He paused, and scratched his cheek, thinking.
‘Request you confirm that,’ said Marshal Tzara. ‘You wish evacuation to proceed?’
‘Yes,’ said Van Voytz.
‘Then you still believe the situation in the undercroft–’
‘The power died for a reason, Marshal,’ he replied. ‘It wasn’t a random bloody fault.’
‘We don’t know anything,’ she said calmly.
‘Exactly,’ he replied. ‘Except we do, because Gaunt told us that shit was happening.’
He glanced at Kazader, and then back to the Keyzon Marshal.
‘Marshal Tzara?’
‘My lord general?’
‘I’m committing theatre control to you as of now. You have my orders and my objectives. Follow them.’
‘With discretion?’ asked Tzara.
‘With the dedication of a Throne-damn bloodhound,’ he replied. Then he nodded. ‘You have discretion, of course, Tzara,’ he said, ‘but use it sparingly. Are we understood?’
‘Perfectly, lord general.’
He straightened formally, and made the sign of the aquila.
‘I commit theatre command to you at this time,’ he said. ‘Let it be so recorded.’
She returned the salute.
‘I accept and receive this duty,’ she replied. ‘Let it be so recorded.’
Van Voytz turned to Kazader.
‘Get your storm troops, colonel,’ he said. ‘You’re with me. And find me a damn gun.’
‘Is that lights?’ asked Hark.
The wardroom they had been taken to was lit with small lamps and candles, but its large windows looked out across the Hexagonal Court towards the main keep.
Inquisitor Laksheema was standing at the windows, staring out. She was a tall, slender phantom in the twilight.
‘I believe so,’ she replied. ‘It looks as though they have restored power to the main keep.’
‘That’s something, then,’ he replied. ‘Felt like we were sitting here with our pants down.’
‘Something you often do, Commissar Hark?’ she asked.
‘I’m a soldier, mam,’ he replied. ‘We get up to all sorts.’
Hark was lying back on a couch. A Keyzon corpsman had just finished swabbing and stitching the gashes on his throat and face, and now had turned to the stump of his augmetic and was sealing the shredded wires with a fusing wand.
Laksheema had refused any treatment. Her robes were torn, and the burnished, ornate augmetics of her face and body were grazed and scratched. When the orderlies had come to her, she told them that she was not in any pain and they should attend those who were.
Hark wondered if she had any significant organic parts, anything that could feel pain. Feel anything.
She was pacing before the windows. The digital weapons inlaid in the golden cuff of her left wrist had been destroyed in the ordeal. She kept adjusting the still-functional ones built over her right wrist like an elaborate golden bangle.
She crossed to the doorway of the adjoining room and watched the Urdeshi surgeons working by candlelight to repair the grievous wounds Sancto had received. The Scion had long since slipped from consciousness. He’d been laid out on a dining table, and the floor around it was littered with parts of his body gear and blood-soaked surgical towels.
She observed impassively for a moment, then walked back through the wardroom and stepped out into the corridor.
Hark glanced at the corpsman.
‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Sir?’
‘You gonna re-fit me with an arm tonight?’
‘Sir, I’m just a–’
‘Thought so,’ said Hark. He got up off the couch, and tossed aside the surgical smock that had been draped across him. ‘Thanks for your duty,’ he said to the corpsman.
Hark walked out into the hall. He was sore as hell. Every joint. He couldn’t have been more thoroughly bruised if Brostin had come at him with a mallet. The arm he didn’t mourn. The augmeticists would fix him a new one. His plasma pistol, though. It had been a beauty. He’d miss that.
He sighed. There were many more important things to miss and mourn.
The corridor was wood-panelled and grand. Old paintings hung in gilt frames, though it was impossible to see what they depicted. Layers of age-darkened varnish and the weak glow of the lamps in the hall conspired to make them impenetrable. There was almost a warmth to the hall with its dark wood and dim yellow light. The Urdeshic Palace had been a fine, grand place once. He would not, he felt, remember it fondly.
Several doors along was the entrance to the prayer chapel where most of the Tanith survivors were being ministered to. He could hear Zweil, leading them in a deliverance blessing.
Not quite Hark’s cup of caffeine.
Down by the chapel door, in the shadows, he saw the orange coal of a lho-stick. Hark squinted. It was Meryn, leaning against the wall, smoking. The old ayatani’s blessings were clearly not his cup of caffeine either.
Hark began to walk in Meryn’s direction. He was a cigar man, himself, but a shared smoke with a Guardsman was a bonding thing that often helped after a nasty go-around.
But he stopped. Flyn Meryn wasn’t good company at the best of times. Hark walked the other way instead.
Something stirred in the shadows above him and rasped. He glanced up, and saw the regiment’s mascot peering down at him. It was perched on a game trophy, the mounted skull of a creature that possessed the broadest and largest antlers he’d ever seen.
‘Rough night, bird,’ he said to the half-hidden eagle. It clacked its beak angrily. ‘I hear you,’ he replied, and wandered on. He flexed his hand. His one remaining hand. The bird had made him jump. He had reached instinctively for his weapon, but the arm he had reached with was just a phantom, and the holster empty. With his good hand, he felt under his coat to the back of his waistband, and found his hold-out weapon, a snub-nose laspistol in a leather buckle-on pouch. At least that was still there.
Laksheema was standing at a doorway just ahead, staring in. He joined her.
Through the open door, he saw Curth and several medicae aides attending to the Beati. She was laid out on a bed, straight and still, like a body ready for viewing.
Captain Auerben was watching Curth work. She noticed Hark and the inquisitor at the door and came out to them.
‘She has not regained consciousness,’ she said. Her voice was just a croak. Hark had been told that Auerben had been hurt by a pyrochemical burst during the last Morlond campaign. It had scarred her face and burned her throat. Auerben paused, took an inhaler bulb from her pocket, and puffed it into her mouth to moisten her throat.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
Hark shrugged. ‘Ana Curth knows what she’s doing,’ he said.
‘I’m sure she does,’ said Auerben. ‘There are no significant injuries. It is extreme fatigue. A sapping of her will. I told her she was pushing too hard.’
Auerben took another puff from the inhaler.
‘But the woe machine,’ she said. ‘It was a focus of ruinous power. It sapped her, and fed on her light. I fear it may take a long time for her to recover strength.’
‘We repair. We recharge,’ said Laksheema.
‘She means we heal,’ said Hark with a smile. ‘The Emperor protects. His grace will flow back into the Beati in time. She will be restored as she once was.’
Auerben nodded. She went back into the room and resumed her vigil at the bedside.
‘The machine was a grim device,’ said Laksheema. ‘I am ever horrified by the limitless ingenuity of the Archenemy.’
Hark nodded in agreement. ‘It may have been the worst thing I have ever encountered,’ he said. ‘You?’