Salvation's Reach

FOUR Bonding

Lamps had been lit throughout the complex of the Anzimar Barracks, partly to add to the festival nature of the Makeshift Revels, mostly to combat the gloom of the afternoon smog. It was especially oppressive that day, and would not clear before nightfall. Already, the camp and landing fields felt as though they were cast in an evening shade.

Gaunt returned across the outer quadrangle with Hark, Ludd, Edur and Fazekiel. They could hear exuberant music playing from the halls, the clatter of dishes and glasses from the refectory. The influx reception was underway.

‘At least we’re dressed for it,’ said Hark.

‘I thought the lord militant was going to become apoplectic,’ said Ludd, who was still processing the meeting they were coming from.

‘Lords militant don’t like to be slighted, Ludd,’ said Hark. ‘Not in favour of mere colonels. Not even for that rare beast the colonel-commissar.’

‘Cybon understood the game,’ replied Gaunt. ‘He was playing a part too. He knew they would want to make the bond personally, with me. But the Chapter Master wouldn’t have looked at my petition if it hadn’t come with the explicit backing of Crusade high echelon and a lord militant or two. Cybon was an enabler. He had to be present for form’s sake, even if it was just so they could belittle him.’

‘Are they ever polite?’ asked Ludd.

‘They’re Space Marines,’ said Gaunt.

‘But to be so disrespectful to a lord militant–’

‘They’re powerful beings,’ said Gaunt. ‘They like to remind people where that power lies.’

‘So they’re never cordial or–’

‘I don’t know them, Ludd,’ said Gaunt. He stopped sharply and turned to look at the junior. The others came to a halt around them, in the middle of the quad square. ‘I’ve made no particular study of their etiquette.’

‘No one knows them,’ said Edur quietly.

‘They know you, sir,’ said Ludd to Gaunt. ‘That’s what that was about. You’re calling in some kind of favour.’

Gaunt’s jaw tightened. In the gloom, his eyes seemed haunted by an uncanny light.

‘Not a favour,’ he said. ‘You don’t ask the Adeptus Astartes Space Marines for favours. It’s about compacts and alliances. It’s about doing enough to simply get noticed, so that when you ask them for something, they care who you are.’

‘You realise we all look alike to them, don’t you?’ said Hark.

Ludd laughed, and then realised it wasn’t supposed to be a joke.

‘What did you do?’ he asked.

‘What?’ asked Gaunt, turning to start walking again.

‘What did you do to get noticed?’

‘Just enough,’ said Gaunt and walked away.

‘Balhaut,’ said Fazekiel. The others looked at her. ‘The Tower of the Plutocrat. The Oligarchy Gate. The infamous Ninth Day,’ she said. ‘Gaunt’s Hyrkans stood alongside the Silver Guard at the height of the battle. He certainly would have had dealings with them, possibly with Veegum himself. His achievements would have brought him to their attention. Perhaps even won their respect. Certainly, made enough of a mark so that years later, when he asked them for help, they would bother considering it.’

She looked at Ludd. She was only a few years his senior, but there seemed a gulf of maturity between them.

‘It’s all in his case file,’ she said. ‘Standard biographic data. There’s more detail, some of it classified, but not hard for someone with Commissariat clearance to get if they’re prepared to dig.’

‘You’ve made a study of him?’ asked Ludd.

‘You seem surprised,’ said Fazekiel. ‘I am going to serve under him. I want to know about him so I know what to expect and how best to perform my duty. Any commissar would do the same before attachment to a new command. The surprise, really, would be that you haven’t.’

‘I don’t know why I would,’ said Ludd, blushing slightly.

‘So you don’t ask stupid questions at the wrong moment?’ Fazekiel suggested.

‘I think Nahum is probably a more intuitive servant of the Throne than you, Luna,’ said Edur gently.

‘It’s not a matter of intuition,’ she replied. ‘It’s not a privacy issue, either. It is in no way invasive to study and understand the career record of an officer you’re serving. It improves your performance. It’s common sense.’

A despatch officer ran up, saluted, and handed Hark a message wafer. Hark acknowledged receipt with a press of his biocoded signet ring. He read the wafer, and then put it in his pocket.

‘We should get to work,’ he said. ‘There are newcomers to accommodate, and final arrangements to be made. Here’s something for you to ponder, Ludd. Fazekiel has accounted for the Silver Guard’s presence. But the other two. An Iron Snake and a White Scar. Why three Chapters?’

‘I’ll find out,’ said Ludd. ‘Meanwhile, when do the rest arrive?’

‘The rest of what?’

‘The Space Marines?’

Hark smiled. ‘We get three Space Marines, Ludd. Just three. They are rare and they are precious. Long gone are the ages when they marched across the stars in their hundreds or thousands. We’re lucky to have three.’

‘Under most circumstances,’ said Edur, ‘three is more than enough.’

‘Let’s hope this is one of those circumstances,’ replied Hark.

‘How will you find out, Ludd?’ Fazekiel asked.

‘I’ll ask them,’ Ludd replied.

‘Why is that funny?’ he added.

Crowds had gathered around the infirmary, forming queues. Most of the regimental community wanted to get out and enjoy the last few hours of the Revels or, if they were permitted, join the influx reception in the barracks hall. They could hear the band music all the way from the infirmary. But there were certificates to get, and that meant getting your shots.

Elodie joined the queue. The regiment’s medicaes were administering inoculations to all members of the retinue. The shots were a mix of anti-virals and counterbiotics, and emperythetical electrolytes, intended to protect them from foreign infection and cushion some of the traumas of shift travel. If you didn’t have a certificate from the medicaes proving you’d had your shots, you couldn’t embark. This time around, Elodie had been told, you also needed a bond.

They were all talking about it in the queue around her. An accompany bond was a document of disclaimer issued by the Munitorum that showed the bearer understood that he or she was transiting into a warzone. Regimental retinues usually followed their units to reserve line camps or waystations adjacent to the battlefield. For a bond to be necessary this time, it indicated that, for whatever reason, the retinue would be following the Tanith First directly into the line of danger. They would be at risk. Their safety could not be guaranteed. They had to sign a bond to say they understood and accepted this jeopardy, or they could elect to remain behind. The Munitorum hadn’t required the Tanith retinue to be bonded since Ouranberg in 771.

