Sabbat War Page 3

  ‘I’m sure it will be… very convivial,’ said Haller.

  Pasha got up.

  ‘As you may have noticed, my dear sergeant, we have fewer officers to go around than usual these days.’ Pasha shook her head sadly. ‘Laid up hurt, or … ah, Throne bless the dead. There is too much to do, Haller, and not enough of us to do it. I have four of the meetings today. Four. Munitorum. Tactical. Then war room. Then meeting to review memorial services. I have no time for more things.’

  ‘The dinner?’

  ‘Yes, the dinner. Well, not so much the dinner, but it is being dress code. Formal. I wore my dress uniform at function night before last, and some gak-idiot Keyzon spilled the wine down it. It, I cannot wear. So I come to find my spare.’

  She held a jacket up for him to see.

  ‘That’s… pretty much ruined,’ he said.

  ‘Yes! Yes, it is. Piece of the shit. My kit was in Undercroft billet, and Undercroft billet flooded, now everything is ruined piece of the shit. I do not have time to find replacement.’

  ‘Well, I could do that for you.’

  ‘You could?’

  ‘Of course.’ ‘You have time?’

  ‘I can spare some.’

  ‘Oh, Cin Haller. You are good man. Honest, good Verghastite son. You know tailor?’

  ‘Tailor?’

  ‘Tai-lor,’ she said, over-enunciating. ‘Gar-ment ma-ker?’

  ‘No, but I thought stores could–’

  ‘Munitorum no good, Haller, no good. Take too long. Request slip, and the authorisation, and then requisition, and then blah blah in triplicate…’

  ‘Then I think I know someone,’ said Haller. He held out his hand. ‘Leave it with me, major.’

  She passed him the ruined jacket. It was damp, and it stank.

  ‘Just like this one?’ Haller asked.

  Pasha narrowed her eyes. ‘You saying I have put on the weight?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I meant the styling of it, mam.’

  Pasha grunted. ‘Yes, like that. Thank you, Haller. You are helping me out a great lot.’

  The gymnasium of the Palace barrack wing was a large, cold space. Whitewashed walls, hardwood floors varnished like glossy caramel, large windows that shone with the high air and the sea light. There was no one in except Chiria when Criid arrived. Chiria was lifting weights on a corner bench. They nodded to each other, but said nothing. That suited Tona Criid. She had nothing to say.

  She crossed the big, brown leather floor mat behind the practice cages. They were old machines, immaculately maintained, though no Astartes had used their vicious programs for combat drill in a long time. She had thought about running, her favoured method of burning away energy and anger, but running would mean leaving the Palace compound, and she couldn’t face the city. The crowds. The celebration.

  Loss and rage wrestled inside her, fighting for supremacy. Whichever of them won, she would still be broken.

  She pulled her shirt off over her head, and stood in boots, breeches and vest as she bound her hands with tape. Then she took a breath, bowed her head, and launched the first blow. She rained them hard. The hanging bag, brown leather like the floor mat, shivered on its chain with every muffled slap.

  She kept hitting until her knuckles were raw. They were dead. They were all dead, and nothing made sense any more.

  She paused, panting, ready to go again, and saw Chiria standing at the edge of the mat. Chiria was a head taller than Criid and her muscled arms twice the size. She was wiping sweat off her neck with a cloth, her weight reps done. There was a look on her famously scarred face, and Criid knew what it was.

  ‘No offence,’ Criid said. ‘I don’t want to talk.’

  Chiria nodded.

  ‘I guessed that,’ she replied.

  ‘Nothing to say,’ said Criid.

  ‘I understand,’ said Chiria. She walked over to the wall racks, and took down a pair of focus pads. They were old, brown leather too. She put them on, ducked under the speed ball, and came across the mat to face Criid.

  She took a braced stance, and cupped the pads up.

  ‘Not in the mood,’ said Criid.

  ‘Better than the bag,’ said Chiria. ‘More responsive. Do your worst.’

  Criid hesitated. She realised Chiria really wasn’t going to talk. She knew better than to try, because how do you even start? She wasn’t trying to use the opportunity to have a quiet word, or console. She was just standing there with her hands up, waiting to be hit.

