Blood Pact

TWENTY-SEVEN Famous Battlefields of the Balhaut War

‘Move!’ Gaunt ordered. ‘The back way, all of us. No one can stay here.’

Everybody began to move out into the hall and up the short, rickety flight of steps into the rear of the house. Gaunt saw fear on Jaume’s face. He was swept up in it now, the real thing.

‘Undo my hands,’ Maggs hissed.

‘Be quiet,’ Gaunt told him.

Outside in the luminous fog, Karhunan nodded. Gnesh stepped up, facing the front door of the old tenement. He flexed his broad shoulders to settle the strap of his heavy lasgun, and opened fire. He hosed the doorway from the hip, pumping fat bolts of las into the door, the frame and the brick surround. The door shredded, puncturing like a desiccated autumn leaf. The frame ripped and burst in spiking clumps of splinters and wood pulp. The brickwork fractured and cratered, vomiting clouds of brick dust. Some shots tore through into the reception hall behind the door, and detonated furniture or dug up floorboards.

His burst finished, Gnesh stepped back, and Kreeg ran in past him to lead the assault. Kreeg barely needed to kick to take down the ruins of the door. Lasrifle up and aiming, he came in over the threshold, hunting for a target.

He got less than a metre into the hallway when he began to tremble. The sensation was mystifying. Kreeg was almost more troubled by the sudden onset of the ailment than by the discomfort it brought him. He swayed, and his gunsight dropped.

It took ten seconds for the effects to amplify, boiling through his body like a chemical toxin, or like the burn of a class six hot virus, the sort of monster pathogen a man might contract on a deathworld, and which would kill him in three days.

This took ten seconds. Kreeg began to convulse. He dropped his rifle and staggered, his balance gone. He felt as if he had caught fire inside. Fluid was filling his lungs, choking him. He started to cough, and blood sprayed from his mouth. He hit the wall and collapsed, dragging down one of Mr Jaume’s artful mauve drapes, tearing off its stud pins to reveal a scabbed, unfinished wall surface. Kreeg was bleeding out. Unclotting blood was gushing from his nose, his eyes and his mouth, from his fingertips, from his pores, from every opening of his body. He shuddered one last time, slumped further, and died.

Outside the front door, Gnesh looked on in disbelief as his comrade died in the hall in front of him. He took a step forward to try and help him, but Karhunan Sirdar held him back.

Karhunan pointed down at the doorstep, and Gnesh saw the sigil that had been scratched in the wood and inked with blood: a blood ward, and a lethal booby-trap. Kreeg had stepped right over it.

‘The house is blocked,’ said Gnesh. ‘Can we go around? Is there a side way?’

‘No time,’ said the sirdar. He waved Malstrom up.

They backed away as Malstrom rolled a grenade onto the step, and ducked aside. The blast blew out the rest of the doorframe, dug up the step, and hurled Kreeg’s corpse several metres further down the hall.

It also erased the blood ward, and broke its craft.

‘In!’ Karhunan ordered. ‘Watch for more wards like that. In. In!’

Gaunt and his companions heard the crump of the grenade behind them as they came out through the back of Jaume’s house into the dingy rear yards and dark alleys behind the premises. Undisturbed snow lay thick on the wall-tops and in the yard spaces. Through the slow fog, Gaunt could see lank, frost-stiff laundry hanging from washing lines in neighbouring yards.

‘Do you have a vehicle?’ Gaunt asked Jaume as they ran through the snow to the end of the yard.

Jaume shook his head.

Gaunt had a single clip left in his bolt pistol. He drew the laspistol Criid had left with him, and toggled it to ‘armed’.

‘For Throne’s sake!’ Maggs cried. ‘Let me go and give me the other weapon.’

Gaunt ignored him, and drove them down the high-walled spinal alleyway that connected the back gates of the tenement row. Piles of garbage and junk half-filled the space, smoothed out and shrouded by the recent snow.

They ran as hard as they could, Gaunt bringing up the rear with the weapon in his hand. Twice, he stopped and aimed it at what appeared to be movement behind them.

Then they heard another dull, gritty blast as their pursuers mined out the ward that Mabbon had left on the back step. It was very quickly followed by bursts of las-fire that stripped through the fog, making it swirl and coil.

