Salvation's Reach

TWO Elodie on the Shore

With just a day to go, the Makeshift Revels were well underway.

It was all new to Elodie, of course. Everything was new, even her surname. Dutana. Elodie Dutana. It was her mother’s family name, a name that belonged to her but which she had never used. She’d left a number of temporary professional surnames behind her on Balhaut, and taken up her mother’s name to help rid herself of older memories and unsuitable associations.

She was Elodie Dutana, and she was part of a regimental entourage, and she was the companion of a brave and handsome Imperial Guard officer. It was a new life, and she liked it, and she intended to make the most of it.

She’d been through the whole process of embarkation once before, back on Balhaut, but it had been a blur, and she hadn’t taken much in. Besides, they had been shipping out to what Ban Daur described as a ‘dispersal point’, not a warzone. There had been no sense of apprehension.

Now there was. The dispersal point was a city called Anzimar on a planet called Menazoid Sigma. It had taken sixteen weeks on a stinking troop-and-packet ship to reach it from Balhaut, and they had been there eleven months.

Balhaut, where Elodie had spent the rest of her life, had been a place of towering, majestic cities. It had been the site of the Famous Victory, and though the wounds of war were still healing during her lifetime, and it was still possible to walk past empty lots or the shells of buildings during a day’s business, Balhaut seemed to retain its air of dignity and significance.

Menazoid Sigma, what little she had seen of it, had little of either. Anzimar was dirty and industrial, and sat on a polluted bay where galvanic reactor plants filled the air with smog. There were twin suns, which was unsettling. Everything was noisy and stained. Everywhere smelled of chemicals. Elodie wasn’t sure if the troop-and-packet ship hadn’t been a preferable place to spend some time.

Everyone said the same. It was an ugly place, and not a good posting. They were only there for a time, waiting for routing orders to come through. Menazoid Sigma was simply a place to stop and resupply, a place to make ready. Some of the Tanith men, the ones who had served the regiment longest, talked about Menazoid Epsilon, which was apparently a neighbouring system where they had fought many years before. There was no sense at all they were pleased to be back in this part of the Sabbat cluster.

She had become part of the community attached to the Tanith First regiment. There were at least as many hangers-on following the regiment in supporting roles as there were serving lasmen. Elodie was still getting used to her status, her role, her responsibilities. She was still learning who everyone was. Eleven months, even eleven months spent on a sinkhole like Menazoid Sigma, was enough time to serve as an apprenticeship.

She was, in effect, an officer’s wife. Her man was Captain Ban Daur, commander of G Company. Like many of the regiment, he was from the industrial world Verghast. He was a good man. Elodie quickly found that her impression of him was one shared by most: Daur was a genuinely good man. He was handsome, intelligent and principled. He wasn’t loved by the men, but he was admired for his fairness and determination. He was honourable, and he could be relied upon. He had prospects for advancement, and they weren’t at all hurt by the fact that, unlike most of the Verghastites serving in the regiment, he was from a good, mid-hive family. He came from breeding. He was not some lowly miner or labourman. Juniper said he was a good catch.

None of which was why Elodie was with him. She was with him because he was the one, and she’d known that since the moment she’d first seen him that day in Zolunder’s Club on Selwire Street.

They had not formally married. The matter hadn’t really been discussed. Marriage was permitted, and simply required certain documents and certificates to be signed by the commanding officer. There was no reason to believe that Daur’s commander would refuse his request.

But they had not got around to it. Just a few weeks spent with the regimental train had shown Elodie that formal bonds were unnecessary. Soldiers understood loyalty, and loyalty was the glue that held everything together. She was Ban’s woman, and everyone respected that. They didn’t need a piece of paper to prove it.

As an officer’s woman, Elodie entered entourage society at a comparatively high level. She had certain automatic privileges. Her status earned her respect from the other women. She got to decorate Daur’s arm at certain regimental suppers. Officers were courteous to her. Daur’s rank often secured him his own quarters rather than a shared billet, and she got to share that. She was, she knew, envied by some. There was nothing she could do about that. Juniper called her a trophy, whatever that meant.

The entourage train was a curious community. At the uppermost level were the wives and the women, the wet nurses and the children. A regiment always bred offspring. There were the pleasure girls and the camp followers, the women who were not attached to the regiment by way of blood like a wife or a mother, but by way of reliance. Their living came from the regiment, so they had to follow the regiment wherever it went. And just as their living came from the regiment, so did the livings of the seamsters, the button-makers, the dentists, the potion-grinders, the launderers, the entertainers, the musicians, the portraitists, the cooks, the bottlemen, the victuallers, the errand boys, the knife-sharps, the menders and fixers, the polishers, the cobblers and all the rest, most of whom brought along families of their own. It was an ungainly, parasitic entity that lived so that its host could live, and went with it everywhere, the two dependent on one another for survival.

