The Warmaster

Sixteen: The Inner Circle

The Munitorum had set up light rigs around the yard of the K700 billet. They cast a foggy white glow that caught the streaking rain. Rawne dismounted from his cargo-4, and walked with Hark and Ludd towards the mobile medicae unit that a Munitorum transporter had hauled in just before dark. Gol Kolea, waiting under the awning, nodded to them.

‘What happened?’ asked Rawne.

Kolea shrugged.

‘Insurgents,’ he replied. ‘Sons of Sek. Eight dead here, another four over in the neighbouring billet. The Helixid.’

‘Feth,’ said Rawne.

‘Did we get them?’ asked Hark.

Kolea nodded.

‘We got ’em all,’ he said. ‘A mess, though. I wasn’t on site when it went down, but Pasha says it was a shambles because our ammo was so low. They were scrambling around for munitions.’

‘Do we have munitions now?’ asked Rawne.

‘We’ve got lights, a food drop and a medical trailer for Curth,’ said Kolea. ‘No ammo train yet.’

‘I’ll get onto it,’ said Hark.

‘We’ve made repeated calls, Viktor,’ said Kolea.

‘They haven’t heard from me yet, Gol,’ Hark said in a soft but dangerous tone. ‘I’ll get onto it.’

As Hark stalked away, Rawne looked around at the area. He could hear rain beating on the roof of the medicae unit and the plastek awning, and water gurgling down the broken chutes and water pipes of the ancient buildings.

‘Did we–’ he began.

‘I’ve got perimeter guards and sweep patrols, yes,’ said Kolea. ‘They won’t get at us again.’

‘I thought this was a safe city,’ said Ludd.

Kolea looked at him.

‘Apparently, this is common here,’ he said. ‘The main front lines are porous. Insurgent cells are getting into the habitation and safe zones.’

Rawne nodded.

‘Gaunt?’ he asked.

‘Still up at staff,’ said Kolea. ‘We’re deciding who gets to talk to him when he gets back.’

Rawne narrowed his eyes quizzically.

Kolea jerked his head towards the medicae unit.

‘Probably you, Eli,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘He hates you anyway,’ said Kolea.

Rawne sniffed and walked up to the door of the medicae unit. Ludd shot a puzzled look at Kolea, then followed. He stopped short when he saw Felyx standing with Dalin beside the entrance.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ludd asked.

‘They won’t let me see her,’ said Felyx.

‘He’s fine,’ said Dalin. ‘Let him be.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do, trooper,’ said Ludd. He looked at Felyx again.

‘They won’t let you see who?’ he asked.

Rawne stepped into the cramped medicae unit. Kolding was suturing the face wound of a Munitorum driver. Curth was slotting instruments into an autoclave. She looked up as Rawne entered, her face cold and drawn, then jerked her head towards the nearest of the gurneys racked up in the back-bay of the unit.

Rawne crossed to it, and lifted the end of the sheet.

‘Feth,’ he said.

‘Gone before I got there,’ said Curth.

‘Who else?’ asked Rawne.

‘List’s on the side there,’ said Curth.

There was a thump in the doorway as Criid entered. She handed a set of medical clippers to Curth.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘I don’t imagine she took it well,’ said Curth.

‘Yoncy’s hair will grow back, Ana,’ said Criid.

‘You used the salve?’

‘Yep. You’ll be using those clippers a lot in the next few days,’ said Criid.

‘I’ll do a full inspect,’ said Curth. ‘I’ve ordered powders from the depot so we can treat all bedding. Lice should be easier to control here than on the ship.’

Criid noticed Rawne. He was lowering the sheet.

‘She was brave,’ said Criid. ‘Went right for them, defending. Defending the boy, more than anything. Taking out a threat to him. And the regiment, but he was the point. She was fast. Trained for intense close protection. Of course, she knew feth-all about street fighting. And in that red suit…’

‘I’ll talk to Gaunt,’ said Rawne.

‘No, I’ll do it,’ said Criid. ‘I was with her at the end.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Curth. ‘It’s the chief medicae’s job.’

They both looked at her.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Rawne, more firmly.

