The Warmaster

Twenty-Three: The Warmaster

The east wing of the Urdeshic Palace seemed empty, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. Bonin led the way. They passed rooms that were full of abandoned furniture covered in dust sheets, and others that were stacked to the ceilings with boxes and junk. The carpet in the halls was threadbare, and the ancient portraits hanging from the corridor walls were so dirty it was hard to make out what they were of.

The crack and boom of the raid continued outside. The air held an uncomfortable static charge from the palace’s massive void shield, as though a mighty thunderstorm were about to break. When they passed exterior windows, they could see the light of the shield outside, encasing the dome of the Great Hill with its magnetospheric glow.

Time was ticking away. It was already almost two hours since Gaunt had given Van Voytz his deadline. Well, Van Voytz would have to wait for his answer. The east wing was like a warren.

‘I thought there would be guards,’ said Beltayn. ‘I mean, he is the warmaster. I thought there’d be high security, trooper checkpoints.’

‘I think his authority keeps people out,’ said Gaunt. ‘His sheer authority, forbidding visitors.’

‘Really?’ asked Beltayn.

‘He is the warmaster.’

‘If he doesn’t like company…’ Daur began.

‘He’ll have to make an exception,’ said Gaunt.

‘But if he forbids people…’

‘I’ll take my chances, Ban.’

It was certainly odd. The central parts of the massive keep, the war room, the command centres, were packed with people and activity, and every corner and doorway was guarded. But as they’d moved into the east wing they found an increasing sense of emptiness, as if they’d gone from a living fortress into some abandoned derelict, a place from which people had hastily evacuated and never returned.

‘They’re still with us,’ muttered Bonin. Gaunt looked back down the hallway. Sancto and the Tempestus detail, their faces impassive, were following Gaunt at a respectful distance. Gaunt had tried ordering them to go back or to remain in the command centre, but Sancto had firmly refused. Protecting Lord Militant Gaunt was his duty. He would go wherever Gaunt went.

‘At least they’ve hung back at my request,’ said Gaunt. ‘And they haven’t tried to stop us.’

‘That’s because their orders are simple,’ said Bonin. ‘No one’s told them to stop you. Not yet, anyway. I suppose we’ll find out if a warmaster’s direct and angry order overrules a bodyguard command.’

He held up his hand suddenly, and they stopped. Bonin moved ahead to a half-open panelled door. He pushed it wide.

It was a bedchamber. Not a lord’s room – they’d passed several of those, vaulted chambers with beds raised on platforms, the walls adorned with gilded decoration. This was the room of a mid-status court official, a servant of the house. The wood-panelled walls were smoke-dark with old varnish, and the drapes were closed. The only light came from a single glow-globe on the night stand beside the large four poster bed. The stand and the floor were stacked with old books and data-slates. A portable heater whirred in one corner, shedding meagre warmth into the chilly room. That was the sound Bonin had heard.

‘No one here,’ he said.

Gaunt looked around. It was a handsome enough room, but dank and dusty. Surely the bedroom of a servant or aide. This was not the accommodation of a man whose authority dominated a sector of space. The bed hadn’t been slept in, though it had clearly been made up months or even years before and never used. The sheets and coverlet were grey with dust and there were patches of mildew on the pillows.

‘Sir?’ said Daur.

He’d walked around to the other side of the bed, the side with the nightstand. Gaunt went to look.

There was a nest on the floor beside the bed, half under it, a nest made of old sheets, pillows, the cushions from sofas and grubby bolsters. More books and slates were muddled into the lair, along with several dirty dishes and empty, dirty mugs. Whoever used this room didn’t sleep in the bed. They hid beneath it, to the side away from the door, in the darkest part of the chamber, curled up in the kind of fort a child would make when he was scared at night.

