THE WARMASTER

by Dan Abnett

  TWENTY: OFFENSIVE

  The main keep of the Urdeshic Palace loomed over Gaunt as he stepped out of the transport into the High Yard. The day was turning into what seemed to be a vague haze typical of Urdesh. The sky seemed flat and back-lit, as if bandaged with cloud, smog from the city’s plants and refineries, and fyceline smoke from the bombardments in Zarakppan. It made the keep seem like a black monster, improbably tall, a void designed to swallow up his life.

  He’d brought Daur, Bonin and Beltayn with him. Beltayn, because he was Gaunt’s aide and adjutant, Bonin to represent the regiment’s scouting speciality, and Daur as a member of the officer cadre. Those were the nominal reasons, anyway. It was more because Gaunt felt comfortable having good soldiers at his side. The four Tempestus Scions followed them up the steps. They were good soldiers too. The best, depending on how you measured such things, but Gaunt didn’t know them, and they smacked too much of the zealous indoctrination of the Prefectus. They reminded him of his own early days, his training in the Commissariat Scholam. He might have become a Scion too, had he not shown brains.

  Or perhaps if he had shown more ferocious, unquestioning fervour.

  Bonin sniffed the air. There was a pungent, vegetable stink that was undoubtedly the sea, and a sharper reek of sulphur. He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘The volcanic vents leak sulphur,’ said Beltayn, noticing.

  ‘Volcanic?’ asked Daur.

  ‘The Great Hill,’ said Gaunt. ‘This entire precinct is built in the plug of the volcanic cone.’

  ‘Great,’ said Bonin.

  ‘Geothermal energy, Mach,’ said Gaunt. ‘That’s what drives the industry of this great world. That smell is the reason Urdesh is such a critical holding.’

  ‘Just adjusting to the idea we’re standing on a volcano, sir,’ said Bonin.

  They entered the palatial atrium, Sancto and his Scions in match step behind them. The bare stone walls rose to soaring arches, lined with regimental flags that draped down their mast-like poles now they were sheltered from the wind. Four immense iron siege bombards sat on stone plinths, yawning at the doors. Officers stood in groups, talking in low voices. Messengers scurried to and fro. An aide informed Gaunt that Biota would attend him shortly, and that he should wait in the White Hall.

  The White Hall was a banqueting room of considerable size, its walls whitewashed plaster. The room had been cleared of all furniture, except a long trestle table and a bench, and the emptiness made the place seem bigger.

  The walls were covered in framed picts. Gaunt wandered over to examine some as he waited. They were regimental portraits: dour-faced men in stiff poses and stiffer formal uniforms, grouped in rows like sports teams. No one was smiling. Gaunt read the hand-scripted titles. Pragar, Urdesh Storm Troop, Jovani, Helixid, Narmenian, Keyzon, Vasko Shock, Ballantane, Volpone, Vitrian, Gelpoi… The history of the crusade in the form of the faces that had waged it.

  Ban Daur joined him, and looked at the pictures thoughtfully.

  ‘I wonder…’ he began, ‘I wonder how many of the men in these pictures are still alive.’

  Gaunt nodded.

  ‘Indeed, Ban,’ he replied. He had been wondering how many had been long dead before their images were unpacked in this room and hung on hooks.

  Along the base of the wall were stacks of old frames that had been taken down at some point to make room for the Imperial display. The whitewash of the wall was marked with smoke lines and faded oblongs where other pictures had once hung and their replacements had not matched in size. Daur bent down and tipped through the unhung frames.

  ‘Look, sir,’ he said. Gaunt crouched next to him.

  These pictures were much older, dusty. Some were paintings. Images of proud warbands, and gatherings of stern industrialists. Gaunt lifted a few to read the captions. Zarak Dynast Clan, Ghentethi Akarred Clan, Hoolum Lay-Technist, Hoolum First Army, Clan Gaelen Dynast…

  ‘I don’t recognise the names,’ said Daur, ‘or the uniforms.’

  ‘This is Urdesh’s history, Ban,’ said Gaunt. ‘Its long and troubled history.’

  ‘They aren’t all military,’ said Daur.