‘Sir?’

Rawne glanced around. Ludd was in the doorway.

‘Felyx… that is to say, Trooper Chass, he wants to see the body.’

‘There’ll be time for that later,’ said Curth.

‘She was like a mother to him,’ said Criid quietly. ‘I mean, probably more of a mother than his actual mother. Even if she was a psycho b–’

‘Stow that, captain,’ said Rawne. He looked at Curth. The medicae took a thoughtful breath, then nodded.

Rawne beckoned Ludd. Ludd brought Felyx up the steps into the trailer. Dalin hovered behind them in the doorway.

Felyx looked especially small and slender, more like a child than ever, Rawne thought. He went across to the gurney where Rawne was standing.

‘You don’t have to look,’ said Curth.

‘He does,’ said Rawne.

‘He probably does, Ana,’ said Criid.

‘You fething soldiers,’ murmured Curth. ‘You think horror inoculates against horror.’

‘It’s called closure, Ana,’ said Criid.

‘If you ask me, there’s far too much of that in the world,’ said Curth.

Rawne reached out to lift the edge of the sheet again, but Felyx got there first. Rawne withdrew his hand as Felyx raised the hem of the bloodstained cover.

He stared for a moment at the face staring back up from the cart.

He said something.

‘What?’ asked Rawne.

Felyx cleared his throat and repeated it.

‘Did she suffer?’

‘No,’ said Criid.

‘She was protecting you,’ said Rawne. ‘That was her job. Her training. Her life.’

‘She died protecting me?’ asked Felyx.

‘Yes.’

‘That doesn’t make it any better,’ said Felyx.

‘It was going to happen eventually,’ said Rawne.

‘Oh, for feth’s sake, Eli!’ Curth snorted.

‘He’s right,’ said Kolding, from the far side of the trailer. ‘A lifeward’s life belongs to the one he or she wards. They put themselves in the line of danger.’

‘There are ways of doing that…’ Criid began.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Felyx, glancing at her sharply.

‘Nothing,’ said Criid.

‘Tell me what you meant,’ said Felyx.

Criid shrugged.

‘Your lifeward excelled at close protection. I mean, she was hard-wired trained for it. Sneak attacks, assassinations. In the environment of a court, or a palace, or an up-spire residence, she was built to excel. But she was no soldier. A warzone like this is a very different place. You don’t run in, heedless and headlong. You don’t rely on speed and reaction alone. You don’t wear red and make yourself a target.’

Felyx’s lip trembled slightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Criid. ‘She was brave.’

‘She’ll need a funeral,’ said Felyx.

‘They’ll all get funerals,’ said Curth. She reached for a data-slate on her crowded workstation. ‘The Munitorum has issued interment permits, and assigned spaces in… Eastern Hill Cemetery Two.’

‘No,’ said Felyx. ‘A formal funeral. With a templum service and a proper ecclesiarch to say the litany, not that idiot chaplain of ours. I won’t have her laid to rest in some mass war grave zone.’

‘Is there something wrong with a military funeral?’ asked Rawne.

‘Or our fething ayatani?’ muttered Criid.

‘Felyx,’ said Ludd, ‘the Astra Militarum provides for all who fall in its service. The services are simple but very honourable. There is a dispensation allowance from the Munitorum–’

‘A private service,’ said Felyx. ‘A private funeral. I have… I have access to funds. Through any counting house here on Urdesh, I can transfer sums from my family holdings. From House Chass. She will have a proper funeral.’

‘She died with us,’ said Rawne. ‘She served with us. She’ll be set in the ground with us, in our custom.’

‘As has been pointed out, major,’ said Felyx, his eyes bright, ‘she was not a soldier. She will be buried as I deem fit.’

Rawne seemed to be about to reply, but stopped as Criid gently caught his arm and shook her head.

‘Uhm,’ Ludd began after a moment. ‘I’d request that Trooper Chass be taken into the supervision of the Commissariat for the time being.’

‘Your care, you mean?’ asked Rawne.

Ludd’s face became hard and unfriendly.

