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  Feygor didn't trust Rawne. Feygor didn't trust anyone. But he never thought of the major as evil. Just… bitter. Bitterness was what had ruined him, bitterness was what had scalded his nature early on.

  Like Feygor, the men of Rawne's platoon were the misfits and troublemakers of the surviving Tanith. They gravitated towards Rawne, seeing him as a natural leader, the man who would make the best chances for them. During the draft process, Rawne had selected most of them for his own squads.

  One day, Feygor thought, one day Rawne will kill Gaunt and take his place. Gaunt, Corbec, any who opposed. Rawne will kill Gaunt. Or Gaunt will kill Rawne. Whatever, there will be a reckoning. Some said Rawne had already tried.

  Feygor was about to suggest they double-back into the storerooms to the left when Trooper Lonegin cried out and span across the deck, hit by something from behind. He curled, convulsing, on the grill-walkway and Feygor could clearly see the short boot-knife jutting from the man's ribs where it had impacted.

  Rawne was already yelling when the attackers emerged around them from all asides. Ten men, dressed in the work uniforms of the Purpure Patricians. They had knives, stakes, clubs made from bunk-legs. A frenzy of close-quarter brutality exploded in the narrow confines of the hallway.

  Trooper Colhn was smashed into a wall by ^rblow to the head and sank without a murmur before he could even turn. Trooper Freul struck one attacker hard with his shock-pole and knocked him over in a cascade of sparks before three knife jabs from as many assailants ripped into him and dropped him in a bloody mass. Feygor could see two of the Patridans dubbing the wounded, helpless Lonegin repeatedly.

  Feygor hurled his shock pole at the nearest Patrician, blasting him backwards and burning through the belly of his uniform with the discharge, and then pulled out his silver Tanith blade. He screamed an obscenity and hurled forward, ripping open a throat with his first attack. With a savage turn, using the moves that had won him respect in the backstreets of Tanith Attica, he wheeled, kicked the legs out from under another and took a knife-wielding hand off at the wrist.

  'Rawne! Rawne!' he bellowed, fumbling for his radio bead. He was hit from behind. Stunned, he took two more strikes and dropped, rolling. Feet kicked into him. Something that felt white hot dug into his chest. He bellowed with pain and rage. The sound was diffused by the gout of blood in his mouth.

  Rawne struck down one with his pole, wheeling and blocking. He cursed them with every oath in his vocabulary. A blade ripped open his tunic and spilled blood from a long, raw scratch. A heavy blow struck his temple and he went over, vision fogging.

  The major tried to move but his body wouldn't respond. The cold grille of the deck pushed into his cheek and his slack mouth. Wet warmth ran down his neck. His unfocussed eyes looked up at the bulky Patrician who stood over him, a long-armed wrench raised ready to pulp his skull.

  'Stay your hand, Brochuss!' a voice said. The wrench lowered, reluctantly.

  Immobile, Rawne wished he could see more. Another figure replaced the shape of his wrench-swinging attacker. Rawne's eyes were dim and filmy. He wished he could see clearly. The man who stooped by him looked like an officer.

  Colonel Flense hunkered down beside Rawne, looking sadly at the blood matting the hair and the twisted spread of the limbs.

  'See the badge, Brochuss?' Flense said. 'He's the major, Rawne. Don't kill him. Not yet, at least.'

  TEN

  'How do you know him?' Gaunt demanded.

  Colonel Zoren made a slight, shrugging gesture, the typically unemphatic body language of the Vitrians. 'Likely the same way you do. A chance encounter, a carefully established measure of trust, an informal working relationship during a crisis.'

  Gaunt rubbed his angular chin and shook his head. 'If this conversation is going to get us anywhere, you'll have to be more specific. If you honestly do appreciate the critical nature of this situation, you'll understand why I need to be sure and certain of those around me.'

