by Dan Abnett
The fog had fled from the high places more quickly than it had from the deep, steep streets of Balopolis below. Up at the High Palace, the air was blue and as sharp as crystal. Snow iced the reconstructed battlements and rooflines of the noble palace, and frost skinned the lawns of the ornamental gardens inside the palisades. Windlarks, so high up they were invisible, sang clear, trilling notes in the cold air. Sentries of the PDF, in formal furs, stood watch, blowing on their hands.
The Oligarchy, and the High Palace that lay at its heart, were key destinations for any visit to Balhaut. The planet boasted some of the most infamous battle-sites in the sector, and had become a magnet for scholars, theorists, enthusiasts, tourists and, of course, those mourning the fallen and grieving old losses. The High Palace was the culmination of any mourning pilgrimage, an act that had become an industry of its own. The High Palace was where the war had been decided. It was where Slaydo had fallen. It was where they had raised the memorial chapels, especially the Honorarium, where Slaydo’s bones were interred.
They called it, perhaps harshly, the Widow Tour, for it was most often taken by wealthy widows from the scattered outworlds of the Khulan Group, travelling to Balhaut with long-suffering servant-staff and squabbling children, who had never known the deceased personally. Expert guides and escorts offered their services; the elaboration of the tour was usually decided by wealth and status. Various theatres and battlefields could be included, depending on the deceased’s career. One could attend the Raising of the Aquila ceremony at Zaebes City, or walk the elegant rows of simple white posts in the cemeteries overlooking Ascension Valley.
There were even authoritative books one could consult. Some were extensive, others could be obtained from any corner merchant for a few coins: encyclopaedias and tatty chapbooks, learned tomes and flimsy pamphlets. One of the most ubiquitous and affordable was a sixty-page booklet now in its forty-seventh impression, entitled Famous Battlefields of the Balhaut War. It was published by the Munitorum, and approved by the Society of Balhaut Veterans. It was a cheap and slightly worthy account of the war’s key phases and conflicts, complete with some astonishingly bad maps and pictprints.
Gaunt took a copy off the shelf outside the docent’s booth, and skimmed through it.
“What’s that?” asked Jaume.
“A memento,” Gaunt replied. He had a page open, and was reading.
“What does it say?” asked Jaume.
“It says that on the ninth day of fighting, Slaydo drove his left flank against the Oligarchy Gate. The attack was nominally commanded by Captain Allentis of the Silver Guard, but his charge was devastated by the Heritor’s murderous machines. Thus, the first unit to reach the Gate was the Hyrkan Eighth, which famously managed to blow wide the Archenemy’s defences, and breach a position that had resisted nine days of assault.”
“Is that correct?” Jaume asked.
Gaunt looked over his shoulder. In the shadows of the colonnade, he could see Kolding and Maggs with the prisoner. The day was quiet. The fierce snowstorm had kept most tourist parties and widow tours out of the High Palace for a couple of days. The guards and the docents, the latter mostly history students from the Collegio Balopolis, were wandering about bored, or snoozing in their wooden booths.
“Come with me,” Gaunt said to Jaume.
He led the younger man out into the middle of the new stone quad. Some of the original stones from the Gate, mauled and smashed, had been placed on display in armour-glass boxes around the edge of the space, like trophies.
“This is where the Gate stood,” Gaunt said, extending his arms. “Right here. They’ve been good enough to mark its footprint on the new paving.”
Jaume looked down. The new quad had been laid with black stone, matt and flush-fitting. He saw that the outline of a vast structure had been marked out in thick silver wire, inlaid into the stone.
“That’s where the Gate stood,” said Gaunt.
“And you brought it down,” said Jaume. “Throne. It was huge.”
“Allentis had done most of the work,” said Gaunt. “He broke the back, not us. Throne, I was sorry when they told me he was gone.”
“He was Silver Guard, this Allentis?”
“Yes.”
“So, an Astartes?”
“Yes.”
“I was told that the Astartes are not like normal men. That they are other. More than human and still less too.”
“I’ve known Astartes who were more like animals than men,” Gaunt shrugged. “Allentis was a man. A human soul. One of the bravest and tenacious I’ve ever had the privilege to serve with.”
Jaume pursed his lips, and nodded.
“So is this where Slaydo died?” he asked.
“No, not here. About a kilometre to the west.”
Jaume nodded.
“Is it odd being back here?” he asked.
“Strangest thing I’ve ever done,” Gaunt smiled. “What’s the time?”
“Ten minutes to four,” said Jaume. He had a good sight of the palace clock tower. None of their watches had worked since the night of the snowstorm.
“We’d better move,” said Gaunt.
“My good sirs, can I help you?” a docent asked, approaching and bowing. He was a tall young man, skinny with long hair that hung down around the neckline of his red docent robes. He smiled a friendly smile.