Gaunt raised his weapon again, but the shooting was just loose and haphazard. He wasn’t going to waste precious shots on a target he couldn’t see.

They had nearly reached a major street adjacent to the one on which Jaume’s house stood.

‘Doctor,’ said Gaunt as they ran, ‘would you please cut Maggs’s bonds? Quickly, please.’

Kolding fumbled a scalpel out of his kit, and ripped through the twine that was securing Maggs’s wrists.

Maggs looked at Gaunt.

‘A weapon?’

‘Wheels,’ Gaunt replied.

Maggs nodded, and ran on ahead of them into the broad avenue and the fog beyond.

Gaunt herded the others out towards the street, moving backwards with his gun braced for any movement in the fog-choked alley behind them.

Maggs came out into the open. In the broader space of the main thoroughfare, the fog was beginning to thin. He could see the roofs of the buildings on the far side of the street, as well as patches of milky blue sky. The sun was burning through the fog like a halogen lamp.

There was some light traffic, and a few pedestrians, wrapped up in coats and scarves against the cold. The shop juniors of nearby merchant houses were clearing snow from the pavements outside their display windows. A little way ahead, two cargo-6 trucks had pulled up to let a municipal work-gang unload sacks of salt for road gritting.

Maggs ran up to the rear truck, and began to climb into the cab.

‘Hey. Hey, you!’ the gang boss yelled out, throwing down his spade and hurrying towards the truck.

‘Imperial Guard!’ Maggs shouted back, fumbling with the ignition. ‘I’m commandeering this vehicle.’

‘Oh, right. Like there’s a war on,’ the boss retorted.

‘There’s always a war on,’ Maggs told him. He started the truck’s engine.

‘Get down from there, now!’ the boss yelled.

Maggs stared out of the driver’s door window.

‘Back off, friend. Don’t make me get out and hurt you.’

The boss saw something in Wes Maggs’s expression that he clearly didn’t like. He backed away sharply, and so did the members of his crew. They watched in bemused wonder as Maggs threw the truck’s transmission into reverse, and jerked the vehicle backwards. Its tyres slipped and scuffed in the snow, and its knifing tail-end knocked down several of the salt sacks unloaded on the curb.

‘Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!’ the boss yelled.

Maggs ignored him, and continued to reverse along the kerb, the cargo-6’s fat tyres spraying up slush as they whipped and churned. He backed up ten metres to meet Gaunt and the others, who were running along the pavement from the alley mouth.

Several loose shots sang out of the alley into the street. Most went wide. One clipped a lamp post, and another blew out the headlight of a passing car. The pedestrians in the street froze, and then scattered in terror. More blind shots sliced out of the alley. The display window of a merchant house opposite fractured, and exploded in a billion slivers of plate glass. The two juniors shovelling snow in front of it ducked and ran.

Gaunt bundled the prisoner up into the back of the truck, and then helped Kolding and Jaume to hoist themselves in. He ran for the passenger door of the cab.

Pedestrians nearby were shouting and screaming as they ran. The work crew had fled. Gaunt turned, and saw the first of their pursuers emerge into the foggy street from the alley, lasrifle raised.

Gaunt lifted his laspistol in a two-handed brace and pinched off two quick shots. Both of them hit the Blood Pact warrior, knocking him back into the shadows of the alley.

Gaunt threw himself into the cab.

‘Go!’ he yelled.

Maggs put his foot down.

The cargo-6 slalomed away across the snow into the main lanes of the street. A flurry of las-fire and hard rounds lit the air around it, and spattered against the bodywork.

‘Keep down!’ Gaunt shouted through the cab’s fanlight.

It was hard to control the heavy truck with any finesse in the snow. Maggs oversteered, and crunched the front end off a stationary car that its owner had abandoned at the first sign of gunfire. Then the truck sideswiped a small cargo van, shunting it into another vehicle. Bodywork buckled, and windows and headlamps smashed.

They were gaining speed. One last clip that bashed a car into the flank of a tram, and they were clear, and turning out at the junction into the next street.

‘Which way?’ Maggs demanded.

‘The Oligarchy.’ Gaunt shouted back. ‘Make for the Oligarchy!’