It was a hard choice, because remaining behind was a tricky option. For a spouse or a child, or for a tradesman whose livelihood had come to depend on a regiment, remaining behind meant risking never being able to reconnect with the unit. If you missed the shift, you might never get passage to wherever the regiment got posted next. You could spend months or even years trying to catch up with a unit on the move, like that ridiculous band had, so she understood.

For Elodie, it was no choice at all.

‘Are you quite well, Mamzel Dutana?’ the old doctor, Dorden, asked her when her turn came. He swabbed the crook of her elbow with rubbing alcohol while his orderly prepared a syringe.

‘I am, doctor. But there are things on my mind.’

‘You are anxious, no doubt, about what awaits us. War wounds us with anxiety from beyond the range of any weapon.’

She nodded.

‘You seem untroubled, if I may say so,’ she said to the old man. He seemed very frail, but his hands were rock steady, and she felt only a tiny pinch as the needle went in. ‘I can only suppose it is because you have done this before?’

‘You’re not my first patient, Mamzel Dutana.’

‘I meant war, doctor.’

‘Ah. No, you never get used to that. But you’re right, I can’t for the life of me recall where I’ve left my trepidation.’

Elodie went back along the shore, through the revel crowds, a small wad of cotton pressed to her needle mark. She went to the hab shelters that stood in a row behind the laundry tents. It seemed actually to be getting dark, as though true evening was extending through the murky smog.

‘Juniper?’ she called. ‘Juniper?’

The tents smelled strongly of carbolic soap and damp rockcrete.

‘Juniper? Are you here?’

She ducked into Juniper’s hab and came up short. The woman fuelling the small stove inside wasn’t Juniper.

She was a soldier, a sergeant, lean and powerful with cropped white-blonde hair.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Elodie.

‘You looking for Juniper?’ asked Tona Criid.

‘Yes.’

‘She just stepped away to get bonded,’ said Criid. ‘I’d come to see Yoncy, so I said I’d stay while she got sorted.’

The little girl that Elodie had seen in the crowd earlier was in the corner of the hab, eating beans from a bowl. She had the medal of the Saint on its ribbon around her neck. Elodie could see that Yoncy wasn’t going to be a child for much longer. She was small for her age, and appeared no older than a seven- or eight-year old, but she had to be eleven or twelve at least. Perhaps a life of slab and Guard rations had stunted her growth a bit. Perhaps she was one of those children who would suddenly become a young woman in one adolescent explosion. There was something quite knowing about her, Elodie felt. She still wore her hair in bunches, and swung her feet when she sat on an adult chair to emphasise her size. But it was as though she was slightly playing up the childlike effect, as if she knew it got her treats and favours. Everyone was her uncle or her aunt.

‘I wanted to ask her something,’ said Elodie. ‘I’ll come back.’

Criid shrugged as if that was good enough. There was a slight awkwardness, as if they didn’t know what to say to each other.

‘Actually,’ said Elodie, ‘can I ask you something?’

Criid closed the stove door, took a look at Yoncy to make sure she was tucking into her food, and then walked over to Elodie.

‘For what reason would a soldier take a wife?’

‘Apart from the obvious, you mean?’ asked Criid.

‘Yes, apart from that.’

‘There’s no better reason than that,’ said Criid. ‘None of my business, I’m sure, but how you feel is the only important reason.’

Elodie nodded.

‘Has Ban asked you a question?’ Criid asked.

Elodie shook her head.

Criid shrugged.

‘Like I said, not any of my business.’

Elodie took the small fold of papers out of her dress pocket.

‘Look at this,’ she said quietly.

‘Petition for allowance,’ said Criid, reading.

‘He hasn’t said anything. Nothing. But he’s got the paperwork. He’s filled it in.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Criid, handing the papers back. ‘Too fast? You going to say no?’

‘No.’

‘Good. It’d be bad in all sorts of ways if we go into this with a senior captain nursing a broken heart. Wait, is this about the accompany bond? You don’t want to be bonded? Are you staying here?’

‘No, no. That’s fine. I’ve got mine.’

‘So?’ Criid asked.

‘I don’t know why he hasn’t told me.’

‘We’re moving out in a hurry. It’s not romantic, but he wants to get it squared away before we dig in.’

‘It just feels like there’s another reason,’ said Elodie. ‘Another reason why he wants to.’

‘Is it because he might die?’ said the little girl from the other side of the room. They both looked at her. Yoncy had lowered her spoon and was staring at them, half a smile on her face.

‘Is it because he might die?’ Yoncy repeated. ‘He wants to get married in case he dies.’

‘Go wash your face,’ said Criid. ‘You’ve got gravy all round your mouth.’

Yoncy laughed, and slid down off her chair. She ran into the washroom at the back of the little hab.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Criid.

‘No, I’m sorry. I should have thought about what I was saying. It was insensitive.’

Criid frowned.

‘Insensitive? What? Oh, you mean because of Caffran?’

She shrugged as if it was nothing.

‘It hurts me he died, not that I didn’t get to marry him first. It wouldn’t have made a difference to us, a piece of paper. Though it does to some. Some marry, you know, to provide.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Elodie.

‘If you’re not actually married, with a piece of paper to show for it,’ said Criid, ‘then the Munitorum doesn’t recognise you as a widow. So some lasmen marry just to qualify for the viduity benefit. It’s not much. Just a few crowns a year, I think, a widow’s pension. But it matters to some people.’

‘Not to me,’ said Elodie. ‘Do you think that’s why he wants to do this?’

‘I don’t know. It might matter to him to know that you’d be provided for. A captain’s widow probably gets a better allowance.’

Elodie folded up the papers and put them away.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Criid.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’

‘You look pale. I’ve said too much.’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t really thought about any of this, have you?’ asked Criid.

‘I thought I had. It seems I hadn’t.’