She spent most days in the entourage camp, talking to the other women. A few, like Juniper, had become her friends and confidantes. They had helped her to find her feet. Juniper had taught her to take certain duties away from Daur’s adjutant. Uniform work was a good one. She could get them cleaned and mended, get the correct one laid out ready for him. She could learn where to go to get the right replacement button or piece of braid, who to ask for the right brass paste, where to take a pair of boots for resoling. Daur had objected at first, saying that it wasn’t her place to wash his clothes. He hadn’t brought her along to shine his boots. She insisted she wanted to. She needed a greater purpose than to look well on his arm by the light of chandeliers. An officer’s woman and his adjutant often developed an elegant partnership. Daur’s adjutant was a man named Mohr. He would advise her, quietly, on expected dress regulations, or send her a note if something was needed from Daur’s quarters. In return, Elodie left service business to Mohr and made sure she wasn’t around or, worse, undressed, in Daur’s quarters when the adjutant took the daily brief. Sometimes, she even advised Mohr of Daur’s mood at the start of a day, a courtesy Mohr often reciprocated at day’s end.

That morning, there was no question what kind of day it was going to be. Before dawn, the cookfires had lit and the musicians had begun turning up. The Makeshift Revels were a festival, a carnival that marked the departure of a regiment from its station. As soon as rumours began to circulate that a regiment was about to make shift, the revels began. All manner of traders and peddlers came to the shore and set up shop, bringing street entertainers, beggars, whores and, inevitably, thieves. It was the last chance for the soldiers to indulge before departure, the last chance for the entourage to acquire items before the next halt, the last chance for the host town to earn coin from the visiting troops.

It felt to Elodie like the heady holiday fairs that led up to a major feast day back on Balhaut. It was noisy and brash and cheerful, and there were treats and temptations to savour. But there was a gaudy, apocalyptic air about it too. The regiment was going to war. No one yet knew where, or what kind of war, and no one even knew the exact hour they would make shift. Such things were classified. Certainly, though, they were not leaving Menazoid Sigma the way they had left Balhaut. They were not heading for a dispersal point or a holding station. This was the real thing, and some of those leaving would never come back, not to here or anywhere.

She rose early. There were things to do. Daur hadn’t told her specifically, but it was probably the last day on shore. She had kissed him while he was still shaving at the mirror, and left their quarters. He was going to need his number one jacket by lunchtime. There was some kind of reception. She’d left the jacket with a tailor on the fifth row the night before and she needed to collect it.

It was early still, the suns just rising in the smog, but it was busy already. The shore bustled around her. Because the Guard camp at Anzimar was literally on the shore, Elodie had assumed that was what ‘the shore’ meant. The camp was a large town of prefab and rockcrete barrack buildings and halls housing, at present, six different regiments including the Tanith. It was flanked on one side by the sprawl of the city, and on the other by vast rockcrete skirts, the huge soot-scorched platforms where the bulk landers waited, cargo doors open, to swallow up the regiment and carry them up to the ships in high anchor orbit. The landers were huge, monolithic craft. The landing skirts met the shoreline and, with their hold jaws open and the waters of the bay behind them, they looked like oceanic monsters that had come ashore to bask and eat.

Elodie had learned that ‘the shore’ was simply Guard slang for any camp they occupied before shipping out. The shore was a lasman’s temporary connection to one world before he marched on to the next. Sometimes a shore was a real shore, like it was on Menazoid Sigma. Sometimes it was a hive top, or a desert platform, a forest town or an island base. Sometimes it was an orbital station, sometimes it was a dizzying metropolis.

One more thing to learn. There was always one more thing to learn.

She was wearing a simple dress and a shawl and an old pair of combat-issue boots. It was cool, but the temperature would increase as the suns came up, and the cold stink of chemicals would acquire a burning tang. Plumes of brown filth trailed from the peaks of the galvanic reactors across the bay. There was fog out on the water.

The revel camp was a temporary fair of stalls and traders that had grown up between the barrack buildings at the landing skirts. Bright, hand-painted signs numbered the rows and thoroughfares to guide people around. Crowds were already growing. There were acrobats and tumblers, men hawking song sheets and hymnals, barrows selling hot slab fritters and fried biscuits, a smell of caffeine and sacra and lho-stick smoke, the tapping of tinkers and cobblers at work.

Trinkets were the most common purchases for the rabble crowd, parting gifts and keepsakes and forget-me-nots. Engravers at small stalls worked to mark names onto cheap jewellery and lockets. Ecclesiarchs and trancemissionaries sold safeguard charms and rosaries; prophylactics against harm, the eternal protection of the God-Emperor. They also handed out pamphlets and treatises for uplifting consolation during the voyage. Blessings were obtainable, and so were sermons, delivered from portable pulpits. Garlands and posies were sold in abundance, and the victuallers and black-marketeers did a busy trade in foodstuffs, drink and smokes, indulgences for the last night on shore or the long nights in transit.

The crowd parted and a jester came by, clown-masked, striding on stilts. Behind him came a gang of laughing children, most of them regimental offspring. Elodie recognised many of them. Some she knew by name. That little girl was Yoncy. She was one of the ones Juniper minded, so Elodie had come to hear the story. For a while, Yoncy and her brother had been minded by a woman called Aleksa, but Aleksa had passed away and Juniper had taken on the care of them. The children were orphans from Verghast, and they’d been adopted by Tona Criid, a woman officer who’d found them on the battlefield. It turned out later their father wasn’t dead at all. He was Major Gol Kolea of C Company. He hadn’t wanted to overturn their little lives any further by taking them away from their adoptive mother, so he’d stayed out of it, and just kept an eye on them through Aleksa. Now the boy, Dalin, was a trooper, the adjutant of E Company, and the girl was getting quite big. The regiment had become their family, and had provided for them.