  Criid slammed punches into the pads. Chiria took them, nodded, and they began to circle. Criid punched some more, harder and with less finesse, and Chiria just soaked up each blow with gentle, corrective back-steps.

  ‘Do your worst,’ she urged.

  ‘You don’t want that,’ said Criid. ‘It’d break your hands.’

  Chiria grinned, and raised her eyebrows as though to say ‘as if’.

  Criid let it all go. Fifteen minutes straight, no let up, pounding into the pads that floated and bobbed in front of her, moving around the mat.

  Chiria stepped back and lowered the focus pads. Criid was out of breath, sweat dripping off her onto the leather.

  ‘Any more, and you’ll break your hands,’ said Chiria.

  Criid nodded.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ said Chiria.

  Criid nodded again.

  ‘My form’s not good,’ she said, breathing hard. ‘All over the place.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Chiria. ‘Just do it. I don’t care what I look like, I just do what needs doing. However long that takes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Criid.

  ‘Unless you want to stop?’ said Chiria.

  ‘No,’ said Criid. ‘I’ll keep going. However long that takes.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Chiria, and walked away. On her way out of the gymnasium door, she passed Merity Chass coming in.

  Criid was stripping off her wraps. Chiria, bless her bones, had had the decency not to even try a conversation. Gaunt’s daughter couldn’t be trusted to do the same. Criid gritted her teeth. She didn’t need this.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Merity. Her hair was growing out. Her tunic and breeches looked like the basic uniform of the Tacticae Division.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about anything,’ said Criid.

  ‘I understand,’ said Merity. ‘I don’t want to talk about it either. None of it. Dalin. Yoncy. Gol. What the feth is there to say?’

  Everything, thought Criid. Nothing. The children had been hers. She had saved them, and raised them. Then it turned out they were Gol’s, by some miracle, and she and Gol had worked together to share the responsibility.

  Then it turned out that the children weren’t children at all. And now they were gone, and there was a hole left where they had been, a gaping wound, a fathomless pit, and Gol, by some cruel and unbearable injustice, had been lost in the same pit, and others with him, like Jessi Banda, and Leyr, and Neskon and Ban Daur’s woman Elodie, and General fething Von Voytz, and so many more.

  And the greatest injustice of all was that Criid had been spared, so she would have to live with it. She’d never be whole again. None of them would, none of the ones that this had touched. And that meant everyone, because those children had been known and loved by everyone, and Gol Kolea had been the heart of the regiment.

  If this was what victory felt like, then Throne help those who lived to see it.

  Criid tossed the wrappings into a metal bin, and leaned against the wall, hand splayed, head down, the sweat dripping from her face disguising the tears falling from her eyes.

  ‘How can you miss something so completely and also hate it?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone,’ said Merity.

  ‘No,’ said Criid. ‘They were lies. They were weapons.’

  ‘I was with Dalin right at the end,’ said Merity. ‘He came to find me. I don’t think he’d have done that if he’d been a lie. I think that part of him wa
s still there. Enough to slow him down and delay his onslaught.’

  Criid looked at her.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?’ she snapped.

  ‘I didn’t. You asked.’

  ‘You miss him?’

  ‘Of course. We were close. He was my friend, until he wasn’t.’

  ‘He was my son,’ said Criid. She straightened up.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘Not this conversation,’ said Merity. ‘Neither of us are ready for it. But you made a promise to me. Or rather, to my lifeward.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’d protect me. That’s what you told her.’

  ‘Feth sakes, I haven’t got time for this,’ said Criid.

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ said Merity. ‘Since I arrived on Urdesh, I’ve got through two bodyguards. My lifeward. You were there for that. Then they gave me a Scion. Her name was Relf. I didn’t know her long. She died in the Undercroft.’

  Criid stared at the girl. There was no expression on Merity’s face. It was easy to forget quite how much shit she’d been through too. If she’d been able to feel anything, Criid would have pitied her.

  ‘So what?’ Criid said. ‘You want me to be your lifeward now? Your bodyguard? Because I made some fething promise? You want me to protect you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Merity. ‘I don’t want to rely on anybody. I want to protect myself. But someone needs to teach me how. You’re a soldier. A good one. I’d trust your lessons.’