‘Then you’d better,’ said Criid. ‘He’s a soldier. Soldiers die.’

‘We all die,’ said Elodie.

‘Yes,’ Criid nodded. ‘But not as fast as soldiers.’

Gaunt walked up the steps towards the entrance of the barracks hall. Smog and approaching evening had combined to create a gloom like twilight. The hall windows shone with lamplight.

Beltayn was waiting for him in the entrance way.

‘Something’s awry,’ said Gaunt.

‘It’s a band, sir,’ said Beltayn.

‘I can hear what it is, I just couldn’t for the life of me explain why.’

‘I’ll leave that pleasure to Major Baskevyl, sir,’ said the adjutant.

‘Anything else?’ asked Gaunt.

‘The new seniors are keen to meet you.’

‘Of course. You explained that I was unavoidably detained?’

‘I did, sir. Some took it better than others.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Transfers behind just before midnight local,’ said Beltayn. He handed Gaunt a data-slate. ‘Our transport has been confirmed as the Highness Ser Armaduke. It’s a frigate, Tempest-class. Whatever that means.’

‘So the Fleet couldn’t spare a battle cruiser after all.’

‘No, sir. Actually, the Fleet didn’t spare this either. As I understand it, the Highness Ser Armaduke was substantially damaged during the Khulan Wars and has been in the depot reserve for the last twenty-seven years. It’s had what I’ve been told is called “modification refit”, but its performance still doesn’t allow it to be fully Fleet certified.’

‘You’re saying it’s a piece of scrap that would otherwise have gone to the breakers?’

‘I’m not saying that, sir,’ said Beltayn, ‘because I know nothing about the Navy or shiftship doings. I’m just a common lasman, sir.’

Gaunt looked at the documents on the slate.

‘Oh, the faith they show in us. Giving us a ship they don’t mind losing because they’re pretty certain it’s going to be lost.’

‘I’ll remember to keep that insight to myself, shall I?’ asked Beltayn.

‘Yes, please,’ said Gaunt handing the slate back. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

Gaunt gestured up in the direction of the double-headed eagle that was perched on the head of a large statue of Saint Kiodrus nearby. The eagle ruffled its wings and shuffled on its marble perch.

‘Not even that?’

‘Doesn’t belong to me, sir,’ said Beltayn, ‘and I didn’t put it there.’

Gaunt went into the hall. Long, candle-lit tables were set for dinner, but the assembled guests were generally standing, talking in groups, drinks in their hands. Servitors whirred through the press. Regimental colours – Tanith, Verghastite and Belladon – were in abundant display. On a low stage to one side, the band was playing vigorously.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Blenner, intercepting him almost at once.

‘Oh, you know, colonel-ing and stuff,’ said Gaunt.

Blenner had a drink in his hand.

‘I hate bashes like this,’ he said, leaning close to Gaunt so he could whisper and still be heard over the band.

‘The band wasn’t your idea, was it?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Blenner, looking wounded.

‘I don’t know,’ said Gaunt. ‘There’s something about it that feels like an elaborate practical joke.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Blenner. He took what appeared to be a pill from his stormcoat pocket and knocked it back with a sip of amasec. He saw Gaunt looking at him.

‘What?’ he said. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

Kolea was approaching with several officers Gaunt didn’t recognise.

‘Commander,’ said Kolea, ‘it’s my honour to introduce the senior officers of the new Verghastite influx. Major Pasha Petrushkevskaya and Captain Ornella Zhukova.’

Gaunt saluted them both.

‘It’s my shame,’ he said, ‘that I wasn’t here to greet you. You’ve come a long way and you’re contributing a great deal.’

‘We understand,’ said Petrushkevskaya. ‘Major Kolea was good enough to explain that you were detained by an important strategic briefing.’

‘I was. I am still sorry. Vervunhive has a very, very important place in this regiment. It is an honour to receive reinforcements from Verghast.’

‘It is an honour to serve under the People’s Hero,’ said Zhukova.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Gaunt.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Zhukova, bright-eyed. ‘To this day, your name is spoken with honour and respect at every level of hive life. Did you know that in Hess West Sector alone, there are four public statues of you? I have picts, if you would like to see them.’

‘Thank you, but I’m confident I know what I look like,’ said Gaunt.

Zhukova laughed.

‘You are certainly more handsome in person,’ she said.

‘Now, I really like her already,’ said Blenner, stepping forwards. ‘Don’t you, Ibram? I really like you, Captain Zhukova. The colonel-commissar is a terrible old bore, and pretends he doesn’t like people going on about his heroism, or how handsome he is. But we can all see that for ourselves, can’t we? Between you and me, he secretly loves it, and I recommend you do it as often as possible, no matter how much he protests.’

‘Blenner,’ Gaunt hissed.

‘In fact,’ Blenner went on, ‘the more he protests, the more he secretly likes it.’

‘Really?’ laughed Zhukova.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Blenner. ‘I should know. I’ve known him all my life.’

‘Have you?’ asked Zhukova. This seemed to impress her. ‘That must be wonderful. What an example he must have set.’

‘I can’t begin to tell you,’ said Blenner, placing one hand on his heart and tilting his head to the side. ‘He’s quite inspiring. Although, and few know it…’ he dropped his voice and leaned forwards. Zhukova bent forwards to listen, her eyes even wider.

‘…I taught him a great deal about life and the deportment of an officer,’ said Blenner.

‘Did you?’ exclaimed Zhukova.

‘I don’t like to talk about it. It’s not as if I’m looking for credit or recognition. It’s enough to know that I’ve helped to shape the character of an Imperial hero.’

‘Of course it is,’ Zhukova agreed.

‘Blenner!’ Gaunt hissed, rather more emphatically.

‘You’re very comely, Captain Zhukova,’ said Blenner. ‘May I say that? I don’t mean to speak out of turn, and I certainly mean nothing inappropriate by it. I speak only as a commissar, in a purely professional regard. My business is the morale and discipline of the fighting lasman, and in that regard, your captivating looks are quite a potent weapon to have in our arsenal. I mean this purely analytically! The men will follow you, obey you. They will be devoted to you, and–’

‘Captain Zhukova is well aware of the effect of her looks on the male soldier,’ said Petrushkevskaya. She was not smiling. ‘Indeed, we have had conversations about it.’

