the Sentine had been the lawmen and
   wardens of the Iestan system since the days of the colony’s founding in the First
   17
   Establishment, and the installation of an office of the Arbites here during the Great
   Crusade had done little to change that state of affairs. The Lord Marshal and his staff
   seemed more than happy to remain in their imposing tower and allow the Sentine to
   function as they always had, handling all the “local” matters. Quite what the Arbites
   considered to be other than local had never, in twenty years of service, been made
   clear to Yosef Sabrat. The politics of the whole thing seemed to orbit at a level far
   beyond the reeve’s understanding.
   He glanced at Skelta. “Do you have a read on the murder weapon?”
   Skelta glanced at the doco officer again, as if asking permission. “Not exactly.
   Bladed weapon, probably. For starters. There might have been, uh, other tools used.”
   What little colour there was on the jager’s face seemed to ebb away and he
   swallowed hard.
   Yosef stopped on the threshold of the shed. A slaughterhouse stink of blood and
   faeces hit him hard and his nostrils twitched. “Witnesses?” he added.
   Skelta pointed upwards, towards a spotlight tower. “There are security imagers
   on the lighting stands, but they didn’t get anything. Angle was too shallow for the
   optics to pick up a likeness.”
   The reeve filed that information away; whoever had made the kill knew the
   layout of the airdocks, then. “Canvass every other imager in a half-kilometre radius,
   pull the memory coils and have some of the recruits sift them. We might get lucky.”
   He took a long inhalation, careful to breathe through his mouth. “Let’s see this,
   then.”
   He went in, and Skelta hesitantly followed a few steps behind. Inside, the shed
   was gloomy, lit only by patches of watery sunshine coming in by degrees through
   low windows and the hard-edged glares of humming portable arc lamps. On splayed
   tripod legs, a quad of gangly field emitters stood at the corners of an ill-defined
   square, a faint yellow glow connecting each to its neighbours. The permeable energy
   membrane allowed objects above a certain mass or kinetic energy to pass through
   unhindered, but kept particulates and other micro-scale matter in situ to aid with onsite
   forensics.
   Yosef’s brow creased in a frown as he approached the field; the area of open,
   shadowed floor between the emitters seemed at first glance to be empty. He stepped
   through the barrier and the stench in the air intensified. Glancing over his shoulder he
   saw that Skelta had not followed him through, instead remaining outside the line at
   stiff attention, his gaze directed anywhere but at the scene of the crime.
   The stone floor was awash in dark arterial blood, and there were fleshy shapes
   scattered randomly in the shallow little sea of rippling crimson. Ropes of what had to
   be intestine, shiny lumps of organ meat that caught the light, and other things pastywhite
   and streaked with fluid. An array of butcher slab remnants, discarded not in
   haste but with disinterest.
   The reeve felt disgust and confusion in equal measure, but he reined them in and
   let his sharp eye take the lead. He looked for patterns and impressions. It had been
   done with care and precision, this. No crime of passion, no murder of opportunity.
   Cool, calm and without fear of discovery. Yosef peered into the shadows, the first
   questions forming in his mind.
   18
   How had this been done and kept silent enough that no one had heard it? With so
   much blood shed, had the killer been tainted, left a trace? And where…? Where
   was…?
   Yosef stopped short and blinked. The pool of blood was in gentle motion, small
   swells crossing it back and forth. He heard tiny hollow splashes here and there. “The
   remains…” he began, glancing back at Skelta. “There’s not enough for a corpse.
   Where’s Norte’s body?”
   The jager had one hand to his mouth, and with the other he gingerly pointed
   upwards. Yosef raised his eyes to the roof and there he found the rest of Jaared Norte.
   The drivesman’s body had been opened in a manner that the reeve had only seen
   in use by morticians—or rather, in a manner that was an extreme variation on the cuts
   used for a post-mortem examination. Iron impact rods, the kind of heavy bolts used
   by building labourers to secure construction work to sheer cliff sides, had been used
   to nail Norte to the ceiling of the shed. One through each ankle, another through the
   meat of the forearms, the limbs splayed out in an X-shaped stance. Then, slices
   across the torso at oblique angles had enabled the killer to peel back the epidermis of
   the torso, the neck and face. These cuts created pennants of skin that each came to a
   point; one to the right and to the left, another down across the groin and the last torn
   up over the bloody grinning mess of the skull to rise over the dead man’s head. Four
   more impact rods secured the tips of these wet rags of meat in place. From the
   opened confines of the man’s body, loops of dislodged muscle and broken spars of
   bone pointed down towards the blood pool, weeping fluid.
   вЂњHave you ever seen anything like that?” managed Skelta, his voice thick with
   revulsion. “It’s horrific.”
   Yosef’s first thought was of a sculpture, of an artwork. Against the dark metal
   plates of the shed’s roof, the drivesman had been made into a star with eight points.
   вЂњI don’t know,” whispered the reeve.
   19
   TWO
   The Shrouds
   Masked
   A Common Blade
   The Imperial Palace was more city than stronghold, vast and ornate in the majesty of
   its sprawling scope, towers, pinnacles and great monoliths of stone and gold that
   swept from horizon to jagged horizon. Landscapes that in millennia past had been a
   patchwork of nation-states and sovereignties were now buried beneath the grand
   unity of the Empire of Humanity, and its greatest monument. The dominions of the
   palace encompassed whole settlements and satellite townships, from the confines of
   the Petitioner’s City to the ranges of the Elysium Domes, across the largest star-port
   in the Sol system and down to the awesome spectacle of the Eternity Gate. Millions
   toiled within its outer walls in service to the Imperium, many living their lives
   without ever leaving the silver arcology ziggurats where they were born, served, and
   died.
   This was the shining, beating heart of all human endeavour, the throne and the
   birthplace of a species that stood astride the galaxy, its splendour and dignity vast
   enough that no one voice could ever hope to encompass them with mere words. Terra
   and her greatness were the jewel in the Imperial crown, bright and endless.
   And yet; within a metropolis that masqueraded as a continent, there were a
   myriad of ghost rooms and secret places. There were corners where the light did not
   fall—some of them created for just that purpose.
   There was a chamber known as the Shrouds. Inside the confines of the Inner
   Palace, if one could have gazed upon the schematics of those bold artisans who laid
   the first stones of the gargantuan city-state, no trace of the room or its entrances
   would have been apparent. To all intents and purposes, this place did not exist, and
   even those who had need to know of its reality could not have pinpointed it on a map.
   If one could not find the Shrouds, then one was not meant to.
   There were many ways to the chamber, and those who met there might know of
   one or two—hidden passageways concealed in the tromp I’oeil artworks of the Arc
   Galleries; a shaft behind the captured waterfall at the Annapurna Gate; the blind
   corridor near the Great Orrery; the Solomon Folly and the ghost switch in the
   sapphire elevator at the Western Vantage; these and others, some unused for
   centuries. Those summoned to the Shrouds would emerge into a labyrinth of evershifting
   corridors that defied all attempts to map them, guided by a mech-intellect
   that would navigate them to the room and never twice by the same route. All that
   could be certain was that the chamber was atop a tower, one of thousands ranged in
   sentry rows across the inner bulwarks of the Palace, and even that was a supposition,
   20
   based on the weak patina of daylight allowed to penetrate the sailcloth-thick blinds
   that forever curtained the great oval windows about the room. Some suspected that
   the light might be a deception, a falsehood filtered through trick glass or even totally
   simulated. Perhaps the chamber was deep underground, or perhaps there were more
   than one of them, a suite of dozens of identical rooms so exacting in similarity that to
   tell them apart would be impossible.
   And once within, there was no place on Earth more secure, save for the
   Emperor’s Throne Room itself. None could listen in upon words spoken in a place
   that did not exist, that could not be found. The walls of the chamber, dark mahogany
   panels adorned with minimalist artworks and a few lume-globes, concealed layers of
   instrumentality that rendered the room and everything in it completely dead to the
   eyes and ears of any possible surveillance. There were counter-measures that fogged
   radiation detection frequencies, devices that swallowed sound and heat and light,
   working alongside slivers of living neural matter broadcasting the telepathic
   equivalent of white noise across all psychic spectra. There was even a rumour that
   the chamber was cloaked by a field of disruption that actually dislocated local spacetime
   by several fractions of a second, allowing the room to exist a heartbeat into the
   future and out of reach of the rest of the universe.
   In the Shrouds there was a table, a long octagon of polished rosewood, and upon
   it a simple hololithic projector casting a cool glow over the assembled men and
   women gathered there. In deep, comfortable seats, six of them clustered around one
   end of the table, while a seventh sat alone at the head. The eighth did not sit, but
   instead stood just beyond the range of the light, content to be little more than a tall
   shape made up of shadows and angles.
   The seven at the table had faces of porcelain and precious metals. Masks covered
   their countenances from brow-line to neck, and like the room they were in, these
   outer concealments, were far more than they appeared. Each mask was loaded with
   advanced technologies, data-libraries, sensoria, even microweapons, and each had a
   different aspect that was the mirror of its wearer; only the man at the head of the
   table wore a face with no affectation. His mask was simple and silver, as if it had
   been carved from polished steel, with only the vaguest impression of a brow, eyes, a
   nose and mouth. Reflected in its sheen, the panes of information shown by the
   hololith turned slowly, allowing everyone in the room to read them.
   What was written there was damning and disappointing in equal measure.
   вЂњThen he is dead,” said a woman’s voice, the tone filtered through a fractal baffle
   that rendered her vocal pattern untraceable. Her mask was black and it fit skin-close,
   almost like a hood made of silk; only the large oval rubies that were her eyes broke
   the illusion. “The report here makes that clear.”
   вЂњQuick to judge, as ever,” came a throaty whisper, similarly filtered, from a
   motionless mask that resembled a distended, hydrocephalic skull. “We should hold
   for certainty, Siress Callidus.”
   The ruby eyes glared across the table. “My esteemed Sire Culexus,” came the
   terse reply. “How long would you have us wait? Until the revolt reaches our door?”
   She turned her jewelled gaze on the only other woman seated at the table, a figure
   whose face was hidden behind an elegant velvet visor of green and gold, vaned with
   21
   lines of droplet pearls and dark emeralds. “Our sister’s agent has failed. As I said he
   would.”
   The woman in the green mask stiffened, and leaned back in her chair, distancing
   herself from the ire of Callidus. Her reply was frosty and brittle. “I would note that
   none of you have yet been able to place an operative so close to the Warmaster as
   Clade Venenum did. Tobeld was one of my finest students, equal to the task he was
   set upon—”
   That drew a derisive grant from a hulking male behind a grinning, fang-toothed
   rictus made of bone and gunmetal. “If he was equal to it, then why isn’t the turncoat
   dead? All that time wasted and for what? To give the traitors a fresh corpse at Horus’
   doorstep?” He made a spitting sound.
   Siress Venenum’s eyes narrowed behind their disguise. “However little you think
   of my clade, dear Eversor, your record to date gives you no cause to preen.” She
   drew herself up. “What have you contributed to this mission other than a few messy
   and explosive deaths?”
   The fanged mask regarded her, anger radiating out from the man behind it. “My
   agents have brought fear!” he spat. “Each kill has severed the head of a key
   insurrectionist element!”
   вЂњNot to mention countless collaterals,” offered a dry, dour voice. The comment
   emerged from behind a standard-issue spy mask, no different from the kind issued to
   every one of the sniper operatives of Clade Vindicare. “We need a surgeon’s touch to
   excise the Archtraitor. A scalpel, not a firebomb.”
   Sire Eversor let out a low growl. “When the day comes that someone invents a
   rifle you can fire from the safely of your chair and still hit Horus half a galaxy away,
   you can save us all. But until then, hide behind your gun sight and stay silent!”
   The sixth figure at the far end of the table cleared his throat, cocking his head.
   His mask, a thing made of glassy layers that reflected granulated, randomised
   images, flickered in the dimness. “If I might address Sire Culexus and Siress
   Callidus?” said Sire Vanus. “My clade’s predictive engines and our most diligent
   info-cytes have concluded, based on all available data and prognostic simulations,
   that the probability of Tobeld’s survival to complete his mission was zero point two
   percent. Margin of error negligible. However, it did represent an improvement in
   proximity-to-target over all Officio Assassinorum operations to date.”
   вЂњA mile or an inch,” hissed Culexus, “it doesn’t matter if the kill was lost.”
   Siress Callidus looked up the table towards the man in the silver mask. “I want to
   activate a new operative,” she began. “Her name is M’Shen, she is one of the best of
   my clade and I—”
   вЂњTobeld was the best of the Venenum!” snapped Sire Vindicare, with sudden
   annoyance. “Just as Hoswalt was the best of mine, just as Eversor sent his best and so
   on and so on! But we’re throwing our most gifted students into a meat-grinder,
   sending them in blind and half-prepared! Every strike against Horus breaks, and he
   shrugs it off without notice!” He shook his head grimly. “Is this what we have been
   reduced to? Every time we meet, listening to a catalogue of each other’s failures?”
   The masked man spread his arms, taking in his five cohorts. “We all remember that
   day on Mount Vengeance. The pact we made in the shadow of the Great Crusade, the
   oath that breathed life into the Officio Assassinorum. For decades we have hunted
   22
   down the enemies of our Emperor through stealth and subterfuge. We have shown
   them there is no safe place to hide.” Sire Vindicare shot a look at Sire Vanus. “What
   did he say that day?”
   Vanus answered immediately, his mask shimmering. “No world shall be beyond
   my rule. No enemy shall be beyond my wrath.”
   Sire Culexus nodded solemnly. “No enemy…” he repeated. “No enemy but
   Horus, so it seems.”
   вЂњNo!” snarled Callidus. “I can kill him.” The man in the silver mask remained
   silent and she went on, imploring. “I will kill him, if only you will give me leave to
   do so!”
   вЂњYou will fail as well!” snarled Eversor. “My clade is the only one capable of the
   deed! The only one ruthless enough to end the Warmaster’s life!”
   At once, it seemed as if every one of the masters and mistresses were about to
   launch into the same tirade, but before they could begin, the silver mask resonated
   with a single word of command. “Silence.”
   The chamber became quiet, and the Master of Assassins took a breath before
   speaking again. “This rivalry and bickering serves no purpose,” he began, his voice
   level and firm. “In all the history of this group, there has never been a target whose
   retirement required more than one mission to prosecute. To date, the Horus problem
   has claimed eight Officio operatives across all six of the primary clades. Each of you
   are the first of your clade, the founders… And yet you sit here and jostle for
   supremacy over one another instead of giving me the kill we so desperately want! I
   demand a solution to rid us of the Emperor’s turbulent and wayward son.”
   Sire Eversor spoke. “I will commit every active agent in my clade. All of them,
   all at once. If I must spend the lives of every last Eversor to kill Horus, then so be it.”
   For the first time since the group had assembled, the silent figure in the hooded
   robes made a sound; a soft grunt of disagreement.
   вЂњOur visitor has something to add,” said Sire Vanus.
   The Master of Assassins inclined his head towards the shadows. “Is that so?”
   The hooded man moved slightly, enough that he became better defined by the
   glow-light, but not so much that his face could be discerned inside the depths of the
   robe. “None of you are soldiers,” he rumbled, his deep tones carrying across the
   room. “You are so used to working alone, as your occupation demands, that you
   forget a rule of all conflict. Force doubled is force squared.”
   вЂњDid I not just say such a thing?”, snapped Sire Eversor.
   The hooded man ignored the interruption. “I have heard you all speak. I have
   seen your mission plans. They were not flawed. They were simply not enough.” He
   nodded to himself. “No single assassin, no matter how well-trained, no matter which
   clade they come from, could ever hope to terminate the Archtraitor alone. But a
   collective of your killers…” He nodded again. “That might be enough.”
   вЂњA strike team…” mused Sire Vindicare.
   вЂњAn Execution Force,” corrected the Master. “An elite unit hand-picked for the
   task.”
   Sire Vanus frowned behind his mask. “Such a suggestion… There is no precedent
   for something like this. The Emperor will not approve of it.”
   23
   вЂњOh?” said Callidus. “What makes you so certain?”
   The master of Clade Vanus leaned forward, the perturbations of his image-mask
   growing more agitated. “The veils of secrecy preserve all that we are,” he insisted.
   вЂњFor decades we have worked in the shadows of the Imperium, at the margins of the
   Emperor’s knowledge, and for good reason. We serve him in deeds that he must
   never know of, in order to maintain his noble purity, and to do so there are
   conventions we have always followed.” He shot a look at the hooded man. “A code
   of ethics. Rules of conflict.”
   вЂњAgreed,” ventured Siress Venenum. “The deployment of an assassin is a delicate
   matter and never one taken lightly. We have in the past fielded two or three on a
   single mission when the circumstances were most extreme, but then always from the
   same clade, and always after much deliberation.”
   Vanus was nodding. “Six at once, from every prime clade? You cannot expect the
   Emperor to sanction such a thing. It is simply… not done.”
   The Master of Assassins was silent for a long moment; then he steepled his
   fingers in front of him, pressing the apex of them to the lips of his silver face. “What
   I expect is that each clade’s Director Primus will obey my orders without question.
   These вЂ˜rules’ of which you speak, Vanus… Tell me, does Horus Lupercal adhere to
   them as strongly as you do?” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone brooked no
   disagreement. “Do you believe that the Archtraitor will baulk at a tactic because it
   offends the manners of those at court? Because it is not done?”
   вЂњHe bombed his sworn brethren, his own men even, into obliteration,” said Sire
   Vindicare. “I doubt anything is beyond him.”
   The Master nodded. “And if we are to kill this foe, we cannot limit ourselves to
   the moral abstracts that have guided us in the past. We must dare to exceed them.”
   He paused. “This will be done.”
   вЂњMy lord—” began Vanus, reaching out a hand.
   вЂњIt is so ordered,” said the man in the silver mask, with finality. “This discussion
   is at an end.”
   When the others had taken their leave through the doorways of the Shrouds, and after
   the psyber eagles nesting hidden in the apex of the ceiling had circled the room to
   ensure there were no new listening devices in place, the Master of Assassins allowed
   himself a moment to give a deep sigh. And then, with care, he reached up and
   removed the silver mask, the dermal pads releasing their contact from the flesh of his
   face. He shook his head, allowing a grey cascade of hair to emerge and pool upon his
   shoulders, over the pattern of the nondescript robes he wore. “I think I need a drink,”
   he muttered. His voice sounded nothing like the one that had issued from the lips of
   the mask; but then that was to be expected. The Master of Assassins was a ghost
   among ghosts, known only to the leaders of the clades as one of the High Lords of
   Terra; but as to which of the Emperor’s council he was, that was left for them to
   suspect. There were five living beings who knew the true identity of the Officio’s
   leader, and two of them were in this room.
   A machine-slave ambled over and offered up a gold-etched glass of brandy-laced
   black tea. “Will you join me, my friend?” he asked.
   вЂњIf it pleases the Sigillite, I will abstain,” said the hooded man.
   24
   вЂњAs you wish.” For a brief moment, the man who stood at the Emperor’s right
   hand, the man who wore the rank of Regent of Terra, studied his careworn face in the
   curvature of the glass. Malcador was himself once more, the cloak of the Master of
   Assassins gone and faded, the identity shuttered away until the next time it was
   needed.
   He took a deep draught of the tea, and savoured it. He sighed. The effects of the
   counter-psionics in the room were not enough to cause him any serious ill-effect, but
   their presence was like the humming of an invisible insect, irritating the edges of his
   witch-sight. As he sometimes did in these moments, Malcador allowed himself to
   wonder which of the clade leaders had an idea of who he might really be. The
   Sigillite knew that if he put his will to it, he could uncover the true faces of every one
   of the Directors Primus. But he had never pursued this matter; there had never been
   the need. The fragile state of grace in which the leaders of the Officio Assassinorum
   existed had served to keep them all honest; no single Sire or Siress could ever know
   if their colleagues, their subordinates, even their lovers were not behind the masks
   they saw about the table. The group had been born in darkness and secrecy, and now
   it could only live there as long as the rules of its existence were adhered to.
   Rules that Malcador had just broken.
   His companion finally gave himself up to the light and stepped into full visibility,
   walking around the table with slow, steady steps. The hooded man was large,
   towering over the Sigillite where he sat in his chair. As big as a warrior of the
   Adeptus Astartes, out of the darkness the man who had observed the meeting was a
   threat made flesh, and he moved with a grace that caused his rust-coloured robes to
   flow like water. A hand, tawny of skin and scarred, reached up and pulled back the
   voluminous hood over a shorn skull and queue of dark hair, to reveal a face that was
   grim and narrow of eye. At his throat, gold-flecked brands in the shapes of lightning
   bolts were just visible past the open collar.
   вЂњSpeak your mind, Captain-General,” said Malcador, reading his aura. “I can see
   the disquiet coming off you like smoke from a fire pit.”
   Constantin Valdor, Chief Custodian of the Legio Custodes, spared him a glance
   that other men would have withered under. “I have said all I need to say,” Valdor
   replied. “For better or for worse.” The warrior’s hand dropped to the table top and he
   absently traced a finger over the wood. He looked around; Malcador had no doubts
   that the Custodian Guardsman had spent his time in this chamber working out where
   the room might actually be located.
   The Sigillite drowned the beginnings of a waxen smile in another sip of the
   bittersweet tea. “I confess, I had not expected you to do anything other than observe,”
   he began. “But instead you broke open the pattern of the usual parry and riposte that
   typically comprises these meetings.”
   Valdor paused, looking away from him. “Why did you ask me here, my lord?”
   вЂњTo watch,” Malcador replied. “I wanted to ask your counsel after the fact—”
   The Custodian turned, cutting him off. “Don’t lie to me. You didn’t ask me to
   join you in this place just for my silence.” Valdor studied him. “You knew exactly
   what I would say.”
   Malcador let the smile out, at last. “I… had an inkling.”
   Valdor’s lips thinned. “I hope you are pleased with the outcome, then.”
   25
   The Sigillite sensed the warrior was about to leave, and he spoke again quickly to
   waylay him. “I am surprised in some measure, it must be said. After all, you are the
   expression of Imperial strength and nobility. You are the personal guard of the Lord
   of Earth, as pure a warrior-kindred as many might aspire to become. And in that, I
   would have thought you of all men would consider the tactics of the Assassinorum to
   be…” He paused, feeling for the right word. “Underhanded. Dishonourable, even?”
   Valdor’s face shifted, but not towards annoyance as Malcador had expected.
   Instead he smiled without humour. “If that was a feint to test me, Sigillite, it was a
   poor one. I expected better of you.”
   вЂњIt’s been a long day,” Malcador offered.
   вЂњThe Legio Custodes have done many things your assassins would think beyond
   us. The sires and siresses are not the only ones who have marque to operate under…
   special conditions.”
   вЂњYour charter is quite specific on the Legio’s zone of responsibility.” Malcador
   felt a frown forming. This conversation was not going where he had expected it to.
   вЂњIf you wish,” Valdor said, with deceptive lightness. “My duty is to preserve the
   life of the Emperor of Mankind above all else. That is accomplished through many
   different endeavours. The termination of the traitor-son Horus Lupercal and the clear
   and present danger he represents, no matter how it is brought to pass, serves my
   duty.”
   вЂњSo, you really believe that a task force of killers could do this?”
   Valdor gave a slight shrug of his huge shoulders. “I believe they have a chance, if
   the pointless tensions between the clades can be arrested.”
   Malcador smiled. “You see, Captain-General? I did not lie. I wanted your insight.
   You have given it to me.”
   вЂњI haven’t finished,” said the warrior. “Vanus was right. This mission will not
   please the Emperor when he learns of it, and he will learn of it when I tell him every
   word that was spoken in this room today.”
   The Sigillite’s smile vanished. “That would be an error, Custodian. A grave
   misjudgement on your part.”
   вЂњYou cannot have such hubris as to believe that you know better than he?”
   Valdor said, his tone hardening.
   вЂњOf course not!” Malcador snapped in return, his temper flaring. “But you know
   as well as I do that in order to protect the sanctity of Terra and our liege-lord, some
   things must be kept in the dark. The Imperium is at a delicate point, and we both
   know it. All the effort we have spent on the Great Crusade, and the Emperor’s works,
   all of that has been placed in most dire jeopardy by Horus’ insurrection. The conflicts
   being fought at this very moment are not just on the battlefields of distant worlds and
   in the void of space! They are in hearts and minds, and other realms less tangible. But
   now, here is the opportunity to fight in the shadows, unseen and unremarked. To
   have this bloody deed done without setting the galaxy ablaze in its wake! A swift
   ending. The head of the snake severed with a single blow.” He took a long breath.
   вЂњBut many may see it as ignoble. Use it against us. And for a father to sanction the
   execution of his son… Perhaps it may be beyond the pale. And that is why some
   things cannot be spoken of outside this chamber.”
   26
   Valdor folded his muscular arms over his chest and stared down at Malcador.
   вЂњThat statement has all the colour of an order,” he said. “But who gives it, I wonder?
   The Master of Assassins, or the Regent of Terra?”
   The Sigillite’s eyes glittered in the gloom. “Decide for yourself,” he said.
   Before the Emperor’s enlightenment, the Sentine’s precinct house had been a place
   of idolatry and ancestor worship. Once, the bodies of the rich and those judged
   worthy had been buried in crypts beneath the main hall, and great garish statuary and
   other extravagant gewgaws had filled every corner of the building, with cloisters and
   naves leading here and there to chapels for every deity the First Establishment had
   brought with them from Old Earth. Now the crypts were cells and memory stacks,
   armouries and storage lockers. The chapels had different tenants now, icons called
   security and vigilance, and all the artworks and idols were crushed and gone, a few
   saved in museums as indicators of a less sophisticated past. All this had taken place a
   long time before Yosef Sabrat had been born, however. There were barely a handful
   of living citizens on Iesta Veracrux who could recall any vestiges of a past with
   religion in it.
   The cathedral’s second life as a place of justice served the building well. It was
   just as impressive a home for the Sentine as it had been for the long-departed priests.
   Sabrat crossed the long axis of the main hall, past the open waiting quad where
   citizens queued and argued with the luckless jagers on desk duty, and through the
   checkpoint where an impassive, watchful gun-servitor licked his face with a fan of
   green laser light before letting him by. He threw a cursory nod to a group of other
   reeves from the West Catchment, all of them gathered around a nynemen board with
   tapers of scrip, waving off an invite to join them in a game; instead he took the spiral
   stairs up to the second level. The upper floors were almost a building inside a
   building, a multi-storey blockhouse that had been constructed inside the hangar-like
   confines of the main hall, and retrofitted into the structure. The room was in the same
   state of shabby, half-controlled clutter as it ever was, with bales of rough vinepaper
   and starkly shot picts arranged in loose piles that represented some sort of untidy
   order, if only one knew how to interpret it. In the centre of the room, a pillar studded
   with brass communication sockets sprouted thick rubber-sheathed cables that snaked
   to headsets or to hololiths. One of them ended in a listening rig around the head of
   Yosef’s cohort, who sat bent over in a chair, listening with his eyes closed, fingers
   absently toying with a gold aquila on a chain about his wrist.
   вЂњDaig.” Yosef stopped in front of the man and called his name. When he didn’t
   respond, the reeve snapped his fingers loudly. “Wake up!”
   Reeve Daig Segan opened his eyes and let out a sigh. “This isn’t sleep, Yosef.
   This is deep thought. Have you ever had one of those?” He took off the headset and
   looked up at him. Yosef heard the tinny twitter of a synthetic voice from the
   speakers, reading out the text of an incident report in a clicking monotone.
   Daig was a study in contrasts to his cohort. Where Sabrat was of slightly above
   average height, narrow-shouldered, clean-shaven and sandy-haired, Segan was
   stocky and not without jowls, his hair curly and unkempt around a perpetually
   dejected expression. He managed another heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world
   were pressing down upon him. “There’s no point in me listening to this a second
   27
   time,” he went on, tugging the rig’s jack plug from its socket on the pillar with a snap
   of his wrist. “Skelta’s reports are just as dull with the machine reading them to me as
   him doing it.”
   Yosef frowned. “What I saw out there wasn’t any stripe of dull.” He glanced
   down and saw a spread of picts from the storage shed crime scene. Even rendered in
   light-drenched black and white, the horror of it did not lessen. Mirrors of liquid were
   in every image, and the sight of them brought sense memory abruptly back into the
   reeve’s forebrain. He blinked the sensation away.
   Daig saw him do it. “You all right?” he asked, concern furrowing his brow.
   вЂњNeed a moment?”
   вЂњNo,” Yosef said firmly. “You said you had something new?”
   Daig’s head bobbed. “Not so new. More like a confirmation of something we
   already suspected.” He searched for a moment through the papers and data-slates
   before he found a sheaf of inky printout. “Analysis of the cutting gave up a pattern
   that matches a type of industrial blade.”
   вЂњMedical?” Yosef recalled his impression of the almost clinical lines of the
   mutilation; but Daig shook his head.
   вЂњViticultural, actually.” The other reeve pawed through a box at his feet and
   produced a plastic case, opening it to reveal a wickedly curved knife with a knurled
   handle. “I brought one up from evidentiary so we’d have an example to look at.”
   Yosef recognised it instantly, and his hand twitched as he resisted the urge to
   reach for it. A harvestman’s blade, one of the most familiar tools on the planet, made
   by the millions for Iesta Veracrux’s huge army of agricultural workers. Blades
   exactly like this one were used in every vineyard, and they were as commonplace as
   the grapes they were used to cut. Being so widespread, of course, they were also the
   most common tool of murder on Iesta—but Yosef had never seen such a blade used
   for so ornate a killing as the one at the airdocks. To use the crude tool for so fine a
   cutting would have required both great skill and no little time to accomplish it. “What
   in Terra’s name are we dealing with?” he muttered.
   вЂњIt’s a ritual,” said Daig, with a certainty that seemed to come from nowhere. “It
   can’t be anything else.” He put the blade aside and gestured at the scattered files. As
   well as the tide of paperwork from the airdock murder, packets of fiche and other
   picts had arrived from a couple of the sub-precincts in the nearby arroyo territories,
   automatically flagged by the reports of the incident sent out on the planetwide watchwire.
   There had been other deaths, and while the nature of them had not been exactly
   the same as Jaared Norte’s, elements of similar methodology were expressed in each.
   Daig had suggested that their killer was “maturing” with each assault, growing more
   confident in what they wished to convey with their deeds.
   This was not Iesta Veracrux’s first serial murder spree. But it seemed different
   from all the others that had gone before it, in a manner that Yosef could not yet fully
   articulate.
   вЂњWhat I don’t fathom,” began a voice from behind them, “is how in Stars the
   bugger got the poor fool up on the ceiling.” Yosef and Daig turned to where Reeve
   Warden Berts Laimner stood, a fan of picts in his meaty paw. Laimner was a big
   man, dark-skinned and always smiling, even now in a small way at the sight of
   28
   Norte’s grotesque death; but the warm expression was always a falsehood, masking a
   character that was self-serving and oily. “What do you think, Sabrat?”
   Yosef framed a noncommittal answer. “We’re looking into that, Warden.”
   Laimner gave a chuckle that set Yosef’s teeth on edge and discarded the images.
   вЂњWell, I hope you’ve got a better reply than that up your sleeve.” He pointed across
   the room to an entranceway. “The High-Reeve is just outside that door. She wants to
   weigh in on this.”
   Daig actually let out a little groan, and Yosef felt himself sag inside. If the
   precinct commander was putting her hand on this case, then the investigators could
   be certain that their job was about to become twice as hard.
   As if Laimner’s words had been a magical summons, the door opened and High-
   Reeve Kata Telemach entered the office with an assistant trailing her. Telemach’s
   appearance was like a shock going through the room, and every reeve and jager
   scrambled to look as if they were working hard and being diligent. She didn’t appear
   to notice, instead making a direct line for Yosef and Daig. The woman was wearing a
   well-pressed dress uniform, and around her neck was a gold rod with one single
   silver band around it.
   вЂњI was just telling Reeves Sabrat and Segan of your interest, ma’am,” said
   Laimner.
   The commander seemed distracted. “Progress?” she asked. The woman had a
   sharp face and hard eyes.
   вЂњWe’re building a solid foundation,” offered Daig, equally as good at giving nonanswers
   as his cohort was. He swallowed. “There are some matters of crossjurisdictional
   circumstance that might become an issue later, however.” He was about
   to say more, but Telemach shot Laimner a look as if to say Haven’t you dealt with
   this already?
   вЂњThat will not be a concern, Reeve. I have just returned from an audience with
   the Lord Marshal of the Adeptus Arbites.”
   вЂњOh?” Yosef tried to keep any sarcasm out of his voice.
   Telemach went on. “The Arbites have a lot of wine in their glass at the moment.
   They’re engaged in a few operations across the planet. This… case doesn’t need to
   be added to that workload.”
   Operations. That seemed to be the current word of choice to describe the actions
   of the Arbites on Iesta Veracrux. A colourless, open term that belied the reality of
   what they were actually doing—which was quietly dredging the lower cities and the
   upper echelons alike for the slightest evidence of any anti-Imperial sedition and pro-
   Horus thinking, ruthlessly stamping out anything that might blossom into actual
   treason.
   вЂњIt’s only bodies,” noted Laimner, in an off-hand manner.
   вЂњExactly,” said the High-Reeve. “And quite frankly, the Sentine are better suited
   for this sort of police work. The Arbites are not native to this world, and we are. We
   know it better than they ever will.”
   вЂњJust so,” offered Yosef.
   29
   Telemach graced them with a tight smile. “I want to deal with this in a swift and
   firm manner. I think the Lord Marshal and his masters back on Terra could do with a
   reminder that we Iestans can deal with our own problems.”
   Yosef nodded here, partly because he knew he was supposed to, and partly
   because Telemach had just confirmed for him her real reason for wanting the case
   closed quickly. It was no secret that the High-Reeve had designs on the rank of
   Landgrave, head of all Sentine forces across the planet; and for her to get that, the
   current incumbent—and so the rumours went, her lover—would need to rise to the
   only role open to him, the Imperial Governorship of the planet. The Landgrave’s only
   real competition for that posting was the Lord Marshal of the Arbites. Showing a
   decisive posture towards a crime like this one would count for a lot when the time for
   new installations was nigh.
   вЂњWe’re investigating all avenues of interest,” said Laimner.
   The High-Reeve tapped a finger on her lips. “I want you to pay special attention
   to any connection with those religious fanatics that are showing up in the Falls and
   out at Breghoot.”
   вЂњThe Theoge,” Laimner offered helpfully, with a sniff. “Odd bunch.”
   вЂњWith respect,” said Daig, “they’re hardly fanatics. They’re just—”
   Telemach didn’t let him finish. “Odium spreads wherever it takes root, Reeve.
   The Emperor did not guide the Great Crusade to us for nothing. I won’t have
   superstition find purchase in this city or any other on my watch, is that clear?” She
   eyed Yosef. “The Theoge is an underground cult, forbidden by Imperial law. Find the
   connection between them and this crime, gentlemen.”
   If it exists or not, Yosef added silently.
   вЂњYou have an understanding of my interest, then?” she concluded.
   He nodded once more. “Indeed I do, ma’am. We’ll do our best.”
   Telemach sniffed. “Do better than that, Sabrat.”
   She walked on, and Laimner fell in step with her, shooting him a weak grin as
   they moved off.
   вЂњIt’s only bodies,” parroted Yosef, in a pinched imitation of the Warden’s voice
   as he watched them go.
   вЂњWhat he means, it’s only little people dead so far. No one he has any interest
   in.” He blew out a breath.
   Daig’s expression had become more pessimistic than normal. “Where does that
   effluent about the Theoge come from?” he muttered. “What could they possibly have
   to do with serial murders? Everything Telemach knows about those people comes
   from rumours, trash based on nothing but hearsay and bigotry.”
   Yosef raised an eyebrow. “You know better, do you?” He shrugged. “Clearly
   not,” said the other man, after a moment.
   After he had put Ivak to bed, Yosef returned to the living room and took a seat by the
   radiator. He smiled to see that his wife had poured a glass of the good mistwater for
   him, and he sipped it as she set the auto-launder to work in the back room.
   30
   Yosef lost himself in the honeyed swirl of the drink and let his mind drift. In the
   fluids he saw strange oceans, vast and unknown. Somehow, the sight of them rested
   him, the perturbations soothing his thoughts.
   When Renia coughed, he looked up with a start, spilling a drop down the side of
   the glass. His wife had entered the room and he had been so captured by reverie that
   he had not even been aware of her.
   She gave him a worried look. “Are you all right?”
   вЂњYes.”
   Renia was not convinced. Fifteen years of loving someone gave you that kind of
   insight as a matter of course. And because of that, she didn’t press him. His wife
   knew his job, and she knew that he did his best to leave it at the precinct every time
   he came home. Instead she asked him, just once. “Do you need to talk?”
   He took a sip of the wine and didn’t look at her. “Not yet.”
   She changed the subject, but not enough for Yosef’s comfort. “There was an
   incident at Ivak’s schola today. A boy taken out of classes.”
   вЂњWhy?”
   вЂњIvak said it was because of a game some of the older children were playing. The
   Warmaster and the Emperor, they called it.” Yosef put down the glass as she went
   on. Somehow, he already knew what Renia was going to say. “This boy, he went on
   about the Warmaster. Ivak’s teachers heard him and they reported it.”
   вЂњTo the Arbites?”
   She nodded. “Now people are talking. Or else they are not talking at all.”
   Yosef’s lips thinned. “Everyone is uncertain,” he said, at length. “Everyone is
   afraid of what’s behind the horizon… But this sort of thing… It’s foolishness.”
   вЂњI’ve heard rumours,” she began. “Stories from people who know people on other
   worlds, in other systems.”
   He had heard the same thing, hushed whispers in the corners of the precinct from
   men who couldn’t moderate the sound of their voices. Rumour and counter-rumour.
   Reports of terrible things, of black deeds—sometimes the same deeds—attributed to
   those in service of the Warmaster and the Emperor of Mankind.
   вЂњPeople who used to talk freely are going silent to me,” she added.
   вЂњBecause I’m your husband?” Off her nod he frowned. “I’m not an Arbites!”
   вЂњI think the Lord Marshal’s men are making it worse,” she said. “Before, there
   was nothing that could not be said, no debate that could not be aired without
   prejudice. But now… After the insurrection…” Her words lost momentum and faded.
   Renia needed something from him, some assurance that would ease what troubled
   her, but as Yosef searched himself for it, he found nothing to give. He opened his
   mouth to speak, not sure of what he would tell her, and somewhere outside the house
   glass shattered against bricks.
   He was immediately on his feet, at the window, peering through the slats. Raised
   voices met him. Down below, where the road snaked past the stairs to his front door,
   he saw a group of four youths surrounding a fifth. They were brandishing bottles like
   clubs. As he watched, the fifth stumbled backwards over the broken glass and fell to
   his haunches.
   31
   Renia was already opening the wooden case on the wall where the watch-wire
   terminal sat. She gave him a questioning look and he nodded. “Call it in.”
   He snatched his greatcoat from the hook in the hall as she shouted after him. “Be
   careful!”
   Yosef heard feet on the stairs behind him and turned, one hand on the latch, to see
   Ivak silhouetted in the gloom. “Father?”
   вЂњGo back to bed,” he told the boy. “I’ll just be a moment.”
   He put his warrant rod around his neck and went out.
   * * *
   By the time he got to the road, they had started throwing punches at the youth on the
   ground. He heard yelling and once again, the name rose up at him, shouted like a
   blood-curse. Horus.
   The fifth youth was bleeding and trying to protect himself by holding his arms up
   around his head. Yosef saw a particularly hard and fast haymaker blow come
   slamming in from the right, knocking the boy down.
   The reeve flicked his wrist and the baton he carried in his sleeve pocket dropped
   into his palm. With a whickering hiss, the memory-metal tube extended to four times
   its length. Anger flared inside him and he shouted out “Sentinel” even as he aimed a
   low sweeping blow at the knees of the nearest attacker.
   The hit connected and the youth went down hard. The others reacted, falling
   back. One of them had a half-brick in his hand, weighing it like he was considering a
   throw. Yosef scanned their faces. They had scarves around their mouths and noses,
   but he knew railgangers when he saw them. These were young men from the loading
   terminals, who by day worked the cargo monorails that connected the airdocks to the
   vineyards, and by night made trouble and engaged in minor crime. But they were out
   of their normal patch in this residential district, apparently drawn here by their
   victim.
   вЂњBind him!” shouted one of them, stabbing a finger at the injured youth. “He’s a
   traitor, that’s what he is! Whoreson traitor!”
   вЂњNo…” managed the youth. “Am not…”
   вЂњSentine are no better!” snarled the one with the half-brick. “All in it together!”
   With a snarl he threw his missile, and Yosef batted it away, taking a glancing hit on
   his temple that made him stagger. The railgangers took this as a signal and broke into
   a run, scattering away down the curve of the street.
   For a split second, Yosef was possessed by a fury so high that all he wanted to do
   was race after the thugs and beat them bloody into the cobbles; but then he forced
   that urge away and bent down to help the injured youth to his feet. The young man’s
   hand was wet where he had cut himself on the broken glass. “You all right?” said the
   reeve.
   The youth took a woozy step away from him. “Don’t… Don’t hurt me.”
   вЂњI won’t,” he told him. “I’m a lawman.” Yosef’s skull was still ringing with the
   near-hit of the brick, but in a moment of odd perceptivity, he saw the lad had rolls of
   red-printed leaflets stuffed in his pocket. He grabbed the youth’s hand and snatched
   32
   one from the bunch. It was a Theoge pamphlet, a page of dense text full of florid
   language and terms that meant nothing to him. “Where did you get these?” he
   demanded.
   In the glare of the streetlights, Yosef saw the youth’s pale face full on; the fear
   written large there was worse than that he had shown to the thugs with the bottles and
   bricks. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, shoving the reeve back with both hands.
   Yosef lost his balance—the pain in his head helping that along the way—and
   stumbled, fell. Shaking off the spreading ache, he saw the youth sprinting away,
   disappearing into the night. He cursed and tried to get to his feet.
   The reeve’s hand touched something on the cobbles, a sharp, curved edge. At first
   he thought it was part of the scattering of broken glass, but the light fell on it a
   different way. Peering at the object, Yosef saw what it actually was. Discarded in the
   melee, dropped from the pocket of… who? he wondered. It was a harvesting knife,
   worn with use and age.
   33
   THREE
   What Must Be Done
   The Spear
   Intervention
   Stripped to the waist, Valdor strode into the sparring hall with his guardian spear
   raised high at the crook of his shoulder, the metal of the ornate halberd cool against
   his bare flesh; but what awaited him in the chamber was not the six combat robots he
   had programmed for his morning regimen, only a single figure in duty robes. He was
   tall and broad, big enough to look down at the Chief Custodian, even out of battle
   armour.
   The figure turned, almost casually, from a rack holding weapons similar to the
   one Valdor carried. He was tracing the edge of the blade that hung beneath the heavy
   bolter mechanism at the tip of the metal staff, considering its merit in the way that a
   shrewd merchant might evaluate a bolt of fine silk before a purchase.
   For a moment, the Custodian was unsure what protocol he was to observe; by
   rights, the sparring hall belonged to the Legio Custodes and so it could be considered
   their territory. For someone, a non-Custodian, to appear there unannounced was…
   impolitic. But the nature of the visitor—Valdor was loath to consider him an
   intruder— called such a thing into question. In the end, he chose to halt at the edge of
   the fighting quad and gave a shallow bow, erring on the side of respect. “My lord.”
   вЂњInteresting weapon,” came the reply. The voice was resonant and metered. “It
   appears overly ornate, archaic even. One quick to judge might even think it
   ineffective.”
   вЂњEvery weapon can be effective, if it is in the right hands.”
   вЂњIn the right hands.” The figure at last gave Valdor his full attention. In the cold,
   sharp light tracing through the windows, the face of Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the
   Imperial Fists, was like chiselled granite.
   For a moment, Valdor was tempted to offer Dorn the chance to try the use of the
   Custodes halberd-gun, but prudence warned him to hold his tongue. One did not
   simply challenge the master of an entire Astartes Legion to a sparring match, no
   matter how casually. Not unless one was prepared to take that challenge as far as it
   would go.
   вЂњWhy am I here?” said Dorn, asking Valdor’s question for him. “Why am I here
   and not attendant to my duties out on the Palace walls?”
   вЂњYou wish to speak to me?”
   34
   Dorn continued, as if he had not heard his answer. The primarch glanced up at the
   ornate ceiling above them, which showed a frieze of jetbike-borne Custodians racing
   across the skyline of the Petitioner’s City.
   вЂњI have blighted this place, Valdor. In the name of security, I have made this
   palace into a fortress. Replaced art with cannonades, gardens with kill zones, beauty
   with lethality. You understand why?”
   Something in Dorn’s tone made the Custodian’s hand tighten on his weapon.
   вЂњBecause of the war. To protect your father.”
   вЂњI take little pride in my defacement,” Dorn replied. “But it must be done. For
   when Horus comes here, as he will, he must be met by our strength.” He advanced a
   step. “Our honest strength, Valdor. Nothing less will suffice.”
   Valdor remained silent, and Dorn gave him a level, demanding stare. In the quiet
   moment, the two of them measured one another as each would have gauged the lay of
   a battlefield before committing to combat.
   The Imperial Fist broke the lengthening silence. “This palace and I… We know
   each other very well now. And I am not ignorant of what goes on in its halls, both
   those seen and those unseen.” His heavy brow furrowed, as if a choice had been
   made in his thoughts. “We shall speak plainly, you and I.”
   вЂњAs you wish,” said the Custodian.
   Dorn eyed him. “I know the assassin clades and their shadow-killers are
   mounting an operation of large scope. I know this,” he insisted. “I know you are
   involved.”
   вЂњI am not a part of the Officio Assassinorum,” Valdor told him. “I have no insight
   into their workings.” It was a half-truth at best, and Dorn knew it.
   вЂњI have always considered you a man of honour, Captain-General,” said the
   Primarch. “But as I have learned to my cost, it sometimes becomes necessary to
   revise one’s opinion of a man’s character.”
   вЂњIf what you say was true, then you know it would be a matter of utmost
   secrecy.”
   Dorn’s eyes flashed. “Meaning, if I am not informed of such a thing, then I
   should not know of it?” He advanced again and Valdor stood his ground. The stoic,
   unchanging expression on the face of the Imperial Fist was, if anything, more
   disquieting than any snarl of annoyance. “I question the purpose of anything so
   clandestine. I am Adeptus Astartes, warrior by blood and by birth. I do not support
   the tactics of cowardice.”
   Valdor let the guardian spear’s tip drop to the floor. “What some consider
   cowardly others might call expedient.”
   Dorn’s expression shifted for a second, with a curling of his lip. “I have crossed
   paths with the agents of the Officio Assassinorum on the battlefield. Those
   encounters have never ended well. Their focus is always… too narrow. They are
   tools best suited for courtly intrigue and the games of empire. Not for war.” He
   folded his arms. “Speak, Custodian. What do you know of this?”
   Valdor stiffened. “I… can’t say.”
   35
   For a moment, the tension on the primarch’s face resonated through the room and
   Valdor’s knuckles whitened around the haft of his spear; then Dorn turned away.
   вЂњThat is unfortunate.”
   The Custodian bristled at the warrior-lord’s demeaning tone. “We all want the
   same thing,” he insisted. “To preserve the Emperor.”
   вЂњNo,” Dorn looked up at the windows, and he allowed himself a sigh. “Your first
   remit is to safeguard the life of the Emperor of Mankind above all else. Mine, and
   that of my brothers, is to safeguard the Imperium.”
   вЂњThe two are the same,” said Valdor. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his
   words that he did not expect.
   вЂњNot so,” Dorn said, as he left. “A narrow view, Custodian.” The primarch
   paused on the threshold and spoke one last time, without looking back. “This
   conversation is not ended, Valdor.”
   Cirsun Latigue liked to pretend that the aeronef belonged to him. When he left the
   Iestan capital of a night and took the languid flight back to his home in the Falls, he
   liked to place himself by the window of the little gondola slung beneath the cigarshaped
   ballute and watch the hab-towers flash past, imagining the workadays from
   the service industries and the vineyards seeing him cruise along by, their faces lit
   with envy at someone of such importance. The gondola was no bigger than a
   monorail carriage, but it was opulently appointed with chaises and recessed automata
   for beverages and other services. For the most part, it served important clients or the
   urgent travel needs of upper tier management, but for a lot of the time the craft sat at
   dock, unused.
   The aeronef was not his property, however much he wished it so. It belonged, as
   his wife often told him he did, to the Eurotas Trade Consortium, and while his rank
   with the company was such that use of the aircraft could be a regular perk of the job,
   on some level he knew that he would never rise far enough to truly own something of
   such status.
   That wasn’t something he liked to think about, though. Rather like his wife, more
   often than not. All his not-inconsiderable earnings as a senior datum-clerk, their
   appealing townhouse in the fashionable end of the suburbs, the private schola for the
   children… She appreciated none of it. Latigue’s love of the company flyer was a
   reaction against that. When he was in the aeronef, he felt free, just for a little while.
   And thanks to the correct application of some bribery and favours in the shape of a
   few deliberately mislabelled shipping forms, he had learned from one of the
   Consortium’s technologians how simple it was to adjust the aircraft’s docile,
   unsophisticated machine-brain in order to take the flyer to other destinations that
   didn’t show up on the logs. Places like the White Crescent Quarter, where the
   company was always agreeable, and for a man of Latigue’s means, quite affordable.
   He smiled at that, listening to the soft chopping hum of the propeller as the
   aeronef crossed over Spindle Canyon, and he thought about ordering a change of
   course. The wife was at some interminable gaming event at one of her ridiculous
   social clubs, so there would be no judgemental hissing and narrowing of eyes when
   he came home. Why not stay out a little longer, he wondered? Why not take a cruise
   towards the White Crescent? The daring of the thought made him smile, and he
   36
   began to warm to the idea. Latigue leaned forward, reaching for the command panel
   and licking his lips.
   It was then he noticed the object for the first time. On the seat across from him, a
   peculiar little ball that resembled a seed pod. Gingerly, he reached for it, prodded it
   with a finger—and blanched. The thing was warm to the touch, and it felt like it was
   made of flesh.
   Latigue’s gorge rose in his throat and he tasted the sour tang of the half-digested
   meat dish he had eaten at mid-meal; but still he could not stop himself from reaching
   out once more, this time carefully gathering up the object from where it lay.
   In the light cast through the cabin windows, he saw that the ball was lined and
   strangely textured. He let it roll in his hand, this way and that, finally bringing it
   closer to his nose to get a better look.
   When it opened he let out a yelp. Splitting along its length, the sphere revealed an
   eye, horribly human in aspect, hidden behind the fleshy covering. It rotated of its
   own accord and Latigue became aware that it was looking directly at him, and with
   something that might have been recognition.
   Suddenly overcome with disgust, he threw the orb away, and it vanished under a
   low couch. Confused and sickened, suddenly all he wanted was to be down on the
   ground. The interior of the gondola was hot and stifling, and Latigue felt sweat
   gathering around the high collar of his brocade jacket.
   He was still trying to process what had just happened when one of the cabin walls
   began to move. The velvet patterning, the rich claret-red and spun gold of the
   adornment, flowed and shifted as oil moved on water. Something was extruding itself
   out of the side of the cabin, making its shape more definite and firm with each
   passing instant.
   Latigue saw a head and a torso emerging, saw hands ending in long-fingered
   digits. In the places where the shape-thing grew out of the walls, there was a strange
   boiling effect, and the light caught what appeared to be something like lizard-skin,
   rippling and throbbing.
   Latigue’s reason fled from him. Rather than seek escape, he forced himself into
   the corner formed by the couch and the far side of the aeronef’s cabin, the window at
   his back. The head turned to him, drawn by the motion. The skin-camouflage of the
   velvet walls faded into a tanned, rich crimson that looked like stained leather or
   perhaps flayed flesh: as the figure pulled itself free of the wall with spindly legs, its
   head came up to show a patterned skull pointed into a snout, with a peculiar, ploughshaped
   lower jaw. Teeth made of silver angled back in long, layered rows. There
   were no eyes in the sockets above, only dark pits.
   Latigue coughed as a smell like blood and sulphur enveloped him, emanating
   from the apparition. He vomited explosively and began to cry like a child. “What do
   you want?” he begged, abruptly finding his voice. “Who are you?”
   The reply was husky, distant, and strangely toned, as if it had been dragged up
   from a great depth. “I… am Spear.” It seemed more like a question than an answer.
   The creature took a first step towards him, and in one hand it had a curved blade.
   The transport rumbled through the thermals rising from the surface of the Atalantic
   Plain, and inside the aircraft’s cargo bay, the bare ribs of the walls creaked and flexed
   37
   under the heavy power of the thruster pods. Beneath the transport’s belly, a blur of
   featureless desert raced past, torrents of windborne rust-sand reaching up from the
   dusty ground to snatch at it. In the distant past, thousands of years gone, this region
   would have been deep beneath the surface of a vast ocean, one of many that stretched
   across the surface of Terra; all that was left now were a few minor inland seas that
   barely deserved the name, little more than shrinking lakes of mud ringed by caravan
   townships. Much of the vast plainslands had been absorbed by the masses of the
   Throneworld’s city-sprawls, but there were still great swathes of it that were
   unclaimed and lawless, broken with foothills sculpted by the long-forgotten seas and
   canyons choked with the wrecks of ancient ships. There were precious few places on
   Terra that could still truly be considered a wilderness, but this was one of them.
   The flyer’s pilot was deft; isolated in the cockpit pod at the prow, she lay wired
   into a flight couch that translated her nerve impulses into the minute flexions of the
   transport’s winglets and the outputs of the engine bells. The aircraft’s course was
   swift and true, crossing the barren zone on a heading towards the distant city-cluster
   crowded around the peaks of the Ayzor Ridge; she was following a well-traced
   course familiar to many of the more daring pilots. Those who played it safe flew at
   much higher altitudes, in the officially-sanctioned sky corridors governed by the
   agents of the Ministorum and the Adeptus Terra—but that cost fuel and time, and for
   fringer pilots working on tight margins, sometimes the riskier choice was the better
   one. The hazards came from the rust storms and the winds—but also from more
   human sources as well. The vast erg of the Atalantic was also home to bandit packs
   and savage clans of junkhunters.
   At first glance, the cargo being carried by the flyer was nothing remarkable—but
   one who looked closer would have understood it was only a make-weight, there to
   bulk out the transport’s flimsy flight plan. The real load aboard the craft was the two
   passengers, and they were men so unlike to one another, it could hardly be believed
   they had both been dispatched by the same agency.
   Constantin Valdor sat in a gap between two cube-containers of purified water,
   cross-legged on the deck of the cargo bay. His bulk was hidden beneath the illdefined
   layers of a sandcloak which concealed an articulated suit of ablative armour.
   It was by no means a relative to the elaborate and majestic Custodian wargear that
   was his normal garb; the armour was unsophisticated, scarred and heavily pitted with
   use. Over Valdor’s dense form it strained to maintain its shape, almost as if it were
   trying to hold him in. At his side was a careworn long-las inscribed with Techno-mad
   tribal runes and an explorer’s pack containing survival gear and supplies, the latter
   for show. With his enhanced physiology, Valdor would have been able to live for
   weeks on the plains on drops of moisture he sucked from the dirt or the sparse meat
   of insects. The rifle he could use, though. Everything about Valdor’s disguise was
   there to tell a vague fiction, not enough to hide from a deep analysis but enough to
   allow him to go on his way without arousing too much suspicion. The Custodian had
   done this many times before, in blood games and on missions of other import. This
   was no different, he reflected.
   Across the cargo bay, sitting uncomfortably upon a canvas seat that vibrated each
   time the transport forded a pocket of turbulence, Valdor’s companion on this journey
   was bent forwards over his right arm. Wearing a sandcloak similar to the
   38
   Custodian’s, the smaller man was busy with a pane of hololithic text projected from a
   cybernetic gauntlet clasped around his wrist. With his other hand he manipulated
   shapes in the hologrammatic matrix, his attention on it total and complete. His name
   was Fon Tariel; the light of the text threw colour over his pale olive skin and the dark
   ovals of his eyes. A tight nest of dreadlocks drawing over Tariel’s head did their best
   to hide discreet bronze vents in the back of his skull, where interface sockets gleamed
   alongside memory implants and dataphilia. Unlike the cohorts of the Mechanicum,
   who willingly gave themselves fully to the marriage of flesh and machine, Tariel’s
   augmentations were discreet and nuanced.
   Valdor studied him through lidded eyes, careful to be circumspect about it. The
   Sigillite had presented Tariel to him in a manner that made it clear no questioning of
   his choice would be allowed. The little man was Sire Vanus’ contribution to the
   Execution Force, one of the clade’s newest operatives, with a skull crammed full of
   data and a willingness to serve. They called Tariel’s kind “infocytes”; essentially
   they were human computing engines, but at the very far opposite of the spectrum
   from the mindless meat-automata of servitors. In matters of strategy and tactics, the
   insight of an infocyte was unparalleled; their existence cemented Clade Vanus as the
   intelligence-gathering faction of the Officio Assassinorum. It was said they had never
   been known to make an error of judgement. Valdor considered that as little more than
   disinformation, however; the creation and dissemination of propaganda was also a
   core strength of the Vanus.
   From the corner of his eye, the Custodian saw the movement of a monitor camera
   high up on the roof of the cargo bay. He had noted earlier that it appeared to be
   dwelling on him more than it should have, and now the device’s attention seemed
   solely fixed on him. Without turning his head, Valdor saw that Tariel had moved
   slightly so that his holoscreen was now concealed by the bulk of his body.
   The Custodian’s lip curled, and with a quick motion he was on his feet, crossing
   the short distance between the two of them. Tariel reacted with a flash of panic, but
   Valdor was on him, grabbing his arm. The hololith showed the monitor’s point of
   view, locked onto the Custodian. Data streams haloed his image, feeding out biopatterns
   and body kinestics; Tariel had somehow invaded and co-opted the flyer’s
   internal security systems to satisfy his own curiosity.
   вЂњDon’t spy on me,” Valdor told the infocyte. “I value my privacy.”
   вЂњYou can’t blame me,” Tariel blurted. “I wondered who you were.”
   Valdor considered this for a moment, still holding him in an immobile grip. They
   had both boarded the transport in silence, neither speaking until this moment; he was
   not surprised that the other man had let his inquisitiveness outstrip his caution. Tariel
   and his kind had the same relationship with raw information that an addict did with
   their chosen vice; they were enrapt by the idea of new data, and would do whatever
   they could to gather it in, and know it. Quite how that balanced with the
   Assassinorum’s obsessive need for near-total secrecy he could not imagine; perhaps
   it went some way towards explaining the peculiar character of the Vanus clade and
   its agents. “Then who am I?” he demanded. “If I caught you staring at me through
   that camera, then surely you have been doing that and more since we first left the
   Imperial City.”
   вЂњLet go of my hand, please,” said Tariel. “You’re hurting me.”
   39
   вЂњNot really,” Valdor told him, but he released his grip anyway.
   After a moment, the infocyte nodded. “You are Constantin Valdor, Captain-
   General of the Custodian Guard, margin of error less than fourteen percent. I parsed
   this from physiological data and existing records, along with sampling of various
   other information streams.” Tariel showed him; inputs from sources as diverse as
   traffic routings, listings of foodstuffs purchased by the Palace consumery, the routes
   of cleaning automata, renovation files from the forges that repaired the robots Valdor
   had smashed during his morning exercises… To the warrior it seemed like a wall of
   white noise, but the infocyte manipulated it effortlessly.
   вЂњThat is… impressive,” he offered. “But not the work of an assassin, I would
   think.”
   Tariel’s expression stiffened at that. “Clade Vanus has removed many of the
   Imperium’s enemies. We do our part, as you do, Captain-General.”
   Valdor leaned in, looming over the man. “And how many enemies of Terra have
   you killed, Fon Tariel?”
   The infocyte paused, blinking. “In the way that you would consider it a
   termination? None. But I have been instrumental in the excision of a number of
   targets.”
   вЂњSuch as?”
   For a moment, he thought Tariel would refuse to answer, but then the infocyte
   began to speak, quickly and curtly, as if he were giving a data download. “I will
   provide you with an example. Lord-Elective Corliss Braganza of the Triton-B
   colony.”
   вЂњI know the name. A delinquent and a criminal.”
   вЂњIn effect. I discovered through program artefacts uncovered during routine
   information-trawling that he was in the process of embezzling Imperial funds as part
   of a plan to finance a move against several senior members of the Ministorum. He
   was attempting to build a powerbase through which to influence Imperial colonial
   policy. Through the use of covert blinds, I inserted materials of an incendiary nature
   into Braganza’s personal datastacks. The resultant discovery of these fabrications led
   to his death at the hands of his co-conspirators, and in turn the revelation of their
   identities.”
   Valdor recalled the incident with Braganza; he had been implicated in the brutal
   murder of a young noblewoman, and after ironclad evidence had come to light
   damning him despite all his protestations to the contrary, the Triton electorate that
   had voted him into office had savagely turned against him. Braganza had apparently
   died in an accident during his transport to a penal asteroid. “You leaked the details of
   his prison transfer.”
   Tariel nodded. “The cleanest kill is one that another performs in your stead with
   no knowledge of your incitement.”
   The Custodian allowed him a nod. “I can’t fault your logic.” He stepped back and
   let the infocyte have room to relax. “If you have so much data to hand, perhaps you
   can tell me something about the man we have been sent to find?”
   вЂњEristede Kell,” Tariel answered instantly. “Clade Vindicare. Currently on an
   extended duration deployment targeted at the eventual eradication of exocitizen
   criminal groups in the Atalantic Delimited Zone. Among the top percentile of field40
   deployed special operatives. Fifty-two confirmed kills, including the Tyrant of Daas,
   Queen Mortog Haeven, the Eldar general Sellians nil Kaheen, Brother-Captain—”
   Valdor held up his hand. “I don’t need to know his record. I need to know him.”
   The Vanus considered his words for a long moment; but before Tariel could
   answer, a flash of fire caught Valdor’s eye through one of the viewports, and the
   Custodian turned towards it, his every warning sense rushing to the fore.
   Outside, he glimpsed a spear made of white vapour, tipped with an angry crimson
   projectile; it described a corkscrew motion as it homed in on the aircraft. Alert sirens
   belatedly screamed a warning. He had barely registered the light and flame before the
   transport suddenly resonated with a colossal impact, and veered sharply to starboard.
   Smoke poured into the cargo bay, and Valdor heard the shriek of torn metal.
   Unsecured, the two of them tumbled across the deck as the aircraft spun into the
   grip of the rusty haze.
   * * *
   A visit to the valetudinarium always made Yosef feel slightly queasy, as if the
   proximity to a place of healing was somehow enough to make him become
   spontaneously unwell. He was aware that other people—people who didn’t work in
   law enforcement, that was—had a similar reaction being around peace officers; they
   felt spontaneously guilty, even if they had committed no crime. The sensation was
   strong, though, enough that if ever Yosef felt an ache or a pain that might best have
   been looked at by a medicae, a marrow-deep revulsion grew strong in him, enough to
   make him bury it and wait for the issue to subside.
   Unfortunate then that a sizeable portion of his duties forced him to visit the
   capital’s largest clinic on a regular basis; and those visits were always to the most
   forbidding of its halls, the mortuarium. Winter-cold, the pale wooden floors and
   panelled walls were shiny with layers of heavy fluid-resistant varnishes, and harsh
   white light thrown from overhead lume-strips filled every corner of the chamber with
   stark illumination.
   Across the room, the dead stood upright in liquid-filled suspensor tubes that
   could be raised from compartments in the floor or lowered from silos in the ceiling.
   Frost-encrusted data-slates showed a series of colour-coded tags, designating which
   were new arrivals, which had been kept aside for in-depth autopsy and which were
   free to be released so that their families could perform final rites of enrichment.
   Daig took off his hat as they crossed the chamber, weaving in between the
   medicae servitors and subordinate clinicians, and Yosef followed suit, tucking his
   brown woollen toque under an epaulette.
   They were here to see Tisely, a rail-thin woman with hair the colour of straw,
   who served as the senior liaison between the mortuarium and the Sentine. She threw
   them a glance as they approached and gave a glum nod. An accomplished doctor and
   a superlative pathlogia investigator, Tisely was nevertheless one of the most joyless
   people Yosef Sabrat had ever met. He struggled to remember a single moment where
   she had expressed any mood to him but negativity.
   вЂњReeves,” she said, by way of greeting, and immediately kept to form. “I’m
   surprised you made it in today. The traffic was very dense this morning.”
   41
   вЂњIt’s the weather,” offered Daig, equally downbeat. “Cold as space.”
   Tisely nodded solemnly. “Oh yes.” She tapped one of the suspensor tubes. “We’ll
   be filling more of these with those who can’t buy fuel for the winter.”
   вЂњGovernor ought to lower the tithe,” Daig went on, matching her tone. “It’s not
   fair to the elderly.”
   The clinician was going to follow on, but before the two of them could enter into
   a mutually-supporting spiral of circular complaining about the weather, the
   government, the harvest or whatever subject would come next, Yosef interrupted.
   вЂњYou have another body for us?”
   Tisely nodded again and changed conversational gears seamlessly. “Cirsun
   Latigue, male, fifty years Terran reckoning. Gutted like a cliffgull.”
   вЂњHe died of that?” Yosef asked, examining the face behind the glass. “The
   cutting?”
   вЂњEventually,” Tisely sniffed. “It was done slowly, by a single blade, like the
   others.”
   вЂњAnd he was laid out like the Norte case? In the star-shape?”
   вЂњAcross a very expensive chaise longue, in an aeronef gondola. Not nailed down
   this time, though.” She reported the horrific murder in exactly the same tone she had
   used to complain about the traffic. “Quite a troubling one, this.”
   Yosef chewed his lip. He’d gone over the abstract of the crime scene report on
   the way to the valetudinarium. The victim’s wife, who was now somewhere several
   floors above them in a drugged sleep after suffering a hysterical breakdown, had
   returned home the previous evening to find the flyer parked on the lawn of their
   home, the machine-brain pilot diligently waiting for a return-to-hangar command that
   had never come. Inside the aeronef’s cabin, every square metre of the walls, floor and
   ceiling was daubed with Latigue’s blood. The eight-point star was repeated
   everywhere, over and over, drawn in the dead man’s vitae.
   Daig was looking at the data-slate, fingering his wrist chain. “Latigue had rank,
   for a civilian. Important, but not too much so. He worked for Eurotas.”
   вЂњWhich complicates matters somewhat,” said Tisely.
   She made it sound like a minor impediment, but in fact the matter of Cirsun
   Latigue’s employer had the potential to send Yosef’s serial murder investigation
   spiralling out of control. He had hoped that the sketchy report made by the jager on
   the scene might have been in error, even as some part of him knew that it was not.
   My luck is never that good, he told himself. Bad enough that the High-Reeve had put
   her measure into the bottle for all this, but with this latest victim now revealed as a
   ranking member of the Eurotas Consortium, a whole new layer of problems was
   opening up for the investigators.
   Latigue and all those like him were on the planetside staff of an interstellar
   nobleman, who was quite possibly the richest man for several light years in any
   direction. His Honour the Void Baron Merriksun Eurotas was the master of a rogue
   trader flotilla that plied the spaceways across the systems surrounding Iesta Veracrux.
   Holding considerable capital and trading concerns on many planets, his consortium
   essentially controlled all local system-to-system commerce and most interplanetary
   transportation into the bargain. Eurotas counted high admirals, scions of the Navis
   Nobilite and even one of the Lords of Terra among his circle of friends; his business
   42
   clan could trace its roots back to the time of Old Night, and it was said that the
   hereditary Warrant of Trade held by his family had been personally ratified by the
   Emperor himself. Such was his high regard that the man served the Adeptus Terra as
   an Agenda Nuntius, the Imperial Court’s attachР№ for every human colony in the
   Taebian Sector.
   вЂњTisely,” Yosef lowered his voice and stepped closer, becoming conspiratorial.
   вЂњIf we could keep the identity of this victim under wraps, just for a few days, it
   would help—”
   But she was already shaking her head. “We tried to keep the information secure,
   but…” The clinician paused. “Well. People talk. Latigue’s staff saw it all.”
   Yosef’s heart sank. “So the Consortium know.”
   вЂњIt’s worse than that, actually,” she told him. “They’ve reclaimed the aeronef
   directly from evidentiary after using some pull with the Landgrave.”
   вЂњThey can’t do that…” said Daig, with a grimace.
   вЂњIt’s already done,” Tisely went on. “And there are Consortium clinicians on the
   way to take custody of the luckless Cirsun here.” She tapped the mist-wreathed tube.
   вЂњThey’re probably caught in that cursed traffic, otherwise they’d have been here
   already and removed him.”
   Yosef’s eyes narrowed. “This is a Sentine matter. It’s an Iestan matter.” His
   annoyance burned cold and slow as he remembered Telemach’s words in the
   precinct; and yet a day later her superior was sweeping all that aside in favour of
   doing everything possible to appease the Consortium; because Iesta Veracrux
   supplied wines to the entire Ultima Segmentum, and without Eurotas, the planet’s
   economy would die on the vine.
   Daig finally swore under his breath, earning him a censorious glare from Tisely.
   вЂњIt doesn’t stop there,” she went on, as if to chastise him. “Latigue’s seniors sent an
   astropathic communiquР№ to the Void Baron himself. He’s apparently taking a
   personal interest in the incident.”
   Yosef felt the colour drain from his face. “Eurotas… He’s coming here?”
   вЂњOh, I don’t doubt it,” Tisely told him. “In fact, I hear a whisper that some of his
   personal agents are already in the warp, on their way.”
   In spite of himself, that queasy feeling returned to Yosef’s gut and he took a
   breath of the chilled, antiseptic air. With a sudden jolt of anger, he snatched the dataslate
   from Daig’s hand and glared at it. “This isn’t an investigation anymore, it’s a
   bloody poison chalice.”
   * * *
   Valdor snapped back to awareness with a jerk, and he stifled a reflexive cough. He
   felt a heavy weight across his torso and thick drifts of sandy matter all around him.
   There was heat, too, close and intense, searing his skin. He tasted the stink of burning
   fuel on his lips.
   Checking himself, the Custodian found nothing more serious than a minor
   dislocation among the contusions he had suffered in the crash. With care, he rotated
   his forearm back into its socket and tested it, the flash of pain ebbing. Valdor placed
   43
   both hands against the weight holding him down—a section of hull plate, he noted—
   and forced it up and away.
   He came to his feet surrounded by flames and grey smoke. Valdor remembered
   the moment of the impact only in fleeting impressions; sparks of pain and the
   spinning of the cargo bay all around him as the wounded flyer slammed into the sand.
   He had heard Tariel cry out; there was no sign of the infocyte nearby. Valdor moved
   forward, picking his way over steaming mounds of wreckage, heated by the blazing
   slick of liquid promethium that had spilled out across the landscape. Sections of the
   transport lay in a line that vanished off across the ruddy plains, surrounding a black
   trail carved in the dirt by the craft as it had skidded to a halt, losing pieces of itself
   along the way.
   He saw something that looked familiar; the cockpit pod, the egg-shape of it stove
   in and crumpled. Blood painted the canopy from the inside, and Valdor knew that the
   pilot would not have survived the landing. He turned this way and that. The
   encroaching flames were high and swift, and he had little room to manoeuvre.
   Sweeping around, he found what seemed to be the thinnest part in the wall of fire and
   ran at it, his legs pumping. At the last possible second, Valdor leapt into the flames
   and punched through, the sandcloak around him catching alight.
   He landed hard on the other side of the wreckage and came up in a crouch.
   Snatching at the cloak, he tore it from himself as the fire took hold and threw it as
   hard as he could. Panting, Valdor looked up; and it was then he realised he was not
   alone.
   вЂњWell,” said a rough voice, “what have we got here?”
   He counted eight of them. They wore the patchwork gear of a junkhunter gang,
   armour cobbled together from a dozen disparate sources, faces hidden behind breath
   filters and hoods. All of them were armed with large-gauge weapons— different
   varieties of stubber guns mostly, but he also spied a couple with twin-barrelled laser
   carbines, and one with the distinctive shape of a plasma gun held at the ready. Their
   collection of vehicles was as motley as everything else, a pair of four-legged walker
   platforms along with fast duneriders on fat knobbled tires, and a single ground-effect
   track.
   Valdor considered them with the cold tactical precision of a trained warrior. Only
   eight, eight humans, some of them likely to have reflex enhancements, perhaps even
   dermal plating, but still only eight. He knew with complete certainty that he would be
   able to kill them all in less than sixty seconds, and that was if he took his time about
   it.
   There were only two things that gave him a moment’s pause. The first was the
   figure standing up through a hatch in the GEV’s cab, behind the pintle mount of a
   quin-barrel multilaser. The gunner had an unobstructed arc of fire that was directly
   centred on Valdor, and as resilient as he was, without his usual wargear to protect
   him the heavy weapon would put the Custodian down before he took ten paces.
   The second thing was Fon Tariel, his face a mess of blood and bruises, on his
   knees in front of one of the walkers, with the muzzle of a junkhunter’s rifle pressed
   to his back.
   вЂњHah,” he heard the infocyte say, labouring the words up past his injuries.
   вЂњYou’re all going to be sorry now.”
   44
   Valdor frowned, and continued to glance around, ignoring the gang and looking
   off in all directions, squinting towards the near horizon. It was difficult through the
   low sheen of rust-sand in the air, but his eyes were gene-altered for acuity.
   вЂњPut up your hands,” buzzed the junkhunter with the plasma gun. Valdor had
   guessed possession of the powerful weapon made that one the leader, and this
   confirmed it. He ignored the command, still looking away. “Are you deaf, freak?”
   In the distance, perhaps a kilometre away, maybe more, the Custodian thought he
   saw something brief and bright. A glint off a metallic object atop a low butte. He
   resisted the urge to smile and turned back to the junkhunters, casually positioning
   himself in such a way that he could see both the flat-topped hill and the bandit crew.
   вЂњI hear you,” he told the gang leader.
   вЂњHe’s a big one,” ventured one of the riflemen. “Some kinda aberrant?”
   вЂњCould be,” said the leader. “That what you are, freak?”
   Tariel shouted at him, his voice high with fright. “What are you waiting for, man?
   Help me!”
   вЂњYeah, help him,” mocked the GEV gunner. “I dare you.”
   вЂњYou’ve made a very serious error,” Valdor began, speaking slowly and
   carefully. “I had hoped we could make a landing in the erg, scout you out for
   ourselves. But you took the initiative, and I must admire that. You saw prey and you
   attacked.” Looking again, the Custodian could see a second, unmanned weapon
   mount on the rear of the hover-truck. Untended, it pointed the mouth of a surface-toair
   missile tube skyward. “Lucky shot.”
   вЂњNothing lucky about it,” said the leader. “You’re not the first. Won’t be the
   last.”
   вЂњI beg to differ,” Valdor told him. “As I said, you made an error. You’ve drawn
   the attention of the Emperor.”
   The use of the name sent a ripple of fear through the group, but the gang leader
   stamped on it quickly. “Rust and shit, you’re some kind of liar, freak. No one cares
   what goes on out here, not a one, not a man, not the bloody Emperor hisself. If he
   cared, he’d come here and share a little of that glory of his with us.”
   вЂњLet’s just kill them,” said the gunner.
   вЂњValdor!” Tariel blurted out his name in fear. “Please!”
   Unseen by everyone else, the glimmer from the distant hill blinked once, then
   twice. “Let me tell you who I am,” said the Custodian. “My name is Constantin
   Valdor, Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, and I hold the power of the
   Emperor’s displeasure in my hands.”
   The gang leader snorted with cold amusement. “Your brain is broke, that’s what
   you have!”
   вЂњI will prove it to you.” Valdor raised his arm and pointed a finger at the gunner
   behind the multilaser.
   вЂњIn the Emperor’s name,” he said, his tone calm and conversational, “death.”
   A heartbeat later, the gunner’s upper torso exploded into chunks of meat on a
   blast of pink fluids.
   The fear that the Emperor’s name had briefly conjured returned tenfold. Valdor
   pointed to the rifleman standing over Tariel. “And death,” he went on. The
   45
   junkhunter’s body bifurcated at the spine with a wet chug, collapsing to the sand.
   вЂњAnd death, and death, and death…” The Custodian let his arm fall, and stood still as
   three more of the gang were torn apart where they stood.
   Tariel dived into the dirt and the rest of the junkhunters broke apart in a terrified
   scramble, some of them racing towards a vehicle, others desperately trying to find
   cover. Valdor saw one of them leap into a dunerider and gun the engine, the vehicle
   surging away. The windscreen shattered in a red blink of blood and the rover
   bounded into a shallow gulley, crashing to a halt. The others died as they ran.
   A furious snarl drew Valdor’s attention back and he looked up as the gang leader
   came speeding towards him—too fast for a normal human, quite clearly nerve-jacked
   as he had first suspected. The junkhunter had the plasma gun aimed at the
   Custodian’s chest; at this close a range, a blast from it would be a mortal wound.
   Valdor did nothing, stood his ground. Then, like the work of an invisible trickster
   god, the gun was ripped from the gang leader’s hand and it spun away into the air,
   the mechanism torn open and spitting great licks of blue-white sparks.
   Only then did Valdor step in and break the man’s neck with a short chopping
   motion to his throat. The last of the junkhunter band dropped and was still.
   The sun was dipping towards the horizon when a piece of the desert seemed to detach
   itself and transform into the shape of a man. A cameoline cloak shimmered from the
   colours of the rust-sand to a deep night-black, revealing a muscular figure in a
   stealthsuit that was faceless behind a gunmetal spy mask. The mask’s green eye-band
   studied Valdor and Tariel, where the two of them had sought shelter in the lee of the
   parked GEV truck. A spindly rifle, easily as long as the man was tall, lay across his
   back.
   Valdor gave him a nod. “Eristede Kell, I presume?”
   вЂњYou are out of uniform, Captain-General,” said the marksman. “I hardly
   recognised you.” His voice was low.
   Valdor raised an eyebrow. “Have we met before?” The sniper shook his head.
   вЂњNo. But I know you. And your work.” He glanced at the infocyte. “Vindicare,” said
   Tariel, by way of terse greeting.
   вЂњVanus,” came the reply.
   вЂњI’m curious,” said Kell. “How did you know I would be watching?”
   вЂњYou’ve been in this sector for some time. It stood to reason you would have seen
   the crash.” The Custodian gestured around. “I had intended to find some of your prey
   in order to find you. It seems events altered the order of that but not the result.”
   Tariel shot Valdor a look. “That’s why you didn’t attack them? You could have
   dealt with them all, but you did nothing.” He grimaced. “I might have been killed!”
   вЂњI considered letting that happen,” said the sniper, with a casual sniff. “But I
   dismissed the idea. If a pair as unlikely as you two had come out here, I knew there
   had to be good reason.”
   вЂњYou almost missed that thug with the plasma gun!” snapped the infocyte.
   вЂњNo,” said Valdor, with a half-smile, “he did not.”
   The sniper cocked his head. “I never miss.”
   вЂњYou came to the Atalantic zone without your vox rig,” Valdor went on.
   46
   вЂњComm transmissions would have been detected,” said Kell. “It would have
   given me away to the bandits.”
   вЂњHence our somewhat unconventional method of locating you,” continued the
   Custodian.
   Tariel’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know when to fire?”
   вЂњHis weapon’s scope contains a lip-reading auspex,” Valdor answered for the
   sniper. “Your assignment was open-ended, I believe.”
   вЂњI’ve been systematically terminating the raider gangs as I find them,” said Kell.
   вЂњI still have work to do. And it makes good exercise.”
   вЂњYou have a new mission now,” said Tariel. “We both do.”
   вЂњIs that so?” Kell reached up and took off the spy mask, revealing a craggy face
   with close-cut black hair, sharp eyes and hawkish nose. “Who is the target?”
   Valdor stood up, and pulled a mag-flare tube from a compartment in his chest
   plate, aiming it into the sky. “All in good time,” he said, and fired.