  ‘Self-defence?’ Criid asked. The request had wrong-footed her.

  Merity nodded. ‘And firearms. Whatever techniques you’ve got the patience to teach me. I only ever did basic.’

  Criid shook her head wearily.

  ‘There are times,’ she said, ‘when you remind me of your father.’

  ‘I’ll try not be insulted by that,’ said Merity.

  Criid reached to her hip and drew her warknife. She held it out, grip first, towards Merity.

  ‘Then we’ll start with blades,’ she said. ‘Straight silver. That’s the Ghost trademark, so you’d better learn it.’

  Merity took the blade.

  ‘What will you use?’ she asked, but Criid had knelt down to pull a blade from a boot sheath. It was stubby, half the length of the warknife, like a baby sister.

  ‘Short silver,’ she said. ‘A lot of us carry backups. Blade fights are ugly, and the only good ones are the quick ones. There’s no finesse. Nothing fancy. You do whatever works. You get in first, and finish it fast. A knife-fight that lasts gets slippery and messy, and you lose grip, or footing. Or you bleed out. So you kill the fether hard before he cuts you. With me so far?’

  ‘Every word,’ Merity replied.

  ‘Good. Now come at me.’

  With Pasha’s mouldering dress jacket under his arm, Haller was crossing the Circular Court when he spotted Ban Daur. His old friend was standing alone, facing the wall.

  Haller didn’t much want to talk to him, because he didn’t know what to say. Daur had just lost his wife in the most horrific circumstances. But no one had seen Daur for days, and now here he was, just staring at a wall.

  Haller wondered if he should fetch Hark. Or Curth.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  Daur looked at him. His uniform was grubby. He seemed calm, though he needed a shave.

  ‘Hey, Haller,’ he said.

  ‘Something wrong with that wall?’ Haller asked.

  ‘No, I just…’

  ‘What?’ asked Haller.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Daur asked.

  ‘I’m trying to get Pasha’s jacket fixed. There’s some dinner, or something. Anyway…’

  Daur nodded.

  ‘Probably a good idea, getting in Pasha’s good books,’ said Daur.

  ‘It’s just an errand,’ said Haller. ‘What do you mean, Ban?’

  Daur looked up at the sky. It was bright and hazy. They could hear engines in the distance. Thunderbolt flights, out over the bay.

  ‘Well,’ said Daur, ‘there are jobs in the offing. Promotions. You’d be in the mix, I should think. I’ve recommended you before now. I think you’ve got a good chance this time.’

  ‘You mean… a company senior?’ asked Haller.

  ‘Seems there are a few vacancies right now,’ said Daur. He said it deadpan, and seemed amused by it. Haller was a little shocked.

  ‘You think I’m… currying favour to get her backing on a promotion?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Daur. ‘It was a joke. Sorry, my sense of humour needs recalibrating.’

  Daur looked around suddenly, as if he’d heard something, then turned back to Haller.

  ‘Actually,’ said Haller, ‘Baskevyl was talking about me filling in for you. Acting senior on D Company. Just for now. Until you’re…’

  ‘Better?’ asked Daur.

  ‘You know what I mean. You need time.’

  Daur nodded.

  ‘Unless you’re going to… just carry on,’ said Haller.

  Daur shrugged.

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘But if it came to it, I’d be happy to see D safe in your hands. Although…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Acting? Do you just want acting? There are permanents on offer, and you’ve been on the shortlist for a long time. It’d be you, Derin, maybe Cown.’

  ‘Lurgoine,’ said Haller. ‘Wersun too.’

  ‘True,’ said Daur. ‘Well, there are enough spots, may the Emperor protect us. C Company–’

  ‘No,’ said Haller quickly.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not that one.’

  ‘But you’re Vervunhive. Makes sense.’

  ‘No. Not Kolea’s,’ said Haller. ‘I won’t take it. No one wants it, Ban. No one can follow him.’

  ‘Oh, but you’ll take mine off me?’

  ‘Because you’re coming back,’ said Haller. He wavered. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Daur glanced aside again.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Haller.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Daur. ‘C Company would be a good fit for you, Cin. You’d make it your own quick enough.’