Still, they had suffered and lost a lot. Tragedy had marked their lives. You could see it in them, especially the little girl. From the time she had first seen her, Elodie had detected the most haunting sadness in Yoncy’s eyes.

The girl was a pretty little thing though. She raced past after the stilt-clown, giving Elodie a wave. Behind her, letting her run along, came the brother, Dalin. He was in uniform, a fine young man, watching his sister’s enjoyment with a smile. A last hour of shore leave for him before duties began. He’d bought a little medal of the Saint on a ribbon, no doubt for his sister.

He saw Elodie.

‘Mam,’ he said.

‘Dalin,’ she returned.

‘A good day,’ he said.

‘I would think almost any day is a good day to leave Anzimar,’ she replied.

He laughed.

Elodie walked on, past a bottle stall. She saw two Tanith men purchasing flasks of amasec. One of them saw her and suddenly looked guilty. He put the bottle he had been studying back hastily.

‘How are you today, mam?’ he asked.

‘Well, soldier,’ she said. His name was Costin. She knew it, because Ban had pointed him out as a man who had known great trouble with drink over the years. He was embarrassed because an officer’s woman had seen him buying liquor.

‘I was considering a gift,’ he said. ‘For my good captain, Domor, to mark this making shift. I would otherwise not touch the stuff.’

‘You don’t have to explain yourself, soldier,’ she said.

But perhaps he did. As a hostess in the clubs of Balhaut, Elodie had observed much about the relationship between men and their poisons. Costin was clearly a sot. The raw redness of his face told her that. He drank quantity, not quality, or his Guard pay would not stretch to cover his habit. He was the sort of man who would brew his own sacra to ensure a cheap supply.

So why would he be purchasing a fine bottle of amasec that ought to be locked in a colonel’s tantalus? Was it truly a gift as he said? Where would a man like Costin get that sort of money?

She reached the tailor’s stall on the fifth row and joined a short queue that was being entertained by a fire-eater. Sixteen Valkyrie assault carriers wailed overhead in formation. Elodie watched the entertainer, oiled and lithe, caper as he blew cones of flame from his burning wands.

‘Quite a trick,’ said a voice from beside her. ‘I tried to learn it once, in the hope that it might impress the mamzels.’

She turned and found Commissar Blenner standing in the queue behind her. He smiled and doffed his cap.

‘Good day, Lady Daur,’ he said.

‘Not quite lady yet, sir.’

‘You should see about that,’ he replied.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, before–’

Blenner paused, as if he had strayed into territory he regretted.

‘I always believe,’ he said, changing tack, ‘that sensible provision is the greatest defence against the vagaries of war.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir.’

‘Please,’ he said, ‘a blind man could see you are no soldier, so there is no need to address me like one. Vaynom, I insist.’

Commissar Blenner had, like her, joined the regiment at Balhaut. He was, Ban had told her, an old friend of the commander’s, and he’d been brought in to supplement the Tanith First’s commissar strength, now that Commissar Hark’s work had become so specialised.

Elodie had encountered Blenner at several formal dinners. He didn’t look like a soldier. He seemed a little pudgy and unfit, a touch bloated from an easy life of inaction. He looked like an Administratum clerk dressed up as a soldier. He had, perhaps, been handsome once, but he was no longer as handsome as he thought he was, and his roguish manner was a little obnoxious. Elodie had met his type many times in the clubs of Balhaut. Privileged, silver-tongued, charming enough to like. But you’d always wonder where he was going to put his hands.

‘You are here for the tailor?’ she asked.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘My coat is being stitched. I have an influx to greet. Duty calls us all.’

It was her turn. She took Daur’s jacket from the tailor, inspected the work, and paid.

‘Good day, sir,’ she said to Blenner. ‘May we all make shift safely.’

‘The Emperor protects, dear lady,’ he replied. He watched her walk away. The view was worth the effort.

‘Now, where’s my damn coat?’ he said to the tailor.

Blenner put on his stormcoat as he walked through the crowd. No one, not even the enforcers’ serjeants-at-arms policing the revels, got in a commissar’s way. He crossed a small yard where men were playing camp ball, and entered the infirmary.

Inside, a big Tanith thug was stripped to the waist and sitting backwards on a wooden chair while one of the orderlies, a skinny fellow still wearing his medical smock, applied a tattoo to his shoulder blade with an outsized needle. Blenner stood for a moment, watching in fascination. The man was big and hairy, and smelled of liquid promethium. This wasn’t his first piece of ink. The new tattoo, half done, was a playing card, the King of Knives. Colour would be added later.

‘Is that really an appropriate use of medical facilities?’ Blenner

asked.

The orderly jumped up, realising Blenner was there. His smock was clean, but his fingers were permanently stained with blue ink. He had a cup full of needles. The man receiving the tattoo turned his big, bearded face and looked over his shoulder at Blenner. He made no attempt to get up or show respect.

‘I’m sorry sir, I had a moment,’ said the orderly.

‘You do this work?’ Blenner asked, peering at the tattoo.

‘I’ve always done it, sir.’

‘He’s good with needles,’ said the big man.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Blenner.

‘Lesp, sir,’ said the orderly.

Lesp. Lesp. So many new names and faces to remember.

‘What is that?’ Blenner asked, gesturing to the tattoo.

‘King of Knives, sir,’ said Lesp.