   Kell’s eyes narrowed. “You are leading this mystery mission then, Captain-
   General?”
   вЂњNot I,” said the Custodian, shaking his head as the flare ignited, casting jumping
   shadows all around them. “You, Eristede.”
   47
   FOUR
   Blood
   Weapons
   Face and Name
   The coleopter’s chattering rotors made it impossible to have a conversation at normal
   levels in the cabin, and Yosef was reduced to growling into Daig’s ear in order to get
   something approximating privacy. “It’s the pattern I’m not certain about,” he said.
   Daig had a fan-fold file open on his lap, one hand holding in the slips of
   vinepaper, the other gripping a thick data-slate. “What pattern?”
   вЂњExactly,” Yosef replied. “There isn’t one. Every time we’ve had a crazed lunatic
   go on a killing spree like this, there’s been some kind of logic to it, no matter how
   twisted. Someone is murdered because they remind the killer of their abusive
   stepfather, or because the voices in their head told them that all people who wear
   green are evil…” He pointed a finger at the file. “But what’s the link here? Latigue,
   Norte and the others? They’re from all different walks of life, men and women, old
   and young, tall and short…”
   Yosef shook his head. “If there’s a commonality between them, I haven’t seen it
   yet.”
   вЂњWell, don’t worry,” Daig said flatly, “there will be plenty of people willing to
   throw in their half-baked theories about it. After Latigue’s death, you can bet the
   watch-wire will be buzzing with this.”
   Yosef cursed under his breath; with everything else that had been on his mind, he
   hadn’t stopped to think that if the Eurotas Consortium had become involved with the
   case, then of course the Iestan news services would have got wind of it into the
   bargain. “As if they don’t have enough doom and gloom to put on the watch-wire
   already,” he said. “By all means, let’s add to everyone’s woes with the fear of a knife
   in the belly from every dark alleyway.”
   Daig shrugged. “Actually, it might take people’s minds off the bigger issues.
   Nothing like a killer of men on the loose in your own backyard to keep you
   focussed.”
   вЂњThat all depends on how large your backyard is, don’t you think?”
   вЂњGood point.” Yosef’s cohort paged through the panes of data installed on the
   slate with solemn slowness. He paused on one slab of dense text, his eyes narrowing.
   вЂњHello. This is interesting.” He handed the device over. “Look-see.”
   вЂњBlood work,” noted Yosef. It was the analysis reports from the site of the
   Latigue murder, multiple testing on samples that confirmed, yes, the fluids all over
   the walls of the gondola had once been contained inside the unfortunate clerk. At
   48
   least, almost all of them. There was a rogue trace right in the middle of the scan
   reports, something picked up by chance from one of the medicae servitors. A single
   blood trace that did not match the others.
   Yosef felt a slight thrill as he absorbed this piece of information, but he stamped
   down on it immediately. He didn’t dare jinx the chance that Daig might have just
   pointed out something that could be their first important break.
   вЂњIt doesn’t tally with any of the previous deaders, either,” said the other reeve. He
   reached for the intercom horn. “I’ll comm the precinct, get them to run this up to the
   citizen database…”
   But just as quickly as it had lit, Yosef’s brief spark of excitement guttered out and
   died as he read a notation appended to the bottom of the information pane. “Don’t
   waste your time. Tisely got her people to do that already.”
   вЂњAh,” Daig’s expression remained neutral. “Should have expected that. She’s
   efficient that way. No joy, then?”
   Yosef shook his head. The notification for a citizen ident read Not Found. That
   meant that the killer was unregistered, which was a rare occurrence on Iesta
   Veracrux, or else they were from somewhere else entirely. He chewed on that
   thought for a moment. “He’s an off-worlder.”
   вЂњWhat?”
   вЂњOur cutter. Not an Iestan.” Daig eyed him. “That’s a bit of a leap.”
   вЂњIs it? It explains why his blood’s not in the database. It explains how he’s doing
   this and leaving no traces.”
   вЂњOff-world technology?”
   Yosef nodded. “I admit it’s thin, but it’s a direction. And with Telemach
   breathing down our necks, we need to be seen to be proactive. It’s that or sit around
   waiting for a fresh kill.”
   вЂњWe could just hold off,” suggested the other man. “I mean, if Eurotas has his
   own operatives inbound… Why not let them come in and take a pass over it? They’re
   bound to have better resources than we do.”
   He gave his cohort an acid look. “Remember that engraving on your warrant rod
   that talks about вЂ˜to serve and protect’? We’re called investigators for a reason.”
   вЂњJust a thought,” said Daig.
   Yosef sensed something unsaid in his cohort’s words and studied him. To anyone
   else, Segan’s dour expression would have seemed no different from any of the other
   dour expressions he wore day in and day out; but the other reeve had been partnered
   with him for a long time, and he could read moods in the man that others missed
   completely. “What aren’t you telling me, Daig?” he asked. “Something about this
   case has been gnawing at you since we had it dropped on us.” Yosef leaned closer.
   вЂњYou didn’t do it, did you?”
   Daig made a brief spluttering sound that was the closest he ever came to a laugh,
   but then he sobered almost instantly. After a moment of silence he looked away.
   вЂњWe’ve seen some things, you and I,” he said. “This is different, though. It feels
   different. Don’t ask me to be objective about it, because I can’t. I think there’s more
   here than just… human madness.”
   49
   Yosef made a face. “Are you talking about xenos? There’s not an alien alive in
   this entire sector.”
   Daig shook his head. “No.” He sighed. “I’m not sure what I’m talking about.
   But… After Horus…”
   Once more, the reeve felt the sudden tension that the name brought with it. “If
   I’m sure of anything, I’m damned sure that he didn’t do it.”
   вЂњThere are stories, though,” Daig went on. “People talk about worlds that have
   declared for the Warmaster, worlds that go silent soon after. Those who make it out
   before the silence comes down, they’ve said things. Talked about what happened on
   those planets.” He tapped a sheaf of crime scene picts. “Things like this. I know
   you’ve heard the same.”
   вЂњIt’s just stories. Just scared people.” Yosef wondered if he sounded convincing.
   He took a breath. “And it has no bearing on what we’re doing here.”
   вЂњWe’ll see,” Daig said darkly.
   A thought occurred to Yosef and he reached for the intercom horn. “Yes, we
   will.” He pressed the stud that would allow him to talk to the coleopter’s pilot.
   вЂњChange of plans,” he said briskly, “we’re not going back to the precinct house. Take
   us to the Eurotas compound.”
   The pilot acknowledged the command and the flyer pivoted into a banking turn,
   the pitch of the rotors deepening.
   Daig gave him a confused look. “The trader’s men won’t be here for another
   couple of days yet. What are you doing?”
   вЂњEveryone wants to keep Eurotas happy, so it seems,” Yosef told him. “I think
   we should use that to our advantage.”
   They landed on a tree-lined transit pad just within the walls of the Consortium’s
   compound. In a definite attempt to stand out from the more typical Iestan
   architectural styles of the other great manses in the area, the Eurotas house was
   modelled on the Cygnus school of design, reminiscent of many reunification-era
   colony palaces from the early decades of the Great Crusade. It was an open, summery
   building, full of courtyards and cupolas, with fountains and small pocket gardens that
   were at odds with the cool pre-winter chill of the day.
   The two reeves were barely to the foot of the coleopter’s drop-ramp when they
   were met by a narrow woman in the bottle-green and silver of the rogue trader’s
   livery. Standing behind her at a discreet distance were two men in the same garb, but
   both of them were twice her body mass with faces hidden behind the blank glares of
   info-visors. Yosef saw no weapons visible on them, but he knew they had to be
   carrying. One of the many tenets of the Consortium’s corporate sovereignty
   throughout the Taebian Sector allowed Eurotas to ignore planetside laws the Void
   Baron considered to be detrimental to his business, and that included Iestan weapon
   statutes.
   The woman spoke before Yosef could open his mouth, firmly determined to set
   the rules of the impromptu visit immediately. “My name is Bellah Gorospe, I’m a
   Consortium liaison executive. We’ll need to make this quick,” she told him, with a
   fake smile. “I’m afraid I have an important meeting to attend very shortly.” The
   50
   woman had the kind of silken Ultima accent that automatically categorised her as
   non-native.
   вЂњOf course,” Yosef said smoothly. “This won’t take long. The Sentine require
   access to the Consortium’s database of passenger and crew manifests for incoming
   starships to Iesta Veracrux.”
   Gorospe blinked. She was actually startled by the directness of his demand, and
   didn’t say no straight away. “Which ship?”
   вЂњAll of them,” Daig added, following his lead.
   The automatic denial that she was trained to give came next. “That’s impossible.
   That data is proprietary material under ownership of the Eurotas Trade Consortium.
   It cannot be released to any local jurisdictional bodies.” Gorospe said the word local
   as if it rhymed with irrelevant. “If you have a specific request regarding any data
   pertaining to Iestan citizens, I may be able to accommodate you. Otherwise, I’m
   afraid not.” She started to turn away.
   вЂњDid you know Cirsun Latigue?” said Yosef.
   That brought the woman to a halt. She covered her hesitation well. “Yes. We had
   cause to work together on occasion.” Gorospe’s lips thinned. “Is that pertinent?”
   вЂњWe’re investigating the possibility that whoever murdered him is following a
   vendetta against employees of Baron Eurotas.” That was an outright lie, but it got
   Yosef the response he wanted. The woman blinked, and she was clearly wondering if
   she could be next. The reeve had no doubt that by now everyone in the compound, no
   matter if they were supposed to know or not, knew exactly how horribly Latigue had
   died. “We believe the killer may have arrived on planet aboard a Eurotas-operated
   vessel,” he added.
   If the murderer was from another planet, then that was undeniable; the
   Consortium ran every inter-system ship that came to Iesta Veracrux, and as a part of
   Imperial transit law, all travellers were required to submit to cursory medical checks
   in order to prevent the spread of any potential biosphere-specific contagions from
   world to world. That data would exist in the Consortium’s records.
   Gorospe was uncertain how to proceed. Her plan to dismiss the Sentine officers
   and return to whatever her other tasks were had crumbled. Yosef imagined that she
   was now thinking of a way to deal with this by invoking some higher authority.
   вЂњSanctioned Consortium security operatives will be arriving in fifty hours. I suggest
   you return at that time and make your request to them.”
   вЂњIt wasn’t a request,” Yosef told her. “And given the frequency of the murders to
   date, there could be two, perhaps even three more deaths before then.” He kept his
   voice level. “I think that even the Baron himself would agree that time is of the
   essence.”
   вЂњThe Baron is coming here,” Gorospe noted, in an absent; distant manner that
   seemed to be half disbelief.
   вЂњI’m sure he would want as much done as possible towards dealing with this
   unfortunate circumstance,” said Daig. “And quickly.”
   She glanced back at Yosef. “Please tell me again what it is that you need, reeve?”
   51
   He resisted the urge to smile and instead offered her the data-slate. “There’s an
   unidentified blood trace listed here. I require it to be cross-referenced with the
   Consortium’s database for any matches.”
   Gorospe took the slate and her practised smile reappeared. “The Consortium will
   of course do anything possible to assist the Sentine in the pursuit of their lawful
   duties. Please wait here.” She walked swiftly away, leaving the two silent men
   standing watch.
   After a moment, Daig glanced at his cohort. “When Laimner finds out you
   brought us here without authorisation, the first thing he’s going to do is rip you down
   to foot patrol in the slums.”
   вЂњNo,” said Yosef, “the first thing he’s going to do is cover his ample backside
   with Telemach so she won’t blame him for any fallout. But he won’t be able to pull
   out anything about jurisdiction if we bring him some actual evidence.”
   Daig watched Gorospe vanish into the main house. “There is a large chance that
   she may not have anything we can use, you know.”
   Yosef shot him a glare. “Well, in that case, our careers are over.”
   Daig nodded grimly. “Just so we’re both clear on that.”
   The night air was as warm as blood, and humid with it. It was still and oppressive,
   almost a palpable thing surrounding and pressing down on Fon Tariel. He sighed and
   used a micropore kerchief to dab at his head before returning to the nested layers of
   hololith panes floating above his cogitator gauntlet.
   Across the sparse room, in a pool of shadow at the far window, the sniper sat
   cross-legged, his longrifle resting across the crook of his arm. Without turning, Kell
   spoke to him. “Are you really in so much discomfort that you cannot sit still for more
   than a moment? Or is that twitching something common to all Vanus?”
   Tariel scowled at the Vindicare. “The heat,” he said, by way of explanation. “I
   feel… soiled by it.” He glanced around; judging by the detritus scattered all about
   them, the room had once been the central space of a small domicile, before what
   appeared to be a combination of fire and structural collapse had ruined it. There were
   great holes in the roof allowing in the light, tepid rain from the low clouds overhead,
   and other rents in the floor that emitted smells Tariel’s augmetic scent-sensors
   classified as human effluent, burned rodent meat and contaminated fusel oils. The
   building was deep in the ghetto shanties of the Yndenisc Bloc, where low-caste
   citizens were piled atop one another like rats in a nest.
   вЂњI’m guessing you don’t leave your clade’s sanctum very often,” said Kell.
   вЂњThere hasn’t been the need,” Tariel said defensively. He and his fellow infocytes
   and cryptocrats had taken part in many operations, all of them conducted through
   telepresent means directly from the sanctum, or from aboard an Officio-sanctioned
   starship. The thought of actually physically deploying into the field was almost an
   impossibility. “This is my, uh, second sortie.”
   вЂњThe first being when Valdor brought you looking for me?”
   вЂњYes.”
   Kell gave a sarcastic grunt. “What wild stories you’ll have to tell when you go
   home to your hive, little bee.”
   52
   Tariel’s grimace hardened. “Don’t mock me. I’m only here because you need me.
   You won’t find the girl without my assistance.”
   The sniper still refused to look his way, eyes locked on the sights of his longrifle.
   вЂњThat’s true,” he offered. “I’m just wondering why you have to be here with me to do
   it.”
   Tariel had been asking himself the same thing ever since Captain-General Valdor
   had given mission command to the Vindicare and ordered them out to the tropics. As
   far as he could be certain, it seemed that operational confidence for this mission was
   of such paramount importance that detection of any live in-theatre signals transmitted
   from the Yndenisc Bloc to the Vanus sanctum could not be risked. He wondered
   what kind of foe could threaten to defeat the finest information security in the
   Imperium and found he had no answer; and the fact that such a threat could even
   exist troubled him in no small degree. “The quicker we get it done, then, the quicker
   we can leave this place and each other’s company,” he said, with genuine feeling.
   вЂњIt will take as long as it takes,” Kell replied. “Wait for the target to come to
   you.”
   The infocyte disagreed but did not voice it. Instead, he returned to the hololiths,
   leafing through them as if they were pages made of glass hanging suspended in the
   air. Anyone watching him would have only seen the motions of his hands and
   nothing else; Tariel had tuned the images to a visual frequency only readable by his
   enhancile retinal lenses.
   The penetration of the local sensor web had presented him with a minor
   impediment, but nothing that he would have considered challenging. The infocyte
   sent a small swarm of organic-metal netfly automata out to chew into any opti-cables
   they found, and parse what rich data flows they located back to him. Each fly was by
   itself a relatively unsophisticated device, but networked en masse, the information
   the swarm returned could be cohered into a dense picture of what was happening in
   the surrounding area. Tariel had already assembled maps of the nearby structures, the
   flows of foot and vehicular traffic, and he was currently worming his way into the
   encoding of several hundred monitor beads scattered throughout the zone.
   The Yndeniscs called this locale the Red Lanes, and the area was a centre for
   what one might tactfully describe as hedonistic pursuits. The local confederation of
   warlords allowed the place a great degree of latitude from their already lax legal
   codes, and in return reaped a sizeable percentage of profit from the patronage of
   pleasure-tourists from all across Terra and the Sol system. Quite how a place like this
   was allowed to exist on the Throneworld was a mystery to Tariel, as much so as the
   tribes of bandits he had encountered out in the Atalantic Plain. His understanding of
   Imperial Terra was of a nation-world united and glorious—that was what he saw
   through the glassy lenses of his monitors from the safety of his workpod in the
   sanctum. But now, outside… He was quickly realising that there were many dirty,
   messy, dark corners that did not conform to his view of the Imperium.
   A soft chime sounded from the gauntlet. “Are you through?” asked Kell.
   вЂњWorking,” he replied. The netflys had bored into a deep sub-web of imaging
   coils hidden several layers beneath the more obvious ones, and all at once he was
   assailed by a storm of images from the shielded rooms in a tall building across the
   square; images of men, women and other humans of indeterminate gender
   53
   performing acts upon one another that were as fascinating as they were repulsive. “I
   have… access,” he muttered. “Commencing, uh, image match sweep.”
   The facial pattern Valdor had provided to Tariel phased through the images, one
   after another, like looking for like. The infocyte tried to maintain an objective
   viewpoint, but the feeds he was seeing made him uncomfortable; if anything, he felt
   more soiled by them than by the dirt and humidity of the night air.
   And then suddenly, she was there, the tawny skin of the girl’s face dark in the
   lamplight of a red-lit room as the trace program found its target. “Location
   confirmed,” he said.
   вЂњGood,” said Kell. “Now find me a way to contact her before she gets killed.”
   And so Iota found herself in the room after opening her eyes. She had wondered if it
   would still be there when she looked again, and it was. This confirmed her earlier
   hypothesis, that the sensations she was experiencing were not hallucinatory but
   actually real. On some level, that was troubling to accept; perhaps, if she had
   understood her state more correctly, Iota would not have allowed some of the
   liberties that had been taken with her physical form to occur. But then again, they had
   been necessary to secure her cover in the Red Lanes. She remembered those activities
   distantly, like a half-recalled dream. The persona-implants that had been used to
   bolster the cover identity were crumbling like sand, and recollection of any particular
   point of them was difficult.
   It wasn’t important. The false overlay was drifting away, and beneath was
   revealed her real self; such as it was. Iota was not a blank slate, as those who did not
   fully understand the works of her clade might think. No. She was a fluid in the bottle
   of herself, a shape without definition, a form needing direction, a space to fill.
   She surveyed the crimson room, the walls covered with rich velvet hangings
   sketched with erotic detail in gold threads, the great oval bed emerging from the deep
   carpeting. Floating lume-globes provided sultry lighting, with a shuttered window the
   only entrance for any natural illumination.
   The men who ran the doxy-house seemed caught in some peculiar kind of attractrepel
   balance with her. Iota’s gift made them uncomfortable without them ever
   knowing exactly why. Perhaps it was the hollow distance in her dark eyes, or the
   silence that was her habitual mien. However the gift manifested, it was enough to
   unsettle them. Some liked that, taking pleasure from the thrill of it as they might the
   tread of a scorpion across their naked flesh; most avoided her, though. She scared
   them without ever giving form to their fear.
   Iota touched the ornamental tore around the dusky flesh of her throat. If only they
   knew how little of her they really sensed. Without the dampener device concealed in
   the necklet, the icy void inside her would have spread wide.
   She sniffed the perfumed air. Iota felt odd to be out of her suit, but then she
   always did. The silken shift dress that covered her body was gossamer-thin, and she
   continually forgot that she was wearing it. Of its own accord, her right hand—her
   killing hand—reached up and buried itself in the tight cornrows of her shiny black
   hair. The hand toyed absently with the plaits dangling off her scalp, and she
   wondered how long it would be until the murder came. Her eyes wandered to the
   wooden box on the bed, and that was when she had her answer.
   54
   The other woman came into the room striding like a man, and around the back of
   her scalp she wore an emitter crown, the delicate filigree of crystalline psybercircuits
   and implant tech glowing with soft light. She towered over the diminutive
   Iota, nearly two metres tall in elevated boots of shiny blue leather, a full and wellshaped
   body showing through a bustier-affair outfit that could only have been a few
   strips of hide if taken off and laid end to end. She carried a device that resembled a
   bulbous tonfa in one hand, one end of it bladed, the other crackling with energy.
   The woman sneered at Iota. The expression was ugly and ill-fitting on her face,
   and Iota saw the small twitches of the nerves around her lips and nostrils as the
   crown worked on her. “You’re new,” said the woman. The words were slightly
   slurred.
   Iota nodded, remaining downcast and passive.
   вЂњThey tell me there’s something odd about you,” she said, reaching for Iota’s
   hand. “Different.” The ugly sneer widened. “I do enjoy things that are different.”
   Then she knew for certain. There was a small chance it wasn’t going to be him,
   but the clade had invested too much time and effort into inserting Iota into the right
   place at the right time for a mistake to happen at this late stage. The voice belonged
   to the woman, but the words—and the personality animating her at this moment—
   belonged to Jun Yae Jun, scion of one of the Nine Families of the Yndenisc Bloc and
   warlord-general. He was also, as intelligence had proven, a deceiver who was
   disloyal to the Imperial Throne, in violation of the Nikaea Edict, and suspected of
   involvement in a counter-secular cult.
   вЂњWe will play.” Jun made the woman say the words. He was on the other end of
   the emitter crown, somewhere nearby, his body in repose while he forced his
   consciousness onto the flesh of the proxy. It was a game the warlord-general liked a
   great deal, working a meat-puppet in order to slake his desires. Iota was aware that
   many of her guardians back at her clade’s holdfast viewed what Jun did with disgust,
   but she only felt a vague curiosity about him, the same clinical detachment that
   coloured almost all her interactions with other humans.
   Iota wondered if the woman Jun controlled was conscious during the activities,
   and dispassionately considered the psychological effects that might have; but such
   thoughts were trivia. She had a murder to focus on. “Wait,” she said. “I have
   something for you,” Iota nodded at the box. “A gift.”
   вЂњGive it to me,” came the demand.
   Iota let the shift dress fall from her shoulders, and with Jun’s second-hand gaze
   all over her, she picked up the box and brought it closer. Bloodlock sensors released
   the latches and she presented it, holding it up with one hand like a server offering a
   tray of food. The killing hand went to the tore and unfastened it.
   вЂњWhat is this?” A clumsy echo of Jun’s confusion crossed the woman’s face. “A
   mask?”
   The lume light fell over the shape of a metallic skull. One eye was a glittering
   ruby, but the other was a cluster of lenses made from milky sapphire, spiked with
   stubby vanes and strange antennae. “Of a sort,” Iota explained.
   The tore released with a delicate click and Iota felt a sudden rush of cold move
   through her, as if a floodgate inside her had opened. At least for the moment, she no
   longer needed to hold it all in, to keep the emptiness inside her bottled up.
   55
   Jun made a strange noise through the woman that was half-cry, half-yelp, and
   then the psychoactive matrix of the crown began to fizz and pop, the tonfa falling
   from the proxy’s nerveless fingers. With a disordered, tinkling peal, the psionic
   crystals in the headdress began to shatter and the woman tottered on her spiked heels,
   stumbling over herself to fall upon the bed. She made moaning, weeping sounds.
   Iota cocked her head to listen; the same chorus of wailing was coming from room
   after room down the corridor of the change-brothel, as the nulling effect of her raw
   self spread out.
   Before the link could fully die, she sprang onto the bed and brought her face to
   the anguished woman’s, staring into her eyes. “I want to kiss you,” she told Jun.
   Through the window, across the companionway from the brothel building, the
   doors of a nondescript residential slum block had broken open and a tide of panicked
   figures was spilling onto the street, all of them half-dressed in clothes that marked
   them too rich to be locals.
   Iota nimbly leapt back to the floor and unfurled the stealthsuit lying beneath the
   skull-helm, stepping into it with careless ease. The mask went on last, and it soothed
   her as it did so.
   The weeping woman coughed out a last, stuttered word as Jun’s hold on her
   finally disintegrated. “Cuh. Cuh. Culexus.”
   But Iota did not wait to hear it; instead she threw herself through the window in a
   crash of glass and wood, spinning towards the other building.
   While they waited for Gorospe, Yosef glanced around the landing pad’s
   surroundings. The fountains, which were usually gushing with coloured water, were
   silent; and when he looked closer, he noted that the well-tended gardens seemed, if
   anything, considerably unkempt. There were even dead patches in the otherwise
   flawless lawns; the Consortium appeared to be slacking on matters of minor
   maintenance. He wondered what that small detail could mean in the greater scheme
   of things.
   Daig had made an attempt to engage one of the security men in conversation,
   resorting to his usual gambit of complaining about the weather, but the guard had
   been disinterested in talking. “Nice outfits they have,” he opined, wandering back to
   the parked coleopter. “Do you think they have to buy their own uniforms?”
   вЂњConsidering a career change, then?”
   Daig shrugged. “Or maybe a sabbatical. A very long one, to somewhere quiet.”
   He glanced up into the sky, then away again.
   Yosef sensed something in his cohort and found himself asking the question that
   had been preying on his mind for a time. “Do you think he will come here?”
   вЂњThe Warmaster?”
   вЂњWho else?” The air around them seemed suddenly still.
   вЂњThe Arbites say the situation will be dealt with by the Astartes.” Daig’s manner
   made it clear he didn’t believe that.
   Yosef frowned. Now he had asked the question, he found he couldn’t stop
   thinking about it. “I still find it hard to grasp. The idea of one of the Emperor’s sons
   56
   plotting a rebellion against him.” The concept seemed unreal, like the rain rebelling
   against the clouds.
   вЂњLaimner says there is no mutiny at all. He says it’s a disinformation ploy by the
   Adeptus Terra to keep the planets out in the deeps off-balance, keep them loyal to the
   Throneworld. After all, a fearful populace is a compliant one.”
   вЂњOur esteemed Reeve Warden is a fool.”
   вЂњI won’t argue that point,” Daig nodded. “But then, is that any more shocking
   than the idea that the Warmaster would turn against his own father? What possible
   reason could he have to do that, unless he has some sort of sickness of the mind?”
   Yosef felt a chill move through him, as if a shadow had passed over the sun. “It’s
   not a matter of lunacy,” he said, uncertain as to where the words were coming from.
   вЂњAnd fathers can be fallible, after all.”
   He caught a flash of irritation on Daig’s face. “You’re talking about ordinary
   men. The Emperor is far more than that.”
   Yosef considered an answer, but then his attention was drawn away by the return
   of the Gorospe woman. Her carefully prepared expression of superior neutrality had
   been replaced by a severe aspect, concern and irritation there in equal measure. He
   had to wonder what she had found to instigate so profound a shift in her manner. She
   held the data-slate in her hand, along with a page of vinepaper. “You have something
   for us?” he asked.
   Gorospe hesitated, then tersely dismissed the two security men. When it was just
   the three of them, she gave the lawmen a firm stare. “Before we go any further, there
   are a number of assurances that I must have from you. No information will be
   forthcoming if you refuse any of the following conditions, is that understood?”
   вЂњI’m listening,” said Yosef.
   She ticked off the stipulations on her long, elegantly manicured fingers. “This
   meeting did not occur; any attempt to suggest it did at a later date will be denied and
   may be considered an attempt at slander. Under no account are you to refer to the
   method in which this information was brought to you in any official records of
   investigation, now or at a later date in any legal setting. And finally, and most
   importantly, the name of the Eurotas Trade Consortium will in no way be connected
   to the suspect of your investigation.”
   The two men exchanged glances. “I suppose I have no choice but to agree,” said
   Yosef.
   вЂњBoth of you,” she insisted.
   вЂњAye, then,” said Daig, with a wary nod.
   Gorospe handed back the data-slate and unfolded the vinepaper. On it, Yosef saw
   file text and an image of a thuggish man with heavy stubble and deep-set eyes.
   вЂњThere was a match between the blood trace you provided and a single subject listed
   in our biomedical records. His name is Erno Sigg, and he is known to be at large on
   Iesta Veracrux.”
   Yosef reached for the paper, but she held it away. “He was a passenger on one of
   your ships?”
   57
   When the woman didn’t answer straight away, Daig made the connection.
   вЂњThat’s a bondsman’s record you have there, isn’t it? Sigg isn’t a passenger. He
   works for you.”
   вЂњAh,” nodded Yosef, suddenly understanding. “Well, that clears the mist, doesn’t
   it? The last thing the Void Baron would want is the good name of his clan being
   connected to a murderous psychotic.”
   вЂњErno Sigg is not an employee of the Consortium,” Gorospe insisted. “He has not
   been a member of our staff for the last four lunars. His bond and his shares were
   cancelled in perpetuity with the clan, following an… incident.”
   вЂњGo on.”
   The woman glanced at the paper. “Sigg was cashiered after a violent episode on
   one of the Consortium’s deep space trading stations.”
   вЂњHe stabbed someone.” Yosef tossed out the guess and the widening of her eyes
   told him he was right. “Killed them?”
   Gorospe shook her head. “There was no fatality. But a… a weapon was used.”
   вЂњWhere is he now?”
   вЂњWe have no record of that.”
   Daig’s lip curled. “So you decided to throw him out, just dump a violent offender
   on our planet without so much as a warning to the local law enforcement? I think I
   could find a judiciary who would classify that irresponsible endangerment.”
   вЂњYou misunderstand. Sigg was released after a period of detention commensurate
   with the severity of his misbehaviour.” Gorospe looked at the paper again.
   вЂњAccording to notations made by our security staff, he was genuinely remorseful. He
   voluntarily went into the custody of a charitable rehabilitation group here on Iesta
   Veracrux. That’s why he asked to be released on this planet.”
   вЂњWhat group?” said Daig.
   вЂњThe file notes it was part of an informal organisation called the Theoge.”
   Yosef swore under his breath and snatched the paper from the woman’s hand.
   вЂњGive me that. We’ll take this from here.”
   вЂњRemember our arrangement!” she insisted, her cheeks colouring; but the reeve
   was already stalking away towards the coleopter.
   The Warlord Jun Yae Jun bolted upright from the ornate couch where he lay, his robe
   falling open, scattering the attendants from his sides. He spluttered and snarled,
   tearing at the web of golden mechadendrites that were wrapped about his head,
   winding into his ear canals, nostrils and mouth. “Get these things off me!” he
   bellowed, flailing around, knocking over a hookah and table piled with wine goblets
   and ampoules.
   With an agonised wrench he finally freed himself and glared around, looking for
   his guardian. Jun could hear the sounds of violence and panic in the halls beyond the
   room. Something had gone very wrong, and a tide of terror was welling up inside
   him. He turned it into fury as he found the guardian on his hands and knees, staring
   into a pool of vomit.
   Jun gave him a violent kick. “What are you doing down there? Get up! Get up
   and protect me, you worthless wretch!”
   58
   The guardian stood, as shaky as a drunkard. “There is darkness,” he muttered.
   вЂњBlack curtains falling.” The man choked and coughed up bile.
   Jun kicked him again. “You were supposed to protect me! Why did you fail me?”
   His face was crimson with anger. In defiance of Imperial law, without grant or
   sanction from the Adeptus Terra, the warlord had secured himself a guardian who not
   only had combatant skills, but was also possessed of a measure of psychic ability. For
   months, his pet killer had been his most closely-guarded confidence, but now it
   seemed that his secret was out. “There’s a Culexus here! Do you know what that
   means?”
   The guardian nodded. “I know.”
   When he had first heard the name of the assassin clade spoken, when the story of
   what the word meant had been told to him, the warlord did not believe it. He
   understood psykers, the humans gifted—some said cursed— by the touch of the warp.
   A psyker’s essence burned bright in the realm of the immaterium, forever connecting
   the world of flesh with the world of the ethereal; but if psykers reflected the far
   extreme of a spectrum, and ordinary men and women the brief candles of life in the
   middle ground, then what could represent the opposite end of that balance? The
   darkness?
   They were called pariahs. Chance births, less than one in a billion, children born,
   so it was said, without a soul. Where a psyker burned sun-bright, they were a black
   hole. They were antithesis, made manifest. Ice to the fire, darkness to the light.
   And as with so many things, the Imperium of Man had found a use for such
   aberrations. The Clade Culexus harvested pariahs wherever they were found, and
   rumour suggested that they might even grow them wholesale from synthesis tanks in
   some secret fleshworks in the wilds of Terra. Jun Yae Jun had never believed in them
   until this moment, dismissed the very idea as a fiction created to instill fear in the
   kings and regents who ruled under the aegis of the Emperor. He knew fear now,
   though, and truth with it.
   Jun stumbled towards the doorway, and hands pulled at his robes. “Warlord,
   please,” said the attendant. The spindly man was speaking rapidly. “Stop! The game
   has not been completed. There is the letting of fluids to be gathered, the sacrament!”
   The warlord turned and glared at the attendant. Like all the others who ran this
   sordid diversion for the masters of the Red Lanes, he was draped in strips of silk and
   painted with bright inks. He had numerous daubs across his skin, repeating the shape
   of a disc, a rod and opposed crescents. The design was meaningless to Jun. He tried
   to shove the man away, but he would not let go.
   вЂњYou must not leave!” snarled the attendant. “Not yet!” He gripped the warlord’s
   arm and held on tightly.
   Jun spat and produced a push-dagger from a pocket. “Get off me!” he roared, and
   stabbed the man in the throat with three quick moves. Leaving him to die, the
   warlord forced his way out into the corridor. The guardian stayed with him, his face
   pale and sweaty. He was mumbling to himself with every step. “Vox!” shouted Jun.
   вЂњGive me your vox!”
   The guardian obeyed. A line of blood was seeping from his right eye, like red
   tears.
   59
   Barging his way through the change-brothel’s other clients, slashing a path with
   the push-dagger, the warlord barked a command string into the mouthpiece of the
   communicator. “Air Guard,” he shouted. “Deploy mobiles for zone strike, now now
   now!”
   вЂњLocation?” asked the worried voice of the coordinator, back at the Yae clan
   compound.
   вЂњThe Red Lanes!” he replied. “Wipe it off the map!”
   вЂњLord, are you not in that area?”
   вЂњDo it now!” It was the only way to be certain of killing the Culexus. He had no
   other option open to him.
   In the ruined apartment, Kell held his breath and listened. Over the disarray in the
   street below them, his spy mask’s audial sensors had detected the sound of gravityresist
   motors. “Vanus,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
   вЂњGunships,” said Tariel, studying his hololiths. “Cyclone-class. I read an attack
   formation.”
   Kell’s face twisted in a grimace, and he ejected the magazine from his weapon,
   quickly reloading it with a different kind of ammunition.
   Crossing the courtyard, the warlord looked up into the rainy night as the first salvo of
   rockets slammed into the buildings surrounding the square. A massive fist of orange
   fire and black smoke engulfed the tallest of the shanty-towers, and curls of flame
   spun away, lighting new infernos wherever they landed.
   His guardian was behind him, blinded by a roaring headache, barely able to
   stagger in a straight line, and with a monumental effort, the psyker bodyguard hauled
   himself to the groundcar parked near the gates. Dead bodies lay in a circle around the
   vehicle, shocked to death by the vehicle’s autonomic security system. Recognising
   him, the car’s driver-servitor opened the gull wing doors to allow the guardian and
   the warlord inside. Another strike hit home nearby, blasting tiles off the brothel’s
   roof, sending them down to shatter harmlessly against the vehicle’s armoured skin.
   вЂњGet me out of here,” demanded Jun. “Stop for nothing.”
   The guardian, half in and half out of the door, coughed suddenly and blood
   spluttered from his mouth. He turned, the pain in his skull burning like cold fire, as a
   figure in glistening black fell the distance from the roof to the courtyard floor. A ring
   of invisible force radiated out from it, causing a halo of rain to vaporise into mist.
   вЂњKill her!” shouted the warlord, his voice high and filled with terror. “Kill her!”
   The psyker took a foot in the spine and Jun shoved him out of the safety of the
   car, onto his knees. The gull wing door slammed shut and sealed tight.
   The Culexus assassin stepped forwards as the guardian got up again, catching
   sight of the rain rolling down the contours of her skull-helm, dripping from the orbit
   of the single ruby eye as if she were weeping. The guardian reached inside himself
   and went deep, past the blazing pain, past the horrific wave of nothingness that
   threatened to drown him. He found a breath of fire and released it.
   The pyrokinetic pulse chugged into existence, streaming from his twitching
   fingertips. The blast hit the Culexus dead on, and she backed away, shaking her
   60
   distended steel head; but the tiny flare of hope the guardian experienced died a
   second later as the fire ebbed, almost as if it had been pulled into the ribbing of the
   assassin’s sinister garb.
   He was aware of the car moving forwards in fits and starts, but his attention could
   not stray from the grinning, angular skull. The sapphire eye-clutch shimmered and
   the punishing gaze of the weapon known as the animus speculum was turned upon
   him.Power, raw and inchoate, sucked in from the fabric of the warp and from the
   guardian’s abortive attack, drawn in like light from the event horizon of a singularity,
   was now unleashed. A pulse of energy flashed from the psychic cannon and blasted
   the warlord’s bodyguard backward, slamming him into the wall of the courtyard. As
   he tumbled to the ground, he combusted from within, the fire consuming his flesh
   and his screams.
   Jun Yae Jun was shouting incoherently at his driver-servitor as it used the bull-bars
   on the groundcar’s prow to shoulder pedestrians out of the way. The vehicle made it
   onto the street as fresh salvos of rocket fire tore the Red Lanes into rubble. The
   servitor gunned the engine and aimed the car towards the bridge that led back
   towards the Yae compound.
   A black blur fluttered in the light of an explosion and the armoured windscreen
   cracked and crazed as indigo fire lashed across it. Great gobs of polymer glass
   denatured and collapsed, smothering the servitor in a suffocating blanket of
   superheated plastic. The car spun out and collided with a bollard.
   Jun pulled wildly at the door’s locking handle, then stabbed it with the pushdagger.
   He was operating on blind panic.
   Taking her time, the Culexus clambered in through the destroyed window and
   disarmed him, almost as an afterthought. The warlord soiled himself as the skull
   came closer. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”
   вЂњKiss me,” she said, her voice devoid of all emotion.
   Jun’s lips were pressed to the cold steel of the mask, and agony spiked through
   him. He fell back, and spat dust. Raw pain boiled at his extremities as his flesh
   blackened and became thick ash, crumbling before his eyes until those too rotted in
   their sockets and shrivelled to nothing. Jun Yae Jun’s very energy of life was drawn
   from him, leached into the force matrix webbing the assassin’s stealthsuit, until there
   was nothing left of him but a slurry of indeterminate matter.
   Iota left the target’s vehicle and the area around her was suddenly drenched in
   brilliant white light. The downdraught from a gravity drive beat at the ground,
   stirring up debris and what remained of the warlord. The sensor suite inside her helm
   registered a gunship’s weapons grid locking on to her silhouette, and she paused,
   wondering if it were possible for her to die.
   In the next moment, she saw a line of light across the infrared spectrum as a
   single high-impact bullet passed through the armoured canopy of the gunship,
   beheading both the pilot and the gunner. Suddenly unguided, the Cyclone’s autoflight
   system kicked in and brought it down to a soft landing.
   61
   Presently two men, one in the operations gear of the Vindicare clade and another
   in a more basic stealth rig, emerged from one of the smouldering buildings. Iota
   glanced at them, then went back to watching the spreading fires.
   As the sniper tipped the corpses from the flyer’s cockpit, the other man warily
   approached her. “Iota?” he asked. “Protiphage, Clade Culexus?”
   вЂњOf course it’s her,” said the Vindicare. “Don’t be obtuse, Tariel.”
   вЂњYou have to come with us,” said the one called Tariel. He indicated the gunship
   as the sniper took the controls.
   Iota ran a finger over the grinning teeth of her skull-mask. “Will you kiss me
   too?” The man went pale. “Perhaps later?”
   62
   FIVE
   Fears
   Release
   Innocence
   вЂњHusband?”
   Renia’s hand on Yosef’s shoulder shocked him out of the dreamless doze he had
   fallen into at the kitchen table; so much so that he almost knocked over the glass of
   black tea by his hand. Before it could tip, he snatched it back upright without spilling
   a drop.
   He gave her a weak smile. “Heh. Quicker this time.”
   Yosef’s wife gathered her thick housecoat around her and took the seat across
   from him. It was late, deep into the evening, and the house was unlit except for a
   single lume over the table. It had a sharp-edged shade around it that forced the cast
   light into a cone, reducing everything beyond it to vague shapes in the shadows.
   вЂњIs Ivak up as well?”
   вЂњNo. He’s still asleep, and I’m pleased to see it. With everything that’s been
   going on, he’s had a lot of bad dreams.”
   вЂњHas he?” Yosef asked the question and immediately felt a flicker of guilt. “I’ve
   been absent a lot recently…”
   вЂњIvak understands,” Renia said, cutting him off. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she
   noted.
   Yosef nodded and resisted the urge to yawn. “You and the boy had already turned
   in. I didn’t want to wake you, so I made tea…” He sipped at the glass and found the
   contents had gone cold.
   вЂњAnd fell asleep in the chair?” She tutted quietly. “You’re doing this too often
   these days,” Yosef Renia brushed some stray threads of copper-coloured hair out of
   her eyes.
   He nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s the investigation.” Yosef sighed. “It’s… troubling.”
   вЂњI’ve heard,” she said. “The watch-wire was running stories about it for a while,
   before the news from Dagonet came in. Now that is all anyone is talking about.”
   Yosef blinked. “Dagonet?” he repeated. The planet was a trading partner with
   Iesta Veracrux, a few light years distant down the spine of the Taebian Sector’s
   mercantile routes, in a system orbiting a pale yellow sun. By the interstellar scales of
   the Imperium of Man, Dagonet was practically a neighbour. He asked his wife to
   explain; Yosef and Daig had both been buried in research on the serial murders all
   day long, fruitlessly looking for information about Erno Sigg, and neither of them
   had seen anything that wasn’t a case file or medical report.
   63
   For the first time since she had broken his dozing, Yosef realised that Renia was
   hiding something, and as she talked it became clear. She was worried.
   вЂњSome ships came into the system from Dagonet,” Renia began. “The Planetary
   Defence Force monitors couldn’t catch them all, there were so many.”
   Yosef felt a peculiar thrill of fear in his chest. “Warships?”
   She shook her head. “Transports, liners, that sort of thing. All Dagoneti ships.
   Some of them barely made it out of the warp in one piece. They were all overloaded
   with people. The ships were full of refugees, Yosef.”
   вЂњWhy did they come here?” Even as he asked the question, he knew what the
   answer was most likely to be. Ever since stories of the galactic insurrection had
   broken out across the sector, Dagonet’s government had been noticeably reticent to
   commit on the subject.
   вЂњThey were running. Apparently, there’s an uprising going on out there. The
   population are split over their… loyalty.” She said the word as if it was foreign to
   her, as if the idea of being disloyal to Terra was a totally alien concept. “It’s a
   revolt.”
   Yosef frowned. “The Governor on Dagonet won’t let things run out of control.
   The noble clans won’t let the planet fall into anarchy. If the Imperial Army or the
   Astartes have to intervene there—”
   Renia shook her head and touched his hand. “You don’t understand. It’s the
   Dagoneti clans who started the uprising. The Governor issued a formal statement of
   support for the Warmaster. The nobles have declared in favour of Horus and rejected
   the rule of Terra.”
   вЂњWhat?” Yosef felt suddenly giddy, as if he had stood up too quickly.
   вЂњThe common people are the ones fighting back. They say there is blood in the
   streets of the capital. Soldiers fighting soldiers, militia fighting clan guards. Those
   who could flee filled every ship they could get their hands on.”
   He sat quietly, letting this sink in. There was, he had to admit, a certain logic to
   the chain of events. Yosef had visited Dagonet in his youth and he recalled that
   Horus Lupercal was second only to the Emperor in being celebrated by the people of
   the planet; statues in the Warmaster’s honour were everywhere, and the Dagoneti
   spoke of him as “the Liberator”. As the historic record went, in the early years of the
   Great Crusade to reunite the lost colonies of humanity, Dagonet languished under the
   heel of a corrupt and venal priest-king who ruled the planet through fear and
   superstition. Horus, at the head of his Luna Wolves Legion, had come to Dagonet
   and freed a world—accomplishing the deed with only one round of ammunition
   expended, the single shot he fired that dispatched the tyrant. The victory was one of
   the Warmaster’s most celebrated triumphs, and it ensured he would be revered
   forever as Dagonet’s saviour.
   Small wonder then, that the aristocratic clans who now ruled the planet would
   give their banners to him instead of a distant Emperor who had never set foot on their
   world. Yosef’s brow creased in a frown. “If they follow Horus…”
   вЂњWill Iesta follow suit?” said Renia, completing his question for him. “Terra is a
   long way from here, Yosef, and our Governor is no stronger-willed than the rulers of
   Dagonet. And if the rumours are true, the Warmaster may be closer than we know.”
   His wife reached out again and took both his hands, and this time he noticed that she
   64
   was trembling. “They say that the Sons of Horus are already on their way to Dagonet,
   to take control of the entire sector.”
   He tried to summon a fraction of his firm, steady voice, the manner he had been
   trained to display as a reeve when the citizens looked to him in time of danger. “That
   won’t happen. We have nothing to be afraid of.”
   Renia’s expression—her love for him for trying to protect her there, but
   intermingled with stark fear—told him that for all his efforts, he did not succeed.
   The chemical snows of the Aktick Zone, thick feathery clumps tainted a sickly
   yellow from thousands of years of atmospheric contaminants, beat at the canopy of
   the aircraft. Out beyond the bullet-shaped nose of the transport, there was only a
   featureless cowl of grey sky and the whirling storm. Eristede Kell gave it a glance
   and then turned away, stepping back from the raised cockpit deck to the small cabin
   area behind it.
   вЂњHow much longer?” said Tariel, who sat strapped into a thrust couch, a halffinished
   logica puzzle in his soft, thin fingers.
   вЂњNot long,” Kell told him, deliberately giving him a vague answer.
   The Vanus’ face pinched in irritation, and he fiddled with the complex knot of the
   logica without really paying attention to it. “The sooner we get there, the happier I
   will be.”
   вЂњNervous passenger?” the sniper asked, with mild amusement.
   Tariel heard it in his voice and fired him an acid look. “The last aircraft I was in
   got shot down over the desert. That hasn’t exactly made me well-disposed to the
   whole experience.” He discarded the logica—which, to his surprise, Kell realised the
   Vanus had completed without apparent effort—and pulled up his sleeve to minister to
   his cogitator gauntlet. “I still don’t understand why I am needed here. I should have
   returned with Valdor.”
   вЂњThe Captain-General has duties of his own to attend to,” said Kell. “For now on,
   we’re on our own.”
   вЂњSo it would seem.” Tariel threw a wary look to the far end of the cabin, where
   the girl Iota was sitting. Tariel had placed himself as far away from her as it was
   possible to get and still be inside the aircraft’s crew compartment.
   For her part, the Culexus appeared wholly occupied with the pattern of the rivets
   on the far bulkhead, running her long fingers over the surface of them, back and
   forth. She seemed lost in the repeated, almost autistic actions.
   вЂњOperational security,” said Kell. “Valdor’s orders were quite clear. We assemble
   the team he wants, and no one must learn of it.”
   Tariel paused, and then leaned closer. “You know what she is, don’t you?”
   вЂњA pariah,” sniffed the Vindicare. “Yes, I know what that means.”
   But the Vanus was shaking his head. “Iota is designated as a protiphage. She’s
   not human, Kell, not like you or I. The girl is a replicae.”
   вЂњA clone?” The sniper looked back at the silent Culexus. “I would not think it
   beyond the works of her clade to create such a thing.” Still, he wondered how the
   genomasters would have gone about it. Kell knew that the Emperor’s biologians were
   65
   greatly skilled and possessed of incredible knowledge—but to make a living person,
   whole and real, from cells in a test tube…
   вЂњExactly!” insisted Tariel. “A being without a soul. She’s closer to the xenos than
   to us.”
   A smile pulled briefly at Kell’s lips. “You’re afraid of her.”
   The infocyte looked away. “In all honesty, Vindicare, I am afraid of most things.
   It’s the equilibrium of my life.”
   Kell accepted this with a nod. “Tell me, have you ever been face to face with one
   of the Eversor?”
   Tariel’s face went ashen, the tone of his cheeks paling to match the polar snows
   outside the flyer’s viewports. “No,” he husked.
   вЂњWhen that happens,” Kell went on, “then you’ll truly have something to be
   afraid of.”
   вЂњThat’s where we’re going,” offered Iota. Both of them had thought the girl to be
   wrapped up in whatever private reality existed inside her mind, but now she turned
   away from the bulkhead and spoke as if she had been a part of the conversation all
   along. “To fetch the one they call the Garantine.”
   Kell’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that name?” He had not spoken of the
   next assassin on Valdor’s list.
   вЂњVanus are not the only ones who know things.” She cocked her head to stare at
   Tariel. “I’ve seen them. Eversor.” Iota’s hand strayed to her skull-helm, where it
   rested nearby on a vacant passenger couch. “Like and like.” She smiled at the
   infocyte. “They are rage distilled. Pure.”
   Tariel glared at the sniper. “That’s why we’re out here in this icy wilderness? To
   get one of them?” He shuddered. “A primed cyclonic warhead would be safer!”
   Kell ignored him. “You know the Garantine’s name,” he said to Iota. “What else
   do you know?”
   вЂњPieces of the puzzle,” she replied. “I’ve seen what he left behind. The tracks of
   blood and broken meat, the spoor of the vengeance killer.” She pointed at Tariel.
   вЂњThe infocyte is right, you know. More than any one of us, the Garantine is a weapon
   of terror.”
   The matter-of-fact way she said the words made Kell hesitate; ever since Valdor
   had appeared out there in the deserts with his commands and his authority handed
   down from the Master of Assassins himself, the Vindicare’s sense of unease had
   grown greater by the day, and now Iota cut to the heart of it. They were lone killers,
   all of them in their own ways. This gathering together sat wrongly with him; it was
   not the way in which things were to be done. And somewhere, deep in the back of his
   thoughts, Eristede Kell found he was also afraid of what such orders boded.
   вЂњVindicare!” He turned as the transport pilot called out—his clade’s name.
   вЂњApproach control doesn’t answer. Something is wrong!”
   Tariel muttered something about his cursed luck and Kell brushed past him, back
   into the cockpit. The pilot was already pushing the transport into a steep turn. Below
   them, distinguished only by a slight change in the tone of the chem-snow, he spotted
   the mottled lifeless landscape of the Aktick ranges through the spin and whirl of the
   blizzard-borne ice.
   66
   There, beneath the craft, was a low blockhouse of heavy ferrocrete,
   distinguishable only by stripes of weather-faded crimson outlining the edges of it,
   and the steady blink of locator beacons. But where there should have been the hexshape
   of a landing silo, there was only a maw belching black smoke and flickers of
   fire.
   Kell caught the tinny sound of panicked voices coming through the pilot’s voxbead,
   and as they banked, he thought he saw the blink of weapons discharges down
   inside the silo proper. His jaw stiffened; this was no chance accident. He knew
   exactly what had happened.
   вЂњOh. They woke him,” said Iota, from behind, giving voice to his thoughts. “That
   was a mistake.”
   вЂњTake us in,” Kell snapped.
   The pilot’s eyes widened behind his flight goggles. “The silo is on fire and
   there’s nowhere else to set down! We have to abort!”
   The Vindicare shook his head. “Land us on the ice!”
   вЂњIf I put this craft down there, it might never lift again,” said the pilot, “and if—”
   Kell silenced him with a look. “If we don’t deal with this right now, by sunrise
   tomorrow every settlement within a hundred kilometre radius will be a
   slaughterhouse!” He pointed at the snow fields. “Land this thing, now!”
   Instead of returning home to the small apartment cluster where he lived alone, out
   near the western edge of the radial park, Daig Segan took a public conveyor to the
   old market district. At this time of night, none of the stalls were open to make sales
   but they were still hives of activity; men and women loaded produce and prepared for
   the dawn shift, moving crates on dollies this way and that across shiny tiled floors
   that were slick with sluice-water.
   Daig crossed the covered market to the other conveyor halt and took the first ride
   that came in, irrespective of its destination. As the monorail moved along the line
   embedded in the cobbled street bed, he gave the carriage a long, careful sweep,
   running over the faces of the other passengers with a policeman’s wary eye. There
   were only a handful of people. Three teenagers in loader’s hoods, tired and seriouslooking.
   An old couple, bound for home. Men and women in work-cloaks. None of
   them spoke. They either stared into the middle distance, or looked blankly out the
   windows of the conveyor. Daig could sense the tension in them, the unfocussed fear.
   It manifested in short tempers and hollow gazes, brittle silences and morose sighs.
   All these people and everyone like them, all were looking to a horizon lit by the
   distant fires of war, and they wondered—when will it reach us? It seemed as if Iesta
   Veracrux was holding its collective breath as the shadow of the rebellion drew ever
   closer. Daig looked away and watched the streets roll by.
   He rode for three stops before disembarking once more. He took another
   conveyor back the way he came, this time stepping off the running board just as it
   pulled away from the halt before, the market. The reeve jogged across the road,
   throwing a glance over his shoulder to be certain he had not been followed. Then, his
   toque pulled low to his brow line, Daig vanished into an ill-lit alleyway and found his
   way to an unmarked metal door.
   67
   A shutter opened in the door and a round, florid face peered out at him.
   Recognition split the face in a broad smile. “Daig. We haven’t seen you in a good
   while.”
   вЂњHello, Noust.” He nodded distractedly. “Can I come in?”
   The door creaked open in reply and he stepped through.
   Inside it was warm, and Daig blinked a few times, his eyes watering as the chilled
   skin of his face thawed a little. Noust handed him a tin cup with a measure of mulled
   wine in it and the reeve followed the other man down a steel staircase. A breath of
   gentle music wafted up on the warm air as they descended.
   вЂњI wondered if you might have changed your mind,” said Noust. “Sometimes that
   happens. People question things after they take on the belief. It’s like buyer’s
   remorse.” He gave a dry chuckle.
   вЂњIt’s not that,” said Daig. “It’s just that I haven’t been able to get here. It’s the
   work.” He sighed. “I have to be careful.”
   Noust shot him a look over his shoulder. “Of course you do. We all do, especially
   in the current climate. He understands.”
   Daig sighed, feeling guilty. “I hope so.”
   The staircase deposited them in a cellar with a low ceiling. Lumes had been glued
   to the walls along the long axis of the chamber, and in rough rows there were a
   collection of seats—some plastiformed things pilfered from office plexes, others
   threadbare sofas from lost homes, a few little more than artfully cut packing crates—
   all of them arranged in a semi-circle around a cloth-covered table. Red-printed
   leaflets lay on some of the chairs.
   High-Reeve Kata Telemach would have given much to find this place. It was one
   of a handful, each concealed in plain sight across Iesta Veracrux. There was no
   identifying symbol to show it was here, no secret passwords to be spoken or special
   sign that would grant access. It was simply that those who were called to know these
   places found them of their own accord, or else they were brought here by the likeminded;
   and despite what the High-Reeve insisted, despite all the hearsay and foolish
   gossip that was spread about what took place in such cellars and hidden spaces, there
   were no horrors, no murderous blood rites or dark ceremonies. There were only
   ordinary souls that made up the membership of the Theoge, that and nothing more.
   He thought on this as he rubbed his thumb over the smoothed gold of the aquila
   talisman about his wrist.
   On the table, there was an elderly holographic projector that flickered and
   hummed; a blue-tinted image of Terra floated above it, a time-lapse loop of the
   planet’s day-night cycle. At the side of the projector was a book, open at a page of
   dense text. The book was made of common-quality vinepaper and it had been bound
   without a cover; Daig understood that a friend of Noust’s who worked the nightshirt
   at an inkworks had used cast-offs from other jobs and downtime between the print
   runs of paying customers to run out multiple copies of the document.
   The pages were careworn from many sets of hands upon them, and he wanted to
   pick them up and leaf through them, draw comfort from the writings. Daig knew that
   he only had to ask, and Noust would give him a copy of his own to keep, but to have
   the book in his home, somewhere it could be discovered by mistake or worse, used to
   68
   incriminate him by people who didn’t understand the true meaning contained in it…
   He couldn’t take the risk.
   Noust was at his side. “You timed it well. We were just about to have a reading.
   You’ll join us, yes?”
   Daig looked up. There were only a few other people in the cellar, some of whom
   he knew, others not so familiar. He spotted a new face and recognised him as a jager
   from the precinct; the man returned a wary look, but Daig gave him a nod that
   communicated a shared confidence. “Of course,” he said to Noust.
   A youth with a bandaged hand picked up the book and handed it to Daig’s friend.
   On the front was the only element of adornment on the otherwise Spartan document.
   Picked out in red ink, the words Lectitio Divinitatus.
   If the Garantine had once possessed a true name, that time was long ago and of little
   consequence. The entire concept of a past and a future, these were strange abstracted
   notions to the Eversor. They were things that—if he had been able to stop to dwell on
   them—would have only brought tics of confusion; and as with all things about him,
   rage.
   The Eversor existed only in a permanent state of the furious now and matters of
   before and after were limited to the most transitory of elements. Before, just
   heartbeats earlier, he had beheaded a guard attempting to down him with some kind
   of heavy webber cannon. In a moment more, he would leap the distance across the
   open space where the handling gantry for the flyers did not reach, in order to land
   among the group of technicians who were fleeing towards a doorway. In these small
   ways, the Garantine allowed himself to comprehend the nature of past and future, but
   to go beyond that was pointless.
   It was the manner of his life that he existed in the thick of the killing. He had a
   dim understanding of the other times, the times when he would lie in the baths of
   amnio-fluids as the patient machines of his clade healed his wounds or upgraded the
   stimjectors and drag glands throughout his body. The times when, in the dreamless
   no-sleep between missions, hypnogoge data streams would unfold in his head like
   blossoms of information, target profiles linked to mood-triggers that would give him
   bursts of elation for every kill, jolts of pleasure for each waypoint reached, jerks of
   pain if he deviated off-programme.
   These things had not happened here, though. He reflected on that as he completed
   his leap, his augmented muscles relaxing to take the impact of landing, the sheer
   force of his arrival killing one of the fleeing technicians immediately. As he spun
   about, the knife-claws on his hands and feet opening veins, the grinning rictus of his
   steel skull-mask steaming with splashes of blood, he searched for a programme, for a
   set of victory conditions.
   There was none. Digging deeper, he reached for his stunted past. He remembered
   back as far as he could—an hour, perhaps? He replayed the moment. A sudden
   awakening. The transit cocoon that held him in its silent, womb-like space, where he
   could wait out the non-time until his next glorious release; suddenly broken. An
   error, or something else? Enemy action? That assumption was the Garantine’s default
   setting, after all. He reasoned—as much as he was able—that surely if he had been
   awakened for any other reason, the hypnogoges would have ensured he knew why.
   69
   But there was nothing. No parameters, only wakefulness. And for an Eversor, to
   be awake was to be in the glory of killing. A cocktail of stimulants and battle drugs
   boiled through his bloodstream, heavy doses of Fury, Spur and Psychon synthesised
   to order by the compact biofac implants in his abdomen. Under normal
   circumstances, the Garantine would have been armed with more than just his
   skinplanted offensive weapons and helm-mask; he would have been sheathed in
   armour and arrayed with a suite of servo-systems. That he did not have these only
   served to modify the killer’s approach to his targets. He had taken and employed
   several light stubber guns, using each until the ammo dram ran dry, then making the
   weapons into clubs he used to beat his kills to the floor; but the stubbers were only
   good for a few hits before his violence broke them across the frame and he was
   forced to discard them.
   He punched a man with enough energy that it shattered his skull, and then he
   vaulted a makeshift barricade, moving faster than the men hiding behind it could aim.
   He killed them with their own guns and ran on, deeper through the complex.
   Parts of the building might have looked familiar to him, if the Garantine had been
   able to stop the racing pace of his thoughts, if he had been able to slow his kill-need
   for just a moment; but he could do neither.
   In the absence of orders, with no target to aim for, the Eversor did what he was
   trained to do; and he would go on, killing here and then moving on to the next set of
   targets, and the next and the next, forever in the moment.
   Afterwards, Daig felt refreshed by his experience, but he had not come to the meeting
   for personal reasons. While some of the others talked amongst themselves, the reeve
   took Noust to one side and the two men shared cups of the warm wine, and questions.
   Noust listened in silence to Daig’s explanation of his caseload, and at length, he
   gave a nod. “I know Erno Sigg. I guessed that might be why you’d come to see me.
   His face was on the public watch-wire. Said that he was sought after to assist in your
   вЂ˜enquiries’.”
   Daig suppressed a wince. Laimner, on Telemach’s orders, had deliberately leaked
   Sigg’s image to the media in a ham-fisted attempt to flush him into the open; but if
   anything, it appeared to have driven the man deeper into hiding.
   Noust continued. “He’s a troubled fellow, to be certain. Someone without a
   compass, you could say. But that’s where the Theoge can be of help to a man. He
   learned of the text while he was incarcerated, from a ship-hand. Erno found another
   path with us.” He looked away. “At least, for a time he did.”
   Daig leaned in. “What do you mean?”
   Noust eyed him. “Is that you asking, Daig Segan? Or is it the Sentine?”
   вЂњBoth,” he replied. “This is important. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
   вЂњAye, that’s so.” Noust sighed. “Here’s the thing. For a while, Erno was a regular
   fixture here, and he was trying to make something of himself. He wanted to make
   amends. Erno was working to become a better man than the angry, frustrated thug
   he’d left out there in space. It’s a long road, but he knew that. But then he started to
   come around less often.”
   вЂњWhen did this happen?”
   70
   вЂњA few demilunars ago. Two, maybe. When I did see him, he was twitchy. He
   said that he was going to have to pay for what he had done.” Noust paused, sorting
   through his thoughts. “I got the impression that someone was… I don’t know,
   following him? He was irritable, paranoid. All the old, bad traits coming back to the
   fore.”
   Daig rubbed his chin. “He may have killed people.”
   Noust gave the reeve a shocked look. “No. Never. Maybe once upon a time, but
   not now. He’s not capable of that, not anymore. I’d swear that to the God-Emperor
   himself.”
   вЂњI need to find Erno,” said Daig. “If he’s innocent, we need to prove it. We… I
   need to protect all this.” He gestured around. “I found my path here. I can’t lose it.”
   Daig imagined what might happen if Telemach or Laimner got hold of Sigg, broke
   him in interrogation and then found the door to this place. In their secular, clinical
   world there was no place for the revelation of the Imperial Truth, the undeniable
   reality of the Emperor’s shining divinity. The church, such as it was, and all the
   others like it would be torn down, burned away, and the words of the Lectitio
   Divinitatus that had so transformed Daig Segan when he read them would be erased
   and left unheard. They would use Sigg and the crimes to excuse them as they put a
   torch to it all.
   вЂњThe Emperor protects,” said Noust.
   вЂњAnd I’ll help Him do it, if you give me the chance,” insisted the reeve. “Just tell
   me where Erno Sigg is hiding.”
   Noust finished his drink. “All right, brother.”
   Behind her, she heard the clattering thunder of auto-fire and more screams. Iota
   skidded to a halt on the cold metal floor and cocked her head, letting her skull-helm’s
   autosenses take readings and pass the analysis back to her. He was very close; she
   had attracted his interest by appearing in the middle of a companionway, letting him
   see her clearly, and then breaking into a ran. The Eversor knew another assassin
   when he saw one, and she was without doubt the most serious threat vector the ragekiller
   had encountered since his awakening. He was coming for her, but that didn’t
   stop him from pausing along the way to dispatch any of the facility’s staff who were
   unlucky enough to cross his path. The murderers of the Clade Eversor were like that;
   for all their bloody violence and instinct-driven brutality, they were still methodical.
   They left no witnesses, nothing but corpses.
   Iota waited, rocking on her heels, ready to break into a run the moment he spotted
   her again. From what the infocyte had managed to piece together from the base’s
   cogitators, it seemed that there had been a catastrophic accident during the retrieval
   of the Garantine from one of the deep cold iso-stores beneath the mantle of the
   Aktick ice. The cryopod containing the assassin in his dormant state had cracked a
   fluid line; the burst conduit sprayed super-chilled methalon across the handlers, flashfreezing
   them all in an instant. By the time another team had made it down to the
   transfer area, the pod had drained and the Garantine was already awake. Even in his
   semi-dormant, unarmed state, they were easily cut down by him.
   The clade’s technologians made the fatal mistake of addressing the problem of
   the coolant leak first—an easy choice to understand, given that this particular facility
   71
   housed another nine Eversor field operatives down in the iso-stores. Left unchecked,
   the Garantine’s brethren would have eventually followed him into wakefulness. But
   the time spent stabilising the storage compartments had allowed the Garantine to
   fully thaw and begin the business of terminating every living being in the facility.
   вЂњCulexus? Where are you?” said Tariel, his voice a hiss in her helmet vox.
   вЂњArea eight, tier one, facing west,” she replied. “Waiting.”
   вЂњI’ve accessed the main systems library,” he told her, clearly impressed with his
   own achievement. “I’m closing the pressure hatches behind him as he moves.”
   Iota glanced down at the multi-barrelled combi-needler fixed to her right wrist,
   considering it. “He’s not an animal, Vanus. He’ll know if you’re trying to herd him.”
   вЂњJust keep him reactive,” came the reply.
   She didn’t say any more, because at that moment the Garantine came storming
   around the bend in the corridor, his thickset, densely-muscled body rippling with
   exertion. Chugs of white vapour puffed into the cold air from behind his metal mask,
   and as he moved, Iota saw the places where his bare skin showed and the shapes of
   implants beneath. The Garantine was covered from head to toe with daubs of human
   blood. He halted, rumbling like an engine, and eyed her with a low chuckle. In one
   hand he had a stubber carbine, liquid dripping from the blunt maw of the barrel.
   She thought for a fleeting instant about attempting to reason with him, then
   dismissed the idea just as quickly. There were rumours that every Eversor had an
   abeyance meme encoded into their brains, a nonsense string of words that would lull
   them into inaction, or even send them into neuro-death if spoken aloud; but if this
   were so, Iota was sure that the rage-killer would have made certain any technologians
   in the base who knew the code were no longer able to voice it.
   The Garantine pointed the broken gun at her. “You,” he said thickly. “Quick.”
   Perhaps it was a threat—a promise that he was going to end her swiftly—or
   perhaps it was a compliment on her agility, acknowledging Iota as the first real
   challenge he had come across since awakening. It mattered little; in the next second
   he was coming at her, charging like an enraged grox.
   She fired a blast of glassaic needles at him, describing a seamless back flip to
   open the distance between them. The glittering shots clattered across the Eversor’s
   torso, burying themselves in the meat of his chest, but the rage-killer only grunted
   and batted them away.
   Iota spun to a halt in front of a large oval exterior hatchway, as Tariel’s voice
   reached her once more. “Is he there?” came the urgent question. “I… I am having
   difficulty reading the location of the Garantine…”
   She nodded to herself. Among the many implants beneath the flesh of an Eversor
   were passive sensing baffles that could confuse the detector heads of many
   conventional scanners. “Oh, he’s here,” Iota told him. “He will murder me in less
   than one hundred and ten seconds.” The prediction was based on observing the other
   kills the Garantine had made.
   вЂњWorking,” said the infocyte, a new urgency in his words.
   вЂњTake your time,” she replied.
   The Eversor halted and cocked his head, considering her. Iota took a breath and
   drew in on herself. She let the force matrix built into the structure of her stealth-suit
   72
   come alive, allowing it to reach its web of influence beyond the real and into the
   etherium of the warp; but the process was slow. Had she been fighting a psyker, she
   could have drained them dry in a moment, siphoned off their power for herself. But
   here and now, there was nothing but the commonplace energy of air and heat and
   life. She felt the eye of the animus speculum slowly iris open—but even as it did she
   knew it would not be ready in time.
   The other assassin grunted out a laugh and stooped to rip a short stanchion pole
   from a support pillar, tearing it off in a flutter of sparks. He brandished the steel rod
   like a club and went for her.
   At once, the hatch at Iota’s back groaned on heavy hydraulics and fanned open
   with a clatter of fracturing ice. A blast of polar air and windborne snow thundered in
   around her from outside. For a moment, the snowstorm whirled into the corridor,
   filling the space with whiteness.
   The energy inside the animus was approaching readiness, but as she had
   predicted, the Garantine killer had her range and he did not hesitate again.
   Before Iota could release even a fraction of the psy-weapon’s potential he
   slammed the bar into her chest with such force that she flew backwards, out into the
   snow-filled courtyard. Iota noted the snapping of several of her ribs with a
   disconnected understanding. She landed badly in a shallow drift of white and
   coughed up a stream of bloody spittle into her helmet. The fact she wasn’t dead made
   it clear he wanted to toy with her first.
   They called him the Garantine because it was said he hailed from the Garant
   Span, an Oort cloud collective on the near side of the Perseus Null. A natural
   psychotic, he had killed everyone on his home asteroid, and all this as a child barely
   able to read. It was no wonder the Clade Eversor had been delighted to take
   ownership of him.
   Iota struggled to get up, and through the optics of her skull-helm she looked to
   see another grinning rictus come into view. The Garantine grabbed her by the ankle
   and effortlessly threw her across the courtyard. This time the impact was lessened by
   a deep snow bank, but still the shock vibrated through her. She let out a tiny cry of
   pain. In her ear, the Vanus was jabbering something about closing the hatch, but that
   had no consequence to her. Iota focussed on bringing the animus to a firing state. If
   their plan failed, she would have to be the one to kill him, crashing his fevered mind
   with a blast of pure warp energy.
   The Eversor bounded towards her, laughing, and at the last moment he leapt into
   the air. Time seemed to thicken and slow, the hazy man-shape falling down towards
   her; then she was distantly aware of a heavy report and suddenly the Garantine’s fall
   was deflected.
   He jerked away at a right angle, as if pulled on an invisible cord.
   Iota saw the steaming wound in the rage-killer’s chest as he stumbled back to his
   clawed feet, shaking off the strike. Her head swimming, the Culexus searched and
   then found the source of the attack. A shimmering white figure stood up atop one of
   the nearby blockhouses, a longrifle in his grip. The white colouration faded into inkblack
   as the Vindicare deliberately reset his cameoline cloak to a null mode, allowing
   the Eversor to see him clearly. He raised the rifle to his shoulder as the rage-killer
   roared at him, and for the moment Iota was apparently forgotten.
   73
   The Eversor charged again, and the rifle shouted. The first shot had been a kinetic
   impact round, the kind of bullet that could shatter the engine block of a hover track or
   reduce an unarmoured man to meat; that had been enough to attract the Garantine’s
   attention. The next shot whistled through the frigid air, blurring as it impacted the
   Eversor’s chest. The round was a heavy dart, fashioned from high-density glassaic. It
   contained a reservoir of gel within, pressure-injected into the target’s flesh on impact;
   but it was not a drag or philtre. An Eversor’s body was a chemical hell of dozens of
   interacting combat medicines, and no poison, no sedative could have been enough to
   slow it. The gel-matter in the rounds was a myofluid with a very different function;
   when exposed to oxygen it created a powerful bioelectric charge, a single hit strong
   enough to stun an ogryn.
   It was a non-lethal attack, and the Garantine seemed incensed by that, as if he
   were insulted that so trivial a weapon was being used on him. He tore out the dart and
   came on. Kell fired again, flawlessly striking the same spot, and then again, and then
   a third time. The Eversor did not falter, even as crackles of blue sparks erupted from
   the weeping wound in his chest.
   For one moment, Iota felt a rare stab of fear. How many rounds did the Vindicare
   have in the magazine of his longrifle? Would it be enough? She ignored the Vanus
   shouting in her ear and watched, as the crash of shot after shot was swallowed up by
   the hush of the falling snows.
   The Eversor leapt up to where the Vindicare stood and swung a taloned hand at
   him, but his balance faltered, the warshot of a dozen darts pinning his flesh. The blow
   smashed Kell’s rifle in two and sent the pieces spinning. Iota was on her feet, aiming
   the animus; if she fired now, the Vindicare would be caught in the nimbus of the psiblast.
   But then the fight ebbed from the Eversor assassin, and the Garantine staggered
   backward, finally succumbing to all the hits he had taken. He made a last swipe at
   Kell and missed, the force of the blow carrying him back off the roof of the
   blockhouse and down into the courtyard.
   Iota approached him carefully, loping low across the ground. She was not
   convinced. Behind her, the marksman came in to survey his work.
   вЂњIs he down,” she heard Tariel ask.
   вЂњFor our sake,” Kell muttered, “I bloody hope so.”
   Daig halted the groundcar at the foot of the hill and killed the engine. “We walk from
   here,” he said, the weak pre-dawn light giving his face a ghostly cast.
   Yosef studied him. “Tell me again how you came across this lead?” he said. “Tell
   me again why you had to drag me out of my bed—a bed I’ve hardly had leave to be
   in these last few days, mind—to come out to a derelict vineyard while the rest of the
   city is sleeping?”
   вЂњI told you,” Daig said, with uncharacteristic terseness, “a source. Come on. We
   couldn’t risk coming in by flyer in case Sigg gets spooked… and he may not even be
   here.”
   Yosef followed him out into the cold air, pausing a moment to check the
   magazine in his pistol. He looked up the low hill. On the other side of heavy iron
   gates, what had once been the Blasko Wine Lodge was now a tumbledown husk of its
   74
   former self. Gutted by fire a full three seasons ago, the site on the southerly ridges
   had yet to be reopened, and it stood empty and barren. In the dampness of the dawn
   air, the tang of fire-damaged wood could still be scented, drawn out by the moisture.
   вЂњIf you think Sigg is in there,” Yosef went on, “we should at least have some
   support.”
   вЂњI don’t know for sure,” Daig replied.
   вЂњNot an overly reliable source, then,” said Yosef. That earned him a sullen look.
   вЂњYou know what will happen if I breathe a word of this at the precinct. Laimner
   would be all over it like a blight.”
   He couldn’t disagree with that; and if Laimner was involved and Daig’s tip came
   to nothing, it would be the two reeves who would suffer for it. “Fine. But don’t keep
   me in the dark.”
   When Daig looked at him again, he was almost imploring him. “Yosef. I don’t
   ask much of you, but I’m asking now. Just trust me here, and don’t question it. All
   right?” He nodded at length. “All right.”
   They got into the vineyard through a broken stand of fencing, and followed the
   driveway up to the main building. Small branches and drifts of wet leaves dotted the
   ground. Yosef glanced to his right and saw where unkempt, blackened ground ranged
   away down the steep terraces. Before the fire, those spaces had been thick with
   greenery, but now they were little more than snarls of wild growth. Yosef frowned;
   he still had a ten-year bottle of Blasko caskinport at home. It had been a good brand.
   вЂњIn here,” whispered Daig, motioning him towards an outbuilding.
   Yosef hesitated, his eyes adjusted to the dimness now, and his sight picking out
   what did not fit. Here and there he saw signs of recent motion, places where dirt had
   been disturbed by human movement. Looking up from the gates, an observer would
   have seen nothing, but here, close up, there was evidence. Yosef thought about the
   Norte and Latigue murders, and he reached into the pocket of his coat for the butt of
   his gun, comforting himself with the steady presence of the firearm.
   вЂњWe take him alive,” he hissed back.
   Daig shot him a look as he drew a thermal register unit from inside his jacket,
   panning it around to scan for a heat return. “Of course.”
   They found their suspect asleep inside the cooper’s shack, lying in the curve of a
   half-built barrel. He heard their approach and bolted to his feet in a panic. Yosef put
   the brilliant white glare of his hand lantern on him and took careful aim with the
   pistol.
   вЂњErno Sigg!” he snapped, “We are reeves of the Sentine, and you are bound by
   law. Stand where you are and do not move.”
   The man almost collapsed, so great was his terror. Sigg flailed and stumbled,
   falling against the side of his makeshift shelter, before catching himself with an
   obvious physical effort. He held up his shaking hands, in the right gripping the
   handle of an elderly fuel-lamp. “H-have you come to kill me?” he asked.
   It wasn’t the question Yosef had expected. He had faced killers of men before,
   more often than he might have liked, but Sigg’s manner was unlike any of them.
   Dread came off him in waves, like heat from a naked flame. Yosef had once rescued
   a young boy held prisoner for weeks in a wine cellar; the look on the boy’s face as he
   75
   saw light for the first time was mirrored now in Erno Sigg’s expression. The man
   looked like a victim.
   вЂњYou are suspected of a high crime,” Daig told him. “You’re to come with us.”
   вЂњI paid for what I did!” he retorted. “I’ve done nothing else since!” Sigg looked in
   Daig’s direction. “How did you find me? I hid well enough so even he couldn’t know
   where I was!”
   Yosef wondered who he might be as Daig answered. “Don’t be afraid. If you are
   innocent, we will prove it.”
   вЂњWill you?” The question was weak and fearful, like the words of a child.
   Then Daig said something that seemed out of place in the moment, and yet the
   words were like a calmative, immediately easing the tension in Sigg’s taut frame.
   Daig said, “The Emperor protects.”
   When Yosef looked back to Sigg, the man was staring directly at him. “I’ve done
   many things I’m not proud of,” he told him. “But no longer. And not those things the
   wire accuses me of. I’ve never taken a man’s life.”
   вЂњI believe you, Erno,” said Yosef, the words leaving his mouth before he was
   even aware of them forming in his thoughts; and the strangeness of it was, he did
   believe him, with a totality that surprised the reeve with its strength. On some
   instinctual level, he knew that Erno Sigg was telling the truth. The fact that Yosef
   could not fathom where this abrupt conviction had come from troubled him deeply;
   but he did not have time to dwell upon it.
   The roof of the cooper’s shack was a shell of corrugated metal and glass, some of
   it warped or shattered by the passage of the old inferno. From nowhere, as the dawn
   wind changed direction, the musty air was suddenly full of noise. Yosef recognised
   the rattling hum of coleopter rotors a split-second before harsh sodium light drenched
   the floor with white, the glare from spotlamps blazing down through the smoke-dirty
   glass and the holes in the roof. An amplified voice echoed Yosef’s original challenge
   to Sigg, and then there was movement.
   The reeve looked up, shielding his eyes, and made out the blurs of jagers
   dropping from the hovering flyers, heavy guns in their grips at they fell on descender
   lines.
   He looked back and saw pure fury on Sigg’s face. “Bastards!” he spat
   venomously, “I would have come! But you lied! You lied!”
   Daig was reaching out to him. “No, wait!” he cried out. “I didn’t bring them! We
   came alone—”
   Sigg cursed them once again and threw the fuel-lamp in his hand with a savage
   jerk. The lantern hit the ground and split in a crash of glass and fire, even as overhead
   the intact portions of the roof were breached by the jagers. As pieces of the roof
   rained down from above, the lamp’s burning oils kissed the soiled matter and old
   spills on the floor and a pulse of smoky flame erupted. Yosef pushed Daig aside as
   the new blaze rolled out, chewing on the piles of rotting wood and discarded sacks all
   around them.
   Daig tried to go after Sigg, but the fire had already built a wall between them, and
   the droning throb of the coleopter blades fed it, raising it high. Sigg vanished into the
   heat and the smoke.
   76
   The jagers were disentangling themselves from their ropes as Yosef stormed over
   to them; one was already on the wireless for a firefighter unit. The reeve saw Skelta’s
   face among the men and grabbed him by his collar.
   вЂњWho ordered you in?” he shouted, over the sound of the rotors. “Who’s the shit
   who ruined this?” But he knew the answer before he heard it.
   77
   SIX
   Ultio
   Lies and Murder
   The Death of Kings and Queens
   The Officio presented the ship to them without ceremony. Like those it served, the
   vessel had a fluid identity; at the present moment, as it made its way towards the
   orbit of Jupiter, its pennants and beacons declared it to be the Hallis Faye, an oxygen
   tanker out of Ceres registered to a Belter Coalition habitat. Its codename, revealed to
   Kell and the others as they boarded, was Ultio.
   Outwardly, the Ultio resembled the class of light bulk transport ships that
   travelled a thousand different sub-light intrasystem space lanes across the Imperium.
   It was a design so commonplace that it became almost invisible in its ubiquity; a
   perfect blind for a craft in service to the Officio Assassinorum. Small by the
   standards of the mammoth starcruisers that comprised the fleets of the Imperial Navy
   and the rogue trader baronage, the Ultio was every inch a lie. A stubby trident, the
   shaft of the main hull—what appeared to be space for cargo—was in fact filled with
   the mechanisms and power train for an advanced design of interstellar warp motor.