  Zoren nodded. He turned, as if to survey the room, but the close confines of Gaunt's quarters allowed for little contemplation. 'It was during the Famine Wars on Idolwilde, perhaps three standard years ago. My Dragoons were sent in as a peacekeeping presence in the main city-state, Kenadie. That was just before the food riots began in earnest and before the fall of the local government. The man you know as Fereyd was masquerading as a local grain broker called Bel Torthute, a trade-banker with a place on the Idolwilde Senate. His cover was perfect. I had no idea he was an offworld operative. No idea he wasn't a native. He had the language, the customs, the gestures—'

  'I know how Fereyd works. Observational perfection is his speciality, and that mimicry thing.'

  Then you'll know his modus operandi too. To work with what he calls the ''trustworthy salt'' of the Imperium.'

  Gaunt nodded, a half-smile curving his mouth.

  To work in such environments, so alone, so vulnerable, our mutual friend needs to nurture the support of those elements of the Imperium he deems uncorrupted. Rooting out corruption and taint in Imperium-sponsored bureaucracies, he can't trust the Administratum, the Ministorum, or any ranking officials who might be part of the conspiratorial infrastructure. He told me that he always found his best allies in the Guard in those circumstances, in men drafted into crisis flash-points, plain soldiery who like as not were newcomers to any such event, and thus not part of the problem. That is what he found in me and some of my officer cadre. It took him a long time and much careful investigation to trust me, and just as long to win my trust back. Eventually, in the midst of the food riots, we Vitrians were the only elements he could count on. The Famine Wars had been orchestrated by a government faction with ties into the Departmento Munitorium. They were able to field two regiments of Imperial Guard turned to their purpose. We defeated them.'

  The Battle of Altatha. I have read some of the details. I had no idea Imperial corruption was behind the Famine Wars.'

  Zoren smiled sadly. 'Such information is often suppressed. For the good of morale. We parted company as allies. I never thought to meet him again.'

  Gaunt sat down on his cot. He leaned his elbows onto his knees, deep in thought. 'And now you have?'

  'I received a message, encrypted, during my disembarkation from shore leave on Pyrites. Shortly after that, a meeting.'

  'In person?'

  Zoren shook his head. 'An intermediary.'

  'And how did you know to trust this intermediary?'

  'He used certain identifiers. Code words Bel Torthute and I had developed and used on Idolwilde. Cipher syllables from Vitrian combat-cant that only he would have known the significance of. Torthute made a point of studying the cultural heritage of the Vitrian Byhata, our Art of War. Only he could have sent the message and couched it so.'

  That's Fereyd. So you are my ally? I have a feeling you know more about this situation than me, Zoren.'

  Zoren watched the tall, powerful man sat on the cot, his chin resting on his hands. He'd come to admire him during the Fortis action, and Fereyd's message had contained details specific to Gaunt. It was clear the Imperial covert agent trusted Commissar-Colonel Ibram Gaunt more than almost anyone in the sector. More than myself, Zoren thought.

  'I know this much, Gaunt. A group of high-ranking conspirators in the Sabbat Worlds Crusade High Command is hunting for something precious. Something so vital they may be prepared to twist the overall purpose of the crusade to achieve it The key that unlocks that something has been deflected out of their waiting hands and diverted to you for safekeeping, as you were the only one of Fereyd's operatives in range to deal with it.'

  Gaunt rose angrily. 'I'm no one's operative!' he snarled.

  Zoren waved him back with a deft apologetic gesture to the mouth that indicated a misprision with language. Gaunt reminded himself that Low Gothic was not the colonel's first tongue. 'A trusted partner,' he corrected. 'Fereyd has been careful to establish a wide, remote circle of friends on whom he can call at times like this. You were the
only one able to intercept to safeguard the key on Pyrites. After some further manipulation, he made sure I was on the same transport as you to assist. How else do you think we Vitrians ended up on the Absalom so conveniently? I imagine Fereyd and his agents in the Warmaster's command staff risked great exposure arranging for us to be diverted to this ship. It would be about as overt an action as a covert dared.'

  'Did he tell you anything else, this intermediary?' Gaunt said.

  That I was to offer you all assistance, up to and beyond countermanding the direct orders of my superiors.'

  There was a long quiet space as the enormity of this sunk in. 'And then?' Gaunt asked.

