Vangorich shook his head and grimaced. ‘You are a fine fighter, Beast, but you don’t hide your opinions. You know, it’s that sort of truculence that had you recommended for Temple Venenum’s close-combat school. I can’t imagine you quietly poisoning feasts, can you?’ Vangorich approached slowly. Krule didn’t move from Vangorich’s seat, but watched him with glittering eyes.
‘I listened to your speech,’ said Krule.
‘Oh?’ said Vangorich. He went to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy. The miniature augurs embedded in his rings sampled the vapour coming off the liquid. They did this automatically, over everything he ate or drank, even though the Grand Master prepared all his food himself.
‘Do you think any of them actually believed that?’ said Krule.
‘No. It doesn’t matter, though.’
‘And those creatures of yours on the Council…’
‘I’d hardly call Beyreuth a creature! Come on, Krule! I’m rather proud he agreed to join. Convincing Beyreuth was a monumental effort, the Custodes swore some time ago to remain detached from any duty beyond the guarding of the Emperor’s mortal remains. I had to visit him five times and say the words “eldar before the Eternity Gate” over and over again before he agreed to take the seat.’ He replaced the decanter in the cabinet. ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked.
‘Assassins all over the Palace. Every man will know himself watched,’ said Krule.
‘They’ve always been there, they’re just in the open. They’re a safeguard.’
‘But now the people know they’re there. That’s a different sort of safeguard. That’s a threat.’
‘So you don’t want a drink. Fine.’ Vangorich dropped into a large chair. ‘Do stop speaking so slowly. It’s a sign you’re thinking, and right now I wouldn’t advise too much of that.’
Krule looked around the room, never completely taking his eyes off the Grand Master. The table that had accommodated the High Twelve had been removed and much of the furniture replaced.
‘This is a fine place to run an empire from. Not showy, modest. You’d never think a tyrant worked here.’
‘I’m a man of simple tastes,’ said Vangorich testily. ‘Krule, I know why you’re here.’
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘Of which this little display is ample proof that I was right not to!’ said Vangorich, waving his glass towards Krule. He calmed. ‘I thought that if you weren’t too heavily involved, it’d be too late for you to think about it and you’d fall into line. Evidently that didn’t work.’
‘So this is a small falling out? Don’t patronise me, Grand Master. When people lose your trust, they die. Can I trust you not to kill me?’
‘That all depends on what you do next.’ He set his drink down. ‘It’s your move, Krule, as the old cliche goes.’
‘You’re the one playing regicide, you’ve killed a number of kings. But there’s one left — you.’ Krule stood. ‘This isn’t going to be easy for me. You are the closest thing I have ever had to a father. You should have trusted me. If you had explained yourself, I might have seen it from your side.’ Krule cracked his knuckles and his neck, and took up a fighting stance.
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Vangorich softly. He too stood up.
‘No, I wouldn’t. You know me better than most, but I know you too. The worst of this is that you know what you have done is wrong.’
‘What would you have done?’ said Vangorich.
‘Reform. Reorganisation. Not this.’
‘What do you know of politics?’
‘Enough.’
‘Krule…’
‘My name is Esad Wire!’ snarled Krule.
Vangorich shook his head. ‘It’s not. It never has been. The one thing you are and will ever be is Beast Krule. From the moment they brought you to Temple Venenum, you were Krule. Esad Wire is a dead man, an illusion. Strip away the pretence, and all that is left is a killer. I’m very proud of what you are, Krule. You are the best I have.’ Vangorich undid his robes. Underneath was the same design of close-fitting suit he’d been wearing for years. ‘These robes are ridiculous. Wienand tried to tell me. She was right.’ He folded them and put them upon the chair. ‘I mean, they are very silly to look at, and don’t capture what I wanted in the slightest. But the worst of it is that they’re no good for fighting in.’
Vangorich’s age was indeterminate. Sometimes he appeared of middle years, at other times old, but he did not move like an old man. He bounded over the seat at Krule, drawing a slender-nosed pistol from nowhere. Krule dodged the first shots. Frozen toxin slivers shattered on the wooden panelling.
‘You’re slow,’ Krule said, as Vangorich landed on the other side of the room.
‘I was once the best of the Venenum Assassins. I always wanted to test myself against you.’
‘You’ll fall short,’ said Krule. ‘I’m going to kill you.’ He charged at Vangorich; his sense of time slowed by deeply implanted devices, he dodged the hypertoxin spat out by the Grand Master’s needler.
Vangorich dropped his gun. Slapping Krule’s fists aside he bent his body around the blows and moved back. Krule followed.
‘You are one of the best, the very best,’ said Vangorich. ‘This is madness. Stop. Join me.’
‘I am the best. You can’t beat me,’ said Krule.
‘I won’t have to,’ said Vangorich. He sidestepped Krule’s blurring fists again. ‘Pelagic gambit,’ he said. Krule stumbled. He shook his head. Vangorich delivered a devastating blow to the nerve cluster at the base of his neck.
Krule spluttered and staggered to the side.
‘Ordinance keystroke,’ said Vangorich.
With a yelp of pain, Krule crashed to the floor, his muscles locked solid. He balanced on his head, knee and outstretched fist, stiff as a statue that had fallen from its plinth.
‘That’s enough,’ said Vangorich. ‘Among your implants is a failsafe system. Obviously, I activated it. The key to regicide is to plan several moves ahead.’ He crouched down by Krule’s head. The Assassin’s eyes were locked open, and watering furiously. He made a strangled noise through clamped teeth. ‘It would be a shame to waste you,’ continued Vangorich. ‘I preferred you as a free thinker, Krule, you served Venenum well that way, but there is another Temple that will make good use of your talents and which does not require that characteristic. You’re going to have a little sleep. When you wake up again, we’ll have nothing to disagree about ever again, I promise.’
Chapter Fourteen
Fist of iron
A Space Marine’s sleep was short, but necessary. Even the Emperor Himself could not engineer out the human need for rest.
An insistent chiming woke Zerberyn. His enhanced physiology brought him from deep slumber to full awareness in a fraction of a second. A red lumen bulb, caged in battered wire, blinked over his cell door. Accommodation for officers and line warriors alike was basic in Kalkator’s fortress. Zerberyn’s smelled of damp and fresh ferrocrete.
‘What is it?’ he said.
The vox-emitter by the door crackled. ‘Forgive me, my lord. There is a Librarium serf here to see you. He says it is urgent, your command. I swore to kill him if he was lying, but he insists it is the truth.’
Zerberyn was off his pallet and by the door in a single stride. The door slid back into the wall. Brother Rantan stood over a cowering man. Zerberyn sneered. The serfs had become more cowardly of late.
‘My lord,’ said the serf nervously. ‘You told me to come and inform you the moment the Iron Warriors’ witch started making sense. Well, she has.’
‘I will visit her immediately. Summon Honorius to the Astropathicum.’
The witch twitched in her cradle of wires and chains. She spoke rapidly and so quietly the serfs transcribing her ramblings had to lean in close. The transliterator of the Dantalion’s astropathicum stood at the other side of her, listening intently. Zerberyn’s Lyman’s ear enabled him to apprehend her words, but he could make no sense of the meaning.