‘I was charged with the trooper’s welfare, given his particular circumstances. With his lifeward gone, there is the matter of his ongoing protection. I will stand as his guardian until–’

‘He’s part of E Company,’ said Dalin from the doorway. ‘What are you going to do? Transfer him? He can’t have a commissar personally watching over him, day and night. Or do you want him moved away from barracks quarters?’

‘I think I made it clear what I want, trooper,’ said Ludd.

‘No,’ said Criid. ‘He stays put. He stays in the ranks.’

‘That’s not your call, captain,’ said Ludd.

‘Chass came to us to learn to be a soldier,’ said Criid. ‘That’s what his mother wanted. That’s what his high-born house wanted. And that’s what Gaunt wants too. He’s not going to learn the ways of the Astra Militarum by being mollycoddled.’

‘I’m not talking about special treatment–’ Ludd began.

‘But you are,’ said Criid. ‘He stays put. He has a decent bond with Dalin. Dalin will look after him and bunk with him. Keep an eye on him. A less obtrusive eye than a commissar.’

Ludd glared at her with what looked like suppressed anger.

‘You’re only saying that because Dalin is your son. You wish to earn him favour in Gaunt’s eyes. It is entirely unsuitable.’

‘And you’re not trying to earn favour?’ asked Rawne.

‘I’m interested in… the boy’s welfare, major,’ Ludd snarled.

‘Enough,’ said Curth. ‘This trailer is small, and there are too many ­people in here already. Settle this or take it outside.’

She looked at Felyx.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to sound unfeeling. I’m very sorry for your loss.’

‘I didn’t say what I said because Dalin’s my son,’ said Criid quietly. ‘I said it because that’s what Maddalena wanted. When I got to her, she was still alive. Barely. I knew… I knew she wasn’t going to make it. She made me promise. She made me swear, that I would do the best for you.’

‘You?’ asked Ludd.

‘Not because Dalin’s my son, but because I am a mother,’ said Criid.

‘She… she was alive?’ whispered Felyx, staring at Criid.

‘For a moment,’ said Criid gently. ‘Just a moment or two. It was too late. She made me promise. She… she trusted me. Feth knows why. She made me promise.’

‘Well, that’s all well and good,’ said Ludd, ‘but–’

‘A soldier’s promise is a serious thing,’ said Rawne quietly. ‘Simple, but serious. Like a soldier’s funeral. Criid was asked, and she promised. We do it the way Criid says.’

‘Major, I object!’ cried Ludd.

‘Object all the feth you want, Ludd,’ said Rawne. ‘I’m senior commanding in this room. Throne, except for Gaunt, I’m senior commanding in this fething regiment. I’ve just given an order. That’s how things will go. Gaunt can overrule me if he likes, but you won’t, Ludd. You should know by now I have feth-all truck with directives from the Officio ­Prefectus. Which will be the end of me, in due course. But right now, we do it Criid’s way.’

‘I’ll take this to Hark,’ said Ludd, his face grim.

‘Knock yourself out,’ said Rawne.

Ludd looked at Felyx. There was a softness in his voice that surprised all of them.

‘Will you..?’ he started. ‘Are you all right with this? Will you be all right?’

Felyx looked back at him. It was quite clear he wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

‘Dalin?’ said Rawne. ‘Take Trooper Chass, get him bunked in a room with you. Just the two of you. Shuffle sleeping arrangements if you have to. My authority.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dalin.

He stepped into the trailer to escort Felyx out. Rawne put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. He leaned forwards and whispered in Dalin’s ear.

‘Look after him, Dal. Eyes on him, you hear me? He’s in shock. And don’t let Meryn feth with him.’

‘Yes, sir. No, sir,’ Dalin said. He glanced at Criid, who nodded, and then led Felyx out into the rain.

After Rawne, Criid and Ludd had departed, Curth finished her clean up, and then turned to look at the death reports piled in her workspace.

Kolding had just sent the patched-up driver off with a bandage around his face.

‘Shall I finish the reports, doctor?’ he asked.

‘I can do it, Auden.’

‘You are tired, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Besides, death and paperwork are two of my specialties.’