   The craft had been constructed around the old engine, the origins of which were lost
   to time, and it was only the forward arrowhead-shaped section of the ship that was
   actually given over to cabins and compartments. This module, swept back and curved
   like an aerodyne, was capable of detaching itself from the massive drives to make
   planetfall like a guncutter. Inside, the crew sections of the Ultio were cramped and
   narrow, with sleeping quarters no larger than prison cells, hexagonal corridors and a
   flight deck configured with advanced gravity simulators so that every square
   centimetre of surface area could be utilised.
   The ship had three permanent crewmembers, in addition to the growing numbers
   of the Execution Force, but none of them were what could be considered wholly
   human. As Kell walked towards the stern, he was aware that beneath his feet the
   ship’s astropath lay sleeping inside a null chamber, having deliberately shocked itself
   into a somnambulant state; similarly, the Ultio’s Navigator, who habitually remained
   far back among the systemry of the drive section, had also opted to drop into sensedep
   slumber inside a similar contrapsychic chamber. Both of them had expressed
   grave displeasure at Iota’s arrival on board, but their requests that she be sequestered
   or drugged into stasis were denied. Kell could only guess at how the delicate psionic
   senses of the warp navigator and the astro-telepath would be perturbed by the ghostly
   negative aura cast by the Culexus; even he, without a taint of the psyker about him,
   found it profoundly unsettling to be around the pariah girl for too long. She had
   78
   agreed to wear her dampener tore for the duration, but even that device could not
   block the eerie air that followed Iota wherever she went.
   The third member of the Ultio’s crew was the least human of them all. Kell could
   still see the strange look of mingled horror and fascination on Tariel’s face as they
   had met the starship’s pilot. There was no body to the pilot, not anymore; like the
   venerable dreadnoughts of the Adeptus Astartes, a being that had once been a man
   many centuries ago was now only a few pieces of flesh interred inside a body of iron
   and steel. Somewhere deep inside the block of computational hardware that filled the
   rear section of the crew deck, parts of a brain and preserved skeins of nerve ganglia
   were all that remained. Now he was the Ultio, and the Ultio was him, the hull his
   skin, the fires of the fusion core his beating heart. Kell tried to comprehend what it
   might be like to surrender one’s self to the embrace of a machine, but he could not.
   He was, on some base level, appalled by the very idea of such a merging; but what he
   thought counted for nothing. The pilot, the Navigator, the astropath and all the rest of
   them, they were here to serve the interest of the Assassinorum—to do, and not to
   question.
   He halted outside a hatchway, his boots ringing on the metal-grilled deck.
   вЂњUltio,” he asked the air, “Is the Garantine awake?”
   вЂњConfirmed.” The pilot-cyborg’s voice came from a speaker grille above his
   head. It had the flat tonality of a synthetic vocoder.
   вЂњOpen it,” he ordered.
   вЂњComplying,” came the reply. “Hazard warning. Increased gravity field ahead.
   Do not enter.”
   The hatch fell into the deck, and a waft of stale air, reeking of chemical sweat,
   wandered into the corridor. Inside, the Eversor sat uncomfortably on the floor, his
   breathing laboured. With visible effort, the rage-killer lifted his head and glared at
   Kell. “When I get out of here,” he said, forcing the words from his mouth, “I am
   going to rip you apart.”
   Kell’s lips thinned. He didn’t approach any closer. Although the Garantine was
   not tethered to the deck by any chains or fetters, there was no way he could have
   come to his feet. The gravitational plates beneath the floor of the Eversor’s
   compartment were operating well above their standard setting, confining the assassin
   to the floor with the sheer weight of his own flesh. Veins stood out from his bare skin
   as his bio-modified physiology worked to keep him alive; an unaugmented human
   would have died from collapsed lungs or crushed organs within an hour or so.
   The Garantine had been in the room for two days now, enduring a regimen of
   antipsychotics and neural restoratives.
   Kell studied him. “It must be difficult for you,” he began. “The doubt. The
   uncertainty.”
   вЂњThere’s no hesitation in me,” gasped the Eversor. “Let me up and you’ll see.”
   вЂњThe mission, I mean.” That got him the smallest flash of hesitation from behind
   the Garantine’s skull-face. “To wake without direction… That can’t have been easy
   on you.”
   вЂњI will kill,” said the Eversor.
   вЂњYes,” agreed the Vindicare. “And kill and kill and kill, until you are destroyed.
   But it will be for nothing. Worthless.”
   79
   With an agonised grunt, the Garantine tried to lurch forward, clawing towards the
   open doorway. “I’ll kill you,” he grated. “Worth something.”
   Kell resisted the reflex to step back. “You think so?”
   вЂњBroke your gun, back there,” muttered the Eversor, the sweat thick on his bare
   neck. “Pity. Were you… attached to it?”
   Kell didn’t rise to the bait; his prized longrifle had been custom-made by Isherite
   weaponsmiths, and it had served him well for years. “It was just a weapon.”
   вЂњLike me?”
   He spread his hands. “Like all of us.” Kell paused, then went on. “The accident
   that woke you early… The Vanus Tariel tells me that it would take too long to put
   you under again, to go through all the hypno-programming and conditioning. So we
   either vent you to space and start anew with another one of your kindred, or we
   find—”
   вЂњA different way?” The rage-killer gave a coughing chuckle. “If I was chosen by
   my clade for whatever is planned, I’m the one you need. Can’t do it without me.”
   вЂњI’m compelled to agree.” Kell gave a thin smile. The Garantine was no mindless
   thug, appearances to the contrary. “I was going to say we would find an
   understanding.”
   The other assassin laughed painfully. “What can you offer me that would be
   richer than tearing your head from your neck, sniper?”
   The Vindicare stared into the Eversor’s wide, bloodshot eyes. “Nothing has been
   said yet, but the directors can only be bringing us together for one reason. One target.
   And I think you’d like to be there when he dies.”
   He said the name, and behind his fanged mask the Garantine grinned.
   * * *
   Yosef’s hands were tight fists, and it was all he could do not to haul back and smack
   that weak half-smile off the face of Reeve Warden Laimner. For a giddy moment, he
   pictured himself with Laimner’s greasy curls in his hand, smashing his face against
   the tiled floor of the precinct house, beating him into a broken ruin. The potency of
   the anger was startlingly strong, and it took an effort to rein himself in.
   Laimner was waving his hand in Daig’s face and going on and on about how all
   of this was Segan’s fault for not following proper channels, for not calling in backup
   units. He had been singing the same song all the way back from the Blasko lodge.
   вЂњYou lost the suspect,” the warden bleated, “you had him and you lost him.”
   Laimner glared at Yosef. “Why didn’t you take a shot? Leg hit? Put him down,
   even?”
   вЂњI could have walked Sigg in through the front door,” Daig grated. “He was going
   to surrender!”
   Laimner rounded on him. “Are you an idiot? Do you really believe that?” He
   stabbed at a pile of crime scene picts on the desk before him. “Sigg was playing you.
   He wanted to make meat-toys out of you both, and you almost let him do it!”
   Yosef found his voice and bit out a question. “How did you know where we
   were?”
   80
   вЂњDon’t be stupid, Sabrat,” said the warden. “Do you think the High-Reeve would
   let you off on a major case like this without having you tracked every second?”
   Yosef saw Daig go pale at that, but he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he pressed on.
   вЂњWe had a solid lead, from a… a reliable source! We could have brought Sigg to
   book, but you came in mob-handed and ruined it!”
   вЂњWatch your tone, reeve!” Laimner shot back. He ran a deliberate finger down
   his warrant rod to emphasise his rank. “Remember who you’re talking to!”
   вЂњIf you want to run this case, then do it,” Yosef continued. “But otherwise don’t
   second-guess the investigating officers!”
   The warden’s sneering smile returned. “I was following Telemach’s orders.”
   Yosef’s lip curled. “Well, thanks for making that clear. I thought it was just your
   impatience and poor judgement that would make this case fall apart, but it seems like
   the problem is further up the line.”
   вЂњYou insubordinate—!”
   вЂњSir!” Skelta burst into the wardroom before Laimner could finish his sentence.
   вЂњHe’s here! The, uh, man. The baron’s man.”
   Laimner’s attitude transformed in the blink of an eye. “What? But they’re not
   supposed to be here until tomorrow morning.”
   вЂњUm,” Skelta gestured at the door. “Yes. No.” Yosef turned to see two figures
   entering behind the jager. The first was an ebon-skinned man who matched Sabrat for
   height, but was broader across the chest, with the thickset look of a scrumball player.
   He had ash-coloured hair that fell to his shoulders and an oblong data monocle that
   almost hid a faint scar over his right eye. At his side was a pale, thin woman with a
   bald head covered in intricate tattoos. Both of them wore the same green and silver
   livery Yosef had seen on Bellah Gorospe, but the man’s cuffs bore some kind of
   ornate flashing that had to be indicative of rank. The woman had a golden brooch, he
   noted, in the shape of an open eye. As he looked at her she raised her head to meet
   his gaze and he saw the unmistakable shape of an iron collar around her neck, like
   one that might be used to tether a dangerous animal. It seemed crude and out of place
   on her.
   The man surveyed the room; something in his manner told Yosef he had heard
   every word of the argument that had preceded his entrance. The woman—it was hard
   to determine her age, he noted—continued to stare at him.
   Laimner recovered well and gave a shallow bow. “Operatives. It’s a pleasure to
   have you here on Iesta Veracrux.”
   вЂњMy name is Hyssos,” said the man. His voice was solemn. He indicated his
   companion. “This is my associate, Perrig.”
   Daig was gawking at the woman. “She’s a psyker,” he blurted. “The eye. That’s
   what it means.” He tapped his lapel in the same place where Perrig’s brooch was
   pinned.
   Yosef saw that the eye design was subtly repeated in among the woman’s tattoos.
   His first reaction was denial; it was common knowledge, even on the most parochial
   of worlds, that psykers were forbidden. The Emperor himself, at a council called on
   the planet Nikaea, had outlawed the use of psionic sensitives, even among the
   Legions of his own Space Marines. While some stripes of psyker were approved
   81
   under the tightest reins of Imperial control—the gifted Navigators who guided ships
   through the immaterium or the telepaths who carried communications between
   worlds, for example—most were considered mind-witches, dangerous and unstable
   aberrants to be corralled and neutered. Yosef had never been face to face with a
   psyker before this day, and Perrig unnerved him greatly. Her gaze upon him made
   him feel like he was made of glass. He swallowed hard as at last she looked away.
   вЂњMy lord baron has sanction from the Council of Terra to employ an indentured
   psionic,” Hyssos explained. “Perrig’s talents are extremely useful in my line of
   work.”
   вЂњAnd what work is that?” said Daig.
   вЂњSecurity, Reeve Segan,” he replied. Hyssos’ manner made it clear he knew the
   name of every person in the room.
   Yosef nodded to himself. He knew that the Eurotas clan wielded great power and
   influence across the Ultima Segmentum, but he had never guessed it had such reach.
   To be granted dispensation against so rigid a ruling as the Decree of Nikaea was
   telling indeed; he couldn’t help but wonder what other rules the Void Baron was free
   to ignore.
   вЂњI had expected you to go straight to the Eurotas compound,” Laimner ventured,
   trying to recover control of the conversation. “You’ve had a long journey—”
   вЂњNot so long,” replied Hyssos, still sweeping the room with his gaze. “The baron
   will arrive very soon. He will want a full accounting of the situation. I see no reason
   to delay.”
   вЂњHow… soon?” managed Skelta.
   вЂњA day,” Hyssos offered, his answer drawing Laimner up short. “Perhaps less.”
   The Reeve Warden licked his lips. “Well. In that case, I’ll have a briefing
   prepared.” He gave a weak smile. “I will make myself available to the baron on his
   arrival for a full and thorough—”
   вЂњForgive me,” Hyssos broke in. “Reeves Sabrat and Segan are the lead
   investigators in the case, are they not?”
   вЂњWell, yes,” said Laimner, clearly uncertain of how he should behave towards the
   Eurotas operative. “But I am the senior precinct officer, and—”
   вЂњBut not an investigating officer,” Hyssos went on, his tone level and firm. He
   gave Yosef a brief glance through his monocle. “The baron prefers to have
   information delivered to him as directly as possible. From the men closest to it.”
   вЂњOf course,” the warden said tightly, catching up to the realisation that he was
   being dismissed. “You must proceed as you see fit.”
   Hyssos nodded once. “You have my promise, Reeve Warden. Perrig and I will
   help Iesta Veracrux to bring this murderer to justice in short order. Please pass that
   assurance on to the High-Reeve and the Landgrave in my stead.”
   вЂњOf course,” Laimner repeated, his smile weak and false. Without another word,
   he left the room, shooting Yosef a final, acid glare as he closed the door behind him.
   Yosef felt wrung out by the events of the day even though it had hardly begun.
   He sighed and looked away, only to find the woman Perrig watching him again.
   82
   When she spoke, her voice had a melody to it that was at odds with the fire in her
   eyes. “There is a horror here,” she told them. “Darkness clustering at the edges of
   perception. Lies and murder.” The psyker sighed. “All of you have seen it.”
   Yosef broke her gaze with no little effort oh his part and gave Hyssos a nod.
   вЂњWhere do you want to start?”
   вЂњYou tell me,” said the operative.
   * * *
   Ultio drifted into the gravity well of the gas giant, crossing the complex web of orbits
   described by Jupiter’s outer moons. It was almost a solar system in miniature, with
   the gas giant at its core rather than the blazing orb of a sun. The cloud of satellites
   and Trojan asteroids surrounding it were full of human colonies, factories and forges,
   powered by drinking in the radiation surging from the mammoth planet, feeding on
   mineral riches that in centuries of exploitation had yet to be fully exhausted. Jupiter
   was Terra’s shipyard, and its sky was forever filled with vessels. Centred around
   Ganymede and a dozen other smaller moons, spacedocks and fabricatories worked
   ceaselessly to construct everything from single-crew Raven interceptors up to the
   gargantuan hulls of mighty Emperor-class command-carrier battleships.
   In a zone so dense with spacecraft and orbitals of every kind, it should have been
   easy for the Ultio to become lost in the shoals of them; but security was tight, and
   suspicion was at every point of the compass. In the opening moves of the
   insurrection, an alliance of turncoats, men of the Mechanicum and traitors from the
   Word Bearers Legion, had assembled in secret a dreadnought called the Furious
   Abyss, constructing it in a clandestine berth on the asteroid-moon Thule. The small
   Jovian satellite had been obliterated during the ship’s explosive departure and the
   ragged clump of its remains still orbited far out at the edges of the planetary system;
   but the Shockwave from Thule’s destruction and the Abyss incident was still being
   felt.
   Thus, the Ultio moved with care and raised no uncertainties, doing nothing to
   draw attention to itself. Secure in its falsehood, the vessel passed under the shadow of
   the habitats at Iocaste and Ananke and then deeper into the Galiliean ranges, passing
   the geo-engineered ocean-moon of Europa and Io’s seething orange mass. It followed
   a slow and steady course in across the planet’s bands of dirty orange, umber and
   cream-grey clouds, down towards the Great Red Spot.
   A vast spindle floated there, bathed in the crimson glow; Saros Station resembled
   a crystal chandelier severed from its mountings and cast free into the void, turning
   and catching starlight. Unlike the majority of its industrial and colonial cohorts, Saros
   was a resort platform where the Jovian elite could find respite and diversion from the
   works of the shipyards and manufactories. It was said that only the Venus orbitals
   could surpass Saros Station for its luxury. Avenues of gold and silver, acres of null-g
   gardens and auditoriums; and the finest opera house outside the Imperial Palace.
   The station filled the view through the Ultio’s canopy as the ship drifted closer.
   вЂњWhy are we here?” asked Iota, with an idle sullenness.
   вЂњOur next recruit,” Tariel told her. “Koyne, of the Clade Callidus.”
   83
   At the rear of the flight deck, the Garantine bent his head to avoid slamming it
   against the ceiling. He made a rasping, spitting noise. “What do we need one of them
   for?”
   вЂњBecause the Master of Assassins demands it,” Kell replied, without turning.
   The Vanus glanced up from the displays fanned out around his gauntlet.
   вЂњAccording to my information, there is an important cultural event taking place. A
   recital of the opus Oedipus Neo.”
   вЂњThe what?” sniffed the Eversor.
   вЂњA theatrical performance of dance, music and oratory,” Tariel went on, oblivious
   to his derision, “It is a social event of great note in the Jovian Zone.”
   вЂњMust have lost my invite,” the Eversor rumbled.
   вЂњAnd this Koyne is down there?” Iota wandered to the viewport and pressed her
   hands to it, staring at Saros. “How will we know a faceless Callidus among so many
   faces?”
   Kell studied the abstract contact protocols he had been provided and frowned.
   вЂњWe are to… send flowers.”
   Gergerra Rei wept like a child as Jocasta went to her death.
   His knuckles turned white as he held on to the balustrade around the edge of the
   roaming box the theatre had provided. Behind him, the machine-sentries in his
   personal maniple stood motionless and uncomprehending as their master’s lips
   trembled in a breathy gasp. Rei leaned forward, almost as if he could will her not to
   take the steel noose and place it over her supple neck. A cry was filling his throat; he
   wanted to call to her, but he could not.
   The nobleman had seen the opera before, and while it had always held his
   attention, it had never touched him as much as it had this night. Every biannual
   performance of Oedipus Neo was a lavish, sumptuous affair orbited by dozens of
   stately dinners, parties and gatherings, but at the core it was about the play.
   Everyone in the Jovian set shared the same fears about this year’s act; at first it
   had only been dreary naysayers who claimed it should not be put on because of the
   conflicts, but then after the diva Solipis Mun had perished in a tragic airlock
   accident… Many more had felt the opera should not have continued, as a mark of
   respect to her.
   But if he was honest, Rei did not miss Mun onstage. As Jocasta, she had played
   the part with gusto and power, indeed, but after so many repetitions her investment in
   the character had grown careworn and flat. But now this new queen, this new
   Jocasta—a woman from the Venusian halls, as he understood it—had taken the part
   and breathed new life into it. In the first act, she seemed to mimic Mun’s style, but
   soon she blossomed into her own interpretation of the role, and with it, she eclipsed
   the late diva so completely that Rei had all but forgotten her predecessor as the opera
   rolled towards its conclusion. The new actress had also brought with her new
   direction, and the performance had been shifted from the usual modern-dress style to
   a strangely timeless mode of costume, all in metallic colours and soft curves that Rei
   found quite alluring.
   84
   And now, with the stage drenched in blood-coloured light and flickers of
   lightning from the Red Spot beyond the skylights, the character of Jocasta took her
   own life as the orchestra struck an ominous chord. Against reason, Rei hoped that the
   play might suddenly diverge from the story he knew so well; but it did not. As the
   actress’ body melted away into the wings and the final scenes of the opera unfolded,
   he found he could not focus on the fate of poor, blinded Oedipus, the lead actor
   giving his all in a finale that brought the audience to its feet in a storm of applause.
   It was only as the floating viewing box returned to the high balcony with a silken
   thud that Rei regained a measure of composure, pulling himself back from a daze.
   She had truly moved him. It had almost been as if this new Jocasta were
   performing only to Rei; he could swear that even in the moment of her drama’s
   suicide, she had looked directly to him and wept in unison.
   Rei’s ranking meant that he had, as a matter of course, an invitation to the postshow
   gathering in the auditorium proper. Usually he declined, preferring the
   company of his machines to those of the venal peacocks who drifted about Jupiter’s
   entertainment community. Tonight, however, he would not decline. He would meet
   her.
   The party was jubilant, high with the thrill of the performance’s energy as if it still
   resonated around the theatre even after the last note of music had faded. Critics from
   the media took turns to congratulate the director and the actor who had played the
   tortured king, but all of them did so while looking about in hopes of catching a
   glimpse of the true star of the show; the queen of this night, the new Jocasta.
   Under the aegis of this, the invited nobles alternated between praising the opera
   and discussing the matters of the moment; and the latter meant discussion of the
   rebellion and of the pressures upon Jupiter and her shipyards. The wounds opened by
   the incident at Thule had not been healed, despite assurances from the Council of
   Terra, despite the quiet purges and the laying of blame. But accusations still crossed
   back and forth, some decrying the Warmaster for such perfidy and base criminality,
   others—those who spoke in hushed tones—wondering if the Emperor had let this
   thing occur just so he might tighten his grip on the Jovians. Every heartbeat of their
   forges was now turned to the construction of a military machine designed to break
   the turncoat advance, but many felt it was bleeding Jupiter white. Those who
   questioned this questioned other things as well; they asked exactly how it was that a
   force of Mechanicum Adepts and Astartes with traitorous intentions had been able to
   build a warship of the scope of the Furious Abyss, without alerting anyone to their
   duplicity.
   Was it possible that Jupiter harboured rebel sympathisers? It had happened with
   the Mechanicum of Mars, and so some whispered, even among the warlords of
   Earth’s supposedly united nation-states. The questions turned and turned, but they
   faded when Gergerra Rei entered the room.
   Resplendent in the circuit-laced robes of a Mech-Lord, Rei’s high status as
   master of Kapekan Sect of the Legio Cybernetica was known to all. Two full cohorts
   of combat mechanoids were under his personal command, and they had fought in
   many battles of note during the Great Crusade alongside the Luna Wolves and the
   Warmaster.
   85
   Like many of the Cybernetica, Rei eschewed the gross cyborg augmentations of
   his colleagues in the Mechanicum in favour of subtle enhancements that did not
   disfigure or dilute his outwardly human aspect; but those who knew Rei knew that
   whatever humanity he did show was rare and fleeting.
   Behind him, moving with fluidity, his bodyguards were a three-unit maniple of
   modified Crusader-class robots. Painted as works of art, each insect-like machine
   was a stripped-down variant of its battlefield standard, armed with a discreetly
   sheathed power-rapier and a lasgun. A fourth mechanical, this one custom-built to
   resemble a female form rendered in polished chrome, walked at his side and served
   as his aide.
   No one asked questions about loyalty when Rei was nearby. His machines could
   hear a whisper among a roaring crowd, and those who dared to suggest aloud that Rei
   was anything less than the Emperor’s obedient servant lived to regret it.
   The Mech-Lord took a schooner of an indifferent Vegan brandy and pecked at a few
   small sweetmeats from ornamental serving trays offered by menials, allowing his
   mechanoid aide to delicately sniff at each before he ingested it; the robot’s head was
   filled with sensing gear capable of picking up any particulate trace of poison. The
   machine shook its head each time, and so he ate and drank but none of the rich
   foodstuffs sated the real hunger in him. Rei engaged in a moment or two of small talk
   with the director of the opera house, but it was a perfunctory and hollow exchange.
   Neither of them wanted to spend time with one another—Rei was simply
   uninterested and the director was doubtless wracked with worry over the reason why
   the Kapekan general had decided to take up his long-ignored invite—but both of
   them had to fake the genial nothings of greeting, for the sake of propriety.
   вЂњMy Lord Rei?” He turned as a servant approached, a young man in the Saros
   livery with a wary cast to his face. He nervously side-stepped the Crusaders and
   offered a card to the Mech-Lord; and that was his error. The servant did not wait to
   be addressed, but instead proffered the card before it was acknowledged.
   Rei’s aide stepped in to meet him with a faint hiss of hydraulics, and in one fluid
   motion took the hand holding the card and broke it at the wrist. The bone cracked
   wetly and the servant went white with shock, staggering. He would likely have fallen
   if the machine had not been holding him up.
   вЂњWhat is this?” he asked.
   The servant spoke through gritted teeth. “A… A message for you, sir…” He
   gasped and gave him a pleading look. “Please, I only did as the lady asked me to…”
   вЂњThe lady?” Rei’s heart thumped in his chest. “Give it to me.”
   His aide took the card and held it to her chromium lips. She licked it with a
   disconcertingly human-looking tongue, paused, then handed it on to her master. Had
   there been any contact toxins on the surface, she would have destroyed it.
   The Mech-Lord fought off a tremor in his hands as he read the languid, flowing
   script written across the white card. It was a single word: “Come”. He turned it over
   and saw it listed a location in the apartments reserved for the opera house’s
   performers.
   вЂњIs something amiss?” said the director, his face pinched in concern.
   86
   Rei pressed his half-empty brandy glass into the man’s hand and walked away.
   His robots followed, and behind them the servant staggered down to his knees,
   clutching at his ruined wrist.
   * * *
   The apartments were a short pneu-car ride up three levels to Saros Station’s most
   exclusive residential decks. Rei had his own orbital out by Callisto and did not keep
   rooms here, but he had visited the chambers in the past during one of his many affairs
   and so he knew where to go. The presence of his maniple made sure that no one
   dared to waylay him, and presently he reached the room. His aide knocked on the
   door and it opened on silent servos.
   From within came that silken voice. “Come,” she said.
   Rei took a step—and then hesitated. He pulse was racing like that of a giddy
   youth in the first blush of infatuation, and he had to admit, as much as he was
   enjoying the sensation of it, he was still the man he was. Still distrustful of
   everything on some deep level. His enemies had tried to use women as weapons
   against him before, and he had buried them; could this be one more attempt to do the
   same? His throat went dry; he hoped it would not be so. The strange, ephemeral
   connection he felt with the actress seemed so very real, and the thought that it might
   be a thing brought into existence just to hurt him cut deeply.
   For a long moment, he wavered on the threshold, contemplating turning about
   and leaving, taking the pneu-car back to the docks and his yacht, leaving and never
   coming back.
   Just making the thought felt like razors in his gut; and then she spoke again; “My
   lord?” He heard the mirror of his own questions and fears in her words.
   His aide walked in ahead of him and Rei went to follow, but again he hesitated.
   Even if what he hoped for would come about in this glorious evening, he could not
   afford to lose sight of the realities of his life. He turned to the Crusaders and spoke a
   string of command words. The robots immediately took up sentry positions around
   the door to the apartment, weapons ready, bowing their mantis-like heads low so that
   they would not damage the lamps hanging from the ceiling above.
   Rei entered the room and became overcome by a vision.
   His first thought was; she is not dead! But of course that was true. It had only
   been a play, and yet it had seemed so real to him. The woman stood, still dressed in
   her queenly costume, the sweep of her lithe and flawless skin visible through the
   diaphanous silver of the dress. Metallic glitter accented her cheekbones and the
   almond curves of her dark eyes. She bowed to him and looked away shyly. “My lord
   Rei. I feared you would not visit me. I feared I might have presumed too much…”
   вЂњOh no,” Rei said, dry-throated. “No. It is my honour…” He managed a smile.
   вЂњMy queen.”
   She looked up at him, smiling too, and it was magnificent. “Will you call me that,
   my lord? May I be your Jocasta?” She toyed with a thin drape of silk that curtained
   off one section of the apartments from another.
   87
   He was drawn to her, crossing the white pile of the anteroom’s rich carpeting. “I
   would like that very much,” he husked.
   The woman—his Jocasta—threw a look towards his mechanoid. “And will she be
   joining us?”
   The open invitation in her reply made Rei blink. “Uh. No.” He turned and spoke
   tersely to the robot. “Wait here.”
   His Jocasta smiled again and vanished into the room beyond. Grinning, Rei
   paused and unbuttoned his tunic. Glancing around, he saw a spray of fresh Saturnine
   roses still in their delivery wrappings; he tossed his jacket down next to them and
   then followed her into the bedchamber.
   Jocasta did not weep as Gergerra Rei went to his death.
   The queen enveloped him in long, firm arms as he stepped in, bringing her body
   up to meet his, pressing her breasts to his chest, moulding herself to him. The Mech-
   Lord’s dizzy smile was shaky and he gasped for air. His reactions were perfect; his
   flawless new love for Jocasta—for that was what it was, the most pure and exact
   rendition of neurochemical release—was the final product of weeks of carefully
   tailored pheromone bombardment. Tiny amounts of meta-dopamine and serotonin
   analogues had been introduced to Rei over time, the dosages light enough that even
   the ultra-sensitive scanners of his machine-aide would not detect them. The
   cumulative amounts had pushed him into something approaching obsession; and
   combined with a physiological template based on his taste in female bed partners, the
   trap had been set and laden with honey.
   Jocasta bent Rei’s head down to meet hers and pressed her lips to his. He
   shuddered as she did it, surrendering to her. It was so easy.
   Gergerra Rei had been involved in the creation of the Furious Abyss. Not in a
   way that could be proven without doubt in a court of law, not in a way that connected
   him through any direct means, but enough that the guardians of the Imperium were
   certain of it. Whatever his crime, perhaps the transfer of certain bribes, the diversion
   of materials and manpower, the granting of passage to ships that should have been
   denied, the Kapekan Mech-Lord had done the bidding of the traitor Horus Lupercal.
   The small weapon concealed between Jocasta’s tongue and the base of her mouth
   was pushed up, held in place by clenched teeth. A lick of the trigger plate was all that
   was needed to fire the kissgun. The needle-sized round penetrated the roof of Rei’s
   mouth and fragmented, allowing the threads of molecule-thin wire to explode
   outward. The threads whirled through the meat of his nasal cavity and up into his
   forebrain, shredding everything they touched. He lurched backwards and fell to the
   bed, blood and brain matter drooling from his lips and nostrils. Rei sank into the
   silken sheets, his corpse dragging them awry, revealing beneath the body of the
   actress whose face he had loved so ardently.
   His killer moved quickly, shrugging off the illusion of the dead woman even as
   the target’s corpse began to cool.
   Flesh shifted in small ways, the Jocasta-face slipping to become less defined,
   more like a sketch upon paper. The killer spat out the kissgun and discarded it, then
   drew sharp nails along the inside of a muscular thigh. A seam in the skin parted to
   allow a wet pocket to open, and long fingers drew out a spool and handle affair from
   88
   within. The killer gently shook the device and padded towards the silk curtains. Rei
   had died silently but the machine-aide was clever enough to run a passive scan for
   heartbeats every few seconds; and if it detected one instead of two…
   The spool unwound into a thin taper of metal, which rolled out to the length of a
   metre. Once fully extended, the weapon became rigid; it was known as a memory
   sword, the alloy that comprised the blade capable of softening and hardening at the
   touch of a control.
   Koyne liked the memory sword, liked the gossamer weight of it. Koyne liked
   what it could do, as well. With a savage slash, the blade sliced down the thin silk
   curtain and the motion alerted the mechanoid—but not quickly enough. Koyne thrust
   the point into the aide’s chromium chest and through the armour casing around the
   biocortex module that served as the robot’s brain. It gave a faint squeal and became a
   rigid statue.
   Leaving the sword in place, Koyne took a moment to prepare for the next
   template. Koyne knew Gergerra Rei as well as the actress who played Queen Jocasta,
   and would adopt him just as easily. The Callidus despised the term “mimicry”. It was
   a poor word that could not encompass the wholeness with which a Callidus would
   become their disguises. To mimic something was to ape it, to pretend. Koyne became
   the disguise; Koyne inhabited each identity, even if it was for a short while.
   The Callidus was a sculpture that carved itself. Bio-implants and heavy doses of
   the shapeshifter drug polymorphine made skin, bone and muscle become supple and
   motile. Those who could not control the freedom it gave would collapse and turn into
   monstrosities, things like molten waxworks that were little more than heaps of bone
   and organs. Those with the gift of the self, though, those like Koyne, they could
   become anyone.
   Concentrating, Koyne shifted to neutrality, a grey, sexless form that was smooth
   and almost without features. The Callidus did not recall any birth-gender; that data
   was irrelevant when it was possible to be man or woman, young or old, even human
   or xenos if the will was there.
   It was then Koyne saw the flowers. They had been delivered by courier shortly
   before Rei had arrived. The assassin picked at the plants and noted the colour and
   number of the petals on the roses. Something like irritation crossed the killer’s noface
   and Koyne paused at the vox-comm alcove in the far wall, inputting the correct
   sequence of encoding that the flower arrangement signified.
   The reply was almost immediate, meaning that there was a ship nearby.
   вЂњKoyne?” A male voice, gruff with it.
   The Callidus immediately copied the tonality and replied. “You have broken my
   silent protocol.”
   вЂњWe’re here to help you conclude your mission as quickly as possible. You have
   new orders.”
   вЂњI have no idea who you fools are, or what authority you may think you have. But
   you are compromising my operation and getting in my way.” Koyne grimaced. It was
   an ugly expression on the grey face. “I don’t require any help from you. Don’t
   interrupt me again.” The Callidus cut the channel and turned away. Such behaviour
   was totally unprofessional. The clade knew that once committed, an assassin’s cover
   89
   should not be compromised except in the direst of circumstances—and someone’s
   impatience was certainly not reason enough.
   Koyne sat and concentrated on Gergerra Rei, on his voice, his gait, the full sense
   of the man. Skin puckered and moved, thickening. Implants slowly expanded to add
   mass and dimension. Moment by moment, the killer changed.
   But the task was still incomplete when the three Crusaders crashed in through the
   doorway, searching for a target.
   Kell glared at the vox pickup before him. “Well. That was discourteous,” he
   muttered.
   вЂњArrogance is a noted character trait of many of the Clade Callidus,” Iota offered.
   The Garantine looked at Kell from across the Ultio’s cramped bridge. “What are
   we supposed to do? Take in a show? Have a little dinner?” The hulking killer
   growled in irritation. “Put me down on the station. I’ll bring the slippery changer
   freak back here in pieces.”
   Before Kell could reply, a sensor telltale on one of the consoles began to blink.
   Tariel motioned at the hololiths around his gauntlet and his expression grew grave.
   вЂњThe ship reads energy weapon discharges close to Koyne’s location.” He looked up,
   out past the nose of the ship to where the hull of Saros Station drifted nearby. “The
   Callidus may be in trouble.”
   вЂњWe should assist,” said Iota.
   вЂњKoyne didn’t want any help,” Kell replied. “Made that very clear.”
   Tariel gestured at his display. “Auspex magno-scan shows multiple mechanoid
   units in the area. War robots, Vindicare. If the Callidus becomes trapped—”
   Kell held up a hand to silence him. “The Master of Assassins chose this one for
   good reason. Let’s consider this escape a test of skill, shall we? We’ll see how good
   this Koyne is.”
   The Garantine gave a rough snort of amusement.
   Koyne made it into the enclosed avenue outside the apartments with only minor
   injuries. The Callidus had been able to recover the memory sword from the steel
   corpse of the aide, realising far too late that there had to have been a failsafe backup
   biocortex inside the machine, one that broadcast an alert to the rest of Rei’s
   bodyguard maniple. Koyne did not doubt that other robots were likely vectoring to
   this location from the Mech-Lord’s ship, operating on a kill-switch protocol that
   activated with the death of their master. The core directive would be simple—seek
   and destroy Gergerra Rei’s murderer.
   If only there had been more time. If Koyne could have completed the change into
   Rei, then it would have been enough to fool the auto-senses of the machines, long
   enough to reach the extraction point and exfiltrate. Rei and the actress would have
   been found days later, along with all the evidence that Koyne had prepared to set the
   scene for a murder-suicide shared by a pair of doomed lovers. It had a neatly
   theatrical tone that would have played well to Saros Station’s intelligentsia.
   All that was wasted now, though. Koyne limped away, pain burning from a
   glancing laser burn in the leg. The Callidus looked like an unfinished model in
   90
   pinkish-grey clay, caught halfway between the neutral self-template and the form of
   the Mech-Lord.
   There was a cluster of revellers coming the other way, and Koyne made for them,
   fixing the nearest with a hard gaze and imagining their identity as the assassin’s own.
   The Callidus heard the heavy stomp of the spindly Crusader robots as they scrambled
   in pursuit, chattering to one another in machine code.
   The small crowd reacted to the new arrival, the merriment of the group dipping
   for a moment in collective confusion. Koyne pressed every grain of mental control
   into adopting the face of the civilian—or at least something like it—and swung into
   the mass of the group.
   The robots stood firm and blocked the avenue, guns up, the faceted eyes of their
   sensor modules sweeping the crowd. The revellers lost some of their good humour as
   the threat inherent in the maniple of machines became clear.
   Koyne knew what would happen next; it was inevitable, but at least the hesitation
   would buy the assassin time. The Callidus searched for and found a side corridor that
   led towards an observation cupola, and began pushing through the people towards it.
   This was the moment when the machines opened fire on the crowd. Unable to
   positively identify their target among the group of people, yet certain that their
   master’s murderer was in that mass, the Crusaders made the logical choice. Kill them
   all and leave no doubt.
   Koyne ran through the screaming, panicking civilians, laser bolts ripping through
   the air, cutting them down. The assassin vaulted into the corridor and ran to the dead
   end of it. Red light from the giant Jovian storm seeped in through the observation
   window, making everything blurry and drenched in crimson.
   Time, again. Little enough time. The Callidus concentrated and retched, opening
   a secondary stomach to vomit up a packet of white, doughy material. With shaking
   hands, Koyne ripped open the thin membrane sheathing it and allowed air to touch
   the pasty brick inside. It immediately began to blacken and melt, and quickly the
   assassin pressed it to the glassaic of the cupola.
   The robots were still coming. The shooting had stopped and the Crusaders were
   advancing down the corridor. Koyne saw the shadows of them jumping on the curved
   walls, lurching closer.
   The assassin sat down in the middle of the room and drew up into a foetal ball,
   forgetting the face of the civilian, forgetting Gergerra Rei and the Queen Jocasta,
   remembering instead something old. Koyne let the polymorphine soften flesh into
   waxen slurry, let it flow and harden into something that resembled the chitin of an
   insect. Air was expunged, organs pressed together. By turns the body became a mass
   of dark meat; but still not quickly enough.
   The Crusader maniple advanced into the observation cupola just as the package
   of thermo-reactive plasma completed its oxygenation cycle and self-detonated. The
   blast shattered the glassaic dome and everything inside the cupola was blown out into
   space. Rei’s guardian machines spun away into the vacuum even as safety hatches
   fell to seal off the corridor. Koyne’s body, now enveloped in a cocoon of its own
   skin, went with them into the dark.
   Outside, the Ultio hove closer.
   91
   SEVEN
   Storm
   Warning
   An Old Wound Target
   Yosef Sabrat was out of his depth.
   The audience chamber was big enough that it would have swallowed the footprint
   of his home three times over, and decorated with such riches that they likely equalled
   the price of every other house in the same district put together. It was a gallery of
   ornaments and treasures from all across the southern reaches of the Ultima
   Segmentum—discreet holographs labelled sculptures from Delta Tao and Pavonis,
   tapestries and threadwork from Ultramar, art from the colonies of the Eastern
   Fringes, triptychs of stunning picts in silver frames, glass and gold and steel and
   bronze… The contents of this one chamber alone shamed even the most resplendent
   of museums on Iesta Veracrux.
   Thinking of his home world, Yosef reflexively looked up at the oval window
   above his head. The planet drifted there in stately silence, the dayside turning as
   dawn passed over the green-blue ribbons of ocean near the equator. But for all its
   beauty, he couldn’t shake the sense of it hanging over him like some monumental
   burden, ready to fall and crash him the moment his focus slipped. He looked away,
   finding Daig by his side. The other reeve glanced at him, and the expression on his
   cohort’s face was muted.
   вЂњWhat are we doing up here?” Daig asked quietly. “Look at this place. The light
   fittings alone are probably worth a governor’s ransom. I’ve never felt so common in
   my entire life.”
   вЂњI know what you mean,” Yosef replied. “Just stay quiet and nod in the right
   places.”
   вЂњTry not to show myself up, you mean?”
   вЂњSomething like that.” A few metres away, Hyssos was mumbling quietly to the
   air; Yosef guessed that the operative had to have some sort of communicator implant
   that allowed him to subvocalise and send vox messages as easily as the jagers of the
   Sentine used a wireless. It had been clear to him the moment the Consortium
   shuttlecraft had landed in the precinct courtyard, the elegant swan-like ship making a
   point-perfect touchdown that barely disturbed the trees; Eurotas’ riches clearly
   bought the baron and his clan the best of everything. Still, that didn’t seem to sit
   squarely with the neglect he’d seen at the trader’s compound a day ago. He thought
   on that for a moment, making a mental note to consider it further.
   92
   The shuttle had swiftly brought them into deep orbit, there to meet the great
   elliptical hulk of the Iubar, flagship of the Eurotas Consortium and spaceborne
   palace of the rogue trader who led it. A handful of other smaller ships attended the
   Iubar like handmaidens around a queen; and Yosef only thought of them as smaller
   because the flagship was so huge. The support craft were easily a match for the
   tonnage of the largest of the system cruisers belonging to the Iestan PDF.
   The psyker Perrig remained on the surface, having insisted on being taken to the
   Blasko lodge to take a sensing. Hyssos explained that the woman had the ability to
   divine the recent past of objects by the laying on of hands, and it was hoped that she
   would find Erno Sigg’s telepathic spoor at the location. Skelta drew the job of being
   her escort, and the silent panic on the jager’s face had been clear as daylight. The
   reeve marvelled how Hyssos seemed completely unconcerned by Perrig’s
   preternatural powers. He spoke of her as Yosef or Daig would discuss the skills of
   the documentary officers at a crime scene—as no more than a fellow investigator
   with unique talents all their own.
   In the hours after his arrival—and his blunt dismissal of Laimner—Hyssos had
   thrown himself fully into the serial murder case, absorbing every piece of
   information he could get his hands on. Yosef knew that the man had already been
   briefed as fully as the Eurotas Consortium could—how else could he have known the
   names of everyone in the precinct without prior instruction from Gorospe and her
   offices?—but he was still forming his view of the situation.
   Daig took a few hours to sleep in the shift room, but Yosef was caught up by
   Hyssos’ quiet intensity and sat with him, repeating his thoughts and impressions to
   him. The operative’s questions were all insightful and without artifice. He made the
   reeve think again on points of evidence and supposition, and Yosef found himself
   warming to the man. He liked Hyssos’ lack of pretence, his direct manner… and he
   liked the man for the way he had seen right through Berts Laimner at first glance.
   вЂњThere’s more to this,” Hyssos had said, over a steaming cup of recaf. “Sigg
   murdering and playing artist with the corpses… That doesn’t add up.”
   Yosef had agreed; but then the message had come down from command. The
   Void Baron had arrived, and the Governor was in a fit. Normally, a visitation from
   someone of Baron Eurotas’ rank would be a day of great import, a trade festival for
   Iesta’s merchants and moneyed classes, a diversion for her workers and
   commoners—but there had been no time to prepare. Even as the shuttle had taken
   them up to meet Hyssos’ summons, the government was in turmoil trying to throw
   together some hasty pomp and ceremony in order to make it seem like this had been
   planned all along.
   Laimner tried one last time to get a foot on the shuttle. He said that Telemach had
   ordered him to give the baron the briefing, that he could not in good conscience
   remain behind and let a lesser officer take the responsibility. He’d looked at Yosef
   when he said those words. Yosef imagined that Telemach was probably unaware of
   the shuttle or the summons, probably too busy fretting with the Landgrave and the
   Imperial Governor and the Lord Marshal to notice. But again, Hyssos had firmly
   blocked the Reeve Warden from using this as any way to aggrandise himself, and left
   him behind as he took the two lowly reeves up into orbit.
   93
   It was an experience that Daig was never to forget; it was his first time off-world,
   and his usual manner had been replaced with something that approximated stoic
   dread.
   Hyssos beckoned them towards the far end of the wide gallery, where a dais and
   audience chairs were arranged before a broad archway. Inside the arch was a carved
   frieze made of red Dolanthian jade. The artwork, easily the size of the front of
   Yosef’s house, showed a montage of interstellar merchants about their business,
   travelling from world to world, trading and spreading the light of the Imperium. In
   the centre, a sculpture of the Emperor of Mankind towered over everything. He was
   leaning forward, holding out his hand with the palm down. Kneeling before him was
   a man in the garb of a rogue trader patriarch, who held up an open book beneath the
   Emperor’s hand.
   Daig saw the artwork and gasped. “Who… Who is that?”
   вЂњThe first of the Eurotas,” said Hyssos. “He was the commander of a warship that
   served the Emperor many centuries ago, a man of great diligence and courage. As a
   mark of respect, for his service, the Emperor granted him the freedom of space and
   made him a rogue trader.”
   вЂњBut the book…” said Daig, pointing. “What is he doing with the book?”
   Yosef looked closer and saw what Daig was talking about. The artwork clearly
   showed what could only be a cut upon the Emperor’s downturned palm and a drip of
   blood—rendered here from a single faceted ruby—falling down towards the page of
   the open tome.
   вЂњThat is the Warrant of Trade,” said a new voice, as footsteps approached from
   behind them. Yosef turned to see a hawkish, imperious man in the same cut of robes
   as the figure in the frieze. A group of guardsmen and attendants walked in lockstep
   behind him, but the man paid them no mind. “The letter of marque and statement
   granting my clan the right to roam the stars in the name of humanity. Our liege lord
   ratified it with a drop of his own blood upon the page.” He gestured around. “We
   carry the book in safety aboard the Iubar as we have for generation after generation.”
   Daig glanced about him, as if for a moment thinking he might actually see the
   real thing; but then disappointment clouded his face and his jaw set in a thin line.
   вЂњMy lord,” said Hyssos, with a bow that the reeves belatedly imitated.
   вЂњGentlemen. Allow me to introduce his lordship Merriksun Eurotas, Void Baron of
   Narvaji, Agentia Nuntius of the Taebian Sector and master of the Eurotas Trade
   Consortium—”
   вЂњEnough, enough,” Eurotas waved him into silence. “I will hear that a thousand
   times more once I venture down to the surface. Let us dispense with formality and
   cut to the meat of this.” The baron gave Yosef and Daig a hard, measuring stare
   before he spoke again. “I will make my wishes clear, gentlemen. The situation on
   Iesta Veracrux is delicate, as it is on many worlds among the Taebian Stars. There is
   a storm coming. A war born of insurrection, and when it brushes these planets with
   the heat of its passage there will be fire and death. There will be.” He blinked and
   paused. For a moment, a note of strange emotion crept into his words, but then he
   flattened it with a breath of air.
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   вЂњThese… killings. They serve only to heap tension and fear upon a populace
   already in the grip of a slow terror. People will lash out when they are afraid, and that
   is bad for stability. Bad for business.”
   Yosef gave a slow nod of agreement. It seemed the rogue trader understood the
   situation better than the reeve’s own commanders; and then he had a sudden, chilling
   thought. Was the same thing happening on other planets? Had Eurotas seen this chain
   of events elsewhere in the Taebian Sector?
   вЂњI want this murderer found and brought to justice,” Eurotas concluded. “This
   case is important, gentlemen. Complete it, and you will let your people know that
   we… that the Imperium… is still in power out here. Fail, and you open the gateway
   to anarchy.” He began to turn away. “Hyssos will make available to you any facilities
   you may need.”
   вЂњSir?” Daig took a step after the rogue trader. “My, uh, lord baron?”
   Eurotas paused. When he looked back at the other reeve, he did so with a raised
   eyebrow and an arch expression. “You have a question?”
   Daig blurted it out. “Why do you care? About Iesta Veracrux, I mean?”
   The baron’s eyes flashed with a moment of annoyance, and Yosef heard Hyssos
   take a sharp breath. “Dagonet is falling, did you know that?” Daig nodded and the
   baron went on. “And not only Dagonet. Kelsa Secundus. Bowman. New Mitama. All
   dark.” Eurotas’ gaze crossed Yosef’s and for a moment the nobleman appeared old
   and tired. “Erno Sigg was one of my men. I bear a measure of responsibility for his
   conduct. But it is more than that. Much more.” Yosef felt the rogue trader’s gaze
   pinning him in place. “We are alone out here, gentlemen. Alone against the storm.”
   вЂњThe Emperor protects,” said Daig quietly.
   Eurotas gave him an odd look. “So they tell me,” he replied, at length; and then
   he was walking away, the audience at an end and Yosef’s thoughts clouded with
   more questions than answers.
   When the gull wing hatch of the flyer opened, the first thing that Fon Tariel
   experienced was the riot of smells. Heady and potent floral scents flooded into the
   interior of the passenger compartment, buoyed on warm air. He blinked at the
   daylight streaking in, and with wary footsteps he followed Kell out and into…
   wherever this place was.
   Unlike the Eversor, who had not been afraid to provide the group with the
   location of one of their Terran facilities, the Clade Venenum made it clear in no
   uncertain terms that the members of the Execution Force would not be free to come
   to them of their own accord. The Siress had been most emphatic; only two members
   of the group were granted passage to the complex, and both were required to be
   unarmed and unequipped.
   Tariel was learning Kell’s manner by and by, and he could see that the Vindicare
   was ill at ease without a gun on him. The infocyte was sympathetic to the sniper; he
   too had been forced to leave his tools behind on board the Ultio, and he felt strangely
   naked without his cogitator gauntlet. Tariel’s hand kept straying to his bare forearm
   without his conscious awareness of it.
   The journey aboard the unmarked Venenum flyer had done nothing to give them
   any more clue to the whereabouts of the complex called the Orchard. The passenger
   95
   compartment had no windows, no way for them to reckon the direction of their flight.
   Tariel had been dismayed to learn that his chronometer and mag-compass implants
   were being suppressed, and now as he stepped out of the craft they both flickered
   back to life, giving him a moment of dizziness.
   He glanced around; they stood on a landing pad at the top of a wide metal
   ziggurat, just shy of the canopies of tall trees with thick leaves that shone like dark
   jade. The jungle smells were stronger out here, and the olfactory processor nodes in
   his extended braincase worked furiously to sift through the sensoria. Tariel guessed
   that they were somewhere deep in the rich rainforests of Merica, but it was only a
   speculative deduction. There was no way to know for sure.
   A man in a pale green kimono and a domino mask emerged from a recessed
   staircase on the side of the ziggurat and beckoned them to follow him. Tariel was
   content to let Kell lead the way, and the three of them descended. The sunshine
   attenuated as they dropped below the line of the upper canopy, becoming shafts of
   smoky yellow filled with motes of dust and the busy patterns of flying insects.
   A pathway of circular grey stones awaited them on the jungle floor, and they
   picked their way along it, the man in the kimono surefooted and confident. Tariel was
   more cautious; his eyes were drawn this way and that by bright, colourful sprays of
   plants that grew from every square metre of ground. He saw small worker
   mechanicals moving among them; what seemed at first glance to be wild growth was
   actually some sort of carefully random garden. The robotics were ministering to the
   plants, harvesting others.
   He paused, studying one odd spindly blossom he did not recognise emerging
   from the bark of a tall tree. He leaned closer.
   вЂњI would not, Vanus.” The man in the kimono placed a gentle hand on his
   shoulder and reeled him back. Before he could ask why, the man made an odd
   knocking noise with his lips and in response the blossom grew threadlike legs and
   wandered away, up the tree trunk. “Mimical spiders, from Beta Cornea III. They
   adapt well to the climate here on Terra. Their venom causes a form of haemorrhagic
   fever in humans.”
   Tariel recoiled and blinked. Looking again, he drew up data from his memory
   stacks, classifying the plant life. Castor, nightshade and oleander; Cerbera odollam,
   digitalis and Jerusalem cherry; hemlock and larkspur and dozens of others, all of
   them brimming with their own particular strains of poisons. He kept his hands to
   himself from then on, not wavering at all from the pathway until it deposited them in
   a clearing—although clearing was hardly the word, as the place was overgrown with
   vines and low greenery. In the middle of the area was an ancient house, doubtless
   thousands of years old; it too was swamped by the jungle’s tendrils, and Tariel noted
   that such coverage would serve well as a blind for orbital sensors and optical scopes.
   вЂњNot what I expected,” muttered Kell, as they followed the man in the kimono
   towards an ivy-covered doorway.
   вЂњIt appears to be a manse,” said the infocyte. “I can only estimate when it was
   built. The rainforest has reclaimed it.”
   Inside, Tariel expected the place to show the same level of disarray as the
   exterior, but he was mistaken. Within, the building had been sealed against the
   elements and wildlife, and care had been taken to return it to its original form. It was
   96
   only the gloom inside, the weak and infrequent sunlight through the windows, that
   betrayed the reality. The Vanus and the Vindicare were taken to an anteroom where a
   servitor was waiting, and the helot used a bulbous sensing wand to scan them both,
   checking everything down to their sweat and exhalations for even the smallest trace
   of outside toxins. The man in the kimono explained that it was necessary in order to
   maintain the balance of poisons in the Orchard proper.
   From the anteroom, they went to what had once been a lounge. Along the walls
   there were numerous cages made of thin glassaic, rank upon rank of them facing
   outward. Tariel’s skin crawled as he made out countless breeds of poisonous reptiles,
   ophidians and insects, each in their own pocket environment within the cases. The
   infocyte moved to the middle of the room, instinctively placing himself at the one
   point furthest from all the cage doors.
   A thing with a strange iridescent carapace flittered in its confinement, catching
   his eye, and the sheen of the chitin recalled a recent memory. The flesh of the
   Callidus had looked just the same when they had pulled Koyne out of the vacuum
   over Jupiter; the shapeshifting assassin had done a peculiar thing, turning into a
   deformed, almost foetus-like form in order to survive in the killing nothingness of
   space. Koyne’s skin had undergone a state change from flesh to something like bone,
   or tooth. Tariel recalled the disturbing sensation of touching it and he recoiled once
   again.
   He looked away, towards Kell. “Do you think the Callidus will live?”
   вЂњHis kind don’t perish easy,” said the Vindicare dryly. “They’re too conceited to
   die in so tawdry a manner.”
   Tariel shook his head. “Koyne is not a вЂ˜he’. It’s not male or female.” He frowned.
   вЂњNot anymore, anyway.”
   вЂњThe ship will heal… it. And once our poisoner joins us, we will have our
   Execution Force assembled…” Kell trailed off.
   Tariel imagined he was thinking the same thing as the sniper; and what then? The
   question as to what target they were being gathered to terminate would soon be
   answered—and the Vanus was troubled by what that answer might be.
   It can only be—
   The thought was cut off as the man in the kimono returned with another person at
   his heels. Tariel determined a female’s gait; she was a slender young woman of
   similar age to himself.
   вЂњBy the order of the Director Primus of our clade and the Master of Assassins,”
   said the man, “you are granted the skills of secluse Soalm, first-rank toxin artist.”
   The woman looked up and she gave a hard-edged, defiant look at the Vindicare.
   Kell’s face shifted into an expression of pure shock and he let out a gasp. “Jenniker.”
   The Venenum drew herself up. “I accept this duty,” she said, with finality.
   вЂњNo,” Kell snarled, the shock shifting to anger. “You do not!” He glared at the
   man in the kimono. “She does not!”
   The man cocked his head. “The selection was made by Siress Venenum herself.
   There is no error, and it is not your place to make a challenge.”
   97
   Tariel watched in confused fascination as the cool, acerbic mien Kell had
   habitually displayed crumbled into hard fury. “I am the mission commander!” he
   barked. “Bring me another of your secluses, now.”
   вЂњAre my skills in question?” sniffed the woman. “I defy you to find better.”
   вЂњI don’t want her,” Kell growled, refusing to look at Soalm. “That’s the end of
   it.”
   вЂњI am afraid it is not,” said the man calmly. “As I stated, you do not have the
   authority to challenge the assignment made by the Siress. Soalm is the selectee.
   There is no other alternative.” He pointed back towards the doorway. “You may now
   leave.” Without another comment, the man exited the room.
   вЂњSoalm?” Kell hissed the woman’s surname with undisguised anger. “That is
   what I should call you now, is it?”
   It was slowly dawning on Tariel that the two assassins clearly shared some
   unpleasant history together. He looked inward, thinking back over what he had
   managed to learn about Eristede Kell since the start of their mission, looking for
   some clue. Had these two been comrades or lovers, he wondered? Their ages were
   close enough that they could have both been raised in the same schola before the
   clades drew them for individual selection and training…
   вЂњI accepted the name to honour my mentor,” said the woman, her voice taking on
   a brittle tone. “I started a new life when I joined my clade. It seemed the right thing
   to do.”
   Tariel nodded to himself. Many of the orphan children selected for training by the
   Officio Assassinorum entered the clades without a true identity to call their own, and
   often they took the names of their sponsors and teachers.
   вЂњBut you dishonoured your family instead!” Kell grated.
   And then, for a brief moment, the woman’s mask of defiance slipped to reveal the
   regret and sadness behind it; suddenly Tariel saw the resemblance.
   вЂњNo, Eristede,” she said softly, “you did that when you chose to kill innocents in
   the name of revenge. But our mother and father are dead, and no amount of
   bloodshed will ever undo that.” She walked by Kell, and past a stunned Tariel,
   stepping out into the perfumed jungle.
   вЂњShe’s your sister,” Tariel blurted it out, unable to stay silent, the data rising up
   from his memory stack in a rush. “Eristede and Jenniker Kell, son and daughter of
   Viceroy Argus Kell of the Thaxted Duchy, orphaned after the murder of their parents
   in a local dispute—”
   The Vindicare advanced on him with a livid glare in his eyes, forcing Tariel back
   against a cage filled with scorpions. “Speak of this to the others and I will choke the
   life from you, understand?”
   Tariel nodded sharply, his hands coming up to protect himself. “But… The
   mission…”
   вЂњShe’ll do what I tell her to,” said Kell, the anger starting to cool.
   вЂњAre you sure?”
   вЂњShe’ll follow orders. Just as I will.” He stepped back, and Tariel glimpsed a
   hollowness, an uncertainty in the other man’s eyes that mirrored what he had seen in
   the Vindicare’s sister.
   98
   * * *
   The Iubar had decks filled with cogitator engines that hummed and whirred like
   patient cats, gangs of progitors moving back and forth between them with crystalline
   memory tubes and spools of optic coil. According to Hyssos, the devices were used
   to gather financial condition data from the various worlds along the Eurotas trade
   routes, running prognostic models to predict what goods a given planet might require
   months, years, even decades into the future.
   вЂњWhat are we to do with these things?” asked Daig. He’d never been comfortable
   with the thought of machines that could do a man’s job better.
   Hyssos nodded at one of the engines. “I’ve been granted use of this module.
   Various information sources from Iesta Veracrux’s watch-wire are being collated and
   sifted by it.”
   вЂњYou can do that from up here?” Yosef felt an odd stab of concern he couldn’t
   place.
   The operative nodded. “The uptake of data is very slow due to the incompatibility
   of the systems, but we have some level of parity. Enough to check the capital’s traffic
   patterns, compare information on the suspect with the movements of his known
   associates, and so on.”
   вЂњWe have jagers on the ground doing that,” Daig insisted. “Human eyes and ears
   are always the best source of facts.”
   Hyssos nodded. “I quite agree. But these machines can help us to narrow our
   fields of inquiry. They can do in hours what would take your office and your jagers
   weeks to accomplish.” Daig didn’t respond, but Yosef could see he was unconvinced.
   вЂњWe’ll tighten the noose,” continued the operative. “Sigg won’t slip the net a second
   time, mark my words.”
   Yosef shot him a look, searching the comment for any accusation—and he found
   none. Still, he was troubled, and he had to voice it. “Assuming Sigg is our killer.” He
   remembered the man’s face in the cooper’s shack, the certainty he had felt when he
   read Erno Sigg’s fear and desperation. He looked like a victim.
   Hyssos was watching him. “Do you have something to add, Reeve Sabrat?”
   вЂњNo.” He looked away and found Daig, his cohort’s expression unreadable. It
   wasn’t just Sigg he was having his doubts about; Yosef thought back to what the
   other man had said in the ruined lodge, and the recent changes in his manner. Daig
   was keeping something from him, but he could not think of a way to draw it out.
   вЂњNo,” he repeated. “Not now.”
   What the others called the “staging area” was really little more than a converted
   storage bay, and Iota saw little reason why the name of it made so much difference.
   The Ultio was a strange vessel; she was still trying to know it, and it wasn’t letting
   her. The ship was one thing pretending to be another, an assemblage of rare
   technologies and secrets that had been stitched into a single body; given a mission,
   thrown out into the darkness. It was like her in that way, she mused. They could
   almost have been kin.
   99
   The mind inside the ship spoke to her when she spoke to it, answering some of
   her questions but not others. Eventually, Iota became bored with the circular
   conversations and tried to find another way to amuse herself. As a test of her stealth
   skills, she took to exploring the smallest of the crawlspaces aboard the Ultio or
   spying on the medicae compartment where the Callidus was recovering inside a
   therapy pod. When she wasn’t doing this or meditating, Iota spent the time hunting
   down spiders in shadowed corners of the hull, catching and collecting them in a jar
   she had appropriated from the ship’s mess. So far, her hopes of encouraging the
   arachnids to form their own rudimentary society had failed.
   She spotted another of the insects in the lee of a console and deftly snared it;
   then, with a cruelty born of her boredom, she severed its legs one by one, to see if it
   could still walk without them.
   Kell entered the chamber; he was the last to arrive. The infocyte Tariel had been
   working at the hololith projector and he seemed uncharacteristically muted. The
   Vanus’ mood had been like this ever since he and the Vindicare had returned from
   Terra with the last of the recruits, the woman who called herself Soalm. The new
   arrival didn’t speak much either. She seemed rather delicate for an assassin; that was
   something that many thought of Iota when they first laid eyes on her, but the chill of
   her preternatural aura was usually enough to destroy that illusion within a heartbeat.
   The Garantine’s bulk took up a corner of the room, like an angry canine daring any
   one of them to crowd into his space. He was playing with a sliver of sharpened
   metal—the remains of a tool, she believed—dancing the makeshift blade across his
   thick fingers with a striking degree of dexterity. He was bored too, but annoyed with
   it; then again, Iota had come to understand that every mood of the Eversor was some
   shade of anger, to a greater or lesser extent. Koyne sat in a wire-frame chair, the
   Callidus’ smoothed-flat features like an unfinished carving in soapstone. She
   watched the shade for a few moments, and Koyne offered Iota a brief smile. The
   Callidus’ skin darkened, taking on a tone close to the tawny shade of Iota’s own
   flesh; but then the moment was broken by Kell as he rapped his gloved hand on the
   support beams of the low ceiling.
   вЂњWe’re all here,” said the Vindicare. His gaze swept the room, dwelling briefly
   on all of them; all of them except Soalm, she noted. “The mission begins now.”
   вЂњWhere are we going?” asked Koyne, in a voice like Iota’s.
   Kell nodded to Tariel. “It’s time to find out.”
   The infocyte activated a code-key sequence on the projector unit and a haze of
   holographic pixels shimmered into false solidity in the middle of the chamber. They
   formed into the shape of a tall, muscular man in nondescript robes. He had a scarred
   face and a queue of close-cut hair over an otherwise bare skull, and if the image was
   an accurate representation, then he was easily bigger than the Garantine. The
   hologram crackled and wavered, and Iota recognised the tell-tale patterns of highlevel
   encoding threading through it. This was a real-time transmission, which meant
   it could only be coming from another ship in orbit, or from Terra itself.
   Kell nodded to the man. “Captain-General Valdor. We are ready to be briefed, at
   the Master’s discretion.”
   Valdor returned the gesture. “The Master of Assassins has charged me with that
   task. Given the… unique nature of this operation, it seems only right that there be
   100
   oversight from an outside party.” The Custodian surveyed all of them with a
   measuring stare; at his end of the communication, Iota imagined he was standing
   among a hololithic representation of the room and everyone in it.
   вЂњYou want us to kill him, don’t you?” the Garantine said without preamble,
   burying his makeshift knife in the bulkhead beside his head. “Let’s not be precious
   about it. We all know, even if we haven’t had the will to say it aloud.”
   вЂњYour insight does you credit, Eversor,” said Valdor, his tone making it clear his
   compliment was anything but that. “Your target is the former Warmaster of the
   Adeptus Astartes, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, the Archtraitor Horus Lupercal.”
   вЂњThey are the Sons of Horus now,” muttered Tariel, disbelief sharp in his words.
   вЂњThrone’s sake. It’s true, then…”
   The Venenum woman made a negative noise in the back of her throat. “If it
   pleases my lord Custodes, I must question this.”
   вЂњSpeak your mind,” said Valdor.
   вЂњEvery clade has heard the rumours of the missions that have followed this
   directive and failed it. My clade-cohort Tobeld was the last to be sent on this fool’s
   errand, and he perished like all the others. I question if this can even be achieved.”
   вЂњCousin Soalm has a compelling point,” offered Koyne. “This is not some
   wayward warlord of which we are speaking. This is Horus, first among the
   Emperor’s sons. Many call him the greatest primarch that ever lived.”
   вЂњYou’re afraid,” snorted the Garantine. “What a surprise.”
   вЂњOf course I am afraid of Horus,” replied Koyne, mimicking the Eversor’s gruff
   manner. “Even an animal would be afraid of the Warmaster.”
   вЂњAn Execution Force like this one has never been gathered,” Kell broke in,
   drawing the attention of all of them. “Not since the days of the first masters and the
   pact they swore in the Emperor’s service on Mount Vengeance. We are the echo of
   that day, those words, that intention. Horus Lupercal is the only target worthy of us.”
   вЂњPretty words,” said Soalm. “But meaningless without direction.” She turned
   back to the image of Valdor. “I say again; how do we hope to accomplish this after so
   many of our Assassinorum kindred have been sacrificed against so invulnerable an
   objective?”
   вЂњHorus has legions of loyal warriors surrounding him,” said Tariel. “Astartes,
   warships, forces of the Mechanicum and Cybernetica, not to mention the common
   soldiery who have come to his banner. How do we even get close enough to strike at
   him?”
   вЂњHe will come to you.” Valdor gave a cold, thin smile. “Perhaps you wondered at
   the speed with which this Execution Force has been assembled? It has been done so
   as to react to new intelligence that will place the traitor directly in your sights.”
   вЂњHow?” demanded Koyne.
   вЂњIt is the judgement of Lord Malcador and the Council of Terra that Horus’
   assassination at this juncture will throw the traitor forces into disarray and break the
   rebellion before it can advance on to the Segmentum Solar,” said Valdor. “Agents of
   the Imperium operating covertly in the Taebian Sector report a strong likelihood that
   Horus is planning to bring his flagship, the Vengeful Spirit, to the planet Dagonet in
   101
   order to show his flag. We believe that the Warmaster’s forces will use Dagonet as a
   foothold from which to secure the turning of every planet in the Taebian Stars.”
   вЂњIf you know this to be so, my lord, then why not simply send a reprisal fleet to
   Dagonet instead?” asked Soalm. “Send battle cruisers and Legions of Astartes, not
   six assassins.”
   вЂњPerhaps even the Emperor himself…” muttered Koyne.
   Valdor gave them both a searing glare. “The Emperor’s deeds are for him alone
   to decide! And the fleets and the loyal Legions have their own battles to fight!”
   Iota nodded to herself. “I understand,” she said. “We are to be sent because there
   is not certainty. The Imperium cannot afford to send warfleets into the darkness on a
   mere вЂ˜likelihood’.”
   вЂњWe are only six,” said Kell, “but together we can do what a thousand warships
   have failed to. One vessel can slip through the warp to Dagonet far easier than a fleet.
   Six assassins… the best of our clades… can bring death.” He paused. “Remember the
   words of the oath we all swore, regardless of our clades. There is no enemy beyond
   the Emperor’s wrath.”
   вЂњYou will take the Ultio to the Taebian Sector,” Valdor went on. “You will
   embed on Dagonet and set up multiple lines of attack. When Horus arrives there, you
   will terminate his command with extreme prejudice.”
   вЂњMy lord.” Efried bowed low and waited.
   The low mutter of his primarch’s voice was like the distant thunder over the
   Himalayan range. “Speak, Captain of the Third.”
   The Astartes looked up and found Rogal Dorn standing at the high balcony,
   staring into the setting sun. The golden light spilled over every tower and crenulation
   of the Imperial Palace, turning the glittering metals and white marble a striking,
   honeyed amber. The sight was awesome; but it was marred by the huge cube-like
   masses of retrofitted redoubts and gunnery donjons that stood up like blunt grey
   fangs in an angry mouth. The palace of before— the rich, glorious construct that
   defied censure and defeat—was cheek-by-jowl with the palace of now— a brutalist
   fortress ranged against the most lethal of foes. A foe that had yet to show his face
   under Terra’s skies.
   Efried knew that his liege lord was troubled by the battlements and fortifications
   the Emperor had charged him to build over the beauty of the palace; and while the
   captain could see equal majesty in both palace and fortress alike, he knew that in
   some fashion, Great Dorn believed he was diminishing this place by making it a site
   fit only for warfare. The primarch of the Imperial Fists often came to this high
   balcony, to watch the walls and, as Efried imagined, to wait for the arrival of his
   turncoat brother.
   He cleared his throat. “Sir. I have word from our chapter serfs. The reports of
   preparations have been confirmed, as have those of the incidents in the Yndenisc
   Bloc and on Saros Station.”
   вЂњGo on.”
   102
   вЂњYou were correct to order surveillance of the Custodes. Captain-General Valdor
   was once again witnessed entering closed session at the Shrouds, with an assemblage
   of the Directors Primus of the Assassinorum clades.”
   вЂњWhen was this?” Dorn did not look at him, continuing to gaze out over the
   palace.
   вЂњThis day,” Efried explained. “On the conclusion of the gathering a transmission
   was sent into close-orbit space, likely to a vessel. The encryption was of great
   magnitude. My Techmarines regretfully inform me it would be beyond their skills to
   decode.”
   вЂњThere is no need to try,” said the primarch, “and indeed, to do so would be a
   violation of protocols. That is a line the Imperial Fists will not cross. Not yet.”
   Efried’s hand strayed to his close-cropped beard. “As you wish, my lord.”
   Dorn was silent for a long moment, and Efried began to wonder if this was a
   dismissal; but then his commander spoke again. “It begins with this, captain. Do you
   understand? The rot beds in with actions such as these. Wars fought in the shadows
   instead of the light. Conflicts where there are no rules of conduct. No lines that
   cannot be crossed.” At last he glanced across at his officer. “No honour.” Behind
   him, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the shadows across the balcony grew.
   вЂњWhat is to be done?” Efried asked. He would obey any command his primarch
   had cause to utter, without question or hesitation.
   But Dorn did not answer him directly. “There can only be one target worth such
   subterfuge, such a gathering of forces. The Officio Assassinorum mean to kill my
   errant brother Horus.”
   Efried considered this. “Would that not serve our cause?”
   вЂњIt might appear so to those with a narrow view,” replied the primarch. “But I
   have seen what the assassin’s bullet wreaks in its wake. And I tell you this, brothercaptain.
   We will defeat Horus… but if his death comes in a manner such as the
   Assassinorum intend, the consequences will be terrible, and beyond our capacity to
   control. If Horus falls to an assassin’s hand there will be a gaping vacuum at the core
   of the turncoat fleet, and we cannot predict who will fill it or what terrible revenges
   they will take. As long as my brother lives, as long as he rides at the head of the
   traitor Legions, we can predict what he will do. We can match Horus, defeat him on
   even ground. We know him.” Dorn let out a sigh. “I know him.” He shook his head.
   вЂњThe death of the Warmaster will not stop the war.”
   Efried listened and nodded. “We could intervene. Confront Valdor and the clade
   masters.”
   вЂњBased on what, captain?” Dorn shook his head again. “I have only hearsay and
   suspicion. If I were as reckless as Russ or the Khan, that might be enough… But we
   are Imperial Fists and we observe the letter of Imperial law. There must be proof
   positive.”
   вЂњYour orders, then, sir?”
   вЂњHave the serfs maintain their observations,” Dorn looked up into the darkening
   sky. “For the moment, we watch and we wait.”
   103
   EIGHT
   Cinder and Ash
   Toys
   Unmasked
   The room in the compound they had given over for Perrig’s use was of a reasonable
   size and dimension, and the last of four that had been offered. The other three she had
   immediately rejected because of their inherent luminal negativity or proximal
   locations to undisciplined thought-groupings. The second had been a place where a
   woman had died, some one hundred and seven years earlier, having taken her own
   life as the result of an unplanned pregnancy. The adjutant, Gorospe, had looked at
   Perrig with shock and no little amount of dismay at that revelation; it seemed that no
   one among the staff of the Eurotas Consortium had had any idea the building on Iesta
   had such a sordid history.
   But this room was quiet, the buzzing in her senses was abating and Perrig was as
   close to her equilibrium as she could be in a place so filled with droning, selfabsorbed
   minds. Running through her alignment exercises, Perrig gently edited them
   out of her thoughtscape, eliminating the disruption through the application of a gentle
   psionic null-song, like a counter-wave masking an atonal sound.
   She absently touched the collar around her neck as she did this. It was just metal,
   just a thing, secured only with a bolt that she herself could undo with a single twist. It
   had meaning, though, for those who looked upon it, for those who might read the
   words from the Nikaea Diktat acid-etched into the black iron. It was a slave’s mark,
   after a fashion, but one she wore only for the benefit of the comfort of others. It was
   not a nullifier, it could not hold her back; it was there so those who feared her ability
   could have her at their side and still sleep soundly, convinced by the lie that it would
   protect them from her unearthliness. The texture of the cool metal gave her focus,
   and she let herself draw inward.
   The last thing she looked at before she closed her eyes was the chronometer on a
   nearby desk; Hyssos and the local lawmen had returned from the Iubar several hours
   ago, but she hadn’t seen any of them since the audience with the Void Baron. She
   wondered what Hyssos would be doing, but she resisted the urge to extend a tendril
   of thought out to search for him. Her telepathic abilities were poor and it was only
   her familiarity with his mind that allowed her to sense him with any degree of
   certainty. In truth, Perrig’s desire to be close to Hyssos only ever brought her
   melancholy. She had once looked into his thoughts as he slept, once when he had let
   down his guard, and there she saw that he had no inkling of the strange devotion the
   psyker had for her guardian; no understanding of this peculiar attachment that could
   not be thought of as love, but neither as anything else. It was better that way, she
   104
   decided. Perrig did not wish to think of what might happen if he knew. She would be
   taken away from him, most likely. Perhaps even returned to the Black Ships from
   where Baron Eurotas had first claimed her.
   Perrig suffocated the thoughts and returned to her business at hand, eyes tightly
   shut, her calm forced back into place like a key jammed into a lock.
   The psyker knelt on the hard wooden floor of the room. Arranged in a semi-circle
   around her were a careful line of objects she had picked from the debris of the old
   wine lodge. Some stones, a brass button from a greatcoat, sticky grease-paper
   wrapping from a meat-stick vendor and a red leaflet dense with script in the local
   dialect of Imperial Gothic. Perrig touched them all in order, moving back and forth,
   lingering on some, returning to others. She used the items to build a jigsaw puzzle
   image of the suspect, but there were gaping holes in the simulacra. Places where she
   could not sense the full dimension of who Erno Sigg was.
   The button had fear on it. It had been lost as he fled the fire and the howl of the
   coleopters.
   The stones. These he had picked up and turned in his hands, used them in an idle
   game of throws, tossing them across the shack and back again, boredom and nervous
   energy marbling their otherwise inert auras.
   The grease-paper was laden with hunger, panic. The image here was quite
   distinct; he had stolen the food from the vendor while the man’s back was turned. He
   had been convinced he would be caught and arrested.
   The leaflet was love. Love or something like it, at least in the manner that Perrig
   could understand. Dedication, then, if one were to be more correct, with almost a
   texture of righteousness about it.
   She dithered over the piece of paper, looking through her closed lids at the
   emotional spectra it generated. Sigg was complex and the psyker had trouble holding
   the pieces she had of him in her mind. He was conflicted; buried somewhere deep
   there was the distant echo of great violence in him, but it was overshadowed by two
   towering opposite forces. On one hand, a grand sense of hope, even redemption, as if
   he believed he would be saved; and on the other, an equally powerful dread of
   something hunting him, of his own victimhood.
   Perrig’s psychometry was not an exact science, but in her time as an investigator
   she had developed a keen sense of her own instincts; it was this sense that told her
   Erno Sigg did not kill for his pleasures. As that thought crystallised inside her mind,
   Perrig felt the first fuzzy inklings of a direction coming to her. She allowed her hand
   to pick up the stylus at her side and moved it to the waiting data-slate on the floor. It
   twitched as the auto-writing began in spidery, uneven text.
   Her other hand, though, had not left the leaflet. Her fingers toyed with the edges
   of it, playing with the careworn paper, seeking out the places where it had been
   delicately folded and unfolded, time and time again. She wondered what it meant to
   Sigg that he cared so much for it, and sensed the ghost of the anguish he would feel
   at its loss.
   That would be how she would find him. The sorrow, fluttering from him like a
   pennant in the wind. The scribbling stylus moved of its own accord, back and forth
   across the slate.
   105
   Confidence rose in her. She would find Erno Sigg. She would. And Hyssos would
   be pleased with her—
   Her heart jumped in her chest and she gasped. The stylus, gripped beyond its
   tolerances, snapped in two and the broken ends dug into her palm. Perrig was
   suddenly trembling, and she knew why. At the back of her mind there had been a
   thought she had not wanted to confront, something she took care to avoid as one
   might favour an ugly, painful bruise upon the skin.
   But now she was drawn to it, touching the discoloured edges of the psychic
   contusion, flinching at the tiny ticks of pain it gave off.
   She had sensed it after their arrival on Iesta Veracrux. At first, Perrig imagined it
   was only an artefact of the transition of her mind, from the controlled peace of her
   domicile aboard the Iubar to the riotous newness of the planet’s busy city.
   Correction; she had wanted to believe it was that.
   The trembling grew as she dared to focus on it. A dark shadow at the edges of her
   perception, close at hand. Closer than Erno Sigg. Much, much closer, more so than
   Hyssos or any of the Iestan investigators suspected.
   Perrig felt a sudden wetness at her nostrils, on her cheek. She smelled copper.
   Blinking, she opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was the leaflet. It was red,
   deep crimson, the words printed on it lost against the shade of the paper. Panting in a
   breath, Perrig looked up from where she knelt and saw that the room, and everything
   in it, was red and red and red.
   She let the broken stylus fall and wiped at her face. Thick fluid came away from
   the corners of her eyes. Blood, not tears.
   Propelled by a surge of fright, she came to her feet, her boot catching the dataslate
   and crushing the glassy screen beneath the heel. The room seemed humid and
   stifling, every surface damp and meat-slick. Perrig lurched towards the only window
   and reached for the pull to drag back the curtains so she might open it, get a breath of
   untainted air.
   The drapes were made of red and shadows, and they parted like petals as she
   came closer. Something approximating the shape of a human being opened up there,
   suspended by spindly feet from the ceiling overhead. The heavy velvets thumped to
   the wooden floor and the figure unfolded, wet and shiny with oils. Its name
   impressed itself on the soft surfaces of her mind and she was forced to speak it aloud
   just to expunge the horror of it.
   вЂњSpear…”
   A distended maw of teeth and bone barbs grew from the head of the monstrosity.
   Stygian flame, visible only to those with the curse of the witch-sight, wreathed the
   abstract face and the black pits that were its eyes. In an instant, Perrig knew what had
   made all those kills, what hands had delicately cut into Jaared Norte, Cirsun Latigue
   and all the others who had perished at its inclination.
   She backed away, her voice lost to her. More than anything, Perrig wanted to
   cover her eyes and look away, find somewhere to hide her face so that she would not
   be forced to see the Spear-thing; but there was nowhere for her to turn. Even if she
   clawed the orbs from her sockets, her witch-sight would still remain, and the aura of
   this monstrous creature would continue to smother it.
   106
   Horribly, she sensed that the killer wanted her to look upon it, with all the depth
   of perception her psychic talents allowed. It projected a need for her to witness it, and
   that desire drew her in like the pull of gravity from a dark sun.
   Spear muttered to itself. When Perrig had touched the minds of other killers in
   the past, she had always flinched at the awful joy with which they pursued their craft;
   she did not see that here, however. Spear’s psyche was a pool of black ink,
   featureless and undisturbed by madness, lust or naked fury. It was almost inert,
   moving under the guidance of an unshakable certainty. It reminded her for one
   fleeting instant of Hyssos’ ordered mindset; the killer shared the same dogged,
   unflinching sense of direction towards its goals… almost as if it were following a
   string of commands.