Eyl led his sister through the fog at a run. He was leading her by the hand, and she was holding up the hem of her long dress. Several members of the philia moved with them.

The witch began laughing.

‘What?’ Eyl asked.

‘We’ve made contact!’ she cried, pulling her hand out of his so she could clap delightedly. ‘Karhunan Sirdar’s element has made contact. The pheguth is running, but we have the trail again, strong and fresh!’

She turned her veiled face to look at her brother.

‘He’s out in the open again,’ she said. ‘We have his trail. Upon my soul, he is finished.’

Inquisitor Rime snapped the dossier shut and slapped it back into Sirkle’s hands.

‘It’s so obvious,’ he said, shaking his head and chuckling. ‘So damn obvious. I was over-thinking it.’

‘Sir?’

‘I was assuming that Gaunt’s message was an oblique reference to some private matter. It’s far less sophisticated than that.’

Rime began to pace up through the search group towards the front of the line, calling for the senior Tanith officers and the commanders of the S Company brigade. The Sirkles hurried after him.

‘Re-disposition!’ he shouted. ‘We’re moving towards the Oligarchy.’

‘The Oligarchy?’ asked Edur. ‘But there’s no evidence to suggest–’

‘That’s where he’s going,’ Rime snapped. ‘The Tower of the Plutocrat. Look it up on Gaunt’s record. I was an idiot not to make the connection before. How’s the fog looking?’

‘Clearing fast, sir,’ reported one of the Sirkles.

‘Put the birds back up. I want marksmen covering us overhead. Only the best.’

One of the Sirkles hurried off to do Rime’s bidding. Another two escorted Blenner and Criid over from the armoured truck.

‘Feth!’ Kolea whispered. ‘He’s got Tona. And isn’t that Gaunt’s commissar buddy?’

Baskevyl nodded. ‘When we get moving, we’d better stay near the front. We don’t want Rime getting there first.’

‘Agreed,’ said Kolea. He shouldered through the gathering press of men, and tried to get to Criid.

‘Tona. Tona!’ he called. She heard him, and saw him. She looked pale. She gave a little wave with cuffed hands.

‘That’s far enough,’ said one of the Sirkles, blocking Kolea’s path.

‘I want to talk to my sergeant,’ said Kolea.

‘She’s in Inquisition custody, so that’s not possible just now.’

‘But–’

‘Get back to your duty, major,’ Sirkle told him.

As the search group got ready to switch its focus, Edur caught a moment with Captain Tawil, one of the S Company officers.

‘Rime does not make a kill on Gaunt or the asset, all the while we can do anything to prevent it. Are we clear, captain?’

‘As glass, sir,’ said Tawil. He snapped his hellgun up across his shoulder, and ran towards his waiting men to give them instructions.

Edur watched him go. The commissar drew his bolt pistol, and checked the load. Then he holstered it and checked the charge of the short-frame laspistol that he kept in a shoulder rig under his coat as a back-up piece. Given the sledgehammer effect of the bolt pistol, Edur reasoned that he might soon have need of the laspistol’s finesse.

He looked up at the sky. The fog was lifting rapidly now, and the sky was a bowl of clear, glassy blue.

Out of the east, Edur heard the rising whine of gunship engines as the Valkyries swung in to join the hunt.

Pretending to be rearranging the latest crop of notices on the bulletin board, Nahum Ludd executed an expert bit of loitering around the doorway of the vox room.

The afternoon had cleared, and turned bright and sharp, and outside, he could hear men whooping and shouting as they played bat-and-ball out on the snowy quad.

Something caught Ludd’s attention. He peered through the half-open door, and watched the activity going on between Sirkle and the vox-operators. He tried to lip-read.

Sirkle suddenly strode out of the vox room, and Ludd quickly started to pin up the week’s duty roster. Ludd waited until Sirkle had disappeared. Then he hurried to Hark’s office.

‘What’s the matter, Ludd?’ Hark asked, looking up from his desk.

‘Something’s going on,’ Ludd said. ‘Sirkle just got very excited. I think I overheard him saying something about leaving Aarlem to rejoin his master. Sir, I think they’re onto something. I think they’ve figured out it’s the Tower, too.’

Hark swore and threw down his stylus.