She smiled, and nodded.

‘Thank you. I could do with some air at least.’

She stepped out of the trailer into the artificial glare of the yard. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and beyond the limits of the lamp rigs, the world was black and cold.

‘Finished for the day?’

She glanced around and saw Vaynom Blenner strolling up to join her.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘A trying day,’ said Blenner. ‘You know what I always find is an efficacious cure for a trying day?’

‘In your medical opinion?’

‘I am a physician of life, Ana,’ he chuckled. ‘And in my experience, the trials that life spits at us are best deflected by a glass or two of liquid fortification. The Munitorum driver who conveyed me here today was most helpful in releasing a bottle of amasec into my care. If you’d like to join me?’

She looked out into the darkness. There was a faint radiance in the distance, the glow of the city, she presumed. Perhaps the lamps and flares of the Urdeshic Palace that overlooked them all.

‘No, thank you, Vaynom,’ she said. ‘I find, of late, I drink too much.’

‘Surely not,’ he smiled.

‘You should know, Vaynom. I do it all in your company.’

‘And we set the affairs of mankind to rights, two great philosophers together.’

‘No, Vaynom. There’s no philosophy in me either.’

He shrugged.

‘There are, of course, many other ways to unwind, Ana.’

She looked at him. He was startled by the hardness in her eyes.

‘You’re very persistent, Blenner. Very persistent. I think I was clear.’

‘Well, I certainly meant nothing by it, Doctor Curth.’

‘Vaynom, you mean nothing by anything, and everything by every­thing. I have appreciated your friendship these last few months. Truly, I never expected to find any kinship with a man like you.’

‘A man like–? You wound me, doctor.’

‘I have come to know you, Vaynom, and you certainly know yourself. You have a raucously uplifting soul, but there is always an agenda with you.’

‘Never!’ he protested.

‘Always,’ Curth said firmly. ‘You seek to serve yourself, in any way you can. To cushion your life against inconvenient hardship. When I spend time with you, I laugh, and I forget myself.’

‘How is that a bad thing?’

‘I forget that I serve others,’ she said. ‘I am medicae, Vaynom. It is my duty and my purpose. Always has been. I fear that if I dally with you too often, I will lose sight of that. I will begin to subscribe to your more self-interested way of living. I will end up serving myself, not others.’

‘Is that how you see me?’ he asked.

‘You know what you’re like,’ she replied. ‘It is not approbation. You are a man of distinguished qualities, if you’d only own them. In fact, I think the Imperium could be improved if there were more people like you. People who are able to find, against all odds, seams of joy and delight in this fething darkness.’

‘You’re saying I’m a bad influence?’ he said, with a waspish smile. He leaned towards her.

‘I’m completely fething serious, Blenner,’ she said. ‘I have lost myself of late. I have no wish to lose myself any more.’

She turned and began to walk away.

‘This is because she died, isn’t it?’ he called after her. As he said the words, he flinched. He knew they had come out too bitterly.

Curth turned back.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘I heard she died,’ he said. ‘We all heard. Now she’s out of the picture, you can stop wasting time with me and set your sights on–’

She strode right up to him and grabbed him by the lapels.

‘A woman died. Eight people died. And you call it a “trying day”?’

‘You didn’t even like her!’ he blurted, pulling against her grip.

‘I did not, but I am a doctor and that doesn’t come into it. I save lives, Blenner. I don’t judge them.’

‘You just judged mine.’

She let him go, and looked away at the puddles in the yard.

‘I apologise,’ she said. ‘I am not perfect and I am sometimes inconsistent.’

He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘You didn’t like her, Ana. You told me so enough times.’

Curth shrugged off his hand.

‘She was a human life, sir,’ she said. ‘She was brave. She was not a nice person, but she was a good person. She had a duty that she performed steadfastly to the end. An object lesson to both of us, perhaps.’

‘I think you’re upset,’ he said softly, ‘not because she is dead, but because you’re happy she’s dead.’

She wheeled to face him.

‘How dare you?’ she asked.