“A tour, perhaps?” he suggested. “A crown per person, and you see all the sights. It’s very thorough. I can walk you through the High Palace fighting zones, the Gate, the Tower and, of course, the death of Slaydo. I am fully versed. Did you lose a loved one here?”
“Plenty,” said Gaunt.
“Yes,” said Jaume. “My father. He was PDF. He assisted in the assault of the Gate, or so I’m told.”
“Well, that was a valiant endeavour indeed,” the docent agreed. “I’d be delighted to show you the key sites.”
“Yes. Do that,” Gaunt said. He fished into his pocket for coins. “We want to see it all, but we especially want to see the Tower of the Plutocrat.”
“One of the highlights, sir,” said the docent.
“Take us there first,” said Gaunt.
The docent nodded. “How many in your party, sir?”
“Five,” said Gaunt. He had found three crowns. “Help me out here, Jaume.”
Jaume hurriedly produced another two crowns, and Gaunt paid the guide. He beckoned to Maggs, and Maggs and the doctor led Mabbon out of the shadows to join them.
“Oh, the poor man!” the docent exclaimed, indicating Mabbon. “Is he a veteran?”
“Yes,” said Gaunt.
The docent set off. Three or four other parties were threading the rebuilt ruins with them. Docents in their trademark red robes were leading family parties along the walkways, reciting the narratives of war, parrot-fashion. Gaunt saw parties of weeded widows in veils, parties of earnest young soldiers, and family groups that mixed both together. Small children attached to family groups toddled free across the quads and open spaces, their aunts and mothers cooing after them. Gaunt watched each party in turn, hearing the soft echoes of the docents’ narrations.
Their own docent was in full-flow as he led the way across quads and along cloisters.
“Here, on the ninth day! The death of Captain Ollark! At this very site! Two rounds, as he tried to crest the bank of bodies!”
“Ollark shot himself on the fifth day,” Gaunt whispered to Jaume. “He couldn’t take it anymore. This man is as bad as you.”
“It must be contagious,” said Jaume.
“Was your father really here?” Gaunt whispered as the docent banged on.
“Yes. I wouldn’t make a thing like that up,” said Jaume.
“I don’t recall a Jaume,” Gaunt whispered. “There were PDF units right in it with us, but I don’t recall a Jaume.”
“I hardly expect you to,” Jaume replied as the docent babbled on. “He was a junior man in a minor unit, and it was fifteen years ago. You probably never
even saw him. Besides, are you telling me you can remember the name of everyone on every battlefield you’ve ever been on?”
“Of course not,” Gaunt said, looking at him.
“Well then,” said Jaume. “You wouldn’t remember him. He wasn’t important.”
Gaunt frowned. “The PDF were right with us, every step of the way. Their contribution is often overlooked. Jaume, if your father was here, he was a brave man. You say he died here?”
“We never knew where,” said Jaume. “He died at the Gate, that’s what we were told.”
“You said to me you’d never met a hero,” said Gaunt as the docent went on and on, “but you have. Your father was a hero.”
Jaume looked at him, and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
“What for?”
“For being kind enough to tell the same white lie to me that I tell to others.”
“It’s not a lie,” said Gaunt.
“Perhaps,” said Jaume. “I bless you for it, anyway. Perhaps now you better appreciate the merits of my occupation.”
“You know Kolding’s father died in the war too?”
“The doctor?” Jaume asked.
“His father died trying to defend the wounded. It seems I have the sons of heroes watching my back today.”
Jaume laughed.
“I never expected such sentiment from you,” he said. “I should put you on retainer. Shall we say half a crown per epitaph?”
The docent, still gabbling, had brought them to the entrance of the eastern palisade. He became operatic.
“And here! Here it was that great Slaydo fell in his mortal combat with the foul Archon! See how his falling place is marked by an aquila of inlaid silver and rubies.”
They looked down at the holy site. It was lit up by spotlights and atmosphere globes.
“I think we should all take a solemn moment here,” said the docent.
“This isn’t where Slaydo fell,” Gaunt whispered.
“No?” Maggs whispered back.
“He went down about sixty metres that way on the western palisades. Then they dragged his corpse another hundred metres, and ritually dismembered it. I bet that isn’t on the tour.”
“It’s not,” whispered Jaume.
“I can’t believe they’ve got so much of this stuff wrong,” murmured Gaunt.
“Unlike you, they weren’t here,” said Mabbon quietly.
The docent began walking again.
“What’s the time?” Gaunt asked.
“Five minutes to four,” said Kolding. “At least, it was the last time I saw the palace clock.”
Gaunt looked to the docent. “We’d like to see the Tower of the Plutocrat now,” he said.
“But of course,” the docent exclaimed. “And I’m sure you’d like to view the death venues of the key fallen there!”
