Telmar loomed over the stunned man - little more than a youth, really - and seemed poised to finish what he’d begun. ‘Calm yourself, Kasperos, or I will do it for you,’ Fabius hissed, as he grabbed the other legionary’s shoulder. ‘He meant no harm. They are only curious. As we would be, in their place.’
‘They should keep their hands to themselves,’ Telmar said, slapping the Apothecary’s hand away. ‘As should you, Spider.’
Fabius stepped back, hands raised. ‘I meant no offence, brother.’
‘What you mean, and what occurs, are often two entirely different things,’ Telmar said. You should have stayed in your web, Spider. You speak softly of them, but look around. You frighten them more than any of us.’
‘Enough,’ Fulgrim said, his voice like quiet thunder. The crowd fell silent. This is not seemly, my sons. Are you children, to brawl in front of strangers?’
‘My lord, the Spider-‘ Telmar hesitated, seeing Fulgrim’s expression. ‘Apothecary Fabius has insulted my person. I would have satisfaction.’ His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Fulgrim sighed.
‘And how has he insulted you?’
‘By comparing me - comparing us - to these… primitives,’ Telmar said, glancing at Thorn, who nodded. Fulgrim frowned.
‘And why should he not?’ Fulgrim looked around, noting the mood of the crowd. They were on the cusp of flight. Telmar’s sudden burst of violence had frightened them, shaken them to their very cores. Stories would spread, flying through the city, and from there, the rest of the continent. Awe would turn to fear. Fear to resentment. And resentment to resistance. He had seen the same story, repeated ad nauseam, on a dozen worlds.
Fulgrim had always preferred love to fear. Love was stronger. Fear could be conquered, but love - never. It waned and swelled, but it never truly faded. He had made himself loved on Chemos. And he would do the same here.
The primarch sank to one knee and reached down to help Telmar’s victim to his feet. The man stared at him with mingled fright and awe, his mouth working soundlessly. Fulgrim smiled and stood. ‘I came from nothing,’ he said, fixing his sons with a steady gaze. ‘I scrabbled in the quarry pits, and down in the deepest mines, carrying buckets on my shoulders because the ascender blew a gasket,’ he said. ‘I broke my fingernails on raw ore, and grew blisters from heat and labour. You look down on them, blind to the beauty of their struggle. Blind to what they might become, if only someone would scrape the filth from their faces.’ He reached down and lifted a child onto his shoulders. The girl laughed and clapped, unafraid of the giant, even as her mother wept. Fulgrim indicated the crowd. His voice had driven many of them to their knees.
‘Look at them, my sons. You are the highest, and they, the lowest. It is your duty to raise them up, as high as they will go. Anything less is not worthy of you.’
Telmar and Thorn bowed their heads. Fabius hesitated. Then, he too bowed. Satisfied, Fulgrim handed the little girl back to her weeping mother and turned to Corynth. The Chancellor stared at him, his expression unreadable. Fulgrim gestured. ‘Shall we continue?’
He heard the crack of the gunshot a moment before he felt the air part. He saw Corynth’s mouth open, as if to shout a warning. His hand flew to Fireblade’s hilt, and he spun, drawing the sword as he did so. He felt the impact as the round struck the sword’s edge - the bullet had an explosive tip. Armour-piercing, though of such primitive manufacture that he doubted it would have penetrated his panoply. Two small lumps of smoking metal fell to the street, as his blade completed its arc.
‘You’d think they’d learn,’ Fulgrim mused in the sudden silence. He lowered his sword. The shot had come from above. ‘Fabius, see to the chancellor. Kasperos, Grythan, follow me.’ The crowd parted like water, stupefaction turning to fear as they realised what had happened. Assassination attempts were common in Nova-Basilos, and the lower classes had become inured to them. But this was different, as much due to the target as the method.
And it was happening exactly as Fulgrim had hoped.
Corynth had been correct in his suspicions. Their tour of the city had been nothing more than bait, to draw out the rest of the conspirators who had attempted to kill Pandion at the banquet. He’d provided them a target, hoping they’d be unable to resist. Now, it was time to flush them out. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be forced to kill all of them.