‘I’m sure you have, major, I’m sure you have,’ said Blenner. ‘You understand it too, don’t you? The importance of something like that. Just in strategic terms. Now… Pet-trush-kevs-kaya… That’s right, isn’t it? Quite a mouthful. We should think about shortening that to something the men can get their tongues around.’

‘Commissar Blenner,’ growled Gaunt. ‘Major Petrushkevskaya’s name is Petrushkevskaya. That’s what the men will call her. They’ll damn well learn how to say it. Anything else would be disrespectful.’

‘Of course,’ said Blenner. ‘I only meant–’

‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Petrushkevskaya. ‘Actually, it has been an issue. I’m generally known as Major Pasha. It’s what I was called in the scratch companies, before my rank was official. Sort of an affectionate name, but it has its uses. Simplicity being one of them.’

Gaunt nodded.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s fine. Though I generally discourage the ranks from adopting informal names. A lack of discipline in anything, even the form of words, represents a lack of discipline that could spread.’

‘That must be why we’re called Gaunt’s Ghosts,’ said Blenner.

Zhukova laughed.

Gaunt had to bite his lip to prevent himself from snapping at Blenner in front of them. He looked for another outlet to vent at.

‘Where did that feth-awful band come from?’ he asked.

‘Uhm, sir?’

He turned. The others turned with him. Major Baskevyl had joined them, bringing another new face, an officer of Belladon extract. The man’s face was oddly familiar, and clearly tinged by anger.

‘Sir,’ said Baskevyl, this is Captain–’

‘It’s my feth-awful band, sir,’ said the officer. ‘My command is a fighting unit of three sections that happens to carry the role of colours band for ceremonial occasions. Its presence is meant to reflect the martial prowess and splendour of Belladon, and to enhance this regiment. It is honourable and dignified. It has been devoted to the matter of joining this command for years, and has made considerable efforts to arrange transfers to do so. It is the marching band my brother personally requested.’

Gaunt waited a second before replying. He looked the man full in the face.

‘You’re Wilder’s brother.’

‘I am.’

‘I meant no disrespect. I didn’t know your brother–’

‘No, you did not. And precious little trace of him remains here. When he took command of this regiment, the previous names were merged. I see all sign of the 81st has now vanished from the regimental title. A revision you made, I presume?’

‘The new title was clumsy,’ said Gaunt, showing no emotion. ‘Belladon has, however, left a profound and positive mark on our ranks, and your brother’s stewardship of this regiment, and his legacy, is not forgotten.’

Wilder jutted out his chin a little, but remained silent. Gaunt saluted him.

‘Welcome to the Tanith First, Captain Wilder. The Emperor protects.’

Wilder returned the salute.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It must be said, captain, that we were not expecting to be reinforced by a colours band.’

‘They’re fighting troopers, damn you!’ Wilder cried. He swung at Gaunt. His fist stopped dead, the wrist clamped tightly in Blenner’s right hand. The speed with which Blenner had moved to intercept was quite impressive.

‘I don’t think, Captain Wilder,’ said Blenner, holding the wrist firmly and speaking directly into Wilder’s furious face, ‘that striking your commanding officer would be a great way to end your first day in this regiment. It might even be a way of making it your first and only day.’

He laughed at his own joke. Zhukova laughed too, brightly and rather over-emphatically. The band had stopped playing and everyone in the hall was watching.

‘But it is your first day,’ said Blenner calmly and clearly, ‘and this is an emotional moment. It has perhaps sharpened your grief over the memory of your brave brother. That’s understandable. It’s taken you a long time to get here, and you’re standing here at last. We’ve all taken a drink. It’s the end of a long day and there are longer ones ahead. So, why don’t we make the fresh start here, and not five minutes ago?’

He looked at Gaunt.

‘I think that would be a prudent idea,’ said Gaunt.

Blenner let Wilder’s wrist go. Wilder lowered his hand and straightened up. He smoothed the front of his jacket.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologise. Thank you.’

‘Nothing more will be said about it,’ said Blenner. He raised his glass high and addressed the room.

‘Welcome to the Ghosts. Fury of Belladon!’

Fury of Belladon! they all sang back, even Petrushkevskaya and Zhukova, and glasses clinked.

Gaunt turned to the band and gestured encouragingly.

‘Play up! I was just getting used to it.’

Sergeant Yerolemew smiled, nodded, and brought the band back into full order. The music blasted out again.

‘Deft,’ Gaunt whispered to Blenner.

‘I have my uses,’ Blenner replied.

‘I still don’t need a band,’ Gaunt added quietly. ‘Can we see if we can at least lose their instruments in transit?’

‘I’ll have some people look into it,’ whispered Blenner.

‘And keep an eye on Wilder. He’s trouble.’

‘There’s an old saying, Ibram. Keep your friends close, and the brother of the dead hero you replaced as commander closer. Or confined to quarters.’

The undercroft of the barrack hall was an extensive warren of vaulted wine cellars, pantries, larders and basements. Light shone out of the noisy scullery. The kitchens were filled with heat and steam and the smell of herbs and roasted meat, and kitchen staffers were loitering in the cool scullery entrance, beaded with sweat, as they took quick breaks between servings. From overhead, the boom and muffled clash of the enthusiastic band rang like a minor seismic disturbance.

Viktor Hark walked down the stairs beside the scullery, through a waiting group of overheated servers and pot boys, and turned left into the main undercroft space. The arched stone was whitewashed, and it was cool and dry, with just the hint of cold brick and the background top note of chemical smog that got into everything in Anzimar.

Lamps had been lit down here. Glow-globes and candles had been set at the long bench table.

