‘Stand by,’ replied Rawne, waving a hand distractedly at Oysten. She jumped up and passed him a data-slate and stylus.
‘All right,’ said Rawne. ‘Go.’
‘First point. The Tanith First is now cleared at vermilion level. Copy that?’
‘I heard.’
‘Gaunt orders you to withdraw from the Old Town district, effective immediately. Pull everybody. Commandeer transports if you have to. Leave any wounded at field stations, or have them shipped to the palace.’
‘Understood.’
‘You have two targets, both inside Eltath limits. Orders are to secure both locations. Both are classified. Location one…’
Rawne wrote the details down on the slate in company code, then read them back to make sure there were no mistakes.
‘Secure both sites,’ Daur said over the link. ‘The stones are at site one. Send the main force there. The pheguth is at site two. Smaller, mobile force there. Gaunt thought you’d want to handle that one yourself.’
‘Indeed.’
‘You’ve got that clear?’
‘I have. What’s this shit about?’
‘I don’t know the half of it myself,’ Daur replied. ‘But this is direct from the top, coded special task deployment. I’m advising you to keep this to yourselves. You have waiver authority to pass where you need to pass, but don’t discuss the details with any other units.’
‘Are we compromised, Daur?’
‘We don’t know anything, Rawne. Situation is fluid. But this is special task deployment. Gaunt needs men he can trust to perform this, and you’re the only ones in reach.’
There was a long pause. The rain pattered down.
‘The only ones period,’ Daur added. ‘This is on us. The Ghosts are now a discretionary unit operating at the Lord Executor’s personal instruction.’
‘So… outside the Guard command structure?’
‘For the duration. Those two locations carry the highest confidence ratings. Update on this channel as you can. And don’t feth it up.’
Rawne cleared his throat.
‘How deep are we in this, Ban?’ he asked.
‘Assume it’s the end of the world and your arse is on fire, then act accordingly,’ said Daur. ‘The Emperor protects–’
‘Feth he does. Rawne out.’
Rawne stood for a moment reading back over the notes he’d made. Then he took off the headset and tossed it back to Oysten, who caught it neatly.
‘You weren’t planning on living forever were you?’ Rawne asked her.
‘Sir?’ his adjutant replied, puzzled.
‘Skip it. Call the Ghosts in. All of them. Disengage and fall back to my marker. Now.’
Daur handed his headset back to Beltayn. Rain was lashing against the tall windows of the palace and the overhead lamps were flickering slightly, as if damp had got into the wiring.
‘They’re despatched,’ he said.
‘I’ll inform the Lord Executor,’ Beltayn replied.
‘That’ll have to wait,’ said Hark.
They turned to look at him.
‘He’s got a greeting to make,’ said Hark.
Gaunt led his small honour guard into the reception chamber. It was one of the finest rooms of the palace, its floor tiled, its pillars and cornices gilded. Mythical beasts of the ancient Cyberzoic Era ran rampant across the immense ceiling fresco, surrounding a luminous image of the God-Emperor, who they seemed to regard with a mix of appetite and dread. The God-Emperor looked down, sword raised, one mailed foot resting on the head of a vanquished and pliant cockatrice.
Rows of company and brigade banners had been brought into the hall and set up along its length specifically for this moment. Many were still damp and dripping. At the far end, a large hydraulic hatch had been opened, allowing for a view out onto the exterior landing platform. Gaunt could feel the wind blowing down the length of the hall, and see the veil of heavy rain outside.
He advanced. In step behind him were Kolea, Grae, Inquisitor Laksheema and the Tempestus squad.
At the far end, just inside the hatch, Lord General Barthol Van Voytz was waiting. There was a wet semi-circle on the floor at the hatch sill where the wind was blowing the rain in. Van Voytz had put on his finest uniform, the breast ribboned with medals. Accompanying him were a dozen other senior officers and adepts and a phalanx of heavy Urdeshi storm troops. Gaunt recognised their leader, Kazader of the 17th.
The storm troops were set either side of the hatch, rigidly at attention with weapons presented. They were as immobile as granite. Kazader matched their pose, but Gaunt could tell Kazader was watching him approach out of the corners of his eyes. Kazader was one of Van Voytz’s inner circle. There was bad feeling there.
Van Voytz turned as Gaunt came up, and the party of officers turned with him. All snapped a salute in unison. Van Voytz’s salute was a nanosecond slower than the rest. It wasn’t because Barthol was an older man, Gaunt thought. He wasn’t slow. That tiny delay was micro-aggression. A way of showing his resentment without being directly insubordinate.
Gaunt returned the salute.
‘At ease,’ he said. ‘The Emperor protects.’
Van Voytz stepped closer, making a respectful head-bow with a smile on his face. All for show.
‘My lord,’ he said, like an old friend.
He held out his hand, and Gaunt shook it. Like we’re all pals together, he thought. No grudge, no bitterness. He wants to stay relevant inside high command, and if that means making a show of friendship to a man who blocked his plans, a man whom he once regularly sent to do death’s work…
Gaunt smiled. The informality of the handshake wasn’t for his benefit. It wasn’t a gesture of reconciliation. It was for the officers looking on. Look at me. I am Van Voytz, the old wardog. I am so tight with the Lord Executor, I get to bypass protocol and shake his hand.
‘Has the transport arrived?’ Gaunt asked.
‘It touched down some minutes ago,’ said Van Voytz, ‘but no one has yet emerged.’ Gaunt noted how Van Voytz avoided the honorific of ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’, yet could not bring himself to risk an ‘Ibram’.
‘Awaiting security clearance from the war room,’ said Gaunt.
Van Voytz nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.
‘Then we have a moment, Barthol,’ said Gaunt, drawing him to one side. Van Voytz went with him eagerly, but his expression was tight.
‘There’s bad blood between us, Barthol,’ Gaunt said quietly.
‘Not at all, not at all…’
‘We need to work together, Barthol,’ said Gaunt firmly. ‘This is a precarious time. High command needs to be of one mind and one purpose. So don’t deny it. There’s bad blood here.’
‘Well…’
‘And there always has been.’
Van Voytz looked both shocked and pained. ‘Now, sir–’
‘Since Jago, and there’s a lesson there. I learned it the hard way. Duty and service over friendship. My duty was to your command then, and it was what it was. I see a bigger picture that you always urged me to appreciate. Now your duty is to me. Our roles are reversed. It’s uncomfortable for you, but at least I’m not sending you into a killing ground.’
Van Voytz cleared his throat, and sagged slightly.
‘I appreciate that,’ he replied.
‘You were on the path to disgrace, Barthol. Macaroth wanted your head on a stick.’
‘I was merely putting the safety of the crusade first–’