‘We’re getting perilously close to the point where I end up doing something I know I’m going to regret,’ he said. He got to his feet. ‘Let’s check in on the temple.’

They went out into the hallway. Sirkle had reappeared, and was talking to one of the vox-operators near the door to the vox room. At the far end of the hallway, Dalin Criid suddenly ran into view. He skidded down to a walk in a hurry as soon as he spotted the ordo agent in the hallway.

He saw Hark and Ludd, made eye contact with them, and flicked a tiny gesture that they should follow him with a minute tilt of his head.

Hark walked up to Sirkle.

‘Developments?’ he asked.

‘You’ll be informed in due course, should they concern you,’ said Sirkle.

‘Well, you know where to find me,’ replied Hark and walked on down the hallway.

He and Ludd entered the temple house. Beltayn was manning the set with Dalin and Rerval, with Merrt left to watch the door.

‘Well?’ asked Hark.

Beltayn had the phones pressed to his ear.

‘It just woke up,’ he replied. ‘It’s coming from a different source, and the codes are wrong, but I think it’s genuine. I’m just waiting for the handshake.’

No one said anything for a minute. Then the vox-caster crackled into life.

‘Stronghold, Stronghold, this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood, please respond.’

Hark took the mic-horn from Beltayn.

‘Nalwood, Nalwood, this is Hark. Where the feth have you been?’

‘Nice to speak to you too, Hark,’ said Rawne, sitting back in the comfortable leather armchair. ‘We ran into a few difficulties at our previous location, so we’ve been forced to reposition, over.’

He glanced up at Meryn and Daur standing behind him in the small office. The vox-caster, a compact model, was set up on a sideboard in the corner of the room. They could smell obscura smoke drifting up from the parlour below.

‘Do I want to know what sort of difficulties, Rawne? Over,’ Hark asked over the line.

‘Probably not. Our comms went down. We’ve managed to locate an alternate resource, thanks to our bestest new friend, Mr Csoni.’

Lev Csoni was sitting in the outer office under the watchful eyes of Varl. Taking them over to his own gaming club, The Eight of Wands, on Brigantes Street, and allowing them free use of his vox had seemed like a small price to pay for his continued existence. Csoni had even let them use one of the big maroon limos that had brought his strike squad to Zolunder’s. The rest of the team was waiting with the car.

‘Tell me all about it later, Rawne,’ Hark said. ‘Things are moving fast. Gaunt’s surfaced.’

‘Where?’

‘As far as we can be sure, he’s due to show at the Tower of the Plutocrat, at four.’

Rawne looked at the long case clock in Csoni’s office. It was a quarter to, gone.

‘That’s cutting it fine,’ he replied. ‘The Tower’s long since fallen, hasn’t it?’

‘Correct.’

‘But it used to be by the Oligarchy Gate on the way into the High Palace?’

‘Correct again.’

‘The place we’re at is further north than Zolunder’s. It’s a twenty-five minute trip from here, especially with snow on the ground.’

‘Then shake your arses, major.’

‘I was about to,’ Rawne said, already rising to his feet. ‘Anything else I should know before I hang this up? Last chance.’

‘Be advised, there’s likely to be Inquisitorial interest in this, as well as forces from Section, and maybe even the PDF. If the balloon goes up, you could be looking at a five- or six-way free-for-all.’

‘Got it. Anything else?’

‘The Emperor protects, Eli.’

‘Thanks, Viktor. See you on the honour roll.’

‘Good fortune, major.’

‘Nalwood out.’

Rawne threw the switch that killed the vox, and tossed the mic-horn onto the desk.

‘Let’s move,’ he said, picking up his weapon.

‘If we’ve got to get there quickly, let me drive this time,’ said Meryn.

‘Oh feth off,’ said Daur. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my driving.’

‘You drive like an old woman,’ said Meryn.

‘And you will cry like a little girl if I have to shoot you somewhere semi-vital below the waist,’ said Rawne, ‘so do as Daur says and shut the feth up, Meryn.’

They entered the outer office. Varl and Csoni looked up.

‘Are you done?’ asked Csoni.

‘It pains me to say it, Mr Csoni,’ said Rawne, ‘but we must now bid you farewell, and cut you loose.’