First Platoon, B Company, had assembled. Varl and Brostin, Mach Bonin the scout, Kabry and Laydly, LaHurf, Mkaninch and Mktally, Judd Cardass and Cant the Belladonians, Mkrook, Senrab Nomis the Verghastite. Rawne, the presiding genius of B Company and the regiment’s second officer, stood in a corner, leaning against the wall.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Hark, and held up his hand as they began to scrape back chairs and rise. ‘As you were.’

There were bottles and glasses on the table, and an earthenware pitcher of water. None of the bottles had been opened.

‘Trouble on the island this morning, so I hear,’ Hark said to Rawne.

‘I handled it,’ said Rawne.

‘You certainly did,’ replied Hark. He reached into his coat, took out the message wafer that had been delivered to him in the quad, and handed it to Rawne.

Rawne unfolded it and read it.

‘Congratulations, major,’ Hark said.

Rawne allowed himself a small smile. The men began to whoop and pound their fists on the table.

‘Further to the incident this morning,’ said Hark over the row, ‘and in light of the serious security failings demonstrated by Major Rawne, First Platoon, B Company, the Tanith First, is hereby charged with the secure management of the prisoner for the duration of this operation. In such respect, First Platoon, B Company, the Tanith First, will be designated an S company by the Commissariat for purposes of authority and powers.’

The men whooped even more loudly.

‘Major Rawne is supervising officer. I will consult directly on S Company procedure. That’s “S” as in security.’

‘I thought it was “S” as in special,’ Cant called out.

‘It’s “S” for shut your hole,’ replied Cardass. Men laughed.

‘One word of advice,’ Hark shouted over the hooting and thumping. ‘Don’t screw this up.’

‘Would we, sir?’ replied Varl. ‘Would we screw anything up? Ever?’

‘We screw some things up,’ said Bonin.

Varl frowned. ‘Yes, we do,’ he admitted. He looked at Hark and grinned. ‘We’ll try really hard not to do that this time, sir,’ he said.

‘I don’t know what I was worried about,’ said Hark. He started to walk towards the exit. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Your first duty shift starts tonight. You take over when the prisoner is transferred for embarkation.’

‘Wait!’ Rawne called after him. ‘If you’re our liaison officer, Commissar Hark, you ought to witness the whole of our little founding.’

The men had quietened down.

‘Whose “founding”?’ Hark asked, turning back.

Rawne smiled, and picked up an empty ammo box that had been standing on the floor at his feet. He shook it, and metal objects inside it clinked together.

‘The Suicide Kings,’ Rawne said.

The men whooped and hollered again.

‘That’s a card game, major,’ said Hark.

‘Lots of versions of that game around the sector,’ Rawne said. He handed the ammo box to Cant, who reached in, rummaged, and took something out. The box then passed to Varl.

‘Lots of versions,’ Rawne repeated, watching the box get passed around, each man taking something out. ‘Lots of variations. The version we call Suicide Kings, that came from Tanith in the first place, you know.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hark.

‘The Suicide King himself,’ said Rawne, ‘in a standard deck, that’s the King of Knives.’

‘The King of Knives!’ Brostin echoed lustily as the box reached him and he took something out of it.

‘You see,’ Rawne continued, ‘the Tanith called the game Suicide Kings because of that card. The King of Knives. You know why?’

‘No, but I am convinced you’re about to tell me,’ said Hark.

Rawne smiled. ‘Back in the old times, ages past, the ruler of Tanith, the High King, was protected by a bodyguard company. The finest warriors, Nalsheen. They were his close protection, his last line of defence. Instead of blade-tipped staffs, they used straight silver blades, just warknives, so they could close around the High King and protect him with their bodies, and not endanger him with the swings of long reach weapons. It was a great honour for a man to join the bodyguard company, but the chances were he’d die in that service. So when a man took up the duty, the Tanith granted him the powers of king in his own right. The High King was protected by men who had the authority of kings themselves. Absolute power in return for absolute service.’

Rawne looked at Hark.

‘They were known as the Suicide Kings,’ he said. ‘They lived the lives of kings because their lives could end at any second, and they never questioned the sacrifice.’

The box had come back to him. There was one item left in it. Rawne took it out and held it up.

It was a Tanith cap badge, the skull and daggers, but it was dulled down matt black to hide its glint, and the side daggers had not been snapped off, as was the Tanith custom. A letter ‘S’ had been etched onto the forehead of the skull. Every man in the room apart from Hark had one.

‘That’s what we’ll be,’ Rawne said. ‘Suicide Kings. That’s what the “S” stands for, and this’ll be our mark.’

‘You’ve left the side blades on,’ said Hark.

‘For this mark,’ Rawne nodded. ‘Surrounded by straight silver, the way a high king should be.’

‘You surprise me with your sentimentality sometimes, major,’ said Hark.

‘Open the bottles,’ Rawne said to Brostin. ‘We’ll celebrate. Except for the four men who have drawn a badge with a cross scratched on the back.’

The men turned their badges over. Bonin, Mkaninch, Nomis and Laydly had drawn the crosses.

‘Water from the jug for you four, because you’ll be taking the first turn of duty,’ said Rawne. ‘Luck of the draw. Sacra for the other kings. And one for the good commissar, I think.’

Hark took the small glass of eye-watering sacra that Mktally passed to him.

‘Suicide Kings,’ he said, tipping it back.

Though not drunk, Jakub Wilder was by no means sober. The reception was dire and dull in equal measures, and he’d drunk a skinful to try to blot out the fool he’d made of himself with Gaunt. The man made him sick, made him angry. He should have landed that blow. He should go right back, take out his service pistol and shoot the arrogant bastard between the eyes.

They were serving junk too. Some kind of fortified wine. Wilder wanted a proper drink. A grown up drink.

He left the hall and stood in the open for a while to get some fresh air. When he started to feel cold, he went back inside. He bumped into a woman in the entranceway. A damn fine looking woman, damn fine, in a blue dress. An officer’s wife, probably. An officer’s woman.

‘I’m sorry, mam,’ he said, and realised he was slurring slightly.

‘Not at all,’ she replied.

