Without its audience, the Retreat revealed itself as an uncomfortably vandalised, smoky bar filled with people who had nothing better to do. The gamblers had scraped the arched columns bare of gilt to make gambling chips (of which Karkasy now had quite a substantial pile back in his cabin) and the artists had whitewashed whole areas of the walls for their own daubings – most of which were either lewd or farcical.
Men and women filled all the available tables, playing hands of merci merci while some of the more enthusiastic remembrancers planned their next compositions. Karkasy and Wenduin sat in one of the padded booths along the wall and the low buzz of conversation filled the Retreat.
‘Connections,’ repeated Wenduin sagely.
‘That’s it exactly,’ said Karkasy, draining his glass. ‘I heard the Council of Terra – the Sigillite too.’
‘Throne! How’d she get them?’ asked Wenduin. ‘The connections I mean?’
Karkasy shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’
‘It’s not like you don’t have connections either. You could find out,’ Wenduin pointed out, filling his glass once more. ‘I don’t know what you have to be worried about anyway. You have one of the Astartes looking after you. You’re a fine one to be casting aspersions!’
‘Hardly,’ snorted Karkasy, slapping a palm on the table. ‘I have to show him everything I damn well write. It’s censorship, that’s what it is.’
Wenduin shrugged. ‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but you got to go to the War Council didn’t you? A little censorship’s worth that, I’ll bet.’
‘Maybe,’ said Karkasy, unwilling to be drawn on the subject of the events on Davin and his terror at the sight of an enraged First Captain Abaddon coming to tear his head off.
In any event, Captain Loken had later found him, trembling and afraid, in the commissariat tent, making inroads into a bottle of distilac. It had been a little ridiculous really. Loken had ripped a page from the Bondsman number 7 and written on it in large, blocky letters before handing it to him.
‘This is an oath of moment, Ignace,’ Loken had said. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘I think so,’ he had replied, reading the words Loken had written.
‘It is an oath that applies to an individual action. It is very specific and very precise,’ Loken had explained. ‘It is common for an Astartes to swear such an oath before battle when he vows to achieve a certain objective or uphold a certain ideal. In your case, Ignace, it will be to keep what passed here tonight between us.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘You must swear, Ignace. Place your hand on the book and the oath and swear the words.’
He had done so, placing a shaking hand atop the page, feeling the heavy texture of the page beneath his sweating palm.
‘I swear not to tell another living soul what passed between us,’ he said.
Loken had nodded solemnly and said, ‘Do not take this lightly, Ignace. You have just made an oath with the Astartes and you must never break it. To do so would be a mistake.’
He’d nodded and made his way to the first transport off Davin.
Karkasy shook his head clear of the memory, any warmth or comfort the wine had given him suddenly, achingly absent.
‘Hey,’ said Wenduin. ‘Are you listening to me? You looked a million miles away there.’
‘Yes, sorry. What were you saying?’
‘I was asking if there was any chance you could put in a good word for me to Captain Loken? Maybe you could tell him about my compositions? You know, how good they are.’
Compositions?
What did that mean? He looked into her eyes and saw a dreadful avarice lurking behind her facade of interest, now seeing her for the self-interested social climber she was. Suddenly all he wanted to do was get away.
‘Well? Could you?’
He was saved from thinking of an answer by the arrival of a robed figure at the booth.
Karkasy looked up and said, ‘Yes? Can I help—’ but his words trailed off as he eventually recognised Euphrati Keeler. The change in her since the last time he had seen her was remarkable. Instead of her usual ensemble of boots and fatigues, she wore the beige robe of a female remembrancer, and her long hair had been cut into a modest fringe.
Though more obviously feminine, Karkasy was disappointed to find that the change was not to his liking, preferring her aggressive stylings to the strange sexless quality this attire granted her.
‘Euphrati? Is that you?’
She simply nodded and said, ‘I’m looking for Captain Loken. Have you seen him today?’
‘Loken? No, well, yes, but not since Davin. Won’t you join us?’ he said, ignoring the viperous glare Wenduin cast in his direction.
His hopes of rescue were dashed when Euphrati shook her head and said, ‘No, thank you. This place isn’t really for me.’