‘You don’t mean to be. You don’t want to be. The fact that you are upsets that precious sense of self you just lectured me about. Gaunt’s bitch is gone. The way is clear for you to finally–’

‘Stop talking.’

‘–and you cast me aside in the process as disposable–’

‘Stop talking, Blenner,’ she growled, ‘or our friendship, which I value, will be over and done. I confided in you that I had feelings for Gaunt–’

‘Always had feelings…’

‘The duration is hardly the point, you idiot. I confided in you. A friend to a friend. I confided in you, when worse the wear for your procured drink, about your childhood comrade. Your best bosom pal from the bad old days. Ibram Gaunt, the man you like to tell anyone who is listening is your oldest, dearest friend of the ages! Why do you do that? Because it makes you look good to be able to say it?’

‘He is my best friend,’ said Blenner. He looked mortified.

‘Then act like he is. His companion died today. As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t even know it yet. I never cared for her. She was hard to like. But he liked her. He found some consolation in her–’

‘Her face. She looked like–’

‘It doesn’t matter, Vaynom. If you truly know Gaunt, you know he is distant. Alone. He has been his whole life. It’s the old affliction of command. As a colonel and as a commissar, he has to stand apart, to retain his authority, and that makes him remote. I know damn well he’s impossible to reach, and I think his life has made it hard for him to reach out. For whatever ridiculous reason, that woman offered him something that was valuable to him. Now she’s gone. Does that not, for a moment, worry you? How will it affect him? And how will it affect the regiment if he slips into a darker place because of it?’

Blenner sneered.

‘I don’t think you believe a word of that,’ he said. ‘I think… I think you’re good at making generous, principled arguments of care and concern that entirely ignore your own feelings. It’s just smoke. You’re glad she’s gone, and you despise yourself for being glad about it.’

‘This conversation is over, Blenner,’ she said.

‘You know I’m right. Stop dressing it up. Stop pretending there’s some moral principle here…’

He paused.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to strike me?’

‘What?’ she said. ‘No!’

He nodded. She looked down and saw that her right fist was balled. She relaxed it.

‘No,’ she repeated.

‘Well, then,’ he sighed.

‘You’re wrong,’ she said.

‘We’ll differ. And I will check on my old friend the moment he returns.’

‘Good night, then,’ she said. She paused.

‘Vaynom?’

‘Yes, Ana?’

‘You… you are feeling better, these days?’

‘Better?’

‘The nerves? The anxiety?’

‘Hah,’ he said, a dismissive gesture. ‘I am more settled. Good conversations with a friend have helped.’

‘You haven’t… you haven’t asked me for pills. Not for a while.’

‘The placebos, you mean?’ he chuckled.

‘I told you, sir, I was simply following the course of support Doctor Dorden prescribed.’

‘Sugar pills to salve my troubles,’ he said. ‘You know, the placebo effect is very powerful. I am feeling myself again, these days.’

‘Vaynom, if you are not… if, Throne save us, this business between us tonight has unsettled you–’

‘My, but you think a lot of yourself, doctor,’ he said.

She hesitated, stung.

‘Do not backslide,’ she said. ‘Whatever the dispute between us, do not let it cloud you. If you struggle, you can come to me. I will help you. Don’t go turning to the low lives who peddle–’

‘I am enlightened by your low estimation of me, Doctor Curth,’ he said. He tipped his cap.

‘Good night to you,’ he said, and walked away.

She watched him cross the yard, and then turned to find whatever dank billet they had assigned to her.

The banquet had been cleared from the grand salon adjoining the war room of the Collegia Bellum Urdeshi. The generals and lord commanders sat back as servitors brought in amasec and fortifiq. A fire burned in the great hearth.

The company had been convivial, despite Gaunt’s state of shock. It was as if the staff seniors had been keeping straight faces before and could finally share the joke, and celebrate both Gaunt’s elevation and his amusing disorientation.