There were stairs down into the undercroft. Wilder had seen the servers bringing bottles up from the cellars. Maybe he could find himself some amasec, some of the stuff that had run out so damn fast at the start of the evening.

He went down the stairs. It was cool and gloomy. He could hear the main reception party, and also the sounds of men celebrating something in one of the undercroft spaces. Some private drinking party, no doubt. He’d avoid them.

Wilder found his way to the cage sections of the pantry where the bottles were racked. He shook the bars, but the cages were locked. The storekeeper would have the key. Damn.

‘There’s always a way to open things,’ said a voice from behind him.

Wilder turned. There were three men behind him. They were sitting out of the way in a corner of the pantry area, crowded in around a small table under an arch. Coming in, he hadn’t seen them.

‘Excuse me?’ he said.

They were Tanith. Two were Tanith born and bred. They had the pale skin and the black hair. One was a red-faced, drunken-looking bastard, the other… well, he just looked like a bastard. Handsome but hard-faced, like there was a bad smell right under his nose. He was a captain from his pins, the red-faced sot a common trooper. The third man wore the black uniform of the regiment, but he was fair-skinned and blond. His eyes were watery blue and his hair was thin, like white gold. There was an aristocratic air about him, a slight snootiness. A cross between a haughty aristo and a deep sea fish that never sees the light and becomes translucent.

‘I said,’ the captain spoke cooly, ‘there’s always a way to open things.’

‘You got a key, have you?’ asked Wilder.

‘As it happens, I have.’ The captain reached into his pocket and held up a small brass key.

‘What are you… the pantry keeper?’ asked Wilder.

‘No,’ said the captain. ‘I’m the guy who knows how much money to pay the pantry master to get a second key cut.’

‘You were looking for a drink?’ asked the aristocratic fish, looking down his nose at Wilder with his milky blue eyes. That hair of his, it only looked white gold because it was so thin. It was pale, like his eyelashes. He’d probably been red-headed as a kid. A little snooty kid in the scholam.

‘I was looking for a drop of proper amasec,’ said Wilder.

‘Then you don’t even need the key,’ said the captain. ‘That is, if you’d care to join us.’

Wilder blinked. He realised he was swaying a little, so he steadied himself against the cellar arch. He realised there was a very expensive bottle of amasec on the table between the three men.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said.

‘Get another glass, Costin,’ said the captain.

The red-faced drunk reached up onto a side shelf and took down a heavy lead-glass tumbler. He put it on the table and carefully filled all four from the bottle.

‘You’re Wilder, right?’ asked the captain.

‘Yes.’

‘Welcome to the First,’ the captain said. ‘I knew your brother. He was a good man. I’m Captain Meryn, E Company. These gentlemen are friends of mine. Trooper Costin.’

The raddled Tanith nodded at Wilder.

‘And this is Sergeant Gendler. Didi Gendler.’

‘A pleasure,’ said the aristo fish. The accent was strong, hard. Wilder had heard enough to know it wasn’t Tanith, and it certainly wasn’t Belladon.

‘You’re a Vervunhiver?’ he asked.

‘No, no,’ said Meryn. ‘Didi’s not just a Vervunhiver. He’s not some scum off the bottom of your boot. Are you, Didi?’

‘Captain Meryn does like his little jokes,’ said Gendler.

‘Sergeant Gendler is better than the rest of us,’ said Costin. ‘It’s well known. He’s proper breeding, is Sergeant Gendler.’

‘I’m just an honest soldier,’ said Gendler.

‘Didi is nobility,’ said Meryn. ‘He’s up-hive blood. Noble-born to a good main-spine family.’

‘Really?’ asked Wilder. ‘How’d you end up in a shit-hole like this, then?’

Gendler stiffened and his languid eyes narrowed.

‘It’s all right,’ said Wilder. ‘No offence meant. I ask myself the same question every morning.’

Meryn grinned. He held up one of the brimming little glasses.

‘Come and join us, Captain Wilder.’

Wilder took the glass and pulled up a stool.

‘What will we drink to?’ he asked. ‘What will we talk about?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Gendler, ‘if you’re down here and not upstairs, it rather suggests you don’t want to be upstairs, or that you’re not welcome. Which, in turn, suggests that we’ve already got something in common, the four of us.’

Wilder looked at the amasec in his glass, and licked his lips.

‘I’m down here,’ he said, ‘because I was sick of that damn party, and I was looking for something to drink to wash away how much I bloody hate the guts of that bastard Gaunt.’

He paused and looked up at the three men sharply, suddenly aware of what he’d said out loud.

‘Now, you see?’ said Meryn. ‘That’s something else we have in common.’

From the shadows of an adjacent corner in the undercroft, eyes watched the four men in their huddle. Eszrah Ap Niht, known as Ezra Night, warrior of the Gereon Untill, kept himself in the darkness, and listened to them talk.

‘Leaving the party early, sir?’ asked Elodie, passing Gaunt in the doorway of the barrack hall.

Gaunt stopped and saluted her.

‘No, mam,’ he said. ‘I’m just stepping out to clear my head. The band can be…’

He faltered.

‘I can hear what the band can be for myself,’ said Elodie, smiling.

Gaunt nodded.

‘I just need a moment to collect my thoughts. There are a few matters to attend to. You’re looking, if I may be so bold as to say, quite stunning this evening.’

Elodie curtsied playfully. She was very pleased with the fit of her blue dress.

‘Thank you, colonel-commissar,’ she replied. ‘You may be so bold.’

‘You’re looking for Captain Daur, no doubt?’

‘I am. He’s inside, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Gaunt. ‘Go join him, and have a very fine last evening on this world.’

Elodie went into the hall. It was crowded and busy with noise. Music and conversation, laughter and the chink of glasses. There were several hundred people present, not counting the staff. The band was making an enormous sound.

‘Have you seen Captain Daur?’ she asked Corporal Chiria, Domor’s adjutant.

‘I think he’s over there, mam,’ said Chiria. She pointed.

Elodie looked. She caught sight of Daur. He was talking to a woman. They were clearly friends. They were laughing. The woman was very good looking. She was wearing an officer’s uniform.