‘Nor me, but here I am,’ smiled Karkasy. ‘You sure I can’t tempt you to some wine or a round of cards?’
‘I’m sure, but thanks anyway. See you around, Ignace, and have a good night,’ said Keeler with a knowing smile. Karkasy gave her a lopsided grin and watched her as she made her way from booth to booth before leaving the Retreat.
‘What was that?’ asked Wenduin, and Karkasy was amused at the professional jealousy he heard in her voice.
‘That was a very good friend of mine,’ said Karkasy, enjoying the sound of the words.
Wenduin nodded curtly.
‘Listen, do you want to go to bed with me or not?’ she asked, all pretence of actual interest in him discarded in favour of blatant ambition.
Karkasy laughed. ‘I’m a man. Of course I do.’
‘And you’ll tell Captain Loken of me?’
If you’re as good as they say you are, you can bet on it,
he thought.
‘Yes, my dear, of course I will,’ said Karkasy, noticing a folded piece of paper on the edge of the booth. Had it been there before? He couldn’t remember. As Wenduin eased herself from the booth, he picked up the paper and unfolded it. At the top was some kind of symbol, a long capital T with a haloed star at its centre. He had no idea what it meant and began to skim the words, thinking it might be some remembrancer’s discarded scribblings.
Such thoughts faded, however, as he read the words written on the paper.
‘The Emperor of Mankind is the Light and the Way, and all his actions are for the benefit of mankind, which is his people. The Emperor is God and God is the Emperor, so it is taught in this, the…’
‘What’s that?’ asked Wenduin.
Karkasy ignored her, pushing the paper into his pocket and leaving the booth. He looked around the retreat and saw several identical pamphlets on various tables around the room. Now he was convinced that the paper hadn’t been on his table before Euphrati’s visit and he began making his way around the bar, gathering up as many of the dog-eared papers as he could find.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Wenduin, watching him with her arms folded impatiently across her chest.
‘Piss off!’ snarled Karkasy, heading for the exit. ‘Find some other gullible fool to seduce. I don’t have time.’
If he hadn’t been so preoccupied, he might have enjoyed her look of surprise.
S
OME
MINUTES
LATER
, Karkasy stood before Euphrati Keeler’s billet, deep in the labyrinth of arched companionways and dripping passages that made up the residential deck. He noticed the symbol from the pamphlet etched on the bulkhead beside her billet and hammered his fist on her shutter until at last it opened. The smell of scented candles wafted into the corridor.
She smiled, and he knew she had been expecting him.
‘Lectitio Divinitatus?’ he said, holding up the pile of pamphlets he’d gathered from the Retreat. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Yes, Ignace, we do,’ she said, turning and leaving him standing at the threshold.
He went inside after her.
H
ORUS
’
S
PERSONAL
CHAMBERS
were surprisingly modest, thought Petronella, simple and functional with only a few items that might be considered personal. She hadn’t expected lavish ostentation, but had thought to see more than could be found in any Army soldier’s billet. A stack of yellowed oath papers filled a footlocker against one wall and some well thumbed books sat on the shelves beside the cot bed, its length and breadth massive to her, but probably barely sufficient for a being with the inhuman scale of a primarch.
She smiled at the idea of Horus sleeping, wondering what mighty visions of glory and majesty one of the Emperor’s sons might dream. The idea of a primarch sleeping was distinctly humanising, though it had never crossed her mind that one such as Horus would even need to rest. Petronella had assumed that, as well as never aging, the primarchs did not tire either. She decided the bed was an affectation, a reminder of his humanity.
In deference to her first meeting with Horus, Petronella wore a simple dress of emerald green, its skirts hung with silver and topaz netting, and a scarlet bodice with a scandalous decolletage. She carried her dataslate and gold tipped mnemo-quill in a demure reticule of gold cord draped over her shoulder, and her fingers itched to begin their work. She had left Maggard outside the chambers, though she knew the thought of being denied the chance to stand in the presence of such a sublime warrior as Horus was galling to him. Being in such close proximity to the Astartes had been a powerful intoxicant to her bodyguard, who she could tell looked up to them as gods. She regarded his pleasure at being amongst such powerful warriors as quietly endearing, but wanted the Warmaster all to herself today.