Gaunt had seen that kind of paranoia before. He’d seen it in soldiers, even in officers, who had been through too many hells. Sleep eluded them, or if it came, they slept with one eye open. They always faced the door. They would sleep in a chair, or in a dressing room, so they could watch the bed that was in plain view of anyone entering the room, and remain unseen.

Sancto and his men had reached the bedroom door and were looking in at them.

Gaunt glanced at Sancto.

‘Stay there,’ he said.

‘Sir–’

‘I mean it, Scion.’

‘Door, sir,’ said Bonin. He pointed at the wall panels.

‘What?’ asked Gaunt.

Bonin held out an open hand towards the wall. ‘I can feel a draught.’

He walked to the wall, ran his hands along the moldings of the panels, and pressed. A door clicked open.

Gaunt pushed the door wider. It was dark beyond. He could smell old glue, dust and binding wax.

‘Everyone stay here,’ he said.

Gaunt stepped into the darkness. It was a passageway, crude and narrow, just a slot cut in the stone fabric of the keep. He adjusted his augmetic eyes to the low light level and made his way along, skimming the stone wall with his left hand. A dusty curtain blocked the far end of the ­passage. He drew it back.

The room beyond was a library. Its high walls were lined with shelves stuffed with ancient books, rolled charts, parchments, file boxes and slates. Gaunt presumed he must be in the base of a tower, because the shelf-lined walls extended up into darkness, as high as he could see. Linked by delicate, ironwork stairs, narrow walkways encircled every level. Brass rails edged each walkway, allowing for the movement of small brass ladders that could be pushed along to reach high shelves. Several large reading tables and lecterns stood in the centre of the room, their surfaces almost lost under piles of books and papers. Some were weighed open with glass paperweights, and others were stuffed with bookmarks made of torn parchment. Gaunt saw old books discarded on the carpet, their pages torn out and cannibalised as a ready source of page markers. There was a litter of torn paper scraps everywhere. Reading lamps glowed on the tables, surrounded by pots of glue, rolls of binding tape, tubs of wax, book weights, pots of pens and chalk sticks, magnifying lenses and optical readers. Motes of dust whirled slowly in the lamp light, and in the ghost glow cast by the single lancet window over the tables. It was warm. More portable heating units chugged in the corners of the floor, making the air hot and dry, but there was a bitter draught from the open vault of darkness overhead.

For a moment, Gaunt was overcome by a memory. High Master Boniface’s room in the schola progenium on Ignatius Cardinal, a lifetime before. He felt like a child again, a twelve-year-old boy, all alone and waiting for his future to be ordained.

He stepped forwards. His hand rested on the hilt of his power sword. He did not know what he was expecting to defend himself from, except that it might be his own resolve. Coming here, he felt, he was going to make enemies, one way or another.

‘Hello?’ he said.

Something stirred above him in the darkness. He heard brass runners squeak and rattle on rails as a ladder shifted.

‘Is it supper time already?’ asked a voice. It sounded thin, exhausted.

‘Hello?’

Someone shuffled along a walkway two storeys above him and peered down. A small figure, his arms full of books.

‘Is it supper time?’

Gaunt shrugged, craning to see.

‘I don’t know. I’m looking for the warmaster. For Warmaster Macaroth. It is imperative I see him. Is he here?’

The figure above tutted, and hobbled to the end of the walkway. He began to climb down, precarious under the weight of the books he was trying to manage. He was old. Gaunt saw scrawny bare legs and heavy, oversized bed socks made of thick wool, patched and darned. He saw the tail of a huge, grubby nightshirt hanging down like a skirt.

The man reached the walkway below, somehow managing not to drop any of his books. He looked down at Gaunt quizzically, frowning. His face was round, with side-combed hair turning grey. He looked unhealthy, as if he hadn’t been exposed to sunlight in a long time.

‘Warmaster Macaroth is busy,’ he said petulantly.

‘I can imagine,’ said Gaunt. ‘Sir, can you help me? It’s very important I speak with him. Do you know where he is?’