‘The Suicide King,’ growled the big man.

‘And what’s your name?’ Blenner asked.

‘Brostin,’ he said.

‘You know what, Trooper Brostin?’ said Blenner. ‘I think you should get up off your arse and show me some civility.’

Brostin got up. He looked down at Blenner. He stank of fire-grease.

‘Don’t you like my ink?’ he asked.

‘I don’t like your attitude,’ replied Blenner.

‘Life’s full of disappointments,’ said Brostin. ‘Sir,’ he added.

‘What does it signify, the King?’ Blenner asked.

‘It’s what I’m going to be, isn’t it?’ said Brostin. ‘B Company, first platoon. We’re going to be the Suicide Kings.’

B Company, Blenner thought.

‘You’re one of Rawne’s?’

‘I belong to Rawne and I belong to the fire,’ said Brostin. ‘I have done since before I belonged to the Guard.’

Blenner looked at Lesp.

‘This isn’t a suitable place to conduct this kind of business,’ he said.

‘Sir.’

‘I should have you both up on a damn charge.’

‘Is there a problem?’ asked a quiet voice.

Blenner turned, and found himself face to face with the regiment’s new medicae. The man had joined the company at Balhaut, just like Blenner. Blenner didn’t have much time for him. The man’s name was Kolding, a civilian drafted in by Gaunt. He was an albino, which Blenner had a little trouble with. It was off-putting. Kolding’s skin was pale, and his eyes were always hidden behind dark glasses. His voice was soft and colourless too.

Blenner’s main problem with Kolding was that the man was a death doctor, a mortician, an examiner of corpses. In Blenner’s considerable opinion, Kolding had no business practising on the living. Blenner couldn’t fathom what Gaunt saw in the man.

‘I came in here,’ said Blenner, ‘and I found this activity going on. It’s not good enough.’

‘Why?’ asked Kolding quietly.

‘Because–’ Blenner began. ‘Because.’

Doctor Curth came into the room behind the albino.

‘Lesp is one of the regiment’s most sought-after inkers, commissar,’ she said.

Doctor Curth had entered carrying a stainless steel tray of clean instruments. She was looking at him intently. Blenner liked her. She was a handsome, slender woman. He’d often imagined her looking at him with that sort of intensity. Except that this felt uncomfortable, as though she was deciding where to make an incision.

‘This is filthy and unauthorised, doctor,’ Blenner said.

‘I’ll handle this, doctor,’ she said to Kolding, who nodded and walked out of the room.

‘Let’s talk about it in here,’ Curth told Blenner. She glanced back at Lesp and Brostin, and said, ‘You two, get on. Finish later.’

She led Blenner into her small consulting room.

‘Lesp is an artist. Ink is important, especially to the Tanith, though the Verghast and Belladon men are taking to it.’

‘There is a matter of uniform code–’

‘Certain regulations have always been overlooked when it comes to the Tanith and their ink,’ she said. ‘There is a long established precedent. To make a discipline issue out of it now would be unwise.’

‘There is a health issue,’ he replied. ‘Ink and needles… This is supposed to be a hygienic area.’

‘I can’t think of a better place to keep the tools sterile, can you?’ she asked. ‘I’d rather they did it here, where needles can be boiled and tattoos dressed than have to treat men for infections caught from filthy backroom work.’

Blenner opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

‘I… see I have a good deal yet to learn about the operation of this regiment, doctor. Can I call you Ana?’

‘No, commissar. That wouldn’t be seemly. Now, how can I help you?’

‘I just stopped by for a moment.’

‘You did,’ she said. ‘You look stressed. Troubled.’

‘Is that a medical opinion?’

‘It’s the only kind I give.’

‘I was hoping to see the doctor.’

Curth hesitated, and pursed her lips.

‘I am a doctor, commissar.’

‘And quite the most fragrant I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to consult with a male doctor. Privately.’

Curth nodded. She wasn’t surprised, especially a lizard like Blenner. She honestly had no idea why Gaunt tolerated him. He undoubtedly needed powder for some pox he’d picked up, and was too ashamed to let her examine his pathetic genitals.

‘Doctor Kolding is–’

‘Doctor Dorden,’ said Blenner firmly.

‘I don’t really want to disturb Doctor Dorden,’ she said.

‘I do,’ he replied.

Curth sighed, and got up. She went to the door of Dorden’s room and knocked.

‘Commissar Blenner wants to see you,’ she called.

‘One moment. I was just about to step out.’

‘He says it won’t take long,’ said Curth. She looked at Blenner, who nodded his head to concur.

‘Send him in.’

Dorden, the regiment’s chief medicae, was sitting behind his desk swallowing, with the aid of a glass of water, the last of the six pills he took every two hours. There was no longer any disguising his weight loss and the thinning of his hair. His illness was not a secret, but it was not discussed. All Blenner knew was that the man had already out-lived every prognosis.

Blenner closed the door behind him.

‘How can I help you?’ asked Dorden.

‘I would like you to give me something,’ said Blenner.

‘What, exactly?’

‘A tonic, sir, a remedy.’

‘For what, commissar?’

‘That which ails me, doctor.’ Blenner forced out a merry laugh.

Dorden did not smile.

‘I don’t have all day,’ Dorden said. ‘Well, I hope I do, but I don’t know how many more days after that I’ll get. So if you’d cut to the matter directly.’