   And still it let her in. She knew if she refused it, Spear would tear her open then
   and there. She tried desperately to break past the miasma of cold that lay around her,
   projecting as best she could a panicked summons towards her absent guardian; but as
   she did this, she also let her mind fall into Spear, stalling for time, on some level
   repulsed and fascinated by the monster’s true nature.
   Spear was not coy; it opened itself to her. What she saw in there sickened her
   beyond her capacity to express. The killer had been made this way, taken from some
   human stock now so corrupted that its origin could not be determined, sheathed with
   a skein of living materials that seemed cut from the screaming depths of the warp
   itself. Perhaps a fluke of cruel nature, or perhaps a thing created by twisted genius,
   Spear was soulless, but unlike any stripe of psionic null Perrig had ever encountered.
   It was a Black Pariah; the ultimate expression of negative psychic force. Perrig
   had believed such things were only conjecture, the mad nightmare creations of wild
   theorists and sorcerous madmen—yet here it stood, watching her, breathing the same
   air as she wept blood before it.
   And then Spear reached out with fingers made of knives and took Perrig’s hand.
   She howled as burning pain lanced through her nerves; the killer severed her right
   thumb with insolent ease and drew it up and away, toying with its prize. Perrig
   gripped her injured hand, vitae gushing from the wound.
   Spear took the severed flesh and rolled it into its fanged maw, crunching down
   the bone and meat as if it were a rare delicacy. Perrig sank back to the bloodspattered
   floor, her head swimming as she caught the edges of the sudden psionic
   shift running through the killer.
   The black voids of its eyes glared down at her and they became smoky mirrors. In
   them she saw her own mind reflected back at her, the power of her own psionic
   talents bubbling and rippling, copied and enhanced a thousandfold. Spear had tasted
   her blood, the living gene-code of her being—and now it knew her. It had her
   imprint.
   She scrambled backwards, feeling the humming chorus of her mind and that of
   the killer coming into shuddering synchrony, the orbits of their powers moving
   towards alignment. Perrig cried out and begged it to stop, but Spear only cocked its
   head and let the power build.
   It had not killed in this manner for a long time, she realised. The other deaths had
   been mundane and unremarkable. It wanted to do this just to be sure it was still
   capable, as a soldier might release a clip of ammunition to test the accuracy of a
   107
   firearm. Belatedly Perrig understood that she was the only thing for light years
   around that could have been any kind of threat to it; but now, too late.
   And then, they met in the non-space between them. Beyond her ability to stop it,
   Perrig’s psionic ability unchained itself and thundered against Spear’s waiting, open
   arms. The killer took it all in, every last morsel, and did so with the ease of breathing.
   In stillness, Spear released its burden and reflected back all that Perrig was, the
   force of her preternatural power returning, magnified into a silent, furious hurricane.
   The woman became ashes and broke apart.
   Through the coruscating, unquenchable fires of the immaterium, the Ultio raced on,
   passing through the corridors of the warp and onwards beyond the borders of the
   Segmentum Solar. The ship’s sight-blind Navigator took it through the routes that
   were little known, the barely-charted passages that the upper echelons of the Imperial
   government kept off the maps given to the common admiralty. These were swift
   routes but treacherous ones, causeways through the atemporal realm that larger ships
   would never have been able to take, the soul-light glitter of their massive crews
   bright enough that they would attract the living storms that wheeled and turned, while
   Ultio passed by unnoticed. The phantom-ship was barely there; its Geller fields had
   such finely-tuned opacity and it engines such speed that the lumbering, predatory
   intelligences that existed inside warp space noted it only by the wake it left behind.
   As days turned and clocks spun back on Terra, Ultio flew towards Dagonet; by some
   reckonings, it was already there.
   On board, the Execution Force gathered once more, this time in a compartment
   off the spinal corridor that ran the length of the starship’s massive drives.
   Kell watched, as he always did.
   The Garantine was still toying with his makeshift blade. He had continued to craft
   it into a wicked shiv that was easily the length of a man’s forearm. “What do you
   want, Vanus?” he asked.
   Tariel gave a nervous smile and indicated a large cargo module that replaced one
   whole wall of the long, low compartment. “Uh, thank you for coming.” He glanced
   around at Kell, Iota and the others. “As we are now mission-committed, I have leave
   to continue with the next stage of my orders.”
   вЂњExplain,” said Koyne.
   The infocyte rubbed his hands together. “I was given a directive by the Master of
   Assassins himself to present these materials to you only after the group had been
   completely assembled and only after the Ultio had left the Sol system.” He moved to
   a keypad on the cargo module and tapped in a string of symbols. “I am to address the
   matter of your equipment.”
   The Eversor assassin’s head snapped up, his mood instantly changing from
   insolence to laser-like intensity. “Weapons?” he asked, almost salivating.
   Tariel nodded. “Among other things. This unit contains the hardware for our
   mission ahead.”
   вЂњDid you know about this?” demanded the Garantine, glaring at Kell. “Here I am
   playing with scraps and there’s a war-load right here on board with me?”
   108
   Kell shook his head. “I assumed we’d be equipped on site.”
   вЂњWhy did someone fail to tell me there was an armoury aboard this tub?” Tariel
   ducked as the Garantine threw his shiv and it buried itself in a stanchion close by.
   вЂњGive me a weapon, now! Feels like I’m bloody naked here!”
   вЂњWhat a delightful image,” murmured Soalm.
   вЂњHe needs it,” said Iota, distractedly. “He actually feels a kind of emotional pain
   when separated from his firearms. Like a parent torn from its child.”
   вЂњI’ll show you torn,” grated the hulking killer, menacing the Vanus. “I’ll do some
   tearing.”
   вЂњOpen!” Tariel fairly shouted the word and the mechanism controlling the lock
   hissed on oiled hydraulics. The pod split along its length and rolled back, presenting
   brackets of guns, support equipment and other wargear.
   The Garantine’s face lit up with something approximating joy. “Hello, pretty
   pretty,” he muttered, drawn to a rack where a heavy pistol, ornate and decorated with
   metallic wings and sensor probes, lay waiting. He gathered it up and hefted it in one
   hand. Cold laughter fell from his lips as gene-markers tingled through him, briefly
   communing with the lobo-chips implanted in his brain, confirming his identity and
   purpose.
   вЂњThe Executor combi-pistol,” said Tariel, blinking rapidly as he drew the
   information up from a mnemonic pool in his deep cortex. “Dual function ballistic
   bolt weapon and needle projectile—”
   вЂњI know what it is!” snarled the Garantine, before he could finish. “Oh, we are
   very well acquainted.” He stroked the gun like it was a pet.
   Kell spoke up. “All of you, take what you need but make sure you use what you
   take. Go back to your compartments and prepare your gear for immediate
   deployment. We have no idea how long we may have between our arrival and the
   target’s.”
   вЂњHe may already be there waiting for us,” offered Koyne, drifting towards a
   different rack of weapons. “The tides of the warp often flow against the ebb of time.”
   The Garantine greedily gathered armfuls of hardware, taking bandoliers of meltagrenades,
   a wickedly barbed neuro-gauntlet and the rig for a sentinel array. With
   another guttural laugh, he snagged a heavy, blunt-ended slaughterer’s sword and
   placed it under his arm. “I’ll be in my bunk,” he sniggered, and wandered away under
   his burden.
   Iota watched the Eversor go. “Look at him. He’s almost… happy.”
   вЂњEvery child needs its toys,” said Soalm.
   The Culexus gave the racks a sideways look, and then turned away. “Not me.
   There’s nothing here that I need.” She shot the Venenum poisoner a look, tapping her
   temple. “I have a weapon already.”
   вЂњThe animus speculum, yes,” said Soalm. “I’ve heard of it. But it is an ephemeral
   thing, isn’t it? Its use depends on the power of the opponent as much as that of the
   user, so I am led to believe.”
   Iota’s lips pulled tight in a small smile. “If you wish.”
   109
   Tariel nervously approached them. “I… I do have an item put aside for your use,
   Culexus,” he said, offering an armoured box covered with warning runes. “If you
   will?”
   Iota flipped open the lid and cocked her head. Inside there were a dozen grenades
   made of black metal. “Oh,” she said. “Explosives. How ordinary.”
   вЂњNo, no,” he insisted. “This is a new technology. An experimental weapon not
   yet field-tested under operational conditions. A creation of your clade’s senior
   scienticians.”
   The woman plucked one of the grenades from the case and sniffed it. Her eyes
   narrowed. “What is this? It smells like the death of suns.”
   вЂњI am not permitted to know the full details,” admitted the infocyte. “But the
   devices contain an exotic form of particulate matter that inhibits the function of
   psionic ability in a localised area.”
   Iota studied the grenade for a long moment, toying with the activator pin, before
   finally giving Tariel a wan look. “I’ll take these,” she said, snatching the box from
   his hand.
   вЂњWhat do you have for the rest of us in your delightful toy box?” Koyne asked
   lightly, playing with a pair of memory swords. They had curved, graceful blades that
   shifted angles in mid-flight as the Callidus cut the air with them.
   вЂњToxin cordes.” The Vanus pressed a control and a belt threaded with glassy
   stilettos extended from a sealed dram marked with biohazard trefoils.
   Koyne put up the swords and reached for them, only to see that Soalm was doing
   the same. The Callidus gave a small bow. “Oh, pardon me, cousin. Poisons are of
   course your domain.”
   Soalm gave a tight, humourless smile. “No. After you. Take what you wish.”
   Koyne held up a hand. “No, no. After you. Please. I insist.”
   вЂњAs you wish.” The Venenum carefully retrieved one of the daggers and turned it
   in her fingers. She held it up to the light, turning it this way and that so the coloured
   fluids inside the glass poison blade flowed back and forth. At length, she sniffed.
   вЂњThese are of fair quality. They’ll work well enough on any man who stands between
   us and Horus.”
   The Callidus picked out a few blades. “But what about those who are not men?
   What about Horus himself?”
   Soalm’s lips thinned. “This would be the bite of a gnat to the Warmaster.” She
   gave Tariel a look: “I will prepare my own weapons.”
   вЂњThere’s also this,” offered the Vanus, passing her a pistol. The weapon was a
   spindly collection of brass pipes with a crystalline bulb where a normal firearm might
   have had an ammunition magazine. Soalm took it and peered at the mesh grille where
   the muzzle should have been.
   вЂњA bact-gun,” she said, weighing it in her hand. “This may be useful.”
   вЂњThe dispersal can be set from a fine mist to a gel-plug round,” noted Tariel.
   вЂњAre you certain you know how to use that?” said Kell.
   Soalm’s arm snapped up into aiming position, the barrel of the weapon pointed
   directly at the Vindicare’s face. “I think I can recall,” she said. Then she wandered
   away, turning the pistol over in her delicate, pale hands.
   110
   Meanwhile, Koyne had discovered a case that was totally out of place among all
   the others. It resembled a whorled shell more than anything else, and the only
   mechanism to unlock it was the sketch of a handprint etched into the bony matter of
   the latch—a handprint of three overlong digits and a dual thumb.
   вЂњI have no idea what that may be,” Tariel admitted. “The container, I mean, it
   looks almost as if it is—”
   вЂњXenos?” said Koyne, with deceptive lightness. “But that would be prohibited,
   Vanus. Perish the thought.” There was a quiet cracking sound as the Callidus’ right
   hand stretched and shifted in shape, the human digits reformed and merging until
   they became something more approximate to the alien handprint. Koyne pressed
   home on the case and it sighed open, drooling droplets of purple liquid on to the
   decking. Inside the container, the organic look was even more disturbing; on a bed of
   fleshy material wet with more of the liquid rested a weapon made of blackened,
   tooth-like ceramics. It was large and off-balance in shape, the front of it grasping a
   faceted teardrop crystal the sea-green colour of ancient jade.
   вЂњWhat is it?” Tariel asked, his disgust evident.
   вЂњIn my clade it has many names,” said Koyne. “It rips open minds, tears intellect
   and thought to shreds. Those it touches remain empty husks.” The Callidus held it out
   to the Vanus, who backed away. “Do you wish to take a closer look?”
   вЂњNot in this lifetime,” Tariel insisted.
   A pale tongue flickered out and licked Koyne’s lips as the assassin returned the
   weapon to the shell. Gathering it up, the Callidus bowed to the others. “I will take my
   leave of you.”
   As Koyne left, Kell glanced back at the Vanus. “What about you? Or do those of
   your clade choose not to carry a weapon?”
   Tariel shook his head, colour returning to his cheeks. “I have weapons of my
   own, just not as obvious as yours. An electropulse projector, built into my cogitator
   gauntlet. And I have my menagerie. The psyber eagles, the eyerats and netfly
   swarms.”
   Kell thought of the pods he had seen elsewhere aboard the Ultio, where Tariel’s
   cybernetically-modified rodents and preybirds and other animals slept out the voyage
   in dormancy, waiting for his word of command to awaken them. “Those things won’t
   keep you alive.”
   The Vanus shook his head. “Ah, believe me, I will make sure that nothing ever
   gets close enough to kill me.” He sighed. “And in that vein… There are also weapons
   for you.”
   вЂњMy weapon was lost,” Kell said, with no little venom. “Thanks to the Eversor.”
   вЂњIt has been renewed,” said Tariel, opening a lengthy box. “See.”
   Every Vindicare used a longrifle that was uniquely configured for their biomass,
   shooting style, body kinestics, even tailored to work with the rhythm in which they
   breathed. When the Garantine had smashed Kell’s weapon into pieces out in the
   Aktick snows, it was like he had lost a part of himself; but there inside the case was a
   sniper rifle that resembled the very gun that had been his constant companion for
   years—resembled it, but also transcended it. “Exitus,” he breathed, stooping to ran a
   hand over the flat, non-reflective surface of the barrel.
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   Tariel indicated the individual components of the weapon. “Spectroscopic
   polyimager scope. Carousel ammunition loader. Nitrogen coolant sheath. Whisperhead
   suppressor unit. Gyroscopic balance stabiliser.” He paused. “As much of your
   original weapon as possible was salvaged and reused in this one.”
   Kell nodded. He saw that the grip and part of the cheek-plate were worn in a way
   that no newly-forged firearm could have been. As well as the longrifle, a pistol of
   similar design lay next to it on the velvet bedding of the weapon case. Lined up along
   the lid of the container were row after row of individual bullets, arranged in colourcoded
   groups. “Impressive. But I’ll need to sight it in.”
   вЂњWe’ll doubtless all have many opportunities to employ our skills before Horus
   shows his face,” said Soalm. She hadn’t left the room, but stood off to one side as the
   sniper and the infocyte talked.
   вЂњWe will do what we have to,” Kell replied, without looking at her.
   вЂњEven if we destroy ourselves doing it,” his sister replied.
   The marksman’s jaw hardened and his eyes fell to a line of words that had been
   etched into the slender barrel of the rifle. Written in a careful scrolling hand was the
   Dictatus Vindicare, the maxim of his clade; Exitus Acta Probat. “The outcome
   justifies the deed,” said Kell.
   * * *
   What he saw in the room was like no manner of death Yosef Sabrat had ever
   conceived of. The killings of Latigue in the aeronef and Norte at the docks, while
   they were horrors that sickened him to his core, had not pressed at his reason. But not
   this, not this… deed.
   Black ashes were scattered in a long pool across the middle of Perrig’s room, cast
   out of a set of clothes that lay splayed out where they had fallen. At the top of the
   cascade of cinders, a small hill of the dark powder covered an iron collar, the bolt
   holding it shut still secure, and in among the pile there were the silver needles of
   neural implants glittering in the lamplight.
   вЂњI… don’t understand.” The Gorospe woman was standing a few steps behind the
   investigators, outside in the corridor with Yosef where the jagers milled around,
   uncertain how to proceed. “I don’t understand,” she repeated. “Where did the… the
   woman go to?”
   She had almost said the witch. Yosef sensed the half-formed word on her lips,
   and he shot her a look filled with sudden fury. Gorospe looked up at him with wide,
   limpid eyes, and he felt his hands contract into fists. She was so callous and
   dismissive of the dead psyker; he fought back a brief urge to grab her and slam her
   up against the wall, shout at her for her stupidity. Then he took a breath and said,
   вЂњShe didn’t go anywhere. That’s all that is left of her.”
   Yosef walked away, pushing past Skelta. The jager gave him a wary nod. “Heard
   from Reeve Segan, sir. They called him in from his off-shift. He’s on his way.”
   He returned Skelta’s nod and took a wary step through the field barrier and into
   the room, careful not to disturb the cluster of small mapping automata that scanned
   the crime scene with picters and ranging lasers. Hyssos was crouching, looking back
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   and forth around the walls, staring towards the windows, then back to the ashen
   remains. He had his back to the doorway and Yosef heard him take a shuddering
   breath. It was almost a sob.
   вЂњDo you… need a moment?” As soon as he said the words, he felt like an utter
   fool. Of course he did; his colleague had just been brutally murdered, and in an
   abhorrent, baffling manner.
   вЂњNo,” said Hyssos. “Yes,” he said, an instant later. “No. No. There will be time
   for that. After.” The operative looked up at him and his eyes were shining. “Do you
   know, I think, at the end… I think I actually heard her.” He fingered one of the braids
   among his hair.
   Yosef saw the semi-circle of objects on the floor, the stones and the paper. “What
   are these?”
   вЂњFoci,” Hyssos told him. “Objects imbued with some emotional resonance from
   the suspect. Perrig reads them. She read them.” He corrected himself absently.
   вЂњI am sorry.”
   Hyssos nodded. “You will let me kill this man when we find him,” he told Yosef,
   in a steady, measured voice. “We will make certain, of course, of his guilt,” he
   added, nodding. “But the death. You will let me have that.”
   Yosef felt warm and uncomfortable. “We’ll burn that bridge after we cross it.”
   He looked away and found the places on the far wall behind him where the markings
   had been made. On his entry into the room, he hadn’t seen them. Like the paintings
   in blood inside the aeronef or the shape that Jaared Norte’s body had been cut into,
   there were eight-point stars all over the light-coloured walls. It seemed that the killer
   had used the residue of Perrig as his ink, repeating the same pattern over and over
   again.
   вЂњWhat does it mean?” Hyssos mumbled.
   The reeve licked his lips; they were suddenly dry. He had a strange sensation, a
   tingling in the base of his skull like the dull headache brought on by too much recaf
   and not enough fresh air. The shapes were all he could see, and he felt like there was
   an answer there, if only he could find the right way to look at them. They were no
   different from the mathematical problems in Ivak’s schola texts, they just needed to
   be solved to be understood.
   вЂњSabrat, what does it mean?” said Hyssos again. “This word?”
   Yosef blinked and the moment vanished. He looked back at the investigator.
   Hyssos had removed something from among the ashen remains; a data-slate, the
   screen spiderwebbed and fractured. Incredibly, the display underneath was still
   operating, flickering sporadically.
   Gingerly, Yosef took it from him, taking care to avoid touching the powderslicked
   surfaces of the device. The touch-sensitive screen still remembered the words
   that had been etched upon it, and flashed them at him, almost too quickly to register.
   вЂњOne of the words is вЂ˜Sigg’,” Hyssos told him. “Do you see it?”
   He did; and beneath that, there was a scribble that appeared to be the attempt to
   form another string of letters, the shape of them lost now. But above the name, there
   was another clearly-lettered word.
   вЂњWhyteleaf. Is that a person’s name?”
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   Yosef shook his head, instantly knowing the meaning. “Not a person. A place. I
   know it well.”
   Hyssos was abruptly on his feet. “Close?”
   вЂњIn the low crags, a quick trip by coleopter.”
   The investigator’s brief flash of grief and sorrow was gone. “We need to go there,
   right now. Perrig’s readings decay over time.” He tapped the broken slate. “If she
   sensed Sigg was in this place, every moment we waste here, we run the risk he will
   flee again.”
   Skelta had caught the edge of their conversation. “Sir, we don’t have any other
   units in the area. Backup is dealing with a railganger fight that went bad out at the
   airdocks and security prep for the trade carnival.”
   Yosef made the choice then and there. “When Daig gets here, tell him to take
   over the scene and keep Laimner occupied.” He moved towards the door, not looking
   back to see if Hyssos was following. “We’re taking the flyer.”
   The operative had lost colleagues before, and it had been difficult then as it was now;
   but Perrig’s death was something more than that. It came in like a bullet, cutting right
   into the core of Hyssos’ soul. Losing himself in the rash of the dark, low clouds
   outside the windows of the coleopter, he tried to parse his own emotional reactions to
   the moment without success. Perrig had always been a good, trusted colleague, and
   he liked her company. She had never pressured him to talk about his past or tried to
   worm more information out of him than he wanted to give. Hyssos had always felt
   respected in her presence, and rewarded by her competence, her cool, calm
   intelligence.
   Now she was dead; worse than dead, not a corpse even, just dark cinders, just a
   slurry of matter that did not bear any resemblance to the human being he had known.
   He felt a hard stab of guilt. Perrig had always given him her complete and total trust,
   and he had not been there to protect her when she needed it. Now this investigation
   had crossed from the professional to the personal, and Hyssos was uncertain of
   himself.
   Looking from the outside in, had he been a passive observer, Hyssos would have
   immediately insisted that an operative in his circumstances be withdrawn from the
   case and a new team assigned from the Consortium’s security pool. And that, he
   knew, was why he had not yet sent an official report on Perrig’s death to the Void
   Baron, because Eurotas himself would say the same.
   But Hyssos was here, now, and he knew the stakes. It would take too long to
   bring another operative up to speed. As competent as locals like Sabrat were, the
   reeve’s seniors couldn’t be trusted to handle this with alacrity.
   Yes. All those were good lies to tell himself, all gilded with the ring of truth,
   when in fact all he wanted at this moment was to put Perrig’s killer down like a rabid
   animal.
   Hyssos clasped his hands together to stop them making fists. Outwardly his icy
   calm did not shift, but inside he was seething. The operative glanced at Sabrat as the
   flyer began to circle in towards a landing. “What is this Whyteleaf?”
   вЂњWhat?” Sabrat turned suddenly, snapping at him with venom, as if Hyssos had
   called out some grave personal insult. Then he blinked, the strange anger ebbing for a
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   moment. “Oh. Yes. It’s a winestock. Many of the smaller lodges store vintage
   estufagemi here, holding barrels of it for years so it can mature undisturbed.”
   вЂњHow many staff?”
   Sabrat shook his head distractedly. “It… It’s all automated.” The flyer’s skids
   bumped as the craft landed. “Quickly!” said the reeve, bolting up from his seat. “If
   the coleopter dwells, Sigg will know we’re on to him.”
   Hyssos followed him down the drop ramp, into a cloud of upswept dust and
   leaves caught in the wake of the aircraft. He saw Sabrat give the pilot a clipped wave
   and the coleopter rattled back into the sky, leaving them ducking the sudden wind.
   As the noise died away, Hyssos frowned. “Was that wise? We could use another
   pair of eyes.”
   The reeve was already walking on, across the top of the shallow warehouse where
   they had been deposited. “Sigg ran the last time.” He shook his head. “Do you want
   that to happen again?” Sabrat said it almost as if it had been the operative’s fault.
   вЂњOf course not,” Hyssos said quietly, and drew his gun and a portable auspex
   from the pockets inside his tunic. “We should split up, then. Search for him.”
   Sabrat nodded, crouching to open a hatch in the roof. “Agreed. Work your way
   down the floors and meet me on the basement level. If you find him, put a shot into
   the air.” Before Hyssos could say anything in reply, the reeve dropped through the
   hatch and into the dark.
   Hyssos took a deep breath and moved forward, finding another accessway at the
   far end of the warehouse. Pausing to don a pair of amplifier glasses, he went inside.
   There was little light inside the winestock, but the glasses dealt with that for him. The
   pools of shadow were rendered into a landscape of whites, greys, greens and blacks.
   Reaching the decking of the uppermost tier, Hyssos saw the shapes of massive
   storage tanks rising up around him, the curves of towering wooden slats forming the
   walls of the great Jeroboams. The smoky, potent smell of the wine was everywhere,
   the air thick and warm with it.
   He walked carefully, his boots crunching on hard lumps of crystallised sugar
   caught in the gaps between the planks of the floor, the wood giving with quiet,
   moaning creaks. The auspex, a small device fashioned in the design of an ornate
   book, was open on a belt tether, the sensing mechanism working with a slow pulse of
   light. The unchanged cadence indicated no signs of human life within its scan radius.
   Hyssos wondered why Sabrat wasn’t registering; but then this building was dense
   with metals and the scanner’s range was limited.
   The operative’s thoughts kept returning to the data-slate that Perrig had left
   behind. From the positioning of it among the psyker’s ashes, he supposed that it
   might have been in her hand when she met her end. She had seen Erno Sigg through
   the foci objects gathered from the Blasko Wine Lodge and tracked him here through
   the etherium—but the other word, the third line of letters on the slate… What
   meaning did they have? What had she been trying to say? How had she died in such a
   manner?
   Finally, he could not let the question lie and he used his free hand to pull the
   smashed slate from his pocket.
   115
   Another error in judgement, said a voice in the back of his thoughts. The dataslate
   was evidence, and yet he had taken it from a crime scene. Pushing back the
   glasses to his forehead, Hyssos studied the broken screen in the dimness. The
   scribble of letters there were barely readable, but he knew Perrig’s steady, looping
   handwriting of old. If he could just find a way to see it afresh, to look with new eyes,
   perhaps he could intuit what she had been trying to write—
   Spear.
   It hit him like a splash of cold water. A sudden snap of comprehension. Yes, he
   was sure of it. The spin of the consonants and the loop of the vowels… Yes.
   But what did it mean?
   The next step he took made a wet ripping noise and something along the line of
   his boot dragged at him, as if a thick layer of glue carpeted the floor.
   Hyssos sniffed the air, wondering if one of the mammoth wine casks had leaked;
   but then the stale, metallic smell rose up to smother the cloying sweetness all around.
   He dropped the slate back into his pocket and gingerly slid the goggles down over his
   eyes once more.
   And there, rendered in cold, sea-green shades, was a frieze made of meat and
   bones. Across the curve of a wooden storage tank, beneath a wide stanchion and in
   shadow where the light of Iesta’s days would never have fallen, the display of an
   eviscerated corpse was visible to him.
   The body was open, the skin cut so that the innards, the skeleton and the muscle
   were free for removal. The fleshy rags that remained of the victim were nailed up in
   the parody of a human shape; organs and bones had been taken and arranged in
   patterns, some of them reassembled together in horrible new fusions. Pubs, for
   example, fanned like daggers sticking into the wet meat of a pale liver. A pelvic bone
   dressed with intestines. The spongy mass of a lung wrapped in coils of stripped
   nerve. All about him, the blood was a matted, dried pool, a sticky patina that had
   mixed with wine spillages and doubtless seeped down through the floor of this level
   and the next. Thousands of gallons of carefully matured liquor was tainted, polluted
   by what had been done here.
   At the edges of the ocean of vitae where the fluid ran away, eight-point stars
   dotted the bland wooden panels. Amid it all, Hyssos’ eyes caught a shape that
   focussed his attention instantly; a face. He gingerly stepped closer, his gorge rising as
   his boots sucked at the flooring. Narrowing his eyes, the operative drew up the
   auspex, turning its sensoria on the blood slick.
   It was Erno Sigg’s face, cut from the front of his skull, lying like a discarded
   paper mask.
   The chime of the auspex drew his gaze from the horror. Hyssos had been trained
   by the Consortium’s technologians on the reading of its outputs, and he saw datums
   unfurl on its small screen. The blood, it told him, was days old; perhaps even as
   much as a week. This atrocity had been done to Erno Sigg well before Perrig’s
   execution, of that there was no doubt. The auspex could not lie.
   Swallowing his revulsion, Hyssos let the scanning device drop on its tether and
   raised his gun upwards, finger tightening on the trigger. His hand was trembling, and
   he could not seem to steady it.
   116
   But then the footsteps reached him. From across the other side of the lake of dried
   blood, a shadow detached from the darkness and came closer. Hyssos recognised the
   purposeful gait of the Iestan reeve; but he moved without hesitation, straight across
   the middle of it, boots sucking at the glutinous, oily mess.
   вЂњSabrat,” called the operative, his voice thick with repugnance, “What are you
   doing, man? Look around, can’t you see it?”
   вЂњI see it,” came the reply. The words were paper-dry.
   The amplifier glasses seemed like a blindfold around his head and Hyssos tore
   them off. “For Terra’s sake, Yosef, step back! You’ll contaminate the site!”
   вЂњYosef isn’t here,” said the voice, as it became fluid and wet, transforming.
   вЂњYosef went away.”
   The reeve came out of the dimness and he was different. There were only black
   pits glaring back at Hyssos from a shifting face that moved like oil on water.
   вЂњMy name is Spear,” said the horror. The face was eyeless, and no longer human.
   117
   NINE
   Dagonet
   Assumption
   Falling
   The orbits above Dagonet were clogged with the wreckage of ships that had tried too
   hard to make it off the surface, vessels that were built as pleasure yachts or
   shuttlecraft, suborbitals and single-stage cargo barges for the runs to the near moons.
   Many of them had fallen foul of the system frigates blockading the escape vectors,
   torn apart under hails of las-fire; but more had simply failed. Ships that were
   overloaded or ill-prepared for the rigours of leaving near-orbit space had burned out
   their drives or lost atmosphere. The sky was filled with iron coffins that were
   gradually spiralling back to the turning world below them. At night, those on the
   planet could see them coming home in streaks of fire, and they served as a reminder
   of what would happen to anyone who disagreed with the Governor’s new order.
   The Ultio navigated in on puffs of thruster gas, having left the warp in the
   shadow of the Dagonet system’s thick asteroid belt. Cloaked in stealth technologies
   so advanced they were almost impenetrable, it easily avoided the ponderous turncoat
   cruisers and their nervous crews, finding safe harbour inside the empty shell of an
   abandoned orbital solar station. Securing the drive section in a place where it—along
   with Ultio’s astropath and Navigator—would be relatively safe, the forward module
   detached and reconfigured itself to resemble a common courier or guncutter. The
   pilot’s brain drew information from scans of the traitorous ships to alter the
   electropigments of the hull, and by the time the assassin craft touched down at the
   capital’s star-port, it wore the same blue and green as the local forces, even down to
   the crudely crossed-out Imperial aquila displayed by the defectors.
   Kell had Koyne stand by the vox rig, ready to talk back to the control tower. The
   Callidus had already listened in on comm traffic snared from the airwaves by Tariel’s
   complex scanning gear, and could perform a passable imitation of a Dagoneti
   accent—but challenge never came.
   The tower was gone, blown into broken fragments, and all across the sprawling
   landing fields and smoke-wreathed hangars, small fires were burning and wrecked
   ships that had died on take-off lay atop crumpled departure terminals and support
   buildings. Gunfire and the thump of grenade detonations echoed to them across the
   open runways.
   Kell advanced down the ramp and used the sights on his new longrifle to sweep
   the perimeter.
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   вЂњFighting was recent,” said the Garantine, following him down. The hulking rage
   killer took a deep draught of air. “Still smell the blood and cordite.”
   вЂњThey’ve moved on,” said the sniper, sweeping his gaze over corpses of soldiers
   and civilians who lay where they had fallen. It was difficult to be sure who had been
   shooting at who; Dagonet was in the middle of a civil war, and the lines of loyalist
   and turncoat were not yet clear to the new arrivals. A blink of laser fire from inside
   one of the massive terminals caught his eye and he turned to it as the crack of broken
   air reached them a moment later. “But not too far. They’re fighting through the
   buildings. Lucky for us the place is still contested. Leaves us with less explaining to
   do.”
   He shouldered the rifle as Tariel ventured a few wary steps down the ramp.
   вЂњVindicare? How are we to proceed?”
   Kell walked back up a way. The rest of the Execution Force were gathered on the
   lower deck, watching him intently. “We need to gather intelligence. Find out what’s
   going on here.”
   вЂњDagonet’s extrasolar communications went dark some time ago,” noted Tariel.
   вЂњPerhaps if you could secure a prisoner for interrogation…”
   Kell nodded and beckoned to Koyne. “Callidus. You’re in charge until we get
   back.”
   вЂњWe,” said Soalm pointedly.
   He nodded towards the Garantine. “The two of us. We’ll scout the star-port, see
   what we can find.”
   вЂњAh, good,” said the Eversor, rubbing his clawed hands together. “Exercise!”
   вЂњAre you sure two will be enough?” Soalm went on.
   Kell ignored her and moved closer to Koyne. “Keep them alive, understand?”
   Koyne made a thoughtful face. “We’re all lone wolves, Vindicare. If the enemy
   come knocking, my first instinct might be to ran and leave them.”
   He didn’t rise to the bait. “Then consider that order a test of your oath over your
   instincts.”
   Sabrat’s longcoat whirled as the horror coiled, leaping into the air towards Hyssos.
   The operative heard it snapping like sailcloth in a stiff breeze and recoiled, firing
   shots that should have struck centre-mass but instead hit nothing but air.
   The thing that called itself Spear landed close to him and he took a heavy blow
   that threw him off his feet. Hyssos slammed into a tall pile of Balthazar bottles that
   tumbled away with the impact, rolling this way and that. Pain raced up his spine as he
   twisted and tried to regain his footing.
   Spear tossed the coat away and then, with care that seemed strange for something
   so abhorrent in appearance, deftly unbuttoned the white shirt beneath and set it aside.
   Bare from the waist up, Hyssos could see that the creature’s flesh was writhing and
   changing, cherry-red like tanned leather. He saw what looked like hands pressing out
   from inside the cage of the monster’s chest, and the profile of a screaming face. Yosef
   Sabrat’s face.
   119
   The bare arms distended and grew large, their proportions ballooning. Fingers
   merged into flat mittens of meat, grew stiff and glassy. Hands became bone blades,
   pennants of pinkish-black nerve tissue dangling from them.
   Hyssos aimed the gun and fired at the place where a man’s heart would have
   been, but down came the arms and the shot was deflected away. He smelled a
   slaughterhouse stink coming off the creature, saw the sizzling pit in the limb from the
   impact as it filled with ooze and knit itself shut.
   The body of the thing was in chaos. It writhed and throbbed and pulsed in
   disgusting ways, and the operative was struck by the conviction that something was
   inside the meat of it, trying to get out.
   As the eyeless face glared into him, the distended jaws opening wide to let
   droplets of spittle fall free, Hyssos found his voice. “You killed them all.”
   вЂњYes.” The reply was a gurgling chug of noise.
   вЂњWhy?” he demanded, retreating back until he was trapped against the fallen
   bottles. “What in Terra’s name are you?”
   вЂњThere is no Terra,” it bubbled, horrible amusement shading the words. “Only
   terror.”
   Hyssos saw the shape of the face again, this time pressing from the meat of
   Spear’s bloated shoulders. He was sure it was crying out to him, imploring him. Run,
   it mouthed, run run run run—
   He raised the gun, shaking, his blood turning to ice. Hands tightening on the grip,
   aiming for the head. In his time, Hyssos had seen many things that defied easy
   explanation—strange forms of alien life, the impossible vistas of warp space, the
   darkest potentials of the human character—and this creature was first among them. If
   hell was a place, then this was something that had been torn out of that infernal realm
   and thrust into the real world.
   Spear raised its sword-arms and rattled their hard surfaces off one another. “One
   more,” it intoned. “One step closer.”
   вЂњTo what?” The question was a gasp. It came at him again, and Hyssos shot it in
   the face.
   Spear shrugged it off. The first downward slash cut away Hyssos’ right hand
   across the forearm, the gun falling with it. The second stabbing motion pierced skin,
   ribcage and lung before emerging from his back in a splatter of dark arterial crimson.
   Hyssos was not quite dead as Spear began to cut him into pieces. His last
   awareness was of the sound of his own flesh being eaten.
   Shots and cries of pain sounded distantly as they drew closer to the engagement. The
   crackling drone of an emplaced autocannon sounded every few moments from down
   in the open plaza.
   They had found plenty of dead along the way, and to begin with the Eversor
   paused at the sight of each clash, looking around to see if any of the combatants had
   perished carrying weapons of any particular note. But he found nothing he wanted to
   salvage, all of it basic Nire-pattern stubbers and the occasional lasgun. The Garantine
   didn’t like lasers; too fragile, too lightweight, too prone to malfunction when worked
   hard. He liked the heavy certainty of a ballistic gun, the comforting shock of recoil
   120
   when it fired, the deep bass note of the shells crashing from the muzzle or the
   whickering sizzle of needle rounds. The bulky combi-weapon in his mailed fist was a
   perfect fit; it was his intention rendered in gunmetal.
   Crouching in the lee of a tall, broken terracotta urn, he studied the Executor pistol
   and worked his fingers around the grip. The desire to use it on some target, any
   target, was almost too much to hold in. The anticipation tingled in his lobo-chips,
   and he felt the chemoglands in his neck grow cool as they produced a calmative to
   regulate the hammering pace of his heartbeat.
   вЂњEversor.” The sniper’s voice issued out from the earpiece of his skull-mask.
   вЂњThere’s a group of irregulars to the south, under the broken chronograph near the
   monorail entrance. They’re dug in with a heavy gun.” The Garantine took a look
   around the urn and saw the shattered clock face. He grunted an affirmative and Kell
   went on. “They’re holding off a unit of Defence Force troopers. Not many of the
   PDFs left. Hold and observe.”
   That last sentence actually drew a laugh from the Eversor. “Oh, no.” He jumped
   to his feet, the hissing of stimjectors sounding in his ears, and rolling fire flooded
   through him. The Garantine’s eyes widened behind his mask and his body resonated
   like a struck chord. Kell was saying something over the vox, but it seemed like the
   chattering of an insect.
   The Garantine leapt into the air from the balcony overlooking the ticketing plaza
   and fell two storeys to land on the top of the smashed clock, where it hung from spars
   extending from the ceiling. The weight of his arrival dislodged the whole
   construction and he dropped with it, riding it to the tiled floor below to land behind
   the makeshift gun emplacement. The clock exploded into fragments as it struck the
   ground, ejecting cogwheels and bits of the fascia in all directions, the shock of it
   staggering the men behind the autocannon.
   Kell had called them irregulars; that meant they were not soldiers, at least in an
   official sense. His drug-sharpened perception took in all details of them at once. They
   were garbed in pieces of armour, some of it PDF or Arbites issue, and the weapons
   they carried were an equally random assortment. At the sight of the towering, skullmasked
   monster that had fallen from the skies above them, the men on the
   autocannon hauled the weapon around on its tripod, swinging it to bear on the
   Garantine.
   He roared and threw himself at them, his shout lost in the scream of the Executor.
   Bolt shells broke the bodies of the men in wet, red bursts, and he fell into their line,
   raking others with the spines of his neuro-gauntlet. The barbs of the glove bit into
   flesh and sent those it touched reeling to a twitching, frenzied death. Those on the
   autocannon he killed by punching, putting his fist through their ribcages. As an
   afterthought, he kicked the tripod gun away, and it rolled to the tiled floor.
   Shivering with the rush, he laughed again. Through his adrenaline haze, he saw
   the men in the PDF uniforms warily peer out of cover, and then finally advance
   towards him with laser carbines ready.
   He gave a theatrical bow and addressed them. “A rescue,” he snapped. “Consider
   it a gift from the ruler of Terra.”
   вЂњIdiot.” Kell’s words pierced the veil of his racing thoughts. “Look at their chest
   plates!”
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   He did so; all of the PDF soldiers wore the etched-out aquila that signified their
   rejection of the Emperor’s dominion. They started firing, and the Garantine laughed
   once more, diving into the beam salvo with the Executor at his lead.
   * * *
   Spear’s meal was methodical. All the eating of the human foodstuffs while it had
   been in quietus had been enough to fuel the camouflage aspect’s biology, but the
   layers of the killer’s true self were starting to starve. Sipping at the meat of the
   dockworker and the clerk had served to hold off the hunger pangs, but they had not
   been enough for true satisfaction; and the destruction of the telepath had taken a lot
   of energy from him.
   Still; feeding now, and a full meal with it. Bones ground between razor teeth,
   organs still hot and wet bitten into like ripe fruits, and blood by the bucket for the
   drinking. Thirst slaked, for a while. Yes. It would do.
   Deep in the canyons of his mind, Spear could hear the echo of the camouflage’s
   ghost-mind as it wept and screamed, forced to watch these deeds from the cage
   where it was held. It could not understand that it was only noise now, no longer a
   being with life and power to influence the outside world. For as long as Spear
   remained in control, it would always be so.
   Yosef Sabrat was only the last in a long line of coatings painted over Spear’s
   malleable aspect, like a dye poured on silk. The killer’s flesh, infused with the living
   skin of a warp-predator, was more daemon than man and it obeyed no laws of the
   conventional universe. It was a shape with no shape, but not like those human fools
   who used chemical philtres to manipulate their skin and bone and think themselves
   clever. What Spear was went beyond the nature of disguise, beyond transformation.
   There was a word for it that the ancient banned theologies used to talk of their deities
   taking on human form; they called it assumption.
   When he was sated, he gathered what remained of Hyssos and cautiously filled a
   barrel with the leavings. The operative’s clothing and gear he had stripped with care,
   placing it to one side for later use. The corpse-meat would be hurled from the roof of
   the winestock, where it would fall to the floor of the narrow crags far below, and into
   the rapids that would wash the leftovers out to sea; but first he had the final steps to
   perform.
   From one of the giant tanks given over to the maturation of the wines, Spear
   dragged out a fleshy egg and used his teeth to open it. Foul gases discharged from
   within and a naked man dropped out on to the wooden flooring. The sac had grown
   from a seed Spear planted in the lung of a homeless drunkard shortly after arriving on
   Iesta Veracrux. Conjured by the sorcery of his masters, the seed consumed the
   vagrant to make the egg, giving birth to a stasis caul where Spear had been able to
   store Yosef Sabraf’s body for the past two months.
   As the sac dissolved into vapour, he dressed Sabrat in the clothes he had worn
   while the aspect had been at the fore. The caul had done its work. The dead reeve
   looked as if he had been freshly killed; no human means of detection would say
   otherwise. The stab wound through the man’s heart began to bleed again, and Spear
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   artfully arranged the body, finding the harvesting knife in a flesh pocket and applying
   it to the wound.
   He paused to ensure that the puncture on the roof of Sabraf’s mouth was not
   visible. The iron-hard proboscis that penetrated there had licked at the matter of the
   lawman’s brain and siphoned off the chains of chemicals that were his memories, his
   persona. Then, Spear’s daemonskin had patterned itself on those markers, shifting
   and becoming. The change was so strong, so deep, that when Spear surrendered
   control to it, the camouflage aspect was not merely a mask that the murderer wore; it
   was a living, breathing identity. A persona so perfect that it believed itself to be real,
   resilient enough that even a cursory psionic scan would not see the lie of it.
   Still, it had made sense to murder the psyker woman as soon as possible, if not
   only to protect the truth but also to force the hand of the investigators. Now the next
   phase was complete, and the Yosef Sabrat identity had played its role flawlessly.
   Soon Spear would begin the purgation of the disguise, and finally be rid of the man’s
   irritatingly moral thought processes, his disgustingly soft compassion, the sickening
   attachment to his colleagues, brood-child and bed partner. From this point on, Spear
   would only wear a face, and never again give himself over to another man’s self. He
   was almost giddy with anticipation. Just a few more steps, and he would be within
   striking distance of his target.
   The murderer knelt next to Hyssos’ head, severed at the neck by a slicing cut, and
   gathered it up. With a guttural choke, Spear spat the proboscis from the soft palate of
   his mouth and into the skull through its right eye. Seeking, penetrating, it dug deep
   and found the regions of the dead man’s brain where his self was growing cold.
   Spear drank him in.
   Koyne put away the monocular and hid it inside a pocket of the officer’s tunic the
   infocyte had recovered from one of the airfield’s dead. It fit snugly, but the
   adjustment of the fluid-filled morphing bladders layered underneath the Callidus’
   skin allowed the assassin to alter body mass and dimension to accommodate it a little
   better.
   вЂњHow do you propose we get inside?” said Iota. The Culexus was almost
   invisible in the shadows by the broken window, with only the steel-grey curve of her
   grinning helmet visible in the moonlight. Her voice had a peculiar, metallic timbre to
   it when she spoke from inside the psyker-hood, as if it were coming to Koyne’s ears
   from a very great distance.
   вЂњThrough the front door.” The Callidus watched the men walking back and forth
   in front of the communicatory, considering the cautious motions in their steps,
   analysing the cues of their body language not just for infiltration’s sake, but to parse
   their states of mind. Data-slates, recovered from what remained of the corpses of the
   turncoat patrol murdered by the Garantine, had provided the Execution Force with a
   lead on this facility. It was the nearest thing to a garrison for kilometres around, and
   at this stage Kell wasn’t ready to send the group out from the relative safety of the
   Ultio and down the long highway to the capital city, several kilometres to the south.
   The metropolis itself, the largest of all on Dagonet, could be seen clearly against the
   darkening sky. Some of the taller towers were still smoking, some had half-collapsed
   and fallen like drunkards suspended on each other’s shoulders; but no snakes of
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   tracer lashed at the skies, there were no mushroom clouds or flights of assault craft
   buzzing overhead. It seemed calm, or at least as calm as a city on a world at war with
   itself had any right to be.
   When Koyne had asked the Vindicare what he had learned on his scouting
   mission, the Eversor had just grinned and the sniper replied with a terse dismissal.
   вЂњIt’s complicated,” he said.
   Koyne did not doubt that. The Callidus had learned through many hundreds of
   field operations, a lot of them in active zones of conflict, that what generals in their
   places of comfort and control called “ground truth” was often anything but true. For
   the soldier as much as the assassin, the only equation of truth that always worked was
   the simple vector between a weapon and a target. But now they were here, Koyne
   and the pariah girl Iota, the Culexus’ skin-crawling null ability brought along to
   protect the shade from any possible psionic interception.
   вЂњTariel was correct in his evaluation,” said Iota, as a rotorplane chattered past
   overhead. “There is an astropath inside that building.”
   вЂњIs it aware of you?”
   She shook her head, the distended skull-helm moving back and forth. “No. I think
   it may be under the influence of chemical restraints.”
   вЂњGood.” Koyne stood up. “We don’t want the alarm to be raised before we are
   done here.” Concentrating on a thought-shape and impressing that on flesh, the
   Callidus altered the dimension of its vocal chords, mimicking the tonality of an
   officer caught on one of the intercepted vox broadcasts. “We will proceed.”
   The shapeshifter was as good as its word.
   Keeping to the shadows and the low rooftops along the star-port’s blockhouses,
   Iota followed the Callidus and watched Koyne become a simulacrum of a turncoat
   PDF commander, advancing through the outer guard post of the communicatory
   without raising even a moment of concern. At one point, Iota lost sight of the
   Callidus, and when a man in Dagoneti colours approached her hiding place, she made
   ready the combi-needler about the wrist of her killing hand in order to silently end
   him.“
   Iota,” called an entirely different voice. “Show yourself.”
   She stepped into the light. “I like your tricks,” said Iota.
   Koyne smiled with someone else’s face and opened a door. “This way. I relieved
   the guards at the elevator in here so we won’t have much time. They’re holding the
   astropath on one of the sublevels.”
   вЂњWhy did you change it?” Iota asked as they moved through the ill-lit corridors.
   вЂњThe face?”
   вЂњI bore easily,” replied Koyne, halting at a lift shaft. “Here we are.”
   As the Callidus reached for the switch, the doors opened, flooding the corridor
   with light; inside the elevator two troopers saw the dark shape of the Culexus and
   went for their guns.
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   Spear swallowed Hyssos’ one undamaged eye before depositing the dead man’s
   reamed head among the rest of him; and then with a swift spin of his body, he pitched
   the remains into the canyon and watched them fall away.
   Returning to the tank room, he skirted the beauty of the blood-art he had made
   from Erno Sigg’s corpse. He had used poor Erno as his stalking horse, tormenting
   him, pushing him to the edge of sanity before destroying him. The man had served
   his purpose perfectly. Spear moved on, checking once more that the body of Yosef
   Sabrat had been arranged just so. The evidence he had fabricated over the past few
   weeks was also scattered around, arranged so that when it was discovered, it would
   lead the investigators of the Sentine towards one undeniable conclusion—the killer of
   Jaared Norte, Cirsun Latigue, Perrig and Sigg and the rest of them was none other
   than their fellow lawman.
   He made a mock-solemn expression with the new face he wore, trying the look
   on for size; but he had no mirror to see how it seemed on his new guise. Spear pawed
   at a face that now resembled that of the Eurotas operative. It felt odd and incomplete.
   The churn of new memories and personality sucked in from Hyssos was curdling
   where it mixed with those of Sabrat, making him thought-sick. It seemed it would be
   necessary to purge the stolid reeve’s self sooner rather than later.
   With a deep sigh, Spear dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged. He drew on the
   disciplines that had been beaten into him by his master and focussed his will, seeing
   it like a line of poison fire laced with ink-black ice.
   Reaching into the deeps of his thoughts, Spear found the cage and tore it open,
   clawing inside to gather up the mind-scraps that were all that remained of Yosef
   Sabrat. He grinned as fear resonated up from the shuddering persona as some
   understanding of its final end became clear. Then he began the purge, ripping and
   tearing, destroying everything that had been the man, vomiting up every nauseating,
   cloying skein of emotion, little by little sluicing Sabrat’s cloying self away.
   Spear gave this deed such focus that it was only when he heard the voice he
   realised he was no longer alone.
   Koyne’s hand flicked up and the toxin-filled stiletto hidden in a wrist sheath flew out
   in a shallow arc, piercing the stomach of the man on the left. The liquid inside was a
   consumptive agent that feasted on organic matter, even down to natural fibres and
   cured leather. He fell to the floor and began to dissolve.
   The other man was briefly wreathed in white light that glowed down the hallway
   as Iota pressed a hand into his chest and shoved him back into the elevator. Koyne
   watched with detachment as the Culexus’ dark power enveloped the man and
   destroyed him. His silent scream resonated and he became a mass of material like
   burned paper. In moments, a curl of damp smoke was all that marked the man’s
   passing; the other hapless soldier was now a puddle of fluids leaking away through
   the gridded decking of the elevator floor.
   Content that the toxin had run its course and consumed itself into the bargain, the
   Callidus kicked at the collection of inert tooth fillings, metal buttons and plastic
   buckles that had gathered and brushed them away with the passage of a boot. Koyne
   took a moment to break the biolume bubble illuminating the interior of the elevator,
   and then pressed the control to send it downwards.
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   They travelled in dark and silence for a few moments, and for Koyne the Culexus
   seemed to melt away and disappear, even though she was standing at her shoulder.
   вЂњHis name was Mortan Gautami,” Iota said suddenly. “He never told anyone of it,
   but his mother had been able to see the future in dreams. He had a measure of
   postcognitive ability, but he indulged in narcotics, preventing him from accessing his
   potential.” The skull head turned slightly. “I used that untapped energy to destroy
   him.”
   вЂњI’ll bet you know the names of everyone you’ve terminated,” said Koyne, with a
   flicker of cruelty.
   вЂњDon’t you?” said the Culexus.
   The Callidus didn’t bother to grace that with an answer. The elevator arrived at
   the sublevel, and the guards standing outside fell to quick killing blows.
   There was a spherical containment chamber in the middle of a room made of
   ferrocrete, festoons of cables issuing from every point on its surface. A heavy iron
   iris hatch lay facing them like a closed eye, a short gantry reaching it from the
   sublevel proper. Koyne stepped up and worked the lever to open it; there was a thin,
   high-pitched sound coming from inside, and at first the Callidus thought it was a
   pressure leak; then the iron leaves retracted and it became clear it was reedy, shrill
   screaming.
   Koyne peered into the depths and saw the corpse-grey astropath. It was pressed
   up against the back of the sphere’s inner wall, glaring sightlessly towards Iota.
   вЂњHole-mind,” it babbled, between howls. “Black-shroud. Poison-thought.”
   The Callidus rapped a stolen pistol against the threshold of the hatch. “Hey!”
   Koyne snarled in the officer’s voice. “Stop whining. I’ll make this simple. Give up
   the information I need, or I’ll lock her in there with you.”
   The astropath made the sign of the aquila, as if it were some kind of ancient rite
   of warding that would fend off evil. The shrieking died away, and crack-throated, the
   psychic spoke. “Just keep it at a distance.”
   Iota took her cue and wandered away, moving back towards the elevator shaft but
   still within earshot. “Better?”
   That earned Koyne a weak nod. “I will tell you what you want to know.”
   The assassin learned quickly that the astropath was one of only a handful of its
   kind still alive in the Dagonet system. In the headlong melee of revolution, in the
   process of isolating itself from the galaxy and the Imperium, the planet had begun to
   rid itself of all lines of connection back to Terra—but some of the newly empowered
   nobles had thought otherwise and made sure that at least a few telepaths capable of
   interstellar sending were kept alive. This was one of them, cut off from all means of
   speaking to its kindred, locked up and isolated. It was starved of communication, and
   once it began to talk in its papery monotone, the astropath seemed unable to stop.
   The psychic spoke of the state of the civil war. As the brief given by Captain-
   General Valdor had said, Dagonet was a keystone world in the politico-economic
   structure of the Taebian Sector, and if it fell fully under the shadow of the
   Warmaster, then it would mark the beginning of a domino effect, as planet after
   planet along the same trade axis followed suit. Every loyalist foothold in this sector
   of space would be in jeopardy. In the first moments of the insurrection, desperate
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   signals had been sent to the Adeptus Astartes and the Imperial Navy; but these had
   gone unanswered.
   Koyne took this in and said nothing. Both the ships of the admiralty and the
   Legions of the Emperor’s loyalist Astartes had battles of their own to fight, far from
   the Taebian Stars. They would not intervene. For all the fire and destruction the
   collapse of Dagonet and its sister worlds might cause, there were larger conflicts
   being addressed at this very moment; no crusade of heroes was coming to ride to the
   rescue. Then the astropath began to lay out the lines of the civil war as it had spread
   up until this point, and the Callidus thought back to something said aboard the Ultio
   on their way to Dagonet.
   The civil war was a rout, and it was those who stood in the Emperor’s name who
   were dying. Across the planet, the forces that carried Horus’ banner were only days
   away from breaking the back of any resistance.
   Dagonet was already lost.
   Reeve Daig Segan. Through Sabrat’s memories, Spear recalled that the man was as
   dogged as he was dour, and for all his apparently slow aspect, he was troublingly
   perceptive.
   вЂњYosef?” said the reeve, moving through the gloom with a torch in one hand and
   a gun in the other. “What is that stench? Yosef, Hyssos… Are you in here?”
   Segan had followed them to Whyteleaf, despite the orders Sabrat had given, the
   persona unaware of Spear’s subtle guidance bubbling beneath the surface.
   In his thoughts, the murderer heard the dim resonance of Sabrat’s essence crying
   out to be heard. Impossibly, the persona was trying to defy him. It was fighting its
   own erasure.
   Spear’s body, cloaked in Hyssos’ proxy flesh, trembled. The purge was a
   complicated, delicate task that required all of his concentration. He could not afford
   to deal with any interruption, not now, not when he was at so critical a juncture…
   вЂњHello?” Segan was coming closer. At any moment, he would come across
   Spear’s carefully constructed crime scene. But it was too soon. Too soon!
   Very clearly, Spear heard Sabrat laughing at him. With sudden annoyance, he
   punched himself in the head and the pain of the blow made the ghost of the voice fall
   silent. His cheek and the orbit of his right eye sagged as they tried to retain the shape
   of Hyssos’ imprint.
   Spear got up and went to meet Segan as he approached. The other reeve’s torch
   caught him and he heard the man gasp in shock.
   вЂњHyssos? Where’s Yosef?” Segan peered at him. “What’s wrong with your
   face?”
   вЂњNothing,” said the operative’s voice. “Everything is fine.”
   The reeve seemed doubtful. “Can you smell that? Like blood and shit and all
   kinds of—” Segan’s torchlight illuminated part of the operative’s coat, still wet with
   vitae. “Are you hurt?”
   Spear was close to him now. “I had a job for you,” he said. “A part to play. Why
   did you come here when I told you to stay in the city?”
   127
   вЂњYosef told me to stay, not you,” Segan retorted, becoming wary. “I don’t follow
   your orders, even if everyone else jumps each time your damn baron coughs.”
   вЂњBut you should have stayed,” Spear insisted. “Now I’ll have to rewrite the
   scenario.”
   вЂњWhat are you on about?” said the reeve.
   вЂњCome and see.” Spear lashed out and grabbed him by the collar. Caught offguard,
   Segan stumbled and that was all the murderer needed to destroy his balance
   and throw him down the length of the room.
   Segan slammed into the floor, his gun skittering away into the shadows, sliding to
   a halt at the edge of the blood pool; he reacted with a sharp yelp. “Throne!” He saw
   Sabrat’s body and Spear felt a moment of victory as something perished inside the
   other man. A little bit of his will shrivelled to see his friend so violated. “Yosef…?”
   вЂњHe did it all,” said Spear. “How terrible.”
   Segan shot a venomous glare in his direction. “Liar! Never! Yosef Sabrat is a
   good man, he would never… never…”
   Spear frowned. “Yes. I knew you wouldn’t accept it. That was your role. There
   had to be one person in the Sentine who would fight this explanation, or else it would
   seem false. But now you’ve ruined that. I’ll have to compensate.”
   At last, understanding dawned on the other man’s face. “You. You did this.”
   вЂњI did it all,” Spear chuckled. He let his face shift and transform, his eyes become
   black and dark. “I did it all,” he repeated.
   The blood drained from Segan’s face as Spear came closer, letting the change
   happen slowly. With trembling fingers, the reeve pulled something shiny and gold
   from inside his cuff and clung to it, as if it were the key to a door that would spirit
   him away from the horror all around him. The dour little man was pinned to the spot,
   transfixed with fright.
   вЂњThe Emperor protects,” Segan said aloud. “The Emperor protects.”
   Spear opened his spiked jaws. “He really doesn’t,” said the murderer.
   The distant hum-and-crack of mortar shells could be heard on the Ultio’s flight deck,
   through the opened vents in the canopy that let in wet, grimy air.
   Koyne’s encrypted report, burst-transmitted via tight-beam vox, had reached
   them just after sunset and confirmed Tariel’s worst fears. The mission was over
   before it had even begun. He said as much to Kell and the others, earning himself a
   feral snarl from the Garantine.
   вЂњWeakling,” growled the Eversor. “You’re gutless. Afraid to get your robes dirty
   in the field!” The hulking killer leaned towards him, looming. He had his mask off,
   and his scarred, broken face was if anything more ugly than the metal skull. “Mission
   circumstances always change. But we adapt and burn through!”
   вЂњBurn through,” repeated the Vanus. “Perhaps you misunderstood the meaning of
   Koyne’s report? Did the larger words confuse you?”
   The Garantine rose to his feet, eyes narrowing. “Say that again, piss-streak. I dare
   you.”
   вЂњThis war is over!” Tariel almost shouted it. “Dagonet is as good as conquered!
   Horus has won this world, don’t you see?”
   128
   вЂњHorus has not even set foot on Dagonet,” countered Soalm.
   He rounded on her. “Exactly! The Warmaster is not even here, and yet still he is
   here!”
   вЂњMake him speak sense,” the Eversor said to Kell, “or I’ll cut out his tongue.”
   вЂњIt’s not Horus,” Kell explained. “It’s what he represents.”
   Tariel nodded sharply. “The turncoat nobility on this planet don’t need to see
   Horus. His influence hangs over Dagonet like an eclipse blotting out the sun. They’re
   fighting in his name in fear of him, and that is enough. And when they win, the
   Warmaster’s work will be done for him. This same thing is happening all across the
   galaxy, on every world too far from the Emperor and the rule of Terra.” He trembled
   a little with the sudden frustration he felt deep inside him. “When Dagonet falls,
   Horus will turn his face from this place and move on, his advance one step closer to
   the gates of the Imperial Palace…”
   вЂњHorus will not come to Dagonet,” said Soalm, catching on. “He will have no
   need to.”
   The infocyte nodded again. “And everything we’ve prepared for, the whole
   purpose of this mission, will be worthless.”
   вЂњWe’ll lose our chance to kill him,” said Kell.
   вЂњAye,” snapped Tariel, and he shot the Garantine a glare. “Do you see now?”
   The Eversor’s expression shifted; and after a moment, he nodded. “Then, we
   must make sure he does come to Dagonet.”
   Soalm folded her arms. “How do you propose to do that? Once this planet’s
   Governor makes his allegiance known to the insurrectionists, perhaps the Warmaster
   may send some delegate to plant the flag, but no more than a starship admiral or
   some such. He won’t waste a single Space Marine’s time on matters of dispensation.”
   The Garantine grunted with callous humour. “You all think I’m the slow one
   here, don’t you? But you miss the obvious answer, woman. If Horus won’t come to a
   fight that has ended, then we make sure the fight does not end.”
   вЂњDeliberately prolong the civil war.” Kell said the words without weight.
   вЂњWe draw him to us,” said the Eversor, warming to his theme, showing teeth.
   вЂњWe make the taking of Dagonet such a thorn in his side that he has no choice but to
   come here and deal with it himself.”
   Tariel considered the idea; it was blunt and crude, but it had merit. And it could
   work. “Dagonet has a personal resonance with the Warmaster. It was the site of one
   of his very first victories. That, and its strategic value… It could be enough. It would
   be a dishonour for him to let this planet slip from his control.” Hearing footsteps
   across the deck, he glanced up to see Iota step on to the flight deck; behind her was a
   man he did not recognise in a PDF uniform.
   вЂњRelax, Vanus,” said the man, in a cynical tone that could only be Koyne’s. “I
   take it you found my report to be compelling reading. So; what have we missed?”
   вЂњYou exfiltrated without any complications?” said Kell.
   Iota nodded. “What is the local time?”
   вЂњFourteen forty-nine.” Tariel answered automatically, his chronoimplant already
   synched to the Dagonet clock standard.
   129
   вЂњThere’s six of us,” the Garantine went on. “Each has destroyed rulers and
   broken kingdoms all on their own. How hard could it be to add some fuel to this little
   blaze?”
   вЂњAnd what about the Dagoneti?” Soalm demanded. “They’ll be caught in the
   crossfire.”
   The other assassin looked away, unconcerned. “Collateral damage.”
   вЂњWhat is the local time?” Iota said again.
   вЂњFourteen fifty. Why do you keep asking—?” Tariel’s reply was cut off by a flash
   of light in the distance, followed seconds later by the report of an explosion.
   вЂњWhat in Hades was that?” said Kell. “The… communicatory?”
   вЂњA power generator overload. I made it look like the commoner freedom fighters
   did it,” said Koyne. “We couldn’t afford to leave any traces. Or survivors.”
   The Garantine’s grin grew even wider. “See? We’ve already started.”
   130
   TEN
   Matters of Trust
   Breakout
   False Flag
   вЂњDon’t run,” snarled Grohl. “They see you running and they’ll know.”
   Beye shot him a narrow-eyed look from beneath her forage cap. “This isn’t
   running. Believe me, you’d know if it was running. This is a purposeful walk.”
   He snorted and clamped a hand around her arm, forcibly slowing her down.
   вЂњWell, dial it back to a meander. Look casual.” Grohl glanced around at the
   marketplace stalls as they passed through them. “Look like you want to buy
   something.”
   At their side, Pasri made a face. “Buy what, exactly?” asked the ex-soldier, her
   scarred nose wrinkling.
   She had a point. Most of the stalls were bare, abandoned by owners who were
   either too afraid to leave their homes, or lacking for produce to offer after the nobles
   had instituted martial law and imposed checkpoints on all the out-of-city highways.
   Beye couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. In the distance, what had once been
   a precinct tower for the capital’s regiment of Adeptus Arbites was now wreathed in
   thin smoke. The crossed-out Imperial aquila on its southerly face was visible through
   the haze, and the harsh croaks of police sirens wafted towards them on the wind.
   вЂњDon’t stare,” Grohl snapped.
   вЂњYou want us to blend in,” she replied. “Everyone else is staring.” Not that there
   were many people around. The few daring to venture out onto the streets of
   Dagonet’s capital kept off the rubble-strewn roads or minded their own business. No
   one assembled in groups of more than four, fearful of the edicts that threatened arrest
   and detention for anyone suspected of “gathering for reasons of sedition”.
   Beye almost laughed at the thought of that. Sedition was the act of treason against
   an existing order, and if anything, she, Grohl, Pasri and the handful of others were
   the absolute antithesis of that. They were the ones championing the cause of rightful
   authority, of the Emperor’s rule. It was the noble clans and the weakling Governor
   who were the rebels here, rejecting Terra and siding with…
   Her eyes flicked up as they passed into a crossroads. There on the island in the
   centre of the highway, a statue of the Warmaster stood untouched by the street
   fighting. He towered over her, standing tall with one hand reaching out in a gesture
   of aid, the other holding a massive bolter pistol upwards to the sky. Beye noticed
   with a grimace that votive candles and small trinkets had been left at the foot of the
   plinth by those eager to show their devotion to the new regime.
   131
   Grohl paused at the intersection, rubbing at his thin beard, his eyes flicking this
   way and that. Finally, he made a choice. “Over here.”
   Beye and Pasri followed him across the monorail lines towards an alleyway
   between two shuttered storefronts. She managed not to flinch as a patrol rotorplane
   shrieked past over the rooftops, klaxons hooting.
   вЂњIt’s not looking for us,” Pasri said automatically; but in the next moment, Beye
   heard a change in the aircraft’s engine note as it circled, looking for a place to put
   down.
   вЂњAre you sure about that?”
   Grohl swore. This entire operation had been a cascade of errors from start to
   finish. Firstly, the man who was meant to drive the GEV truck did not arrive at the
   rendezvous, forcing them to improvise with rods and ropes to hold down the steering
   yoke and throttle—because of course, Grohl would never have considered sacrificing
   himself for the cause on a target so ordinary. Then, at the approach, they found the
   barricades placed by the clanner troops had been moved, making their straight shot at
   the precinct doors impossible. And finally, as the payload of crudely-cooked
   chemical explosives had at last detonated in a wet blast of noise and light, Beye saw
   that the damage it inflicted on the building was superficial at best.
   She had at least hoped they could escape the security dragnet. But if they were
   captured, their failure would be total and complete. Beye knew that the patrol flyers
   carried nine-man teams with cyber-mastiffs and spy drones. The first icy surges of
   panic bubbled up in her chest as she imagined the interior of a dank interrogation
   cell. She would never see Capra again.
   Grohl broke into a ran and she followed him with Pasri at her heels, listening for
   the metallic barks of the enhanced dogs. He slipped through a gap between two waste
   skips and down towards a side road. Ahead of him, a woman in a sun-hood and
   sarong stepped out from a doorway and looked up at them. Beye was struck by the
   paleness of her face; Dagonet’s bright sunshine tanned everyone on the planet’s
   temperate zone, which meant she was either a shut-in noblewoman or an off-worlder;
   and neither were likely to be seen in this part of the inner city.
   вЂњPardon,” she began, and her accent immediately confirmed her non-Dagoneti
   status. “If I could trouble you?”
   Grohl almost missed a step, but then he pressed on, pushing past the stranger.
   вЂњGet out of my way,” he growled.
   Beye came after him. She heard the yelps of the mastiffs in the distance and saw
   Pasri looking back the way they had come, her expression unreadable.
   вЂњAs you wish,” the woman said, spreading her hands. Beye saw the glint of metal
   nozzles at her wrists just as she pursed her pale lips and blew out a long breath. A
   vaporous mist jetted from the nozzles and engulfed them all.
   The ground beneath Beye’s feet suddenly became the consistency of rubber and
   she stumbled, dimly aware of Grohl doing the same. Pasri let out a weak cry and fell.
   As Beye collapsed in a heap, her limbs refusing to do as she told them, she saw
   the pale woman smile and lick beads of the spray off her fingertips. “It’s done,” she
   heard her say, the words drawing out into a liquid, humming echo. Beye’s senses
   went dark.
   132
   The acrid chemical stink of smelling salts jolted her back to wakefulness and Beye
   coughed violently. Blinking, she raised her head and peered at the room she found
   herself in, expecting the pale green walls of an Arbites cell; instead, she saw the
   gloomy interior of some kind of storehouse, shafts of daylight reaching down through
   holes in a sheet-plas roof.
   She was tied to a chair, hands secured behind her back, ankles tethered to the
   support legs. Grohl was in a similar state to her right, and past him, Pasri looked back
   at her with an expression of tight fear. Grohl met her gaze, his face a mask of rigid,
   forced calm. “Say nothing,” he told her. “Whatever happens, say nothing.”
   вЂњRight on schedule,” said a new voice. “As you said.”
   вЂњOf course.” That was the pale woman. “I can time the actions of my toxins to the
   second, if need be.”
   Beye focussed and saw the woman in the sarong talking with an odd-looking
   youth wearing what looked like some form of combat gear. He was working a device
   mounted on his forearm, a gauntlet that grew a flickering holoscreen. Both of them
   glanced at their prisoners—for that was what they were, Beye realised belatedly—
   and then past their heads.
   She heard motion behind her and Beye sensed someone standing at her back.
   вЂњWho’s there?” she said, before she could stop herself.
   A third figure moved around the captives and came into view. He was tall, clad in
   a black oversuit with armour patches and gear packs. A heavy pistol of a design Beye
   had never seen before hung at his hip. He had a hawkish face that might have been
   handsome if not for the hardness lurking in his gaze. “Names,” he said.
   Grohl made a derogatory sound deep in his throat. The youth with the wristdevice
   sniffed and spoke again. “Liya Beye. Terrik Grohl. Olo Pasri.”
   вЂњThe nobles have files on all of you,” said the hawkish man. “We took these
   copies of their database on the resistance when we destroyed the Kappa Six
   Communicatory.”
   вЂњYou did that?” said Pasri.
   вЂњShut up,” Grohl snarled. “Don’t talk!”
   Beye kept silent. Like the rest of them, she’d been wondering just what had
   happened at Kappa Six ever since the newsfeeds had announced the “cowardly,
   treacherous attack by terrorist militants” a few days earlier. In the end, Capra had
   suggested that it was either the work of an independent cell they weren’t aware of, or
   just some accident the nobles had decided to blame on them.
   вЂњWe’re nothing to do with those resistance radicals,” insisted Pasri. “We’re just
   citizens.”
   The youth sneered. “Please don’t insult my intelligence.”
   вЂњThings are going badly for you, aren’t they?” said the man, ignoring the
   interruption. “They’re getting close to finding your hideaway. Close to finding Capra
   and all his cell leaders.”
   Beye tried not to react when he said the name, and failed. He turned to her. “How
   many of your people have surrendered in the past few weeks? Fifty? A hundred?
   How many have taken the offer of amnesty for themselves and their families?”
   133
   вЂњIt’s a lie,” Beye blurted out, ignoring Grohl’s hiss of annoyance. “Those who
   give up are executed.”
   вЂњOf course they are,” said the man. He nodded towards the youth. “We even have
   picts of the firing squads.” He paused. “Your entire resistance network—”
   вЂњSuch as it is,” said the youth, with an arch sniff.
   вЂњYour network is on the verge of collapse,” continued the other man. “Capra and
   his trusted core of freedom fighters are the only things holding it together. And the
   nobles know that all they really need to do is wait.” He walked down the line of
   them. “Just wait, until you run out of supplies, of ammunition. Of hope. You’re all
   exhausted, pushed beyond your limits. Hungry and tired. None of you want to say it,
   but you all know it’s true. You’ve already lost, you just can’t admit it.”
   That was enough for Grohl to break his own rules. “Go screw yourself, clanner
   bastard!”
   The man raised an eyebrow. “We’re not… clanners, is it? We are not in the
   employ of the nobles.” He leaned down and pulled something from the neck of his
   armour; an identity disc on a chain. “We serve a different master.”
   Beye immediately recognised the shape of an Imperial sigil-tag, a bio-active
   recognition device gene-keyed to its wearer. An etching of the two-headed aquila
   glittered there on its surface. It could not be forged, duplicated or removed from the
   person of its user without becoming useless. Anyone wearing such a tag was a soldier
   in service to the Emperor of Mankind.
   вЂњWho are you?” Pasri was wary.
   The man indicated himself. “Kell. These are Tariel and… Soalm. We are agents
   of the Imperium and the authority of Terra.”
   вЂњWhy tell us your names?” hissed Grohl. “Unless you’re going to kill us?”
   вЂњConsider it a gesture of trust,” said the pale woman. “We already know who you
   are. And in all honesty, knowing what to call us hardly makes you a threat.”
   Beye leaned forward. “Why are you here?”
   Kell nodded to Tariel, and the youth produced a mollyknife. He moved to where
   Pasri was sitting and cut her loose, then proceeded to do the same with Grohl.
   вЂњWe have been sent by the Emperor’s command to aid the planet Dagonet and its
   people in this time of crisis.” Beye was certain that she saw a loaded look pass
   between Soalm and Kell before the man spoke again. “We are here to help you
   oppose the insurrection of Horus Lupercal and anyone who takes his side.”
   Grohl rubbed at his wrists. “So, of course you would like us to take you to the
   secret retreat of the resistance. Introduce you personally to Capra. Open ourselves up
   so you can murder us all in one fell swoop?” He turned his head and spat. “We’re not
   fools or traitors.”
   Tariel cut Beye loose and offered a hand to help her to her feet, but she refused.
   Instead, he gave her a data-slate. “You know how to read these, correct? Your file
   says that you served the Administratum as a datum clerk in the office of colonial
   affairs, prior to the insurrection.”
   вЂњThat’s right,” she said.
   134
   Tariel indicated a text file in the slate’s memory. “I think you’ll want to look at
   this document. And please check the security tags so you are sure it has not been
   tampered with.”
   Kell walked closer to Grohl. “I believe you when you say you’re not a traitor,
   Terrik Grohl. But you have been fooled.”
   вЂњWhat in Stars’ name are you talking about?” snarled the other man.
   вЂњBecause there is a traitor in this room,” Kell went on; and then faster than
   Beye’s eye could follow, the Imperial agent’s hand flicked up from his belt with the
   blocky, lethal-looking pistol in its grip, and he shot Pasri dead through the heart at
   point-blank range.
   Beye let out a cry of shock as Grohl started forward.
   Tariel tapped the slate. “Read the file,” he repeated.
   вЂњAnd then search your good friend Olo,” added Soalm.
   Grohl did that as Beye read on. By the time she had finished, the colour had
   drained from her cheeks, and Grohl had discovered the wireless listening device
   concealed on the other woman. The files, as Tariel said, unaltered from their original
   form, were reports from the clanners about an informant in the resistance. Capra had
   suspected they had a leak for some time, but he hadn’t been able to discover who.
   According to the last entry, Olo Pasri had agreed to give up the location of the main
   freedom fighter safe zone, but was stalling for a larger finder’s fee and the guarantee
   of passage off-world.
   All of this she told to Grohl, who listened with a stony, rigid expression. After a
   long moment, he spoke. “I don’t trust you,” he said to Kell. “Even this, you could
   have faked it. Did it all just to get close to us.”
   вЂњGrohl—” Beye began, but Kell held up a hand, silencing her.
   вЂњNo, he’s right. Given time and effort, we could have engineered something like
   this. And if I were in your place, I would share your suspicions.” He paused again,
   thinking. “So, then. We need to earn your trust.”
   вЂњA demonstration,” suggested Soalm.
   Kell nodded. “Give us a target.”
   Spear ran his hand up and down the arm of the grox-leather chair where he sat,
   guiding fingers moulded in fleshy echo of Hyssos’ body over the lustrous, tanned
   hide. The sensation was pleasing; it made him realise he had spent too long in
   quietus, denied the simple pleasures of awareness, allowing his consciousness to go
   dormant while the mind-ghost of Yosef Sabrat ran his flesh. Puppet and the
   puppeted, master and performer, their roles intermingled. He was tired of it.
   At least now he had only to look the part, rather than literally become it. He
   glanced up and saw a reflection in the glass cabinet behind the desk of High-Reeve
   Kata Telemach; the ebon face of Hyssos staring back at him.
   Telemach swivelled in her deep, wing-backed chair from the watch-wire console
   on her desk and replaced the bulky handset. Standing nearby like an overweight
   sentinel, the doughy figure of Reeve Warden Berts Laimner was uncharacteristically
   still. Spear imagined he was still trying to process all the possible outcomes of the
   revelation that Yosef Sabrat was the serial killer in their midst, looking for the results
   135
   where he would come off best. He felt a particular kind of hate for the man, but when
   he concentrated on the shape of it, Spear could not be certain if it had originated in
   him, or in Yosef Sabrat. More than once, the reeve’s own temper had brushed against
   the killer’s, and in those moments threatened to awaken the dormant murderer.
   He sucked in a breath and dismissed the thoughts as trivial, refocussing on
   Telemach, who sat glaring at the vinepaper documents before her.
   вЂњHow could something like this happen in my precinct, under my governance?”
   she demanded. Typical of the woman, Spear thought. Her first consideration was not
   How could this tragedy have happened? or A good man like Sabrat a killer?
   Impossible! No, for all the death and bloodshed and fear that had swept across her
   city, her first impulse was to worry about how it would make her look. Telemach
   glared at Laimner. “Well?”
   вЂњHe… We never suspected for a moment that the killer could be a peace officer.”
   The High-Reeve was about to spit out something else, but Spear intervened. In
   Hyssos’ voice he said, “In fairness, how could your men have known, milady? Sabrat
   was a decorated member of the Sentine with over a decade of service under his belt.
   He knew your procedures and protocols intimately. He knew all the loopholes and
   blind spots.”
   Laimner nodded. “Aye, yes. I have teams from the documentary office going
   over everything in his caseload, back years and years. They’ve already found
   incidences of file tampering, evidence manipulation…”
   All of which Spear had been planting, little by little over the last few weeks. Very
   soon they would discover more killings that he had laid at the late reeve’s feet, from
   the deaths of minor citizens to shopkeepers and even a junior jager from this very
   precinct; every one of them Spear had murdered and impersonated for brief periods
   of time, working his way up to this identity. Step by step.
   вЂњIt was only a matter of time before he was caught,” Spear-as-Hyssos went on,
   and he tapped the evidence bag on the desk that contained the harvesting knife. “I’ve
   encountered these kinds of criminals several times. They all become careless after a
   while, convinced of their own superiority.”
   Telemach grabbed one of the more gory picts of the murder scene at the airdocks,
   waving it at him, and Spear resisted the urge to lick his lips. “But what about… all
   this?” She jabbed at the beautiful perfection of the eightfold sigils drawn in the blood
   of the dead. “What does it mean?”
   He sensed the edge of fear in her words, and relished it. Yes, she understood the
   common, squalid manners of death, when humans ended one another over trivialities
   like money and power, anger and lust; but she could not conceive of the idea that one
   might take life in the name of something greater… to appease something. Spear
   wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that her insect’s-eye view of the cosmos was
   pathetically naive, blind to the realities that he had been made privy to at the Delphos
   on Davin and later, at his master’s hand.
   He made Hyssos’ face grow grave and concerned. “Sabrat wasn’t alone in all
   this. His cohort, Segan… They were a partnership.”
   вЂњThat fits the facts,” said Laimner. “But I’m not sure why Yosef killed him.”
   вЂњA disagreement?” offered Spear. “All I know is, the two of them conspired to
   get me alone with them at Whyteleaf. Then I was forced to watch as Sabrat ended
   136
   Segan’s life, before he tried to do the same to me. I almost…” At this point, he gave
   a staged shudder. “He almost killed me too,” he whispered.
   вЂњAnd the… symbols?” Telemach asked.
   вЂњThese were ritualistic murders.” He paused for the drama of it. “What do you
   know of this group called the Theoge?”
   He had barely said the word before the High-Reeve’s face split in a sour sneer.
   вЂњThose throwback religionists? This is their doing?” She shot a look at Laimner. “I
   said they were part of this. Didn’t I say so? I knew it!”
   Spear nodded. “They are some sort of fundamentalist cult, if I understand
   correctly. It seems that Daig Segan was the go-between for the Theoge, and in turn
   the murders committed by Sabrat with his help were likely motivated by some
   twisted set of beliefs.”