  ‘Urdesh has always been a place of industry, from its first settlement onwards,’ Gaunt replied. ‘The Mechanicus has been here from the start, exploiting the planet’s energy sources, building enclaves and forge manufactoria. But Urdesh… It’s a geographical mosaic of archipelagoes and island chains.’

  ‘A mosaic?’ asked Daur, confused.

  ‘A patchwork,’ said Gaunt. ‘Balkanised, without central government. I mean, for the longest time, there was no central authority. Urdesh was riven by low-level conflicts as warlords and feudal dynasties vied with each other.’

  ‘Noble families held local power?’ asked Daur.

  ‘Right, they did, controlling city states, and squabbling for resources. Eventually, as Urdesh’s importance grew, the Mechanicus exerted its influence, forcibly unifying the world under its control. The dynast families and city states were brought into line or eliminated.’ Daur frowned.

  ‘So the Mechanicus made Urdesh?’ he asked.

  ‘They made it the pivotal world it is now,’ said Gaunt, ‘and are regarded as the planet’s owners and saviours.’

  ‘What happened to the nobility?’ asked Daur.

  Gaunt shrugged.

  ‘The most powerful families retained power in partnership with the Tech Priesthood,’ he replied, ‘providing ready work forces and standing armies. The dynasts that survived unification prospered, building their enclaves around the Mechanicus hubs, and even forming brotherhoods.’

  ‘Brotherhoods? What does that mean?’

  ‘Unions, allied labour groups… even some technomystical orders as the Mechanicus shared and farmed out its lesser mysteries in return for loyal service. Some of the most able weaponshops on Urdesh are not Mechanicus, Ban. They’re dynastic lay-tech institutions, where the old warlord families of Urdesh machine weapons the Mechanicus has taught them to make.’

  They rose from the pictures.

  ‘You’ve studied your briefing material, I see,’ smiled Daur.

  ‘I read up as best I could,’ said Gaunt. ‘To be honest, I attempted to read the precis background of the world, but I cast it aside. The history and fractured politics are more complex than the damn crusade.’

  Daur chuckled. He’d had briefing packets like that come across his desk.

  ‘Besides, it’s pointless,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Pointless?’ asked Daur.

  ‘Whatever Urdesh has been, Ban, that era is dying. The crusade will either fully liberate the world and centralise its control in a new Imperial order, or the world will become extinct. These pictures, relegated to the floor, are a footnote to a complex and involved chronicle that has ceased to be relevant.’

  They turned as the door opened. Urienz strode in, acknowledging the smart salute of Gaunt’s Scions. He left his own entourage of aides and soldiers waiting in the hall. Gaunt stepped to meet him, Daur, Beltayn and Bonin hanging back.

  ‘Heard you were here, Gaunt,’ Urienz said.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Just passing by,’ said Urienz. ‘I’m called to Zarakppan. It’s hotting up. The devils are pushing closer.’

  ‘A futile effort, surely?’ said Gaunt.

  Urienz shrugged.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, producing a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘The address of my tailor, as promised.’

  Gaunt took the note and nodded his thanks.

  Urienz took him by the elbow and stepped him away from the three Ghosts and the Scions.

  ‘A word,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We know,’ he said.

  ‘Know?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘Of the scheme Van Voytz and Cybon are cooking up.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ asked Gaunt.

  Urienz shrugged.

  ‘Other senior staff. It’s an open secret. Some of us have been approached to lend our
support.’

  ‘You turned the opportunity down?’

  Urienz smiled.

  ‘There are many who do not share Cybon’s view. Many who remain loyal to Macaroth.’

  ‘I believe everyone is loyal to Macaroth,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘I’m advising you to think carefully, Gaunt,’ Urienz said. ‘I have no quarrel with you, and I can see why they’ve picked you as their man. Few would block you. That’s not the point. We’re on a knife edge. The last thing we need is a change of command. The disruption would be catastrophic.’

  ‘So this is a friendly word?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘There are some, perhaps, who would be more hostile,’ Urienz admitted. ‘Just think about what I’m saying. The crusade doesn’t need a headshot like this. Not now.’

  ‘The proposal can be blocked,’ said Gaunt, ‘very simply. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s a political effort. If you know, then the warmaster must be aware too.’