‘Who’s that he’s talking to?’ asked Elodie.

‘Her?’ answered Chiria. ‘That’s Captain Zhukova. She’s influx, arrived today. From Vervunhive. Turns out she and Captain Daur knew each other really well, back in the old days, at the hive. Funny, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ said Elodie.

‘Are you all right, mam?’ Chiria asked. The corporal was a big woman, with a powerful frame. Her face was famously scarred, and it made her seem threatening, but Elodie knew she was very sweet-natured.

‘Yes,’ said Elodie. ‘Of course. I think I just found out the answer to something.’

Merrt pulled the trigger. It was funny the things you didn’t forget. Basic marksman skills, hunting skills, they never went away. Like how to pull a trigger. You didn’t squeeze or jerk it, you didn’t do anything that would shake or upset the fine balance you’d achieved between the weapon and your stance. Pulling the trigger, that most significant act in the art of shooting, was, at its best, the most minimal. A draw. A slow tightening of the finger during the exhale.

The old rifle cracked. Merrt felt the kick of it. He slotted back the bolt-action to eject the shell case.

‘You missed,’ said Larkin.

‘I gn… gn… gn… know.’

‘But you missed less terribly than you did the last ten shots,’ Larkin grinned. He sat up, lifted his scope and took a look down the makeshift range. They’d set up on stretch of sea wall at the far end of the camp area, looking out down the plascrete shore to the filthy waters, with nothing between them and the far shore of Anzimar City three kilometres away except the toxic tide. There was a little jetty of rusting metal steps that led out from the end of the sea wall to a small stone derrick that was sometimes used as a beacon point. The jetty allowed Larkin to limp out to the stone platform and set up empty bottles and cans for practice. Effective range was about three hundred metres. Add in the strong breeze, the smoke and degrading light, plus the poor quality of the old rifle; it was quite a target to take.

Merrt slotted in another round, clacked back the bolt-action. Larkin took a sip of sacra from a flask. It was getting cold and the water stank.

‘Best make the most of this,’ said Larkin. ‘After tonight, all practice is going to be shipside.’

Merrt sighed.

‘It’s not like I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been able to remember what to do. I didn’t forget how to shoot. I just stopped being gn… gn… gn… able to.’

Merrt had once been a crack shot, some said as good as Mad Larks, though it was impossible to make that assessment after so many years. On Monthax, a bitter lifetime ago, he’d taken a las-round in the mouth during the jungle-fight. The medicaes had rebuilt his lower face, fitting him with a crude and ugly prosthetic jaw. Apart from ruining his life, it had spoiled his aim. Larkin knew Merrt was right: you just had to watch him to see he knew what he was doing. He just couldn’t translate technique into actual results. Throne knows, he’d tried. Merrt had spent years trying to re-qualify for his lanyard and get a longlas back.

‘This trip’s a shooting party,’ said Larkin, taking another sip, ‘so I need the best shooters I can get.’

‘That’s not me,’ said Merrt. ‘Not any more.’

‘But you were, Rhen.’

‘Exactly.’

Larkin sniffed.

‘You know what your trouble is?’ he asked.

Merrt tapped his jaw.

‘Nope,’ said Larkin, and reached out to tap a finger against the top of Merrt’s head.

‘Right,’ said Merrt. ‘It’s gn… gn… gn… psychological.’

The jaw tripped him all the time. Apart from being ugly, it tended to seize and clamp, as if he were fighting the neural links the medicaes had wired it to. On some words, not even difficult ones, Merrt ground his jaw as if he were stuck in verbal quicksand. It got worse when he was edgy.

Larkin was no medicae, but life had given him some insight into head stuff. The stress factor suggested that it wasn’t the physical impediment of the jaw so much as a nerve thing, like a nervous tic. Augmetics, especially bulk-fix battlefield stuff, could do strange things to you. Rhen Merrt, Emperor bless him, saw his problem as simply one of gross impairment. He was busted up, ergo he couldn’t shoot any more. Larkin saw it was finer scale than that. The crude and halting neurodes of his augmetics were a constant reminder to Merrt that he was broken and imperfect, even during that one, serene, perfect moment of firing. He could never achieve full concentration. Result: shot ruined, every time.

That was Larkin’s hunch. Except he couldn’t prove it.

And even if he was able to, what could he do about it? Get them to remove Merrt’s jaw?

‘Take another pop,’ said Larkin.

‘So you gn… gn… gn… can watch me miss again?’

‘No,’ said Larkin. ‘I’m not watching the bottles on the wall. I’m watching you. Take the shot.’

In the hall, Bandmaster Yerolemew had finally ushered the players to stop. It was time for them to break, to case their instruments, and enjoy some of the drink and food on offer. Two Tanith pipers on the opposite side of the hall had taken over entertaining the assembly.

The bandsmen came off stage, some carrying their instruments. Erish, one of the standard bearers, was helping Elway re-attach the drum banner to the frame of his field drum. Erish was a big guy, heavily muscled from carrying the weight of the colours staff. He had a back and shoulders that came out like a tulip bulb. On static parade, he played clash cymbals. Nearby, Ree Perday, one of the leads in the brass section, admired him appreciatively as she cased her brass helicon. Gorus, who played woodwind, was adjusting his reed.

‘I need a drink,’ said Gorus. ‘I thought they were going to keep us playing all night.’

‘Not like they even seemed to enjoy it,’ replied Perday. She took off her high, crested cap and stroked her pinned-down hair.

‘Who?’ asked Erish, overhearing. He pushed past a pair of bandsmen with fanfare trumpets to join her. ‘Point out a face, and I’ll smack it.’

‘He would, too,’ said Gorus.

‘Did anyone see where Cohran went?’ Perday asked. ‘He’s been looking odd all day.’

‘Odd?’ asked Grous.

‘Like he was sick.’

Bandsman Pol Cohran was less than two dozen metres away from Ree Perday when she asked after him. He had left the stage, and wandered into the latrine block behind the hall.