   вЂњHuman sacrifices?” said Laimner. “On a civilised world like this? This is the
   thirty-first millennium, not primitive prehistory!”
   Telemach answered immediately. “Religion is like a cancer. It can erupt without
   warning.” For a moment, Spear wondered what great hurt in the woman’s past had
   occurred because of someone else’s belief; something scarring, no doubt, to make her
   hate any thought of such things with that undiluted venom.
   вЂњI would advise you move against this group as soon as possible,” he went on,
   getting to his feet. “Your media services have already learned of some elements of
   this case. I imagine those involved with the Theoge will quickly become targets for
   vigilantism.”
   Laimner nodded. “Sabrat’s wife and child have already been attacked. I sent
   Skelta to the house… He said they were hounded and stoned.”
   вЂњFind out if they were involved,” Telemach insisted. “And by nightfall I want
   every single Theoge suspect on the books hauled in for questioning.”
   Spear drew himself up, smoothing down the front of Hyssos’ tunic in a reflexive
   gesture copied from the operative’s own muscle-memory. “I see you have everything
   in hand. You have my report. I will take my leave of you now this matter is
   concluded.”
   Laimner shook his head. “But, wait. There are proceedings… Testimony to be
   made, a tribunal. You will need to remain on Iesta to give statements.”
   вЂњThe Void Baron does not wish me to stay,” All it took was a look from Hyssos’
   eyes to the High-Reeve, and she buckled immediately.
   вЂњOf course, operative,” she said, the thought of defying Eurotas or one of his
   agents never occurring to her. “If any questions arise, a communiquР№ can be sent via
   the Consortium. We caught the killer. That’s all that is important.”
   He nodded and made for the door. Behind him, he heard Laimner speak again.
   вЂњThe people will feel safer,” he said. It seemed less like a statement of fact, and more
   like something the man was trying to convince himself of.
   A brief smile crossed Spear’s changed face. The fear that he had unleashed on the
   streets of Iesta Veracrux would not be so easily dispelled.
   * * *
   137
   Goeda Rufin was enjoying the difference in things.
   Before, back when the Governor was still kowtowing to Terra and the nobles did
   nothing but grumble, Rufin had been destined to remain a low ranked
   noncommissioned officer in the Dagonet PDF. His life consisted largely of shirking
   his responsibilities—such as they were—and putting his workload on the junior
   ratings unlucky enough to be under his supervision at the vehicle pool. Since the day
   he had enrolled after a justicar gave him the choice between borstal or service, Rufin
   had never looked back to civilian life, but in all that time he hadn’t been able to shake
   the longing for a day when he could wear a coveted officer’s braid. It didn’t occur to
   him that his general level of ignorance outstripped any small measure of ability he
   had; Rufin was simply unable to grasp the idea that he had never risen in rank
   because he was a poor soldier. He was a makeweight in the city garrison, and
   everyone seemed to know it but him. To hear Rufin talk, it would seem like there was
   a huge conspiracy among the senior officers to keep him down, while other men were
   promoted up the ladder—men that he considered less deserving, despite copious
   evidence to the contrary. But Rufin wasn’t one to let facts get in the way of his
   opinions.
   He was snide and demeaning to the back of every man who wore the braid. He
   amused himself by scribbling anonymous obscenities about them on the walls of the
   barracks washroom, dragging his heels over every order they gave him, this and a
   dozen other petty revenges.
   It was because of that Goeda Rufin was in the office of his commander when the
   liberation took place.
   That’s what they were calling it now, “The Liberation”, the bloody day of
   upheaval that left Dagonet declared free of Imperial rule and true to the banner of the
   Warmaster Horus.
   Rufin had been there, waiting, forgotten. He had been there for a disciplinary
   review—someone had heard him bad-mouthing his superiors one time too many—
   and if it had just been any other day, he would likely have ended up dismissed from
   the PDF for his troubles.
   But then the shooting started, and he saw soldiers fighting soldiers in the
   courtyard. Warriors from the palace garrison, their uniforms marred by crossed-out
   aquila sigils, cutting down all the men he never liked. He was hiding in his
   commander’s office when the officer came running in, barking orders at him. At his
   heels were a pair of the palace men, and seeing them, Rufin at last caught up to what
   was going on. When his commander bellowed at him to come to his aid, Rufin took
   up the ornamental dagger the man used as a letter opener and stabbed him with it.
   Later, the leader of the invading troops shook his hand and offered him a marker with
   which to scratch out his own Imperial emblems.
   He got his officer braid because of that, and all the men who surrendered with
   him took it too, that or the buzz of a las-round to the back of the head. After the dust
   settled the new regime needed officers to fill the ranks they had culled. Rufin was
   happy to accept; Emperor or Warmaster, he didn’t give a damn whose name he had
   to salute. He had no respect for any of them.
   Rufin left the motor pool behind. His new command was the “emergency
   circumstances security camp” established on the site of the capital terminus monorail
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   station. Ever since the nobles had shut down the networks, the passenger trains had
   lain idle; but now they had a new duty, serving as prison accommodations for the
   hundreds of civilians and idiot rebels who had dared to defy the new order.
   Rufin lorded it over them, walking back and forth across the high gantries above
   the choked platforms, making sure each inmate knew he held the power of life and
   death with random beatings and executions. When he wasn’t exercising his dull
   brutality and boredom on them, Rufin was prowling the ammo stores on the lower
   levels, in what used to be the maintenance wells for the engines. He liked being down
   there, among the smells of cordite and gunmetal. It made him feel like a real soldier
   to be surrounded by all that firepower.
   Entering the observation cupola above what was once the station’s central plaza,
   he caught the watch officer sipping a mug of black tea and gave him a glowering
   stare. “Status?” he barked.
   The officer looked at his chronograph. “Check-in at the top of the hour, sir.
   That’s another quarter-turn away.” He had barely finished speaking when the
   intercom grille over their heads crackled into life.
   вЂњEarly?” said Rufin.
   вЂњControl!” said a panicked voice over the vox. “I think… I think there might be a
   problem.”
   вЂњPost two, say again?” began the watch officer, but Rufin snatched the handset
   from him and snarled into it.
   вЂњThis is the base commander! Explain yourself!”
   вЂњRecruit Zejja just… Well, he just fell off the south wall. And Tormol isn’t
   responding to his wireless.” Then, very distinctly, the open vox channel caught a
   sound like a quick, low hum, followed a heartbeat later by a wet chug and then the
   echo of a body falling.
   Rufin thrust the handset back at the watch officer, uncertain what to do next.
   вЂњShall I try to raise the other guard posts now, sir?” said the other man, stifling a
   cough.
   вЂњYes,” He nodded. That sounded like the right sort of thing. “Do that.”
   Then, without warning, the old control board left intact from the station’s prior
   function flickered into life. Lines of colour denoting tracks, blocks of illumination
   signifying individual carriages, all began to click and chatter as they activated.
   Rufin shot a worried look out of the windows of the cupola and heard the mutter
   of dozens of electric motors coming alive. The sound echoed around the vaulted glass
   spaces of the station concourse and platforms. Below, the prisoners were scrambling
   to their feet, energised by the sound. Rufin drew his pistol on impulse and kneaded
   the grip. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
   The watch officer looked at the consoles before him in surprise. “That… That’s
   not possible,” he insisted, coughing again. “All remote operations of station systems
   were locked down, the hard lines were severed…” He swallowed hard, beads of
   sweat appearing on his high forehead. “I think someone is trying to move the trains.”
   Below, the ornate copper departure boards for all the platforms began whirring in
   a rattling chorus of noise, each one flashing up destination after destination. With a
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   sharp report, they all stopped at once, all of them showing the same thing; End Of
   The Line.
   The prisoners saw the words and let out a ragged cheer. Rufin shouted abuse back
   at them, and caught sight of one of his men running up the platform with a heavy
   autogun in his grip. The trooper was perhaps twenty metres from the jeering
   prisoners when his chest exploded in a silent, red blossom, and he fell.
   Finally, the correct words registered in his mind. “We’re under attack!”
   When Rufin turned back to the watch officer, the man was lolling in his chair,
   eyes and mouth open, staring blankly at the ceiling. He caught a strange, floral smell
   emanating from the officer and gingerly extended a hand to prod his waxy, damp
   face. The watch officer slumped forward, knocking his tea glass over. The flowerstink
   grew stronger as the liquid pooled on the floor.
   Rufin’s hand flew to his mouth. “Poison!” Without looking back, he ran to the
   cupola door and raced away, footsteps banging off the metal gantries.
   Spear reached out a hand and rubbed the edge of the ornate tapestry between Hyssos’
   thick fingers. The complex depiction on the hanging was of the Emperor, smiting
   some form of bull-like alien with a gigantic sword made of fire.
   He rolled his eyes at the banal pomposity of the thing and stepped away,
   carelessly brushing fibres of broken thread from his hands. Touching the object was
   forbidden, but there was nobody here in the audience chamber to see him do it. The
   killer idly wondered if the residue left by the daemonskin of his flesh-cloak would
   poison and shrivel the ancient artwork. He hoped it would; the idea of the humans
   aboard the Iubar running about and panicking as the piece blackened and corroded
   amused him no end.
   He glanced out of the viewing windows as he wandered the length of the
   chamber. The curve of Iesta Veracrux was slipping away beneath the starship’s keel
   as it turned for open space, and Spear was not sorry to see it go. He had spent too
   long on that world, living in the inanities of its civilisation, play-acting at a halfdozen
   different roles. Since his arrival, Spear had been many faces—among them a
   vagrant, a storeman, a streetwalker, a jager and a reeve, living the lie of their
   ridiculous, pointless existences. He had stacked their corpses, and all the others, to
   make the ladder that led him to where he now stood.
   A few more murders. One, perhaps two more assumptions. And then he would be
   close to the mark. The greatest prey of them all, in fact. A shiver of anticipation
   rippled through him. Spear was eager, but he reined the emotion in, pushed it down.
   Now was not the time to be dazzled by the scope of his mission. He had to maintain
   his focus.
   Before, such a slip might have been problematic; he was convinced that such
   thoughts were how the psyker wench Perrig had been able to gather a vague sense of
   him down on Iesta. But with her no more than a pile of ashes in a jar in the Iubar’s
   Chamber of Rest, that threat was gone for the moment. Spear knew from Hyssos’
   memories that Baron Eurotas had spent much influence and coin in order to bend the
   Imperium’s fear-driven rules about the censure of psychics; and given the present
   condition of the Consortium’s welfare, that would not be repeated. The next time he
   met a psyker, he would be prepared.
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   He smirked. That was something unexpected he pulled from the operative’s
   ebbing thoughts. The Void Baron’s secret, and the explanation for the shabby
   appearance of his agency’s compound on Iesta; for all the outward glitter and show
   the merchant clan put on for the galaxy at large, the truth whispered in the corridors
   of its ships was that the fortunes of Eurotas were waning. Little wonder then that the
   clan’s master was so desperate to hold on to any skein of power he still had.
   It made things clearer; Spear had known that sooner or later, if he murdered
   enough members of the Eurotas staff and made it look like Sigg was the killer, the
   baron would send an operative to investigate. He never expected him to come in
   person.
   Matters must be severe…
   Spear halted in front of the red jade frieze, and reached out to touch it, tracing a
   fingertip over the sculpting of the Warrant of Trade. This place was full of glittering
   prizes, of that there could be no doubt. A thief in Spear’s place could make himself
   richer than sin—but the killer had his sights set on something worth far more than
   any of these pretty gewgaws. What he wanted was the key to the greatest kill of his
   life.
   The hubris of the rogue trader irritated Spear. Here, in this room, there were
   objects that could command great riches, if only they were brought to market. But
   Eurotas was the sort who would rather bleed himself white and eat rat-meat before he
   would give up the gaudy trappings of his grandeur.
   As if thought of him was a summons, the doors to the audience chamber opened
   and the Void Baron entered in a distracted, irritable humour. He shrugged off his
   planetfall jacket and tossed it at one of the squad of servitors and human adjutants
   trailing behind him. “Hyssos,” he called, beckoning.
   Spear imitated the operative’s usual bow and came closer. “My lord. I had not
   expected your shuttle to return to the Iubar until after we broke orbit.”
   вЂњI had you voxed,” Eurotas replied, shaking his head. “Your communicator
   implant must be malfunctioning.”
   He touched his neck. “Oh. Of course. I’ll have it seen to.”
   The baron went for a crystalline cabinet and gestured at it; a mechanism inside
   poured a heavy measure of wine into a glass goblet, which he snatched up and drank
   deeply. He gulped it down without savouring it. “We are done with our visit to this
   world,” Eurotas told him, his manner veering towards a brooding sullenness. “And it
   has taken our dear Perrig along the way.” He shook his head again and fixed Spear
   with an accusing glare. “Do you know what she cost me? A moon, Hyssos. I had to
   cede an entire bloody moon to the Adeptus Terra just to own her.” He walked on,
   across the mosaic floor. The cabinet raised itself up on brass wheels and rolled
   obediently after him.
   Spear searched for the right thing to say. “She had a good life with us. We all
   valued her contribution to the clan.”
   The baron turned his glare on the vanishing planet. “The Governor would not
   stop talking,” he said. “They wanted our fleet to remain in orbit for another week,
   something about вЂ˜helping to stimulate the local economy’…” He snorted with
   derision. “But I have little stomach for the festivals they had planned. I walked out on
   them. More important things to do. Imperial service and all that.”
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   Spear nodded thoughtfully, deciding to feed the man’s mood. “The best choice,
   my lord. With the situation as it is in this sector, it makes sense for the clan to keep
   the flotilla moving. To be in motion is to be safe.”
   вЂњSafe from him!” Eurotas took another drink. “But the bastard Warmaster is
   killing us by inches even so!” His voice went up. “Every planet he binds to him costs
   us a weight in Throne Gelt that we cannot recover!” For a moment, it seemed as if
   the baron was about to give voice to something that might have been considered
   treasonable; but then he caught himself, like a man afraid he would be overheard, and
   his expression changed. “We will head for the edge of this system and then make
   space to the rendezvous point at the Arrowhead Nebula.”
   Spear knew already what their next port of call would be, but he asked anyway.
   вЂњWhat will our intentions be there, lord?”
   вЂњWe will lay to wait to assemble the clan’s full fleet, and while we are there meet
   a ship from Sotha. Aboard are a party of remembrancers under the Emperor’s aegis. I
   will personally take them home to Terra, as the Council has requested.”
   вЂњThe security of the remembrancers is of great concern,” said Spear. “I will make
   all arrangements to ensure their safety from the moment they board the Iubar to the
   moment we bring them to the Imperial Palace.”
   Eurotas looked away. “I know you’ll do what is required.”
   Spear had to fight down the urge to grin. The path was open, and now all that he
   needed to do was follow it all the way to the end. To the very gates of the Emperor’s
   fortress—
   NO
   The voice crackled in his ears like breaking glass, and Spear jerked, startled. NO
   NO NO
   The baron did not appear to have heard it; the killer felt a peculiar twitch in his
   hands and he glanced down at them. For one terrible moment, the skin there bubbled
   and went red, before shifting back to the dark shades of Hyssos’ flesh. He hid them
   behind his back.
   NO
   Then the echo made the origin of the sound clear. Spear let his gaze turn inwards
   and he felt it in there, moving like mercury.
   Sabrat. Until this moment, Spear had believed the purgation that the idiot reeve’s
   cohort interrupted had gone to plan, but now his certainty crumbled. There was still
   some fraction of the stolid fool’s self hiding in the shadowed depths of the killer’s
   mind, some part of the false self he had worn that had not been expunged. He pushed
   in and was sickened by the sense of it, the loathsome, nauseating morality of the dead
   man staining his mind. It was bubbling up like bile, pushing to the top of his
   thoughts. A scream of recrimination.
   вЂњHyssos?” Eurotas was staring at him. “Are you all right, man?”
   вЂњI…”
   NO NO NO NO NO
   вЂњNo.” Spear coughed out the word, his eyes watering, and then with effort took
   control of himself once more. “No, lord,” he went on. “I… A moment of fatigue,
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   that’s all.” With a physical effort, the killer silenced the cries and took a shuddering
   breath.
   вЂњAh.” The baron approached and gave him a kindly pat on the shoulder. “You
   were closest to the psyker. There’s no shame in being affected by her loss.”
   вЂњThank you,” said Spear, playing into the moment. “It has been difficult. Perhaps,
   with your permission, I might take some respite?”
   Eurotas gave him a fatherly nod. “Do so. I want you rested when we reach the
   rendezvous.”
   вЂњAye, lord,” Spear bowed again and walked away. Unseen by anyone else, he
   buried the nails of his hand in his palm, cutting the waxy flesh there; but no blood
   emerged from the ragged meat.
   Rufin found another intercom panel on the station’s mezzanine level and used it to
   send out an all-posts alert; but if anything he became even more afraid when the only
   men that reported back were the ones at the armoury. He told them to hold the line
   and started on his way to them. If he could get there before any of the terrorist
   attackers did, he could open the secure locks and drag out all the big, lethal weapons
   that he had been so far denied the chance to use. There were autocannons down there,
   grenade launchers and flamers… He’d give these loyalist bastards a roasting for
   daring to cross him, oh yes…
   Descending an enclosed stairwell, he caught sight of the western platforms.
   Monorails there were filling with prisoners, each one closing its doors and moving
   off seemingly of its own will, carrying the inmates to freedom. The first few to go
   had ploughed through the barricades across the lines; now there was nothing to stop a
   mass exodus. Rufin didn’t care, though; he would let them go, as long as he could
   keep the guns.
   Reaching the lowest levels, he found the men at the first guard post were gone. In
   their place there were piles of clothing and lumps of soggy ash, illuminated by the
   flickering overhead strip lights. The air here felt cold and oppressive, and Rufin
   broke into a ran again, propelled from the place by a cold pressure that was like a
   shadow falling over his soul.
   He turned the corner and ran towards the armoury post. Six men were there, and
   all of them were pale and afraid. They saw him coming and beckoned frantically, as
   if he were being chased by something only they could see.
   вЂњWhat happened back there?” he snapped, turning his ire on the first man he saw.
   вЂњTalk, rot you!”
   вЂњScreaming,” came the reply. “Oh, sir, a screaming like you ain’t never heard.
   From Hades itself, sir.”
   Rufin’s fear bubbled over into anger and he backhanded the man. “Make sense,
   you fool! It’s the terrorists!”
   At that moment, the floor below them exploded upwards, the iron grid-plates
   spinning away as a hulking figure burst out of the conduits beneath. Rufin saw a
   grinning, fanged skull made of tarnished silver and then a massive handgun. A single
   shot from the weapon struck one of the guards with such force it blew him back into
   another man, the velocity carrying them both into the curved wall where they became
   a bloody rain.
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   Rufin stumbled away as the dark shape blurred, releasing an inhuman snarl.
   Gunfire sang from the weapons of the guards, but it seemed to make no difference.
   There were wet, tearing noises, concussive blasts of bolt-fire, the dense sounds of
   meat under pressure, breaking and bursting. Something whistled through the air and
   hit Rufin in the chest.
   He went to his knees and slumped against the wall, blinking. Like a bloodpainted
   dagger, a broken human femur, freshly ripped from a still-cooling corpse,
   protruded from his chest. Rufin vomited black, sticky spittle and felt himself start to
   die.
   The skull-faced figure came to him, trembling with adrenaline, and spat through
   the grille of the mask. “Oh dear,” it rambled. “I think I broke him.”
   Rufin heard a tutting sound and a second figure, this one more human than the
   clawed killer, hove into view. “This is the base commander. We needed him to open
   the ammunition store.”
   вЂњSo?” said the skull-face. “Can’t you do your trick?”
   вЂњIt’s not a parlour game for your amusement, Eversor.” He heard a sigh and then
   a sound like old leather being twisted.
   Through blurry eyes Rufin saw his own reflection; or was it? It seemed to be
   talking to him. “Say your name,” said the mirror-face.
   вЂњYou know… who I am,” he managed. “We’re Goeda Rufin.”
   вЂњYes, that’s right.” Now it sounded like him too.
   The mirror-face drifted away, towards the locking alcove near the heavy iron
   hatch that secured the ammo stores. It was impregnable, Rufin remembered. The
   built-in security cogitator needed to recognise both his features and his vocal imprint
   before it would open.
   His face and voice…
   вЂњGoeda Rufin,” said the mirror, and with a crunch of gears the armoury hatch
   began to swing open.
   Rufin tried to understand how that could be happening, but the answer was still
   lost to him when his heart finally stopped.
   The rendezvous was a spur-line outside a storage depot in the foothills, several
   kilometres beyond the capital. Under Tariel’s guiding hand, the simple drive-brains
   of the monorails had obeyed his command and cut fast routes through the network
   that confused the PDF spy drones sent to follow them. Now they were all here,
   emptying their human cargoes as the sun set over the hillside.
   Kell watched the rag-tag resistance fighters gather the freed people into groups,
   some of them welcomed back into the fold as lost brothers in arms, others formed
   into parties that would split off in separate directions and go to ground, in hopes of
   riding out the conflict. He saw Beye and Grohl moving among them. The woman
   gave him a nod of thanks, but all the man returned was a steady, measuring look.
   Kell understood his position. Even after they had done what he had charged them
   to do, and obliterated a major stockpile of turncoat weapons into the bargain, Grohl
   could still not find the will to trust them.
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   Because he is right not to, said a voice in his thoughts; a voice that spoke with his
   sister’s words. The rebels believed Kell and the others were some kind of advance
   unit, a scouting party of special operatives sent as the vanguard of an Imperial plan to
   retake Dagonet in the Emperor’s name. Like so many things about the assassins, this
   too was a lie.
   A man in a hood emerged from the midst of the rebels and said something to
   Beye; but it was Grohl’s reaction that gave away his identity, the sudden jerk of the
   severe man’s head, the tensing of his body.
   Kell drew himself up as the man came closer, drawing back the hood. He was
   bald and muscular, with a swarthy cast to his skin, and he had sharp eyes. The
   Vindicare saw the tips of complex tattoos peeking up from his collar. Kell offered his
   hand. “Capra.”
   вЂњKell.” The freedom fighter took it and they shook, palm to wrist. “I understand I
   have the Emperor to thank for this.” He nodded at the trains. “And for you.”
   вЂњThe Imperium never turns its face from its citizens,” he replied. “We’re here to
   help you win your war.”
   A shadow passed over Capra’s face. “You may be too late. My people are tired,
   few, scattered.” He spoke in low tones that would not carry. “It would be more a
   service to help us find safe passage elsewhere, let some of us come back with the
   reprisal force as tactical advisors.”
   Kell did not break eye contact with the rebel leader. “We did this in a day.
   Imagine what we can do together, in the days ahead.”
   Capra’s gaze shifted to where the rest of the Execution Force stood, waiting
   silently. “Beye was right. You are an impressive group. Perhaps… Perhaps with you
   at our sides, there is a chance.”
   вЂњMore than a chance,” insisted Kell. “A certainty.”
   Finally, the man’s expression changed, the weariness, the doubt melting away. In
   its place, there was a new strength. New purpose. He wanted so badly for them to be
   their salvation, Kell could almost taste it. Capra nodded. “The fate of Dagonet rests
   with us, my friend. We will not forsake it.”
   вЂњNo,” he said, as Capra walked away, gathering his men to him as he began to
   rally them with firebrand oratory.
   But the rebels would not know the truth, not until it was too late; that the fate of
   Dagonet was only a means to a single end.
   To place the Archtraitor Horus between Eristede Kell’s crosshairs.
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   PART TWO
   ATTRITION
   ELEVEN
   Hidden
   Sacrifice
   Cages
   The caverns were deep inside the canyons of a rocky and forbidding landscape that
   the Dagoneti called the Bladecut. From the ground, the real meaning of the name
   wasn’t clear, but up high, when glimpsed through the lenses of one of the aerial
   drones the rebels had captured, it was obvious. The Bladecut was a massive ravine
   that moved easterly across the stone wilderness beyond the capital, the shape of it
   like a giant axe wound in the surface of the landscape. There were no roads, nothing
   but animal trails and half-hidden hunting routes that meandered into sharp gullies
   which concealed the mouths of the cave network. Thousands of years ago, this had
   been the site of the first Dagonet colony, where the new arrivals from Terra had
   huddled in the gloom while their planetforming technologies, now lost to history, had
   worked to make the world’s harsh environment more habitable for them. The rebels
   had retaken the old halls of stone, secure in the knowledge that deep inside nothing
   would be able to dislodge them short of bombing the hills into powder.
   Jenniker Soalm walked through the meandering tunnels, her face concealed in the
   depths of her hood, passing chambers laser-cut from the rock, ragged chainmail
   curtains hanging over their entrances, others closed off behind heavy impact-welded
   hatches. Inside the caves everything was in a permanent twilight, with the only
   constant the watery glow of biolume pods glued to the stone ceiling at random
   intervals. Capra’s people—some of them warriors, many more civilians and even
   children—passed her as she walked on.
   Soalm glimpsed snatches of the everyday life of the resistance through gaps in
   the curtains or past open doors. She saw Beye and a few others surrounding a chart
   table piled high with paper maps; across the way, a makeshift armoury full of
   captured PDF weaponry; a skinny cook who looked up at her, in the middle of
   stirring a huge iron drum of thick soup; refugees clustered around a brazier, and
   nearby a pair of children playing, apparently ignorant of the grim circumstances. The
   146
   latter was no surprise to her; the rebels did not have much choice about where their
   people could go to ground.
   Further on, she saw a side-chamber that had been converted into a drab
   approximation of an infirmary, right beside a workroom where figures in shadow
   were bent over a jury-rigged device trailing wires and connectors. Soalm detected the
   familiar odour of chemical explosives as she moved on.
   A hatch was creaking shut as she approached, and she turned to see. As it closed,
   one of Capra’s men gave her a blank look from within; over his shoulder she saw a
   bloodied trooper in clan colours tied to a chair, a moment before he disappeared out
   of sight. She paused, and heard footsteps behind her.
   Soalm turned and saw a pair of refugee children approach, eyes wide with fear
   and daring. They were both grimy, both in shapeless fatigues too big for them; she
   couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls.
   вЂњHey,” said the taller of the two. “The Emperor sent you, right?”
   She gave a nod. “In a way.”
   There was awe in their expressions. “Is he like he is in the picts? A giant?”
   Soalm managed a smile. “Bigger than that, even.”
   The other child was about to add something, but an adult turned the corner ahead
   and gave them both a stern look. “You know you’re not supposed to play down here.
   Get back to your lessons!”
   They broke into a run and vanished back the way they had come. Soalm turned to
   study the man.
   вЂњAre you looking for something?” he asked warily.
   вЂњI’m just walking,” she admitted. “I needed a moment… to think.”
   He pointed past her, blocking her path. “You should probably go back.” The man
   seemed hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the authority to tell her what to do.
   The Execution Force fit strangely among the freedom fighter group. In the weeks
   that had passed since they liberated the prison camp in the city, Soalm and the others
   had gained a kind of guarded acceptance, but little more. Under Kell’s orders, each of
   them had turned their particular skill-sets towards aiding the rebel cause. Tariel’s
   technical expertise was in constant demand, and Koyne showed a natural aptitude for
   teaching combat tactics to men and women who had, until recently, been farmers,
   teachers and shopkeepers. Meanwhile, Iota and the Garantine would go missing for
   days at a time, and the only evidence of their activities would be intercepted reports
   from the communication network, stories of destroyed outposts or whole patrols
   eviscerated by ghostly assailants. As for her brother, he kept his distance from her,
   working with Capra, Beye and Grohl on battle plans.
   Soalm did her part too, but as the days drew on it disturbed her more and more.
   They were helping the rebels score victories, not just here but through other
   resistance cells all across the planet; but it was based on a lie. If not for the arrival of
   the assassins on Dagonet, the war would have been over. Instead they were bolstering
   it, infusing fresh violence into a conflict that should have already petered out.
   The Venenum was precise in what she did; surgical and clean. Collateral damage
   was a term she refused to allow into her lexicon, and yet here they were, their
   presence more damaging to the locals than the guns of the nobles.
   147
   The man pointed again. “Back that way,” he repeated. Dispelling her moment of
   reverie, Soalm realised that he was trying to hide something.
   вЂњNo,” she said. “I think not.” Before he could react, she pushed past him and
   followed the turn of the narrowing corridor as it dropped into a shallow slope. The
   man reached for her robes to stop her, and she tapped a dot of liquid onto the back of
   his hand from one of her wrist dispensers. The effect was immediate; he went pale
   and fell to the ground, the muscles in his legs giving out.
   The corridor opened up into another cavern, this one wide and low. In the middle
   of the dimly-lit space there was a thermal grate throwing out a warm orange glow;
   surrounding it were rings of chairs, some scattered cushions and salvaged rugs. A
   knot of people were there, crowded around an older woman who held an open book
   in her hand. Soalm had the impression of interrupting a performance in mid-flow.
   The older woman saw the assassin and fear crossed her expression. Her audience
   were a mix of all kinds of people from the camp. Two of them, both fighters, sprang
   to their feet and came forwards with threats in their eyes.
   Soalm raised her hands to defend herself, but the old woman called out. “No!
   Stop! We’ll have no violence!”
   вЂњMilady—” began one of the others, but she waved him to silence, and with
   visible effort, she drew herself up. Soalm saw the echoes of a lifetime of grace and
   fortitude there in the old woman’s face.
   She pushed through the ring of people and faced her interloper. “I am… I was
   Lady Astrid Sinope. I am not afraid of you.”
   Soalm cocked her head. “That’s not true.”
   Sinope’s aristocratic demeanour faltered. “No… No, I suppose it is not.” She
   recovered slightly. “Ever since Beye told us you were on Dagonet, I knew that this
   moment would come. I knew one of you would find us.”
   вЂњOne of us?”
   вЂњThe Emperor’s warriors,” she went on. “Capra said you were the instruments of
   his will. So come, then. Do what you must.”
   вЂњI don’t understand…” Soalm began, but the old woman kept talking.
   вЂњI ask only that you show mercy to my friends here.” Sinope held up the heavy
   book in her hands. “I brought this to Dagonet. I brought it here, to the resistance,
   when I fled the treachery of my former noble clan. If anyone must suffer because of
   that, it should be me alone.” Her eyes glittered with unspent tears. “If I must beg you,
   I will. Please do not hurt them because of me.”
   No one spoke as Soalm stepped past the two warriors and took the book from the
   old woman’s trembling hands. She read aloud the words on the page. “The Emperor
   protects.”
   вЂњWe only seek solace in His name,” said Sinope, her voice falling to a whisper. “I
   know that it is forbidden to speak openly of Him and His divine ways, but we do so
   only among ourselves, we do not proselytise or seek out converts!” She clasped her
   hands. “We are so few. We take in only those who come to us of their own free will.
   We have hurt no one with our beliefs!”
   Soalm ran her fingers over the pages of dense, solemn text. “You are all followers
   of the Lectitio Divinitatus. You believe the Emperor is a living god. The only god.”
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   Sinope nodded. “And I will die with that belief, if that is what is required. But
   promise me I will be the only one. Please!”
   She understood, finally. “I have not come to purge you,” Soalm told them. “I…
   We did not even know you were here.” There was a strange, giddy sense of events
   shifting around her.
   вЂњBut you were sent from Terra…” said one of the men.
   вЂњNot for this,” said the Venenum, turning to meet Lady Sinope’s gaze, raising her
   arm as she did so and drawing back her cuff. “And until this moment, I was not
   certain why.” Soalm showed them a small golden chain clasped around her wrist, a
   charm dangling from it in the shape of the Imperial aquila. “But now… Now I have
   an inkling.”
   вЂњShe’s one of us,” said the man. “She believes.”
   Sinope’s expression became one of joy. “Oh, child,” she said. “He sent you. He
   sent you to us.”
   Soalm returned the book to her and nodded.
   Kell looked up as the men boiled into the central chamber in a rush of energy and
   jubilation, weaving through the scattered clumps of hardware and containers, the
   groups of people who stopped and smiled to see them returning. They still had the
   smell of cordite, woodsmoke and exertion on them. He scanned the group with a
   practised eye and saw they had all come back, and only with a few minor injuries.
   The squad leader, an ex-pilot named Jedda, came over to where Capra was standing
   at a vox console and enveloped him in a bear hug. “It’s done?” said Capra.
   вЂњOh, it’s more than done!” Jedda laughed, the rush of battle still there in his
   voice. His men shared the moment and laughed with him. “Tariel’s information was
   dead on! We blew out the supports for the bridge and the whole cargo train went
   down. Hundreds of clanner troops, a dozen fan-jeeps and armoured GEVs, all of it
   scrap at the bottom of the Redstone river!”
   вЂњThey’ll feel that,” snorted one of the others. “The nobles will be tasting blood
   tonight!”
   Capra turned and gave Kell a nod. “Thank your man for me. In fact, thank them
   all. A month ago I would never have thought I’d be saying this, but we actually have
   them on the defensive. The data and guidance you’ve provided us has enabled the
   resistance to make coordinated strikes all over the planet. The nobles are reeling.”
   вЂњThe mistake they made was their arrogance,” said Koyne, wandering up to the
   group. The men parted to let the Callidus come closer; they were all unnerved by the
   bland, unfinished cast to the assassin’s neutral features. “They believed they had
   won, and lowered their guard. They didn’t expect you to hit back in synchrony.
   You’ve put them off balance.”
   вЂњWe’ll help you keep up the pressure,” Kell told the resistance leader. “All we’ve
   done so far is show you how to find the cracks in their armour. You need to keep
   widening them until they break.”
   Jedda nodded to himself. “We didn’t lose a single man tonight. We keep this up,
   the commoners who haven’t committed will side with us.” He grinned at Kell. “At
   this rate, your fleet might get here and find it has nothing to do!”
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   вЂњWe can only hope,” said Koyne, drawing a look from the Vindicare.
   вЂњCapra!” Beye crossed the chamber at a jog, “Grohl’s back!”
   Kell saw the grim-faced freedom fighter following her, unfurling his overhood
   and cloak. He had a scuffed carryall over one shoulder.
   вЂњFrom the capital?” said Jedda. “We made a lot of noise tonight, Terrik! Did they
   hear it back there in the towers?” His triumphant mood rolled against the other man’s
   stony countenance and rebounded without effect.
   вЂњThey heard all right,” said Grohl. He dropped the carryall on a crate being used
   as a makeshift table and threw off his robes with an irritable shake. “The Governor
   made a broadcast over all the communications channels. A declaration, he called it.”
   The group fell silent. Kell saw the moment radiate out across the cavern to every
   person within earshot.
   вЂњLet’s see it, then,” said Capra.
   Grohl opened the case and produced a memory spool, the commercial kind that
   any core world civilian home of moderate means possessed. “One of our contacts
   recorded this off the public watch-wire. It’s repeating in a loop at the top of each
   hour.” Jedda went to take it from him, but Grohl didn’t give it up. “Perhaps you
   should look at this somewhere more… private.”
   Capra considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “No. If it’s on the wire,
   then everyone else knows about it. Our people should too.”
   Jedda took the spool and inserted it into a hololithic reader. With a buzzing hum,
   the device projected the ghostly image of a man in heavy dress uniform, a braided
   cap upon his head. He was standing before a lectern, and Kell noticed that it bore the
   sigil of an open, slitted eye; the symbol of the Sons of Horus.
   вЂњGovernor Nicran,” said Jedda with a sneer. “I wonder where he recorded this?
   Cowering in the basement of his mansion?”
   вЂњQuiet!” hissed Grohl. “Listen.”
   Kell watched the hololith carefully as the Governor began with empty
   pleasantries and vapid words of praise for his puppet masters in the noble clans. He
   read the politician’s expressions, for a moment imagining he was seeing that face
   down the sights of his Exitus longrifle. Nicran had all the look about him of a
   desperate man. Then he turned to the important part of the announcement.
   вЂњCitizens of Dagonet,” he said, “I have been gravely disturbed to learn of the
   deaths of many of our brave PDF troopers in the ongoing and ruthless attacks
   perpetrated by the resistance. Attacks that have also claimed the lives of many
   innocent civilians…”
   вЂњBollocks they have,” snarled Jedda. “Clanner blood only!”
   вЂњI applaud the vigilance of our troopers and recognise their bravery,” Nicran
   continued. “But I also listen when their commanders tell me that the enemy hiding
   among us is a clear and present danger we have yet to overcome. And so, rather than
   prolong this terrible fighting and waste more precious Dagoneti lives, I have
   petitioned for assistance.”
   вЂњWhat does that mean?” muttered one of Jedda’s men. Kell kept his expression
   unchanged, aware that Koyne was watching him closely.
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   Across the chamber, a hush had fallen as everyone hung on Nicran’s words.
   вЂњCenturies ago, when Dagonet was beneath the shadow of corrupt priest-kings, we
   faced a similar crisis. And then, as now, a warrior came to aid us. A master of war
   who freed us from fear and terror.” The Governor blinked and licked his lips; Kell
   felt an odd tingle of anticipation in his trigger finger. “Citizens, I have this day
   received word from the fleet of the Sons of Horus. They are coming to Dagonet to
   deliver us, and the great hero Horus Lupercal will be with them. Have no fear. The
   retribution of the Astartes will be swift and terrible, but in its wake the freedom we
   crave, freedom of liberty, freedom from the stifling rule of a distant and uncaring
   Emperor, will be ours.”
   Grohl tapped a key on the projector and the image died. “And there it is.”
   It was as if something had sucked all the air from the chamber; Nicran’s
   statement had shocked the rebels into silence.
   Jedda spoke first. “Astartes…” he whispered, all trace of his earlier elation gone.
   вЂњComing here?” He looked to Capra. “We… We can’t fight Space Marines. Clan
   troopers are one thing, but the Warmaster’s elite…”
   вЂњThey are like nothing we have ever seen,” Grohl said darkly. “Genetically
   enhanced superhumans. Living weapons. Angels of death. A handful of them can
   crush armies—”
   вЂњSo what should we do, then?” snapped Beye angrily. “Surrender at once? Shoot
   ourselves and save them the trouble?”
   вЂњThey’ll destroy us all,” Grohl insisted. “The only hope we have is to disband our
   forces and lose ourselves in the general populace, that or flee off-world before their
   warships arrive.” He glared at Kell. “Because our salvation won’t be here before
   Horus, will it?”
   вЂњHe’s right, Capra,” said Jedda, his tone bleak. “Against men, we’ve got a
   fighting chance. But we can’t beat war gods—”
   вЂњThey’re not gods,” Kell snarled, quieting him. “They are not invulnerable. They
   bleed red like any one of us. They can die.” He met Grohl’s look. “Even Horus.”
   Capra gave a slow nod. “Kell’s right. The Astartes are formidable, but they can
   be beaten.” He gave the Vindicare a level stare. “Tell me they can be beaten.”
   вЂњI killed a Space Marine,” said Kell. Koyne’s bland expression flickered as
   something like surprise crossed the other assassin’s face. Kell ignored it and went on.
   вЂњAnd I’m still here.”
   вЂњCapra…” Grohl started to speak again, but the rebel leader waved him into
   silence.
   вЂњI need to think on this,” he told them. “Beye, come with me.” Capra walked
   away with the woman, and Kell watched him go. Grohl gave the Vindicare a harsh
   look and left him with Jedda and the other warriors following.
   Kell picked up the memory spool and weighed it in his hand.
   вЂњDid you really terminate an Astartes?” said Koyne.
   вЂњYou know the rules,” Kell replied, without looking away. “A clade’s targets are
   its own concern.”
   The Callidus sniffed. “It doesn’t matter. Even if you did, it’s just one truth among
   a handful of pretty lies. That one, Grohl? He’s the smartest of all this lot. The Sons of
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   Horus will destroy them, and turn this world into a funeral pyre along the way. I’ve
   seen how the Astartes fight.”
   Kell rounded on the shade and stepped closer. “The Warmaster is coming here.
   That’s all that matters.”
   вЂњOh, indeed,” said Koyne. “And by the time Capra and the other ones who have
   decided to trust you realise that’s all we want, it will be too late.” The other assassin
   leaned in. “But let me ask you this, Kell. Do you feel any remorse about what we’re
   doing? Do you feel any pity for these people?”
   The Vindicare looked away. “The Imperium appreciates their sacrifice.”
   The quarters aboard the Iubar belonging to operative Hyssos were as predictably dull
   as Spear had expected them to be. There were only a few flashes of individuality here
   and there—a cabinet with a few bottles of good amasec, a shelf of paper-plas books
   on a wide variety of subjects, and some rather indifferent pencil sketches that the
   man had apparently drawn himself. Spear’s lip curled at the dead man’s pretension;
   perhaps he thought he was some kind of warrior-poet, standing sentinel over the
   people of the Eurotas clan by day, touching a sensitive artistic soul by night.
   The truth was nowhere near as dignified, however. Delving through the morass of
   jumbled memories he had stolen from Hyssos’ dead brain, Spear found more than
   enough incidents where the security operative had been called upon to use his
   detective skills to smooth over situations with native law enforcement on worlds
   along the Taebian trade axis. The Consortium’s crews and officers broke laws on
   other worlds and it was Hyssos who was forced to find locals to take the blame or the
   right men to bribe. He cleaned up messes left by the Void Baron and his family, and
   on some level the man had hated himself for it.
   Spear had extruded a number of eyes and allowed them to wander the room,
   sweeping for surveillance devices. Finding nothing, he reconsumed them and then
   rested, letting his outer aspect relax. The fleshy matter coating his body lost a little
   definition; to an outside observer, it would have looked like an image slipping out of
   focus through a lens. He sensed a faint call from the daemonskin. It wanted fresh
   blood—but then it always wanted fresh blood. Spear let some of the remains of
   Hyssos he had kept in his secondary stomach ooze out to be absorbed by the living
   sheath, and it quieted.
   He sat at the desk across from the sleeping alcove. Laid out over the surface were
   a half-dozen data-slates, each of them displaying layers of information about the
   Iubar. There were deck plans and security protocols, conduit diagrams, patrol
   servitor routings, even a copy of the Void Baron’s daily itinerary. Spear’s long,
   spidery fingers danced over them, plucking slates from the pile for a moment, putting
   them back, selecting others. A strategy was forming, and the more he gave it his
   consideration, the more he realised that it would need to be implemented sooner
   rather than later.
   The rogue trader’s flagship had dropped out of the churn of the warp near a
   neutron star in the Cascade Line, to take sightings and rest the drives before setting
   off to the rendezvous at Arrowhead. They would be here no more than a day, and
   once the Iubar was back in the immaterium, the energy flux from the vessel’s Geller
   field generators would interfere with Spear’s plans to break into Eurotas’ personal
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   reliquary. The flux had the unfortunate side effect of causing distress to the
   daemonskin, rendering some of its more useful traits ineffectual. It would have to be
   done soon, then—
   NO
   Spear flinched and his whole body rippled with a sudden jolt of pain. The
   echoing screech lanced through him like a laser.
   NO NO NO NO NO NO
   вЂњShut up!” he spat, pushing away from the desk, shaking his head. “Shut up!”
   The voice within tried to cry out again, but he smothered it with a sharp exhale of
   air and a tensing of his will. For a moment, Spear felt it inside himself, deep down in
   the black depths of his spirit—the flickering ember of light. A tiny piece of Yosef
   Sabrat’s soul, trapped and furious.
   The killer dropped to the floor of the room and bowed his head, closed his eyes.
   He drew inwards, let his thoughts fall into himself. It was akin to sinking into an
   ocean of dark, heavy oil—but instead of resisting it, Spear allowed himself to be
   filled by the blackness, relishing the sensation of drowning.
   He plunged into the void of his own shattered psyche, searching for the foreign,
   the human, the thought-colours of a dead man. It was difficult; the faint echoes of
   every life he had destroyed and then imitated all still lingered here somewhere. But
   they had all been purged through the ritual rites, and what remained was just a
   shallow imprint, like the shadows burnt on walls by the flash of a nuclear fireball.
   Something of Yosef Sabrat was still here, though. Something tenacious that
   obstinately refused to allow Spear to expunge it, clinging on.
   And there it was, a glow in the gloom. Spear’s animus leapt at it, fangs out, ready
   to rip it to shreds. The killer found it cloaked in a memory, a moment of terrible
   burning pain. He laughed as he realised he was experiencing the instant when he had
   pierced Sabraf’s heart with a bone-blade, but this time from his victim’s point of
   view.
   The pain was blinding—and familiar. Spear hesitated; yes, he knew this feeling,
   this exact feeling. Sabrat’s memory echoed one of his own, a memory from the
   killer’s past.
   Too late, Spear understood that the fragment had fled his grasp, cleverly cloaking
   itself in the similarity; and too late, he was dragged into his own past. Back to an
   experience that had made him into the monster he was.
   Back to the cage. The pain and the cage…
   Voices outside. The armoured warriors moving and speaking. War-angels and
   gun-lords, black souls and beasts.
   Voices.
   вЂњIs this it?” A commander-master, clear from tone and manner. Obeyed, yes.
   вЂњAye, my lord,” says the wounded one. “A pariah, according to the logs left by
   the Silent Sisterhood. But I have not seen the like. And they didn’t know what it was,
   either. It was bound for destruction, most likely.”
   The master-to-be-his-master comes closer. He sees a face filled with wonderment
   and hatred.
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   вЂњI smell the witch-stink on it. It did not die with the rest of the crew and cargo?”
   вЂњThe Emperor’s Black Ships are resilient vessels. Some were bound to live
   beyond our bombardment.”
   A pause, during which he takes some sharp breaths, trying to listen to the voices.
   вЂњTell me what it did.”
   A sigh, weary and fearful. “I was attacked. It took a finger from me. With its
   teeth.”
   Mocking laughter. “And you let it live?”
   вЂњI would have destroyed it, lord, but then it… Then it killed the Codicier. Brother
   Sadran.”
   Laughter stopped now. Anger colouring. “How?”
   вЂњSadran lost an ear to it. Eaten, swallowed whole. Then the witch stood there and
   waited to be killed. Sadran…” The wounded one is finding it hard to explain.
   вЂњSadran turned his fury on the thing and it reflected it back.”
   вЂњReflected…” The master-voice, different again. Interested.
   вЂњFires, lord. Sadran was consumed by his own fires.” The shapes move around in
   the shadows beyond the cage bars.
   вЂњI’ve never encountered a pariah capable of that…” The master comes close, and
   he has his first real look at it. “You’re something special, aren’t you?”
   вЂњIt may be a fluke birth,” says the injured one. “Or perhaps some throwback from
   the experimentations of the Adeptus Telepathica.”
   A smile grows wide in the gloom. “It may also be an opportunity.”
   He presses up towards the bars, allowing himself to reach the ethereal edges of
   his senses towards the commander-master.
   вЂњWe should kill it,” says the other voice.
   вЂњI’ll be the judge of that.”
   He touches a mind, and for the first time in his life finds something that is darker
   than himself. A stygian soul, steeped in blackness, initiated into realms beyond his
   ability to know.
   вЂњMy Lord Erebus—” the injured one tries to argue, but the master silences him
   with a look.
   вЂњThese are your orders, brother-captain,” says the dark-hearted one. “Remove all
   trace that we were ever here, and ensure that this vessel becomes lost to the void. I
   will gather what we came for… and bring our new friend here into the bargain.” The
   one called Erebus smiles again. “I think we will have use for him.”
   As the other warrior departs, the master leans in. “Do you have a name?” he asks.
   It has been a long time since he has spoken, and it takes a moment to form the
   word; but finally he manages. “Spear.”
   Erebus nods. “Your first lesson, then. I am your master.” Then the warrior is a
   blur, and there is a blade in his hand, and then the blade is in Spear’s chest and the
   pain is blinding, burning.
   вЂњI am your master,” Erebus says once again. “And from now on, you will kill
   only who I tell you to kill.”
   Spear reels back. He nods, giving his fealty. The pain fills him, fills the cage.
   The pain and the cage…
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   The moment snapped like brittle glass and Spear jerked upright, his foot kicking out
   and knocking over a chair. He scrambled to his feet, catching sight of his face in a
   mirror. Hyssos’ aspect was pasty, like unfired clay. He grimaced and tried to
   concentrate; but the encounter with the memory fragment and the flash of his past
   had cut to his core. He was breathing hard, the daemonskin on his hands rippling
   crimson.
   вЂњOperative?” Someone was knocking on his cabin door. “I heard a cry. Are you
   all right in there?”
   вЂњI’m fine!” he shouted back. “It… I fell from my bed. It’s nothing.”
   вЂњYou’re sure?” He recognised the voice now; it was one of the duty officers on
   this deck. “Go away!” he snapped.
   вЂњAye, sir,” said the officer, after a moment, and he heard footsteps recede.
   Spear walked to the mirror and glared at Hyssos’ face as it resurfaced. “You can’t
   stop me,” he told the reflection. “None of you can. None of you!”
   In recognition of their help, the rebels had given all the members of the Execution
   Force quarters in one of the smaller chambers off the main corridor. The rooms were
   no bigger than holding cells, but they were dry and they had privacy, which was
   more than could be said for many of the communal sleeping areas.
   Soalm didn’t knock and wait outside her brother’s compartment; instead she
   slammed the corroded metal door open and stormed into the room.
   He looked up from the makeshift table before him, where the disassembled
   components of his longrifle lay like an exploded technical diagram. Lines of bullets
   were arranged in rows like tiny sentries on a parade ground. He stopped himself from
   drawing his Exitus pistol and returned to the work of cleaning his firearm. “Where
   are your manners, Jenniker?” he said.
   She closed the door and folded her arms. “We’re doing this, then?” she said.
   вЂњWe’re actually going to sacrifice all these people just to complete the mission?”
   вЂњWhat was your first clue?” he asked. “Was it when I told you that was our plan,
   on board the Ultio? Or when Valdor made it exactly, precisely clear what our
   objective was?”
   вЂњYou’re manipulating Capra and his people,” she insisted.
   вЂњThis is what we do,” said her brother. “Don’t pretend you’ve never done the
   same thing to get close to a mark. Lied and cheated?”
   вЂњI’ve never put innocents in harm’s way. The whole motive for the Officio
   Assassinorum is to move sightless and unseen, leave no trace but the corpse of our
   target… But you’re cutting a road of blood for us to follow!”
   вЂњThis isn’t the Great Crusade anymore, dear sister.” He put down his tools and
   studied her. “Are you so naive that you don’t see that? We’re not thinning the ranks
   of a few degenerate bohemian fops in the halls of some hive-world, or terminating a
   troublesome xenos commander. We’re on the front lines of a civil war. The rules of
   engagement are very different now.”
   Soalm was quiet for a moment. It had been many years since she had seen
   Eristede, and it made her sad to see how he had changed. She could only see the
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   worst of him behind those dark eyes. “It’s not just the resistance fighters whose lives
   we are threatening. By keeping this conflict alive we will doom countless innocent
   people, perhaps even threaten the future of this entire planet and the sector beyond.”
   вЂњAre you asking me if the death of Horus Lupercal is worth that price? That’s a
   question you should put to Valdor or the Master of Assassins. I am only doing what I
   was ordered to. Our duty is all that matters.”
   She felt a surge of emotion in her chest and crashed it before it could become a
   snarl or a sob. “How can you be so cold-blooded, Eristede? We are supposed to
   protect the people of the Imperium, not offer them up as fodder for the cannons!”
   Soalm shook her head. “I don’t know who you are.”
   With a flash of anger, her brother bolted to his feet. “You don’t know me? I’m
   not the one who rejected her own name! I didn’t turn my back on justice!”
   вЂњIs that what you tell yourself?” She looked away. “We both had a choice all
   those years ago, Eristede. Escape, or revenge. But you chose revenge, and you
   condemned us to a life where we are nothing but killers.”
   The memory came back to her in a giddy rash. They were both just children then,
   the scions of their family. The last surviving members of the Kell dynasty, their
   holdings destroyed and their parents exterminated during an internecine straggle
   among the aristocrats of the Thaxted Duchy. Orphaned and alone, they had been
   drawn into the halls of the Imperial schola and there both secretly selected by agents
   of the Officio Assassinorum.
   Brother and sister had shown promise—Eristede was an excellent marksman for
   one so young, and Jenniker’s genius for botany and chemistry was clear. They knew
   that soon the clade directors would make their decisions, and that they would be split
   up, perhaps never to see one another again. In the halls of the schola they had made
   their plans to flee together, to eschew the assassin’s path and find a new life.
   But then Clade Vindicare offered something that Eristede Kell wanted more than
   his freedom; the chance to avenge his mother and father. All they asked for in return
   was his loyalty—and consumed by hate, he gave it willingly. Jenniker had been left
   behind with nowhere to go but to the open arms of the Venenum.
   Months later, she had learned that innocents had been killed in the hit on the man
   who murdered their parents, and that had been the day when she swore she would no
   longer go by the name of Kell again.
   вЂњI’d hoped you might have changed since I last saw you,” she said. “And you
   have. But not for the better.”
   Her brother seemed as if he was on the verge of an outburst; but then he drew it
   back in and looked away. “You’re right,” he told her. “You don’t know me. Now get
   out.”
   вЂњAs you command,” Soalm said stiffly.
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   TWELVE
   A Single Drop
   Messenger
   Wilderness of Mirrors
   The men guarding the chamber housing the Void Baron’s private reliquary had
   allowed their concentration to falter. Spear listened to them speak as he stood in the
   shadows beyond their line of sight, a few metres up along the vaulted corridor. News
   had filtered down through the crew hierarchy aboard the Iubar, fractions of the
   reports from the communicatory that warned of sightings of Adeptus Astartes on the
   move. No one seemed to know if they were warriors still loyal to the Emperor of
   Mankind, or if they were those now following the banner of the Warmaster; some
   even dared to suggest that all the mighty Legions of the Astartes had turned their
   faces from their creator, embarking on a jihad to take for themselves what they had
   captured for Terra during the Great Crusade.
   Spear understood only small elements of the unfolding war going on across the
   galaxy; and in truth, it mattered little to him. The killer’s keyhole view of
   intergalactic conflict was enough. He cared little about sides or doctrines. All Spear
   needed was the kill. It was enough that his master Erebus had given him murders to
   commit; perhaps even the greatest murder in human history.
   But before that could happen, he had steps to take. Preparations to be made.
   Spear allowed the daemonskin to regain a small amount of control over itself, and
   the surface of his surrogate flesh shivered. Removing the shipsuit overall he had been
   wearing, he stepped naked into the deep shadows. Hair-like tendrils emerged from
   his epidermis, sampling the air and the ambient light all around. In moments Spear’s
   body became wet with sticky processor fluids, changing colour until it was nightdark.
   His features retreated behind a mask of scabbing crusts, and then he leapt
   soundlessly to the high ceiling. Secreted oils allowed him to adhere there, and the
   killer snaked slowly along his inverted pathway, passing over the heads of the guards
   as they fretted and spoke in low tones about threats they could not understand.
   At the entrance to the reliquary there was an intelligent door possessed of a
   variety of sensory and thought-mechanical systems designed to open only to
   Merriksun Eurotas, or a member of his immediate family. It was little impediment to
   Spear. He slapped the daemonskin lightly as it whined in his mind, dragging on him a
   little as it sensed the guards and expressed a desire to drink their blood. Chastened, it
   obediently extruded a new, thickly-lipped mouth at his palm. Spear held the mouth
   over the biometric breath sensor, as the same time sending new hair-tendrils into the
   thin gaps around the edges of the door. They wormed their way into the locks and
   teased them open one by one.
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   It had been easy to sample the Void Baron’s breath; simply by standing close to
   him, Spear’s daemonskin sheath had plucked the microscopic particulate matter and
   DNA traces of his exhalations from the air, and stored them in a bladder. Now the
   second mouth puffed them out over the sensor.
   There was the whisper of well-lubricated cogs and the door opened. Spear slipped
   inside.
   Dagonet’s sun was passing low over the top of the ridgeline, and soon night would
   fall Jenniker Soalm stood out on the flat expanse of stone that served as a lookout
   post, and looked out at the ochre rocks without really seeing them. She knew that the
   mission clock was winding down towards zero, and at best the Execution Force had
   only hours until they entered the final phase of the operation.
   She could see that the others sensed it too. The Garantine had at last returned
   from whatever lethality he had been spreading on the clanner forces, menacing all
   who saw him. Tariel, Koyne and the Culexus waif were all making ready—and her
   brother…
   Soalm knew exactly what her brother was doing.
   вЂњHello?” The voice made her turn. With slow, careful steps, Lady Sinope
   emerged from the cave mouth behind her and approached. “I was told I might find
   you here.”
   вЂњMilady,” Jenniker bowed slightly.
   Sinope smiled. “You don’t need to do that, child. I’m a noblewoman only in
   name now. The others let me keep the title as a gesture of respect, but the truth is the
   clans of this world have wiped away any honour we ever had.”
   вЂњOthers must have rejected the call to join Horus’ banner.”
   The old woman nodded. “Oh, a few. All dead now, I think. That, or terrified into
   compliance.” She sighed. “Perhaps He will forgive them.”
   Soalm looked away. “I do not believe He is the forgiving kind. After all, the
   Emperor denies all word of his divinity.”
   Sinope nodded again. “Indeed. But then, only the sincerely divine can do such a
   thing and be true in it. Those who think themselves gods are always madmen or
   fools. To be raised to such heights, one must be carried there on the shoulders of
   faith. One must guide and yet be guided.”
   вЂњI would like some guidance myself,” admitted the assassin. “I don’t know where
   to turn.”
   вЂњNo?” The noblewoman found a wind-smoothed rock and sat down on it. “If it is
   not too impertinent a question, may I ask you how you found your way to the light of
   the Lectitio Divinitatus?”
   Soalm sighed. “After our… after my parents were killed in a conflict between
   rival families, I found myself isolated and alone in the care of the Imperium. I had no
   one to watch over me.”
   вЂњOnly the God-Emperor.”
   She nodded. “So I came to realise. He was the single constant in my life. The
   only one who did not judge me… Or leave me. I had heard stories of the Imperial
   Cult… It was not long before I found like-minded people.”
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   Sinope’s head bobbed. “Yes, that is often the way. Like comes to like, all across
   the galaxy. Here on Dagonet there are those who do not yet believe as we do—Capra
   and most of his people, for example—but still we share the same goals. And in the
   end, there are still many, many of us, child. Under different names, in different ways,
   everywhere you find human beings. As He led us to greatness and dispelled the fog
   of all the false gods and mistaken religiosity, the God-Emperor forged the path to the
   one truth. His truth.”
   вЂњAnd yet we must hide that truth.”
   The old woman sighed. “Aye, for the moment. Faith can be so strong at times,
   and yet so weak in the same moment. It is a delicate flower that must be nurtured and
   protected, in preparation for the day when it can truly bloom.” She placed a hand on
   Jenniker’s arm. “And that day is coming.”
   вЂњNot soon enough.”
   Sinope’s hand fell away and she was quiet for a moment. “What do you want to
   tell me, child?”
   Soalm turned to look at her, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”
   вЂњI’ve been doing this since before you were born,” said the woman. “Believe me,
   I know when someone is holding something back. You’re afraid of something, and it
   isn’t just this revolution we find ourselves in.”
   вЂњYes.” The words came of their own accord. “I am afraid. I am afraid that just by
   coming to your world we will destroy all of this.” She gestured around.
   A brief smile crossed Sinope’s lips. “Oh, my dear. Don’t you realise? You have
   brought hope to Dagonet. That is a precious, precious thing. More fragile than faith,
   even.”
   вЂњNo. I did nothing. I am only… a messenger.” Soalm wanted to tell her the truth,
   in that moment. To explain the full scope of the Execution Force’s plans, to reveal
   the real reasons behind their assistance to Capra’s freedom fighters, to cry out her
   darkest, deepest fear—that in her collusion with it all, she was no better than her
   bitter, callous brother.
   But the words would not come. All she heard in her thoughts was Eristede’s
   challenge, the cold calculation he had laid before her; were the lives of these people
   worth more than the death of the Warmaster, the living embodiment of the greatest
   threat to the human Imperium?
   Sinope came and sat with her, and slowly the old woman’s expression turned
   darker. “Let me tell you what I am afraid of,” she said. “And you will understand
   why the struggle is so important. There are sinister forces at large in the universe,
   child.”
   вЂњThe Warmaster…”
   вЂњHorus Lupercal is only an agent of that unchecked anarchy, my dear. There are
   manifestations coming into being on every world that falls into the shadows cast by
   the Warmaster’s ambition. Out in the blackness between the stars, cold hate grows.”
   Soalm found the woman’s quiet, intense voice compelling, and listened in
   silence, captured by her words.
   Sinope went on. “You and I, mankind itself and even the God-Emperor… All are
   being tested by a chorus of ruinous powers. If our Lord is truly divine, then we must
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   know that He will have his opposite, something beyond our understanding of evil…
   What terrifies me is the dream of what will come if we let that hate overwhelm our
   glorious Imperium. There will be disorder and destruction. Fire—”
   вЂњAnd chaos,” said Jenniker.
   Had the choice been his, the killer would have preferred to wait until the Iubar and
   its attendant ships had reached the Sol system before attempting this penetration; but
   Spear’s windows of opportunity were limited, and growing smaller with each passing
   hour. It was simply the most expedient option to do this now. Once they were within
   the boundaries of the Segmentum Solar, security around the Eurotas flotilla would
   increase tenfold and Operative Hyssos would have much to occupy his time and
   attention.
   And then there was the other possibility to consider; that his target, once marked
   and stored, might be sufficiently powerful that Spear’s ability could be released
   against it from across an interplanetary distance. He hoped that would not prove to be
   so—Spear relished the moment of great joy when he looked a kill in the eye and saw
   the understanding of the end upon it. To be denied that in his crowning moment… It
   would be simply unjust.
   The killer kept to the lines of tiles that glowed phosphor-green through the
   gelatinous lenses the daemonskin had grown over his eyes; normal human vision
   would have noticed nothing to differentiate the tiles on the floor of the reliquary, and
   so a luckless entrant would wander into one of the zones of contra-gravity stitched
   into the chamber—there to float trapped until the guards came with guns and ready
   trigger-fingers.
   He ignored the works of art and objects of incredible value that arrayed the long
   gallery, each given pride of place in an alcove of its own. The remains of every
   Eurotas Void Baron since the first were held here, their ashes in urns as tall as a
   child, the containers made from spun diamond, tantalum, the shells of a Xexet quintal
   and other materials, each rarer and more expensive than the last. Portraits of lords
   and ladies from the clan’s history dominated every surface, and all of them stared out
   sightlessly at Spear as he threaded his way past, avoiding the perception spheres of
   beam sensors and magnetic anomaly detectors. The daemonskin’s fronds waved
   gently as he moved, continually tasting the ambient atmosphere and temperature to
   keep the intruder cooled in synchrony. The thermal monitors studding every square
   centimetre of the reliquary walls looked for the glow of body heat, but saw nothing.
   All the patient, clever machines continued to believe the chamber was still empty.
   At the far end of the gallery, inside a glass stasis cage on a plinth made of white
   marble and platinum, was the Warrant of Trade.
   Spear slowed as he approached it, licking his lips behind the bindings of his scab
   mask. The motion made the oily skin peel back over his cheeks, revealing teeth, a
   grin.
   The book was made of real paper, fabricated from one of the last natural forests
   on Venus. The ink had been refined from burst-sac fluids harvested from Jovian
   skimmer rays. Artisans from Merica had assembled the tome, bound it in rich groxhide.
   Inlaid on the cover, flecks of gemstones from all the colonised worlds of the Sol
   system shimmered in the light of the gallery’s electrocandles. This book was the
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   physical manifestation of the Eurotas clan’s right to travel the stars. More than their
   fleets of vessels, their armies of staff and crew, more than the fiscal might they
   wielded over countless worlds and industrial holdings across the Taebian Stars—
   more than any of those things, the Warrant was what gave Merriksun Eurotas and his
   kindred the Emperor’s permission to trade, to voyage, to expand the Imperium’s
   influence through sheer economic power.
   The killer almost laughed at that. As if any being could parcel out sections of the
   universe to his followers like plots of land or portions of food. What hubris. What
   monumental arrogance to assume that they had that entitlement. Such power could
   not be given; it could only be taken, through bloodshed, pain and the ruthless
   application of will.
   The glass case had a complex mechanism of suspensors and gravity splines
   within it, and with the passage of a hand over a ruby sensor pad on the frame, the
   pages of the book inside could be turned without ever touching them. Spear flicked at
   the sensor and the Warrant creaked open, leaf after leaf of dense text flickering past.
   It fluttered to a halt on an ornately illuminated page lined in gilt, purple ink and
   silver leaf. Words in High Gothic surrounded a sumptuously detailed picture
   repeating the image depicted in the jade frieze in the audience chamber—the
   Emperor granting the first Eurotas his boon. But Spear’s hungry gaze ignored the
   workmanship, turning instead towards a wet, liquid patch of dark crimson captured
   upon the featureless white vellum of the Warrant’s final page.
   A single drop of blood.
   He laid his hand on the edge of the case and let the daemonskin around his
   fingertips deliquesce, oozing into the weld holding the construction together. The
   heavy duty armourglass creaked and split down the seam, the malleable flesh
   pressing on it, shifting it out of true. All at once, a pane gave off a snap of sound, and
   the killer muffled it with his oily palms. The glass fell out of the frame and into his
   hand. He greedily reached inside, with trembling fingers.
   Spear would rip the page from the ancient book, tear it out of the stasis field that
   had preserved it for hundreds of years. He would hold the paper to his lips and
   consume the blood, take it like the kiss of a lover. He would—
   His hand reached for the pages of the Warrant of Trade and passed straight
   through it, as if the book were made of smoke. Inside the glass case, the tome seemed
   to flicker and grow indistinct, for one blinding moment becoming nothing but a
   perfect ghost image projected from a cluster of hololithic emitters concealed inside
   the frame of the cage.
   The case was empty; and for a moment so was Spear, his chest hollowed out by
   the sudden, horrible realisation that his prize was not here.
   But then he was filled anew with murderous rage, and it took every last fraction
   of his self-control to stop the killer from screaming out his fury and destroying
   everything around him.
   After Lady Sinope had left her alone once more, Soalm remained where she was on
   the ridge and waited for the darkness to engulf her. The night sky, a sight that so
   often gave her a moment of peace as she contemplated it, now seemed only to veil
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   the threats the old woman had spoken of. She shivered involuntarily and felt a cold,
   familiar pressure at the edge of her senses.
   вЂњIota.” She turned and found the Culexus standing near the cave entrance,
   watching her. The dusky-skinned girl’s eyes glittered. “Spying on me?”
   вЂњYes,” came the reply. “You should not remain outside for too long. There are
   ships in orbit and satellite systems under the control of the clan forces. They will be
   sweeping this zone with their long-range imagers.”
   вЂњHow long have you been watching?”
   вЂњI do not believe He is the forgiving kind,” she repeated, fingering the nullifier
   tore around her neck.
   Soalm frowned. “You have no right to intrude on a private conversation!”
   If that was meant to inspire guilt in Iota, she gave no such reaction. The pariah
   seemed unable to grasp the niceties of such concepts as privacy, tact or social graces.
   вЂњWhat did the woman Sinope mean, when she spoke about вЂ˜forces at large’?” Iota
   shook her head. “She did not refer to threats of a military nature.”
   вЂњIt’s complicated,” said Soalm. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure myself.”
   вЂњBut you value her words. And the words in the book.”
   Soalm’s blood ran cold. “What book?”
   вЂњThe one in the chamber on the lower levels. Where the others gather with
   Sinope to talk about the Emperor as a god. You have been there.”
   вЂњYou followed me?” Soalm took a warning step forwards.
   вЂњYes. Later I returned when no one was there. I read some of the book.” Iota
   looked away, still toying with the tore. “I found it confusing.”
   Soalm studied the Culexus, her mind racing. If Iota revealed the presence of the
   hidden chapel inside the rebel base, there was no way to predict what would happen.
   Many of Capra’s resistance fighters followed the staunchly antitheist Imperial edict
   that labelled all churches as illegal; and she could not imagine what Eristede might
   do if he learned she had involvement with the Lectitio Divinitatus.
   вЂњKell will not be pleased,” said the other woman, as if she could read her
   thoughts.
   вЂњYou won’t speak of it,” Soalm insisted. “You will not tell him!”
   Iota cocked her head. “He is blood kindred to you. The animus speculum reads
   the colour of your auras. I saw the parity between them the first time I watched you
   through the eyes of my helm. And yet you keep that a secret too.”
   Soalm tried and failed to keep the shock from her face. “And what other secrets
   do you know, pariah?”
   She returned a level stare. “I know that you are now considering how you might
   ensure my silence by killing me. If you make the attempt, there is a chance you may
   succeed. But you are conflicted by the thought of such an action. It is something
   your… brother… would not hesitate to do in your place.”
   вЂњI am not Eristede,” she insisted.
   вЂњNo, you are not.” Iota’s face softened. “What is it like?”
   вЂњWhat?”
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   вЂњHaving kindred. Siblings. I have no concept or experience of it. I was matured in
   an enclosed environment. A research facility. Your experience… fascinates me.
   What is it like?” she repeated.
   Strangely, Soalm felt a momentary pang of sadness for the Culexus. “Difficult,”
   she replied, at length. “Iota, listen to me. Please, say nothing to the others about the
   chapel.”
   вЂњIf I do not, will you try to kill me?”
   вЂњWill you force me?”
   The Culexus shook her head. “No.”
   Where? Where was the Warrant?
   The question thundered through Spear’s mind and it would not let him go. He
   could not find rest, could not find a moment’s peace until the document had been
   located. Everything about his master’s careful, intricate plan hinged on the
   procurement of that one item. Without it, the assassination of the Emperor of
   Mankind was impossible. Spear was useless, a gun unloaded, a sword blade blunted.
   His existence had no meaning without the kill. Every single death he had performed,
   all of them, from the strangling of his birthparents to the ashing of the Word Bearer
   who came to slit his throat, the fools on Iesta Veracrux, the psy-witch, the
   investigators and the man whose face he now wore— all of them were only steps on
   a road towards his ultimate goal.
   And now, Merriksun Eurotas had denied him that. The bloody rage Spear felt
   towards the Void Baron was so all-consuming that the killer feared merely laying
   eyes on the man would shatter his cover and send him into a berserker frenzy.
   Spear had all but the most trivial of Hyssos’ memories absorbed within him, and
   the operative had never known that the Warrant of Trade on display in the reliquary
   was a fake. There were fewer than a dozen men and women in the entire Eurotas
   Consortium who outranked the operative in matters of security… Spear wondered if
   one of them might know the true location of the tome. But how to be sure? He could
   kill his way through them and never be certain if they had that precious knowledge
   until he sucked it from their dying minds; but he could not risk such reckless
   behaviour.
   Eurotas himself would know. But murdering the Void Baron here and now,
   disposing of a body, passing through another assumption so soon after having torn
   Hyssos’ identity from his corpse… This was a course fraught with danger, far too
   risky to succeed.
   No. He needed to find another way, and quickly.
   вЂњHyssos?” The nobleman’s voice was pitched high and sharp. “What are you
   doing here?”
   Spear looked up as Eurotas crossed the anteroom of the rogue trader’s personal
   quarters where he stood waiting. “My lord,” he began, moderating his churning
   thoughts. “Forgive my intrusion, but I must speak with you.”
   Eurotas glanced over his shoulder as he tied a velvet belt around the day robes he
   was wearing. Through a half-open door, it was possible to glimpse a sleeping
   chamber beyond. A naked woman was lying in a doze back there on a snarl of bed
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   sheets. “I am engaged,” the baron said, with a grimace. He seemed distracted. “Come
   to the audience chamber after we enter the warp, and—”
   вЂњNo sir,” Spear put a little steel into Hyssos’ voice. “This won’t wait until we set
   off for Arrowhead. If I am correct, we may need to return to Iesta Veracrux.”
   That got his attention. Eurotas’ eyes narrowed, but not enough to hide the flicker
   of fear in them. “Why would that be so?”
   вЂњI have been retracing my steps, going over my notes and recollections from the
   Iestan murders.” He fixed the baron with a level gaze and began to pay out the fiction
   he had created over the last few hours; a fiction he hoped would force the nobleman
   to give up the information he so desperately needed. “The two men… Yosef Sabrat
   and Daig Segan, the ones who did those terrible deeds. There was something they
   said that did not seem right to me, at the end when I thought I would be killed by
   them.”
   вЂњGo on.” Eurotas went to a servitor and had it pour him a glass of water.
   вЂњSir, they spoke about a warrant.” The baron stiffened slightly at the word. Spear
   smiled inwardly and went on. “At the time I thought they meant warrants of arrest…
   But the thought occurs that they may have been talking about something else.” He
   nodded towards a painting on the wall, an impressionistic work showing the current
   Void Baron reading from the Warrant of Trade as if it were some scholarly volume
   of esoteric knowledge.
   вЂњWhy would they be interested in the Warrant?” Eurotas demanded.
   вЂњI do not know. But these were no ordinary murderers, sir. We still cannot be
   certain by what exact means they terminated poor Perrig… And the things they did at
   the sites of their kills in the name of their Theoge cult—”
   вЂњThey were not part of the Theoge!” snapped the baron, the retort coming out of
   nowhere. He shook his head and paced away a few steps. “I always knew…” said the
   nobleman, after a moment of silence. “I always knew that Erno Sigg was innocent.
   That’s why I sent you, Hyssos. Because I trusted you to find the truth.”
   Spear bowed, allowing his stolen face to grow saddened. “I hope I did not
   disappoint you. And you were correct, my lord. Sigg was a dupe.”
   вЂњThose murdering swine were not part of the Theoge,” Eurotas repeated, turning
   to advance on him once more. His face had lost some of its earlier colour and his
   gaze was turned inwards.
   вЂњHigh-Reeve Telemach seemed to think otherwise,” Spear pressed. “If I may ask,
   why do you disagree with her?” The killer saw something ephemeral pass over the
   other man’s face; the shadow of a hidden truth. The understanding was coming up
   from Hyssos’ captured persona, from the operative’s instinctive grasp of fragile
   human nature, his ability to perceive the falsehood in the words of a liar. Spear let it
   rise; Eurotas was going to incriminate himself, if he could only be encouraged to do
   so. The Void Baron had known more than he had revealed about this situation all
   along, and only now was it coming to light.
   вЂњI… I will tell you what I… believe,” said the nobleman, moving to the door to
   close it. “Those madmen on Iesta Veracrux were not just spree killers tormenting and
   bloodletting to satisfy their own insanity. I am certain now that they were agents of
   the Warmaster Horus Lupercal, may he rot. They were part of a plot that casts a
   shadow over the Taebian Sector, perhaps over the whole galaxy!” He shuddered.
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   вЂњWe have all heard the rumours about the… things that happen on the worlds that
   have fallen.” Then his tone grew more intense. “Discrediting the Theoge and
   blackening the name of our clan is just one part of this conspiracy of evil.”
   Spear said nothing, dissembling the man’s words in his thoughts. It was clear
   now why Eurotas had been so quick to call the matter closed and depart from Iesta
   Veracrux as fast as decorum would allow. The involvement of Erno Sigg in the
   murders had been bad enough, but Eurotas had to be sure that sooner or later the
   clan’s name would become connected to the incident in another, more damning way.
   He was afraid…
   On a swift and sudden impulse, Spear rocked off his feet from where he stood at
   attention and snatched at the Void Baron’s robes, pulling the man off-balance.
   вЂњWhat in Terra’s name do you think you are doing?” Eurotas cried out, affronted
   at the abrupt assault.
   But in the next second his flash of anger died in his throat when Spear pulled up
   the voluminous sleeve of his robe to reveal a golden chain tight around his wrist, and
   on it the shape of an aquila sigil. This time he couldn’t resist letting a small smile
   creep out over Hyssos’ lips. “You’re one of them.”
   Eurotas shrugged him off and backed away, a guilty cast coming to his eyes.
   вЂњWhat are you talking about? Get out. You’re dismissed.”
   вЂњI think not, sir.” Spear gave him a hard look. “I think an explanation is in order.”
   For a moment, the man teetered on the verge of shouting him down, calling in his
   personal guard from the corridor outside; but Hyssos’ unerring sense for the hidden
   told Spear that Eurotas would not. The dead man’s instincts were correct. The
   nobleman’s shoulders slumped and he planted himself in an ornamental chair, staring
   into the middle distance.
   Spear waited for the confession that he knew would come next; men like the Void
   Baron lacked the will or the strength to really inhabit a lie. In the end, they welcomed
   the chance to unburden themselves.
   вЂњI am not…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “The people who call
   themselves the Theoge came after, do you see? It was we who came first. We carried
   the message from Terra, in safe keeping aboard our ships, across the entire sector.
   Every son and daughter of the Eurotas family has been a participant in the Lectitio
   Divinitatus, since the day of the boon. We carry the Emperor’s divinity with us.” He
   said the words with rote precision, without any real energy or impetus behind them.
   Spear recalled what Daig Segan had said just before he had torn him open. “The
   Emperor protects…”
   Eurotas nodded solemnly; but it was abundantly clear that the light of true belief,
   the blind faith that Segan had shown in his dying moments, was in no way reflected
   in the Void Baron. If the nobleman was a believer in the cult of the God-Emperor,
   then it was only as one who paid lip service to it, because it was expected of him.
   Spear’s lip curled, his disgust for the man growing by the moment; he did not even
   have the courage of his convictions.
   вЂњIt is our hidden duty,” Eurotas went on. “We spread the word of His divinity in
   quiet and secrecy. Our clan has been allied to groups like the Theoge on dozens of
   worlds, for centuries.” He looked away. “But I never truly… That is, I did not…”
   165
   Spear watched and waited, saying nothing. As he expected, Eurotas was
   compelled to fill the silence.
   вЂњHorus is destroying everything. Every thread of power and influence we have,
   broken one at a time. And now he strikes not only at our holdings, but at the network
   my forefathers built to carry the word of the Lectitio Divinitatus! A network of
   clandestine authority the Eurotas have used to control the Taebian Sector for
   hundreds of years.” Spear shook Hyssos’ head. The human’s arrogance was
   towering; he actually believed that a being as great as the Warmaster would lower
   himself to such parlour games as disrupting the ambitions of a single petty, venal
   rogue trader. The reality was, the slow collapse of the Eurotas clan’s fortunes was
   just a side effect of Horus’ advance across the Ultima Segmentum.
   Still; it would serve Spear’s interests to allow the man to think he was the focus
   of some interstellar conspiracy, when in fact he and all his blighted clan were little
   more than a means to an end.
   вЂњEver since the conclusion of the Great Crusade, it has become harder and harder
   to hold on to things.” Eurotas sighed. “Our fortunes are on the wane, my friend. I
   have tried to hide it, but it grows worse every day. I thought perhaps, when we return
   to Terra, I could petition the Sigillite for an audience, and then—”
   вЂњWhere is the Warrant of Trade?” Spear was growing tired of the Void Baron,
   and he struck out with the question.
   Eurotas reacted as if he had been slapped. “It… In the reliquary, of course.” The
   lie was a poor one at best.
   вЂњI am your senior security operative, sir,” Spear retorted. “Please credit me with
   some intelligence. Where is the real Warrant?”
   вЂњHow did you know?” He shot to his feet, knocking the water glass to the floor
   where it shattered. A service mechanical skittered in across the carpet to clean up the
   breakage, but Eurotas paid it no heed. “Only three people…” He paused, composing
   himself. “When… did you find out?”
   Spear studied him. “That is of no consequence.” After the abortive infiltration of
   the reliquary, the killer had been careful to ensure that no trace of his entry remained.
   вЂњWhat matters is that you tell me where the real Warrant is now. If you are correct
   about these agents in the employ of the Warmaster, then we must be certain it is
   secure.”
   вЂњThey were looking for it…” whispered Eurotas, shocked by the thought.
   When the baron looked up at him with cold fear in his eyes, Spear knew that he
   had the man in his grasp. “My sworn duty is to serve the Eurotas clan and their
   endeavours. That includes your… network. But I cannot do that if the Warrant
   becomes lost.”