The man tutted again, and shambled along the walkway to the next ladder. A book slipped out of his bundle and fell. Gaunt stepped up neatly and caught it before it hit the floor.

‘Fast reflexes,’ the man remarked. ‘Is it supper time? That’s the real issue here.’

‘I’m sorry–’

‘Is it supper time?’ the man asked, glaring down at Gaunt and trying to keep control of the books he was lugging. ‘Not a complex question, given the great range of questions a man might ask. You’re new. I don’t know you. Has the usual fellow died or something? This won’t do. The war­master is very particular. Supper at the same time. He is unsettled by change. Why don’t you have a tray?’

‘I’m not here with supper,’ said Gaunt.

The man looked annoyed.

‘Well, that’s very disappointing. You came in as if you were bringing supper, and so I assumed it was supper time, and now you say you haven’t brought any supper, and my belly is starting to grumble because I had been led to believe it was time for supper. What have you got to say to that?’

‘Sorry?’ Gaunt replied.

The man stared down at him. His brow furrowed.

‘Sorry is a word that has very little place in the Imperium of Man. I am surprised to hear the word uttered in any context by a ruthless soldier like Ibram Gaunt.’

‘You know who I am?’ asked Gaunt.

‘I just recognised you. Why? Am I wrong?’

‘No.’

‘Ibram Gaunt. Former colonel-commissar, commander of the Tanith First, formally of the Hyrkan Eighth. Hero of Balopolis, the Oligarchy Gate and so forth. A victory record that includes Menazoid Epsilon, Monthax, Vervunhive-Verghast, Bucephalon, Phantine, Hagia, Herodor, so on and so on. That’s you, correct?’

‘You know me?’

‘I know you’re good at catching. Help me with these.’

The man held out the stack of books in his arms and released them. Gaunt started forwards and managed to catch most of them. He set them down on one of the reading tables and went to pick up the few he’d dropped. The man clambered down the ladder. He looked Gaunt up and down. He was significantly shorter than Gaunt. His stocky body was shrouded in the old, crumpled nightshirt, and Gaunt could see the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the yellow shadows under his eyes.

‘The warmaster is not receiving visitors,’ he said.

Gaunt eyed him cautiously.

‘I feel it’s my duty to inform the warmaster that Eltath is under primary assault,’ he said.

‘The warmaster has figured that one out, Lord Militant Gaunt,’ the man snapped. ‘The shields are lit, and there is a ferocious din that is making concentration rather difficult.’

‘This is more than just a raid,’ said Gaunt. ‘The warmaster needs to be aware of–’

The man started to rummage in the stack of books Gaunt had rescued from him.

‘A primary assault, yes, yes. The argument over Zarakppan has finally broken wide open. Thrusts are coming from Zarakppan across the refinery zone, using the Gaelen Highway and the Turppan Arterials. Primary formations of enemy forces, moving rapidly. That’s just interference, of course, because the main assault is coming from the south west, from the Northern Dynastic Claves, up along the southern extremity of the Great Bay, carving along a median line through the Millgate, Albarppan and Vapourial quarters. Messy and sudden, a rapid shift in tactics. I believe there are twenty… three, yes, three… twenty-three lord militant generals present in the Urdeshic Palace who ought to be capable of dealing with the issue competently. Any one of them. Pick a lord militant. That is why they are lords militant. They are born and raised and authorised to handle battlefield situations. Well, except Lugo, who’s a bastard-fingered fool. But any of them. Do you know how many ­battles there are under way on Urdesh right now? At this very minute? I mean primary battles, class Beta-threat magnitude or higher?’

Gaunt began to answer.

‘I’ll tell you,’ said the man. ‘Sixteen. Sixteen. And Ghereppan’s the one to watch. That’s where the business will be done. The warmaster brings an array of lords militant to Urdesh with him, the cream of the corps, ninety-two per cent of the crusade high staff. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they could get their heads out of their arses, collectively, and deal with sixteen battles. The question really is… where’s my jacket?’