She ran her fingertips across the wooden surface of Horus’s desk, anxious to begin this first session of documenting him. The desk’s proportions were as enlarged as those of his bed, and she smiled as she imagined the many great campaigns he had planned here, and the commands for war signed upon its stained and faded surface.
Had he written the order granting her previous audience here, she wondered?
She remembered well receiving that instruction to attend upon the Warmaster immediately; she remembered her terror and elation as Babeth was run ragged with half a dozen rapid changes of costume for her. In the end she had settled for something elegant yet demure – a cream dress with an ivory panelled bodice that pushed her bosom up, and a webbed necklace of red gold that reached up her neck before curling over her forehead in a dripping cascade of pearls and sapphires. Eschewing the Terran custom of powdering her face, she opted instead for a subtle blend of powdered antimony sulphide to darken the rims of her eyes and a polychromatic lip-gloss.
Horus had obviously appreciated her sartorial restraint, smiling broadly as she was ushered into his presence. Her breath, had it not already been largely stolen by the constriction of her bodice, would have been snatched away by the glory of the Warmaster’s physical perfection and palpable charisma. His hair was short, and his face open and handsome, with dazzling eyes that fixed her with a stare that told her she was the most important thing to him right now. She felt giddy, like a debutante at her first ball.
He wore gleaming battle armour the colour of a winter sky, its rims formed of beaten gold, and bas-relief text filling each shoulder guard. Bright against his chest plate was a staring red eye, like a drop of blood on virgin snow, and she felt transfixed by its unflinching gaze.
Maggard stood behind her, resplendent in brightly polished gold plate and silver mail. Of course, he carried no weapons, his swords and pistols already surrendered to Horus’s bodyguards.
‘My lord,’ she began, bowing her head and making an elaborate curtsey, her hand held palm down before him in expectation of a kiss.
‘So you are of House Carpinus?’ asked Horus.
She recovered quickly, disregarding the Warmaster’s breach of etiquette in ignoring her hand and asking her a question before formal introductions had been made. ‘I am indeed, my lord.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ said the Warmaster.
‘Oh… of course… how should I address you?’
‘Horus would be a good start,’ he said, and she looked up to see him smiling broadly. The warriors behind him tried unsuccessfully to hide their amusement, and Petronella realised that Horus was toying with her. She forced herself to return his smile, masking her annoyance at his informality, and said, ‘Thank you. I shall.’
‘So you want to be my documentarist, do you?’ asked Horus.
‘If you will permit me to fulfil such a role, yes.’
‘Why?’
Of all the questions she’d anticipated, this simple query was one she hadn’t been expecting to be thrown so baldly at her.
‘I feel this is my vocation, my lord,’ she began. ‘It is my destiny as a scion of House Carpinus to record great things and mighty deeds, and to encapsulate the glory of this war – the heroism, the danger, the violence and the full fury of battle. I desire to—’
‘Have you ever seen a battle, girl?’ asked Horus suddenly.
‘Well, no. Not as such,’ she said, her cheeks flushing angrily at the term “girl”.
‘I thought not,’ said Horus. ‘It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the dying who cry aloud for blood, vengeance and desolation. Is that what you want? Is that your “vocation”?’
‘If that is what war is, then yes,’ she said, unwilling to be cowed before his boorish behaviour. ‘I want to see it all. See it all and record the glory of Horus for future generations.’
‘The glory of Horus,’ repeated the Warmaster, obviously relishing the phrase.
He held her pinned by his gaze and said, ‘There are many remembrancers in my fleet, Miss Vivar. Tell me why I should give you this honour.’
Flustered by his directness once more, she searched for words, and the Warmaster chuckled at her awkwardness. Her irritation rose to the surface again and, before she could stop herself she said, ‘Because no one else in the ragtag band of remembrancers you’ve managed to accumulate will do as good a job as I will. I will immortalise you, but if you think you can bully me with your bad manners and high and mighty attitude then you can go to hell… sir.’
A thunderous silence descended.
Then Horus laughed, the sound hard, and she knew that, in one flash of anger, she had destroyed her chances of being able to accomplish the task she had appointed herself.