Fulgrim ignored the mortals as they fled, focused as he was on calculating the trajectory of the shot. He gestured towards a narrow wood-and-brick tenement occupying a street corner. An innocuous structure with a more than adequate view of the street. ‘There. Third-story window.’
Thorn reached the doorway first. He bulled forward, striking the wooden doorway full tilt. The explosion that followed would have torn a normal man apart. As it was, it barely scratched the paint on Thorn’s armour. Nonetheless, he staggered back, as his power armour’s sensors tried to compensate for the sudden rash of sound and light. Fire scraped against the sides of the street, and the force of the explosion shattered every window in sight. Fulgrim heard screams and knew there would be collateral damage.
The whole bottom level of the building was on fire. Controlled explosions. A trap, then. A shot to kill the target, and a booby trap to eliminate any pursuers. Clever.
Smiling, Fulgrim pushed past Thorn and smashed his way through the remains of the front entrance. As Telmar made to follow him, Fulgrim turned and waved him off. ‘Watch the street. They will have another escape route’
‘My lord-‘ Telmar began, but Fulgrim was already moving. Through the flames, he could see a set of stone steps, leading to the upper storeys. He took them quickly, ignoring the flames that clutched at him. Another door awaited him at the top of the stairs. He hesitated, considering the possibility of a second booby trap. Impatience won out and he kicked the door off its hinges. Iron warped and burst as wood splintered, and then Fulgrim was on the floor beyond. The thick wooden timbers that made up the floor were buckling from the heat. Smoke rose from the gaps, spreading swiftly. Fulgrim sped along the corridor, towards the stairs leading to the third floor. Weakened by the heat, they cracked beneath his weight.
A shout from above drew his attention. At the top of the stairs, a figure raised a weapon. A slug gun chattered, filling the air with stinging hornets of lead. Fulgrim ducked, covering his face with his arm, as he took the last few steps. The figure retreated, still firing. But not quickly enough. Fulgrim’s hand snapped out, and he snatched the weapon out of its owner’s grip. The man was dressed like a common labourer, but he rolled out of Fulgrim’s reach like a trained acrobat. Or a soldier.
Fulgrim shattered the weapon against the wall and paced after the gunman, moving slowly, his height a hindrance in the cramped surroundings. The third floor was a narrow strip of corridor, running alongside a garret room. The gunman scrambled for the room, calling out a warning. There was fear in his voice, but not panic. These men were disciplined. Trained.
Fulgrim heard the distinctive chunk of a large-calibre slug thrower being readied, and twisted aside at the last moment. The inner wall exploded, showering him with bits of plaster and wood, as whoever was inside fired through it. The slug thrower boomed again, and then a third time. Before it could do so a fourth time, he lunged through the cloud of splinters and drove his sword into the wall.
Fireblade struck something and he gave it a quick twist, cutting short a strangled scream from within the room. He tore his sword free in a spray of plaster, and was in the room a moment later. It was a triangular space with two windows - one looking out over the street, the other over the rooftops of the buildings behind. A man writhed on the floor, clutching his ruptured stomach. He would be dead in moments. There was no one else.
With a hiss of annoyance, Fulgrim drew Firebrand and obliterated the far window, and most of the wall besides. The volkite charger was not a subtle tool. He sprang out onto the rooftop beyond. Ancient tiles cracked beneath his feet as he landed. All around him was a forest of chimneys, turrets and do
mes. The heights of Nova-Basilos were a world unto themselves. Fulgrim rose slowly to his full height, trying to spot any sign of the gunman who’d escaped. But he was gone.
Fulgrim turned. The structure behind him was fully ablaze now, smoke boiling upwards into the pale sky. He could hear the clangour of alarms, as some form of disaster brigade was summoned. They would not arrive in time to save anything of value.
He understood now. The fire had served a twofold purpose. To prevent pursuit and destroy any evidence the assassins might have left behind. The rooftops had provided a ready-made escape route. He wondered who they had been working for.
‘Clever,’ he murmured. They were clever, these Byzans. He smiled.
This might yet prove a worthy challenge.
