‘I’m looking for Captain Daur,’ said Elodie.
‘He’s down at hall two, mam,’ said Domor. ‘For the influx reception.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Elodie. She was holding the dress jacket. ‘I thought he said four. Thank you.’
She hurried back out into the suns-light.
‘Are you going to explain?’ Raess asked Larkin.
‘Certainly,’ said Larkin, still savouring the feel of the weapon.
‘And why am I here, exactly?’ asked Merrt. ‘You know I can’t gn… gn… gn… shoot any more.’
‘Mertt, my friend,’ said Larkin. ‘You were the best shot I ever saw. I’ve decided I’m going to teach you how to do it again.’
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ said Elodie. ‘I got lost.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Daur. He took the jacket from her and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve got time yet.’
‘Do you need me?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can take it from here.’
‘I’ll see you later, then,’ said Elodie.
‘There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.
‘It can wait until you’re done with this,’ she said, and slipped away.
Back at their quarters, she tidied a few things away. She hoped she hadn’t caused a problem by being tardy with the jacket.
Elodie started packing. Under a small pile of books in a locker drawer, she found a small set of documents.
Petition for Allowance to Marry, the papers said.
Ban Daur put on his dress jacket and buttoned it up. Then he put on his cap and buckled on his officer’s strap and holster.
Major Kolea appeared in the doorway, flanked by Commissar Ludd. Both were in full dress too.
‘Are you ready now?’ asked Kolea.
‘Yes.’
They walked out through the depot hall on top of the oil-stained landing apron in front of it. The Arvus lighter had just set down. Steam was weeping from its drive vents.
Flanked by a small honour guard of Tanith and Verghastite troopers, Daur, Kolea and Ludd approached the small craft. Its hatch was opening.
Six figures stepped out. The four leading the way were dressed in a uniform that made Daur’s heart swell with unexpected pride. Blue, with a spiked helmet. Verghastite Hive Guard, very similar to the PDF uniform he’d worn back in the day at Vervunhive.
Two were Guard escorts, one of whom was carrying a double-headed eagle on a leather gauntlet. The eagle, cybernetically modified, was hooded. It twitched and ruffled its feathers.
The tallest figure was a woman, wearing the rank pins of a major. She was older, strong and slightly haggard. The other, shorter, was a female captain.
‘Major Pasha Petrushkevskaya,’ said the older woman. She made the sign of the aquila. ‘Reporting for duty to serve the Tanith First.’
‘Welcome,’ said Kolea.
‘I have six full companies,’ Petrushkevskaya said. ‘All Verghast-born and founded. They await in orbit to transfer to your vessels. They are bursting with pride to follow in the great tradition and join, at last, the regiment of the People’s Hero.’
‘I am Major Gol Kolea.’
Petrushkevskaya saluted.
‘Your name is also celebrated,’ she said. ‘The great scratch company hero. It is an honour.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kolea. ‘Though I understand you also served in the scratch companies during the Zoican War.’
‘We never met,’ said Petrushkevskaya.
‘It was a big war,’ said Kolea.
She nodded.
‘This is my second in command,’ she said, gesturing to the smaller, younger woman at her side. ‘Captain Ornella Zhukova.’
‘Once of the Hass West PDF Command,’ said Daur. He smiled broadly.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,’ said Zhukova. She was very neatly pretty, with olive skin and short black hair tied in a ponytail. Her features were elegantly symmetrical. ‘I was just a junior, and you were a captain.’
‘You know each other then?’ smiled Kolea.
‘A pleasant reunion,’ said Zhukova.
Petrushkevskaya stepped back to introduce the other two figures in her party. One was a lithe woman of startling beauty. Her head was shaved to a fine down of hair, emphasising the sculptural arch of her skull. She was wearing an armoured bodyglove and had an astonishingly crafted steel rose in her lapel. The weapon at her hip was shrouded with a red cloth, as was the Verghast custom. She was a civilian, an up-hive lifeguard, Daur realised, a very expensive and capable employee.
The other figure was clearly her principal. He was wearing a plain black bodysuit and boots, a young man no more than fifteen or sixteen years old who had not yet lost the frailty of adolescence. His thin face was striking and narrow, almost feminine in its beauty. His hair was blond.
‘This is Meritous Felyx Chass of House Chass,’ said Petrushkevskaya.
‘Sir,’ Kolea and Daur said in unison.
The boy regarded them haughtily.
‘Where is Gaunt?’ he asked.
‘We were sent to greet you,’ said Kolea, ‘and express the warm–’
‘It’s not good enough,’ said the lifeguard. Her accent was the very hardest end of Verghast. Her lips were as red as the shroud covering her gun.
‘It’s all right, Maddalena,’ said the boy.
‘It’s certainly not all right,’ the lifeguard said. She stepped up to Kolea, face to face.
‘Verghast sends six companies to reinforce your regiment,’ she said, ‘in honour of the debt owed to your commander by our hive, and the People’s Hero can’t be bothered to receive us in person?’
‘That is, unfortunately, the case,’ said Kolea.
‘This young man,’ said the lifeguard, gesturing to the slender boy, ‘is Meritous Felyx Chass, of House Chass, grandson of Lord Chass himself. His mother is heir to the House entire. He has come to honour your regiment by joining it as a junior commander. Are you telling me that Ibram Gaunt has something more important to do than greet him?’
‘Two things,’ said Kolea, his voice perfectly calm. ‘First, it’s Colonel-Commissar Gaunt to you, you arrogant up-hive bitch. And second, yes, on this occasion, he does.’
THREE
Silver, Snake and Scar
Tall double doors burst open as though they had been rammed by a siege clearance squad, and the band of officers continued on their way down the long colonnade. They were striding swiftly, boots clattering on the marble floor, coat tails trailing, not in step but at the speed of a forced march. Any faster and they would have broken into a run. To either side, along the imposing route, the sentinel guards snapped to rigid attention as the determined figures swept past.
They were officers, with a gaggle of ceremonial guardsmen trotting to keep at their heels. The ceremonials were struggling with sheathed sabres, lances, pennants, standards and pole honours that hadn’t been designed to be ported in haste.
The main group was led by a formidable augmented human, his towering frame elongated and buttressed by the frames of bionic articulation that cradled his once virile form. He wore emblems of black carrion birds. Lord Militant Cybon was one of the great architects of the Crusade, and his war record needed no interpretation or explanatory notes. He was a conqueror of worlds, a Guard commander of the highest distinction, and had served the great Sabbat Worlds theatre since the very instigation, at Warmaster Slaydo’s side. He was famously ruthless, and he was famously out of favour now the warmastery was held by Macaroth, who looked to younger blood.
Almost at Cybon’s side was Isiah Mercure, a senior figure in the sector’s Commissariat, head of the Intelligence Division. Far shorter than Cybon, upholstered in sallow flesh, Mercure was a grey-haired man with pock-marked skin. He somehow radiated just as much presence and authority as the regal lord militant.