   вЂњThat must never happen.” The Void Baron swallowed hard. “It is… not with the
   fleet. You have to understand, I had little choice. There were certain arrears that
   could not be paid, favours that were required in order to keep the clan operating—”
   вЂњWhere?” Spear cracked Hyssos’ gruff voice like a whip.
   Eurotas looked away, abashed. “The Warrant of Trade was touched by the hand
   of the God-Emperor of Mankind, and so in the eyes of those who embrace the word
   of the Lectitio Divinitatus, it is a holy object. In exchange for the nullification of a
   number of very large debts, I agreed to allow an assemblage of nobles involved with
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   the Theoge to take possession of the Warrant for… for an extended period of
   pilgrimage.”
   вЂњWhat nobles?” Spear demanded. “Where?”
   вЂњThey have not answered my communications. I fear they may be dead or in
   hiding. When Horus’ forces find them, they will be wiped out, and the Warrant will
   be destroyed…” His lip trembled. “If it has not already been.” Eurotas looked up.
   вЂњThe Warrant is on the planet Dagonet.”
   Finally. The answer. For a long moment, Spear considered breaking out of
   Hyssos’ restrictive body and reverting back to his kill-form, just to show Eurotas
   what sort of fool he was the instant before he ripped him to shreds; but instead he let
   the rage ebb and gave a sullen nod. “I will need a ship, then. The fastest cutter
   available.”
   вЂњYou cannot go to Dagonet!” Eurotas insisted. “The government there has
   already declared for the Warmaster! There is word that the Sons of Horus are on their
   way to the planet at this very moment… It’s suicide! I won’t allow it.”
   Spear twisted his proxy flesh into a sorrowful smile, and gave a shallow bow. “I
   swear to you I will recover the Warrant, my lord. As of this moment, my life has no
   other purpose.”
   At length, the nobleman nodded. “Very well. And may the Emperor protect you.”
   вЂњWe can but hope,” he replied.
   167
   THIRTEEN
   Faith or Duty
   Bonded
   The Warrant
   The summons came from the Vindicare, and so Iota joined Kell and the rest of the
   Execution Force in one of several storage rooms down in the web of caves, away
   from the more heavily-populated sections of the hideaway. The room smelled of
   promethium; drums of the liquid fuel were stacked to the ceiling in corners, and the
   air circulation system worked in fits and starts.
   Kell had been careful to time the gathering to coincide with the regular
   overflights of clan patrol craft; every time it happened, the rebels would fall silent, go
   dark, and wait for the flyers to make their loop over the Bladecut before heading back
   to the city. It meant that Capra, Beye, Grohl and the others were all occupied,
   allowing the assassins to gather unnoticed, at least for a little while.
   The Vindicare surveyed the room, looking at them all in turn. Iota noted that he
   looked to Soalm last of all, and seemed to linger on her. She wondered if his sibling
   understood the meaning behind that fractional moment. Iota regarded her
   understanding of human social interaction as an ongoing experiment, but her limited
   knowledge also afforded her a clarity that others lacked; for all the distance between
   the brother and sister, it seemed obvious to the Culexus that Kell cared for Soalm
   more than the woman knew—or wanted to know.
   вЂњWe’re entering the final phase,” Kell said, without preamble. “Beye’s contacts
   in the city have sent word of sightings at the perimeter of the Dagonet system. Warp
   disturbances. The prelude to the opening of a gateway.”
   вЂњHow long until we know for sure?” asked Koyne. The Callidus looked like a
   child’s doll the size of a man, all sketched, incomplete features and pale skin.
   вЂњWe can’t stay put and wait for confirmation,” Tariel said, without looking up
   from his cogitator gauntlet’s keyboard. “By the time the warships enter orbit it will
   be too late.”
   The Garantine made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat that appeared to be
   an affirmation.
   вЂњWe commit now,” said Kell. “The Lance has been concealed, yes?” He looked
   at Tariel, who nodded.
   вЂњAye,” said the infocyte. “Grohl supplied transport from the star-port. I
   supervised the assembly of the component parts myself. It’s ready.”
   вЂњBut there’s no way to test it, is there?” Koyne leaned forwards. “If this doesn’t
   work…”
   168
   вЂњIt will work,” Kell insisted. “Everything we’ve done has been leading up to this
   moment. We’re not going to start second-guessing ourselves now.”
   вЂњI was only making an observation,” said the shade. “As I will be the closest to
   the target, I think it’s fair to say I have the most invested in a trouble-free
   termination.”
   вЂњDon’t fret,” said the Eversor. “You won’t get too dirty.”
   вЂњWe have fall-back options in place.” Kell ignored the comment and nodded
   towards Iota and Soalm. “But for now, we concentrate on the primary schema.” He
   paused and threw Tariel a look.
   The Vanus operative consulted a timer window among the panes of hololiths
   hanging before him, and then glanced up. “The clanner patrols should be heading
   back to the capital at any moment.”
   вЂњAnd we’ll follow them.” Kell reached for his spy mask where it hung from his
   gear belt. “You all have your own preparations to make. I suggest you complete them
   in short order and then head out. Each of us will go back into the capital individually
   via different routes, and rendezvous at the star-port. I’ll be waiting for you aboard the
   Ultio after sunset.”
   The only member of the group who did not move after Kell’s dismissal was
   Soalm. She looked at the Vindicare, her lips thinning. “Has Capra been informed?”
   вЂњDon’t be a fool!” snorted the Eversor, before the other man could even speak.
   вЂњWe may have killed one of the turncoats in this little play-gang of rebels, but there
   are likely others, watching and waiting for something juicy to report before they
   betray this place.” The Garantine opened his clawed hands. “These people are
   amateurs. They can’t be trusted.”
   Soalm was still looking at Kell. “What are they supposed to do after it is done?”
   Iota saw colour rise in the Vindicare’s cheeks, but he kept his temper in check.
   вЂњCapra is resourceful. He’ll know what to do.”
   вЂњIf he has any sense,” muttered Koyne, “he’ll run.”
   Soalm turned away and was the first from the chamber.
   Jenniker reached the compartment Beye had assigned to her and went in. What little
   equipment she had was there, cunningly disguised as a lady traveller’s attachР№. It
   seemed strangely out of place among such drab accommodation, on the Imperial
   Army-surplus bedroll beside a drawstring bag of ration packs. She paused, studying
   it.
   Inside the case, concealed inside clever modules and secret sections, there were
   vials of powder, flat bottles of colourless fluid, thin strips of metallised chemical
   compounds, injectors and capsules and dermal tabs. The manner and means to end an
   entire city’s worth of human lives, if need be.
   For a while she thought about how simple it would be to introduce a philtre of
   time-release metasarin into the water system of the rebel hideout. Tailored with the
   right mix, she could make it painless for them. They would just fall asleep, never to
   wake. They would be spared the brutal deaths that were fated to them all—the
   payment that would be exacted no matter if the Execution Force succeeded or failed.
   She thought about Lady Sinope, of trusting Beye and the ever-suspicious Grohl.
   169
   Some might have said it would be a mercy. The Warmaster was not a
   magnanimous conqueror.
   Soalm shook her head violently to dispel the thought, and hated herself in that
   instant. “I am not Eristede,” she whispered to the air.
   A sharp knock at the rusted metal door startled her. “Hello?” said a voice. She
   recognised it as one of the men she had seen in the makeshift chapel. “Are you in
   there?”
   She slid the door open. “What is it?”
   The man’s face was flushed with worry. “They’re coming,” he husked. She didn’t
   need to ask who they were. If Beye’s contacts in the city had spoken to Capra, then it
   was logical to assume that others in the rebel encampment knew of what was on the
   horizon as well.
   вЂњI know.”
   He pressed something into her palm. “Sinope gave me this for you.” It was a
   tarnished voc-locket, a type of portable recording device that lovers or family
   members gave to one another as a memento. The device contained a tiny, shortduration
   memory spool and hologram generator. “I’ll be outside.” He pulled the door
   shut and Soalm was alone in the room again.
   She turned the locket over in her hands and found the activation stud. Holding her
   breath, she squeezed it.
   A grainy hololith of Lady Sinope’s face, no larger than Jenniker’s palm, flickered
   into life. “Dear child,” she began, an urgency in her words that Soalm had not heard
   before, “forgive me for not asking this of you in person, but circumstances have
   forced me to leave the caves. The man who gave you this is a trusted friend, and he
   will bring you to me.” The noblewoman paused and she seemed to age a decade in
   the space of a single breath. “We need your help. At first I thought I might be
   mistaken, but with each passing day it has become clearer and clearer to me that you
   are here for a reason. He sent you, Jenniker. You said yourself that you are only вЂ˜a
   messenger’… And now I understand what message you must carry.” The image
   flickered as Sinope glanced over her shoulder, distracted by something beyond the
   range of the locket’s tiny sensor-camera. She looked back, and her eyes were intense.
   вЂњI have not been truthful with you. The place you saw, our chapel… There’s more
   than just that. We have a… I suppose you could call it a sanctuary. It is out in the
   wastes, far from prying eyes. I will be there by the time you receive this. I want you to
   come here, child. We need you. He needs you. Whatever mission may have brought
   you to Dagonet, what I ask of you now goes beyond it.” She felt the woman’s gaze
   boring into her. “Don’t forsake us, Jenniker. I know you believe with all your heart,
   and even though it pains me to do so, I must ask you to choose your faith over your
   duty.” Sinope looked away. “If you refuse… The rains of blood will fall all the way
   to Holy Terra.”
   The hologram faded and Soalm found her hands were shaking. She could not
   look away from the locket, grasping it in her fingers as if it would magically spirit
   her away from this place.
   Lady Sinope’s words, her simple words, had cut into her heart. Her emotions
   twisted tight in her chest. She was a sworn agent of the Officio Assassinorum, a
   secluse of the Clade Venenum ranked at Epsilon-dan, and she had her orders. But she
   170
   was also Jenniker Soalm—Jenniker Kell— a daughter of the Imperium of Man and
   loyal servant of the divine God-Emperor of Humanity.
   Which path would serve Him best? Which path would serve His subjects best?
   Try as she might, she could not shake off the power behind Sinope’s message.
   The quiet potency of the noblewoman had bled into the room, engulfing her. Soalm
   knew that what she was being asked to do was right— far more so than a bloodsoaked
   mission of murder that would only lead to death on a far greater scale.
   The church of the Lectitio Divinitatus on Dagonet needed her. When she had
   needed help after mother and father—and then Eristede—had been lost to her, it was
   the word of the God-Emperor that had given her strength. Now that debt was to be
   answered.
   In the end she realised there was no question of what to do next.
   The door opened with a clatter, and the rebel soldier started, turning to see the pale
   assassin woman standing on the threshold. She had an elaborately-etched wooden
   case over her shoulder on a strap, and was in the process of attaching a holstered
   bact-gun to her belt. She looked up, her hood already up about her head. “Sinope said
   you would take me to her.”
   He nodded gratefully. “Yes, of course. This way. Follow me.” The rebel took a
   couple of steps and then halted, frowning. “The others… Your comrades?”
   вЂњThey don’t need to know,” said Soalm, and gestured for him to carry on. The
   two of them disappeared around a curve in the corridor, heading up towards the
   surface.
   From the shadows, Iota watched them go.
   Spear loathed the warp.
   When he travelled through the screaming halls of the immaterium, he did his best
   to ensure that he did so in stasis, his body medicated into hibernation— or failing
   that, if he were forced to remain awake by virtue of having assumed the identity of
   another, then he prepared himself with long hours of mental rituals.
   Both were in order to calm the daemonskin. In the realms of normal space, on a
   planet or elsewhere, the molecule-thin layer of living tissue bonded to his birth flesh
   was under his control. Oh, there were times when it became troublesome, when it
   tried to defy him in small ways, but in the end Spear was the master of it. And as
   long as it was fed, as long as he sated it with killings and blood, it obeyed.
   But in the depths of warp space, things were different. Here, with only metres of
   steel and the gauzy energy web of a Geller field between him and the thunder and
   madness of the ethereal, the daemonskin became troublesome. Spear wondered if it
   was because it sensed the proximity of its kindred out there, in the form of the
   predatory, almost-sentient life that swarmed unseen in the wake of the starships that
   passed.
   Eurotas had granted him the use of a ship called the Yelene, a fast cutter from the
   Consortium’s courier fleet designed to carry low-mass, high-value cargoes on swift
   system-to-system runs. The Yelene’s crew were among the best officers and men the
   clan had to offer, but Spear barely registered them. He gave the captain only two
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   orders; the first was to make space for Dagonet at maximum speed; the second was
   not to disturb him during the journey unless the ship was coming apart around them.
   The crew all knew who Hyssos was. Among some levels of the Eurotas clan’s
   hierarchy, he was seen as the Void Baron’s attack dog, and that reputation served
   Spear well now, glowering through another man’s face at everyone he saw, before
   locking himself into the opulent passenger cabin provided for his use. The cabin was
   detailed in rich, red velvet that made the murderer feel like he was drowning in
   blood. That comforted him, but only for a while.
   Once the Yelene was in the thick of the warp, the daemonskin awoke and cried in
   his mind like a wounded, whining animal. It wanted to be free, and for a long
   moment, so did Spear.
   He pushed the thought away as if he were drawing back a curtain, but it snagged
   on something. Spear felt a pull deep in his psyche, clinging to the tails of the disloyal
   emotion.
   Sabrat.
   NO NO NO NO
   Furious, Spear launched himself at a bookcase along one of the walls and
   slammed his head into it, beating his malleable face bloody. The impact and the pain
   forced the remnant of the dead reeve’s persona away again, but the daemonskin was
   still fretting and writhing, pushing at his tunic, issuing tendrils from every square
   centimetre of bare flesh.
   It would not obey him. The moment of slippage, the instant when the corpsemind
   shard had risen to the fore, had allowed the daemonskin to gain a tiny foothold
   of self-control.
   вЂњThat won’t do,” he hissed aloud, and strode over to the well-stocked drinks
   cabinet. Spear found a bottle of rare Umbran brandy and smashed it open at the neck.
   He doused the bare skin of his arms with the rich, peaty liquid and the tendrils
   flinched. Then, he tore open the lid of a humidor on a nearby desk and took the evertaper
   from within. At the touch of his thumb, it lit and he jabbed it into the skin. A
   coating of bluish flame engulfed his hands and he bunched his fists, letting the pain
   seep into him.
   The fire and the pain.
   Outside the ship there is nothing but fire. Inside, only pain.
   Where he stands, he is shackled to the deck by an iron chain thicker than a man’s
   forearm, heavy double links reaching to a manacle around his right leg. It is so tightly
   fastened that he would need to sever the limb at the knee to gain his freedom.
   His attention is not on this, however. One wall of the chamber in which the
   master’s warriors placed him is not there. Instead, there is only fire. Burning
   madness. He is aware that a thin membrane of energy separates that inferno from
   him. How this is possible he cannot know; such science-sorcery is beyond him.
   He knows only that he is looking into the warp itself, and by turns the warp looks
   back into him.
   He howls and pulls at the chain. The runes and glyphs drawn all over his naked
   body are itching and inflamed, cold-hot and torturing him. The warp is pulling at the
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   monstrous, unknowable words etched into him. He howls again, and this time the
   master answers.
   вЂњBe afraid,” Erebus tells him. “The fear will smooth the bonding. It will give it
   something to sink its teeth into.”
   He can’t tell where the voice is coming from. Like so many times before, ever
   since the opening of the cage, Erebus seems to be inside his thoughts whenever he
   wishes to be. Sometimes the master comes in there and leaves things— knowledge,
   ability, thirsts—and sometimes he takes things instead. Memories, perhaps. It’s not
   easy to be certain.
   He has questions; but they die in his throat when he sees the thing coming from
   the deeps of the warp. It moves like mercury, shimmering and poisonous. It sees him.
   Erebus anticipates his words. “A minor phylum of warp creature,” explains the
   master. “A predator. Dangerous but less than intelligent. Cunning, in a fashion.”
   It is coming. The gauzy veil of energy trembles. Soon it will pucker and open,
   just for the tiniest of moments. Enough to let it in.
   вЂњIt can be domesticated,” says the Word Bearer. “If one has the will to control it.
   Do you have the will, Spear?”
   вЂњYes, master—”
   He does not finish his words. The predator-daemon finds the gap and streams
   through it, into the opened bay of the starship. It smothers him, skirling and shrieking
   its joy at finding a rich, easy kill.
   This is the moment when Erebus allows himself a noise of amusement; this is the
   moment when the daemon, in its limited way, realises that everywhere it has touched
   Spear’s flesh, across every rune and sigil, it cannot release. It cannot consume.
   And he collapses to the deck, writhing in agony as it tries to break free, fails,
   struggles, and finally merges.
   As the hatch closes off the compartment from the red hell outside, Spear hears the
   master’s voice receding.
   вЂњIt will take you days of agony to dominate it, and failure will mean you both die.
   The magicks etched into you cannot be broken. You are bonded now. It is your skin.
   You will master it, as I have mastered you.”
   The words echo and fade, and then there is only his screaming, and the daemon’s
   screaming.
   And the fire and the pain.
   A thin and cold drizzle had come in with the veil of night, and all across the star-port,
   the rain hissed off the cracked, battle-damaged runways and landing pads in a
   constant rush of sound. Water streamed off the folded wingtips of the Ultio’s forward
   module, down through the broken roof of the hangar, spattering against the patch of
   dry ferrocrete beneath the vessel where it crouched low to the ground. It resembled
   an avian predator, ready to throw itself into the sky; but for now the ship’s systems
   were running in dark mode, with nothing to betray its operable state to the infrequent
   patrols that passed by.
   The star-port had remained largely abandoned since the start of the insurrection.
   It was still a long way down the clanner government’s long list of important
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   infrastructure repairs. Rebel strikes against power stations and communications
   towers made sure of that, although Capra had been careful that lines of supply were
   kept open so that the native populace would not starve. He was winning hearts and
   minds, for all the good that would do him in the long run.
   Kell stood at the foot of the Ultio’s landing ramp and peered into the rain through
   the eye band of his spy mask, letting the built-in sensors do their work, considering
   the freedom fighters once more. How would they react when they found the members
   of Kell’s team gone? Would they think they had been betrayed? Perhaps so. After all,
   they had been, in a way. And when the mission reached its endpoint, Capra would
   know full well who had been behind it.
   вЂњAny sign?” Tariel’s voice filtered down from above him. “The pilot-brain
   reports that the passive sensors registered a blip a short time ago, but since then,
   nothing.”
   Kell didn’t look up at him. “Status?”
   Tariel gave a sigh. The Garantine has sharpened his knives so much he could
   slice the raindrops in two. “I am monitoring the public and military vox-nets, and I
   have prepared and loaded all my data phages and blackouts. Koyne is in the process
   of mimicking the form of the troop commander we captured. I take it the Culexus and
   the Venenum have still yet to arrive?”
   вЂњYour powers of perception are as sharp as ever.”
   вЂњHow long can we afford to wait?” he replied. “We’re very close to the
   deployment time as it is.”
   вЂњThey’ll be here,” Kell said, just as something shimmered in the downpour
   beyond the open hangar doors.
   вЂњI am,” said Iota, emerging from the grey rain. Her voice had a strange, echoing
   timbre inside her skull-helmet. She removed the weapon helm as she stepped into
   cover, and shook loose the thin threads of her braided hair. “I was delayed.”
   вЂњBy what?” Tariel demanded. “There’s nobody out there.”
   вЂњNobody out there now,” Iota gently corrected.
   вЂњWhere’s the Venenum?” said Kell, his jaw stiffening. Iota glanced at him. “Your
   sister isn’t coming.”
   Kell’s eyes flashed with shock and annoyance. “How—?”
   Tariel held up his hands in a gesture of self-protection. “Don’t look at me. I said
   nothing!”
   The Vindicare grimaced. “Never mind. That’s not important. Explain yourself.
   What do you mean, she’s not coming?”
   вЂњJenniker has taken on a mission of greater personal importance than this one,”
   the Culexus told him.
   вЂњI gave her an order!” he barked, his ire rising by the second.
   вЂњYes, you did. And she disobeyed it.”
   Kell grabbed the other assassin by the collar and glared at her. He felt the black
   shadow of the pariah’s soul-shrivelling aura rise off her in a wave, but he was too
   furious to care. “You saw her go, didn’t you? You saw her go and you did nothing to
   stop it!”
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   A flicker of emotion crossed Iota’s face, but it was difficult to know what it was.
   Her dark eyes became solid orbs of void. “You will not touch me.”
   Kell’s skin tingled and his hand went ice-cold, as if it had been plunged into
   freezing water. Reflexively he let the Culexus go and his fingers contracted in pain.
   вЂњWhat were you thinking, girl?” he demanded.
   вЂњYou don’t own her,” Iota said, in a low voice. “You gave up your part in her
   life.”
   The comment came out of nowhere, and Kell was actually startled by it. “I…
   This is about the mission,” he went on, recovering swiftly. “Not about her.”
   вЂњYou tell yourself that and you pretend to believe it.” Iota straightened up and
   stepped around him.
   He turned; at the top of the ramp Tariel had been joined by the Garantine, the
   Eversor rocking back and forth, his massive hands clenching and unclenching with
   barely-restrained energy. A middle-aged man in PDF-issue rain slicker stood nearby,
   toying with a poison knife. The expression of the face that Koyne had borrowed was
   wrong, ill-fitting in some way that Kell could not express.
   вЂњHow much longer?” snarled the Eversor. “I want to kill an Astartes. I want to
   see how it feels.” His jittery fingers played with the straps of his skull-mask, and the
   pupils of his bloodshot eyes were black pinpricks.
   Kell made a decision and stepped after the Culexus. “Iota. Do you know where
   she went?”
   вЂњI have an inkling,” came the reply.
   вЂњFind Soalm. Bring her back.”
   вЂњNow?” said Tariel, his face falling. “Now, of all times?”
   вЂњDo it!” Kell insisted. “If she has been compromised, then our entire mission is
   blown.”
   вЂњThat’s not the reason why,” said Iota. “But we can tell her it is, if you wish.”
   The Vindicare pointed back out into the rains, which had begun to grow worse.
   вЂњJust go.” He looked away. There was something in his chest, something there he had
   thought long since vanished. An emptiness. A regret. He smothered it before it could
   take hold, turning it to anger. Damn her for bringing these feelings back to the
   surface! She was part of a past he had left behind, and he wanted it to remain that
   way. And yet…
   Iota gave him a nod and her helmet rose to cover her face. Without looking back,
   she broke into a run and was quickly swallowed up by the deluge.
   The Garantine came stomping down the ramp, seething. “What are you doing,
   sniper?” He spat the words at him. “That gutless poisoner flees the field and you
   make things worse by sending the witch away as well? Are you mad?”
   вЂњIs the notorious Garantine actually admitting he needs the help of women?” said
   Koyne, in the troop commander’s voice. “Wonders never cease.”
   The Eversor rage-killer loomed over the Vindicare. “You’re not fit to lead this
   unit, you never were. You’re weak! And now your lack of leadership is
   compromising us all!”
   вЂњYou understand nothing,” Kell snarled back.
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   A steel-taloned finger pressed on his chest. “You know what’s wrong with your
   clade, Kell? You’re afraid to get the blood on you. You’re scared of the stink of it,
   you want things all neat and clean, dealt with at arm’s length.” The Garantine jerked
   a thumb at Koyne. “Even that sexless freak is better than you!”
   вЂњCharming,” muttered the Callidus.
   The Eversor went on, hissing out each word in pops of spittle through bared teeth.
   вЂњValdor must have been making sport when he put you in charge of this mission! Do
   you think we’re all blind to the way you look at that Venenum bitch?”
   In an instant, Kell’s Exitus pistol was in his hands and then the muzzle of it was
   buried in the exposed flesh of the Garantine’s throat, pressing into the stressed
   muscles and taut veins.
   вЂњKell!” Tariel called out a warning. “Don’t!”
   The Eversor laughed. “Go on, sniper. Do it. Up close and personal, for the first
   time in your life.” His clawed hands came up and he rammed the gun into the thick
   flesh beneath his jaw. “Prove you have some backbone! Do it!”
   For a second Kell’s finger tightened on the trigger; but to murder an Eversor
   rage-killer at point-blank range would be suicidal. The gene-modifications deep
   inside the Garantine’s flesh contained within them a critical failsafe system that
   would, should the assassin’s heart ever stop, create a combustive bio-meltdown
   powerful enough to destroy everything close at hand.
   Instead, Kell put all his effort into a vicious shove that propelled the Garantine
   away. “If I didn’t need you,” he growled, “I’d blow a hole in your spine and leave
   you crippled and bleeding out.”
   The Eversor sniggered. “You just made my argument for me.”
   вЂњThis is pointless,” snapped Koyne, striding down the ramp. “No mission plan
   ever works as it should. Every one of us knows that. We can complete the assignment
   without the women. The primary target is still within our reach.”
   вЂњThe Callidus is correct,” added Tariel, working his cogitator. “I’m reconfiguring
   the protocols now. There are overlapping attack vectors. We can still operate with
   two losses.”
   вЂњAs long as no one else walks off,” said the Garantine. “As long as nothing else
   changes.”
   Kell’s face twisted in a grimace. “We’re wasting time,” he said, turning away.
   вЂњSecure the Ultio and move out to your kill-points.”
   The man’s name was Tros, and he didn’t talk much. He led Soalm out of the caverns
   through a vaulted hall of rock that had once held fuel rods for Dagonet’s long-dead
   atmosphere converters, and to a waiting GEV skimmer.
   Once they were on their way out into the wilds, the noise of the hovercraft’s
   engines made conversation problematic at best. The assassin decided to sit back
   behind the rebel and let him drive.
   The skimmer was fast. They wound through the canyons of the Bladecut at
   breakneck speed, and then suddenly the wall of rock dropped away around them,
   falling into the ochre desert. As storm clouds rolled in above them from the west,
   they went deeper and deeper into the wilderness. From time to time, Soalm saw what
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   might have been the remains of abandoned settlements; they dated back to the early
   colonist decades, back to when this desert had been fertile arable land. That had been
   in Dagonet’s green phase, before the human-altered atmosphere had changed again,
   shifting the good climate northwards. The population had moved with it, leaving only
   the shells of their former homes lying like broken, scattered tombstones.
   Finally the GEV’s engine note downshifted and they began to slow. Tros pointed
   to something in the near distance, and Soalm glimpsed the shapes of tents flapping in
   the winds, low pergolas and yurts arranged around the stubs of another forsaken
   township. As the skimmer closed in and settled to the sand in a cloud of falling dust,
   what caught her eye first was the mural of an Imperial aquila along one long pale
   wall. It looked old, weather-beaten; but at the same time it shone in the fading
   daylight as if it had been polished to a fine sheen by decades of swirling sand.
   There had only been a handful of people in the makeshift chapel hidden in the
   rebel base, and Soalm had been slightly disappointed to see how few followers of the
   God-Emperor were counted among the freedom fighters. But she realised now that
   small group had only been a fraction of the real number.
   The followers of the Lectitio Divinitatus were here.
   She stepped from the skimmer and walked slowly into the collection of
   improvised habitats and reclaimed half-buildings. Even at first glance, Soalm could
   see that there were hundreds of people. Adults and children, young and old, men and
   women from all walks of life across Dagonet’s society. Most of them wore makeshift
   sandcloaks or hoods to keep the ochre dust from their mouths and noses. She saw
   some who carried weapons, but they did so without the twitchy nervousness of
   Capra’s rebels; one man with a lasgun eyed her as she passed him, and Soalm saw he
   was wearing the remnants of a PDF uniform, tattered and ripped in the places where
   the insignia had been stripped off—all except the aquila, which he wore proudly.
   These people, the refugees, were in the process of gathering themselves together
   for the coming night, tying down ropes and securing sheets. Out here, the winds
   moved swiftly over the open desert and the particles of dark dust would get into
   everything. The first curls of the breeze pulled at the hems of her robes as she walked
   on.
   Tros matched her pace and pointed to a strangely proportioned building with a
   slanted wall and a forest of skeletal antennae protruding from where its roof should
   have been. “Over there.”
   вЂњThese are Lady Sinope’s followers?” she asked.
   The man gave a snort of amusement. “Don’t say that to her face. She’d think it
   disrespectful.” Tros shook his head. “We don’t follow her. We follow Him. Milady
   just helps us on the path.”
   вЂњYou knew her before the insurrection?”
   вЂњI knew of her,” he corrected. “My da met her once, when she was a younger
   woman. Heard her speak to a secret meet at Dusker Point. Never thought I’d have the
   chance myself, though… Milady has done much for us over the years.”
   вЂњYour family have always been a part of the Imperial Cult, then?”
   Tros nodded. “But that’s not a name we use here. We call ourselves the Theoge.”
   They approached the building and at once Soalm realised that it was no such
   thing. The construction was actually a small ship, a good measure of its keel buried
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   in the cracked, ruddy earth. Beyond it she saw the rusted frames of dock wharfs,
   extending into the air. Once this place had been a wide river canal.
   There were tents arranged along the side of the old vessel, each lit from within by
   lamplight. “The people here are all from Dagonet?”
   вЂњAnd other worlds on the axis,” said the man. “Some of them were here on
   pilgrimages in secret. Got trapped when the clanner nobles tipped everything up.”
   вЂњPilgrimage?” she repeated. “For what reason?” Tros just nodded again. “You’ll
   see.” He opened a heavy steel hatch for her and she went, inside.
   The old ship had once been a freighter, perhaps a civic transport belonging to some
   branch of the colonial Administratum; now all that stood was the gutted shell, the
   sandblasted hull and the corroded metal frames of the decks. Inside, the skeleton of
   the vessel had been repurposed with new walls made of dry stone or steel from the
   hulls of cargo containers. The door closed with a solid thump behind Soalm and took
   the brunt of the wind with it. Only a tendril of chill air reached through to paw at the
   small drifts of sand in the entryway.
   вЂњChild.” Sinope approached, and she had tears in her eyes. “Oh, child, you came.
   Throne bless you.”
   вЂњI… owed it,” said the Venenum. “I had to.”
   Sinope smiled briefly. “I never doubted you would. And I know I have asked a
   lot from you to do this. I have put you at risk.”
   вЂњI was on a mission I did not believe in,” she replied. “You asked me to take up
   another, for something I do believe in. It was no choice at all.”
   The noblewoman took her hand. “Your comrades will not see it the same way.
   They may disown you.”
   вЂњLikely,” Soalm replied. “But I lost what I thought of as my family a long time
   ago. Since then, the only kinship I have had has been with others who know the God-
   Emperor as we do.”
   вЂњWe are your family now,” said Sinope. “All of us.” Soalm nodded at the
   tightness of the old woman’s words, and she felt lifted. “Yes, you are.” But then the
   moment of brightness faded as her thoughts returned to the content of the voclocket
   message. She retrieved the device and pressed it back into Sinope’s thin, wrinkled
   hands. “How can I help you?”
   вЂњCome.” She was beckoned deeper into the shadowed wreck. “Things will
   become clearer.”
   The beached ship, like the camp beyond it, was filled with people, and Soalm saw
   the same expression in all of them; a peculiar mingling of fear and hope. With slow
   alarm, she began to understand that it was directed towards her.
   вЂњTros said you have refugees from all over Dagonet here. And from other worlds
   as well.”
   Sinope nodded as she walked. “I hope… I pray that there are other gatherings
   hiding in the wilds. It would be so sad to admit that we are all that is left.”
   вЂњBut there must be hundreds of people here alone.”
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   Another nod. “Four hundred sixteen, at last count. Mostly Dagoneti, but a handful
   of visitors from other worlds in the Taebian Stars.” She sighed. “They came so far
   and sacrificed so much… And now they will never return home.”
   вЂњHelp is coming.” Soalm had said the lie so many times over the past few weeks
   that it had become automatic.
   The noblewoman stopped and gave her a look that cut right through the
   falsehood. “We both know that is not true. The God-Emperor is embattled and His
   continued existence is far more important than any one of us.” She gestured around.
   вЂњIf we must perish so that He may save the galaxy, that is a price we will gladly pay.
   We will meet again at His right hand.”
   Sinope’s quiet zeal washed over her. Soalm took a second to find her voice again.
   вЂњHow long has the… the Theoge been here?”
   вЂњBefore I was born, generations before,” said the old woman, continuing on.
   вЂњBefore the age of the Great Crusade, even. It is said that when the God-Emperor
   walked the turbulent Earth, even then there were those who secretly worshipped Him.
   When He came to the stars, that belief came with Him. And then there was the
   Lectitio Divinitatus, the book that gave form to those beliefs. The holy word!”
   вЂњIs it true that it was written by one of the God-Emperor’s own sons?”
   вЂњI do not know, child. All we can be sure of is that it is the Imperial truth.” She
   smiled again. “I grew up with that knowledge. For a long time, we and others like us
   lived isolated lives, ignored at best, decried at worst. We who believed were thought
   to be deluded fools.”
   Soalm looked around. “These people don’t look like fools to me.”
   вЂњIndeed. Our numbers have started to swell, and not just here. Groups of
   believers all across the galaxy are coming together. Our faith knows no boundaries,
   from the lowliest hiver child to men who walk the palaces of Terra itself.” She
   paused, thinking. “The darkness sown by the Warmaster has brought many to our
   fold. In the wake of his insurrection there have been horrors and miracles alike. This
   is our time of testing, of that I have no doubt. Out creed is in the ascendant, dear
   child. The day will come when all the stars bend their knee to Holy Terra and the
   God-Emperor’s glory.”
   вЂњBut not yet,” she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. “Not today.”
   Sinope touched her arm. “Have faith. We are part of something larger than
   ourselves. As long as our belief survives, then we do also.”
   вЂњThe people from the other worlds,” Soalm pressed. “Tros said they were here on
   a pilgrimage. I don’t understand that.”
   Sinope did not reply. They followed a patched metal staircase into the lower
   levels of the old ship, treading with care to avoid broken spars and fallen stanchions.
   Down here the stink of rust and dry earth was heavy and cloying. After a few metres,
   they came to a thickly walled compartment, armoured with layers of steel and
   ceramite. Four men, each armed with heavy-calibre weapons, were crowded around
   the only hatchway that led inside. They had hard eyes and the solid, dense builds of
   humans from heavy-gravity worlds. The assassin knew immediately that they were,
   to a man, career soldiers of long and lethal experience.
   Each of them gave a respectful bow as Sinope came into the light cast from the
   lumes overhead, doffing their caps to the old woman. Soalm watched her go to each
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   in turn and talk with them as if they were old friends. She seemed tiny and fragile
   next to the soldiers, and yet it was clear that they hung on her every word and
   gesture, like a troupe of devoted sons. Her smiles became theirs. Sinope gestured to
   her. “Gentlemen, this is Jenniker.”
   вЂњShe’s the one?” said the tallest of the four, a heavy stubber at rest in his hands.
   Sinope nodded. “You have all served the Theoge so selflessly,” she told them,
   вЂњand your duty is almost done. Jenniker will take this great burden from you.”
   The tall man gave a regretful nod and then snapped his fingers at another of the
   four. The second soldier worked the thick wheel in the centre of the hatch, and with a
   squeal of rusted metal, he opened the door to the cargo compartment.
   Sinope advanced inside and Soalm followed warily behind her. It was gloomy
   and warm, and there was a peculiar stillness in the air that prickled her bare skin. The
   hatch closed with a crunch.
   вЂњDagonet is going to fall,” said the noblewoman, soft and sorrowful. “Death is
   close at hand. The God-Emperor’s love will preserve our souls but the ending of our
   flesh has already been written. He cannot save us.”
   Soalm wanted to say something, to give out a denial, but nothing would come.
   вЂњHe knows this. That is why, in His infinite wisdom, the Master of Mankind had
   you brought to us in His stead, Jenniker Soalm.”
   вЂњNo,” she managed, her heart racing. “I am here in service to a lie! To perish for
   a meaningless cause! I have not even been spared the grace to have a truth to die
   for!”
   Sinope came to her and embraced the assassin. “Oh, dear child. You are
   mistaken. He sent you to us because you are the only one who can do what we
   cannot. The God-Emperor turned your destiny to cross my path. You are here to
   protect something most precious.”
   вЂњWhat do you mean?”
   The noblewoman stepped away and moved to a small metal chest. She worked a
   control pad on the surface—a combination of bio-sensor bloodlocks and security
   layers—and Soalm stepped closer to get a better look. She knew the design; the chest
   was of advanced Martian manufacture, a highly secure transport capsule fitted with
   its own internal support fields, capable of long-term survival in a vacuum, even
   atmospheric re-entry. It was very much out of place here.
   The chest opened in a gust of gas, and inside Soalm saw the shimmer of a stasis
   envelope. Within the ephemeral sphere of slowed time was a book of the most ornate,
   fantastic design, and it seemed to radiate the very power of history from its open
   pages.
   вЂњSee,” said Sinope, bowing deeply to the tome. “Look, child, and see the touch of
   His hand.”
   Soalm’s gaze misted as tears pricked her eyes. Before her, gold and silver and
   purple illuminated a stark page of vellum. On it, the portrait of the angelic might of
   the God-Emperor standing over a kneeling man in the finery of a rogue trader. In the
   trader’s hands this book; and falling from his Master’s palm, the shimmering droplet
   of crimson vitae that rested on the recto page. The scarlet liquid glittered like a
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   flawless ruby, frozen in that distant past, as bright and as new as it had been the
   second it fell.
   вЂњEmperor’s blood…” she whispered.
   Jenniker Soalm sank to her knees in unrestrained awe, bowing her head to the
   Warrant of Trade of the Clan Eurotas.
   181
   FOURTEEN
   Arrival
   Let Me See You
   Kill Shot
   The dawn was close as the Dove-class shuttle dropped from the cold, black sky on its
   extended aerofoils. The craft made an elongated S-turn and came in from over the
   wastelands to make a running touchdown on the only runway that was still intact.
   The landing wheels kicked up spurts of rock dust and sparks as the Yelene’s auxiliary
   slowed to a shuddering halt, the wings angling to catch the air and bleed off its
   momentum.
   The shuttle was the only source of illumination out among the shadows of
   Dagonet’s star-port, the running lights casting a pool of white across the cracked,
   ash-smeared ferrocrete. The surroundings had a slick sheen to them; the rains had
   only ceased a few hours ago.
   No one came out from the dark, lightless buildings to examine the new arrivals; if
   anyone was still in there, then they were staying silent, hoping that the world would
   ignore them.
   In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot exchanged glances. Following the
   operative’s orders, they had made no attempt to contact Dagonet port control on their
   way down, but both men had expected to be challenged by the local PDF at least
   once for entering their airspace unannounced.
   There had been nothing. When the Yelene slipped into orbit, no voices had been
   raised to them. The skies over Dagonet were choked with debris and the remnants of
   recent conflict. It had tested the skills of the cutter’s bridge crew to keep the vessel
   from colliding with some of the larger fragments, the husks of gutted space stations
   or the hulls of dead system cruisers still burning with plasma fires. What craft they
   had spotted that were intact, the operative ordered them to give a wide berth.
   Yelene came as close as she dared to Dagonet and then released the shuttle. On
   the way down the flight crew saw the devastation. Places where the map-logs said
   there should have been cities were smoke-wreathed craters glowing with the
   aftershock of nuclear detonations; other settlements had simply been abandoned.
   Even here, just over the ridge from the capital itself, the planet was silent, as if it
   were holding its breath.
   вЂњYou saw the destruction,” said the pilot, watching his colleague skim across the
   vox channels. “All that dust and ash in the atmosphere could attenuate signal traffic.
   Either that or they’ve shut down all broadcast communications planetwide.”
   182
   The other man nodded absently. “Wired comm is more secure. They could be
   using telegraphies instead.”
   Before the pilot could answer, the hatch behind them opened and the man called
   Hyssos filled the doorway. “Douse the lights,” he ordered. “Don’t draw more
   attention than we need to.”
   вЂњAye, sir.” The co-pilot did as he was told, and the illumination outside died.
   The pilot studied the operative. He had heard the stories about Hyssos. They had
   said he was a hard man, hard but fair, not a martinet like some commanders the pilot
   had served with. He found it difficult to square that description with his passenger,
   though. All through the voyage from the Eurotas flotilla to the planet, Hyssos had
   been withdrawn and frosty, terse and unforgiving when he did take the time to bother
   speaking to someone. “How do you wish to proceed, operative?”
   вЂњDrop the cargo lift,” came the reply.
   Again, the co-pilot did this with a nod. The elevator-hatch in the belly of the
   shuttle extended down to the runway; cradled on it was a swift jetbike, fuelled and
   ready to fly.
   вЂњA question,” said Hyssos, as he turned this way and that, studying the interior of
   the shuttle cockpit. “This craft has a cogitator core aboard. Is it capable of taking us
   to orbit on its own?”
   вЂњAye,” said the pilot, uncertain of where the question was leading. “It’s not
   recommended, but it can be done in an emergency.”
   вЂњWhat sort of emergency?”
   вЂњWell,” began the co-pilot, looking up, “if the crew are incapacitated, or—”
   вЂњDead?”
   Hyssos’ hands shot out, the fingers coming together to form points, each one
   piercing the soft flesh of the men’s necks. Neither had the chance to scream; instead
   they made awkward gasping gurgles as their throats were penetrated.
   Blood ran in thick streams from their wounds, and Hyssos grimaced, turning their
   heads away so the fluid would not mark his tunic. Both men died watching their own
   vitae spurt across the control panels and the inside of the canopy windows.
   Spear stood for a while with his hands inside the meat of the men’s throats, feeling
   the tingle of the tiny mouths formed at the ends of his fingertips by the daemonskin,
   as they lapped at the rich bounty of blood. The proxy flesh absorbed the liquid, the
   rest of it dribbling out across the grating of the deck plates beneath the crew chairs.
   Then, convinced that the daemonskin was in quietus once more, Spear moved to
   a fresher cubicle to clean himself off before venturing down to the open cargo bay.
   He decided not to bother with a breather mask or goggles, and eased himself into the
   jetbike’s saddle. The small flyer was a thickset, heavy block of machined steel,
   spiked with winglets and stabilators that jutted out at every angle. It responded to his
   weight by triggering the drive turbine, running it up to idle.
   Spear leaned forward, glancing down at a cowled display pane that showed a map
   of the local zone. A string of waypoint indicators led from the star-port out into the
   wastelands, following the line of what was once a shipping canal but now a dry bed
   of dusty earth. The secret destination the Void Baron had given him blinked blue at
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   the end of the line; an old waystation dock abandoned after the last round of climate
   shifts. The Warrant was there, held in trust.
   The murderer laughed at the pulse of anticipation in his limbs, and grasped the
   throttle bar, sending the turbine howling.
   He had to give credit to the infocyte; the location that Tariel had selected for the hide
   was a good one, high up inside an empty water tower on the roof of a tenement block
   a kilometre and a half from the plaza. It was for this very reason that Kell rejected it
   and sought out another. Not because he did not trust the Vanus, but because two men
   knowing where he would fire from was a geometrically larger risk than one man
   knowing. If Tariel was captured and interrogated, he could not reveal what he had not
   been told.
   And then there was the matter of professional pride. The water tower was too
   obvious a locale to make the hide. It was too… easy, and if Kell thought so, then any
   officer of the PDF down in the plaza might think the same, make a judgement and
   have counter-snipers put in place.
   The dawn was coming up as the Vindicare found his spot. Another tenement
   block, but this one was removed half the distance again from the marble mall outside
   the Governor’s halls. From what Kell could determine, it seemed as if the building
   had been struck two-thirds of the way up by a plummeting aerofighter. The upper
   floors of the narrow tower were blackened from the fires that had broken out in the
   wake of the impact, and on the way up, Kell had to navigate past blockades of fallen
   masonry mixed with wing sections and ragged chunks of fuselage. He came across
   the tail of the aircraft embedded in an elevator shaft, like the feathers of a thrown dart
   buried in a target.
   Where it had impacted, a chunk of walls and floors was missing, as if something
   had taken a bite out of the building. Kell skirted the yawning gap that opened out to a
   drop of some fifty or more storeys and continued his climb. The fire-damaged levels
   stank of seared plastic and burned flesh, but the thick, sticky ash that coated every
   surface was dull and non-reflective—an ideal backdrop to deaden Kell’s sensor
   profile still further. He found the best spot in a room that had once been a communal
   laundry, and arranged his cameoline cloak between the heat-distorted frames of two
   chairs. Combined with the deadening qualities of his synskin stealthsuit, the
   marksman would be virtually invisible.
   He tapped a pad on the palm of his glove with his thumb. An encrypted burst
   transmitter in his gear vest sent a signal lasting less than a picosecond. After a
   moment, he got a similar message in return that highlighted the first of a series of
   icons on his visor. Tariel was reporting in, standing by at his kill-point somewhere
   out in the towers of the western business district. This was followed by a ready-sign
   from Koyne, and then another from the Garantine.
   The two remaining icons stayed dark. Without Iota, they had to do without
   telepathic cover; if the Sons of Horus decided to deploy a psyker, they would have no
   warning of it… but then the Warmaster’s Legion had never relied on such things
   before and the Assassinorum had no intelligence they would do so today. It was a
   risk Kell was willing to take.
   184
   And Soalm… Jenniker. The purpose of a Venenum poisoner was as part of the
   original exit strategy for the Execution Force. The detonation of several shortduration
   hypertoxin charges would sow confusion among the human populace of the
   city and clog the highways with panicking civilians, restricting the movements of the
   Astartes. But now they would do without that—and Kell felt conflicted about it. He
   was almost pleased she was not here to be a part of this, that she would not be at risk
   if something went wrong.
   The echo of that thought rang hard in his chest, and the press of the sudden
   emotion surprised him. He remembered the look in her eyes when she had entered
   the room in the Venenum manse—the coldness and the loathing. It was identical to
   the expression she had worn all those years ago, on the day he had told her he was
   accepting the mission to find mother and father’s killer. Only then, there had also
   been pity there as well. Perhaps she had lost the capacity to know compassion, over
   time.
   He had hoped, foolishly, he now realised, that she might have come to understand
   why he had made his choice. The killing of their parents had been an aching, burning
   brand in his thoughts; the need for raw vengeance, although at the time he had no
   words to describe it. A deed that could not be undone, and one that could not go
   unanswered.
   And when the kill was finished, after all the deaths it took to reach it… Mother
   and father were still dead, but he had avenged them, and the cost had only been the
   love of the last person who cared about him. Kell always believed that if he had the
   chance to change that moment, to make the choice again, he would have done
   nothing differently. But after looking his sister in the eye, he found that certainty
   crumbling.
   It had been easy to be angry with her at first, to deny her and hate her back for
   turning her face from him, eschewing her family’s name. But as time passed, the
   anger cooled and became something else. Only now was he beginning to understand
   it had crystallised into regret.
   A slight breeze pulled at him and Kell frowned at his own thoughts, dismissing
   them as best he could. He returned to the mission, made his hide, gathering his gear
   and assembling what he would need for the duration in easy reach. Backtracking, he
   rigged the stairwells and corridors leading to the laundry room with pairs of tripmines
   to cover his rear aspect, before placing his pistol where he could get to it at a
   moment’s notice.
   Then, and only then, did he unlimber the Exitus longrifle. One of the Directors
   Tertius at the clade had told him of the Nihon, a nation of fierce warriors on ancient
   Terra, who it was said could not return their swords to their scabbards after drawing
   them unless the weapons first tasted blood. Something of that ideal appealed to Kell;
   it would not be right to cloak such a magnificent weapon as this without first taking a
   life with it.
   He settled into a prone position, running through meditation routines to relax
   himself and prepare his body, but he found it difficult. Matters beyond the mission—
   or truthfully, matters enmeshed with it—preyed on him. He frowned and went to
   work on the rifle, dialling in the imager scope, flicking through the sighting modes.
   185
   Kell had zeroed the weapon during their time with Capra’s rebels, and now it was
   like an extension of himself, the actions rote and smooth.
   Microscopic sensor pits on the muzzle of the rifle fed information directly to his
   spy mask, offering tolerance changes and detailing windage measurements. He
   flicked down the bipod, settling the weapon. Kell let his training find the range for
   him, compensating for bullet drop over distance, coriolis effect, attenuation for the
   moisture of the late rains still in the air, these and a dozen other variables. With care,
   he activated a link between his burst transmitter and the Lance. A new icon appeared
   a second later; the Lance was ready.
   He leaned into the scope. The display became clearer, and solidified. His aiming
   line crossed from the habitat tower, over the stub of a nearby monument, through the
   corridor of a blast-gutted administratum office, down and down to the open square
   the locals called Liberation Plaza. It was there that Horus Lupercal had killed the
   crooked priest-king that had ruled Dagonet’s darkest years, early in the Great
   Crusade. There, he had expended only one shot and struck such fear into the tyrant’s
   men that they laid down their guns and surrendered at the sight of him.
   A figure swam into view, blurred slightly by the motion of air across the
   kilometres of distance between them. A middle-aged man in the uniform of a PDF
   troop commander. As he looked in Kell’s direction, his mouth moved and
   automatically a lip-reading subroutine built into the scope’s integral auspex translated
   the words into text.
   He’s coming, Kell, read the display. Very soon now.
   The Vindicare gave the slightest of nods and used Koyne’s torso to estimate his
   final range settings. Then the disguised Callidus moved out of view and Kell found
   himself looking at an empty patch of milk-white marble.
   The sandstorm hid her better than any camouflage. Iota moved through it, enjoying
   the push and pull of the wind on her body, the hiss and rattle of the particles as they
   scoured her metal skull-helm, plucking at the splines of the animus speculum.
   The Culexus watched the world through the sapphire eye of the psionic weapon,
   feeling the pulse and throb of it on the periphery of her thoughts like a coldness in
   her brain. Humans moved through the arc of fire and she tracked them. Each of them
   would register her attention without really knowing it; they would shiver
   involuntarily and draw their sandcloaks tighter, quickening their step to reach warmth
   and light and safety a little faster. They sensed her without sensing her, the ominous,
   ever-present shadow of null she cast falling on them. Children, when she turned her
   hard, glittering gaze in their direction, would begin to cry and not know the reason.
   When she passed close to tents full of sleeping figures, she could hear them mutter
   and moan under their breath; she passed over their dreams like a windborne storm
   cloud, darkening the skies of their subconscious for a moment before sliding beyond
   the horizon.
   Iota’s pariah soul—or lack thereof—made people turn away from her, made them
   avert their eyes from the shadowed corners where she moved. It was a boon for her
   stealth, and with it she entered the sanctuary encampment without raising an alarm.
   She scrambled up a disused crane gantry, across the empty cab and along the rusted
   jib. Old cables whined in atonal chorus as the winds plucked at them.
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   From here she had a fine view of the beached ship at the centre of the settlement.
   What pathways there were radiated out from here, and she had already spotted the
   parked skimmer peeking out from beneath a tethered tarpaulin; the last time she had
   seen that vehicle, it had been in Capra’s hideaway. She settled in and waited.
   Eventually, a hatch opened, spilling yellow light into the dusty air, and Iota
   shifted down along the length of the crane jib, watching.
   A quartet of armed men exited, two carrying a small metal chest between them.
   Following on behind was the Venenum and the old noblewoman who had spoken in
   such strange ways about the Emperor. Auspex sensors in Iota’s helmet isolated their
   conversation so she could listen.
   Soalm was reaching a hand out to brush it over the surface of the chest, and
   although she wore her hood up, Iota believed she could see a glitter of high emotion
   in her eyes. “We have a small ship,” she was saying. “I can get the Warrant aboard…
   But after that—” She turned her head and a gust of wind snatched the end of the
   sentence away.
   The old woman, Sinope, was nodding. “The Emperor protects. You must find
   Baron Eurotas, return it to him.” She sighed. “Admittedly, he is not the most devoted
   of us, but he has the means and method to escape the Taebian Sector. Others will
   come in time to take stewardship of the relic.”
   вЂњI will protect it until that day.” Soalm looked at the chest again, and Iota
   wondered what they were discussing; the contents of the coffer had some value that
   belied the scuffed, weather-beaten appearance of the container. Soalm’s words were
   almost reverent.
   Sinope touched the other woman’s hand. “And your comrades?”
   вЂњTheir mission is no longer mine.”
   Iota frowned at that behind her helm’s grinning silver skull. The Culexus would
   be the first to admit that her grasp of the mores of human behaviour was somewhat
   stunted, but she knew the sound of disloyalty when she heard it. With a flex of her
   legs, she leapt off the rusting crane, the jib creaking loudly as she described a backflip
   that put her down right in front of the four soldiers. They were bringing up their
   guns but Iota already had her needier levelled at Sinope’s head; she guessed correctly
   that the old woman was the highest value target in the group.
   Soalm called out to the others to hold their fire, and stepped forward. “You
   followed me.”
   вЂњAgain,” said Iota, with a nod. “You are on the verge of irreversibly
   compromising our mission on Dagonet. That cannot be allowed.” From the corner of
   her eye, the Culexus saw Sinope go pale as she dared to give the protiphage her full
   attention.
   вЂњGo back to Eristede,” said the poisoner. “Tell him I am gone. Or dead. It doesn’t
   matter to me.”
   Iota cocked her head. “He is your brother.” She ignored the widening of Soalm’s
   eyes. “It matters to him.”
   вЂњI’m taking the Ultio,” insisted the other woman. “You can stay here and take
   part in this organised suicide if you wish, but I have a greater calling.” Her eyes
   flicked towards the chest and back again.
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   вЂњHorus comes,” said Iota, drawing gasps from some of the soldiers. “And we are
   needed. The chance to strike against the Warmaster may never come again. What can
   you carry in some iron box that has more value than that?”
   вЂњI don’t expect you to understand,” Soalm replied. “You are a pariah; you were
   born without a soul. You have no faith to give.”
   вЂњNo soul…” Sinope echoed the words, coming closer. “Is that possible?”
   вЂњIn this chest is a piece of the Emperor’s divinity, made manifest,” Soalm went
   on, her eyes shining with zeal. “I am going to protect it with my life from the ruinous
   powers intent on its destruction! I believe this with my heart and spirit, Iota! I swear
   it in the name of the living God-Emperor of Mankind!”
   вЂњYour beliefs are meaningless,” Iota retorted, becoming irked by the woman’s
   irrationality. “Only what is real matters. Your words and relics are ephemeral.”
   вЂњYou think so?” Sinope stepped fearlessly towards the Culexus, reaching out a
   hand. “Have you never encountered something greater than yourself? Never
   wondered about the meaning of your existence?” She dared to touch the metal face of
   the skull. “Look me in the eye and tell me that. I ask, child. Let me see you.”
   Somewhere in the distance, Iota thought she heard a ripple of jet noise, but she
   ignored it. Instead, uncertain where the impulse came from, she reached up a hand
   and thumbed the release that let the skullhelmet fold open and retreat back over her
   shoulders. Her face naked to the winds and sand, she turned her gaze on the old
   woman and held it. “Here I am.” She felt a question stir in her. “Is Soalm right? Can
   you tell? Am I soulless?”
   Sinope’s hand went to her lips. “I… I don’t know. But in His wisdom, I have
   faith that the God-Emperor will know the answer.”
   Iota’s eyes narrowed. “No amount of faith will stop you from dying.”
   The ship came out of the void shrouded in silence and menace.
   Rising over the far side of Dagonet’s largest moon like a dragon taking wing, the
   Astartes battleship came on, prow first, knifing through the vacuum towards the
   combat-cluttered skies. Wreckage and corpses desiccated by the punishing kiss of
   space rebounded off the sheer sides of its bow as serried ranks of weapons batteries
   turned in their sockets to bear on the turning world beneath them. Hatches opened,
   great irises of thick space-hardened brass and steel yawning to give readiness to
   launch bays where Stormbird drop-ships and Raven interceptors nestled in their
   deployment cradles. Bow doors hiding the mouths of missile tubes retreated.
   What few vessels there were close to the planet did not dare to share the same
   orbit, and fled as fast as their motors would allow them. As they retreated, they
   transmitted fawning, obeisant messages that were almost begging in tone, insisting
   on their loyalties and imploring the invader ship’s commander to spare their lives.
   Only one vessel did not show the proper level of grovelling fear—a fast cutter in a
   rogue trader’s livery, whose crew broke for open space in a frenzy of panic. As a man
   might stretch a limb to ready it before a day of exercise, the battleship discharged a
   desultory barrage of beam fire from one of its secondary batteries, obliterating the
   cutter. This was done almost as an afterthought.
   The massive craft passed in front of the sun, throwing a partial occlusion of black
   shadow across the landscape far below. It sank into a geostationary orbit, stately and
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   intimidating, hanging in place over the capital city as the dawn turned all eyes below
   to the sky.
   Every weapon in the battleship’s arsenal was prepared and oriented down at the
   surface—torpedo arrays filled with warshots that could atomise whole continents in a
   single strike, energy cannons capable of boiling off oceans, kinetic killers that could
   behead mountains through the brute force of their impact. This was only the power of
   the ship itself; then there was the minor fleet of auxiliary craft aboard it, wings of
   fighters and bombers that could come screaming down into Dagonet’s atmosphere on
   plumes of white fire. Swift death bringers that could raze cities, burn nations.
   And finally, there was the army. Massed brigades of genetically-enhanced
   warrior kindred, hundreds of Adeptus Astartes clad in ceramite power armour, loaded
   down with boltguns and chainswords, power blades and flamers, man-portable
   missile launchers and autocannons. Hosts of these warlords gathered on the
   mustering decks, ready to embark at their drop-ship stations if called upon, while
   others—a smaller number, but no less dangerous for it—assembled behind their liege
   lord high commander in the battleship’s teleportarium.
   The vessel had brought a military force of such deadly intent and utter lethality
   that the planet and its people had never known the like, in all their recorded history.
   And it was only the first. Other ships were following close behind.
   This was the visitation granted to Dagonet by the Sons of Horus, the tip of a
   sword blade forged from shock and awe.
   Far below, across the white marble of Liberation Plaza, a respectful hush fell over the
   throng of people who had gathered since the previous day’s dusk, daring at last to
   venture out into the streets. The silence radiated outward in a wave, crossing beyond
   the edges of the vast city square, into the highways filled with halted groundcars and
   standing figures. It bled out through the displays on patched streetscreens at every
   intersection, relayed by camera ballutes drifting over the Governor’s hall; it fell from
   the crackling mutter of vox-speakers connected to the national watch-wire.
   The quiet came down hard as the planet looked to the sky and awaited the arrival
   of their redeemer, the owner of their new allegiance. Their war-god.
   Soalm’s hands were trembling, but she wasn’t sure what emotion was driving her.
   The righteous passion erupting from laying eyes on the Warrant rolled and churned
   around her as if she were being buffeted by more than just the gritty winds—but
   there was something else there. Iota’s hard words about Eristede had come from out
   of nowhere, and they pulled her thoughts in directions she did not wish them to go.
   She shook her head; now of all times was not the moment to lose her way. The ties
   that had once existed between Jenniker and her brother had been severed long ago,
   and dwelling on that would serve no purpose. Her hands slipped towards the
   concealed pockets in the surplice beneath her travelling robe, feeling for the toxin
   cordes concealed there. She wondered if the Culexus would fight her if she refused to
   carry out the Assassinorum’s orders. Soalm knew the God-Emperor would forgive
   her; but her brother never would.
   The tension of the moment was broken as two figures approached out of the haze
   of the sandstorm, from the direction of the dry canal bed. She recognised Tros, his
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   steady, rolling gait. At his side was a dark-skinned man whose threads of grey hair
   were pulled out behind him by the wind, where they danced like errant serpents. The
   new arrival had no dust mask or eye-shield, and he gave no sign that the scouring
   sands troubled him.
   Sinope stepped towards him, and from the corner of her eye Soalm saw the
   noblewoman’s men tense. They were unsure where to aim their guns.
   Iota made an odd noise in the back of her throat and her hand went to her face.
   Soalm thought she saw a flash of pain there.
   вЂњWho is this?” Sinope was asking.
   вЂњHe came in from out of the storm,” Tros replied, speaking loudly so they all
   could hear him. Nearby, people had been drawn by the sound of raised voices and
   they stood at slatted windows or in doorways, watching. “This is Hyssos. The Void
   Baron sent him.”
   The dark man bowed deeply. “You must be the Lady Astrid Sinope.” His voice
   was resonant and firm. “My lord will be pleased to hear you are still alive. When we
   heard about Dagonet we feared the worst.”
   вЂњEurotas… sent you?” Sinope seemed surprised.
   вЂњFor the Warrant,” said Hyssos. He opened his hand and there was a thickset ring
   made of gold and emerald in his palm—a signet. “He gave me this so you would
   know I carry his authority.”
   Tros took the ring and passed it to Sinope, who pressed it to a similar gold band
   on her own finger. Soalm saw a blink of light as the sensing devices built into the
   signets briefly communed. “This is valid,” said the noble, as if she could not quite
   believe it.
   Iota moved away, and she stumbled a step. Soalm glanced after her. The waif
   gasped and made a retching noise. The Venenum felt an odd, greasy tingle in the air,
   like static, only somehow colder.
   Hyssos extended his hands. “If you please? I have a transport standing by, and
   time is of the essence.”
   вЂњWhat sort of transport?” said Tros. “We have children here. You could take
   them—”
   вЂњTros,” Sinope warned. “We can’t—”
   вЂњOf course,” Hyssos said smoothly. “But quickly. The Warrant is more important
   than any of us.”
   Something was wrong. “And you are here now?” Soalm asked the question even
   as it formed in her thoughts. “Why did you not come a day ago, or a week? Your
   timing is very opportune, sir.”
   Hyssos smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Who can fathom the God-
   Emperor’s ways? I am here now because He wishes it.” His gaze cooled. “And who
   are you?” Hyssos’ expression turned stony as he looked past Soalm to where Iota was
   standing, her whole body quivering. “Who are you?” he repeated, and this time it was
   a demand.
   Iota turned and she let out a shriek that was so raw and monstrous it turned
   Soalm’s blood to ice. The Culexus girl’s face was streaked with liquid where lines of
   crimson fell from the corners of her eyes. Weeping blood, she brought up the
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   needier-weapon fixed to her forearm, aiming at Hyssos; with her other hand she
   reached up and tore away the necklet device that regulated her psionic aura.
   Against the close, gritty heat of the predawn, a wave of polar cold erupted from
   out of nowhere, with the psyker at its epicentre. Everyone felt the impact of it,
   everyone staggered off their balance—everyone but Hyssos.
   вЂњYou pariah whore,” The man’s expression twisted in odious fury. “We’ll do this
   the hard way, then.”
   Soalm saw his face open up like a mechanism made of meat and blood, as ice
   formed on the sand at her feet. Inside him there were only his glaring black eyes and
   a forest of fangs about a lamprey mouth.
   Rage flared like a supernova and Spear let it fill him. Anger and frustration boiled
   over; nothing about this bloody mission had gone to plan. It seemed as if at every
   stage he was being tested, or worse, mocked by the uncaring universe around him as
   it threw obstacle after obstacle into his path.
   First the interruption of the purge and his inability to rid himself of the last
   vestiges of Sabraf’s sickening morality; then the discovery of the fake Warrant of
   Trade, and the ridiculous little secret of Eurotas’ shameful idolatry; and now, after an
   interminable voyage to find it, more of these pious fools clogging the way to his
   prize. He knew it was there, he could sense the presence of the true Warrant hidden
   inside that nondescript armoured box, but still they tried to stop him from taking it.
   Spear had wanted to do this cleanly. Get in, take what he needed, leave again
   with a minimum of bloodshed and time wasted. It seemed the fates had other ideas,
   and the whining, pleading daemonskin was bored. The kills on the shuttle had been
   cursory things. It wanted to play.
   In any event, his hand had been forced, and if he were honest with himself, he
   was not so troubled by this turn of events. Spear had been so set on the recovery of
   the Warrant and what it contained that he had hardly been aware of the gloomy
   presence at the edges of his thoughts until he turned his full attention towards it. Who
   could have known that something as rare and as disgusting as a psychic pariah would
   be found here on Dagonet? Was it there as some manner of defence for the book? It
   didn’t matter; he would kill it.
   Unseen by the mortals around them, for a brief second the psyker bitch’s aura of
   icy negation had clipped the raw, mad flux of the daemonskin and the ephemeral
   bond that connected it—and Spear, as its merge-mate—to the psionic turmoil of the
   warp.
   He knew then that this encounter was no chance event. The girl was an
   engineered thing, something vat-grown and modified to be a hole in space-time, a
   telepathic void given human form. A pariah. An assassin.
   The girl’s null-aura washed over him and the daemonskin did not like the touch
   of it. It rippled and needled him inside, making its host share in the cold agony of the
   pariah’s mental caress. It refused to hold the pattern of Hyssos, reacting, shivering,
   clamouring for release. Spear’s near-flawless assumption of the Eurotas operative
   fractured and broke, and finally, as the rage grew high, he decided to allow it to
   happen.
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   The skin-matter masquerading as human flesh puckered and shifted into red-raw,
   bulbous fists of muscle and quivering, mucus-slicked meat. The uniform tunic across
   his shoulders and back split as it was pulled past the tolerances of the cloth. Lines of
   curved spines erupted from his shoulders, while bone blades slick as scimitars
   emerged from along his forearms. Talons burst through the soles of his boots,
   digging into drifts of sand, and wet jaws yawned.
   He heard the screaming and the wails of those all around him, the sounds of guns
   and knives being drawn. Oh, he knew that music very well.
   Spear let the patina of the Hyssos identity disintegrate and matched the will of the
   daemonskin’s living weapons to his own; the warpflesh loved him for that.
   The first kill he made here was a soldier, a man with a stubber gun that Spear’s
   extruded bone blades cut in two across the stomach, severing his spine in a welter of
   blood and stinking stomach matter.
   His vision fogged red; somewhere the pariah was crying out in strident chorus
   with the other women, but he didn’t care. He would get to her in a moment.
   * * *
   The sun rose off to his right, and Kell was aware of it casting a cool glow over the
   plaza. He changed the visual field of the scope to a lower magnification and watched
   the line of shadows retreat across the marble flagstones.
   The morning light had a peculiarly crystalline quality to it, an effect brought on
   by particles in the air buoyed across the wastelands on the leading edges of a distant
   sandstorm. Ambient moisture levels began to drop and the Exitus rifle’s internals
   automatically compensated, warming the firing chamber by fractions of degrees to
   ensure the single loaded bullet in the breech remained at an optimal pre-fire state.
   The sounds of the crowd reached him, even high up in his vantage point. The
   noise was low and steady, and it reminded him of the calm seas on Thaxted as they
   lapped at the shores of black mud and dark rock. He grimaced behind his spy mask
   and pushed the thought to the back of his mind; now was not the time to be distracted
   by trivia from his past.
   Delicately, so the action would not upset the positioning of the weapon by so
   much as a millimetre, he thumbed the action selector switch from the safe position to
   the armed setting. Indicator runes running vertically down the scope’s display
   informed him that the weapon was now ready to commit to a kill. All that Kell
   required now was his target.
   He resisted the urge to look up into the sky. His quarry would be here soon
   enough.
   A kilometre to the west, Tariel licked dry lips and tapped his hand over the curved
   keypad on his forearm, acutely aware of how sweaty his palms were. His breathing
   was ragged, and he had to work to calm himself to the point where he was no longer
   twitching with unspent adrenaline.
   He took a long, slow breath, tasting dust and ozone. In the corridors of the office
   tower, drifts of paper spilled from files discarded in panic lay everywhere, among
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   lines and lines of abandoned cubicle workspaces left empty after the first shots of
   rebellion had been fired. No one had come up here since the nobles had forced the
   Governor to renounce the rule of Terra; the men and women who had toiled in this
   place had either gone to ground, embraced the new order or been executed. At first,
   the dead, empty halls had seemed to echo with the sound of them, but eventually
   Tariel had accepted that the tower was just as much an empty vessel as so many other
   Imperial installations on Dagonet. Gutted and forsaken in the rush to eschew the
   Emperor and embrace his errant son.
   The Vanus crouched by the side of the Lance, and laid a finger on the side of its
   cylindrical cowling. The device was almost as long as the footprint of the tower, and
   it had been difficult to reassemble it in secret. But eventually the components from
   Ultio’s cargo bay had done as their designers in the Mechanicum promised. Now it
   was ready, and through the cowling Tariel could feel the subtle vibration of the
   power core cycling through its ready sequence. Content that the device was in good
   health, Tariel dropped into a low crouch and made his way to the far windows, which
   looked down into the valley of the capital and Liberation Plaza. The infocyte was
   careful to be certain that he would not be seen by patrol drones or ground-based PDF
   spotters.
   He took a moment to check the tolerances and positioning of the hyperdense
   sentainium-armourglass mirrors for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was
   difficult for him to leave the mechanism alone; now that he had set a nest of alarm
   beams and sonic screamers on the lower levels to deal with any interlopers, he had
   little to do but watch the Lance and make sure it performed as it should. In an
   emergency, he could take direct control of it, but he hoped it would not come to that.
   It was a responsibility he wasn’t sure he wanted to shoulder.
   Each time he checked the mirrors, he became convinced that in the action of
   checking them he had put them out of true, and so he would check them again, step
   away, retreat… and then the cycle of doubt would start once more. Tariel tightened
   his hands into fists and chewed on his lower lip; his behaviour was verging on
   obsessive-compulsive.
   Forcing himself, he turned his back on the Lance’s tip and retreated into the dusty
   gloom of the building, finding the place he had chosen for himself as his shelter for
   when the moment came. He sat and brought up his cogitator gauntlet, glaring into the
   hololithic display. It told Tariel that the device was ready to perform its function. All
   was well.
   A minute later he was back at the mirrors, cursing himself as he ran through the
   checks once again.
   Koyne strode across the edge of the marble square, as near as was safe to the lines of
   metal crowd barriers. The shade scanned the faces of the Dagoneti on the other side
   of them, the adults and the children, the youthful and the old, all seeing past and
   through the figure in the PDF uniform as they fixed their eyes on the same place; the
   centre of Liberation Plaza, where the mosaic of an opened eye spread out rays of
   colour to every point of the compass. The design was in echo of the personal sigil of
   the Warmaster, and the Callidus wondered if it was meant to signify that he was
   always watching.
   193
   Such notions were dangerously close to idolatry, beyond the level of veneration
   that a primarch of the Adeptus Astartes should expect. One only had to count the
   statues and artworks of the Warmaster that appeared throughout the city; the Emperor
   had more of them, that much was certain, but not many more. And now all the
   towering sculptures of the Master of Mankind were torn down. Koyne had heard
   from one of the other PDF officers that squads of clanner troops trained in
   demolitions had been scouring the city during the night, with orders to make sure
   nothing celebrating the Emperor’s name still stood unscathed. The assassin grimaced;
   there was something almost… heretical about such behaviour.
   Even here, off towards the edges of the plaza, there was a pile of grey rabble that
   had once been a statue of Koyne’s liege lord, shoved unceremoniously aside by a
   sapper crew’s dozer-track. Koyne had gone to look at it; at the top of the wreckage,
   part of the statue’s face was still intact, staring sightlessly at the sky. What would it
   see today?
   The Callidus turned away, passing a measuring gaze over the nervous lines of
   PDF soldiers and the robed nobles standing back on the gleaming, sunlit steps of the
   great hall. Governor Nicran was there among them, waiting with every other
   Dagoneti for the storm that was about to break. Between them and the barriers, the
   faint glitter of a force wall was visible with the naked eye, the pane of energy rising
   high in a cordon around the point of arrival. Nicran’s orders had been to place field
   generators all around the entrance to the hall, in case resistance fighters tried to take
   his life or that of one of the turncoat nobles.
   Koyne sneered at that. The thought that those fools believed themselves to be
   high value targets was preposterous. On the scale of the galactic insurrection, they
   ranked as minor irritants, at best. Posturing fools and narrow-sighted idiots who
   willingly gave a foothold to dangerous rebels. Moving on, the Callidus found the
   location that Tariel had chosen—in the lee of a tall ornamental column—and
   prepared. From here, the view across the plaza was unobstructed. When the kill
   happened, Koyne would confirm it firsthand.
   Suddenly, there was a blast of fanfare from the trumpets of a military band, and
   Governor Nicran was stepping forward. When he spoke, a vox-bead at his throat
   amplified his voice.
   вЂњGlory to the Liberator!” he cried. “Glory to the Warmaster! Glory to Horus!”
   The assembled crowd raised their voices in a thundering echo.
   The Garantine ripped off the hatch on the roof of the security minaret as the shouting
   began, the sound masking the squeal of breaking hinges. He dropped into the open
   gallery, where uniformed officers pored over sensor screens and glared out through
   smoked windows overlooking the plaza. Their auspexes ranged all over the city,
   networking with aerial patrol mechanicals, ground troops, law enforcement units,
   even traffic monitors. They were looking for threats, trying to pinpoint bombers or
   snipers or anyone that might upset the Governor’s plans for this day. If anyone so
   much as fired a shot within the city limits, they would know about it.
   They did not expect to find an assassin so close at hand. Firstly the Garantine let
   loose with his Executor combi-pistol, taking care to use only the needier; bolt fire
   would raise the alarm too soon. Still, it was enough. Two-thirds of them were dead or
   194
   dying before the first man’s gun cleared its holster. They simply could not compete
   with the amplified, drug-enhanced reflexes of the rage-killer. All of them were
   moving in slow-motion compared to him, not a one could hope to match him. The
   Eversor killed with break-neck punches and brutal, bullet-fast stabbing. He wrenched
   throats into wreckage, stove in ribs and crashed spines; and for the one PDF officer
   who actually dared to shoot a round in his direction, he left his gift to the last. That
   man, he murdered by putting the fingers of his neuro-gauntlet through his eyes and
   breaking his skull.
   With a rough chuckle, the Garantine let his kill drop and licked his lips. The room
   was silent, but outside the crowd cried for the Sons of Horus.
   And then they came.
   A knot of coruscating blue-white energy emerged from the air and grew in an
   instant to a glowing sphere of lightning. Tortured air molecules screamed as the
   teleporter effect briefly twisted the laws of physics to breaking point; in the next
   second, the blaze of light and noise evaporated and in its place there were five angels
   of death.
   Adeptus Astartes. Most of the people in the plaza had never seen one before, only
   knowing them from the statues they had seen and the picts in history books and
   museums. The real thing was, if anything, far more impressive than the legends had
   ever said.
   The cries of adulation were silenced with a shocked gasp from a thousand throats;
   when Horus had come to liberate Dagonet all those years ago, he had come with his
   Luna Wolves, the XVI Legiones Astartes. They had stood resplendent in their
   flawless moon-white armour, trimmed with ebony, and it was this image that was
   embedded in the collective mind of the Dagoneti people.
   But the Astartes standing here, now, were clad in menacing steel-grey from
   helmet to boot, armour trimmed in bright shining silver. They were gigantic shadows,
   menacing all who looked upon them. Their heavy armour, the planes of the pauldrons
   and chest plates, the fierce visages of the red-eyed helms, all of it was as awesome as
   it was terrifying. And there, clear as the sun in the sky, on their shoulders was the
   symbol of the great open eye—the mark of Horus Lupercal.
   The tallest of the warriors, his battle gear decked with more finery than the
   others, stepped forward. He was covered with honour-chains and combat laurels, and
   about his shoulders he wore a metal dolman made from metals mined in the depths of
   Cthon; the Mantle of the Warmaster, forged by Horus’ captains as a symbol of his
   might and unbreakable will.
   He drew a gold-chased bolt pistol, raising it up high above his head; and then he
   fired a single shot into the air, the round crashing like thunder. The same sound that
   rang about Dagonet on the day they were liberated. Before the empty shell casing
   could strike the marble at his feet, the crowd were shouting their fealty.
   Glory to Horus.
   The towering warrior holstered his gun and unsealed his helmet, drawing it up so
   the world might see his face.
   195
   There could be no hesitation. No margin for error. Such a chance would never come
   again.
   Kell’s crosshairs rested on the centre of the scowling grille of the Astartes helmet.
   The shimmering interference of distance seemed to melt away; now there was only
   the weapon and the target. He was a part of the weapon, the trigger. The final piece
   of the mechanism.
   Time slowed. Through the scope, Kell saw armoured hands clasp the sides of the
   helmet, flexing to lift it up from the neck ring. In a moment more, flesh would be
   exposed, a neck bared. A clear target.
   And if he did this, what then? What ripples would spread from the assassination
   of Horus Lupercal? How would the future shift in this moment? What lives would be
   saved? What lives would be lost? Kell could almost hear the sound of the gears of
   history turning about him.
   He fired.
   The hammer falls. The single shot in the chamber is a .75 calibre bullet manufactured
   on the Shenlong forge world to the exacting tolerances of the Clade Vindicare. The
   percussion cap is impacted, the propellant inside combusts. Exhaust gases funnel into
   the pressure centre of a boat-tail round, projecting it down the nitrogen-cooled barrel
   at supersonic velocities. The sound of the discharge is swallowed by suppression
   systems that reduce the aural footprint of the weapon to a hollow cough.
   As the round leaves the barrel, the Exitus longrifle sends a signal to the Lance;
   the two weapons are in perfect synchrony. The Lance marshals its energy to expend
   it for the first and only time. It will burn itself out after one shot.
   The round crosses the distance in seconds, dropping in exactly the expected arc
   towards the figure in the plaza. Windage is nominal, and does not alter its course.
   Then, with a flash, the bullet strikes the force wall. Any conventional ballistic round
   would disintegrate at this moment; but the Exitus has fired a Shield-Breaker.
   Energised fragments imbued with anti-spinward quantum particles fracture the
   force wall’s structure, and collapse it; but the barrier is on a cycling circuit and will
   reactivate in less than two-tenths of a second.
   It is not enough. The energy of the Lance follows the Shield-Breaker in as the
   force wall falls; the Lance is a single-use X-ray laser, slaved to Kell’s rifle, to shoot
   where he shoots. The stream of radiation converges on the exact same point, with
   nothing to stop it. The shot strikes the target in the throat, reducing flesh to atoms,
   superheating fluids into steam, boiling skin, vaporising bone.
   The only sound is the fall of the headless corpse as it crashes to the ground, blood
   jetting across the white marble and the Warmaster’s shining mantle.
   196
   FIFTEEN
   Rapture
   Aftershock
   Retribution
   There was something exhilarating about taking kills in this fashion.
   The many murders that lay at Spear’s feet were usually silent, intimate affairs.
   Just the killer and the victim, together in a dance that connected them both in a way
   far more real, far more honest than any other relationship. No one was really naked
   until the moment of their death.
   But this; Spear had never killed more than three people at once because the need
   had never arisen. Now he was giddy with the blood-rash, wondering why he had
   never done this before. The joy of the frenzy was all-consuming and it was glorious.
   Throwing off all pretence at stealth and subterfuge was liberating in its own way.
   He was being truthful, baring himself for everyone to see; and they ran screaming
   when they witnessed it.
   Through the low howl of the sandstorm, the refugees were crying out and
   scattering. He sprinted after them, hooting with laughter.
   He had never been so open. Even as a child, he had hidden himself away, afraid
   of what he was. And then when the women in gold and silver came for him aboard
   their Black Ship, he concealed himself still deeper. Even the men with eyes of metal
   and glass who had cut upon him, plumbing the depths of his anomalous, deviant
   mind, even they had not seen this face of him.
   Spear was a whirling torrent of claws and talons, teeth and horns, the daemonskin
   blurring as it shifted and reformed itself to end the life of each victim in a new and
   brutal way. Gasping mouths opened up all over him where vitae spattered his bare
   flesh, drinking it in.
   The last of the soldiers was shooting at him, and he felt bursts of burning pain as
   thick, high-calibre shots impacted his back and legs. The daemonskin screeched as it
   shunted away the majority of the impact force, preventing the rounds from ever
   penetrating Spear’s actual flesh. He spun on his heel, pivoting like a dancer, flipping
   over though the air. The other soldiers were lying in pools of their own fluids, the
   sand drinking in their last where heads had been torn open, hearts crashed. Spear
   skipped over the soldier’s comrades and ignored the burn of a shot that caressed his
   face. He came close and angled on one leg, bringing his other foot up in a speeding
   black arc. Talons flicked out and the impact point was the man’s nasal cavity. Bone
   splintered with a wet crunch, jagged fragments entering his brain like daggers.