Eight
the executive at ease
Fulgrim leaned over the iron rail of the veranda, eyes dosed. The sea breeze carried with it the sour smell of the reef flats below, and the sound of the kelp harvesters. The coastal enclaves of Chalkedon were, by and large, devoted to aquacultural pursuits. Massive fisheries dominated the eastern skyline, and fleets of ships scoured the oceans, harvesting the thick sargassum beds. The waters of Byzas had been partitioned by the aristocratic families of the patricians as assiduously as the land and air.
‘Lord-Phoenician?’
Fulgrim turned. ‘Yes, Patrician Bucepholos?’
Bucepholos grimaced. ‘I invited you here in order to discuss this… offer of yours. Not admire the view.’ He refused to meet Fulgrim’s eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the giant standing on his veranda. Or perhaps he was feeling guilty.
Bucepholos topped his list of suspects as the hand behind the recent spate of assassination attempts. Even so, his invitation had not come as a surprise. Fulgrim had expected it, sooner or later. The patricians had no choice but to approach him. They couldn’t kill him, or otherwise dissuade him. Now, they would try bargaining. A bribe, perhaps. Fulgrim was curious as to what they would offer him. Indeed, that was one of the reasons he’d accepted the invitation. The other was to take the measure of a potential enemy.
A pair of heavily armoured warriors flanked the fat man, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. More warriors occupied the steps of the veranda and the high walls of the coastal holdfast above. Those to either side of the patrician eyed Fulgrim warily.
For his part, the primarch studied them with only mild interest. While their thick, segmented armour might provide some protection against the archaic carbines common here, he judged that it would part like paper before Fireblade’s edge. And his own panoply was proof against anything they might hope to wield against him. If they intended him harm, they would have to bring an army. Still, if they wanted to try, he saw no reason to dissuade them. ‘What is there to discuss?’ he asked, turning his attentions to their master.
The patrician’s grimace deepened into an impressive frown. ‘Surely you jest? Turning over control of our world, to the supposed representatives of some semi-mythical empire-‘
‘Imperium,’ Fulgrim corrected.
‘What’s the difference?’
Fulgrim smiled. ‘Scope.’ Bucepholos’ guards tensed, and the patrician paled slightly. Fulgrim leaned back against the rail of the veranda, which creaked alarmingly beneath his weight. Bucepholos winced at the sound. ‘I am given to understand that you have three children, patrician - all sons. Is that right?’
Yes.’
‘Have you allowed Apothecary Fabius to test their genetic material yet? I would be most curious to see whether or not they were suitable candidates for joining my Legion.’
Bucepholos’ lips thinned. Fulgrim could smell his fear. Not for himself, but for his heirs. The only thing these patricians valued more than their power was the continuation of their lines. Many of the more prominent families would wither and fade if the Legion chose to collect the blood-tithe in full. ‘He has been here already, yes,’ Bucepholos said, his hands curling into fists, the knuckles turning white. ‘He was very… discourteous.’
Fulgrim laughed. ‘Yes. Fabius has his ways, and we all must make allowances for them. His burden is a heavy one. As is mine, deciding as I must the fate of this world and all those on it. Then, that is why we’re here, isn’t it?’ He gestured airily. ‘I suppose you’re speaking on behalf of a syndicate of some sort? That’s usually the way these things go.’
Bucepholos blinked. ‘What?’
‘On my world, whenever the executive clans would have some grievance to put forth, they would form a syndicate, elect a spokesman and send him to me. If the spokesman failed to persuade me, they would then endeavour to bribe me. When that failed, the more stubborn claimants would finance an ill-advised assassination attempt. Finally, the survivors would capitulate. Eventually, they learned the wisdom of skipping directly to capitulation.’ Fulgrim crossed his arms and continued to lean against the veranda. It was a pose he’d perfected on Chemos. The Executive at Ease, as an artist of his acquaintance had called it.
‘We are not the sort of men to be threatened,’ Bucepholos said.
‘And I am not a man to make threats. I deal in fact.’ Fulgrim held up a finger. ‘Fact the first - I control the stars. Your fleet is composed of badly maintained antiques, one of which does not function.’ A second finger joined the first. ‘Fact the second - I control the sky. Your airships are children’s toys compared to my gunships.’ A third finger. ‘Fact the third - I can take control of the ground whenever I wish, and there is no force on this world that can stop me.’ He shrugged. ‘I could continue, if you like.’