Rawne looked down at the seated man, and sighed.

‘Mr Csoni, for you, I’m going to break the habit of a lifetime and keep my word. I’m not going to pop you to guarantee your silence. Throne, it would be so much neater and simpler if I could, but I made a promise. You get to live.’

‘Thank you, thank you!’ Csoni exclaimed, and then started to cry.

‘One thing, Csoni,’ said Rawne, bending down to look the man in the face, ‘you do not want to be the man who makes me regret a decision.’

‘I don’t?’ sobbed Csoni, looking up.

‘You don’t,’ nodded Rawne.

‘Oh, you really fething don’t,’ laughed Varl. ‘You screw him over, he will hunt you down like a rabid larisel, and feth you up so bad, you won’t be able to–’

‘Thanks, Varl,’ said Daur. ‘I think Csoni gets the picture.’

‘I do. I do!’ said Csoni.

The four of them thundered down the club’s back stairs to the rear yard, where they’d stowed the limo. Rawne brought Varl up to speed on what Hark had said.

‘Feth,’ said Varl. ‘Did he say anything else?’

‘He said, “The Emperor protects”,’ Daur said.

They came out into the snowy rear yard. The big maroon limo with its chrome furniture was parked beside the access gate. The figures standing around it jumped to attention as they saw the four men come into view.

‘You know the full version of that blessing is “The Emperor protects the virtuous”, don’t you?’ asked Varl as they ran for the car.

‘Yeah?’ said Meryn. ‘Well, we’re screwed then.’

The precincts of the High Palace, as its name suggested, sat at the summit of the gigantic, gently sloping peak, above the river on which Balopolis was built. The Oligarchy, a vast acreage of governmental structures and ancient colleges and chapels, formed the mantle, with the palace itself as the crown.

The fog had fled from the high places more quickly than it had from the deep, steep streets of Balopolis below. Up at the High Palace, the air was blue and as sharp as crystal. Snow iced the reconstructed battlements and rooflines of the noble palace, and frost skinned the lawns of the ornamental gardens inside the palisades. Windlarks, so high up they were invisible, sang clear, trilling notes in the cold air. Sentries of the PDF, in formal furs, stood watch, blowing on their hands.

The Oligarchy, and the High Palace that lay at its heart, were key destinations for any visit to Balhaut. The planet boasted some of the most infamous battle-sites in the sector, and had become a magnet for scholars, theorists, enthusiasts, tourists and, of course, those mourning the fallen and grieving old losses. The High Palace was the culmination of any mourning pilgrimage, an act that had become an industry of its own. The High Palace was where the war had been decided. It was where Slaydo had fallen. It was where they had raised the memorial chapels, especially the Honorarium, where Slaydo’s bones were interred.

They called it, perhaps harshly, the Widow Tour, for it was most often taken by wealthy widows from the scattered outworlds of the Khulan Group, travelling to Balhaut with long-suffering servant-staff and squabbling children, who had never known the deceased personally. Expert guides and escorts offered their services; the elaboration of the tour was usually decided by wealth and status. Various theatres and battlefields could be included, depending on the deceased’s career. One could attend the Raising of the Aquila ceremony at Zaebes City, or walk the elegant rows of simple white posts in the cemeteries overlooking Ascension Valley.

There were even authoritative books one could consult. Some were extensive, others could be obtained from any corner merchant for a few coins: encyclopaedias and tatty chapbooks, learned tomes and flimsy pamphlets. One of the most ubiquitous and affordable was a sixty-page booklet now in its forty-seventh impression, entitled Famous Battlefields of the Balhaut War. It was published by the Munitorum, and approved by the Society of Balhaut Veterans. It was a cheap and slightly worthy account of the war’s key phases and conflicts, complete with some astonishingly bad maps and pictprints.

Gaunt took a copy off the shelf outside the docent’s booth, and skimmed through it.

‘What’s that?’ asked Jaume.

‘A memento,’ Gaunt replied. He had a page open, and was reading.

‘What does it say?’ asked Jaume.