‘Here,’ said Gaunt. He took an old, black tail-jacket off the back of a chair. The brocade epaulettes were dusty, and the left-hand breast sagged under the weight of medals and crests.

‘Thank you,’ said the man as Gaunt held it for him so he could put it on over his nightshirt. ‘The question really is not what is happening here in Eltath, but why.’

He fiddled awkwardly with the collar of his jacket, trying to get it to sit straight, and looked at Gaunt.

‘Why? Isn’t that the curious question, Lord Militant Gaunt? Why now? Why like this? Why the tactical shift? What factors have influenced the timing? What has prompted such a drastic effort? Do you not suppose that it is those questions that should really occupy the consideration of the warmaster?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Is the correct answer. Tell me, Gaunt, was it you who started referring to me in the third person or me?’

‘You, sir.’

‘Honestly answered. Yes, well, I can’t be too careful. There are bastards everywhere. Let’s say it was you, because if we say it was me, then people would begin to doubt the clear function of my mental faculties, when I was merely occupied with thoughts of Melshun’s victory at Harppan when you came in and distracted me with notions of supper and the tray you don’t have. Why are you saluting?’

‘Because I should have done it earlier, sir,’ said Gaunt.

‘Well, you can stop it. We’re beyond that moment. You’re here now, and bothering me. I don’t like interruption. Not when I’m working. Interruptions break the flow. I can’t abide them. I need to get on. There’s so much to do. I had a man shot last week for knocking on the door.’

‘Shot?’

‘Well, he came in to polish my boots. Some Narmenian subaltern. I didn’t actually have him shot, but I made it very clear to him that if he did it again, there’d be a wall in the parade ground and a blindfold with his name on it waiting for him. But I actually wrote out the order. Didn’t send it. It was just boots, after all. I can always cross out his name and write in someone else’s next time it happens.’

‘I felt that I had to interrupt you, sir, I–’

The warmaster swatted Gaunt’s words away as though they were a fly buzzing around his face.

‘You’re all right. I had a mind to summon you at some point anyway. Interesting character. I’ve followed your service record. Low key, compared to some, but remarkable. Vervunhive. That was a superb piece of work. And after all, but for you, the Beati would not be standing with us. Have we met?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. Balhaut was a big place. It would have been there, if at all. I’ve kept my eye on you, over the years. You and your curious little regiment. Specialists, I do like specialists. People talk about Urienz and Cybon and their extraordinary track records, and they are remark­able, but you, Gaunt. Over the years, you have achieved on the field of war things that have truly shaped this undertaking of ours. Perhaps more than any other commander in the crusade’s ranks. Apart from me, obviously.’

He peered at Gaunt.

‘On the whole, that’s gone unrecognised, hasn’t it? Your contributions have often been small, discreet and far away from the major warzones. But they’ve chalked up. Do you realise, you are responsible for the deaths of more magisters than any other commander? Kelso would wet himself in public to have that kind of record. I suppose you’ve been overlooked because you’ve never commanded a main force, not a militant division of any size, and there’s that whole business of you being a commissar and a colonel. That made you a bit of a misfit. I suppose Slaydo was trying to be generous to you. He saw your worth. I see it too.’

He paused.

‘I miss Slaydo,’ he said quietly. ‘The old dog. He knew what he was doing, even when what he was doing was killing himself. A tough act to follow. The burden is… it’s immense, Ibram. Constant. Big boots to fill. More than a Narmenian subaltern can polish. Do you know Melshun?’

‘No, sir,’ said Gaunt.

‘Urdeshi clave leader, two centuries back. Fought in the dynastic wars here. Where’s the book gone?’

Macaroth began to leaf through the pile Gaunt had put on the desk. A few volumes fell onto the floor.