  ‘Who knows what he’s thinking?’ said Urienz. ‘None of us are going to confront him with the matter. He’s been known to shoot the messenger, even if that messenger is bringing valuable intelligence. Look, if it goes forward, he might step down quietly. But he could as easily go to war with Cybon and his cronies. None of us want to step into that crossfire. And that’s where you’d be, Ibram. You’d be standing right in front of Cybon. The political bloodbath could put us back years. Throne, it could cripple us. Lose us the entire campaign.’

  ‘You mean Urdesh?’

  ‘I mean the damn crusade. Macaroth isn’t perfect, but he’s warmaster, and he’s the warmaster we’ve got right now. This is not a cart of fruit that needs to get upturned.’

  ‘If your concern is this great, sir,’ said Gaunt, ‘you should speak to the warmaster. Inform him of what’s afoot. Encourage discussion.’

  ‘I don’t need that flak, Gaunt. No one does. Turn Cybon down. Don’t go along with him. They don’t have another decent candidate to sponsor, none that the rest of staff would accept. You step aside, and they can’t move ahead. The whole affair dies off. Let it blow over, bide your time. Once Urdesh is done and finished with, once the heat is turned down and we’ve got time to breathe, more of us might be willing to consider the process favourably.’

  ‘Thank you for your candour,’ said Gaunt.

  Urienz smiled.

  ‘We’re all on the same side, eh? I like you. I mean you no ill will. You’ve walked straight into this, and you’re barely up to speed. I thought a word to the wise was a good idea. And might save us all more grief than we can handle.’

  Gaunt nodded. They shook hands again. Urienz turned to leave.

  ‘Check out that tailor of mine,’ he called over his shoulder as he strode out.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Daur.

  ‘Appropriate clothing,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About looking like the right person for the job,’ said Gaunt.

  The door opened again. Chief Tactical Officer Biota entered.

  ‘Lord militant,’ he said. ‘Sorry for the delay. We must begin at once.’

  Felyx looked up.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ he asked.

  Criid sat forwards in her seat and peered through the vehicle windows at the funeral transport ahead. Dalin said nothing. He’d been quiet since they’d set off, not just respectful, but as though he was brooding on something. Criid hadn’t wanted to ask him what in front of Felyx.

  ‘Traffic,’ Criid said. ‘At the next street junction. We’ll be under way again soon.’

  ‘On Verghast,’ said Felyx, ‘traffic parts for a cortege. Out of respect. The cortege does not stop.’

  ‘Well, this is Urdesh,’ said Criid.

  ‘A place where respect seems to be in pitifully short supply,’ murmured Felyx.

  Criid looked at him. Gaunt’s son was almost cowering sullenly in the seat corner, gazing out of the side window at nothing. She decided not to press it.

  One of the hired mourners, a stiff figure in black, had climbed out of the funeral transport and was stalking back to their vehicle.

  ‘Stay with Felyx,’ she said to Dalin and got out.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked.

  ‘The street is closed, ma’am,’ said the mourner. ‘There are Astra Militarum blockades here. Down as far as Kental Circle, I believe.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Criid. The man shook his head. She glanced at the street around her. It wasn’t busy, but the traffic was stationary. Pedestrians, most of them civilians, seemed to be hustling away, as if they had somewhere urgent to go.

  The mourner checked his pocket chron.

  ‘The service is not for another seventeen minutes, ma’am,’ the mourner said. ‘We have plenty of time. We will find another route.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Criid.

  ‘I’m waiting for the explanation,’ said Viktor Hark.

  Colonel Grae looked at him. The man was annoyed. The grey Chimera they were riding in was rumbling through the Hollerside district, and Hark had no idea of their destination.

  ‘There was no reason for you to accompany us, commissar,’ said Grae.

  ‘I think there’s every reason,’ said Hark. ‘You’ve taken a senior officer of my regiment into custody with no explanation. I’m not going to let you just march him off.’

  He glanced back down the payload bay. Kolea was sitting on a fold-down seat near the rear hatch, flanked by security troops from the intelligence service. They hadn’t cuffed him, but they had taken his sidearm, his microbead and his straight silver.

  ‘The issue is sensitive,’ Grae said.