Blenner cleared his throat.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said.

‘We’re all afraid. Throne, I know I am.’

‘Forgive me, but I am serious. I am quite un-manned by it.’

‘So get a grip.’

‘Doctor, I have to lead these men.’

‘You’ve led men before,’ said Dorden. ‘You’ve had a long career. Who were you with before us? The Greygorians? You’ve seen action.’

‘Look, between you and me,’ said Blenner, sitting down opposite Dorden and leaning forwards, ‘life with the Greygorians was pretty charmed. I mean, Throne! It was a ceremonial detail. We did marching and pomp and colour drills. It was a life of bloody luxury!’

‘I’ve heard you talk, at length, about your exploits under fire,’ said Dorden.

‘Yes, well. I tell a good story.’

‘Does Gaunt know this? He brought you into our company.’

‘He must know. Throne, I don’t know. He knew what I was like back when we were at scholam. I haven’t changed. He must know.’

Dorden steepled his thin, white fingers.

‘Vaynom,’ he said, ‘we are on the eve of making shift on a mission so significant, we haven’t even been told the parameters yet. Everyone is apprehensive. It’s perfectly natural.’

‘But–’

‘Vaynom, what are you scared of? Is it dying?’

‘Throne, I’m not ready to die!’ Blenner spluttered. ‘I haven’t made my peace yet! You might be braced for it, but I surely–’

He stopped and looked at the doctor.

‘That was a terrible thing to say. I apologise.’

‘No need. You’re right. I’m ready. What we’re heading for doesn’t frighten me at all.’

‘Well, I’d like a little of whatever you’re having, then,’ said Blenner.

‘That can be arranged,’ said Dorden. ‘Look, Vaynom, I wonder if this is actually not about dying. I wonder if what you’re really afraid of is being found out. I wonder if you’re scared about being put in the line of fire and letting him down.’

Blenner sighed.

‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t even considered that. I was still hung up on the dying part.’

Dorden smiled. He got up and took a small brown bottle down from a crowded shelf. He handed it to Blenner. It was full of little oval pills.

‘One of these every day, or when you feel agitated. They will improve your fortitude and help you think clearly. Come to me when you need more.’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Blenner. ‘Now listen. I don’t want this–

‘I can assure you that what’s just passed between us will remain in confidence.’

‘Thank you.’

‘One last thing, commissar. If you really want to fortify yourself, you should do what I’m about to do.’

‘Yes?’ said Blenner.

‘Prayer and worship, commissar. I have become a regular shrine-goer. I think it’s kept me alive longer than any pills. Look after the soul, and it benefits the man built around it.’

Shore services were usually held in the camp chapel, but during the Makeshift Revels, the ecclesiarchs had taken to preaching and blessing in the open, out in the fair.

Ayatani Zweil was just beginning his morning address when Dorden arrived. Zweil was standing on a munitions box, codex in hand, with two young boys from the camp train stood either side of him swinging censers. They looked bored, but he’d paid them to do it. He’d chosen a site at the end of one of the stall rows, and a crowd had gathered. Dorden joined the back of it.

‘The Saint, Saint Sabbat, made these worlds,’ Zweil said. ‘She made these worlds with her grace for us to live in, and that’s why we’re fighting to free them. She watches us, you see. When we work and fight and sleep and eat. She even watches us when we’re on the privy, which is disconcerting, I know, yet reassuring. Where was I?’

The old priest’s sermons were certainly unconventional. When he had finished, he came down through the dispersing crowd to find Dorden.

‘I’m always happy every morning to see you in my congregation,’ he said, taking Dorden’s hands.

‘Because I’m evidence of another soul brought into the fold?’

‘No, just pleased you haven’t died in your sleep. I had a dream.’

‘You do have those…’

‘Last night. Lovely young ladies in it. Very distracting. Then I had another dream. The Saint came to me.’

‘Did she?’ asked Dorden.

‘No, she was busy with something else, so she sent a dog. The dog said, ayatani, it said, you have to pray and do good works. It’s your job to make sure that Dorden outlives you.’

‘I see.’

‘Have I told you this before?’

‘Yes, last week.’

‘Ah, I ought to get some new material. Maybe a parable. Parables are good. I had one once, a very nice blue it was, but rather too tight.’

‘You don’t really know what a parable is, do you?’

‘How obvious is that?’

‘Father, coming to you each day to pray is doing me good. I know it. I have been granted more life than I had reason to expect.’

Zweil took him by the arm and they began to walk along the bustling row, two old men together. The boys with the censers followed.

‘I’m going to look after you,’ said Zweil. ‘I am. It’s only right. I sort of got you in this terrible pickle. If I hadn’t swapped blood samples on you, it would have been me with the cancer.’

‘Father, medicine’s not really a strong field of expertise for you either, is it?’

‘Balls. I know what I mean. I’m going to look after you. Of course, taking you to war’s probably not the best plan in that case.’

‘I’ve always liked the Makeshift Revels,’ said Dorden. ‘Great spirit to them. Great anticipation.’

‘Bag o’nails.’

‘What?’

‘Bag o’nails. It’s another name for these revels. A corruption, you see, from “bacchanals”. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. The face of the beati. Your boy Lesp, he does ink, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. The beati. With illumined clouds.’

‘Where are you going to get it?’