  The instructions said that you would make the right choice. That Fereyd, unable to directly intercede here, would trust you to carry this forward until his network was able to involve itself again. That you would assess the situation and act accordingly.'

  Gaunt laughed humourlessly. 'But I know nothing! I don't know what this is about, or where it's going! This shadowplay isn't what I'm good at!'

  'Because you're a soldier?'

  'What?'

  Zoren repeated it. 'Because you're a soldier? Like me, you deal in orders and commands and direct action. This doesn't sit easy with any of us that Fereyd employs. Us ''Imperial salt'' may be trustworthy and able to be recruited to his cause, but we lack the sophistication to understand the war. This isn't something we solve with flamers and fire-teams.'

  Gaunt cursed Fereyd's name. Zoren echoed him, and they both began to laugh.

  'Unless you can,' Zoren said, suddenly serious.

  'Why?'

  'Why? Because he trusts you. Because you're a colonel second and a commissar first, a political officer. And this war is all politics. Intrigue. We were both on Pyrites, Gaunt. Why did he divert the key to you and not me? Why am I here to help you, and not the other way around?'

  Gaunt cursed Fereyd's name again, but this time it was low and bitter.

  He was about to speak again when there was a fierce hammering at the door to the quarters. Gaunt swept to his feet and pulled the door open. Corbec stood outside, his face flushed and fierce.

  'What?' managed Gaunt.

  You'd better come, sir. We've got three dead and another critical. The Jantine are playing for keeps.'

  ELEVEN

  Corbec led Gaunt, Zoren and a gaggle of others into the Infirmary annex where Dorden awaited them.

  'Colhn, Freul, Lonegin…' Dorden said, gesturing to three shapes under sheets on the floor. 'Feygor's over there.'

  Gaunt looked across at Rawne's adjutant, who lay, sucking breath through a transparent pipe, on a gurney in the corner.

  'Puncture wound. Knife. Lungs are failing. Another hour unless I can get fresh equipment.'

  'Rawne?' Gaunt asked.

  Corbec edged forward. 'Like I said, sir: no sign. It was hit and run. They must have taken him with them. But they left this to let us know.'

  Corbec showed the commissar the Jantine cap badge. 'Pinned it to Colhn's forehead,' he said with loathing.

  Zoren was puzzled. 'Why such an outward show of force?'

  The Jantine are a part of all of this. But they also have a declared rivalry with the Ghosts. This comes to light, it'll look like inter-regiment feuding. There'll be reprimands, but it will cloud the true matter. They want to take credit… under cover of an open feud they can do anything they like.'

  Gaunt realised they were all looking at him. His mind was racing. 'So we do the same. Colm: maintain the perimeter patrols on this deck, double strength. But also organise a raid on the Jantine. Lead it yourself. Kill some for me.'

  A great smile crossed Corbec's face.

  'Let's play along with their game and use it to our own ends. Doctor,' he gestured to Dorden, 'you're going to get medical supplies with my authority now you have a critical case.'

  'What are you going to do?' Dorden asked, wiping his hands on a gauze towel.

  Gaunt was thinking hard. He needed a plan now, a second option now that Dercius's ring had failed. He cursed his over-confidence in it. Now they had to start from scratch, both to safeguard themselves and to learn the crystal's secrets. But Gaunt was determined now. He would see this through. He wowed take the fight to the enemy.

  'I need access to the bridge. To the captain himself. Colonel Zoren?'

  'Yes?' Colonel Zoren moved up close to join Gaunt. He was entirely unprepared for the punch that laid him out, lip split and already bloody.

  'Report that,' Gaunt said. His plan began to fall into place.

  TWELVE

  Chief Medical Officer Galen Gartell of the Janune Patricians turned slowly from his patient in the bright, clean medical bay of the Jantine barrack deck. He had been tending the man since he had been brought in: a lout, a barbarian. One of the Tanith, the stretcher bearers had told him.

  The patient was a slim, powerful man with hard, angular good looks and a blue starburst tattoo over one eye. Currently the lean, handsome temple was disfigured by a bloody impact wound. 'Keep him alive!' Major Brochuss had hissed as he had helped to carry the man in.