He was one of the youngest bandsmen, tall and well-made, good looking. He was especially handsome in the immaculate finery of his parade uniform.

The truth of it was that Pol Cohran was actually a kilometre away, floating in a sump-water tunnel under the groundworks of the main landing field, his white and bloating corpse providing a-source of food for the gel-eyed, pin-toothed residents of the lightless ooze.

In the hall latrine, the other Pol Cohran caught his own reflection in the glass of the small window, cast by the lamp. He looked at himself. For a moment, his face rippled. There was a wet click and crack of bone movement as he relaxed the concentrated effort he had been sustaining, and cranial kinesis restored the normal structure of his skull. An entirely different face looked back.

He rested a second, enjoying the slackening of muscles and the loss of tension, then brought Cohran’s face back with a muffled, gristly clack of bone.

Gaunt had been using office quarters across the quad from the barracks hall. The night sky was smog-dark like stained velvet. There was an acrid back-note of pollution in the air.

He left the bright and noisy hall behind him and went up to his lodgings.

The door was unlocked. A lamp was on. Beltayn was the only one with a key, and Gaunt had just seen him in the hall.

He drew his power sword. The steel slid out of the scabbard silently. Peering through the crack in the door, he could see no sign of an intruder.

Gaunt stepped inside, sword ready. He was making no sound at all. A man didn’t fight alongside the likes of Mkoll and Leyr all these years and not learn how to move like a ghost.

The office area was empty. Or had the papers on his bureau been disturbed? The bedchamber, then. Gaunt could feel that someone was there.

He moved around to the doorway. There was the tiniest flash of movement. His sword came around in a defensive block.

Something stopped it. Something parried his blade. It was moving fast and it was very strong. He reprised, a more aggressive blow. The slash was blocked, then something blurred into him. Gaunt sidestepped, but the attacker was too fast. He took a glancing blow across the shoulder and crashed sideways into a small library table which crashed over, spilling its load of books and data-slates.

Off-balance, he swept the sword around, now igniting its energy charge so that the already lethal cutting edge of the old weapon was enhanced by fierce blue fire. His attacker, still less than a blur, executed a handspring over the sizzling blade and landed behind him. One arm clamped his throat and another pinned his sword arm.

He head-butted backwards, then kicked back, smashing himself and the attacker locked to his back into the office wall. Objects fell off shelves. He used his left elbow and the heel of his boot to dislodge the attacker. The grip tightened, clamping the carotid arteries in his neck. He felt himself greying out. Before the chance went, he drove backwards with even more fury and he and his attacker collided with the desk and brought it over onto the floor with him.

He’d dropped his sword, but the throat-grip had gone. Gaunt came up with his bolt pistol aimed at his attacker’s forehead.

She came up with a laspistol aimed at his face.

‘Drop it,’ he said. He didn’t recognise her.

‘You’re Gaunt,’ she said. Clipped accent. What was that?

‘Yes.’

‘Then this is an unfortunate mistake.’

‘So drop the pistol,’ said Gaunt, ‘or I’ll paint the wall behind you with your brains.’

She thought about it, pursed her lips, and then tossed the ornate and expensive laspistol onto the floor beside her.

‘Identify yourself,’ said Gaunt, his aim not flickering from her forehead.

‘This is an unfortunate mistake,’ she repeated.

‘Not as unfortunate as making me repeat an order,’ he replied.

She was lithe and extraordinarily beautiful. Her elegantly sculptural head was shaved to a fine down of hair. She was clad in an armoured bodyglove and the holster at her hip was shrouded with a red cloth.

‘Maddalena Darebeloved,’ she said. Her lips were very red. ‘I am a licensed lifeguard of Imperial House Chass, Vervunhive.’

Gaunt eased his fingers on his gun-grip thoughtfully, but didn’t move his aim.

‘House Chass?’ he repeated.

‘You did not greet us this afternoon,’ she said.

‘I was detained,’ replied Gaunt. ‘Who’s “us”?’

A second person emerged from the bedchamber. He was a young man of no more than fifteen or sixteen years dressed in a plain black bodysuit and boots.

‘You did not come to greet us,’ said the lifeguard. ‘We came to your quarters to wait for you.’

‘The door lock is gene-coded. Only my adjutant has a copy of the bio-key.’

‘Any door can be opened,’ said the woman.

‘This is not how I wanted to meet you,’ said the young man. He had blond hair, and his youth lent him a feminine aspect.

‘This is not how anyone wants to meet me,’ said Gaunt. ‘Who are you?’

‘This,’ said the lifeguard, indicating 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.’

‘Really? Just like that?’ asked Gaunt.

‘He is part of the influx. The reinforcement effort provided by Great Vervunhive out of respect for you and your achievements.’

‘All of which I appreciate,’ said Gaunt. ‘I just don’t remember saying that highborns could just invite themselves into the command echelon.’

‘It reflects great honour on both House Chass and this regiment,’ said the lifeguard, ‘if the son of the House serves in the Crusade in this capacity.’

‘It won’t reflect anything at all if he gets killed in the sort of Emperor-forsaken hole the scion of a Royal Verghastite House should never be seen in,’ said Gaunt.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said the lifeguard.

Gaunt hesitated. He looked at the boy.

‘Your mother. That would be Lady Merity Chass?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘She asked me to convey her warmest greetings to you.’

‘How old are you?’

‘I am seventeen effective,’ he said.

‘I was on Verghast in 769. That’s just twelve years ago. She had no children then. Even allowing for shift dilation–’

‘I said I was seventeen effective,’ replied Meritous Chass. ‘I am eleven standard actual.’

‘As is common with high status heirs and offspring on Verghast,’ said the lifeguard, ‘my charge’s development has been slightly accelerated through juvenat and bio-maturation techniques so that he achieves functional majority as swiftly as possible.’

‘So you were born just after the Vervunhive conflict?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Just after,’ nodded the boy.

Gaunt blinked, and then lowered his pistol.

‘Throne damn you,’ he said, ‘please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.’

‘Colonel-commissar,’ said the lifeguard, ‘Meritous Felyx Chass is your son.’