‘It says that on the ninth day of fighting, Slaydo drove his left flank against the Oligarchy Gate. The attack was nominally commanded by Captain Allentis of the Silver Guard, but his charge was devastated by the Heritor’s murderous machines. Thus, the first unit to reach the Gate was the Hyrkan Eighth, which famously managed to blow wide the Archenemy’s defences, and breach a position that had resisted nine days of assault.’

‘Is that correct?’ Jaume asked.

Gaunt looked over his shoulder. In the shadows of the colonnade, he could see Kolding and Maggs with the prisoner. The day was quiet. The fierce snowstorm had kept most tourist parties and widow tours out of the High Palace for a couple of days. The guards and the docents, the latter mostly history students from the Collegio Balopolis, were wandering about bored, or snoozing in their wooden booths.

‘Come with me,’ Gaunt said to Jaume.

He led the younger man out into the middle of the new stone quad. Some of the original stones from the Gate, mauled and smashed, had been placed on display in armour-glass boxes around the edge of the space, like trophies.

‘This is where the Gate stood,’ Gaunt said, extending his arms. ‘Right here. They’ve been good enough to mark its footprint on the new paving.’

Jaume looked down. The new quad had been laid with black stone, matt and flush-fitting. He saw that the outline of a vast structure had been marked out in thick silver wire, inlaid into the stone.

‘That’s where the Gate stood,’ said Gaunt.

‘And you brought it down,’ said Jaume. ‘Throne. It was huge.’

‘Allentis had done most of the work,’ said Gaunt. ‘He broke the back, not us. Throne, I was sorry when they told me he was gone.’

‘He was Silver Guard, this Allentis?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, an Astartes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was told that the Astartes are not like normal men. That they are other. More than human and still less too.’

‘I’ve known Astartes who were more like animals than men,’ Gaunt shrugged. ‘Allentis was a man. A human soul. One of the bravest and tenacious I’ve ever had the privilege to serve with.’

Jaume pursed his lips, and nodded.

‘So is this where Slaydo died?’ he asked.

‘No, not here. About a kilometre to the west.’

Jaume nodded.

‘Is it odd being back here?’ he asked.

‘Strangest thing I’ve ever done,’ Gaunt smiled. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Ten minutes to four,’ said Jaume. He had a good sight of the palace clock tower. None of their watches had worked since the night of the snowstorm.

‘We’d better move,’ said Gaunt.

‘My good sirs, can I help you?’ a docent asked, approaching and bowing. He was a tall young man, skinny with long hair that hung down around the neckline of his red docent robes. He smiled a friendly smile.

‘A tour, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘A crown per person, and you see all the sights. It’s very thorough. I can walk you through the High Palace fighting zones, the Gate, the Tower and, of course, the death of Slaydo. I am fully versed. Did you lose a loved one here?’

‘Plenty,’ said Gaunt.

‘Yes,’ said Jaume. ‘My father. He was PDF. He assisted in the assault of the Gate, or so I’m told.’

‘Well, that was a valiant endeavour indeed,’ the docent agreed. ‘I’d be delighted to show you the key sites.’

‘Yes. Do that,’ Gaunt said. He fished into his pocket for coins. ‘We want to see it all, but we especially want to see the Tower of the Plutocrat.’

‘One of the highlights, sir,’ said the docent.

‘Take us there first,’ said Gaunt.

The docent nodded. ‘How many in your party, sir?’

‘Five,’ said Gaunt. He had found three crowns. ‘Help me out here, Jaume.’

Jaume hurriedly produced another two crowns, and Gaunt paid the guide. He beckoned to Maggs, and Maggs and the doctor led Mabbon out of the shadows to join them.

‘Oh, the poor man!’ the docent exclaimed, indicating Mabbon. ‘Is he a veteran?’

‘Yes,’ said Gaunt.

The docent set off. Three or four other parties were threading the rebuilt ruins with them. Docents in their trademark red robes were leading family parties along the walkways, reciting the narratives of war, parrot-fashion. Gaunt saw parties of weeded widows in veils, parties of earnest young soldiers, and family groups that mixed both together. Small children attached to family groups toddled free across the quads and open spaces, their aunts and mothers cooing after them. Gaunt watched each party in turn, hearing the soft echoes of the docents‘ narrations.

Their own docent was in full-flow as he led the way across quads and along cloisters.