   How many dead was that? In the race and chase of it, the murderer had lost count.
   197
   Then he saw the witch hiding her face behind a steel skull and he didn’t care
   about that anymore. The thin, wiry female shot a fan of needles at him and he dodged
   most of them, a handful biting into the daemonflesh before the skin puckered and
   vomited them back out into the dust. This was just a delaying tactic, though. He felt
   the tremor moving through the warp, the alien monster sheathing his body shivering
   and reacting in disgust at the proximity of her.
   Ill light gathered around the assassin’s aura, sucked into the void within her
   through the fabric of her stealthsuit. The wind seemed to die off around the waif, as if
   she were generating a globe of nothingness that sound itself could not enter. The
   construct of lenses and spines emerging from the side of the grinning steel skull-helm
   crackled with power, and the perturbed air bowed like water ripples.
   A black stream of negative energy cascaded from the weapon and seared Spear as
   he threw up his hands to block it. The impact was immense, and he screamed with a
   pain unlike any he had ever felt before. The daemonskin was actually burning in
   places, weeping yellowish rivulets of pus where it blistered.
   All his amusement perished in that second; this was no game. The psyker girl was
   more deadly than he had given her credit for. More than just a pariah, she was… She
   was in a small way like him. But where Spear’s abilities were inherent to the twisted,
   warp-changed structure of his soul, the girl was only a pale copy, a half-measure. She
   needed the augmentation of the helmet-weapon just to come close to his perfection.
   Spear felt affronted by the idea that something could approach the power of his
   murdergift through mechanical means. He would kill the girl for her pretence.
   The daemonskin wanted him to fall back, to retreat and take vital moments to
   heal; he ignored the moaning of it and did the opposite. Spear launched himself at the
   psyker, even as he fell into the nimbus of soul-shrivelling cold all about her. He
   immediately felt his own power being dragged out of him, the pain so bright and
   shining it was as if she were tearing the arteries from his flesh.
   For a brief moment, Spear realised he was experiencing some degree of what it
   was like for a psyker to die at his hand; this must have been what Perrig had felt as
   she transformed into ashes.
   He lashed out before the undertow could pull him in. Claws like razors split the
   air in a shimmering arc and sliced across the armoured fabric and the flesh of the
   waif girl’s throat. It was not enough to immediately kill her, but it was enough to
   open a vein.
   She clapped a hand to the wound to staunch it, but not quick enough to stop an
   arc of liquid red jetting into the air. Spear opened his mouth and caught it in the face,
   laughing again as she stumbled away, choking.
   Inside Iota’s helmet, blood was pooling around her mouth and neck, issuing in
   streams from her ears, her nostrils. Her vision was swimming in crimson as tiny
   capillaries burst open inside her eyes, and she wept red.
   The animus speculum worked to recharge itself for a second blast of power. Iota
   had made a mistake and fired the first discharge too soon, without letting it build to
   maximum lethality. Her error had been to underestimate the potentiality of this…
   thing.
   198
   She had no frame of reference for what she was facing. At first thought she had
   imagined he was another assassin, sent against her in some power play to undo the
   works of the Execution Force. She could not see the logic in such a thing, but then
   the clades had often pursued strange vendettas against one another to assuage trivial
   slights and insults; these things happened as long as there was no evidence of them
   and more importantly, no ill-effects to the greater mission of the Officio
   Assassinorum.
   But this killer was something beyond her experience. That much was certain. At
   the very least, the glancing hit from the animus’ beam should have crippled him. Iota
   turned the readings of her aura-sensor across him and what she saw there was
   shocking.
   Impossibly, his psionic signature was changing, transforming. The sinuous
   nimbus of ghost colours spilled from the peculiar flesh-matter shrouding his body,
   and with a sudden leap of understanding, Iota realised she was seeing into a hazy
   mirror of the warp itself; this being was not one life but two, and between them
   gossamer threads of telepathic energy sewed them both into the inchoate power of
   the immaterium. Suddenly, she understood how he had been able to resist the animus
   blast. The energy, so lethal in the real world, was no more than a drop of water in a
   vast ocean within the realms of warp space. This killer was connected to the ethereal
   in a way that she could never be, bleeding out the impact of the blast into the warp
   where it could dissipate harmlessly.
   The shifting aura darkened and became ink black. This Iota had seen before; it
   was the shape of her own psychic imprint. He was mirroring her, and even as she
   watched it happen, Iota felt the gravitational drag on her own power as it was drawn
   inexorably towards the shifting, changing murderer.
   He was like her, and unlike as well. Where the clever mechanisms of the animus
   speculum sucked in psionic potentiality and returned it as lethal discharge, this
   man… this freakish aberration… he could do the same alone.
   It was the blood that let him do it. Her blood, ingested, subsumed, absorbed.
   Iota screamed; for the first time in her life, she really, truly screamed, knowing
   the blackest depths of terror. The fires in her mind churned, and she released them.
   He laughed as they rolled off him and reverberated back across space-time.
   Iota’s mouth filled with ash, and her cries were silenced.
   The moment seemed to stretch on into infinity; there was no noise across Liberation
   Plaza, not even the sound of an indrawn breath. It was as if a sudden vacuum had
   drawn all energy and emotion from the space. It was the sheer unwillingness to
   believe what had just occurred that made all of Dagonet pause.
   In the next second, the brittle instant shattered like glass and the crowds were in
   turmoil, the twin flood-heads of sorrow and fury breaking open at once. Chaos
   exploded as the people at the front of the crowd barriers surged forwards and
   collapsed the metal panels, moving in a slow wave towards the ragged line of
   shocked clanner soldiers. Some of the troops had their guns drawn; others let
   themselves be swallowed up by the oncoming swell, deadened by the trauma of what
   they had witnessed.
   199
   On an impulse the Callidus could not quantify, Koyne leapt from the base of the
   pillar and ran behind the line of crackling force-wall emitters. No one blocked the
   way. The shock was palpable here, thick in the air like smoke.
   The hulking Astartes were in a combat wheel around the corpse of their
   commander, weapons panning right and left, looking for a target. Their discipline
   was admirable, Koyne thought. Lesser beings, ordinary men, would have given in to
   the anger they had to be feeling without pause—but the Callidus did not doubt that
   would soon come.
   One of them shoved another of his number out of the way, tearing off his helmet
   with a twist of his hand. For a fraction of a second Koyne saw real emotion in the
   warrior’s flinty aspect, pain and anguish so deep that it could only come from a
   brother, a kinsman. The Astartes had a scarred face, and this close to him, the
   assassin could see he bore the rank insignia of a brother-sergeant of the 13th
   Company.
   That seemed wrong; according to intelligence on the Sons of Horus, their
   primarch always travelled with an honour guard of officers, a group known as the
   Mournival.
   вЂњDead,” said one of the other Astartes, his voice tense and distant. “Killed by
   cowards…”
   Koyne came as close as the Callidus dared, standing near a pair of worriedlooking
   PDF majors who couldn’t decide if they should go to the side of Nicran and
   the other nobles, or wait for the Astartes to give them orders.
   The sergeant bent down over the corpse and did something Koyne could not see.
   When he stood up once more, he was holding a gauntlet in his hand; but not a
   gauntlet, no. It was a master-crafted augmetic, a machine replacement for a forearm
   lost in battle. He had removed it from the corpse, claiming it as a relic.
   But Horus does not—
   вЂњMy captain,” rumbled the sergeant, hefting his bolt-gun with a sorrowful nod.
   вЂњMy captain…”
   Koyne’s heart turned to a cold stone in his chest, and movement caught his eye as
   Governor Nicran pushed away from the rest of the nobles and started down the stairs
   towards the Astartes. The noise of the crowd was getting louder, and the Callidus had
   to strain to hear as the sergeant spoke into the vox pickup in the neck ring of his
   breast plate.
   вЂњThis is Korda,” he snarled, his ire building. “Location is not, repeat not secure.
   We have been fired upon. Brother-Captain Sedirae… has been killed.”
   Sedirae. The Callidus knew the name, the commander of the 13th Company. But
   that was impossible. The warrior Kell had shot wore the mantle, the unique robe
   belonging to the primarch himself…”
   вЂњHorus?” Nicran was calling, tears running down his face as he came closer. “Oh,
   for the Stars, no! Not the Warmaster, please!”
   вЂњOrders?” said Korda, ignoring the babbling nobleman. Koyne could not hear the
   reply transmitted to the sergeant’s ear-bead, but the shift in set of the Space Marine’s
   jaw told the tale of exactly what had been said. With a jolt of fear, the Callidus turned
   and broke away, sprinting down the steps towards the crowds.
   200
   Koyne heard the peal of Nicran’s voice over the rush of the mob and turned in
   mid-run. The Governor was shaking his hands, wracked with sobs in front of the
   impassive, grey-armoured Astartes. His words were lost, but he was doubtless
   begging or pleading to Korda, vainly making justifications.
   With a small movement, the warrior raised the barrel of his bolter and shot the
   Governor at point-blank range, blasting his body apart. As one, Korda’s men
   followed his example, turning their guns towards the nobles and executing them.
   Over the bass chatter of bolt-fire, the Astartes roared out an order, and it cut
   through the bedlam like a knife.
   вЂњBurn this city!” he shouted.
   Soalm stumbled through the butchery clutching the bact-gun and dragging the chest
   behind her. Sinope was with her, trying to support the other end of the container as
   best she could. The noblewoman’s men were all gone.
   The dust-filled air was heavy with the sound of weapons-fire and pain, and there
   seemed nowhere they could turn that took them away from it.
   Soalm stumbled against a shack just as a wave of ephemeral terror radiated out
   and caught her in its wake. The air turned thick and greasy with the spoor of psionic
   discharge—and then she heard Iota’s echoing screams, amplified through the
   vocoder of the Culexus’ helmet.
   вЂњHoly Terra…” whispered the old woman, It could only have been Iota’s deathcry;
   no other voice could carry such dreadful emotion in it.
   Soalm turned towards the sound and saw the ending of her happen. Particles of
   sickly energy were liberated from Iota’s twitching body in a rush of light and noise,
   and then her stealthsuit collapsed, the silver-steel helmet falling away. Clogged puffs
   of grey cinders spilled from the black uniform as it crumpled into a heap, the body
   that had filled it disintegrated in a heartbeat. The skull-faced helmet rolled to a halt,
   spilling more dark ash into the churning winds.
   вЂњJenniker!” Sinope cried out her name as a shape blurred towards them. The
   Venenum felt a massive impact against her and she was thrown aside, losing her grip
   on the chest. She managed to fire two quick bursts from the bact-gun as she tumbled,
   rewarded with the pop and hiss of acids striking flesh.
   Iota’s killer loomed out of the buzzing sands, back-lit by the harsh light of the
   sunrise. She was reaching for a toxin corde as he punched her savagely, disarming
   her with the force of the blow. The bact-gun tumbled away and was lost. Soalm felt a
   jagged slash of pain in her chest as her ribs snapped. Falling to the ground, she tried
   to retch, and found herself in a damp patch of earth, mud formed from sand and
   spilled arterial blood. A clawed foot swept in and struck her where she had fallen,
   and another bone snapped. Soalm looked up, hearing laughter.
   The writhing shadow loomed, bending towards her; then a length of iron pipe
   came from nowhere and slammed into the killer’s spine, drawing an explosive hiss of
   fury. Soalm moved, agony racing through her, trying desperately to retreat.
   Sinope, her face lit with righteous fury, drew back her improvised weapon and hit
   him again, the old woman putting every moment of force she could muster into the
   blow. “For the God-Emperor!” she bellowed.
   201
   The killer did not allow her a third strike, however. He arrested the fall of the iron
   pipe and held it in place, his other hand snapping out to grasp Sinope’s thin, bird-like
   neck and pull her off her feet. With a vicious shove, he twisted his grip on the pipe
   and used it to run the noblewoman through; then he discarded her and strode away.
   He came upon the chest where it had fallen, and Soalm gave a weak cry as the
   murderer’s inky, liquid flesh streamed into the locking mechanism and broke it open
   from within. The ancient book fell into the sand, and Soalm saw the stasis shell
   around it sputter out and die.
   вЂњNo,” she croaked. “You cannot… You cannot take it…”
   The killer crouched and picked up the Warrant, flipping through the aged pages
   with careless speed, the paper fracturing and tearing. “No?” he said, without turning
   to her. “Who is going to stop me?”
   He reached the last page and released a booming, hateful laugh. Soalm felt a lash
   of sympathetic pain as he ripped the leaf from the binding of the priceless Eurotas
   relic and cupped the yellowed vellum in his hand. For a moment, she thought she saw
   the shimmer of liquid on the page, catching the rays of the sunlight.
   Then, as if it were some delicacy he was sampling at a banquet, the killer tipped
   back his head and opened his mouth, his forked jaws opening like an obscene
   blossom. A dozen more tiny fanged maws opened across his cheeks and neck as he
   tipped up the paper and swallowed the blood of the God-Emperor:
   He began to scream and howl, and the riot of malformation in his flesh became a
   storm of writhing fronds, tenticular forms, gnashing mouths. His body lost control
   over itself, the red-black skin warping and distending into shapes that were
   nauseating and vile.
   Weeping in her agony and her failure, Soalm dragged herself away towards Tros’
   skimmer, desperate to flee before the killer’s rapture came to its end.
   Kell was already on his way out even as the echo of his gunshot died around him. He
   drew up the cameo-line cloak across his shoulders, pulling the Exitus longrifle over
   one arm. He set the timers on the emplaced explosives to ignite once he was clear.
   The Vindicare paused to add an extra krak charge to a support pillar in the middle of
   the laundry room; when it detonated, it would collapse the ceiling above and with
   luck, obliterate what remained intact of the hab-tower’s gutted upper levels. He had
   left no trace behind him, but it paid to be thorough.
   Kell heard the sounds rising up from the streets as he dropped down to the tier
   below, moving towards his exit point. Disorder would spread like wildfire in the
   wake of the assassination; the Execution Force had to get beyond the city perimeter
   before the pandemonium caught up to them.
   He went to the edge of the shattered flooring and looked out. He could see people
   beneath him, the tiny dots of figures running in the avenues. Kell kicked aside a piece
   of fallen masonry and recovered his descent gear.
   The vox link in his spy mask crackled as the seldom-used general channel was
   keyed.
   Kell froze. Only the members of the team knew the frequency, and all of them
   knew that the channel was a mechanism of last resort. Even though it was heavily
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   encrypted, it lacked the untraceable facility of the burst transmitters; the fact that one
   of the team was using it now meant something had gone very, very wrong.
   The next sound he heard was the voice of the Callidus. Every word said was
   being simultaneously transmitted to Tariel and the Garantine. “Mission fail,” said
   Koyne, panting with the exertion of running. He could hear bolter shots and
   screaming in the background. “Confirming mission fail.”
   Kell was shaking his head. That could not be true; the last thing he had seen
   through the Exitus’ scope was the flash of radiation as the Lance ended the target’s
   life. Horus Lupercal was dead…
   вЂњBroken Mirror,” said Koyne. “I repeat, Broken Mirror.”
   The code phrase hit Kell like a physical blow and he sagged against the
   crumbling wall. The words had only one meaning—a surrogate, a sacrificial proxy
   had replaced their target.
   A storm of questions rushed through his thoughts; how could Horus have known
   they would be waiting for them? Had the mission been compromised from the very
   start? Had they been betrayed?
   The warrior Kell had placed between his crosshairs could only have been the
   Warmaster! Only Horus, the liberator of Dagonet clad in his mantle, would have
   made his grand gesture of the single shot into the sky… It could not be true! It could
   not be…
   The moment of doubt and uncertainty flared bright, and then faded. Now was not
   the time to dwell on this turn of events. The first, most important directive was to
   exfiltrate the strike zone and regroup. To reevaluate. Kell nodded to himself. He
   would do that, he decided. He would extract his team from this mess and then
   determine a new course of action. As long as a single Officio Assassinorum operative
   was still alive, the mission could still be completed.
   And if along the way, a traitor came to light… He shrugged off the thought. First
   things first. The Vindicare keyed the general channel. “Acknowledged,” he said.
   вЂњExtraction sites are now to be considered compromised. Proceed to city perimeter
   and await contact.”
   Kell secured the longrifle and fixed his descent pack to his back. “Go dark,” he
   ordered, ending the final command with the tap of a switch that deactivated his vox
   gear.
   An explosion made his head snap up and his spy mask’s optics located the
   thermal bloom in the corner of his vision, surrounding it with indicator icons. A
   vehicle had apparently been blown up by an exchange of gunfire. He wondered who
   would be foolish enough to shoot back at an Astartes just as a roar of engine noise
   swept over his head. Kell shrank into the cover of a partly-collapsed wall as a heavy,
   slate-coloured aircraft thundered around the habitat tower on bright rods of thruster
   flame—a Stormbird in the livery of the Sons of Horus.
   For a moment, he feared the Astartes had detected his firing hide; but the
   Stormbird swept on and down into the city, passing him by unnoticed. Kell looked up
   into the early morning sky and saw more raptor-shapes falling from the high clouds,
   trailing streamers of vapour from atmospheric re-entry. Whoever it was that Kell’s
   kill-shot had executed, the Warmaster’s warriors were coming in force to avenge
   him.
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   When he was sure the Stormbird was gone, Kell backed off and then ran at the
   hole in the wall. He threw himself into the air and felt the rush of the wind as gravity
   claimed his body. For agonising seconds, the streets below rose up towards him; then
   there was a sharp jerk across his shoulders as the sensors in the descent pack
   triggered the release of the parafoil across his back. The iridescent curve of ballistic
   cloth billowed open and his fall slowed.
   Kell dropped into the sounds of terror and violence, searching for an escape.
   Every deck of the Vengeful Spirit shook with barely-restrained violence as drop-ship
   after drop-ship rocketed off the launch decks. They streamed away from the
   battleship in a long, unbroken chain, lethal carrion birds wheeling and turning in
   towards the surface of Dagonet, carrying fury with them.
   Nearby, system boats in service to the PDF’s space division were either turning to
   flee from the ships of the Warmaster’s fleet, or else they were already sinking into
   their home world’s gravity well as flames crawled down the length of them. The
   Vengeful Spirit’s gunnery crews had been sparing with the use of their megalaser
   batteries, striking the ships hard enough to cripple them but not enough to obliterate
   them. Now the PDF cruisers would burn up in the atmosphere, and the fires of their
   deaths would be seen the whole planet over. It was a most effective way to begin a
   punishment.
   The Vengeful Spirit and the rest of her flotilla encroached slowly on Dagonet’s
   orbital space, approaching the staging point where Luc Sedirae’s vessel, the Thanato,
   was waiting for them. Most of the Thanato’s complement of drop-ships had already
   been deployed, the men of the 13th Company falling onto the capital city in a tide of
   unfettered rage. The handsome and ruthless master of the 13th was beloved of his
   warriors; and they would avenge him with nothing less than rivers of blood.
   The tall viewing windows of the Lupercal’s Court looked out over the bow of the
   Vengeful Spirit, the curve of Dagonet and the lone Thanato laid out before it.
   Maloghurst left the Warmaster where he stood at the windows and crossed the
   strategium towards the corridor outside. As he walked, he spoke in low tones to the
   troupe of chapter serfs who followed him everywhere he went. The equerry parsed
   Horus’ commands to his underlings and they in turn moved away to carry those
   orders about the fleet.
   Beyond the doorway there was a shadow. “Equerry,” it said.
   вЂњFirst Chaplain,” Maloghurst replied. His disfigured face turned its perpetual
   scowl at the Word Bearer, dismissing the rest of the serfs with a flick of his clawed
   hand. “Do you wish to speak with me, Erebus? I had been told you were engaged in
   your… meditations.”
   Erebus did not appear to notice the mocking tone Maloghurst placed on his
   question. “I was disturbed.”
   вЂњBy what?”
   The Word Bearer’s face split in a thin smile. “A voice in the darkness.” Before
   Maloghurst could demand a less obtuse answer, Erebus nodded towards the far end
   of the chamber, where Horus stood observing the motions of his fleet.
   The lord of the Legion was magnificent in his full battle gear, his armour striped
   with shining gold and dark brass, hides of great beasts lying off his shoulder in a
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   half-cloak. His face was hidden in the gloom, highlights made barely visible by the
   cold glow of the data consoles before him.
   вЂњI would ask a question of the Warmaster,” said the other Astartes.
   Maloghurst did not move. “You may ask me.”
   вЂњAs you wish.” Erebus’ lip curled slightly. “We are suddenly at battle alert status.
   It was my understanding we were coming to this world to show the flag in passing,
   and little more.”
   вЂњYou haven’t heard?” Maloghurst feigned surprise, amused that for a change he
   knew something the Word Bearer did not. “Brother-Captain Sedirae was given the
   honour of standing as the Warmaster’s proxy on Dagonet. But there was an…
   incident. A trap, I believe. Sedirae was killed.”
   Erebus’ typically insouciant expression shaded dark for a moment. “How did this
   happen?”
   вЂњThat will be determined, in due time. For the moment, it is clear that the
   assurances claiming Dagonet City as a secure location were false. Through either
   subterfuge or inadequacy on the part of Dagonet’s ruling cadres, a Son of Horus lost
   his life down there.” Maloghurst inclined his head towards the Warmaster. “Horus
   has demanded reciprocity.”
   вЂњThe nobles will die, then?” The equerry nodded. “To begin with.” Erebus was
   silent for a few seconds. “Why was Sedirae sent?”
   вЂњAre you questioning the orders of the Warmaster?”
   вЂњI only seek to understand—” Erebus trailed off as Maloghurst took a step
   towards the Word Bearer, moving through the doorway and into the corridor.
   вЂњYou would do well, Chaplain, to remember that an honoured battle-brother was
   just murdered in cold blood. A decorated Astartes of great esteem whose loss will be
   keenly felt, not just by the 13th Company but by the entire Legion.”
   Erebus’ eyes narrowed, showing his doubts at the description of Sedirae’s great
   esteem. While it was true the man was a fine warrior, many considered him an
   outspoken braggart, the Word Bearer among them. But as ever, the equerry kept his
   own opinions to himself.
   Maloghurst continued. “It would be best for the Warmaster to deal with this
   matter without the involvement of those from outside the Legion.” He nodded to a
   servitor in the lee of the doors, and the helot began to slide the towering panels
   closed. “I’m sure you appreciate that.”
   There was a moment when the Word Bearer seemed as if he were about to
   protest; but then he nodded. “Of course,” said Erebus. “I bow to your wisdom,
   equerry. Who knows the Warmaster’s moods better than you?” He threw a nod and
   walked away, back into the shadows of the corridor.
   They were killing everything that moved.
   The Sons of Horus began by firing on the crowds in Liberation Plaza, routing the
   civilians and turning the mob into a screaming tide of bodies that trampled each other
   in a desperate attempt to flee back down the roads and away from the great halls.
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   Koyne fought through the mass, catching sight of some of the killings along the
   way. Kell’s emergency command echoed through the vox-bead hidden in the
   Callidus’ ear.
   The Astartes walked, slow and steady, across the plaza with their bolters at their
   hips, firing single shot after single shot into the people. The missile-like bolt shells
   could not fail to find targets, and for each person they hit and instantly killed, others
   fell dead or near to it from the shared force of impact. The blasts rippled out through
   flesh and bone, the crowds were so closely packed together. And although Koyne
   never saw it, the assassin heard the hiss and crackle of a flamer being used. The smell
   of burned flesh was familiar.
   The panic was as much a weapon as the guns of the Astartes. People running and
   pushing, drowning in animal fear; they trampled one another blindly as they tried to
   escape along the radial streets leading from the plaza. Some transformed their fear
   into violence, brandishing weapons of their own in vain attempts to cut a path
   through the madness.
   Koyne rode the terrified mob as one might have floated on a turbulent sea, not
   fighting it, letting the frenzied currents of push and pull shove a body here and there.
   As the roads opened up into wider boulevards, the crush lessened and people broke
   into an open run; some of them were met by strafing fire from the first of the
   Stormbirds that swooped in low between the buildings.
   The Callidus was carried to the edge of the street and found passage through a
   storefront damaged in the early days of the insurrection. Hidden for a moment from
   the screaming throng outside, Koyne dared to consult a small holo-map of the city;
   any one of the avenues would take the assassin straight out of the metropolis to the
   city perimeter, but down each street the Astartes were advancing in small groups,
   coldly pacing their kills into those who ran and those who surrendered alike.
   After a moment, Koyne peered over the lip of a shattered window and saw that
   the leading edge of the crowds had passed by. Stragglers were still running past,
   heading southwards. Behind them, walking as if it were nothing more than a morning
   stroll, the Callidus spotted a single Astartes in grey ceramite, moving with a bolter at
   his shoulder. Sighting down the weapon as he went, he was picking targets at random
   and ending them.
   This was not a military exercise; this was a castigation.
   вЂњThis is your fault!” The voice was full of terror and fury.
   Koyne spun and found a man, his clothes freshly torn and a new cut staining his
   forehead with blood. He stood across the rabble-strewn shop floor, glaring at the
   Callidus, pointing a shaky finger.
   It was the uniform he was indicating. The dun-coloured tunic of the Dagonet
   Planetary Defence Force, in disarray now, but still a part of the false identity Koyne
   was operating under.
   The man shambled through the glass, kicking it aside without a care for the noise
   he was making. “You brought them here!” He stabbed a finger at the street. “That’s
   not Horus! I don’t know what those things are! Why did you let them come to kill
   us?”
   206
   Koyne realised that the man had no idea what had happened; perhaps he hadn’t
   seen the Shield-Breaker and the Lance. All he saw was a monstrous killing machine
   in armour the colour of storms.
   вЂњStop talking,” said Koyne, pulling open the PDF tunic and feeling for a
   fleshpocket holster. With a gasp, the Callidus tabbed the seam. Koyne’s weapon was
   in there, but the assassin’s muscles were tight with tension and it was proving
   difficult to relax and ease the skin-matter open. “Just be silent.”
   There was movement outside. Someone on a higher floor in the building across
   the street, probably some bold member of Capra’s rebellion or just a Dagoned sick of
   being a victim, tossed a makeshift firebomb that shattered wetly over the warrior’s
   helmet and right shoulder. The Son of Horus halted and swiped at the flames where
   they licked over the ceramite, patting them out with the flat of his gauntlet. As Koyne
   watched, the Astartes was still dotted with little patches of orange flame as he
   pivoted on his heel and aimed upward.
   A heavy thunderclap shot rang out, and the bolter blew a divot of brick from the
   third floor. A body, trailing threads of blood, came spiralling out with it, killed
   instantly by the proximity of the impact.
   вЂњThey… they want you!” snarled the man in the shop, oblivious to what was
   taking place outside. “Maybe they should have you!”
   вЂњNo,” Koyne said, fingers at last touching the butt of the pistol nestling inside the
   false-flesh gut over the Callidus’ stomach. “I told you to—”
   Stone crunched into powder and suddenly the warrior was there in the doorway
   of the gutted shop, too big to fit through the wood-lined threshold. The emotionless
   eyes of the fearsome helmet scanned them both and then the figure advanced, its
   bolter dropping onto a sling. Koyne stumbled backwards as the Son of Horus tore
   through the splintering remains of the doorway, drawing his combat blade as he
   came. The knife was the size of a short sword, and the fractal edge gave off a dull
   gleam.
   Before the Callidus could react the Astartes struck out with the pommel and hit
   the assassin in the chest. Koyne felt bones snap and spun away, landing hard. In a
   perverse way, the assassin was pleased; Koyne’s cover was clearly still intact. If the
   Astartes had known what he was facing, the kill would have come immediately.
   The man was pointing and shouting; the Son of Horus, having decided to
   preserve his ammunition for the moment, advanced on the survivor, the top of his
   helmet knocking light fittings down from the patterned ceiling. A sweep of the
   combat blade silenced the man by taking his head from his shoulders; the body gave
   a peculiar little dance as nerves misfired, and fell in a heap.
   Koyne had the gun but the twitching of the muscles and the flesh-pocket would
   not let it go; pain from the impact injury robbed the Callidus of the usual
   concentration and control needed at a moment like this.
   The Son of Horus changed his grip on the knife, holding it by the blade, ready to
   throw it; in the next second a crash of bolter fire echoed and impact points appeared
   in a line of silver blooms across the chest plate and left shoulder pauldron of the
   Astartes.
   207
   Through blurry vision, Koyne saw a man-shape moving faster than anything
   human should have; and a face, a mask, a fanged skull made of discoloured
   gunmetal.
   Scrambling backwards, the assassin watched as the Garantine sprinted around the
   Astartes in a tight arc, rolling over fallen counters and leaping from pillar to wall. As
   he moved, his Executor pistol was snarling, spitting out low-gauge bolt shells that
   clattered and sparked off the towering warrior’s armour.
   The Astartes let the combat blade drop and brought up his bolter; the weapon was
   of a far larger calibre than the Executor. A single direct hit at the ranges these close
   quarters forced upon the combatants would mean death for the Eversor; but to kill
   him, first the Astartes had to hit him.
   Koyne moaned in pain as the gun slowly eased out of the stress-tensed flesh
   pocket, watching as the two combatants tried to end each other. In the confined space
   of the destroyed store the bray of bolt shells was deafening, and the air filled with the
   stench of cordite and the heavy, choking dust from atomised flakboard. A support
   pillar exploded, raining plaster and wood from the broken flooring above. The
   Callidus could hear the animalistic panting of the Eversor as he moved like lightning
   back and forth across the Space Marine’s line of sight, goading the Astartes into
   firing after him. Stimm-glands chugged and injectors hissed as the Garantine’s
   bloodstream was flooded with bio-chemicals and cocktails of drugs that pushed him
   beyond the speed of even an Astartes’ enhanced reflexes.
   Koyne’s gun, slick with mucus and fluids, finally vomited itself out of the
   assassin’s stomach and on to the floor. The Callidus clutched at it and released a shot
   in the direction of the grey-armoured hulk. The neural shredder projected a spreading
   plume of sickly energetic discharge around the Son of Horus and the warrior
   staggered with the hit, one hand coming up to clutch at his helmet.
   The Garantine roared past, sprinting over Koyne where the Callidus lay propped
   up against a wall. “My kill!” he was shouting, the words repeating and coming so fast
   they became a single stream of noise. “My killmykillmykillmykill—”
   He was a blur of claws and gun, too fast for the eye to process the images. Sparks
   flew as the Eversor assassin collided bodily with the Astartes and knocked him down,
   the Garantine firing his Executor into the impact holes in the warrior’s chest at pointblank
   range, clawing wildly at his helmet with the spiked talon of his neuro-gauntlet.
   Koyne could hear the Astartes snarling, angrily fighting back, but the Eversor was
   like mercury, slipping through his clumsy armoured fingers.
   Then dark, arterial blood spurted as the armour was cracked and the Garantine
   dug into the meat he found inside. His bolter dry, the Astartes punched and
   bludgeoned the Eversor, but if any pain impulses reached the Garantine’s mind, the
   brew of rage-enhancers and sense-inhibitors swimming through his bloodstream
   deadened them to nothing.
   With a croaking, wet rattle, the Astartes sank back and collapsed. Chattering with
   coarse laughter, the Garantine swept up the fallen combat blade and pressed all his
   weight behind it. The weapon sank through sparking power cables and myomer
   muscles until it pierced flesh and cut bone.
   After a minute or so, the Eversor dropped to the floor, still shaking with the
   aftershock of his chemical frenzy. “Ss-so…” he began, struggling to speak clearly,
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   forcing himself to slow down with each panting gulp of breath. “Th-this is how it
   feels to k-kill one of them…” He grinned widely behind the fanged mask. “I like it.”
   The Callidus stood up. “We need to move, before more of his brethren arrive.”
   вЂњAren’t you… aren’t you going to th-thank me for saving your life, s-shapechanger?”
   Without warning, the Astartes suddenly lurched forwards, gauntlets snapping
   open, savage anger fuelling a final surge of killing fury. Koyne’s neural shredder was
   at hand and the assassin fired a full-power discharge into the skull of the Son of
   Horus; the blast disintegrated tissue in an instant wave of brain-death.
   The warrior lurched and fell again. Koyne gave the Garantine a sideways look.
   вЂњThank you.”
   209
   SIXTEEN
   Collision
   The Choice
   Forgiveness
   A bombardment had begun, and the people of Dagonet’s capital feared it was the end
   of the world.
   They knew so little of the reality of things, however. High above in orbit, it was
   only the warship Thanato that fired on the city, and even then it was not with the
   vessel’s most powerful cannons. The people did not know that a fleet of craft were
   poised in silence around their sister ship, watchful and waiting. Had all the vessels of
   the Warmaster’s flotilla unleashed their killpower, then indeed those fears would
   have come true; the planet’s crust cracked, the continents sliced open. Perhaps those
   things would happen, soon enough—but for now it was sufficient for the Thanato to
   hurl inert kinetic kill-rods down through the atmosphere, the sky-splitting shriek of
   their passage climaxed by a lowing thunder as the warshots obliterated power
   stations, military compounds and the vast mansion-houses of the noble clans. From
   the ground it seemed like wanton destruction; from orbit, it was a shrewd and
   surgical pattern of attack.
   Koyne and the Garantine stayed off the main avenues and boulevards, avoiding the
   roadways where processions of frightened citizens streamed towards the city limits.
   Hours had passed now since the killing in the plaza, and the people had lost the will
   to ran, numbed by their own terror. Now they stumbled, silently for the most part,
   some pushing carts piled high with whatever they could loot or carry, others clinging
   to overloaded ground vehicles. When people did speak, they did so in whispers, as if
   they were afraid the Adeptus Astartes would hear the sound of a voice at normal
   pitch from across the city.
   Listening from the shadows of an alleyway across from a shuttered monorail halt,
   the Callidus heard people talking about the Sons of Horus. Some said they had set up
   a staging point in Liberation Plaza, that there were hordes of Stormbirds parked there
   disgorging more Astartes with each passing moment. Others mentioned seeing
   armoured vehicles in the streets, even Battle Titans and monstrous war creatures.
   The only truth Koyne could determine from what he gleaned was that the Sons of
   Horus were intent on fulfilling the orders of Devram Korda to the fullest; Dagonet
   City would be little more than a smouldering funeral pyre by nightfall.
   The assassin looked up to where a massive streetscreen hung at a canted angle
   from the front of the station building. The display was cracked and fizzing with
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   patchy static; text declaring that the metropolitan rail network was temporarily
   suspended was still visible, the pixels frozen in place. Koyne eyed the device warily.
   The public screens all had arrays of vid-picters arranged around them, connected to
   the municipal monitoring network. The Callidus had a spy’s healthy disdain for being
   caught on camera.
   As if it had sensed the shade’s train of thought, Koyne saw very clearly as one of
   the picters jerked on its gimbal, stuttering around to face the line of refugees. The
   assassin retreated back into the shadows, unsure if the monitor had caught sight.
   A few metres down the alley, the Garantine was sitting atop a waste container,
   shivering with the come-down from his reflex-boosters, working with a field kit to
   close up the various wounds the Son of Horus had inflicted on him during the earlier
   melee. Koyne grimaced at the chewing sound of a dermal stapler as it knitted flesh
   back to flesh.
   The Garantine looked up; his mask was off, and one of his eyes was torn and
   damaged, weeping clear fluids. He grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. “Be with
   you in a trice, freak.”
   Koyne ignored the insult, shrugging off the ragged remains of the PDF troop
   commander tunic and replacing it with a brocade jacket stolen from a fallen shopwindow
   dummy. “May not have that long.”
   The Callidus shrank back against the wall and let the face of the portly PDF
   officer slip away. It was painful to make a change like this, without proper meditation
   and time spent, but the circumstances demanded it. Koyne’s aspect flowed to
   resemble that of a young man, a boyish face under the same unruly mop of thin hair.
   вЂњDo you remember what you used to look like?” said the Eversor, disgust thick in
   his tone.
   Koyne gave the other assassin a sideways look, making a point of gazing at the
   topography of scarification and the countless implants both atop and beneath his
   epidermis. “Do you?”
   The Garantine chuckled. “We’re both so pretty in our own ways.” He went back
   to his wounds. “Any sign of more Astartes?”
   The Callidus made a negative noise. “But they’ll be coming. I’ve seen this kind
   of thing before. They march through a city, putting the torch to everything they pass,
   daring anyone to stop them.”
   вЂњLet them come,” he grunted, tying the last field dressing around his thick thigh.
   вЂњThere will be more than one next time.”
   вЂњDon’t doubt it.” The Eversor’s hands were still twitching. “The poisoner girl
   was right. We’re all going to die here.”
   That drew a harsh look from the Callidus. “I have no intention of ending my life
   on this backwater world.”
   He chuckled. “Act like you have a choice.” The Garantine made a metronome
   motion with his fingers. “Ticky-tocky. Odds are against us. Someone must’ve
   talked.”
   That made the other assassin fall silent. Koyne had not wanted to dwell on the
   possibility, but the Garantine was right to suspect that their mission had been
   compromised. It seemed a logical deduction, given what had happened in the plaza.
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   The sharp cry of an animal drew Koyne’s attention away from such troubling
   thoughts and the assassin looked up to see a raptor bird flutter past the end of the
   alleyway, pivoting on a wing to glide in their direction.
   There was a flurry of movement and the Eversor had his Executor aimed upward,
   the sensor mast of his Sentinel gear drawing a bead; the combi-weapon’s needier
   made a snapping sound and the bird died in mid-turn, falling to the ground like a
   stone.
   Koyne went to the animal’s body; there had been something odd about it, a
   flicker of sunlight off metal…
   вЂњHungry, are you?” The Garantine lurched along behind, limping slightly.
   вЂњIdiot.” Koyne held up the bird’s corpse; a single needle-dart bisected its bloody
   torso. The raptor had numerous augmetic implants in its skull and pinions. “This is a
   psyber eagle. It belongs to the infocyte. He’s looking for us.” Koyne glanced up at
   the streetscreen once more, and the imagers beneath it.
   вЂњMaybe it was him who talked,” muttered the Eversor. “Maybe you.”
   The image on the streetscreen flickered and changed; now it was an aerial view of
   the street, then shots of the alleyway, then a confused tumble of motion. Koyne
   suddenly understood the display was showing a replay of the visual feed from the
   eagle’s auto-senses.
   Some of the refugee stragglers saw the same thing and stopped to watch the loop
   of footage. Koyne tossed the dead bird aside and stepped out into the street.
   Immediately, all the imagers along the bottom of the streetscreen whirred, moving to
   capture a look at the Callidus.
   For a moment nothing happened; if Koyne was right, if it was Tariel watching
   through those lenses, the Vanus would be confused. Koyne’s face was different from
   the last one the infocyte had seen. But then the Garantine shuffled out into the open
   and all doubt was removed.
   The refugees saw the hulking rage-killer and backed away in fear, as if suddenly
   becoming aware of a wild animal in their midst. In that, Koyne reflected, they were
   almost correct. The Garantine leered at them, showing his teeth.
   A hooter sounded from the monorail halt, and in juddering fits and starts, the
   heavy metal gate closing off the station from the street began to draw open on
   automated mechanisms. The screen above flickered again, and this time the text
   displayed there announced that the rail system was now in operation.
   Koyne smiled slightly. “I think we have some transport.” The Callidus took a
   step, but a clawed hand grabbed the assassin’s arm.
   вЂњCould be a trap,” hissed the Garantine.
   In the distance, another orbital strike screamed into the earth and sent a tremor
   through the ground beneath their feet. “Only one way to find out.”
   On the elevated platform above the street level a single train was active. The web of
   monorail lines had been inert ever since the start of the insurrection against Terra,
   first shut down by the clanner troops as a way of imposing order by restricting the
   movement of the commoners through the city, and later forced to stay idle because of
   the mass breakout at the Terminus. But some lines were still connected to what
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   remained of the capital’s rapidly-dying power grid, and the autonomic control
   systems that governed the operation of the trains and lines and points were simplistic
   devices; they were no match for someone with the skills of a Vanus.
   Another psyber eagle roosted on the prow of the train and it called out a strident
   caw as Koyne and the Garantine sprinted on to the platform. The Callidus threw a
   glance down the wide stairwell; some of the bolder refugees were venturing inside
   the station after them.
   вЂњQuickly,” Koyne found an open carriage door and climbed inside. The train was
   a cargo carrier, partitioned off inside by pens suitable for livestock. The air within
   was thick with the stink of animal sweat and faeces.
   As the Garantine climbed in, the eagle took wing and the train shunted forwards
   with a grinding clatter, sending sparks flying from the drive wheels gripping the rail.
   Ozone crackled and the carriages lurched away from the station, picking up
   momentum.
   The train rattled along, a dull impact resonating off the metalwork as it
   shouldered a piece of fallen masonry off the rails. Koyne drew the neural shredder
   and moved back through the cargo wagon, kicking open the hatch to the next
   carriage, and then the two more beyond that. In the rear car the shade found the
   corpses of groxes, the bovines lying where they had fallen on the gridded metal
   flooring. They were still tethered to anchoring rings on the walls, doubtless forgotten
   and left to starve in this reeking metal box after the fighting had begun.
   Satisfied they were alone, the Callidus walked back the length of the train to find
   the Garantine in the stubby engine car, watching the chattering cogitator-driver.
   Through the broken glass of the engine compartment canopy, the elevated track was
   visible ahead, dropping away down to the level of one of the main boulevards,
   paralleling the radial highway’s course.
   вЂњIf we’re lucky, we can ride this heap all the way out of the city,” said Koyne,
   absently examining the charge glyph on the neural weapon.
   The Eversor had his fang-mask back on, and he was growling softly with each
   breath, peering into the distance like a predator smelling the wind. “We’re not
   lucky,” he retorted. “Do you see?” The Garantine pointed a metal-taloned finger
   ahead of the train.
   Koyne pulled a pair of compact magnoculars from a belt clip and peered through
   them. A fuzzy image swam into focus; grey blobs became the distinct shapes of
   Adeptus Astartes in Maximus-pattern armour, moving to block the path of the
   monorail. As the Callidus watched, they dragged the husks of burned-out vehicles
   across the line, assembling a makeshift barricade.
   вЂњI told you this was a trap,” rumbled the Garantine. “The Vanus is delivering us
   to the Astartes!”
   Koyne gave a shake of the head. “If that was so, then why aren’t we slowing
   down?” If anything, the train’s velocity was increasing, and warning indicators began
   to blink on the cogitator panel as the carriages exceeded their safety limits.
   The wheels screeched as the train raced down the incline from the elevated rails
   to the ground level crossing, and metal flashed off metal as the Sons of Horus began
   to open fire on the leading carriage, pacing bolt shells into the hull from the cover of
   their obstruction.
   213
   The Garantine blind-fired a burst of full-auto fire through the broken window and
   then followed Koyne back through the wagons at a sprint. Shots punched through the
   walls of the cargo cars, rods of sunlight stabbing through the impact holes into the
   musty interior. The decking rocked beneath their feet and it was hard to stay upright
   as the train continued to gather speed.
   They made it to the rearmost wagon as the engine car slammed into the barricade
   and crashed through it. The husks of a groundcar and a flatbed GEV spun away
   across the boulevard, throwing two Astartes aside with the force of the collision.
   Metal fractured, red-hot and stressed beyond its limits, and the guide wheels broke
   away from the axle. Instantly freed from the monorail, the train lurched up and
   twisted over on to its side. The carriages crashed down to the blacktop and scored a
   gouge down the length of the street, spitting cascades of asphalt and gravel.
   In the rear car, the assassins were thrown into the grox carcasses, the impact
   absorbed by the foetid meat of the dead animals. Screeching and vomiting clouds of
   bright orange sparks, the derailed cargo train finally slowed to a shuddering halt.
   Koyne lost awareness for what seemed like long, long minutes. Then the Callidus
   was aware of being dragged upwards and then propelled through a tear in what had
   once been the wagon’s roof. The shade took several shaky steps out on to the
   roadway, smelling hot tar and the tang of burned metal. Koyne blinked in the
   sunlight, feeling for the neural shredder. The weapon was still there, mercifully.
   The Garantine lurched past, reloading his Executor. “I think we upset them,” he
   shouted, pointing past Koyne’s shoulder.
   Turning, the assassin saw armoured giants running down the road towards them,
   firing from the hip.
   Bolt-rounds cracked into the ground and the shattered train with heavy blares of
   concussion. Koyne drew the neural weapon and hesitated; the pistol had a finite
   range and was better suited to a close-in kill. Instead, the Callidus retreated behind
   part of the cargo wagon. Perhaps a lucky shot might take down one of the Sons of
   Horus, even hobble two of them… but that was a tactical squad back there, bearing
   down on the pair of them.
   вЂњWe’re not lucky,” the assassin muttered, considering the possibility that this
   backwater would indeed be the place that claimed the life of Koyne of the Callidus.
   A ricochet careened off the roadway and the Garantine staggered back into cover.
   Koyne smelled the thick, resinous odour of bio-fluids; there was a deep purple-black
   gouge in the Eversor’s back. “You’re wounded.”
   вЂњAm I? Oh.” The other assassin seemed distracted, clearing a fouled cartridge
   from the breech of his gun. A metal canister rattled off the wagon and landed near
   their feet; without hesitation, the Garantine scooped up the krak grenade and threw it
   back in the direction it had come. Koyne could see that his every movement was an
   effort, as more thick, chemical-laced blood seeped from the injury.
   The Eversor let out a low, ululating gasp as injectors discharged, nullifying his
   pain. He glared back at Koyne and his pupils were pinpricks. “Something’s coming.
   Hear it?”
   Koyne was about to speak, but a sudden roar of jet wash smothered every other
   noise. From between the towers lining one of the side streets came a blunt-prowed
   flyer, the boxy fuselage suspended between two sets of wings that ended in vertical
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   thruster pods; it was painted in bright stripes of white and green, the livery of the
   city’s firefighting brigade. There was a man in a black stealthsuit at an open hatch, a
   longrifle in his grip. A shot snapped from the gun muzzle and further down the road a
   car exploded.
   Koyne pulled at the Garantine’s arm as the aircraft dropped towards the street.
   вЂњTime to go,” the Callidus shouted.
   The Eversor’s muscles were bunched hard like bales of steel cable, and he was
   vibrating with wild energy. “He said he killed one of them, before.” The Garantine
   was glaring at the oncoming Astartes. “That’s two now, if he’s to be believed.”
   The flyer was spinning about, trying to find a place to settle as the Sons of Horus
   split their fire between the assassins and the aircraft. “Garantine,” said Koyne. “We
   have to move.”
   The rage-killer twitched and a palsy came over him. “I don’t like you,” he said,
   slurring the words. “You realise that?”
   вЂњThe feeling is mutual.” Koyne had to yell to be heard over the noise of the
   thrusters. The flyer was hovering less than a metre from the roadway. Tariel was at
   the canopy, beckoning frantically.
   вЂњGood. I don’t want you to confuse my motives.” And then the Eversor surged
   into a loping ran, his legs blurring as he hurtled out of cover and straight into the
   lines of the Astartes. Shell casings cascaded out behind him in a stream of brass,
   falling from the ejection port of his combi-weapon.
   The Callidus swore and sprinted in the opposite direction towards the flyer. Kell
   was in half-cover by the open hatch, the Exitus rifle bucking in his grip as he fired
   Turbo-Penetrator rounds into the enemy squad. Koyne leapt up and scrambled into
   the crew compartment of the aircraft.
   Tariel was cowering behind a panel, pale and sweaty. He appeared to be
   puppeting the aircraft’s pilot-servitor through the interface of his cogitator gauntlet.
   The infocyte looked up. “Where’s the Garantine?” he yelled.
   вЂњHe’s made his choice,” said Koyne, slumping to the deck.
   The Eversor ran screaming into the cluster of rebel Astartes, blasting the first he
   found off his feet with a screeching salvo of rounds from the Executor. He collided
   with the next and the two of them went down in a crash of ceramite and metal. The
   Garantine felt the boiling churn of energy racing through his veins, his mechenhanced
   heart beating at such incredible speed the sound it made in his ears was one
   long continuous roar. The stimm-pods in the cavities of his abdomen broke their
   regulator settings and flooded him with doses of Psychon and Barrage pumped
   directly into his organs, while atomiser grilles in the frame of his fang-mask puffed
   raw, undiluted anger-inducers and neuro-triggers into his nostrils.
   He rode on a wave of frenzy, of black and mad hate that sent him howling with
   uncontrollable laughter, each choking snarl rattling like gunshots. He was so fast; so
   lethal; so satisfied like this.
   The Garantine had been awake now for the longest period of his life since before
   they had found him in the colony, the gnawed bones of his neighbours in his little
   child’s hand, the tips sharpened to make a kill with. He missed the dreamy no-mind
   bliss of the stasis cowls. He felt lost without the whispering voices of the
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   hypnogoges. This kind of living, the hour-to-hour, day-by-day existence that the rest
   of them found so easy… it was a hell of stultifying torpor for the Garantine. He hated
   the idea of this interminable yesterday and today and tomorrow. He craved the now.
   Every second he was awake, he felt as if the pure rage that fuelled him was being
   siphoned away, making him weak and soft. He needed his sleep. Needed it like air.
   But he needed his kills even more. Better than the hardest hit of combat philtre,
   more potent than the jags of pleasure-analogue that issued from the lobo-chips in his
   grey matter—the kills were the best high of them all.
   He was pounding on the Space Marine’s helmet, smashing in the eye-lenses,
   beating his clawed hands bloody. The Executor was a club he used to bludgeon and
   swipe.
   Impacts registered on him, blasts of infernal heat throwing him off his victim,
   driving him hard into the road. Heavy, drug-tainted vitae frothed at his mouth and
   bubbled through the maw of the fang-mask. He felt no pain. There was only a white
   ball of warmth in the middle of him, and it was growing. It expanded to fill the
   Garantine with a rush the like of which he had never felt before. The implants in him
   stuttered and died, shattered by glancing bolter hits and knife stabs. He had nothing
   but rags below the right knee.
   Every muscle in his body shuddered as the death-sign triggered a dormant
   artificial gland beneath his sternum. The engorged, orb-shaped organ spent its venom
   load, bursting as the end came close. The Terminus gland poured a compound into
   the Garantine that made the blood in his veins boil, turning it to acid. Every drug and
   chemical mixed uncontrollably, becoming potent, toxic, explosive.
   The soft tissues of the Eversor’s eyes cooked in their orbits, and so he was blind
   to the final flash of exothermic release, as his body was consumed in an inferno of
   spontaneous combustion.
   They hugged the contours of the city streets, moving fast and as low as they dared,
   but out on the edge of the capital the Sons of Horus had little presence. Instead, the
   rebel Astartes had allowed their orbital contingent to hammer at the walled estates
   and park-lands belonging to the noble clans. The city was now ringed with a dirty
   chain of massive impact craters. The blackened bowls of churned earth were fused
   into glassy puddles in some places, where the force of the kinetic strikes had melted
   the ground into distended fulgurite plates.
   The lines of refugees crossed the craters beneath them, streamers of people
   moving like ants across the footprint of an uncaring giant. The thick, smoke-soiled
   air over the destruction veiled the passage of the flyer. Tariel told them they were
   fortunate that the Adeptus Astartes had not deployed air cover; in this wallowing,
   keening civilian aircraft they would have been no match for a Raven interceptor.
   On Kell’s orders the infocyte directed the flyer out over the wastelands beyond
   the city walls and into the dusty churn of the deserts. With each passing second they
   were putting more and more distance between them and the star-port hangar where
   the Ultio had been concealed.
   Nothing followed them; at one point the sensors registered something small and
   fast—a jetbike perhaps—but it was far off their vector and did not appear to be aware
   of them.
   216
   Finally, Koyne broke the silence. “Where in the name of Hades are we going?”
   вЂњTo find the others,” said the Vindicare.
   вЂњThe women?” Koyne was still hiding behind a young man’s face and the
   expression the Callidus put on it was too old and too callous for such a youthful
   visage. “What makes you think they’re any less dead than the Eversor?”
   Kell held up a data-slate. “You don’t really think I’d let the Culexus out of my
   sight without knowing exactly where she was, do you?”
   вЂњA tracking device?” Koyne immediately glared at Tariel, who shrank back
   behind the hologram of the flyer’s autopilot control. “One of your little toys?”
   The infocyte gave a brisk nod. “A harmless radiation frequency tag, nothing
   more. I provided enough for all of us.”
   Koyne turned the glare back on Kell. “Did you plant one on me as well?” The
   boy’s eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”
   Kell smiled coldly. “Those rations aboard the Ultio were tasty, weren’t they?”
   Before the Callidus could react, he went on. “Don’t be so difficult, Koyne. If I hadn’t
   factored in a contingency, we never would have found you. You’d still be in the city,
   marking time until Horus’ warriors cut you down.”
   вЂњYou thought of everything,” said the shade. “Except the possibility that our
   target would know we were coming!”
   Tariel began to speak. “The target in the plaza—”
   вЂњWas not the Warmaster,” snarled Koyne. “I am an assassin palatine of more
   kills than I care to mention, and I have survived every sanction and prosecuted each
   kill because I had no secrets. No one to confide in. No chance for a breach in
   operational security. And yet here we are, with this grand and foolish scheme to
   murder a primarch crashing down around us, and for what? Who spoke, Kell?” The
   Callidus crossed the flyer’s small cabin and prodded the marksman in the chest.
   вЂњWho is to blame?”
   вЂњI don’t have an answer for you,” said Kell, in a moment of candour. “But if any
   of us were traitors to the Emperor, we’ve had opportunities aplenty to stop this
   endeavour before it even left the Sol system.”
   вЂњThen how did Horus foresee the attack?” asked Koyne. “He let one of his own
   commanders perish in his stead. He must have known! Are we to believe he’s some
   kind of sorcerer?”
   A chime sounded from Kell’s data-slate, and he left the question unanswered. “A
   return. Two kilometres to the west.”
   Tariel opened another pane of ghostly hololithic images and nodded. “I have it. A
   static location. The flyer’s auspex is detecting a metallic mass… conflicting thermal
   reads.”
   вЂњSet us down.”
   Below them, dust clouds whirled past, reducing visibility to almost nothing. “The
   sandstorm and the contaminants from the orbital bombing…” The Vanus looked up
   and his argument died on his lips as he saw Kell’s rigid expression. He sighed. “As
   you wish.”
   217
   Two of Tariel’s eyerats found her, slumped over the yoke of a GEV skimmer halfburied
   under a storm-blown dune. From what the infocyte could determine, she had
   been injured before getting into the vehicle, and at some point as she tried to escape
   into the deep desert, her wounds had overcome her and the skimmer controls had
   slipped from her grip.
   Kell, an expression of stony fury on his face, shoved Tariel out of the way and
   gathered up Soalm where she lay. Her face was discoloured with bruising, and to the
   infocyte’s amazement, she still lived.
   Koyne drew something from the back seat of the GEV: a sculpted silver helmet in
   the shape of a skull, crested with lenses and antennae of arcane design. When the
   Callidus held it up to look it in the eye, black ash fell from the neck and was carried
   away on the moaning winds. “Iota…”
   вЂњDead,” Soalm stirred at the mention of the psyker’s name. “It killed her.” Her
   voice was slight, thick with pain.
   вЂњIt?” echoed Tariel; but Kell was already carrying the Venenum back towards the
   flyer.
   Koyne was the last inside, and the Callidus drew the hatch shut with a slam. The
   shade brought Iota’s helmet back, and sat it on the deck of the cabin. It fixed them all
   with its mute, accusatory gaze. Outside, the winds threw rattling curls of sand across
   the canopy, plucking at the wings of the aircraft.
   Across the compartment, Kell tore open a medicae pack and emptied the contents
   across the metal floor.
   He worked to load an injector with a pan-spectrum anti-infective.
   вЂњAsk her what happened,” said Koyne.
   вЂњShut up,” Kell snapped. “I’m going to save her life, not interrogate her!”
   вЂњIf she was drawn away on purpose,” continued the Callidus. “If it was deliberate
   that Soalm was attacked and Iota killed…”
   вЂњWhat could have killed her?” Tariel blurted out. “I witnessed what she was
   capable of in the Red Lanes.”
   Koyne scrambled across the cabin towards the sniper. “For the Throne’s sake,
   man, ask her! Whatever she is to you, we have to know!”
   Kell hesitated; and then with deliberate care, he replaced the anti-infective agent
   with a stimulant. “You’re right.”
   вЂњThat could kill her,” Tariel warned. “She’s very weak.”
   вЂњNo,” Kell replied, placing the nozzle of the injector at her pale neck, “she’s not.”
   He pressed the stud and the drag load discharged.
   Soalm reacted with a hollow gasp, her back arching, eyes opening wide with
   shock. In the next moment, she fell back against the deck, wheezing. “You…” she
   managed, her gaze finding Kell where he stood over her.
   вЂњListen to me,” said the Vindicare, that curious unquantifiable expression on his
   face once again. “The Garantine is dead. The mission was a failure. Horus sent a
   proxy in his place. Now his Astartes are punishing the city for what we have done.”
   Soalm’s eyes lost focus for a moment as she took this in. “A killer…” she
   whispered. “An assassin… hiding behind the identity of a rogue trader’s agent.” She
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   looked up. “I saw what it did to Iota. The others it just murdered, but her… And then
   the blood…” The woman started to weep. “Oh, God-Emperor, the blood…”
   вЂњWhat did she just say?” Koyne asked. “Idolatry is outlawed! Of all the—”
   вЂњBe quiet!” Tariel snapped. The infocyte leaned forward. “Soalm. There is
   another assassin here? It killed Iota, yes?”
   She gave a shaky nod. “Tried to end me… Murdered Sinope and the others in the
   sanctuary. And then the book…” She sobbed.
   Kell extended a hand and laid it on her shoulder as she wept.
   вЂњI can show it,” said Tariel. Koyne turned to see the Vanus grasping Iota’s helmet
   in his hands. “What happened, I mean. There’s a memory coil built into the
   mechanism of the animus speculum. A mission recorder.”
   вЂњDo it,” said Kell, without looking up.
   In short order, Tariel used his mechadendrites to prise open panels along the back
   of the metal skull, and connected cords of bright brass and copper between the
   hidden ports on the device and the hololith projector built into his cogitator.
   Images flickered and jumped. Fractured moments of conversation blurred and
   sputtered in the air as the infocyte plumbed the depths of the memory unit, cutting
   though layers of encryption; and then it began.
   Soalm looked away; she did not want to witness it a second time.
   * * *
   Tariel watched Iota die through her own eyes.
   He saw the man in the Eurotas uniform transform into the thing that called itself
   вЂњSpear”; he saw the perplexing readouts on the aura scans that matched nothing the
   psyker had encountered before; and he saw the horrific act of the taking of her blood.
   вЂњIt tasted her…” Soalm muttered. “Do you see? In the moment before the kill.”
   вЂњWhy?” Koyne was sickened.
   вЂњA genetic lock,” Tariel said, nodding to himself. “Powerful psionic rituals
   require the use of an organic component as an initiator.”
   вЂњA blood rite?” Koyne shot him a look. “That’s primitive superstition.”
   вЂњIt might appear so to a certain point of view.”
   Iota died again, the audio replay catching the raw terror in her death-scream, and
   Tariel looked away, his gorge rising. The peculiar waif-like psyker had not deserved
   to perish in so monstrous a way as this.
   No one spoke for a long time after the playback ended. They sat in silence, the
   images of the daemonic abomination embedded in their thoughts, the revolting
   spectacle of the girl’s murder echoing in the howling winds outside.
   вЂњSorcery,” said Kell, at length. His voice was cold and hard. “The rumours about
   Horus’ sinister plans are true. He is in league with allies from beyond the pale.”
   вЂњThe ruinous powers…” muttered Soalm.
   вЂњIt is not magick,” Tariel insisted. “Call it what it is. Science, but the darkest
   science. Like Iota herself, a creation of intellects unfettered by morals or
   boundaries.”
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   вЂњWhat are you saying, that this witchling Spear is like her?” Koyne’s eyes
   narrowed. “The girl was something bred in a laboratory, deliberately tainted by the
   touch of the warp.”
   вЂњI know what it… what he is,” said Tariel, yanking out the cables from the
   gauntlet and dousing the hologram’s deathly images. “I have heard the name of this
   creature.”
   вЂњExplain,” demanded Kell.
   вЂњThis must never be repeated.” The infocyte sighed. “The Vanus watch all. Our
   stacks are filled with information on all the clades. It is how we maintain our
   position.”
   Koyne nodded. “You blackmail everyone.”
   вЂњIndeed. We know that the Culexus seek to improve upon their psychic abilities
   through experimentation. They gather subjects from the care of the Silent Sisterhood.
   Those they do not induct into their ranks, they spirit away for… other reasons.”
   вЂњThis Spear was one of ours?” Koyne was incredulous.
   вЂњIt is possible,” Tariel went on. “There was a project… it was declared null by
   Sire Culexus himself… they called it the Black Pariah. A living weapon capable of
   turning a target’s psionic force back upon it, without the aid of an animus device. The
   ultimate counter-psyker.”
   вЂњWhat became of it?” said Kell.
   вЂњThat data is not available. The starship the Culexus used as their base of
   operations was to be piloted into a sun. So the orders said. I know this because my
   mentor was tasked with gathering this intelligence.”
   вЂњAnd this Spear is the Black Pariah?” Kell frowned. “Not dead, but in service to
   the Warmaster.” He shook his head. “What have we been thrown into?”
   вЂњBut why is it here, on Dagonet?” insisted Koyne. “To destroy Iota? To disrupt
   our plan against Horus?”
   Soalm gave a shuddering breath. “Iota was just in the way. Like all the pilgrims
   and the refugees. Collateral damage. Spear wanted the book. The blood!”
   вЂњWhat are you talking about?” Kell took her arm and pulled her around.
   вЂњJenniker, what do you mean?”
   She told them; and as he understood, Tariel went weak and slumped against the
   side of the hull, shaking his head. His mouth silently formed the words no, no, no,
   over and over again.
   Koyne snorted. “The Emperor’s blood? That cannot be! This is madness… Horus’
   assassin tears a page from some ancient tome and with that he can strike at the most
   powerful human being who ever lived? The very idea is ridiculous!”
   вЂњHe has what he wants now,” Soalm went on. “Synchrony with the God-
   Emperor’s gene-marker. Spear is like a primed bomb, ready to detonate.” She
   blinked back tears. “We have to stop him before he leaves the planet!”
   вЂњYou saw what Spear did to Iota,” Kell looked towards the Callidus. “If this thing
   is a mirror for psychic might, can you imagine what would happen if he got through
   to Terra? If he came close enough to turn that power on the Emperor?”
   220
   вЂњA cataclysm…” husked Tariel. “The same thing that happened to Iota, but
   multiplied a million times over. A collision of the most lethal psychic forces
   conceivable.” The infocyte swallowed hard. “Throne’s sake… He might even… kill
   him!”
   Koyne gave a sarcastic snort. “The Emperor of Mankind wounded by something
   so fantastic, so ephemeral? I can’t believe it is possible. Spear will be swatted away
   like an insect. This woman’s reason cannot be trusted! Her kind are governed by
   archaic spiritual fanaticism, not facts!”
   вЂњThe God-Emperor alone guides me…” she insisted.
   The Callidus stabbed a finger at the poisoner. “You see? She admits it! She’s part
   of a cult forbidden by the Council of Terra!” Before anyone else could respond, the
   shade went on. “We have a mission here! A target! Horus may have sent this Captain
   Sedirae to his death by design, or we may have tipped our hands by moving too soon,
   but it does not matter! The end result remains the same. Our mission is not yet
   ended.”
   вЂњHe will come down to Dagonet,” said Tariel. “The Warmaster has no choice
   now. The punishment of this world must be seen to come from his hand.”
   вЂњExactly,” insisted Koyne. “We have another chance to kill him. The only
   chance. A moment like this will never come again.”
   Soalm painfully pushed herself to her feet. “You understand nothing about me,
   shapechanger, or what I believe!” she snarled. “His divinity is absolute, and you
   delude yourself by your denial of it. Only He can save humanity from the darkness
   that gathers around us. We cannot fail Him!” She lurched and fell against Kell, who
   caught her before she could stumble to the deck. “I cannot fail Him… Not again.”
   Tariel spoke up. “If Soalm is right, if this is the Black Pariah and he has ingested
   a measure of Imperial blood… Spear will seek to flee this world and make space to
   Terra as quickly as possible. And if he has a ship that can get him to the warp, or
   worse, if Horus’ fleet is waiting for the assassin to come to them, there will be no
   way to stop him. Spear must be killed before he leaves Dagonet.”
   вЂњOr we can trust in the Emperor and follow our orders,” Koyne broke in. “You
   think him divine, Soalm? I may not agree, but I do believe he is strong enough to
   shrug off any attack. I believe that he will see this Spear coming and strike him from
   the sky.” The Callidus’ boy-face twisted. “But Horus? The Warmaster is a serpent,
   rising for just one moment from his hiding place. We kill him here on this world and
   we end the threat he represents forever.”
   вЂњWill it be that simple?” Soalm snapped back. “A city full of people is being put
   to the sword out there because we killed a single Astartes. Do you think if the
   Warmaster dies, every rebel will fall to his knees and be crippled by grief? It will be
   anarchy! Destruction and chaos!”
   вЂњI am mission commander,” Kell’s voice cut through the air. “I have authority
   here.” He glared at Soalm. “I will not be disobeyed again. The decision is mine
   alone.”
   вЂњWe can’t kill them both,” said Tariel.
   вЂњGet us airborne,” said the Vindicare, reaching for his rifle.
   221
   There was a ragged group of men on the perimeter wall of the star-port, some of
   them soldiers, some of them not, all with looted firearms and the aura of hot fear
   about them. They saw the jetbike hurtling in from across the desert and they fired on
   it without hesitation. Everything had been trying to kill them since the shock of the
   dawn broke, and they did not wait to find out if this vehicle was friend or foe.
   Insanity and terror ruled Dagonet now, as men turned on men in their panic to flee
   the doomed city.
   The stubby aerodyne had a single, medium-wattage lascannon mounted along the
   line of the fuselage, and Spear aimed it with twists of the jetbike’s steering handles,
   lashing along the battlement of the wall with lances of yellow fire. Bodies exploded
   in blasts of superheated blood-steam as shots meant to knock down aircraft
   eradicated men with each hit. Those who didn’t die in the initial volley were killed as
   they ran when Spear came around in a tight loop to strafe them off the line of the
   wall.
   Threads of sinew and knots of transformed tissue flared out behind the killer’s
   head in a fan. Fronds from the daemonskin fluttered, sucking the mist of blood from
   the air as the bike passed over the wall and skimmed the runway towards the parked
   shuttle.
   The Eurotas ship was untouched, although Spear noted two corpses off by the
   prow. The autonomic guns in the shuttle’s chin barbette had locked onto the pair of
   opportunists, who had clearly thought they could claim the craft to escape. The little
   turret turned to track the jetbike as Spear came in but it did not fire; the sensors saw
   nothing when they looked at him, only a jumble of conflicting readings the primitive
   machine-brain could not decipher.
   He abandoned the flyer and sprinted towards the shuttle. Spear was electric; his
   every neuron sang with bubbling power and giddy anticipation. The tiny droplet of
   blood he had consumed was like the sweetest nectar. It bubbled through his
   consciousness like potent, heady wine; he had a flash of Yosef Sabrat’s memory, a
   sense-taste of drinking an elderly vintage with Daig Segan, savouring the perfection
   of it. This was a far greater experience. He had dared to sip from the cup of a being
   more powerful than any other, and even that slightest of tastes made him feel like the
   king of all creation. If this were an echo of it, he thought, what glory the Emperor
   must feel to simply be.
   Spear released a deep, booming laugh to the clouded skies. He was a loaded gun,
   now. Infinitely lethal. Ready to commit the greatest murder in history.
   He just needed to be close…
   Under the starboard wing, he glimpsed a small drum-shaped vehicle on fat tyres;
   it was a mechanised fuel bowser, governed by simple automata. The device was one
   of many such systems in the star-port, machines that could do the jobs of men by
   loading, unloading or servicing the ships that passed through the facility; but like so
   many things on Dagonet, in the disorder that had engulfed the planet no one had
   thought to stand down the robots, and so they went on at their programmed tasks,
   ignorant of the fact that buildings had collapsed around them, unaware that their
   human masters were most likely dead in the rubble.
   The automaton had dutifully done its job, and refuelled the shuttle with fresh
   promethium. Spear hesitated on the cockpit ladder and his ebullient mood wavered.
   222
   Overhead, red light and thunder rolled in across the runway from the burning
   city, and Spear’s fanged mouth twisted in something like a scowl. In truth, he had not
   expected the Sons of Horus to be so close behind him to Dagonet. He had hoped he
   might have a day, perhaps two—but the tides of the warp were capricious. He
   wondered if some intelligence had been at work to bring all these players to the same
   place at the same time. To what end, though?
   Spear shook the thought away. He was so set on leaving this place behind he had
   not stopped to think that his means of escape might no longer be in place. It was
   likely that if the Warmaster’s fleet was here, then the cutter Yelene was either in their
   possession or smashed to fragments.
   вЂњI must get to Terra…” He said the words aloud, the need burning in him; and
   then he sensed a distant taint upon his perception. A powerful, sinister presence.
   Unbidden, Spear looked up again, into the storm.
   Yes. The master was up there, looking down on Dagonet, searching for him. The
   killer could see the dark, piercing gaze of Erebus in the patterns of the clouds. The
   master was waiting for him. Watching to see what he would do next, like a patient
   teacher with a prized student.
   Spear dropped off the ladder and moved back to the front of the shuttle. It was all
   falling into place. With the blood taken, he needed only to ride to his target and
   perform his kill. Erebus was here to help him; the master would give him the ship he
   needed. It would be his final act as a mentor.
   The killer took one of the bodies on the runway and dragged it into the lee of the
   wing, under cover from the thick gobbets of black rain that were falling. Spear
   remembered the rituals of communication that Erebus had seared into his memory. It
   would only take a moment to arrange. He dipped his fingers into a deep wound on
   the man’s torso and cupped a handful of thickening blood; then, quickly, Spear used
   it to draw glyphs of statement on the cracked ferrocrete surface. He made the circles
   and crosses, building the shape of an eightfold star line by line. Once complete, it
   would be visible to Erebus like a flare on a moonless night. The master would see it
   and know. He would understand.
   The wind changed direction for an instant, blowing the smell of the corpse and
   the tang of promethium across the sensing pits in Spear’s fanged maw; and, too, it
   brought him the skirl of humming turbines.
   His head snapped up, catching sight of a white-and-green shape dropping down
   through the mist. Something flashed in the open hatch and Spear jerked away on
   reflex.
   A bullet creased the surface of his daemonflesh face like a razor blade, opening a
   ragged gouge that spat out a fan of ebon fluid; the tainted blood spattered over the
   half-drawn glyphs, ruining the pattern. Spear stumbled. A fraction of a second slower
   and the bullet would have struck him between the fathomless black pits of his eyes.
   Tightening the muscles in his arms, Spear put up his palms with a snap of the
   wrist, and the daemonflesh grew new orifices. Long spars of sharp bone clattered into
   the air in a puff of pinkish discharge.
   вЂњWatch out!” Tariel called, stabbing at controls to throw the flyer into a half-roll that
   showed the belly of the aircraft to their target.
   223
   Kell staggered, losing his balance for a second as he clung on to his rifle. Koyne,
   surprisingly strong for wearing a body that seemed insubstantial, grabbed him and
   held him up. Nearby, Soalm hung on for dear life, shivering in the cold draught
   billowing through the open hatch.
   Bone shards peppered the hull of the flyer and punched through the metal
   fuselage. Kell flinched as several impacted his chest and buried themselves in the
   armour there. Koyne cried out and as the aircraft righted itself, the Callidus fell
   backwards, a circle of bright crimson blossoming through the material across the
   shade’s thigh.
   Kell swept a hand over his chest, flicking the shards away. As they fell to the
   deck they denatured, becoming soft and pliant. To the Vindicare’s disgust, the shards
   began to writhe like blind worms. He stamped them into patches of white pus and
   brought the Exitus up to his shoulder. “Tariel! Bring us around!”
   The flyer had come in upwind, their approach masked by the clouds and the
   thunder from the shelling of the capital. Now they were circling the parked shuttle,
   the livery of the Eurotas Consortium clear as day across the hull. What Kell saw
   through his targeting scope was disturbing; he had faced humans of every stripe,
   mutant creatures, even xenos. Spear was unlike any of them. Even from this distance,
   it exuded a tainted menace that sickened him to look at.
   вЂњIt’s making for the cockpit,” Tariel called out. “Kell!”
   The marksman saw the blur of the assassin-creature as it ran; the thing hazed the
   air around it like waves of heat rising from a searing desert, making it hard to draw a
   bead. His finger tensed on the trigger. There was a high-velocity Splinter round in the
   chamber—on impact with an organic target it would fracture into millions of tiny
   hair-like fragments, each a charged piece of molly-wire. The wires would expand in a
   sphere and rip through flesh and bone like a tornado of blades.
   It would do this, if he hit his target. But Kell had missed with the first shot. Even
   from a moving platform, through rain, against a partly-occluded target, he should
   have found the mark.
   The Vindicare made a snap decision and worked the slide of the rifle, ejecting the
   unspent Splinter bullet, in one swift motion thumbing a red-tipped round from a
   pocket on his arm into the open chamber.
   вЂњWhat are you waiting for?” Koyne shouted. “Kill it!”
   The breech of the Exitus closed on the Ignis bullet and Kell swung the longrifle
   away from the target. He ignored Koyne’s cries and his scope filled with the shape of
   the fuel bowser.
   The incendiary compound in his next shot hit the main promethium tank and
   combusted. A fist of orange fire flipped the shuttle over and engulfed it in flames.
   Shockwaves of damp air struck the flyer and the aircraft was forced down hard, the
   impact of the landing snapping off the undercarriage.
   Kell got up as bits of hull metal clattered out of the sky, bouncing off the runway.
   For a moment, all he saw was the jumping, twisting shapes of the flames; but then
   something red and smoking tore itself out of the wreckage and began to run for the
   star-port terminal building.
   The Vindicare snarled and raised the rifle, but the weight of the gun told him the
   magazine was empty. He swore, slamming a new clip into place, knowing as he did
   224
   that it would not matter. When he peered back through the scope, Spear had
   vanished. “He’s gone for cover,” he began, turning. “We need to—”
   вЂњEristede?” His sister’s voice stopped him dead. She lay on the deck, and her face
   was waxy and dull. There was blood on her lips, and when she moved her hands he
   saw a jagged length of bone protruding from her chest.
   He let the rifle fall and ran to her, dropping into a crouch. Old emotions, strong
   and long-buried, erupted inside him. “Jenniker, no…”
   вЂњDid you kill it?”
   He felt the colour drain from him. “Not yet.”
   вЂњYou must. But not out of fury, do you understand?”
   The cold, familiar rage that had always sustained him welled up in Kell’s
   thoughts. It was the same burning, icy power that had spurred him on ever since that
   day in the schola, since the moment the woman in the Vindicare robes had told him
   they knew the name of the man who had killed his parents. It was his undying fuel,
   the bottomless wellspring of dark emotion that made him such a superlative killer.
   His sister’s fingertips touched his cheek. “No,” she said, her eyes brimming with
   tears. “Please don’t show me that face again. Not the revenge. There is no end to that,
   Eristede. It goes on and on and on and it will consume you. There will be nothing
   left.”
   Kell felt hollow inside, an empty vessel. “There’s nothing now,” he said. “You
   took it all when you broke away. The last connection I had.” He looked down at his
   hands. “This is all I have left.”
   Jenniker shook her head. “You’re wrong. And so was I. I let you go that night. I
   should have made you stay. We could have lived another life. Instead we doomed
   ourselves.”
   She was fading now, and he could see it. A surge of raw panic washed over him.
   His sister was going to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
   вЂњListen to me,” she said. “He is watching. The God-Emperor waits for me.”
   вЂњI don’t—”
   вЂњHush.” She put a finger on his lips, trembling with her agony. “One day.”
   Jenniker pressed something into his palm and closed his fingers over it. “Save His
   life, Eristede. He will draw me to His right hand, to be with mother and father. I’ll
   wait for you there. We will wait for you.”
   вЂњJenniker…” He tried to find the right words to say to her. To ask her to forgive
   him. To understand; but her eyes were all the answer he needed. He saw such
   certainty there, such absence of doubt.
   With difficulty she pulled a slim toxin corde from her pocket. “Do this, my
   brother,” she told him, her pain rising. “But not for revenge. For the God-Emperor.”
   Before he could stop her, she touched the tip of the needle-like weapon to her
   palm and pierced the flesh. Kell cried out as her eyes fluttered closed, and she
   became slack in his hands.
   The rains drummed on the canopy and the flames hissed; then he became aware
   of a presence at his side. Koyne stood there, holding his longrifle. “Vindicare,” said
   the shade. “What are your orders?”
   Kell opened his fingers and saw a gold aquila there, stained with dots of red.
   225
   вЂњIn the Emperor’s name,” he said, rising to his feet and taking the weapon,
   вЂњfollow me.”
   226
   SEVENTEEN
   Confrontation
   Duel
   Termination
   Kell looked up as Koyne emerged from the hangar where the Ultio was hidden and
   his expression stiffened. The boyish face, the pretence at the shape of a human
   aspect, these were all gone now. Instead, the Callidus had stripped down to what
   existed in the core of the shade’s persona. An androgynous figure in the matt black
   overall of a stealthsuit similar to that worn by Kell and Tariel, but with a hood that
   clung to every contour of the other assassin’s face. The only expression, if it could be
   said to be such a thing, was from the emerald ovals that were the eyes of the mask.
   Cold focus glittered there, and little else. Kell was reminded of an artist’s wooden
   manikin, something without emotion or animation from within.
   Koyne’s head cocked. “There’s still time to reconsider this.” The voice, like the
   figure, was neutral and colourless. Without someone else’s face to speak from, the
   Callidus seemed to lose all effect.
   He ignored the statement, rechecking the fresh clips of ammunition he had taken
   from the ship for the paired Exitus longrifle and pistol. “Remember the plan,” said
   the Vindicare. “We’ve all seen what it can do. There’s just the three of us now.”
   вЂњYou saw it,” Tariel said, in a small voice. “We all saw it. On the memory coil,
   and out there… It’s not human.”
   Koyne gave a reluctant nod. “And not xenos. Not alien in that way.”
   вЂњIt’s a target, that’s all that matters,” Kell retorted.
   The Callidus scowled. “When you have been where I have been and seen what I
   have seen, you come to understand that there are living things out there that go
   beyond such easy categorisation. Things that defy reason… even sanity. Have you
   ever peered into the warp, Vindicare? What lives there—”
   вЂњThis is not the warp!” grated Kell. “This is the real world! And what lives here,
   we can end with a bullet!”
   вЂњBut what if we can’t kill the fiend?” said Tariel, a long ballistic coat pulled tight
   over him. Congregating under the shadows near his boots, Kell saw rodentlike forms
   sheltering from the rain.
   вЂњI wounded it,” said the Vindicare. “So we will kill it.”
   Tariel gave a slow nod. Overhead, a crackling roar crossed the sky as something
   burning crimson-purple passed above them, obscured by the low, dirty clouds.
   Seconds later, impact tremors made the runway quiver all around them, and the
   winds brought the long, drawn-out ramble of buildings collapsing. The city was
   227
   entering its death-throes, and when it was finally smothered, Kell doubted the fury of
   the Sons of Horus would be sated.
   Tariel looked up. “Vox communications will be sporadic, if they even work at
   all,” he said. “The radioactives and ionisation in the atmosphere are blanketing the
   whole area.”
   Kell nodded as he walked away. “If one of us finds the target, we’ll all know
   quickly enough.”
   The pain across his back was a forest of needles.