Bucepholos grimaced. ‘We have no proof of any of that.’ The protest was half-hearted. The patrician was too clever to believe that. But he needed to save face in front of his men, plus whoever else might be listening. Fulgrim suspected that the entire conversation was being recorded, in some fashion too primitive for his armour’s sensors to detect.
He sighed. He was growing bored. It was time to give things a push. Pyke had advised against tipping his hand in such a fashion, but he was coming to the conclusion that anything else was just a waste of time he didn’t have. ‘Just as I have no proof you were behind the recent attempt on my life.’
Bucepholos twitched. In shock, Fulgrim thought. He straightened. Corynth had been wrong, then. At least about this. ‘You didn’t know.’
The patrician grunted. ‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Was it poison? It usually is. I, myself, have been poisoned twice this month alone’
‘What do you know of Sabazius?’ Fulgrim asked on impulse. The name - and its possible meanings - had gnawed at him since the banquet, though it seemed to have little importance to anyone but the dead. He’d meant to ask Chancellor Corynth about it, but hadn’t as yet had the opportunity.
Bucepholos shrugged. ‘Nothing. A myth.’ No flicker of recognition or surprise there. If there was any connection, it wasn’t here. Bucepholos shook his head. ‘You called us a syndicate, earlier. We’re not so united as that. There are factions within factions, all of us pushing against one another.’
He sounded almost apologetic. Fulgrim gestured. ‘Then if you are not speaking for a group, why ask for this meeting?’
‘To hear from your own lips, what you intend. What is to become of us, if we support this compliance?’ Bucepholos shifted his bulk. ‘What will become of our properties, our privileges? Will our rank mean anything in this new world you promise us?’ He hesitated. ‘What of our children?’
‘Have you spoken to Primary Iterator Pyke? I assure you, she can answer all of these questions in detail.’ If Bucepholos wasn’t involved, then this truly was a waste of time.
‘I was under the impression that you were in charge,’ Bucepholos said.
Fulgrim shrugged. ‘It seems like we both made the same mistake, then.’ He looked down at the patrician, who stared at him in obvious confusion. ‘Make no mistake; I can do all that I have said and more. And if you attempt to disrupt these proceedings, I will burn all that you have buil
t to ashes.’
Bucepholos licked his lips. ‘And if we do not?’
Fulgrim stepped back, his expression cheerful. ‘Then we will be friends, patrician. And as your friend, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are well taken care of. But you must come to a decision quickly. There is but a month until the compliance ceremonies. One way or another, all things will be settled by then.’
‘That isn’t much time.’
‘No. But it’s all either of us is getting.’
The Firebird flew high above Chalkedon, leaving the coast behind. Fulgrim sat, running a cloth across the surface of his sword, working scented oils into the gleaming metal. The oils would, in theory, help disguise the odour of blood that had insinuated itself into the metal. An old bit of folk-wisdom from Chemos. ‘Disappointing,’ he said finally.
Abdemon looked up. Fulgrim had been silent since they’d left Patrician Bucepholos’ coastal holdfast. The lord commander, recognising the primarch’s silence for what it was, had decided to leave him to it. ‘In what way, my lord?’
Fulgrim didn’t look at him. ‘I’d hoped he was the one. The way he spoke up at the announcement. The invitation. Corynth’s warning. It all seemed so… perfect.’
‘Too perfect.’
‘There is no such thing.’
‘Then perhaps he is guilty.’
Fulgrim glanced at him. ‘I would have known. Whatever his crimes, this wasn’t one of them.’ He held up his sword, inspecting it for any imperfections. ‘Have you read over the iterators’ latest reports?’ In the past week, Pyke’s subordinates had run themselves from one end of the planet to the other, collecting data and making themselves seen.
Abdemon nodded. He’d done little else while Fulgrim took in the scenery. The situation is becoming untenable. There are riots occurring weekly in the westernmost enclaves according to the latest reports. ‘The patricians are losing control of their fiefdoms, and demanding the government despatch troops. In the meantime, they’re mustering their own personal armies - ostensibly for defence of their own holdings.’
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 10