‘Here, on the ninth day! The death of Captain Ollark! At this very site! Two rounds, as he tried to crest the bank of bodies!’

‘Ollark shot himself on the fifth day,’ Gaunt whispered to Jaume. ‘He couldn’t take it any more. This man is as bad as you.’

‘It must be contagious,’ said Jaume.

‘Was your father really here?’ Gaunt whispered as the docent banged on.

‘Yes. I wouldn’t make a thing like that up,’ said Jaume.

‘I don’t recall a Jaume,’ Gaunt whispered. ‘There were PDF units right in it with us, but I don’t recall a Jaume.’

‘I hardly expect you to,’ Jaume replied as the docent babbled on. ‘He was a junior man in a minor unit, and it was fifteen years ago. You probably never even saw him. Besides, are you telling me you can remember the name of everyone on every battlefield you’ve ever been on?’

‘Of course not,’ Gaunt said, looking at him.

‘Well then,’ said Jaume. ‘You wouldn’t remember him. He wasn’t important.’

Gaunt frowned. ‘The PDF were right with us, every step of the way. Their contribution is often overlooked. Jaume, if your father was here, he was a brave man. You say he died here?’

‘We never knew where,’ said Jaume. ‘He died at the Gate, that’s what we were told.’

‘You said to me you’d never met a hero,’ said Gaunt as the docent went on and on, ‘but you have. Your father was a hero.’

Jaume looked at him, and smiled.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘What for?’

‘For being kind enough to tell the same white lie to me that I tell to others.’

‘It’s not a lie,’ said Gaunt.

‘Perhaps,’ said Jaume. ‘I bless you for it, anyway. Perhaps now you better appreciate the merits of my occupation.’

‘You know Kolding’s father died in the war too?’

‘The doctor?’ Jaume asked.

‘His father died trying to defend the wounded. It seems I have the sons of heroes watching my back today.’

Jaume laughed.

‘I never expected such sentiment from you,’ he said. ‘I should put you on retainer. Shall we say half a crown per epitaph?’

The docent, still gabbling, had brought them to the entrance of the eastern palisade. He became operatic.

‘And here! Here it was that great Slaydo fell in his mortal combat with the foul Archon! See how his falling place is marked by an aquila of inlaid silver and rubies.’

They looked down at the holy site. It was lit up by spotlights and atmosphere globes.

‘I think we should all take a solemn moment here,’ said the docent.

‘This isn’t where Slaydo fell,’ Gaunt whispered.

‘No?’ Maggs whispered back.

‘He went down about sixty metres that way on the western palisades. Then they dragged his corpse another hundred metres, and ritually dismembered it. I bet that isn’t on the tour.’

‘It’s not,’ whispered Jaume.

‘I can’t believe they’ve got so much of this stuff wrong,’ murmured Gaunt.

‘Unlike you, they weren’t here,’ said Mabbon quietly.

The docent began walking again.

‘What’s the time?’ Gaunt asked.

‘Five minutes to four,’ said Kolding. ‘At least, it was the last time I saw the palace clock.’

Gaunt looked to the docent. ‘We’d like to see the Tower of the Plutocrat now,’ he said.

‘But of course,’ the docent exclaimed. ‘And I’m sure you’d like to view the death venues of the key fallen there!’

‘The… death venues?’ asked Kolding.

The docent nodded.

‘As with Slaydo, the places where the heroes fell. Captain Menhort of the Kolstec “Hammers”, Gaunt of the Hyrkans and, of course, Allentis.’

‘What?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Did you say Gaunt?’ asked Jaume.

‘Gaunt, the Commissar of the Hyrkans,’ said the docent. ‘He died taking down the Tower.’

Gaunt looked back at his companions.

‘Honestly, I didn’t,’ he whispered. Maggs and Jaume snorted. The hint of a smile even found its way onto Kolding’s lips.

‘Let’s look at the death venue of Gaunt,’ Maggs said to the docent.

‘Yes. Why don’t we?’ Gaunt laughed.

‘This way,’ the docent declared. ‘It was the ninth day. The Heritor was resisting. Gaunt, Throne rest him, led the Hyrkans through the obliterated Gate, and dug down in the yards under the Tower…’

It was just two minutes to four.