‘It’s good to have you back,’ Baskevyl said to Kolea.
‘It is.’
Kolea glanced around. Dalin had appeared, gently pushing his way through the amused crowd of onlookers.
‘Hello, son,’ said Gol.
The morning showed no signs of ending. From the darkness outside the chamber windows, it looked like it was night already, and they had sat through the entire day, but Merity knew that was just the storm hanging over Eltath, a turbulent, rain-belting blackness that had despatched any sign of daylight.
Senior Tactician Biota had seized the room ‘by order of the Lord Executor’, a phrase he seemed to enjoy using. The chamber was a prayer chapel adjoining the hub of the main war room, a vast place teeming with people that Merity had only glimpsed as they had gone past it.
The chapel was small, but a cogitation station and a strategium display had been brought in, along with an old, solid table that could accommodate ten. As part of the war room area, the chapel was screened and proofed against scanning and detection. The trunking on all the device cables was thick and reinforced, there was a small back-up power unit, and the walls had been crudely over-boarded with panels of bare flakboard that sandwiched suppression materials against the original stonework. Even the windows had been treated with anti-invasive dyes, which further darkened them, adding to the gloom, though Merity could still see the shifting speckle of raindrops striking them.
The back-up power unit was also an asset. Main palace power kept fluctuating, and twice during the morning had blink-failed entirely, causing displays to go dark. Biota had taken to kicking the power unit automatically every time the lights dimmed, to make it whirr into action. It had become a reflex gesture: he did it even when he was talking, without even looking at it.
She quite liked Biota. She believed his name was Antonid. He was a veteran, but no soldier. The small, bespectacled man had spent his career in the Departmento Tacticae, and he seemed fiercely clever, though his people skills were clumsy. She suspected he was the cleverest man she had ever met. Throughout the morning, he had led the way through a slew of documents, discussing everything from ‘geographical suitability’ to ‘Munitorum Asset efficiency’, and displayed a knowledge of everything. He didn’t even need to consult lists to be able to name, with accuracy, specific divisions, companies, unit commanders, or the numbers of men active in any bracket. Now he was leading the way through a review of orbital images, pointing out details she wasn’t able to detect.
It was fascinating, yet still boring. Merity had a decent general grasp of the situation at Eltath, and on Urdesh at large, but the minutiae were lost on her. She could barely follow the logistic data, the deployment specifics, or the tactical nuance. Biota’s team had spent ten minutes debating the weight tolerance of a single bridge in Zarakppan.
But she had always been fascinated by the sight of people, expert people, doing what they did best. There was a wonder to it. And these individuals, hand-picked by Biota to form her father’s tactical cabinet, were the best. Among the best in the entire Imperium, and certainly within the crusade host.
It reminded her of the long afternoons when she had been forced to attend the congress meetings of House Chass, where matters of hive politics and house business affairs were discussed in forensic detail. Now, as then, she was but a witness. Beltayn had assured her she would come to grasp the finer points soon enough. She certainly had nothing to offer, except her attention and the promise of direct access to the Lord Executor, should the need arise.
She did not have an actual seat at the table. Biota had vaguely pointed her to a row of chairs in the corner. She started off taking notes, but Beltayn had seen her doing this and had shaken his head.
‘Why?’ she’d whispered.
‘It’ll end up in the burn box as soon as you leave the room. I’ll get you an encrypted slate for tomorrow.’
Merity had put the noteblock aside, and tried to rely on her memory.
Aside from Beltayn and Biota, there were three others present. Two wore the same tacticae uniforms as Biota: a younger man named Willam Reece, who had the darkest skin she’d ever seen, and a rather tall, haughty woman called Geneve Holt. Neither seemed to smile, ever, and they matched Biota’s pace and knowledge detail for detail.
The other person was a fierce, body-armoured Tempestus Scion called Relf. Relf had been assigned to guard Merity, and the Scion had taken it upon herself to remain standing throughout, at duty beside the door. Biota had broken his flow several times to offer the Scion a seat.
‘Thank you, no,’ Relf had replied each time.
Eventually, around mid-morning, Biota had insisted she sit down.
‘You’re in my eye-line every time I look at the display,’ he said.
‘I would prefer to stand,’ Relf had replied. ‘Standing, I can react more swiftly to danger presenting at the doorway.’
‘If danger presents at the doorway, then the palace has fallen,’ remarked Holt, ‘and then we’re all screwed, and you being here will make little odds.’
Reece had actually laughed at this.
‘Take a seat, Scion,’ Biota had said. ‘I insist. By order of the Lord Executor.’
Relf had, reluctantly, sat, though she had taken Merity’s chair and forced Merity to shift one seat down so that Relf could be between her and the doorway.
Merity hadn’t argued. She was used to this kind of protection work. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a lifeward.
Biota was finishing up the orbital scans when there was a knock at the door. Relf answered immediately, and after some wary discussion with the porters, admitted a very fierce woman in the uniform of a lord militant.
‘Ah, Marshal Tzara,’ said Biota. ‘We’re ready for your presentation. Please, take a seat.’
Tzara, het-chieftain of the Keyzon host and Mistress of the Seventh Army, eyed the chapel room and its occupants stiffly.
‘The Lord Executor asked me to report to you and deliver yesterday’s data from the suppression in the Northern Claves. I’m not sure why I couldn’t send an adjutant to do this, nor why I am asked to report to a broom cupboard.’
‘The Lord Executor wants the chain of command kept as short as possible, Marshal,’ Biota replied. ‘Senior officer briefings only, to reduce data dispersal and the risk of breaks in the confidence chain. Reporting to me, you may consider yourself reporting to the Lord Executor himself.’
‘This is undignified,’ said Tzara. ‘This is his… tactical cabinet?’
‘Yes, well…’ Biota faltered slightly.
‘Triage,’ Beltayn hissed at him.
‘You have requested his audience several times, and it was granted this morning,’ said Biota.
‘Indeed–’ Tzara began.
‘One does not need to be an expert on human behaviour to see that you want to ingratiate yourself with the new First Lord.’
‘Is that so?’ Tzara said. The tone of her voice dropped the temperature in the room.
‘Well, yes,’ said Biota. ‘No one likes to fall from grace.’
‘I have not fallen from grace,’ Tzara snarled.
‘No,’ said Biota, ‘but the precipice is close and sheer. You backed others in the move to disempower Macaroth. You’ve held on to your position, like Lord Blackwood and Lord Cybon, but there is a cloud over you. You need an ally, and the Lord Executor is the best ally to have. So please, take a seat. Consider my polite request an order of the Lord Executor.’
Tzara sat down.
‘He really likes saying that,’ Merity whispered to the Scion beside her. Relf trembled slightly. Merity realised the Scion was trying to suppress a snigger.
‘Please walk us through yesterday’s efforts in the Clave theatre,’ said Biota. ‘Be as specific as possible. We have received a summary document, but you will have detailed lists of enemy strengths and so on.’