‘Here on Menazoid Sigma,’ said Zweil. ‘Oh, now doesn’t he look disturbingly smart!’

They had crossed the path of trooper Wes Maggs. Maggs was wearing full dress uniform and looked very uncomfortable.

‘Don’t mock me, father,’ he said. ‘I hate getting gussied up.’ The uniform was a blue so dark it was almost black, with silver braiding and insignia, including the old 81st emblem. There was a red sash, silver aiguillettes and, on the left breast, the formal medal of Belladon: the belladonna flower, its stylised scarlet petals shedding a single drop of blood like a tear.

‘What’s this all in aid of?’ asked Dorden.

‘I’m part of the honour guard,’ said Maggs. ‘For the influx. I don’t know why they picked me. I don’t do ceremonial.’

‘Which influx?’ asked Dorden.

‘The Belladon one,’ said Maggs.

‘Don’t keep them waiting,’ said Zweil.

‘Is it true?’ asked Dorden.

‘Is what true, doctor?’ asked Maggs, fiddling with his cap band.

‘About Wilder?’

‘So I hear,’ Maggs called as he hurried away.

‘You’re late,’ said Major Baskevyl as Maggs ran up.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Take your place.’

Two full companies had assembled on the landing skirts in dress uniform. Banners were flapping in the wind. There was the flower of Belladon and the Tanith crest. The landing ship had just come in.

‘Stand ready,’ said Baskevyl as he walked to join the other officers.

D Company was his, and F belonged to Ferdy Kolosim. Both companies snapped to attention. Kolosim nodded as Baskevyl approached.

‘A good day for us,’ said Kolosim. ‘A new company. A Belladon company. Yes, sir. Just the sort of reinforcements this regiment needs.’

‘This regiment does all right,’ said Baskevyl. ‘But the point is well made.’

‘Is it true? It’s Wilder’s brother?’ asked Captain Sloman.

‘That’s what I hear,’ Baskevyl replied. ‘It’s his brother. He personally requested the transfer to join us. They’ve been trying to catch up with us for three years.’

‘Just in time for this show,’ said Kolosim. ‘Do we know what sort of strength he’s bringing? A full company? What specialism?’

‘We don’t know anything,’ said Baskevyl.

‘We could use heavy infantry,’ said Sloman. ‘Maybe some serious crew weapons.’

‘Start showing those damn Tanith scouts how to fight a war Belladon style,’ said Kolosim.

They all heard something. A sudden loud crash and blast.

‘What the–?’ murmured Baskevyl.

Drums. Marching drums, rattling and hissing, beating a perfect pace. Cymbals. The thud of bass kettles. Over that, suddenly like sirens, the bellow and parp of brass.

The reinforcement company came down the ramp of the landing ship into the suns-light to meet them.

‘Is this a joke?’ said Ferdy Kolosim.

It was a full colours band. They came out in match step, hammering their slung drums. The brass of their instruments gleamed. Their banners were bright and crisply new. At least half of the musicians were women.

‘Fury of Belladon…’ said Sloman.

‘Quiet!’ snapped Kolosim.

The band wheeled and marched until it was formed up and facing the reception guard. Their parade drill and formation work was certainly impeccable. They halted, and the bandmaster timed the music to a precise finish.

He stepped forwards beside his commanding officer to meet Baskevyl’s group.

‘Major Baskevyl, Tanith First,’ said Baskevyl, taking the salute. ‘With me, Captain Kolosim, Captain Sloman and Commissar Blenner. Commissar Blenner has been recently instructed to focus on discipline for the Belladon contingent.’

‘An honour,’ snapped Blenner.

Baskevyl was relieved to see Blenner. The commissar had arrived late, only taking his place during the band display.

‘Captain Jakub Wilder,’ said the commander. ‘This is Bandmaster Sergeant Major Yerolemew.’

Baskevyl could see it. Wilder had the look of his late brother, the man who had led the 81st and been Baskevyl’s commander and friend. Lucian Wilder, war hero, had given his last command on Ancreon Sextus more than five years earlier. Jakub looked like a younger, slighter version.

‘We stand ready to join the Tanith First,’ said Wilder. He held out a scrolled document with a red ribbon to Baskevyl. ‘Our attachment paperwork is in order, and has been approved by the Munitorum.’

‘You’re a ceremonial band,’ said Kolosim.

‘Three sections, with a fourth reserve,’ said Wilder.

‘The thing is, we don’t… we don’t really need a marching band,’ said Kolosim.

‘Captain Kolosim means,’ said Baskevyl quickly, ‘that we weren’t expecting to have the ceremonial aspect of our regiment enhanced in this way.’

‘We don’t just play instruments. We have weapons,’ said Wilder, his mouth tight. ‘We know how to fight.’

‘No insult was intended,’ said Baskevyl.

‘If I may?’ asked the bandmaster, stepping forwards. He was a tall, older man, with a lined face and a vague trace of white hair. He wore a mighty, square-cut beard and a monocle. In his left hand was his golden baton. He had no right hand. The right sleeve of his long tunic coat was pinned up, empty.

‘Nearly seven years ago, we were instructed to join the 81st,’ he said. ‘Captain Wilder, my commander’s brother, had requested us, for morale purposes.’

I remember, thought Baskevyl. I remember him saying ‘I’ve written for them to send us a band, Bask. I think it’ll put a spring in our step.’ Throne, I thought he was joking.

