‘There was some rowdy business this afternoon on the quad between some of ours and some of the Bremenen boys. Lot of hot air. Commissar Ludd put a lid on it.’
Gaunt made a mental note to have words with the Bremenen CO. Base-bound boredom was beginning to sour the once-friendly rivalry between the neighbouring regiments.
‘Anything else?’
‘Commissar Hark got called out to the city about an hour ago, sir,’ said Obel.
‘Official?’
‘It sounded like it, sir.’
Gaunt sighed. There were at least three hundred Ghosts off-base on passes at any one time. That meant drinking, betting, whoring, and a list of other, less savoury activities. One of the regiment’s commissars was getting dragged up to the hive every couple of days.
We’re getting fat, Gaunt thought. We’re getting fat and idle, and our patience is wearing thin, but it’s the thin that’s going to cause the worst trouble.
Gaunt wandered along the blockhouse hall towards his quarters, and saw a man sitting on one of the chairs outside his office. He was a civilian: a young, slightly scruffy fellow in a black, buttoned suit and cravat. Several leather carrying boxes and instrument cases sat on the floor beside him. When Gaunt appeared, he rose to his feet.
‘Colonel-Commissar Gaunt?’ he began.
Gaunt held up an index finger.
‘Just a moment,’ he said. He walked past the man and entered his office.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Beltayn.
Gaunt raised his eyebrows, looked at his adjutant, and calmly closed the office door behind him.
Beltayn blinked and composed himself. He put the sheaf of papers he had been sorting on Gaunt’s desk and executed a trim salute.
‘My apologies, sir, that was out of line. Good evening.’
‘Good evening, adjutant,’ Gaunt replied, taking off his coat.
‘So where the… where have you been, sir?’ asked Beltayn.
‘I spent the afternoon with the Kapaj. Is that all right?’
‘It would have b…’ Beltayn began. He changed his mind. ‘It’s unfortunate we weren’t able to speak during the course of the day, sir. You did have several commitments.’
‘Did I?’
‘A three o’clock meeting of the joint review board,’ said Beltayn.
‘Well, it’s probably a mercy I was spared, then, isn’t it?’
‘And you were due here at five for Mr Jaume.’
‘Who’s Mr Jaume?’ Gaunt asked.
His adjutant raised his arm in a swan-neck and pointed towards the office door.
‘The civilian outside?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What the feth is his business?’
‘He’s a portraitist,’ replied Beltayn. ‘He’s been commissioned to make portraits of officers who served during the Balhaut War.’
‘I’m not sitting for a painting.’
‘He makes photographic exposures, sir. There was a letter of introduction. I showed it to you. You authorised the appointment.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘The portrait’s for a memorial chapel, or something.’
‘I’m not dead,’ said Gaunt.
‘Clearly,’ replied Beltayn. ‘Mr Jaume presented himself at the appointed time, and you weren’t here. He’s been waiting ever since.’
Gaunt sat down at his desk. ‘Just send him home with my apologies, and reschedule. Tell him I didn’t know anything about an appointment.’
‘You did, though,’ said Beltayn.
‘What?’
‘I pinned a note of your schedule to your copybook first thing this morning and left it on your blotter.’
Gaunt looked down at his desk. He shifted the pile of documents to one side. His brown leather copybook, a sheet of yellow notepaper attached to the cover, lay on the tabletop.
‘You didn’t take it with you,’ said Beltayn.
‘It would appear not,’ replied Gaunt.
Beltayn sighed.
‘I’ll go and rearrange the meeting,’ he said. Gaunt looked at him. He could see Beltayn’s exasperation. He could see him saying, You’ve got to be more focused! There’s work to be done, and you treat everything like a game! There’s no rigour in you anymore! You’d rather duck out and go off gallivanting! That drunken idiot friend of yours, Blenner, he’s the ruin of you!
Of course, Dughan Beltayn would never say anything like that to him, but, just for a moment, Gaunt could see him saying it, standing there beside the desk. Gaunt could see the adjutant blowing his whole career in one infuriated outburst.
Beltayn said nothing. Nevertheless, with a slightly queasy feeling, Gaunt realised that was exactly what the adjutant was thinking.
‘How about tomorrow morning?’ Beltayn asked.
‘Nine o’clock sharp, Bel, that’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Beltayn headed for the door. Before he got there, it opened, and Dorden walked in.
‘I heard you were back.’
‘Come in,’ said Gaunt, with a careless wave of his hand.
Beltayn went out into the hall to speak to the portraitist, and closed the door. Dorden sat down in the chair facing Gaunt’s desk. With one exception, Chief Medicae Dorden was the oldest person in the regimental company. Gaunt realised just how old the doctor was beginning to look. Out in the field, Dorden had been grizzled and haggard, but two years off the line had put a little meat back on his bones and ruddied his complexion. He’d gone from being a prematurely aged whipcord of a man to a soft, slightly plump country doctor. The tarnish of grey in his wiry hair had turned as white as the Saint’s gown.
‘I’ve been looking for you all day,’ Dorden began.
‘Don’t you start,’ replied Gaunt.
‘I will, actually,’ Dorden said. ‘Medicae and Section are breathing down my neck. Quarterly certification was due two days ago, and it can’t be completed until all regimental medicals are done and submitted.’
‘So do them,’ said Gaunt.
‘Ha ha,’ replied Dorden. ‘It’s all right for you. If the certification is late, you might get a slap on the hand from Section. As the delay is medical-related, I get fined or worse. Can you please get this sorted out?’
‘And the root of the problem is?’
Dorden shrugged as if he barely needed to say it. ‘The regimental medicals can’t be completed because one member of this company is refusing the examination.’
‘Is it who I think it is?’
Dorden nodded.
‘Is he refusing the medical on religious grounds?’
‘I believe he’s refusing it on the basis of being a cantankerous old bastard.’
‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘Tonight?’
‘I’ll go now,’ replied Gaunt.
The temple house adjoined the command post on its east side, just another modular blockhouse like all the other structures in the camp. It could easily have been put to use as a dorm or a storage barn, but they’d taken out the internal floor, so that the square chamber was two storeys deep, filled it with benches, and had a shrine consecrated on the north wall facing the seating. It was a typical Imperial Guard conversion.
Father Zweil, the old ayatani, had attached himself like a barnacle to the Tanith First during the tour on Hagia, and he had never let go. Nor had they ever had the heart to scrape him off their hull. By default, by habit, and by convenience, he had become the company chaplain. He was inconsistent, unpredictable, ill-tempered and belligerent. His age and experience had invested him with a degree of wisdom, but it was generally a challenge to mine that wisdom out of him. On paper, in regimental reports, it was often hard to justify his continued association with the unit.
On the other hand, Zweil had a certain quality that Gaunt found as difficult to deny as it was to identify. Apart from anything else, Zweil had been with them, steadfast, all the way since Hagia. He had been through every fight, every brawl, every set-piece; he’d survived the knife-edge of Herodor, the compartment war of Sparshad Mons, the liberation of Gereon, and the siege of Hinzerhaus. Every step of the way, he had ministered to the needs of the dying and the dead. His blood had become tied to Tanith blood in a way that could not be unworked.