Sichar, the delegates, the scribes and the master of protocol turned and gazed at them in astonishment. One of the scribes broke and ran for the exit in terror. The twin golden giants in their crested armour exuded nothing but ferocious menace.
The Lucifer Black seemed to reach for his weapon.
‘One excuse,’ Haedo snarled, aiming his spear in the direction of the Lucifer.
Sichar rose to his feet, retaining more composure than the underlings around him. He gazed down from his podium at the two gleaming custodes.
‘This is inexcusable,’ he began. Despite his defiance, he could not keep a tremor of fear out of his voice. No one faced the might of the custodes without faltering. ‘This is utterly inexcusable. This dishonours the sovereignty of Hy Brasil. I will demand a full apology from your master when–’
‘He’s your master too,’ declared Amon.
Sichar blinked. ‘I… What?’
‘He’s supposed to be your master too,’ Amon repeated. ‘You will accompany us now and answer to a list of issues that brand you a traitor. Step down from the podium.’
A bright flash of light burst across the main chamber, swiftly followed by another and another. For a second, Amon thought grenades had been detonated, but he revised that idea quickly. The light blooms were teleport flares.
There were suddenly seven figures standing between the custodes and their target. Six of them were Adeptus Astartes in full battle armour, instantly recognisable as huscarls of the Imperial Fists. As the teleport flares dissipated, the six Astartes took one step forwards in perfect unison and aimed their boltguns at the custodes with a clatter.
The seventh figure stood in their midst, tall and mantled in a cloak of gold thread and red velvet. His hair was white and cropped short, and his noble face seemed weathered and tired.
‘My lord,’ said Amon, bowing his head to the primarch.
‘This must stop,’ said Rogal Dorn.
Dorn stepped forwards, through the ranks of his Astartes.
‘Put up your weapons,’ he said gently.
The Imperial Fists smartly raised the boltguns to their shoulders.
‘I meant everyone,’ added Dorn, looking at the custodes.
Amon and Haedo kept their spears aimed at the canopied throne.
‘My lord, Pherom Sichar is a traitor and spy,’ replied Amon carefully. ‘He is using the networks of his extensive mercantile empire to communicate with the Warmaster and his benighted rebels. We have just cause and evidence enough to hold him and interrogate him. He will come with us.’
‘Or?’ asked Dorn with a soft, almost amused smile.
‘He will come with us, my lord,’ Amon insisted.
Dorn nodded.
‘An object lesson in determination and loyalty, eh, Archamus?’ he said.
‘Indeed, my lord,’ replied the commander of the huscarls.
‘They would fight six Astartes and a primarch in order to accomplish their duty,’ Dorn said.
‘My lord,’ Amon said, ‘please stand aside.’
‘I’m half-tempted to let you attempt to go through me,’ said Dorn. ‘I would, of course, hurt you both.’
‘You would try,’ replied Haedo. ‘My lord,’ he added.
‘Enough,’ said Dorn. ‘Archamus?’
The retinue commander stepped forwards.
‘Lord Sichar of Hy Brasil is a spy,’ he announced, quite matter-of-factly. ‘Lord Sichar of Hy Brasil has been in regular communication with Horus Lupercal, and has exchanged with the traitor a great deal of intelligence.’
‘You admit it?’ asked Amon.
‘He’s our spy,’ said Dorn. The primarch came up to Amon face to face. They were the tallest beings in the room.
‘I am fortifying Terra as best I can for the coming war,’ said Dorn. ‘That means more than walls and shields and gun platforms. That means information. Viable, solid data. Proper intelligence. Lord Sichar is as loyal as you or I, but his reputation as an opponent of Imperial policy made him a credible defector to the traitor’s camp. Horus thinks he has friends on Terra, friends and allies, who will rise up and turn to fight with him when his host arrives.’
‘I see,’ said Amon.
‘Sadly,’ said Dorn, ‘this great fuss may have compromised him. I may have to develop other spies now.’
‘My lord,’ said Amon, ‘we are custodes. We guard Terra and the Emperor as surely as you. Would it not have made sense to tell us of Lord Sichar’s involvement?’
Dorn exhaled and did not reply.
‘Do you know what a blood game is, my lord?’ asked Haedo.
‘Of course,’ replied Dorn. ‘You hounds play wolves and test the Emperor’s defences for the slightest flaw or vulnerability. I have reviewed many of your reports, and accommodated their findings into my reinforcements.’
‘Then perhaps,’ suggested Amon, ‘we could consider this a blood game? The weakness revealed being that all those who seek to serve and protect the Emperor must work with unified purpose and shared information.’
The raker sped away from the landing quay in a blizzard of ice crystals. It was a powerful, two-seater recreational model, painted cobalt-blue, with an upturned nose and hefty ice-blade. Aft of its stabiliser vanes, its ion engines burned with green fury. It lit off across the Winter Fields, making a sound like a knife being dragged across glass.
Cheth, or whatever his real name was, hadn’t even bothered to unslip the mooring lines. He’d gunned down the two wharfmen on the quay who had come to see what the commotion was about, and then leapt into the raker’s cockpit and slammed the sliding canopy.
Amon crashed down onto the quay just as the raker pulled away. The impact of his huge, armoured bulk cracked several flagstones. The mooring lines, dragged tight, were snapping with pistol-shot cracks. Amon managed to seize one of the lines before it parted, and held on as it broke. Dragged by the line, he was whipped off the edge of the quay and hit the ice on his belly, slithering and ripping along like an unseated rider pulled behind his steed. Ice chips blinded him. The vibration and friction was almost too much to bear. As the raker increased its velocity, Amon felt his armour dent and buckle. He was rolling and bouncing, spinning from side to side on the end of the trailing line. His grip was failing.
Amon let go, and slid clear in a long, wide arc across the ice. He dug in his heavy boots to try and arrest his slide, and as he slowed to a halt, he began to rise.
The raker was accelerating away across the fields. Skaters and ice yachts veered in panic to get out of its headlong path. It ploughed through the flag-lines of a speed-skate course.
Behind him, Amon heard another explosion. Another gout of flame and smoke bellied into the sky from Parliament House.
‘Amon! Amon!’ Haedo’s voice yelled over the vox.
‘Go.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In pursuit. The assassin is heading out across the ice lake. Is the primarch safe?’
‘I have confirmation from the Imperial Fists,’ Haedo replied. ‘Primarch Dorn had left Parliament House before the first bomb.’
‘Lord Sichar?’
‘Dead, along with eight members of the legislature. Amon, stand by. I’m securing a ’thopter. I’ll be en route to you in–’
‘No time,’ Amon replied. He rose and triggered his jump pack. The launch impact threw him high into the air. Climbing, he saw the raker turning ahead of him, below. It was swinging west over the Winter Fields, cutting through a yacht formation.
Lord Sichar had been murdered by his own Lucifer Black, his bodyguard, a man called Gen Cheth. Ibn Norn had introduced him to Amon. Whoever had been wearing the black armoured suit when Amon had nodded to him, his name hadn’t been Gen Cheth. Or, a darker possibility, Gen Cheth hadn’t ever been the man his closest comrades thought he was.