‘You know what transit connections can be like,’ said Yerolemew. ‘We were delayed. We arrived at Ancreon Sextus long after you had departed. I assumed we would be rerouted to join another Belladon regiment. But Captain Wilder here, he… he was very keen to join his late brother’s command. He got himself assigned to us and pushed for the posting to be ratified.’

‘It’s difficult,’ said Wilder. ‘There were other delays. A squad of bandsmen and their instruments is easily subbed out for a combat team if transport is limited. We were always a lower priority. But I wanted to be here. We wanted to be here.’

He swallowed hard. Baskevyl saw a boy trying to do his best, desperate not to let down his big brother. He made the sign of the aquila and held out his hand.

‘I knew your brother,’ Baskevyl said. ‘It was an honour to call him friend. And it’s an honour to have you here. Welcome to the Tanith First, Captain Wilder.’

At his side, Commissar Blenner palmed another pill from the bottle in his stormcoat pocket, dry-swallowed it behind a pretend cough, and then smiled.

He felt better already. Whatever the poor doctor had given him was splendid stuff.

A colours band. A colours band. He could manage that. It was precisely his kind of thing. Soldiers, but without the annoying fighting part.

‘What the feth?’ murmured Larkin. ‘Is that a band?’

‘Nah, you’ve been at the hard stuff again, you mad old bugger,’ replied Jessi Banda. ‘It’s a hallucination.’

‘Actually,’ said Raess, ‘Larks is right. It’s a fething colours band.’

With Larkin in the lead, ten company marksmen, the ten best, had been making their way through the revel crowds together. The going was slow, because the old sniper wasn’t as fast on his feet as he used to be. He limped on the artificial foot. Mad or not, they were all deferential to him, even the cocky Verghastite Banda and the hard-as-nails Belladon Questa. They all had lanyards, but Larkin could outshoot any of them.

The crowd had parted, affording them a brief view down onto the landing skirts where the transports were coming and going. They could see the Belladon banners, the flash of suns-light on brass.

‘Throne,’ muttered Lyndon Questa. ‘My lot have brought a bloody band with them.’

‘Good to see the Belladon adding to the combat strength of the regiment,’ said Banda.

‘Screw you,’ said Questa.

‘In your dreams,’ she smiled.

Nessa signed a question, and Larkin signed back, pointing her towards the scene below. She hadn’t heard the drumming.

A smile crossed her face.

‘Do they sound good?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s the important bit to focus on, Nessa,’ said Banda.

They left the crowd and entered a loading dock hall where Munitorum crews and servitors were unloading supply crates from long-bed trucks.

‘What are we gn… gn… gn… doing here, Larkin?’ asked Merrt, his crude augmetic jaw forcing his trademark stammer.

‘It’s a surprise,’ said Larkin. ‘Gather round.’

A group of Tanith lasmen were already present, led by Captain Domor.

‘Morning, Shoggy,’ said Larkin.

‘What’s this all about?’ asked Domor.

‘Well,’ said Larkin. ‘Commander said we’re going to be doing some specialist training, didn’t he? My shooters, your boys?’

‘Yes, but he didn’t say what, and he didn’t say why,’ said Domor.

‘Ah, but one has got to be smart,’ said Larkin. ‘One has got to sneak past Gaunt’s adjutant, perhaps by distracting him. I find Banda works well.’

‘Beltayn’s putty in my hands,’ purred Banda.

‘Then, while Bel’s got his hands full–’ said Larkin.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ Banda put in.

‘–one has got to take a look at the regimental supply manifests. See what sort of kit is coming in, and who it’s been assigned to. One can then build a picture.’

‘Is one going to share this picture,’ asked Raglon, ‘or is one going to get a punch in the mouth?’

‘Patience, Rags,’ said Larkin. He hobbled over to a stack of crates. ‘These are yours, Shoggy. Full of kit for your boys. These are mine. Give me that crowbar, Raess.’

Raess handed Larkin the bar. The old marksman began to lever the lip off one crate.

‘You can’t do that!’ a Munitorum tech exclaimed.

‘Feth off,’ Banda growled at him. The man scurried away.

‘Well, look at that,’ said Larkin, lifting the first item out of the packing crate with a smile.

‘What in the name of the God-Emperor is this?’ asked Raess.

‘Hard-round rifles,’ said Banda, taking one for herself. ‘Old, shoddy, bolt action hard-round rifles. What the gak?’

‘What’s this ammo?’ asked Questa. He held up a large calibre round. It had a brass firing cap and a head that looked like it was made of glass.

‘I want my longlas,’ said Banda. ‘I don’t want this.’

‘What are we supposed to be hunting?’ asked Nessa.

Larkin tucked the rifle he was holding up to his cheek, eased the old but well-maintained bolt action, and took a sample aim.

‘Larisel,’ he said. ‘Like in the old days.’

‘The old coot’s finally lost it,’ said Banda.

Larkin swept his aim, and suddenly found he had a target squared in his iron sights.

‘Sorry!’ he exclaimed, lowering the rifle. ‘Didn’t see you there, mam.’

‘I’m looking for Captain Daur,’ said Elodie.

‘He’s down at hall two, mam,’ said Domor. ‘For the influx reception.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Elodie. She was holding the dress jacket. ‘I thought he said four. Thank you.’