   Spear ran on, skirting around the rings of broken ferrocrete that had been sections
   of the control tower, now fallen in a line across the landing pads and maintenance
   pits. He could feel the daemonskin working against the myriad fragments of metal
   that were embedded in him, deposited there by the explosion of the shuttle. One by
   one, the pieces of shrapnel were being expunged from his torso, the living flesh
   puckering to spit them out in puffs of black blood.
   The burn from the blast was torture, and with every footfall jags of sharp agony
   raced up Spear’s changed limbs and tightened around his chest. When the fuel
   bowser had detonated, the concussion had caught him first and thrown him clear. The
   shuttle took the brunt of the explosion, and it was lost to him now. He would need to
   find another way off Dagonet. Another way to signal the master.
   He slowed, clambering over a pile of rubble sloughed from the front of the
   terminal building, dragging himself up on spars of twisted rebar over drifts of
   shattered blue glass.
   At the apex he dared to pause and throw a glance back through the filthy
   downpour. The shuttle wreckage was still burning, bright orange flames shimmering
   where the wet runway reflected them like a dark mirror. Spear’s segmented jaws
   parted in a low growl. He had allowed himself to become distracted; he was so
   enraptured by his own success at taking the Warrant he had not stopped to consider
   the meaning of the witch-girl’s company with the cultists of the Theoge.
   Her appearance there had not been happenstance. At first he thought she was
   merely some defender, a palace guard put in place as a last line of defence by
   Eurotas’ fanatic cohorts; now it was becoming clearer. He was facing assassins,
   killers of his own stripe with their own weapons of murder.
   He considered what their presence meant, and then discarded the concern. If his
   purpose on Dagonet had been known, if the forces of the arrogant Emperor had
   really, truly understood the threat Spear posed to their precious liege lord, this world
   would have been melted into radioactive glass the moment he set foot on it.
   Spear chuckled. Perhaps they expected him to feel fear at his pursuit, but he did
   not. If anything, he became more certain of his own victory. The only thing that
   could have faced him on his own terms was the witch-girl, and he had boiled her in
   the crucible of her own powers. He had little fear of gun or blade after that.
   The killer dropped through the yawning space of a tall broken window and
   landed in a cat-fall on the tiled floor of the terminal. Dust and death hung in the air.
   Sweeping his gaze around, he saw the remnants of a massive display screen where it
   had been blown from its mounts by the concussion of an impact several miles away.
   Across the debris-strewn floor there were a handful of corpses, ragged and gory
   228
   where carrion-fowl had come to prey on them. The jackal birds glared at Spear from
   the gloomy corners of the chamber, sitting in their roosts and sniffing at the air. They
   smelled his blood and they were afraid of its stench.
   The daemonskin rippled over him and Spear let out a gasp. It could sense the
   others coming, it could feel the proximity of bloodletting, of new murder.
   He sprinted away into the shadows to prepare; he would not deny the needs of his
   flesh.
   Tariel expected to feel a crippling terror when the others vanished into the shadows
   of the building, but he did not. He was never really alone, not if he were to be honest
   with himself. The infocyte found the makings of a good hide in a blown-out
   administratum room on the mezzanine level of the main terminal, a processing
   chamber where new arrivals to Dagonet would have been brought for interview by
   planetary officials before being given formal entry. The eyerats scrambled around
   him, sniffing at the corners and patrolling the places where there were holes in the
   walls or missing doorways; his two remaining psyber eagles were watching the main
   spaces of the atrium and occasionally snapping at the native carrion scavengers when
   they became too curious.
   In a corner formed by two fallen walls, Tariel dropped into a lotus settle and used
   the cogitator gauntlet to bring up a schematic of the building. It was among the
   millions of coils worth of files he had copied from the stacks of the Dagonet
   governmental librariums over the past few weeks, the data siphoned into his personal
   mnemonic stores. It was habitual of him to do such a thing; if he saw information
   untended, he took it for himself. It wasn’t theft, for nothing was stolen; but on some
   level Tariel regarded data left unsecured—or at least data that had not been secured
   well—as fundamentally belonging to him. If it was there, he had to have it. And it
   always had its uses, as this moment proved.
   Working quickly, he allowed the new scans filtering in from the rats and the
   eagles to update the maps, blocking out the zones where civil war, rebel attack and
   careless Astartes bombardments had damaged the building. But the data took too
   many picoseconds to update; the vox interference was strong enough to be causing
   problems with his data bursts as well. If matters became worse, he might be forced to
   resort to deploying actual physical connections.
   And there was more disappointment to come. The swarm of netflys he had
   released on entering the building were reporting in sporadically. The infrastructure of
   the star-port was so badly damaged that all its internal scrying systems and vidpicters
   were inert. Tariel would be forced to rely on secondary sensing.
   He held his breath, listening to the susurrus of the contaminated rainfall on the
   broken glass skylights overhead, and the spatter of the runoff on the broken
   stonework; and then, very distinctly, Tariel heard the sound of a piece of rubble
   falling, disturbed by a misplaced footstep.
   Immediately, a datum-feed from one of the eyerats out in the corridor ceased and
   the other rodents scrambled for cover, their adrenaline reads peaking.
   The infocyte was on his feet before he could stop himself. The lost rat had
   reported its position as only a few hundred metres from where he now stood.
   229
   I will make sure that nothing ever gets close enough to kill me. Tariel’s skin went
   clammy as his words to Kell returned to him, damning the Vanus with his foolish
   arrogance. He moved as quickly as he dared, abandoning his makeshift hide and
   ducking out through a rent in the fallen wall. He heard the psyber eagles take wing
   above as he moved.
   Tariel flinched as he passed through a stream of stale-smelling water dripping
   down from above, dropping from ledge to ledge until he was in the atrium. He
   glanced around quickly; the chamber was modelled on a courtyard design. There
   were galleries and balconies, some ornamental, some not. Through the eyes of one of
   the birds, he saw a spot that had strong walls to the back and three distinct lines of
   approach and escape. Pulling his coat tighter, he moved towards it in the shadows,
   quick and swift, as he had been taught.
   As he ran he tabbed the start-up sequence for the pulse generator and sent dozens
   of test signals to his implanted vox bead; only static answered him. Now, for the first
   time, he felt alone, even as the feeds from the implanted micropicters in the skulls of
   his animals followed him in his run. The tiny images clustered around his forearm,
   hovering in the hololithic miasma.
   He was almost across the span of the courtyard when Spear fell silently out of the
   dimness above him and landed in a crouch on top of an overturned stone bench. The
   face of red flesh, silver fangs and black eyes looked up and found him.
   Tariel was so shocked he jumped back a step, every muscle in his body shaking
   with surprise.
   вЂњWhat is this?” muttered the killer. Those blank, sightless eyes cut into him. The
   voice was almost human, though, and it had a quizzical edge, as if the monstrosity
   didn’t know what to make of the trembling, thin man in front of him.
   And now the fear came, heavy and leaden, threatening to drag Tariel down; and
   with it there was an understanding that lanced through the infocyte like a bullet. He
   had fatally exposed himself, not through the deception of a superior enemy, but
   because he had made a beginner’s mistake. The falling stone, the lost signal—those
   had been nothing. Happenstance. Coincidence. But the infocyte had still ran. He had
   committed the cardinal sin that no Vanus could ever be absolved of; he had
   misinterpreted the data.
   Why? Because he had allowed himself to think that he could do this. The past
   days spent in the company of the Vindicare, the Callidus and Culexus, the Eversor
   and Venenum, they had convinced him that he could operate in the field as well as he
   had from his clade’s secret sanctums. But all Fon Tariel had done was to delude
   himself. He was the most intelligent person in the Execution Force, so why had he
   been so monumentally foolish? Tariel’s mind railed at him. What could have
   possibly made him think he was ready for a mission like this? How could his mentors
   and directors have abandoned him to this fate, spent his precious skills so cheaply?
   He had revealed himself. Shown his weakness before the battle had begun. Spear
   made a noise in its throat—a growl, perhaps—and took a step forward.
   The eyerats leapt from the rabble all around the red-skinned freak, claws and
   fangs bared, and from above in a flutter of metal-trimmed wings, the two psyber
   eagles dived on the killer with talons out. The slave-animals had picked up on the
   fear signals bleeding down Tariel’s mechadendrites and reacted in kind.
   230
   Spear’s arms went up to bat away the prey birds and he stamped one of the
   rodents to death with a clawed foot. The other rats clawed their way up the killer’s
   obscene, fleshy torso; another of them was devoured as a mouth opened in Spear’s
   stomach and bit it in half. The last was crashed in a balled fist.
   The psyber eagles lasted a little longer, spinning about the killer’s horned head,
   fluttering and slashing with claws and titanium-reinforced beaks. They scored several
   bloody scratches, but could not escape the fronds of sinewy matter that issued out of
   Spear’s hands to entrap and strangle them.
   Curiosity gave way to anger as the killer dashed the corpses of the birds to the
   ground; but for his part, Tariel had used the distraction well.
   Dragging it from an inner pocket, the infocyte threw a stubby cylinder at Spear
   and hurled himself away in the opposite direction, falling clumsily over a collapsed
   table. Lightning fast, the freakish murderer snatched up the object; a grenade. When
   they had paused to rearm at the Ultio, Tariel had returned to the case of munitions he
   had presented to Iota during their voyage to Dagonet.
   Spear sniffed at the thing and recoiled with a sputtering gasp. It was thick with
   the stench of dying stars. He hurled it away in disgust; but not quickly enough.
   The device exploded with a flat bang of concussion and suddenly the courtyard
   was filled with a shimmering silver mist of metal snow.
   The killer stumbled to his knees and began to scream.
   His psyche was being flensed; the layers of his conscious mind were peeling away
   under an impossibly sharp blade, bleeding out raw-red thought. The agony was a
   twin to the pain the master had inflicted on Spear all those times he had dared to
   disobey, to question, to fail.
   It was the particles in the air; they were hurting him in ways that the killer
   thought impossible, frequencies of psionic radiation blasting from every single
   damned speck of the glittering powder, bathing him in razors. Spear’s mouthparts
   gaped open and the sound he released from his chest was a gurgling cry of pain. His
   nerves were alight with phantom fires unseen to the naked eye. In the invisible
   realms of the immaterium, the Shockwave was sawing at the myriad of threads
   connecting the killer to his etheric shadow. The daemonskin was battering itself
   bloody, tearing at his subsumed true-flesh as it tried to rip away and flee into the
   void.
   Spear collapsed, shuddering, and mercifully the effect began to lessen; but
   slowly, far too slowly. He saw the human, the pasty wastrel that had come stumbling
   into his kill zone. The gangly figure peered out from behind his cover.
   Spear wanted to eat him raw. The killer was filled with the need to strike back at
   the one who had hurt him. He wanted to tear and tear and tear until there was nothing
   left of this fool but rags of meat—
   no
   The word came like the tolling of a distant bell, drifting across the churning
   surface of Spear’s pain-laced thoughts. Quiet at first, then with each moment, louder
   and closer, more insistent than before.
   no no No No NO NO NO
   231
   вЂњGet out!” Spear screamed the words as loud as he could, the amalgam of his
   once-human flesh thrashing turbulently against the embedded sheath of the
   daemonskin symbiont that cloaked him. Skin and skin flexed, tearing and shredding.
   Black fluids bubbled from new, self-inflicted wounds, staining the broken stonework.
   He swung his head down and battered it against the rubble, hearing bone snap wetly.
   Real, physical agony was like a tonic after the impossible, enveloping pain from the
   cloud-weapon. It shook the grip of the ghost-voices before they could form.
   NO NO NO
   вЂњNNNNNnnnnoooo!” Spear bellowed, so wracked with his suffering he could do
   nothing but ride it out to the bitter end.
   The pale-skinned man was coming closer. He had what could have been a
   weapon.
   Tariel opened his hand and the emitter cone for the pulse generator grew out of the
   gauntlet’s palm, tiny blue sparks clustering around the nib of the device. He was
   shaking, and the infocyte grabbed his wrist with his other hand to hold it steady,
   trying to aim at the writhing, horrible mass that lay on the stones, screaming and
   bleeding.
   The psy-disruptor grenades had only been an experiment. He hadn’t really
   expected them to work; at best, Tariel thought he might be able to flee under the
   cover of the discharge, that it might blind Horus’ monstrous assassin long enough for
   him to escape.
   Instead, the thing was howling like a soul being dragged into the abyss. It tore at
   itself in anguish, ripping out divots of its own flesh. Tariel hesitated, grotesquely
   fascinated by it; he could not look away from the twitching spectacle.
   Faces grew out of the creature’s torso and abdomen. The quivering red skin
   bowed outwards and became the distinct shape of a male aspect, repeated over and
   over. It was silently mouthing something to him, but the words were corrupted and
   blurred. The expression was clear, however. The faces were begging him, imploring
   him.
   The fizzing wash of static issuing from his vox broke for a moment and Tariel
   heard Koyne’s flat, emotionless drone in his ear. “Do not engage it, Vanus,” said the
   static-riddled voice. “We’re coming to you—”
   Then the signal was swallowed up again by interference as somewhere off in the
   distant city, a new slew of warheads were detonated.
   The killer’s spasms of pain were calming, and Tariel came as close as he dared.
   He hesitated, the question spinning in his thoughts, the pulse generator humming and
   ready. Attack or flee? Flee or attack?
   The faces faded, melting back into the crimson-hued flesh, and suddenly those
   black, abyssal eyes were staring into him, clear as nightfall.
   Tariel triggered the blast of focussed electromagnetic force, but it was too late.
   Spear moved at the speed of hate, diving into him with his hands aimed forwards in a
   fan of unfolding claws, knocking his arms away. Wicked talons punctured the Vanus’
   torso and tore through dermal flex-armour and meat, down into bone and organs;
   then the hands split apart and ripped Tariel’s ribcage open, emptying him on to the
   wet stones.
   232
   The slaughterhouse stink of Fon Tariel’s bloody demise reached Koyne as the shade
   bolted from the broken-ended skywalk spanning the main terminal atrium. The
   Callidus skidded to a halt and spat in annoyance as what was left of the infocyte was
   shrugged off his killer’s claws and pooled at the feet of the red-fleshed thing.
   Koyne saw the shoals of mouths emerging all over the surface of the monstrosity,
   as they licked and lapped at the steaming remains of the Vanus. A furious surge of
   censure ran through the assassin’s mind; Tariel had been a poor choice for this
   mission from the start. If Koyne had been given command of the operation, as would
   have been the more sensible choice, then the Callidus would have made sure the
   Vanus never left the Ultio. Tariel’s kind were simply incapable of the instincts
   needed to operate in the field. There was a reason the Officio Assassinorum kept
   them at their scrying stations, and now this wasteful death had proven it. This was all
   the Vindicare’s fault; the entire mission was breaking apart, collapsing all around
   them.
   But it was too late to abort now. The killer, the Spear-creature, was looking up,
   sensing the Callidus’ presence—and now Koyne’s options had fallen to one.
   With a flexion of the wrist, the haft of a memory sword fell into Koyne’s right
   hand and the Callidus leapt from the suspended walkway; in the left the shade had
   the neural shredder, and the assassin pulled the trigger, sending an expanding wave
   of exotic energy cascading towards Spear.
   The red-skinned freak skirted the luminal edge of the neural blast and dodged
   backwards, performing balletic flips that sent Spear spinning through pools of dark
   shadow and shafts of grey, watery sunlight.
   Koyne pivoted to touch down on altered legs, shifting the muscle mass to better
   absorb the shock of the landing. The koans of the change-teachers learned in the
   dojos of the clade came easily to mind, and the Callidus used strength of will to
   forcibly alter the secretions of polymorphine from a series of implanted drag glands.
   The chemical let bone and flesh flow like tallow, and Koyne was a master at
   manipulating it from moment to moment. The assassin allowed the compound to
   thicken muscle bunches and bone density, and then attacked.
   Spear grew great cleavers made of tooth-like enamel from orifices along the
   bottom of his forearms, and these blades whistled as they slashed through the air
   around Koyne’s head. A downward slash from the memory sword briefly opened a
   gouge on Spear’s shoulder, but it was knitting shut again almost as soon as it was cut.
   Another neural blast went wide. Koyne was too close to deploy the pistol properly,
   and feinted backwards, resisting the temptation to engage the enemy killer in close
   combat.
   Spear opened his mouth and shouted awls of black cartilage into the air. Glancing
   hits peppered Koyne’s green-eyed hood and the darts denatured, dissolving into tiny
   crawling spiders that ate into the ballistic cloth with their sharp mandibles. Before
   they could chew through the emerald lenses to the soft tissues of Koyne’s eyes, the
   Callidus gave a snort of frustration and tore the hood away, discarding it.
   The assassin saw a glimpse of a familiar face-that-was-no-face, reflected in a
   sheet of fallen glass. It was not as blank a canvas as it should have been; Koyne’s
   aspect trembled, moving of its own accord. The Callidus’ anger deepened, and so in
   233
   turn the face became more defined. There was a slight resemblance there that veered
   towards the scarred visage of the Garantine.
   Koyne didn’t like the thought of that, and turned away as Spear attacked again.
   The tooth-blades were continuing to grow, lengthening and becoming brownish-grey
   along the edges. Before the killer could close the range, Koyne aimed the neural
   shredder and depressed the trigger pad. Energy throbbed from the focussing crystal in
   a widening stream that swept over Spear and knocked him backwards.
   The Callidus had claimed many victims with the weapon. It was a singular horror
   in its own way; not content with the cessation of a life, instead the pistol behaved as
   an intellivore, disintegrating the connections between the neurons of an organic
   brain, killing only memory and mind with the brutality of a hurricane sweeping
   through a forest.
   On any other target, it might have worked. But this was an amalgam of
   uncontrolled human mutation, merged with a predatory form from a dimension made
   of madness. What it had that could be called mentality was a lattice of instinct and
   obedience suspended somewhere beyond the reach of anything in the physical plane.
   Spear shrugged off the flickers of energy, folds of skin and fronds of flesh-matter
   crisping and peeling away from its head like a tattered layer of ablative armour. The
   grinning, fang-lined mouth underneath was wet with fluids and pus. The killer’s
   cutting blades swept in and the barrel of the neural shredder was severed cleanly.
   The gun screamed and spat watery orange fluids in jerking sputters, twitching so
   hard that it jolted itself from Koyne’s grasp and tumbled away, falling into the
   shadows beneath collapsed sheets of flakboard. The Callidus shrank back, grasping
   for the twin to the memory sword already at point and ready.
   The killer and the assassin fell into a blade fight, fat yellow sparks flying as the
   molecule-thin edges of Koyne’s rapiers cut into the organic swords and broke off
   brittle, sharp fragments with every hit. Spear’s blades flawed without blunting, as the
   Callidus learned at cost, the wet lines of them cutting deeply into the stealthsuit.
   Where blood was drawn, it was slow to clot. The tooth-matter exuded some kind of
   oily venom that kept the wounds from scabbing over.
   Spear changed the balance of the combat, powerful muscles bunching beneath his
   red flesh, forcing Koyne back and back towards the fractured walls of the courtyard.
   The animated contours of the Callidus’ face altered as each blow landed or was
   deflected. A whirlwind of parries flew from Koyne’s arms, but Spear was gaining
   ground, pushing the assassin deeper into a defensive stance with each passing
   moment. Koyne’s inconstant aspect showed a carousel of old faces and new faces, all
   of them in fury and frustration.
   Spear laughed, threads of drool stringing from the split between the halves of his
   shovel-faced jaw, and in that second Koyne managed a downward slash of both
   blades. Spear barely parried the move—it was overly aggressive and unexpected, and
   the tips of the memory swords carved a cross over the killer’s scalp that penetrated to
   the blackened bone. Wire-thin worms poured from the wound, exposing a milky eye
   beneath the injury that wept ichor. Spear’s laugh turned to a howl of agony.
   There was something fundamentally wrong with this creature. The assassin was
   not touched by witch-mark like Iota and her Culexus kindred, but still Koyne could
   sense on a marrow-deep level that Spear was not meant to exist in this world. The
   234
   creature, whatever amorphous amalgamation of warp-spawn and human it was,
   flaunted reason by the mere fact of its existence. It was a splinter in the skin of the
   universe.
   Koyne did the trick with the koans once again, marshalling the density of bone
   and lining of musculature for a leap into the air that defied human potential. The
   Callidus jumped upwards and pivoted in mid-flight, falling out of Spear’s line of
   sight over a buckled wall.
   The killer came rushing over the hillock of rubble and followed his foe into the
   atrium proper. The wide, high chamber ran almost the entire length of the terminal,
   the litter of the dead and the wreckage of the port building lying ankle deep and
   swimming in stagnant falls of rainwater.
   Koyne was rising back into a fighting stance, slower than the Callidus would
   have liked, but the stress of muscle reformation on the run took its toll. All the nomind
   focussing mantras in the pages of the clade’s Liber Subditus were worth
   nothing against a blade in the hand of an enemy like this one.
   When Spear spoke, Koyne knew that the moment was near. The fury in the
   killer’s hissing, sibilant voice was the sound of a serpent uncoiling, hood fanning
   open before the bite. “I murder and murder, and there is no end to you,” he spat.
   вЂњYou are not challenges to me, you are only steps on the road. Markers for my path.”
   вЂњWhat monstrosity gave birth to you?” Koyne asked the question, thinking aloud,
   the changing face shifting anew. “You’re just a collision of freakish chance, an
   animal. A weapon.”
   вЂњLike you?” Spear’s mucus-slicked blades flicked back and forth, gleaming dully.
   вЂњLike the wretch back there and the dark-skinned one I killed with my mind? But
   what have you done of worth, faceless?” He threw an inelegant, bored attack at
   Koyne that the Callidus avoided, splashing back through a puddle into the shadows.
   вЂњNothing you have murdered has any weight. But what I destroy will tip the balance
   of a galaxy.”
   вЂњYou’ll be stopped!” Koyne shouted the words with sudden, vicious energy,
   boiling up from a place of naked hatred.
   вЂњYou will never know.” Spear gave a flick of his hand and shot a fan of bone
   shards at the assassin. Instead of dodging, Koyne rocked forwards, into the path of
   the darts, and parried them away with a web of mnemonic steel. Blades flashing, the
   Callidus pushed into the attack, aiming for the single vulnerable point in the killer’s
   stance.
   Spear had left just such an opening to entice the shade, and seized the moment
   with vicious delight. New blades of fang-like matter burst from the surface of his
   churning skin and caught Koyne’s twinned strike, blocking the blow even as it fell.
   Koyne’s changing face darkened with fright and then agony. Spear crossed his
   sword-arms like a falling guillotine and both of the Callidus’ slender, delicate hands
   were severed at the wrists.
   Fountains of blood jetted across Spear’s torso as Koyne fell backwards with the
   force of the pain-shock, and the killer caught his victim before the assassin could
   tumble into the sloshing, grimy waters. “We’re alike,” he told the Callidus. “Beneath
   the skin. Both the same.”
   235
   Koyne was a moment from death, and so Spear reached up and drove needlesharp
   nails into the trembling skin of the assassin’s face; then with a single, horrific
   tearing, he ripped the flesh away to show the red meat underneath. Koyne’s body
   bucked with the sheer violence of the act, and Spear gave it a brutal shove.
   The Callidus spun away and landed on a fallen spire of masonry, a pinnacle of
   marble bursting through the stealthsuit fabric. Pinned there, the body bled out and
   twitched, denied a quick death.
   вЂњYou see?” Spear asked the question to the rag of skin in his hand. “The same, in
   our ways.”
   The killer tipped back his head and ate his prize morsel. Now this matter was
   done with, now the Emperor’s ineffectual foot soldiers had been disposed of, Spear
   could return to the matter of the signalling. He looked around, searching for a wide,
   flat space where he might begin again on the drawing of the runes.
   no
   вЂњBe silent,” he hissed.
   The daemonskin muttered. Something was touching its surface. A breath of faint
   energy, a pinprick of ultraviolet light. Spear turned, senses altering to follow—
   The bullet entered the killer’s head through the hollow black pit of his right eye,
   the impact transferring such kinetic force it blew Spear off his feet and into a
   spinning tumble, down into the debris and floodwater. The shot fractured into
   thousands of tiny, lethal shards that expanded to ricochet around inside the walls of
   his skull, shredding the meat of his brain into ribbons.
   The faceless had given up life in order to draw him into the atrium, into a space
   under a sniper’s gun.
   In those fractions of seconds as the blackness engulfed him, there was
   understanding. There had been another. In his arrogance, he had failed to account for
   a third attacker; or perhaps it been Sabrat’s final victory, clouding his mind at the
   crucial moment.
   The killer was killed.
   Kell lowered the longrifle and allowed the cameoline cloak to fall open. The echo of
   the gunshot, hardly louder than a woman’s gasp, still echoed around the rafters of the
   atrium. Carrion birds roosting nearby flashed into the air on black wings, circling and
   snarling at each other in their raucous voices.
   The Vindicare slung the rifle over his shoulder and felt a tremor in his hands. He
   looked down at the gloved fingers; they seemed foreign to him, as if they belonged to
   someone else. They were so steeped in blood; so many lay dead at their touch. The
   single, tiny pressure of his finger on a trigger plate, such a small amount of expended
   force—and yet magnified into such great destructive power.
   He willed himself to stay away from that secret place in his heart, the stygian well
   of remorse and wrath that had claimed him on the day he killed the murderer of his
   parents. He willed it, and failed. Instead, Kell succumbed.
   It had been his first field kill.
   236
   The man, in transit via aeronef through the valleys of Thaxted Dosas, the
   dirigible floating beneath the hilltops, skimming the sides of the low peaks. Eristede
   Kell had made his hide eight days before, in the long grasses. The long grasses like
   those he and Jenniker played in as children, their games of fetch-find and hunt-thegrue.
   He waited under the suns and the moons, the former his father’s glory, the latter
   his mother’s smile.
   And when the ’nef came around the hill, he fired the shot and did not make the
   kill. Not at first. The cabin window was refracted, disrupting his aim. He should have
   known, adjusted the sights. A lesson learned.
   Instead of cold and steely determination, he unchained his anger. Kell unloaded
   the full magazine of ammunition into the cabin, killing everything that lived within it.
   He executed all who saw that moment of error, target and collaterals all. Men and
   women and children.
   And he had his revenge.
   Once more, he was in that place. Life taken to balance life taken from him, from his
   family—and once more, there was no sweetness in the act. Nothing but bitter, bitter
   ash and the rage that would not abate.
   With an angry flourish, he grabbed the cable rig on his belt and used the fast-fall
   to drop quickly from his hide to the waterlogged floor below. The cloak billowing
   out behind him like the wings of the prey birds overhead, he strode towards the body
   of the Spear-thing, one hand snaking down to the clasp on the holster at his hip. He
   did not spare Koyne’s brutalised corpse more than a second glance; despite every
   tiny challenge to Kell’s authority, in the end the Callidus had obeyed and died in the
   line of duty. As with Iota, Tariel and the others, he would ensure their clades learned
   of their sacrifices. There would be new teardrops etched upon the face of the
   Weeping Queen in the Oubliette of the Fallen.
   The monstrous killer lay cruciform, floating on the surface of the floodwater.
   Rust-coloured billows of blood surrounded the body, a halo of red among the dull
   shades of the rubble and wreckage.
   Kell gave the corpse a clinical glare, barely able to stop himself from drawing a
   knife and stabbing the crimson flesh in mad anger. The skull, already malformed and
   inhuman in its proportions, had been burst from within by the lethal concussion of
   the Shatter bullet. Cracked skin and bone were visible in lines webbing the face; it
   looked like a grotesque terracotta mask, broken and then inexpertly mended.
   Putting the longrifle aside, he drew the Exitus pistol, sliding his hand over the
   skull sigil on the breech and cocking the heavy handgun. He would leave no trace of
   this creature.
   Kell’s boot disturbed the blood-laced floods and the misted water parted. Motion
   drew his eye to it; the rusty stain was no longer growing, but shrinking.
   The wounds across the body of the killer were drinking it in.
   He spun, finger on the trigger.
   Spear’s leg made an unnatural cracking sound and bent at the wrong angle,
   hitting Kell in the chest with the force of a hammer blow. The Vindicare stumbled as
   the red-skinned creature dragged itself out of the water and threw itself at him. Spear
   no longer moved with the same unnatural stealth and grace he had seen down the
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   sights of the longrifle, but it made up for what it lacked in speed and aggression.
   Spear battered at him, knocking the pistol from Kell’s grip, breaking bones with
   every impact of his jagged fists.
   The skin of the killer moved in ways that made the Vindicare’s gut tighten with
   disgust; it was almost as if Spear’s flesh were somehow dragging about the bones and
   organs within, animating them with wild, freakish energy. Brain matter and thick
   fluids dribbled from the impact wound in the killer’s eye, and it coughed globules of
   necrotic tissues from its yawning mouth and ragged nostrils. The marksman took
   another hit as he tried to block a blow, and Kell’s shoulder dislocated from its socket,
   making him bellow in agony.
   Stumbling, he fell against the crimson-stained spire where Koyne lay impaled.
   Spear advanced, with each footfall his body bloating and thickening as it drew in
   more and more of the blood-laced fluids sloshing about their feet.
   There was a face in the bubbling skin of its torso. Then another, and another,
   biting and chewing at the thin membrane that suffocated them, trying to break free.
   Spear twitched and halted. It turned its clawed fingers on itself, slashing at the
   protrusions in its flesh, making scratches that oozed thin liquid.
   The faces cried out silently to Kell. Stop him, they screamed.
   The daemonskin had saved Spear’s life, if this could be considered life. It was so
   ingrained in the matter of his being that even the obliteration of his cerebellum was
   not enough to end him. The proxy-flesh of his warp-parasite contained the force of
   the bullet detonation—or as much as it was capable of, forcing the broken pieces of
   Spear back together into some semblance of their undamaged form.
   But the daemonskin was a primitive creature, unsophisticated. It missed out petty
   things like control and intellect, holding tight to instinct and animal fury. The killer
   was self-aware enough to know that he had been murdered and returned from it, but
   his mind was damaged beyond repair and what barriers of self-control it had once
   had were in tatters.
   Without them, his cages of captured memory broke open.
   The formless force of a fragmented persona-imprint came crashing into Spear’s
   wounded psyche with the impact of a falling comet, and he was spun and twisted
   beneath the force of it. Suddenly, the killer’s thoughts were flooded by an overload of
   sensation, a bombardment of pieces of emotion, shards of self.
   вЂ”Ivak and the other boys with a ball and the hoops—
   вЂ”the smell of matured estufagemi wine was everywhere. The warm, comforting
   scent seemed cloying and overly strong—
   вЂ”Renia says yes to his earnest offer of a marriage contract, and he basks in her
   smile-shiny lumps of organ meat that caught the light, and other things pasty-white
   and streaked with fluid—
   I hate you!—
   вЂ”the shot that kills the Blue Towers Rapist comes from his gun, finally—
   вЂ”I’ve heard rumours. Stories from people who know people on other worlds, in
   other systems—
   No—
   238
   вЂ”a flicker of guilt—
   вЂ”I’ve been absent a lot recently—
   This was all that there was of Yosef Sabrat’s psyche, an incomplete jigsaw puzzle
   of a self, driven by the single trait that marbled all the man had been, and all that
   Spear had destroyed.
   He had been waiting. Patient, clever Yosef. Buried deep in the dungeons of
   Spear’s dark soul, struggling not to fade away. Waiting for a moment like this, for the
   chance to strike at his murderer.
   The phantom-taint of the dead lawman, wanted justice. It wanted revenge for
   every victim in the killer’s bloody annals.
   Every soul of those that Spear had slaughtered and looted, every ghost he had
   pillaged to assume them, to corrupt them into his disguises, each had tasted like a
   special kind of fear. A fear of loss of self, worse than death.
   Now that fear was in him, as Spear clawed at the ragged edge of his own mind,
   dangling over the brink of a psychic abyss.
   And when he spoke, he heard Yosef Sabrat’s voice.
   вЂњStop him!”
   The face was not the thing of fangs and horns and dark voids anymore. It
   belonged to a man, just a man in pain and sorrow, peering out at him as if through the
   bars of the deepest prison in all creation.
   Kell’s breath was struck from him by the grief in those all-too-human eyes. He
   had seen it enough times, witnessed at a distance in the moment when death claimed
   a life. The sudden, final understanding in the eyes of a target. The pain and the truth.
   He raced forward, ignoring the spirals of hot agony from the broken, grinding
   edges of his ribcage, stabbing slim throwing knives from his wrist-guard into the
   torso of the Spear-thing.
   It cried out and he pushed past it, falling, slipping on the wet-slick tiles beneath
   his feet. Kell rolled, clutching for the fallen pistol, fingers grasping the grip—
   The killer was coming for him, festoons of claws and talons exploding from
   every surface on its lurching body, the human face disappearing as it was swallowed
   by the fangs and spines. It thundered across the debris, crashing through the water.
   Kell’s gun came up and he fired. The weapon bucked with a scream of torn air
   and the heavy-calibre Ignis bullet crossed the short distance between gunman and
   target.
   The round slammed into the meat of Spear’s shoulder and erupted in a blare of
   brilliant white fire; the hollow tip of the bullet was filled with a pressurised mixture
   of phosphoron-thermic compound. On impact, it ignited with a fierce million-degree
   heat that would burn even in the absence of oxygen.
   Spear was shrieking, his body shuddering as if it were trying to rip itself apart.
   Kell took aim again and fired a second shot, then a third, a fourth. At this range he
   could not miss. The rounds blew Spear back, the combustion of hot air boiling the
   water pooled around him into steam. The white flames gathered across the killer’s
   body, eating into the surface of his inhuman flesh.
   239
   Kell did not stop. He emptied the Exitus pistol into the target, firing until the slide
   locked back. He watched his enemy transform from a howling torch into a seething,
   roiling mass of burned matter. Spear wavered, the screams from its sagging, molten
   jaws climbing the octaves; and then there was a concussion of unnatural sound that
   resonated from the creature. Kell saw the ghost of something blood-coloured and
   ephemeral ripping itself from the killer’s dying meat, and heard a monstrous, furious
   howl. It faded even as he tried to perceive it, and then the smoking remains fell. A
   sudden wash of sulphur stink wafted over him and he gagged, coughing up blood and
   thin bile. The ghost-image had fled.
   Nursing his pain, Kell watched as Spear’s blackened, crumbling skeleton hissed
   and crackled like fat on a griddle.
   To his surprise, he saw something floating on the surface of the murky
   floodwaters; tiny dots of bright colour, like flecks of gold leaf. They issued out from
   the corpse of the killer, liberated by Spear’s death. When he reached for them they
   disintegrated, flickering in the wan light and then gone.
   вЂњNot for revenge,” he said aloud, “For the Emperor.”
   The Vindicare sat there for a long time, listening to the drumming of the rains and the
   distant crashes of destruction across the distance to the capital. The explosions and
   the tremors were coming closer together now, married to the gouts of harsh light
   falling from the sky above. The city and everything in it was collapsing under the
   rage of the Sons of Horus; soon they would turn their weapons to the port, to the
   wastelands, to every place on Dagonet where life still sheltered from their thunder.
   The Warmaster’s rebels and traitors would not stop on this world, or the next, or
   the next. They would cut a burning path across space that would only end at Terra.
   That could not come to pass. Kell’s war—his mission— was not over.
   Using the Exitus rifle to support his weight, he gathered what he needed and then
   the Vindicare marksman left the ruins of the terminal behind, beginning a slow walk
   across the cracked runways under darkening skies.
   In the distance, he saw the Ultio’s running lights snap on as the ship sensed his
   approach.
   240
   EIGHTEEN
   I Am The Weapon
   Into The Light
   Nemesis
   The guncutter climbed the layers of cloud, punching through pockets of turbulent air
   thrown into the atmosphere by storm cells, the new-born thunder-heads spawning in
   the wake of orbit-fall munitions.
   Somewhere behind it, down on Dagonet’s surface, the landscape was being
   dissected as lance fire swept back and forth. The killing rains of energy and ballistic
   warheads had broken the boundaries of the capital city limits; now they were
   escaping to spread across the trembling ground, cutting earth like a keen skinning
   knife crossing soft flesh.
   The burning sky cradled the arrow-prowed ship, which spun and turned as it
   wove a path through the cascades of plasma. No human pilot could have managed
   such a feat, but the Ultio’s helmsman was less a man and more the ship itself. He
   flew the vessel through the tides of boiling air as a bird would ride a thermal, his
   hands the stabilators across the bow, his legs the blazing nozzles of the thrusters,
   fuel-blood pumping through his rumbling engine-heart.
   Ultio’s lone passenger was strapped into an acceleration couch at the very point
   of the ship’s cramped bridge, watching waves of heat ripple across the invisible
   bubble of void shields from behind a ring-framed cockpit canopy.
   Kell muttered into the mastoid vox pickup affixed to his jawbone, subvocalising
   his words into the humming reader in the arm of the couch. As the words spilled out
   of him, he breathed hard and worked on attending to his injuries. The pilot had
   reconfigured the gravity field in the cockpit to off-set the g-force effects of their
   headlong flight, but Kell could still feel the pressure upon him. But he was thankful
   for small mercies—had he not been so protected, the lift-off acceleration from the
   port would have crushed him into a blackout, perhaps even punctured a lung with one
   of his cracked ribs.
   It remained an effort to speak, though, but he did it because he knew he was duty
   bound to give his report. Even now, the Ultio’s clever subordinate machine-brains
   were uploading and encoding the contents of the memory spool from Iota’s skullhelm,
   and the pages of overly analytical logs Tariel had kept in his cogitator gauntlet.
   When they were done, that compiled nugget of dense data would be transmitted via
   burst-signal to the ship’s drive unit, still hiding in orbit, within the wreckage of a
   dead space station.
   241
   But not without his voice to join them, Kell decided. He was mission commander.
   At the end, the lay of the choices were his responsibility and he would not shirk that.
   Finally, he ran out of words and bowed his head. Tapping the controls of the
   reader, he pressed the playback switch to ensure his final entry had been embedded.
   вЂњMy name is Eristede Kell,” he heard himself saying. “Assassin-at-Marque of
   the Clade Vindicare, Epsilon-dan. And I have defied my orders.”
   Nodding, he silenced himself, discarding the mastoid patch. Kell’s voice seemed
   strange and distant to him; it was less a report he had made and more of a confession.
   Confession. The loaded connotations of that word made him glance down, to
   where he had secured Jenniker’s golden aquila about the wrist of his glove. He
   searched himself, trying to find a meaning, a definition for the emotion clouding his
   thoughts. But there was nothing he could grasp.
   Kell pressed another switch and sent the vox recording to join the rest of the data
   packet. Outside, the glowing sky had darkened through blue to purple to black, taking
   the rush of air with it. Ultio was beyond the atmosphere now, and still climbing.
   Each breath he took felt tainted and metallic. Thick fluids congested at his throat
   and he swallowed them back with a grimace. The smell in his nostrils was no one’s
   blood but his own, and while the painkillers he had injected into his neck had gone
   some way towards keeping him upright, they were wearing thinner by the moment.
   An indicator rune on the control console flared green; Ultio had been sent a lineof-
   sight signal from the drive unit. Out there in the wreckage-strewn orbits, the drive
   module was awakening, stealthily turning power to its warp engine and sublight
   drives. In moments, the astropath and Navigator on board would be roused from their
   sense-dep slumber. The Ultio’s descent module needed only to cross the space to the
   other section of the ship and dock; then, reunited, the vessel could run for the void
   and the escape of the immaterium.
   Kell leaned forwards to stare out of the canopy. The only flaw in that otherwise
   simple plan was the gathering of warships between the guncutter and the drive
   module.
   An armada barred his way. Starships the size of a metropolis crested with great
   knife-shaped bows, blocks of hideously beweaponed metal like the heads of godhammers,
   each one detailed in shining steel and gold. Each with the device of an
   opened, baleful eye about them, glaring ready hate into the dark.
   At the centre of the fleet, a behemoth. Kell recognised the lines of a uniquely
   lethal vessel. A battle-barge of magnificent, gargantuan proportions haloed by clouds
   of fighter escorts; the Vengeful Spirit, flagship of the Warmaster Horus Lupercal.
   вЂњPilot,” he said, his voice husky with the pain, “put us on an intercept heading
   with the command ship. Put all available power to the aura cloak.”
   The cyborg helmsman clicked and whirred. “Increased aura cloak use will result
   in loss of void shield potentiality.”
   He glared at the visible parts of the pilot’s near-human face, peering from the
   command podium. “If they can’t see us, they can’t hit us.”
   вЂњThey will hit us,” it replied flatly. “Intercept vector places Ultio in high-threat
   quadrant. Multiple enemy weapon arcs.”
   242
   вЂњJust do as I say!” Kell shouted, and he winced at the jag of pain it caused him.
   вЂњAnd open a link to the Navigator.”
   вЂњComplying.” The Vindicare thought he heard a note of grievance in the reply as
   the guncutter turned, putting its bow on the Vengeful Spirit. The sensors were
   showing the first curious returns from the picket ships in Horus’ fleet. They were
   sweeping the area for a trace, uncertain if their scry-sensors had seen something; but
   the Ultio’s aura cloak was generations ahead of common Naval technology. They
   would be inside the fleet’s inner perimeter before anyone on the picket vessels could
   properly interpret what they had seen.
   Another rune on the console glowed; a vox channel was open between the
   forward module and the drive section. Kell spoke quickly, fearful that the
   transmission would undo all the work of the cloak if left active a second too long.
   вЂњThis is Kell. Stand by to receive encoded burst transmission. Release only on Omnis
   Octal authority.” He took a shaky breath. “New orders supersede all prior commands.
   Protocol Perditus. Expedite immediate. Repeat, go to Protocol Perditus.”
   It seemed like long, long seconds before the Navigator’s whispering, papery
   voice returned through the speaker grille. “This will be difficult,” it said, “but the
   attempt will be made.” Kell reached for the panel to cut the channel just as the
   Navigator spoke again. “Good luck, assassin.”
   The rune went dark, and Kell’s hand dropped.
   Beyond the canopy, laser fire probed the sky around the ship, and ahead the
   battle-barge grew to blot out the darkness.
   * * *
   Close-range lascannons on the hull of the drive module blew apart the paper-thin
   sheath of metals hiding the aft section of the ship, and the Ultio’s drive section
   blasted free of the station wreck in a pulse of detonation. Fusion motors unleashed
   the tiny suns at their cores and pushed the craft away, climbing the acceleration curve
   in a glitter of void shields and displaced energy. In moments, the vessel was rising
   towards one-quarter lightspeed.
   Picket ships on the far side of the Warmaster’s fleet, ex-Imperial Navy frigates
   and destroyers crewed only by human officers, saw it running and opened fire. Most
   of the ships belonging to the Dagoneti had been obliterated over the past few hours,
   and the stragglers had either been forced down to the surface or cut in two by their
   beam lances.
   Targeting solutions on the odd craft that had suddenly appeared on their
   holoscopes behaved unexpectedly, however. Weapon locks drifted off it, unable to
   find a true. Scans gave conflicting readings; the ship was monstrously over-powered
   for something of its tonnage; it seemed unmanned, and then it seemed not. And
   strangest of all, the glimmer of a building warp signature built up around its flanks
   the further it strayed away from the gravity shadow of the planet, racing for the jump
   point.Warships dropped out of formation, and powered after it, following the
   unidentified craft up and out of the plane of the Dagonet system’s ecliptic. They
   would never catch it.
   243
   Alone now on their headless beast of a vessel, the Ultio’s Navigator and astropath
   communed with one another in a manner most uncommon for their respective kinds;
   with words.
   And what they shared was an understanding of mutual purpose. Protocol
   Perditus. A coded command string known to them both, to which there was only one
   response. They were to leave their area of operation on immediate receipt of such an
   order and follow a pre-set series of warp space translations. They would not stop
   until they lay under the light of Sol. The mission was over, abandoned.
   Weapons fire haloed the space around the ship as it plunged towards the onset of
   critical momentum, the first vestiges of a warp gate forming in the void ahead.
   The blood continued to stream from Erebus’ nostrils as he shoved his way out of the
   elevator car and through the cluster of helots waiting on the command deck. The
   fluid matted his beard and he grimaced, drawing a rough hand across his face. The
   psychic shock was fading, mercifully, but for a brief while it had felt as if it would
   cut him open.
   There, in his chambers aboard the flagship, meditating in the gloom over his
   spodomancy and mambila divination, he attempted to find an answer. The eightfold
   paths were confused, and he could not see their endpoints. Almost from the moment
   they had arrived in the Dagonet system, Erebus had been certain that something was
   awry.
   His careful plans, the works he had conceived under the guidance of the Great
   Ones, normally so clear to him, were fouled by a shadow he could not source. It
   perturbed him, and to a degree undeserving of such emotion. This was only a small
   eddy in the long scheme, after all. This planet, this action, a minor diversion from the
   pre-ordained works of the great theatre.
   And yet Horus Lupercal was doing such a thing more and more. Oh, he followed
   where Erebus led, that was certain, but he did it less quickly than he had at first. The
   Warmaster’s head was being turned and he was willful with it. At times, the Word
   Bearer allowed himself to wonder; was the master of the rebels listening to other
   voices than he?
   Not to dwell, though. This was to be expected. Horus was a primarch. One could
   no more hope to shackle one down and command him than a person might saddle an
   ephemeral animus. The First Chaplain reminded himself of this.
   Horus must be allowed to be Horus, he told himself. And when the time is upon
   him… He will be ready.
   Still; the voyage to Dagonet, the fogging of the lines. That did not disperse. If
   anything, it grew worse. In his meditations Erebus had searched the egosphere of the
   planet turning below them, but the screaming and the fear drowned out every subtle
   tell. All he could divine was a trace of the familiar.
   The pariah-thing. His Spear. Perhaps no longer on this world, perhaps just the
   spoor of its passing, but certainly something. For a while he was content to accept
   this as the truth, but with the passing of the hours Erebus could not leave the matter
   be. He worried at it, picked at the psy-mark like a fresh scab.
   Why had Spear come to Dagonet? What possible reason could there be for the
   killer to venture off the path Erebus had laid out for him? And, more to the troubling
   244
   point of it, why had Horus chosen to show the flag here? The Word Bearer believed
   that coincidence was something that existed only in the minds of men too feeblebrained
   to see the true spider web of the universe’s cruel truth.
   It vexed him that the answer was there below on the planet, if only he could reach
   out for it.
   And so he was utterly unprepared for what came next. The rising of the black
   shriek of a sudden psionic implosion. In the chamber, sensing the edges of it, turning
   his thoughts to the dark places within and allowing the void to speak to him.
   A mistake. The death-energy of his assassin-proxy, hurtling up from the planet’s
   surface, the escaping daemon beast brushing him as it fled back to the safety of the
   immaterium. It hit him hard, and he was not ready for it.
   He felt Spear die, and with him died the weapon-power. The phantom gun at the
   head of the unknowing Emperor, shattered before it could even be fired.
   Erebus’ fury drove him from his chambers, through the corridors of the ship. His
   plan, this thread of the pathway, had been broken, and for Hades’ sake he would
   know why. He would go down to Dagonet and sift the ashes of it through his fingers.
   He would know why.
   Composing himself, the Word Bearer entered the Lupercal’s Court without
   waiting to be granted entry, but even as Maloghurst moved to block his path, the
   Warmaster turned from the great window and beckoned Erebus closer. He became
   aware of alert sirens hooting and beyond the armourglass, fashioned in the oval of an
   open eye, he saw rods of laser fire sweeping the void ahead of the flagship’s prow.
   Horus nodded to him, the hellish light of the weapons discharges casting his hardedged
   face like blunt stone. He was, as ever, resplendent in his battle gear. In his
   haste, Erebus had come to the Court still in his dark robes, and for a moment the
   Word Bearer felt every bit of his inferiority to the Warmaster, as Horus seemed to
   loom over him.
   None of this he showed, however. He bottled it away, his aspect never changing.
   Erebus was a prince of lies, and well-practised with it. “My lord,” he began. “If it
   pleases the Warmaster, I have a request to make. A matter to address—”
   вЂњOn the surface?” Horus looked away. “We’ll visit Dagonet soon enough, my
   friend. For the work to be done.”
   Erebus maintained his outwardly neutral aspect, but within it took an effort to
   restrain his tension. “Of course. But perhaps, if I might have leave to venture down
   before the rites proper, I could… smooth the path, as it were.”
   вЂњSoon enough,” Horus repeated, his tone light; but the chaplain knew then that
   was the end to it.
   Maloghurst hobbled closer, bearing a data-slate. He shot the Word Bearer a look
   as he stepped in front of him. “Message from the pickets,” he said. “The other target
   is too fast. They scored hits but it will make space before they catch it.”
   The Warmaster’s lips thinned. “Let it go. What of the other, our ghost?” He
   gestured at the inferno raging outside.
   вЂњIndeterminate,” the equerry sniffed. “Gun crews on the perimeter ships report
   phantom signals, multiple echoes. They’re carving up dead sky, and finding
   245
   nothing.” Erebus saw his scarred face’s perpetual frown deepening. “I’ve drawn back
   the fighter screen as you ordered, lord.”
   Horus nodded. “If he dares come so close to me, I want to look him in the eyes.”
   The Word Bearer followed the Warmaster’s gaze out through the windows.
   The slate in Maloghurst’s gnarled fingers emitted a melodic chime, at odds with
   the urgency of its new message. “Sensors read… something,” said the equerry.
   вЂњClosing fast. A collision course! But weapons can’t find it…”
   вЂњAn aura cloak,” said Erebus, peering into the stormy dark. “But such a device is
   beyond the Dagoneti.”
   вЂњYes.” Horus smiled, unconcerned. “Do you see him?” The Warmaster stepped to
   the window and pressed his hands to the grey glass.
   Out among the maelstrom of energy, as javelins of fire crossed and recrossed one
   another, scouring the sky for the hidden attacker, for one instant the Chaplain saw
   something like oil moving over water. Just the suggestion of a raptor-like object
   lensing the light of the distant stars behind it. “There!” He pointed.
   Maloghurst snapped out a command over his vox. “Target located. Engage and
   destroy!”
   The gun crews converged their fire. The craft was close, closer than the illusory
   ghost image had suggested. Unbidden, Erebus backed away a step from the viewing
   portal.
   Horus’ smile grew wider and the Word Bearer heard the words he whispered, a
   faint nimble in the deepest register. “Kill me,” said the Warmaster, “if you dare.”
   * * *
   Ultio burned around him.
   The pilot was already dead in the loosest sense, the cyborg’s higher mental
   functions boiled in the short-circuit surge from a hit on the starboard wing; but his
   core brain was intact, and through that the ship dodged and spun as the sky itself
   seemed to turn upon them.
   The ship trailed pieces of fuselage in a comet tail of wreckage and burning
   plasma. The deck trembled and smoke filled the bridge compartment. A vista of red
   warning runes met Kell’s eyes wherever he looked. Autonomic systems had triggered
   the last-chance protocols, opening an iris hatch in the floor to a tiny saviour pod
   mounted beneath the cockpit. Blue light spilling from the hatch beckoned the
   Vindicare for a moment. He had his Exitus pistol at his hip and he was still alive. He
   would only need to take a step…
   But to where? Even if he survived the next ten seconds, where could he escape
   to? What reason did he have to live? His mission… The mission was all Eristede Kell
   had left in his echoing, empty existence.
   The command tower of the Vengeful Spirit rose through the forward canopy,
   acres of old steel and black iron, backlit by volleys of energy and the red threads of
   lasers. Set atop it was a single unblinking eye of grey and amber glass, lined in
   shining gold.
   246
   And within the eye, a figure. Kell was sure of it, an immense outline, a demigod
   daring him to come closer. His hand found the manual throttle bar and he pressed it
   all the way to the redline, as the killing fires found his range.
   He looked up once again, and the first sighting-mantra he had ever been taught
   pressed itself to the front of his thoughts. Four words, a simple koan whose truth had
   never been more real than it was in this moment.
   Kell said it aloud as he fell towards his target.
   вЂњI am the weapon.”
   Across the mountainous towers of the Imperial Palace, the sun was rising into the
   dusky sky, but its light had yet to reach all the wards and precincts of the great
   fortress-city. Many districts were still dormant, their populace on the verge of waking
   for the new day; others had been kept from their slumber by matters that did not rest.
   In the ornate corridors of power, there was quiet and solemnity, but in the
   Shrouds, any pretence at decorum had been thrown aside.
   Sire Eversor’s fist came down hard on the surface of the rosewood table with an
   impact that set the cut-glass water goblets atop it rattling. His anger was unchained,
   his eyes glaring out through his bone mask. “Failure!” he spat, the word laden with
   venom. “I warned you all when this idiotic plan was proposed, I warned you that it
   would not work!”
   вЂњAnd now we have burned our only chance to kill the Warmaster,” muttered Sire
   Vanus, his synth-altered voice flat and toneless like that of a machine.
   The master of Clade Eversor, unable to remain seated in his chair, arose in a rush
   and rounded the octagonal table. The other Sires and Siresses of the Officio
   Assassinorum watched him stalk towards the powerful, hooded figure standing off to
   one side, in the glow of a lume-globe. “We never should have listened to you,” he
   growled. “All you did was cost us more men, Custodian!”
   At the head of the table, the Master of Assassins looked up sharply, his silver
   mask reflecting the light. Behind him there was nothing but darkness, and the man
   appeared to be cradled in a dark, depthless void.
   вЂњYes,” spat Sire Eversor. “I know who he is. It could be no other than Constantin
   Valdor!”
   At this, the hooded man let his robes fall open and the Captain-General was fully
   revealed. “As you wish,” he said. “I have nothing to fear from you knowing my
   face.”
   вЂњI suspected so,” ventured Siress Venenum, her face of green and gold porcelain
   tilting quizzically. “Only the Custodian Guard would be so compelled towards
   ensuring the deaths of others before their own.”
   Valdor shot her a look and smiled coldly. “If that is so, then in that way we are
   alike, milady.”
   вЂњEversor,” said the Master, his voice level. “Take your seat and show some
   restraint, if that is at all possible.” The featureless silver mask reflected a twisted
   mirror of the snarling bone face.
   247
   вЂњRestraint?” said Sire Vindicare, his aspect hidden behind a marksman’s spy
   mask. “With all due respect, my lord, I think we can all agree that the Eversor’s
   anger is fully justified.”
   вЂњHorus sent one of his men to die in his stead,” Sire Eversor sat once more, his
   tone bitter. “He must have been warned. Or else he has a daemon’s luck.”
   вЂњThat, or something else…” Siress Venenum said darkly.
   вЂњMissions fail,” interrupted the silk-faced mistress of the Callidus. “It has ever
   been thus. We knew from the start that this was a target like no other.”
   Across from her, the watchful steel skull concealing Sire Culexus bent forward.
   вЂњAnd that is answer enough?” His whispering tones carried across the room. “Six
   more of our best are missing, presumed dead, and for what? So that we may sit back
   and be assured that we have learnt some small lesson from the wasting of their
   lives?” The skull’s expression did not change, but the shadows gathered around it
   appeared to lengthen. “Operative Iota was important to my clade. She was a rarity, a
   significant investment of time and energy. Her loss does not go without mark.”
   вЂњThere’s always a cost,” said Valdor.
   вЂњJust not to you,” Venenum’s retort was acid. “Our best agents and our finest
   weapons squandered, and still Horus Lupercal draws breath.”
   вЂњPerhaps he cannot be killed,” Sire Eversor snapped.
   Before the commander of the Custodians could reply, the Master of Assassins
   raised his hand to forestall the conversation. “Sire Vanus,” he began, “shall we
   dispense with this hearsay and instead discuss what we know to be true of the fallout
   from our operation?”
   Vanus nodded, his flickering, glassy mask shifting colour and hue. “Of course.”
   He pushed at a section of the pinkish-red wood and the table silently presented him
   with a panel of brass buttons. With a few keystrokes, the hololithic projector hidden
   below came to life, sketching windows of flickering blue light above their heads.
   Displays showing tactical starmaps, fragments of scout reports and feeds from longrange
   observatories shimmered into clarity. “News from the Taebian Sector is, at
   best, inconclusive. However, it appears that most, if not all, of the prime worlds
   along the length of the Taebian Stars trade spine are now beyond the influence of
   Imperial governance.”
   On the map display, globular clusters of planets winked from blue to red in rapid
   order, consumed by revolt. “The entire zone has fallen into anarchy. We have
   confirmation that the worlds of Thallat, Bowman, Dagonet, Taebia Prime and Iesta
   Veracrux have all broken their ties with the lawful leadership of Terra and declared
   loyalty to the Warmaster and his rebels.”
   Sire Culexus made a soft hissing sound. “They fall as much from their fears as
   from the gun.”
   вЂњThe Warmaster stands over them and demands they kneel,” said Valdor. “Few
   men would have the courage to refuse.”
   вЂњWe can be certain of only two factors,” the Vanus went on. “One; Captain Luc
   Sedirae of the 13th Company of the Sons of Horus, a senior general in the turncoat
   forces, has been terminated. Apparently by the action of a sniper.” He glanced at Sire
   Vindicare, who said nothing. “Two; Horus Lupercal is alive.”
   248
   вЂњSedirae’s death is an important success,” said the Master, “but it is no substitute
   for the Warmaster.”
   вЂњMy clade has already engaged with the information emerging from the Taebian
   Sector,” said Sire Vanus. “My infocytes are in the process of performing adjustments
   in the overt and covert media to best reflect the Imperium’s position in this
   situation.”
   вЂњPapering over the cracks with quick lies, don’t you mean?” said Siress Callidus.
   The colours of the Vanus’ shimmer-mask blue-shifted. “We must salvage what
   we can, milady. I’m sure—”
   вЂњSure?” The silk mask tightened. “What are you sure of? We have no specifics,
   no solutions! We’ve done nothing but tip our hand to the traitors!”
   The mood of the room shifted, and once again the anger and frustration
   simmering unchecked threatened to erupt. The Master of Assassins raised his hand
   once more, but before he could speak a warning bell sounded through the room.
   вЂњWhat is that?” demanded Sire Vindicare. “What does it mean?”
   вЂњThe Shrouds…” The Master was coming to his feet. “They’ve been
   compromised…” His silvered face suddenly turned towards one of the mahoganypanelled
   walls, as if he could see right through it.
   With a bullet-sharp crack, ancient wood and rigid metals gave way, and a hidden
   door slammed open. Beyond it, in the ever-shifting puzzle of the changing corridors,
   three figures filled the space. Two wore amber-gold armour chased with white and
   black accents, their faces set and grim. They were veteran Space Marines of the VII
   Legiones Astartes in full combat plate; but eclipsing their presence was a warrior of
   stone cast and cold, steady gaze standing a head higher than both of them.
   Rogal Dorn stepped into the Shrouds, his battle gear glittering in the light of the
   lume-globes. He cast his gaze around the room with an expression that might have
   been disgust, dwelling on Valdor, then the Master, and finally the deep shadows
   engulfing the farthest side of the chamber.
   It was Siress Venenum who dared to shatter the shocked silence that came in the
   wake of Dorn’s intrusion. “Lord Astartes,” she began, desperately trying to rein in
   her fear. “This is a sanctum of—”
   The Imperial Fist did not even grace her with a look. He advanced towards the
   rosewood table and folded his arms across his titanic chest. “Here you are,” he said,
   addressing his comments towards Valdor. “I told you our conversation was not
   ended, Custodian.”
   вЂњYou should not be here, Lord Dorn,” he replied.
   вЂњNeither should you,” snapped the primarch, his voice like breaking stones. “But
   you brought both of us to it. To this… place of subterfuge.” He said the last word as
   if it revolted him.
   вЂњThis place is not within your authority, Astartes.” The voice of the Master of
   Assassins was altered and shifted, but still the edge of challenge was clear for all to
   hear.
   вЂњAt this moment, it is…” Dorn turned his cold glare on the mirrored face staring
   up at him. “My Lord Malcador.”
   249
   A thrill of surprise threaded across the room, as every one of the Sires and
   Siresses turned to stare at the Master.
   вЂњI knew it…” hissed Culexus. “I always knew you were the Sigillite!”
   вЂњThis is a day of revelations,” muttered Sire Vanus.
   вЂњI have just begun,” Dorn rumbled.
   With a sigh, Malcador reached up and removed the silver mask, setting it down
   on the table. He frowned, and an eddy of restrained telepathic annoyance rippled
   through the air. “Well done, my friend. You’ve broken open an enigma.”
   вЂњNot really,” Dorn replied. “I made an educated guess. You confirmed it.”
   The Sigillite’s frown became a brief, intent grimace. “A victory for the Imperial
   Fists, then. Still, I have many more secrets.”
   The warrior-king turned. “But no more here today.” He glared at the other
   members of the Officio. “Masks off,” he demanded. “All of you! I will not speak
   with those of such low character who hide their faces. Your voices carry no import
   unless you have the courage to place your name to them. Show yourselves.” The
   threat beneath his words did not need to break the surface.
   There was a moment of hush; then movement. Sire Vindicare was first, pulling
   the spy mask from his face as if he were glad to be rid of it. Then Sire Eversor, who
   angrily tossed his fang-and-bone disguise on to the table. Siress Callidus slipped the
   silk from her dainty face, and Vanus and Venenum followed suit. Sire Culexus was
   last, opening up his gleaming skull mask like an elaborate metal flower.
   The assassins looked upon their naked identities for the first time and there was a
   mixture of potent emotions: anger, recognition, amusement.
   вЂњBetter,” said Dorn.
   вЂњNow you have stripped us of our greatest weapon, Astartes,” said Siress
   Callidus, a fall of rust-red hair lying unkempt over a pale face. “Are you satisfied?”
   The primarch glanced over his shoulder. “Brother-Captain Efried?”
   One of the Imperial Fists at the door stepped forwards and handed a device to his
   commander, and in turn Dorn placed it on the table and slid it towards Sire Vanus.
   вЂњIt’s a data-slate,” he said.
   вЂњMy warriors intercepted a starship beyond the edge of the Oort Cloud,
   attempting to vector into the Sol system,” Dorn told them. “It identified itself as a
   common freighter, the Hallis Faye. A name I imagine some of you might recognise.”
   вЂњThe crew…?” began Sire Eversor.
   вЂњNone to speak of,” offered Captain Efried.
   Dorn pointed at the slate. “That contains a datum capsule recovered from the
   vessel’s mnemonic core. Mission logs. Vox recordings and vid-picts.” He glanced at
   Malcador and the Custodian. “What is spoken of there is troubling.”
   The Sigillite nodded towards Sire Vanus. “Show us.”
   Vanus used a hair-fine connector to plug the slate into the open panel before him,
   and immediately the images in the ghostly hololith flickered and changed to a new
   configuration of data-panes.
   At the fore was a vox thread, and it began to unspool as a man’s voice, thick with
   pain, filled the air. “My name is Eristede Kell. Assassin-at-Marque of the Clade
   Vindicare, Epsilon-dan… And I have defied my orders.”
   250
   Valdor listened in silence along with the rest of them, first to Kell’s words, and then
   to fragments of the infocyte Tariel’s interim logs. When Sire Vanus opened the
   kernel of data containing the vid-records from Iota’s final moments, he watched in
   mute disgust at the abomination that was the Black Pariah. As this horror unfolded
   before them, Sire Culexus bent forwards and quietly wept.
   They listened to it all; the discovery of military situation on Dagonet and the plan
   to reignite the dying embers of the planet’s civil war; Jenniker Soalm’s rejection of
   the mission in favour of her own; the assassination of Sedirae in Horus’ stead and the
   brutal retribution it engendered; and at last, the existence of and lethal potential
   within the creature that called itself Spear, and the choice that the Execution Force
   had been forced to make.
   When they had heard as much as was necessary, the Sigillite shouted at Sire
   Vanus to cease the playback. Valdor surveyed the faces of the clade directors. Each
   in their own way struggled to process what they had been brought by the Imperial
   Fists.
   Sire Eversor, confusion in his gaze, turned on the Culexus. “That freakish
   monstrosity… you created that? For Terra’s sake, cousin, tell me this is not so!”
   вЂњI gave the orders myself!” insisted the psyker. “It was destroyed!”
   вЂњApparently not,” Dorn replied, his jaw tightening. “But it is dead now, yes?”
   said Sire Vanus. “It must be…”
   Dorn’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “A narrow view. That is all your kind ever
   possess. Do you not understand what you have done? Your so-called attempts at a
   surgical assault against Horus have become nothing of the kind!” His voice rose, like
   the sound of storm-tossed waves battering a shoreline. “Sedirae’s death has cost the
   lives of an entire planet’s population! The Sons of Horus have taken revenge on a
   world because of what your assassins did there!” He shook his head. “If the counterrebellion
   on Dagonet had been allowed to fade, if their war had not been deliberately
   and callously exacerbated, Horus would have passed them by. After my brothers and
   I have broken his betrayal, the Imperium would have retaken control of Dagonet. But
   now its devastation leads to the collapse of keystone worlds all across that sector!
   Now the traitors take a strong foothold there, and it will be my battle-brothers and
   those of my kindred who must bleed to oust them!” He pointed at them all in turn.
   вЂњThis is what you leave behind you. This is what your kind always leave behind.”
   Valdor could remain silent no longer and he stepped forward. “The suffering on
   Dagonet is a tragedy, none will deny that,” he said, “and yes, Horus has escaped our
   retribution once more. But a greater cause has been served, Lord Dorn. Kell and his
   force chose to preserve your father in exchange for letting your errant brother live.
   This assassin-creature Spear is dead, and a great threat to the Emperor’s life has been
   neutralised. I would consider that a victory.”
   вЂњWould you?” Dorn’s fury was palpable, crackling in the air around him. “I’m
   sure my father is capable of defending himself! And tell me, Captain-General, what
   kind of victory exists in a war like the one you would have us fight?” He gestured at
   the room around them. “A war fought from hidden places under cover of falsehood?
   Innocent lives wasted in the name of dubious tactics? Underhanded, clandestine
   conflicts, fuelled by secrets and lies?”
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   For a moment, Valdor half-expected the Imperial Fist to rip up the table between
   them just so he could strike at the Custodian; but then, like a tidal wave drawing back
   into the ocean, Dorn’s anger seemed to subside. Valdor knew better, though—the
   primarch was the master of his own fury, turning it inward, turning it to stony,
   unbreakable purpose.
   вЂњThis war,” Dorn went on, sparing Malcador a glance, “is a fight not just for the
   material, for worlds and for the hearts of men. We are in battle for ideals. At stake
   are the very best of the Imperium’s ultimate principles. Values of pride, nobility,
   honour and fealty. How can a veiled killer understand the meaning of such words?”
   Valdor felt Malcador’s eyes on him, and the tension in him seemed to dissipate.
   At once, he felt a cold sense of conviction rise in his thoughts, and he matched the
   Imperial Fist’s gaze, answering his challenge. “No one in this room has known war
   as intimately as you have, my lord,” he began, “and so surely it is you who must
   understand better than any one of us that this war cannot be a clean and gallant one.
   We fight a battle like no other in human history. We fight for the future! Can you
   imagine what might have come to pass if Kell and the rest of the Execution Force had
   not been present on Dagonet? If this creature Spear had been reunited with the rebel
   forces?”
   вЂњHe would have attempted to complete his mission,” said Sire Culexus. “Come to
   Terra, to enter the sphere of the Emperor’s power and engage his… murdergift.”
   вЂњHe would never have got that far!” insisted Sire Vanus. “He would have been
   found and killed, surely. The Sigillite or the Emperor himself would have sensed
   such an abomination and crushed it!”
   вЂњAre you certain?” Valdor pressed. “Horus has many allies, some of them closer
   than we wish to admit. If this Spear could have reached Terra, made his attack…
   Even a failure to make the kill, a wounding even…” He trailed off, suddenly appalled
   by the grim possibility he was describing. “Such a psychic attack would have caused
   incredible destruction.”
   Dorn said nothing; for a moment, it seemed as if the primarch was sharing the
   same terrible nightmare that danced in the Custodian’s thoughts; of his liege lord
   mortally wounded by a lethal enemy, clinging to fading life while the Imperial Palace
   was a raging inferno all around him.
   Valdor found his voice once more. “Your brother will beat us, Lord Dorn. He
   will win this war unless we match him blow-for-blow. We cannot, we must not be
   afraid to make the difficult choices, the hardest decisions! Horus Lupercal will not
   hesitate—”
   вЂњI am not Horus!” Dorn snarled, the words striking the Custodian like a physical
   blow. “And I will—”
   вЂњEnough.”
   The single utterance was a lightning bolt captured in crystal, shattering everything
   around it, silencing them all with an unstoppable, immeasurable force of will.
   Rogal Dorn turned to the sound of that voice as every man, woman and Astartes
   in the chamber sank to their knees, each of them instinctively knowing who had
   uttered it. The Sigillite was the last to do so, shooting a final, unreadable look at the
   primarch of the Imperial Fists before he too took to a show of obeisance.
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   The question escaped Dorn’s lips. “Father?”
   The darkness, the great curtain of shadows that had filled the furthest corner of
   the chamber now became lighter, the walls and floor growing more distinct by the
   moment as the unnatural gloom faded. He blinked; strange how he had looked
   directly into that place and seen it, but without really seeing it at all. It had been in
   plain sight for everyone in the room, even he, and yet none of them had registered the
   strangeness of it.
   Now from the black came light. A figure stood there, effortlessly dominating the
   space, his patrician features marred by a mixture of turbulent emotions that gave even
   the mighty Imperial Fist a second’s pause.
   The Emperor of Mankind wore no armour, no finery or dress uniform, only a
   simple surplice of grey cloth threaded with subtle lines of purple and gold silk; and
   yet he was still magnificent to behold.
   Perhaps he had been listening to them all along. Yet, it seemed to be a defiance of
   the laws of nature, that a being so majestic, so lit with power, could stand in a room
   among men, Astartes and the greatest mortal psyker who ever lived, and be as a
   ghost.
   But then he was the Emperor; and to all questions, that was sufficient answer.
   His father came towards him, and Rogal Dorn bowed deeply, at length joining the
   others at bended knee before the Master of the Imperium.
   The Emperor did not speak. Instead, he strode across the Shrouds to the tall
   windows where the sailcloth drapes hung like frozen cataracts of shadow. With a
   flick of his great hands, Dorn’s father took a fist of the cloth and snatched it away.
   The hangings tore free and tumbled to the floor. He walked the perimeter of the
   room, ripping away every last cover until the chamber was flooded with the bright
   honey-yellow luminosity of the Himalayan dawn.
   Dorn dared to glance up and saw the golden radiance striking his father. It
   gathered its brightness to him, as if it were an embrace. For an instant, the sunlight
   was like a sheath of glowing armour about him; then the primarch blinked and the
   moment passed.
   вЂњNo more shadows,” said the Emperor. His words were gentle, summoning, and
   all the faces in the room turned to look upon him. He placed a hand on Dorn’s
   shoulder as he passed him by, and then repeated the gesture with Valdor. “No more
   veils.”
   He beckoned them all to stand and as one they obeyed, and yet in his presence
   each of them felt as if they were still at his feet. His aura towered over them, filling
   the emotions of the room.
   Dorn received a nod, as did Valdor. “My noble son. My loyal guardian. I hear
   both your words and I know that there is right in each of you. We cannot lose sight of
   what we are and what we aspire to be; but we cannot forget that we face the greatest
   enemy and the darkest challenge.” In the depths of his father’s eyes, Dorn saw
   something no one else could have perceived, so transient and fleeting it barely
   registered. He saw sorrow, deep and unending, and his heart ached with an empathy
   only a son could know.
   The Emperor reached out a hand and gestured towards the dawn, as it rose to fill
   the room around them. “It is time to bring you into the light. The Officio
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   Assassinorum have been my quiet blade for too long, an open secret none dared to
   speak of. But no longer. Such a weapon cannot exist forever in the shadows,
   answerable to no one. It must be seen to be governed. There must be no doubt of the
   integrity behind every deed, every blow landed, every choice made… or else we
   count for naught.” His gaze turned to Dorn and he nodded slowly to his son.
   вЂњBecause of this I am certain; in the war to come, every weapon in the arsenal of the
   Imperium will be called to bear.”
   вЂњIn your name, father.” The primarch returned the nod. “In your name.”
   Dagonet was all but dead now, her surface a mosaic of burning cities, churned oceans
   and glassed wastelands. And yet this was a show of restraint from the Sons of Horus;
   had they wished it, the world could have suffered the fate of many that had defied the
   Warmaster, cracked open by cyclonic torpedo barrages shot into key tectonic target
   sites, remade into a sphere of molten earth.
   Instead Dagonet was being prepared. It would be of use to the Warmaster and his
   march to victory.
   Erebus stood atop the ridgeline and looked down into the crater that was all that
   remained of the capital. The far side of the vast bowl of dirty glass and melted rock
   was lost to him through a mist of poisonous vapour, but he saw enough of it to know
   the scope of the whole. Transports were coming in from all over the planet, bringing
   those found still alive to this place. He watched as a Stormbird swooped low over the
   crater and opened its ventral cargo doors, dropping civilians like discarded trash amid
   the masses that had already been herded into the broken landscape. The people were
   arranged in lines that cut back and forth across one another, crosses laid over crosses.
   Astartes stood at equidistant points around the kilometres of the crater’s edge, their
   presence alone forbidding any survivor from making an attempt to climb out and flee.
   Those that had at the beginning were blasted back into the throng, bifurcated by bolt
   shells. The same fate befell those who dared to move out of the eightfold lines carved
   in the dust.
   The supplicants—for they did not deserve to be known as prisoners—gave off
   moans and whispers of terror that washed back and forth over the Word Bearer
   Chaplain like gentle waves. It was tempting to remain where he stood and lose
   himself in the sweet sense of the dark emotions brimming across the great hollow;
   but there were other matters to attend to.
   He heard bootsteps climbing the wreckage-strewn side of the crater, and moved
   to face the Astartes approaching him. All about them, thin wisps of steam rose into
   the air from the heat of the bombardment still escaping from the shattered earth.
   вЂњFirst Chaplain.” Devram Korda gave him a wary salute. “You wished me to
   report to you regarding your… operative? We located the remains you were looking
   for.”
   вЂњSpear?” He frowned.
   Korda nodded, and tossed something towards him. Erebus caught the object; at
   first glance it seemed to be a blackened, heat-distorted skull, but on closer
   examination the cleft, scything jawbone and distended shape were clearly the work of
   forces other than lethal heat and flame. He held it up and looked into the black pits of
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   its eyes. The ghost of energies clung to it, and Erebus had a sudden impression of
   tiny flecks of gold leaf on the wind, fading into nothingness.
   вЂњThe rest of the corpse was retrieved along with that.” Korda pointed. “I found
   other bodies in the same area, among the ruins of the star-port terminal. Agents of the
   Emperor, it would appear.”
   Erebus was unconcerned about collateral damages. His irritation churned and he
   brushed Korda’s explanation away with a wave of his hand. “Leave it to rot. Failures
   have no use to me.” He dropped the skull into the dust.
   вЂњWhat was it, Word Bearer?” Korda came closer, his tone becoming more
   insistent. “That thing? Did you unleash something on this backwater world, is that
   why they killed my commander?”
   вЂњI am not to blame for that,” Erebus retorted. “Look elsewhere for your reasons.”
   The words had barely left his lips before the Chaplain felt a stiffening in his chest as
   a buried question began to rise in him. He pushed it away before it formed and
   narrowed his eyes at Korda. “Spear was a weapon. A gambit played and lost, nothing
   more.”
   вЂњIt stank of witchcraft,” said the Astartes.
   Erebus smiled thinly. “Don’t concern yourself with such issues, brother-sergeant.
   This was but one of many other arrows in my quiver.”
   вЂњI grow weary of your games and your riddles,” said Korda. He swept his hand
   around. “What purpose does any of this serve?”
   The warrior’s question struck a chord in the Word Bearer, but he did not
   acknowledge it. “It is the game, Korda. The greatest game. We take steps, we build
   our power, gain strength for the journey to Terra. Soon…” He looked up. “The stars
   will be right.”
   вЂњForgive him, brother-sergeant,” said a new voice, an armoured form moving out
   of the mist below them. “My brother Lorgar’s kinsmen enjoy their verbiage more
   than they should.”
   Korda bowed and Erebus did the same as Horus crossed the broken earth, his
   heavy ceramite boots crunching on the blasted fragments of rock. Beyond him,
   Erebus saw two of the Warmaster’s Mournival in quiet conversation, both with eyes
   averted from their master.
   вЂњYou are dismissed, brother-sergeant,” Horus told his warrior. “I require the First
   Chaplain’s attention on a matter.”
   Korda gave another salute, this one crisp and heartfelt, his fist clanking off the
   front of his breastplate. Erebus fancied he saw a scrap of apprehension in the
   warrior’s eyes; more than just the usual respect for his primarch. A fear, perhaps, of
   consequences that would come if he was seen to disobey, even in the slightest degree.
   As Korda hurried away, Erebus felt the Warmaster’s steady, piercing gaze upon
   him. “What do you wish of me?” he asked, his tone without weight.
   Horus’ hooded gaze dropped to the blackened skull in the dust. “You will not use
   such tactics again in the prosecution of this conflict.”
   The Word Bearer’s first impulse was to feign ignorance; but he clamped down on
   that before he opened his mouth. Suddenly, he was thinking of Luc Sedirae.
   Outspoken Sedirae, whose challenges to the Warmaster’s orders, while trivial, had
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   grown to become constant after the progression from Isstvan. Some had said he was
   in line to fill the vacant place in the Mournival, that his contentious manner was of
   need to one as powerful as Horus. After all, what other reason could there have been
   for the Warmaster to grant Sedirae the honour of wearing his mantle?
   A rare chill ran through him, and Erebus nodded. “As you command, my lord.”
   Was it possible? The Word Bearer’s thoughts were racing. Perhaps Horus
   Lupercal had known from the beginning that the Emperor’s secret killers were
   drawing close to murder him. But for that he would need eyes and ears on Terra…
   Erebus had no doubt the Warmaster’s allies reached to the heart of his father’s
   domain, but into the Imperial Palace itself? That was a question he dearly wished to
   answer.
   Horus turned and began to walk back down the ridge. Erebus took a breath and
   spoke again. “May I ask the reasoning behind that order?”
   The Warmaster paused, and then glanced over his shoulder. His reply was firm
   and assured, and brooked no argument. “Assassins are a tool of the weak, Erebus.
   The fearful. They are not a means to end conflicts, only to prolong them.” He paused,
   his gaze briefly turning inward. “This war will end only when I look my father in the
   eyes. When he sees the truth I will make clear to him, he will know I am right. He
   will join me in that understanding.”
   Erebus felt a thrill of dark power. “And if the Emperor does not?”
   Horus’ gaze became cold. “Then I—and I alone— will kill him.”
   The primarch walked on, throwing a nod to his officers. On his command, the
   lines of melta-bombs buried beneath the hundreds of thousands of survivors
   detonated at once, and Erebus listened to the chorus of screams as they perished in a
   marker of sacrifice and offering.
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   ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
   Once more, tips of the helm to Dan Abnett and Graham McNeill for that moment
   when the core concept for Nemesis emerged from our shared creative flux; to Nick
   Kyme and Lindsey Priestley for sterling editorial guidance, and once again, to the
   great Neil Roberts for crafting another stunning cover.
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   ABOUT THE AUTHOR
   James Swallow’s stories from the dark worlds of Warhammer 40,000 include the
   Horus Heresy novel The Flight of the Eisenstein, the Blood Angels books Deus
   Encarmine, Deus Sanguinius and Red Fury, the Sisters of Battle novel Faith & Fire,
   as well as a multiplicity of short fiction. Among his other works are Jade Dragon, The
   Butterfly Effect, the Sundowners series of “steampunk” Westerns and fiction in the
   worlds of Star Trek, Doctor Who, Stargate and 2000AD, as well as a number of
   anthologies.
   His non-fiction features Dark Eye: The Films of David Fincher and books on
   scriptwriting and genre television. Swallow’s other credits include writing for Star
   Trek Voyager, scripts for videogames and audio dramas. He lives in London.
   Scanning and basic
   proofing by Red Dwarf,
   formatting and additional
   proofing by Undead.