He had found himself seated between Van Voytz and Bulledin, with Grizmund facing him. Van Voytz had been particularly garrulous, getting to his feet at regular intervals to raise a glass and toast the newest of the lords. Lugo, to Gaunt’s surprise, had been the most entertaining, lifting his soft, hollow voice above the din of feasting to regale the company with genuinely amusing stories, many of them self-deprecating. One tale, concerning Marshal Hardiker and a consignment of silver punch bowls, had been so uproarious that Gaunt had witnessed Lord General Cybon laugh out loud for the first time. Marshal Tzara had smashed her fist on the table so hard it had shaken the flatware, more in mirth at Cybon’s reaction than at the hilarity of the tale itself.

At one point, Urienz had leaned across the table and gestured to Gaunt with the half-gnawed leg of a game fowl he was devouring.

‘You’ll need a good tailor, Gaunt,’ he said.

‘A tailor?’

‘You’re a militant commander,’ said Urienz. ‘You need to look the part.’

‘I… What’s wrong with my uniform? I’ve worn it all my career.’

Urienz snorted.

‘He’s right, you need to look the part,’ said Tzara.

‘This admixture of commissar and woodsman guerrilla is very rank and file, young man,’ chuckled Kelso.

‘I have the mark of office,’ Gaunt replied. He picked up the large, golden crest of militant command that Bulledin had handed him. It was lying beside his place setting. He had not yet pinned it on. Just raising it brought a chorus of cheers and a clink of glasses.

‘It’s not about modesty and decorum,’ said Grizmund. ‘You don’t restyle yourself as a lord of men out of arrogance.’

‘Well,’ said Blackwood, ‘some do.’

‘I heard that, Blackwood, you dog!’ Lugo called out.

‘It’s a matter of apparent status,’ said Grizmund, laughing.

‘My men have never had a problem discerning my authority,’ Gaunt said.

‘In a company of five thousand?’ said Urienz. ‘Perhaps not. But in a warhost of a hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand? You look like a commissar.’

‘I am a commissar.’

‘You’re a militant commander, you stupid bastard!’ roared Van Voytz. ‘When you step upon the field, you need for there to be no doubt who wields power. You don’t want men asking, “Who’s in charge here?”… “That man there!”… “The commissar?”… “No, the man standing with the other commissars who isn’t just a commissar”…’

‘It’s not pride, Gaunt,’ said Grizmund. ‘It’s necessity. You need to look like what men of all regiments will expect.’

‘You need to stand out,’ growled Bulledin.

‘A cloak, perhaps?’ suggested Tzara. ‘Not that ratty rag you wear.’

‘Perhaps an enormous void shield parasol supported by battle-servitors!’ cried Lugo.

‘I will take the wise advice of my lords and turn myself at once into the most colossal target for the enemy,’ said Gaunt.

The table shook with laughter.

‘Take the address of my tailor, at least,’ said Urienz. ‘He’s a good man, in the Signal Point quarter. A clean jacket, a sash, that’s all I’m talking about.’

As the meal ended, the generals began to leave, one by one. Duties and armies awaited, and some had been from their HQs too long already. Every one of them shook Gaunt’s hand or slapped him on the back before they left.

It came down to Van Voytz, Cybon, Bulledin, Blackwood, Lugo and Tzara.

‘I feel I should return to my company,’ said Gaunt, finishing the last of his amasec. ‘They’ve barely disembarked.’

‘There are still some matters to discuss, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. He shot a nod to the house staff waiting on them, and they withdrew, closing the doors behind them.

‘The state of the crusade, and the campaign here?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Oh, yes, that,’ said Cybon. ‘We’ll get to that.’

‘I was eager for full intelligence reports,’ said Gaunt. He gestured to his crest on the table. ‘Now, more so, for I believe it is my duty to review.’

‘My man Biota will furnish you with everything you need,’ said Van Voytz. ‘A full dossier, then a briefing tomorrow or the day after to examine strategy.’

‘And when do I get an audience with the warmaster?’ Gaunt asked.

Logs crackled and spat in the grate. Bulledin reached for the crystal decanter, and refilled his glass and Gaunt’s.

‘Our beloved warmaster,’ said Van Voytz, ‘may he live eternally, is a very removed soul. Few of us see him these days.’