  ‘And I can probably help you with it, if you bring me up to speed,’ said Hark. ‘Colonel, this man is one of our finest officers. He’s a war hero. I’m not talking small stuff. He’s blessed by the Beati–’

  ‘I’m aware of his record,’ said Grae.

  ‘He’s in line for promotion to regimental command,’ said Hark. ‘Quite apart from Major Kolea’s fate, I am, as you might expect, keenly concerned for the welfare and morale of my regiment.’

  Grae looked him in the eye. Hark was disturbed by the trouble he read in the man’s face.

  ‘Major Kolea’s significance and record are precisely why I’ve taken him in,’ he said. ‘Matters have arisen. The ordos have taken an unhealthy interest in him.’

  ‘Unhealthy for whom?’ asked Hark.

  ‘For Major Kolea.’

  ‘This is the Inquisitor Laksheema I’ve heard about?’

  Grae nodded.

  ‘The ordos wants Kolea. I tried to deflect, but intelligence is very much the junior partner in this,’ said Grae. ‘I have instructions to protect Kolea as an asset–’

  ‘Instructions from where?’ asked Hark.

  ‘Staff level,’ said Grae. ‘High staff level. We need him shielded from the ordos. Laksheema could cause us some major and unnecessary set-backs if she gains custody.’

  ‘I thought we were all playing nicely together,’ said Hark.

  ‘Come now, Commissar Hark,’ said Grae, ‘you are a man of experience. With the best will in the world, and despite aspiring to the same high ideals, the departments of the Imperium often grind against each other.’

  ‘This is territorial?’

  ‘Let’s just say that the stringent application of Inquisitorial interest will slow down the ambitions of the Astra Militarum.’

  Hark frowned.

  ‘You’ve taken him into custody to prevent the ordos doing it?’

  ‘I was obliged to agree with Laksheema that Kolea’s detention was urgently required,’ said Grae. ‘I couldn’t disagree. But I could get there first.’

  ‘He’s in detention, just as she wanted…’

  ‘But not her detention.’

  ‘This is protective.’

  ‘It will take the ordos a while to work out where Kolea is, and longer to process the paperwork to have him transferred to their keeping. That buys us time. In the long run, they�
��ll get him. The Inquisition always gets what it wants. But we can delay that inevitability.’

  Hark exhaled heavily in wonder.

  ‘Tell me about these issues,’ he said.

  Chief Tactical Officer Biota brought them to the war room. The first thing that struck Gaunt was the temperature. Several hundred cogitators, arranged over five storeys, generated considerable heat. Despite the size of the chamber, the air was swampy. Immense air ducts and extractor vents had been fitted into the chamber ceiling, and hung down like the pipes of a vast temple organ over the main floor. They chugged constantly, and the breeze they created flapped the corners of papers stacked on desks.

  Entry was on the first floor, a broad gallery that extended around the chamber’s sides and overlooked the busy main hall. Three more galleries were ranged above the first, and Gaunt could see they were all teaming with cogitator stations and personnel. At the centre of the main floor below lay a titanic strategium display, the size of a banqueting table, its surface flickering with holographic data and three-dimensional geographic relief. Nineteen vertical hololith plates were suspended around the main table, projecting specific Urdeshi theatres and the near-space blockade. Adepts with holo-poles leant across the strategium table to sweep data around, or used the poles like fishing rods to move captured data packets from one plate to another. There was a constant murmur of voices.

  Biota led them up the ironwork stairs to the second gallery, which was packed with high-gain voxcaster units. The trunking spilled across the floor was as dense as jungle creepers, and the Munitorum had laid down flakboard walkways between the stations to prevent tripping and tangling. Message runners darted past, carrying urgent despatches from one command department to another.

  ‘This way,’ said Biota. They climbed to the third gallery. The war room had once been the great hall of the keep, Gaunt presumed. The towering windows were stained glass, and cast a ruddy gloom across the scene. Each desk, cogitator and work station was lit by its own lumen globe or angle lamp.

  The third level gallery was divided into sections for the main division chiefs, each with its own smaller strategium system and cogitator staff. Each zone was privacy screened with a faint, shimmering force field. Gaunt passed one where three Urdeshi marshals were arguing across a table, then another where Bulledin was briefing Grizmund and a quartet of armour chieftains.