‘This library,’ he said as he rummaged, ‘it’s the dynastic record of Urdesh. Centuries of warfare. I believe in detail, Gaunt. The study of detail. The Imperium has fought so many wars they cannot be counted. So many ­battles. And it records them all, every last aspect and scrap of evidence. It’s all there in our archives. Everything we need to win supremacy of the galaxy. Every tactic, every fault and clue. Every battle turns, in the end, on some tiny detail, some tiny flaw or mistake or accidental advantage. Look here.’

He opened the old book and smoothed the pages.

‘Melshun’s clave was fighting the Ghentethi Akarred Clan for control of the Harppan geothermal power hub. He was getting his arse handed to him, despite a beautifully devised three-point assault plan. Then an Akarred officer, very junior, called… What’s that name there? I don’t have my glasses.’

‘Zhyler, sir. Clave Adjunct Zhyler.’

‘Thank you. Yes, him. He failed to close the lock-gate access to the island’s agriboat pen. A tiny thing. A detail. Nonsense really, in the grand scheme. But Melshun’s scouts spotted it, and Melshun sent forty per cent of his main force in through the lock on jet-launches. Forty per cent, Gaunt. Think of it. Such a risk. Such a gamble. Such a potentially suicidal commitment.’

He smiled at Gaunt.

‘Melshun brought down the Akarred. Took Harppan in a night. All thanks to one lock-gate. All thanks to one mistake. All thanks to Clave Adjunct Zhyler. I don’t look at the big picture, Gaunt. Not any more. It doesn’t interest me. The victory isn’t in it. It’s in the details. I look at the wealth of information that we as a race have retained. I analyse the details, the tiny errors, the tiny fragments of difference. And I learn, and I apply correctives.’

‘Your approach is micro-management?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Boo! Ugly term. This war won’t be won by a warmaster, or a lord militant. It will be decided by a single Imperial Guardsman, a common trooper, on the ground, doing something small that is either very right or very wrong.’

Macaroth sat down and stared up at the books surrounding them.

‘It’s all about data, you see?’ he said quietly. ‘The Imperium is the greatest data-gathering institution in history. A bureaucracy with sharp teeth. It’s a crime of great magnitude that we fail to use it. This chamber, for instance. Just a dusty library that gathers the records of one planet’s conflicted past. But it is full of treasure. You know, there’s not a… a mystical tome in this whole place? Not so much as one book of restricted lore or ­heretic power. Nothing the damned ordos would value and seek to suppress. Those wretched fools, locking data away, redacting it, prizing unholy relics. They wouldn’t look at this place twice. They have their uses, I suppose.’

He leaned back and stretched.

‘Your mission to Salvation’s Reach. I understand it may have brought back the sort of Throne-forsaken artefacts that gets the Inquisition damp in the crotch.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macaroth nodded.

‘And it will have value. I’m not an idiot. It will be reviewed and studied, and its use will be applied. Victory may well be hiding there. I am open to these possibilities. No, what really delights me about the Salvation’s Reach mission is the tactical insight. The use of data. Your insight, I suppose. To disinform, and set the factions of the Archenemy against each other. That, Gaunt, is detail at work. Triggering a war between Sek and Gaur. To me, the artefacts that you have returned with are merely the icing on the cake.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gaunt. ‘I wonder–’

‘Spit it out, Gaunt. I perceive value in you, but you are self-effacing. Too timid, which surprises me given your record. Speak your mind.’

‘You mentioned the timing of this attack on Eltath, sir,’ said Gaunt. ‘The suddenly galvanised response. Just days after we returned with the spoils of Salvation’s Reach–’

Macaroth nodded.

‘They want them back,’ he said quickly. ‘They know they’re here, and they want them back. This had crossed my mind. It is on my shortlist of explanations for their change in tactics. Analysis will confirm it. If it’s true, then it’s another detail. Another error. I estimate that the change of tactics and the assault on Eltath will cost them…’

He rummaged on his desk and found a notebook.