‘He abides alone here, in the east wing,’ said Tzara. ‘He was ever a man of tactics and strategy–’

‘Brilliant strategy,’ put in Lugo.

‘I do not dispute it, Lugo,’ said Tzara. ‘How one man can assemble and contain the data of this entire crusade in his mind and make coherent sense of it is a marvel.’

‘It was always his chief talent,’ said Gaunt. ‘To see the Archenemy’s intent five or ten moves ahead. To orchestrate the vast machineries of war.’

‘An obsession, I think,’ said Blackwood. ‘Isn’t there some obsessive quality to a mind that can negotiate such feats of processing?’

‘It is an obsession that consumes him,’ said Cybon. ‘He withdraws more and more each day into a solitary world of contemplation, ordering scribes and rubricators to fetch him the latest scraps of data constantly. He scrutinises every last shred with fearful precision, looking for that clue, that opening, that nuance.’

‘You speak as if he’s ill,’ said Gaunt.

‘These last years, Bram,’ said Van Voytz, ‘the machinations of the foe have increasingly made less and less sense.’

‘I have heard speculation that they are driven by a madman,’ said Gaunt.

‘You do not think that bastard Sek mad?’ asked Lugo.

‘Of course,’ said Gaunt. ‘But deviously so. There was a cold logic, a strategic brilliance that could not be denied. Sek is an unholy monster, but like Nadzybar before him, he is undoubtedly an able commander of war. As good, dare I say, as any we have.’

‘I’ll summon the ordos, shall I?’ sniggered Bulledin.

‘I mean to say, sir,’ said Gaunt, ‘at least, he was. His record was undeniable. Of course, my knowledge is ten years out of date.’

Light laughter ran around the table.

‘If Sek is insane,’ said Blackwood quietly, ‘if he has fallen into a despairing insanity and lost that touch which, I grant you, he did possess… then what do you suppose happens to a man who studies Sek’s plans in obsessive detail, day after night after day, searching for a pattern, for the sense of it?’

‘Are you saying…?’ Gaunt began.

Van Voytz sipped his amasec.

‘If you look into madness, Bram, you see only madness, and you run mad yourself seeking a truth in it, for truth there is none.’

‘Maybe I should summon the ordos,’ said Gaunt stiffly.

‘Macaroth’s great weapon is his mind,’ said Cybon, his voice almost a whisper like steel drawn from a scabbard. ‘I deny it not. The man is a wonder. But his mind has been turned against him by too many years of gazing on insanity.’

There was a long silence.

‘This is the matter you wished to discuss?’ asked Gaunt.

‘We are the inner circle, Bram,’ said Van Voytz, his good humour gone. ‘The six of us here. Seven, if you sit with us. Among us, some of the most senior commanders of the crusade. A warmaster is only as good as the lords militant who surround him, lords who follow his orders, but who also check his decisions. We keep him true.’

‘He shuts us out,’ said Bulledin. ‘Not just us, but all thirty who were present tonight, and other revered lords too. He takes no advice. He takes no counsel. He takes almost no audience.’

‘We keep him true,’ said Bulledin, ‘but he will not let us.’

‘The Sabbat Crusade is in crisis, Gaunt,’ said Cybon. ‘We do not speak out of disloyalty to Macaroth. We speak out of loyalty to the Throne, and to the hope of triumph in this long campaign.’

‘You plot, then?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Your word,’ said Blackwood. ‘A dangerous word.’

‘I don’t like what I’m hearing,’ said Gaunt. ‘Are you contemplating a move against the warmaster? To force his hand and oblige him to change his policy? Or are you planning to depose him?’

‘Macaroth does not listen to us,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We have tried to advise, and he will not take our recommendations. His rule is absolute, far more than Slaydo’s ever was. Bram, this happens. It’s not unprecedented. Great men, the greatest, even, they burn out. They reach their limits. Macaroth has been warmaster for twenty-six years. He’s done.’

‘Warmasters may be replaced,’ said Cybon. ‘Too often, they fall before it becomes necessary, but it is the very purpose of the lords militant to watch their master and check his thinking. If a warmaster begins to falter, then his lords militant are failing in their solemn duty if they do not remedy that weakness.’