  Such damage… such a barbarian… Gartell had mused as he had begun work, cleaning and healing. He disliked using his skill on animals like this, but clearly his noble regiment had shown mercy to some raiding rival scum and were going to heal his wounds and send him off as a gesture of their benign superiority to the deck rats they were bunked with.

  The voice that made him turn was that of Colonel Flense. 'Is he alive, doctor?'

  'Just. I don't know why I should be saving a wretch like this, wasting valuable medical commodities.'

  Flense hushed him and moved into the infirmary. A tall hooded figure followed him.

  Gartell took a step back. The figure was well over two metres tall and there was a suggestion of smoke around him that fluctuated and masked his presence.

  Who is this? Gartell wondered. And the shadow-cloak^ only a formidable scion of the Imperium would have such a device.

  'What do you need?' Flense asked, addressing the figure. It hovered forward, past Gartell and looked down at the patient.

  'Cranial damps, a neural probe, perhaps some long, single-edged scalpels,' it said in a hollow voice.

  'What?' Gartell stammered. 'What in the name of the Emperor are you about to do?'

  'Teach this thing. Teach it well,'the figure replied, reaching out a huge, twisted hand to stroke the Ghost's brow. The fingernails were hooked and brown, like claws.

  Gartell felt anger rise. 'I am chief medical officer here! No one performs any procedure in this infirmary without my—'

  The hooded figure flicked its arm.

  Galen Gartell suddenly found himself staring at his booted toes. It took the rest of his life for him to realise that something was wrong. Only when his headless body fell onto the deck next to him he realised that… his head… cut… bastard… no.

  'Flense? Clear that up, would you?' Inquisitor Heldane asked, gesturing to the corpse at his feet with a swish of the blood-wet, long-bladed scalpel in his hands. He turned back to the patient.

  'Hello, Major Rawne,' he crooned softly. 'Let me show you your heart's desire.'

  THIRTEEN

  Reclining in his leather upholstered command throne, Lord Captain Itumade Grasticus, commander of the Adeptus Mechanicus Mass Conveyance Absalom, raised his facilitator wand in a huge, baby-fat hand and gestured gently at one of the many hololithic plates which hovered around him on suspen-sor fields, bobbing gently like a cluster of buoys in an ebb-tide. The matt, dark surface of the chosen plate blinked, and a slow swirl of amber runes played across it. Grasticus carefully noted the current Warp-displacement of his vast ship, and then selected another plate to appraise himself of the engine tolerances.

  Through reinforced metal cables that grew from the deck plates under his throne and dung like thick growths of creeper to the back of his chair, Grasticus felt his ship. The data-cables, many of them tagged with paper labels bearin
g codes or prayers, spilled over the headrest of his throne and entered his cranium, neck, spine and puffy cheeks through sutured bio-sockets. They fed him the sum total of the ship's being, the structural integrity, the atmospheric levels, the very mood of the great spacecraft. Through them, he experienced the actions of every linked crewman and servitor aboard, and the distant / ihy*''*n of the engines set the pace of his own pulse.

  Grasticus was immense. Three hundred kilos of loose meat hung from his great frame. He seldom left his throne, seldom ventured outside the quiet peace of his private strategium, an armoured dome at the heart of the busy bridge vault, set high on the command spire at the rear of the Absalom.

  One hundred and thirty standard years before, when he had inherited this vessel from the late Lord Captain Ulbenid, he had been a tall, lean man. Indolence, and the addictive sympathy with the ship, had made him throne-bound. His body, as if sensing he was now one with such a vast machine, had slowed his metabolism and increased his mass, as if it wanted him to echo the swollen bulk of the Absalom. The conveyance vessels of the Adeptus Mechanicus were not like ships of the Imperial Navy. Immeasurably older and often much larger, they had been made to carry the engines of war from Mars to wherever they were needed. Their captains were more like the Princeps of great walking Titans, hardwired into the living machines through mind-impulse links. They were living ships.