  ‘I don’t want to make it my own. I wouldn’t take it. I don’t want people thinking I’m trying to replace Gol.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what people think,’ said Daur.

  ‘It does to me,’ said Haller. ‘Heritage. Respect. Respect for tradition. I don’t know. There’s a way of doing things. Ceremonial. Like… like wearing the right jacket.’

  He looked down at the ruined coat he was carrying.

  ‘Whoever takes C Company should have earned it. They should be bulletproof. Not just the next idiot on a list.’

  ‘Well, E Company, then?’ said Daur.

  ‘Oh gak! Seriously? Meryn’s mob? The unlucky bastards? The cursed company? No thank you!’

  Daur stared at him, and then started to laugh. Haller winced. It didn’t seem right Daur laughing. Haller hadn’t meant to be amusing.

  ‘I tell you what you are, Cin,’ Daur chuckled, ‘you’re fething picky! Not this one, not that one. Company senior is company senior. It’s an honour, and you deserve it. Stop making objections. Respect for tradition, my arse.’

  ‘Oh, I want it,’ said Haller. ‘But C was Gol, and E was fething Meryn, and it’s toxic.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ said Daur. ‘Go and get that coat mended. And try not to trip up on any heritage or tradition while you’re doing it.’

  Haller hesitated.

  ‘You be all right out here?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because. Because of what happened to… I’m so sorry, Ban.’

  Daur didn’t reply.

  ‘Look,’ said Haller. ‘You keep… you keep looking around. Is there something bothering you?’

  Daur shook his head.

  ‘I keep hearing voices,’ he said softly. ‘Everywhere I go. Even in the quiet corners of this place. Sometimes, it so
unds like…’

  He stopped. He looked at Haller.

  ‘It sounds like her, sometimes,’ he said. ‘Like she’s just behind a wall, calling out. Don’t look at me like that. I’m probably just going mad. I’m going to get Ana to check me out. Of course, if I am mad, I’ll be relieved of duty, so D Company can be yours full time.’

  ‘Voices?’ said Haller.

  ‘Old voices, Haller. You know, ghosts. Corbec. Feygor. Merrt. I swear I heard Bragg laughing in the back quad yesterday. Sometimes it’s her. It’s just me, Haller. Just my imagination. The good old torments. You know how that gets. Day before last, I was sure I heard Brin Milo in the billet. Even thought I saw him too.’

  ‘Well, you probably did,’ said Haller.

  ‘What?’

  Haller frowned.

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’ he asked. ‘He came back. Milo came back. He survived. Came back with Mkoll. The KIA report was wrong. You probably did hear Milo.’

  Daur looked stunned.

  ‘Really?’ Daur said. ‘He came back? Is he… Is he going to rejoin the regiment?’

  Haller shrugged.

  ‘No one knows,’ he replied. ‘No one’s really spoken to him. He’s, like, all grown up. Not a boy any more, not at all. And very distant. No one knows what to say to him. It’s all a bit awkward, to be honest. But still, he made it, and I’m happy about that.’

  ‘He came back,’ Daur murmured. ‘Well… that’s something.’

  ‘But we’re going to get a drink, right?’ asked Asa Elam as they walked down the Great Hill into the city.

  ‘Yes, we’re going to get a fething drink,’ replied Darra Bray. ‘Leave off. I just need to make a stop on the way.’

  ‘As long as there’s some drinking,’ said Elam. ‘And some celebrating. And all of that.’

  ‘What stop?’ asked Shoggy Domor. Bray sighed, and began to explain it again.

  ‘Cant came to me,’ said Bray. ‘He’s got a problem. He’s just got signed off out of the infirmary, and Brostin asked him to fetch his sacra for him.’

  ‘We can get him sacra,’ said Domor. ‘Osket’s got a still and–’

  ‘No,’ said Bray. ‘Brostin wants his bottle. His own bottle. Bragg gave it to him, years ago. Anyway, Cant checked Brostin’s kit, and the bottle’s been smashed. I think it was in Brostin’s musette bag when that rockcrete fell on him.’