‘We are the inner circle,’ said Van Voytz. ‘This is not a conclusion we have come to easily or quickly.’

‘And not because he has overlooked or slighted so many of you during his mastery?’ asked Gaunt.

Tzara looked at Van Voytz.

‘You said he was bold,’ she said.

‘I said he speaks plainly,’ Van Voytz replied. ‘I’ve always admired that.’

He looked at Gaunt.

‘Has he slighted each one of us?’ Van Voytz asked rhetorically. ‘Yes. In some cases, many times. Have we seen past and borne those slights? Every time, for we have, ultimately, always come to see the greater sense of his intentions. This is not personal malice, Gaunt.’

‘And you all think this way?’ asked Gaunt. ‘Not just the six of you? All thirty tonight?’

‘Not all,’ said Cybon. ‘Some, like Grizmund, are new-made and still grateful to Macaroth. Some, like Urienz, had their careers forged by Macaroth and would never speak out against him. Some, like Kelso, are just too old and doctrinaire. But all feel it. All see it. And most would side with us if we made an intervention.’

‘But you are the inner circle?’ said Gaunt.

Tzara lifted her glass.

‘We are the ones with no agenda except victory,’ she said. ‘The ones with nothing to forfeit from his favour. We are the ones with the balls to act rather than struggle on in silence.’

‘And how will you act?’ asked Gaunt. He took a sip of his drink to steady his temper.

‘In coordination,’ said Cybon, ‘we can raise a declamation of confidence. This can be circulated through staff and countersigned. We all have allies. A majority will carry it. We are more than confident we have the numbers. Then we present it to him, and make our decision known to him.’

‘A formal and confidential request has already been sent to the Sector Lord of Khulan, the Masters of the Fleet and the High lords of Terra for their support in the disposition of the warmaster,’ said Blackwood.

‘This is no ward room coup, Gaunt,’ said Bulledin. ‘We have begun the process formally, and with due respect to the approved procedure. We are doing this by the book.’

Gaunt looked at the crest on the tablecloth in front of him.

‘This makes more sense now,’ he said grimly. ‘Another vote to carry the numbers. A militant commander in your pocket. You know I owe personal loyalty to at least three of you. You count on me being your man. It makes this rather hollow.’

‘It’s deserved, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘Fully deserved.’

Gaunt looked at him.

‘Tell me, Barthol, before this was pressed into my unsuspecting hand tonight, did you have the numbers? Or am I the one vote that sways the difference?’

‘We had the numbers, Gaunt,’ snapped Cybon. ‘We’ve had them for years. Your support would simply add to the strength of our voice, not force a majority.’

‘That crest, militant commander, was given to you for your service,’ said Lugo. ‘As Barthol says, it is fully deserved. But the timing…’

‘The timing, sir?’ asked Gaunt.

‘It was necessary to elevate you as soon as possible,’ said Lugo.

‘The process of deposition is under way,’ said Bulledin. ‘There was just one factor we did not have in place.’

‘And what’s that, sir?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Succession,’ said Cybon.

‘No man of rank less than militant commander could ever be elected directly to the post of warmaster,’ said Van Voytz.

‘Are you…’ Gaunt started to say. ‘Are you insane?’

‘We cannot simply depose Macaroth in time of war,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We cannot break the line of command. Deposition needs to go hand in hand with succession. To see this through successfully, we need to have the replacement standing ready. A candidate acceptable to all.’

‘We all have baggage,’ said Blackwood. ‘It can’t be any of us.’

‘Besides, that would smack too much of personal ambition,’ said Tzara.

‘But you,’ said Lugo, ‘the People’s Hero, the slayer of Asphodel, Saviour of the Beati, returned in glory, ten years missing, no litany of feuds and staff squabbles dogging your heels. And no history of ambition in the ­matter. Your hands are spotlessly clean. Why, you were unaware of the entire initiative until tonight.’

‘Slaydo almost did it after Balhaut,’ said Cybon. ‘You know that.’

‘You are our candidate, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We do not need your support. We merely need you to be ready when we declare you warmaster.’