‘Here. Nineteen per cent wastage. Sek accepts a crippling loss as the price of changing direction and attacking a near invincible Imperial bastion. So it must be worth it to him. Ergo, the artefacts are of immense value to whoever possesses them. Sek has shown us his cards.’

‘You have prosecuted Sek since day one,’ said Gaunt.

‘Sek is potentially more dangerous than the Archon. If we ignore him and focus on Gaur, we will lose. If we don’t take Sek down first, we will never get clear to deal the grace blow to the Archon.’

‘And your scheme was to set bait for him here on Urdesh?’

Macaroth smiled and waggled a knowing finger at Gaunt.

‘Sharp as a tack, you. Yes. To bait him.’

‘With you, and the Saint, and the majority of the high staff?’

‘How could he resist?’

‘Is Sek a genius, sir?’

‘Quite possibly. Superior in cunning to Gaur, at the very least.’

‘Then have you considered that he might be playing the same game?’

Macaroth frowned.

‘How so?’

‘You come here, with the Saint and the staff, to bring him out and finish him. Might he have placed himself on Urdesh to do the same to you?’

Macaroth pursed his lips. He stared into the distance for a while.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Like the end game of a regicide match. The last few pieces on the board. The most valuable pieces. Monarch against monarch.’

‘What if he has pieces left that you don’t know about?’

‘We’ve analysed in detail–’

Gaunt drew out a chair and sat down, facing Macaroth across the stack of books. Macaroth seemed very frail and tired. Gaunt could see a small tick beat in the flesh beneath the warmaster’s left eye.

‘My lord,’ he said. ‘I agree with you wholeheartedly that data is the key to victory. The Imperium does know so very much about itself. Too much, perhaps. That resource must be used. But my experience, as a common trooper on the ground, is that we know virtually nothing about our enemy. Virtually nothing. And what little we do know is sequestered and restricted, for the most part by the Inquisition, and deemed too dangerous to consider.’

Macaroth started to reply. No words came out. His hands trembled.

‘I miss Slaydo,’ he whispered.

He looked up at Gaunt. His eyes were fierce.

‘I know detail. You, for instance. Your character and demeanour, as reflected by your service record. Your body language. You came here today, though orders reflect my desire to be left alone and the east wing is out of bounds. It was not arrogance that brought you. Not entitlement that you, the newly minted lord militant, should get his audience with me. That’s not you. You feared I was neglecting my duties and oblivious to the assault at our door, that everything the staff said about me was true. That I was a fool, and a madman, a recluse, out of touch. That I am no longer worthy of my rank. You came to warn me.’

‘I did, sir.’

‘But not that the city was under assault. I can see it in you. Some greater weight you carry.’

Gaunt hesitated. He felt a weight indeed. He could feel enemies, waiting to be made, on either side of him.

‘Lord,’ he said, ‘a significant proportion of the commanders at staff level have lost confidence in your leadership. As we speak, they have a process in motion to unseat you and remove you from command.’

Macaroth sighed.

‘There’s gratitude,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘I have watched for enemies with vigilance. I sleep with one eye open. But the enemies­ are inside these walls already. Cybon, is it? Van Voytz? Who else? Bulledin? Who do they intend to replace me with?’

‘Me,’ said Gaunt.

Macaroth blinked.

‘Well, well… They’re not idiots, then. I am reassured at least that they have a keen grip of politics. Of talent. In their position, you would be my choice too. But, Gaunt… You stand to succeed to the most powerful rank in the sector. An outsider, brought to the very forefront, just as I was at Balhaut. You stand to inherit. Yet you come here to tell me this? To warn me?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Do you not want the job?’

‘I haven’t even considered my feelings about it,’ said Gaunt. ‘Probably not, on balance.’

‘Which is why you’re the right man, of course. Why, then?’

‘Because you are the warmaster,’ said Gaunt. ‘I have served you since Balhaut. Duty and history tell me that we are as good as lost the day men like me turn against their warmaster.’