She hurried back out into the suns-light.

‘Are you going to explain?’ Raess asked Larkin.

‘Certainly,’ said Larkin, still savouring the feel of the weapon.

‘And why am I here, exactly?’ asked Merrt. ‘You know I can’t gn… gn… gn… shoot any more.’

‘Mertt, my friend,’ said Larkin. ‘You were the best shot I ever saw. I’ve decided I’m going to teach you how to do it again.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ said Elodie. ‘I got lost.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Daur. He took the jacket from her and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve got time yet.’

‘Do you need me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I can take it from here.’

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ said Elodie.

‘There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.

‘It can wait until you’re done with this,’ she said, and slipped away.

Back at their quarters, she tidied a few things away. She hoped she hadn’t caused a problem by being tardy with the jacket.

Elodie started packing. Under a small pile of books in a locker drawer, she found a small set of documents.

Petition for Allowance to Marry, the papers said.

Ban Daur put on his dress jacket and buttoned it up. Then he put on his cap and buckled on his officer’s strap and holster.

Major Kolea appeared in the doorway, flanked by Commissar Ludd. Both were in full dress too.

‘Are you ready now?’ asked Kolea.

‘Yes.’

They walked out through the depot hall on top of the oil-stained landing apron in front of it. The Arvus lighter had just set down. Steam was weeping from its drive vents.

Flanked by a small honour guard of Tanith and Verghastite troopers, Daur, Kolea and Ludd approached the small craft. Its hatch was opening.

Six figures stepped out. The four leading the way were dressed in a uniform that made Daur’s heart swell with unexpected pride. Blue, with a spiked helmet. Verghastite Hive Guard, very similar to the PDF uniform he’d worn back in the day at Vervunhive.

Two were Guard escorts, one of whom was carrying a double-headed eagle on a leather gauntlet. The eagle, cybernetically modified, was hooded. It twitched and ruffled its feathers.

The tallest figure was a woman, wearing the rank pins of a major. She was older, strong and slightly haggard. The other, shorter, was a female captain.

‘Major Pasha Petrushkevskaya,’ said the older woman. She made the sign of the aquila. ‘Reporting for duty to serve the Tanith First.’

‘Welcome,’ said Kolea.

‘I have six full companies,’ Petrushkevskaya said. ‘All Verghast-born and founded. They await in orbit to transfer to your vessels. They are bursting with pride to follow in the great tradition and join, at last, the regiment of the People’s Hero.’

‘I am Major Gol Kolea.’

Petrushkevskaya saluted.

‘Your name is also celebrated,’ she said. ‘The great scratch company hero. It is an honour.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kolea. ‘Though I understand you also served in the scratch companies during the Zoican War.’

‘We never met,’ said Petrushkevskaya.

‘It was a big war,’ said Kolea.

She nodded.

‘This is my second in command,’ she said, gesturing to the smaller, younger woman at her side. ‘Captain Ornella Zhukova.’

‘Once of the Hass West PDF Command,’ said Daur. He smiled broadly.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,’ said Zhukova. She was very neatly pretty, with olive skin and short black hair tied in a ponytail. Her features were elegantly symmetrical. ‘I was just a junior, and you were a captain.’

‘You know each other then?’ smiled Kolea.

‘A pleasant reunion,’ said Zhukova.

Petrushkevskaya stepped back to introduce the other two figures in her party. One was a lithe woman of startling beauty. Her head was shaved to a fine down of hair, emphasising the sculptural arch of her skull. She was wearing an armoured bodyglove and had an astonishingly crafted steel rose in her lapel. The weapon at her hip was shrouded with a red cloth, as was the Verghast custom. She was a civilian, an up-hive lifeguard, Daur realised, a very expensive and capable employee.

The other figure was clearly her principal. He was wearing a plain black bodysuit and boots, a young man no more than fifteen or sixteen years old who had not yet lost the frailty of adolescence. His thin face was striking and narrow, almost feminine in its beauty. His hair was blond.

‘This is Meritous Felyx Chass of House Chass,’ said Petrushkevskaya.

‘Sir,’ Kolea and Daur said in unison.

The boy regarded them haughtily.

‘Where is Gaunt?’ he asked.

‘We were sent to greet you,’ said Kolea, ‘and express the warm–’

‘It’s not good enough,’ said the lifeguard. Her accent was the very hardest end of Verghast. Her lips were as red as the shroud covering her gun.

‘It’s all right, Maddalena,’ said the boy.

‘It’s certainly not all right,’ the lifeguard said. She stepped up to Kolea, face to face.

‘Verghast sends six companies to reinforce your regiment,’ she said, ‘in honour of the debt owed to your commander by our hive, and the People’s Hero can’t be bothered to receive us in person?’

‘That is, unfortunately, the case,’ said Kolea.

‘This young man,’ said the lifeguard, gesturing to the slender boy, ‘is Meritous Felyx Chass, of House Chass, grandson of Lord Chass himself. His mother is heir to the House entire. He has come to honour your regiment by joining it as a junior commander. Are you telling me that Ibram Gaunt has something more important to do than greet him?’

‘Two things,’ said Kolea, his voice perfectly calm. ‘First, it’s Colonel-Commissar Gaunt to you, you arrogant up-hive bitch. And second, yes, on this occasion, he does.’