“The… death venues?” asked Kolding.
The docent nodded.
“As with Slaydo, the places where the heroes fell. Captain Menhort of the Kolstec ‘Hammers’, Gaunt of the Hyrkans and, of course, Allentis.”
“What?” asked Gaunt.
“Did you say Gaunt?” asked Jaume.
“Gaunt, the Commissar of the Hyrkans,” said the docent. “He died taking down the Tower.”
Gaunt looked back at his companions.
“Honestly, I didn’t,” he whispered. Maggs and Jaume snorted. The hint of a smile even found its way onto Kolding’s lips.
“Let’s look at the death venue of Gaunt,” Maggs said to the docent.
“Yes. Why don’t we?” Gaunt laughed.
“This way,” the docent declared. “It was the ninth day. The Heritor was resisting. Gaunt, Throne rest him, led the Hyrkans through the obliterated Gate, and dug down in the yards under the Tower…”
It was just two minutes to four.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Death Venue of Ibram Gaunt (visitors welcome)
The eager docent led them towards the great quad where the footprint of the Tower of the Plutocrat was outlined in silver and gold.
Gaunt felt the air chill.
He reached for the reassuring grip of his bolt pistol. It felt comfortable in his hand. He kept the group close to him, and picked up his visual checking. He noticed that both Mabbon and Maggs were scanning the area too. They’d felt it as well, and whatever they were, both of them were soldiers first. They had keen skills that could never erode.
Gaunt kept his hand on his bolter as he let the docent guide his party through the cloister shadows towards the Tower site. Maggs sidled close to Gaunt.
“Give me a gun,” he whispered.
Gaunt shook his head.
The sky above the High Palace had become an aching blue, unblemished by any clouds. The sun, beginning its afternoon track down the sky, was still bright. The shadows of the cloisters and the memorial chapels around the great quad were hard-edged and black.
Gaunt could hear a general murmur of voices: other docents, leading their parties; conversations between visitors; an ayatani priest performing a simple service of remembrance in front of a memorial plaque, a family grouped around him with their heads bent. The light wind ruffled long skirts of black silk.
Gaunt heard a clock tower down in the Oligarchy chiming four. He turned to the docent.
“Can you keep my group here for a few minutes?” he requested. “Tell them about the Tower. Tell them about the extraordinary noise it made when it fell, like the world splitting in half. Tell them about the dust-cloud that blotted out the sunlight. Tell them about the piles of bodies steeper than the piles of rubble.”
“Sir?” the docent asked, looking puzzled.
“Tell them all about Commissar Gaunt and what an amazing soldier he was.”
Gaunt turned and walked out of the shadows into the sunlight of the great quad. He saw tour groups in the distance on the far side of the area, and several more closer to, grouped around the memorial statues in the centre of the quad.
It was nothing like he remembered it, though he had begun to seriously doubt the quality of his memories. The terrain was different, flatter. The topography of the buildings surrounding the area had changed, which was hardly surprising, given the collateral of the Tower’s demise. He remembered being holed up for hours under fire, staring at a small gatehouse with distinctive finials in the shape of aquilas. He wondered what had happened to the place. It had still been standing when he and the Hyrkans had finally been able to storm a path past it. Had it fallen later? Had it been demolished much later on to make way for these memorial vaults?
Even the sky was different.
He turned in a slow circle. He could see the High Palace, hazed by the blue distance. He could see a wheeling flock of birds. He could see the huge, dark drum-shaped monolith of the Honorarium rising behind the great quad like a battlement.
He walked towards the centre of the great quad. Though it was long gone, he could feel the presence of the Tower above him, clinging like a ghost. His orders had brought it down: his sweat, his effort. The Tower had added almost half a kilometre to the Oligarchy’s overall height. Falling, the roar it had made…
He saw a figure in the distance, standing at the edge of the cloisters. He recognised it instantly. The sight almost brought a spontaneous tear to his eyes: not a tear of sadness or weakness, but a sudden upwelling of emotion. To be here, so many years later, and to see his oldest friend coming to his aid, on this very spot…
Gaunt did not cry. It was one design feature his new eyes did not possess.
He began to walk towards Blenner. Blenner was smiling his shit-eating smile, his “Let’s blow the rest of the day off and go to this little bar I know” smile. His cap was on at its trademark, almost jaunty, entirely nonconformist angle.
Everything was going to be all right.
As he got closer, Gaunt noticed Blenner’s hands. Blenner’s arms were down at his sides. The index and middle fingers of each hand were, quietly and subtly, making “wal
king” motions.
It was one of the old codes, one of the scholam codes that they’d used so long ago on Ignatius Cardinal. Fellow pupil, friend, I can see trouble that you can’t see; I can see the master or the prefect waiting to pounce, waiting to catch us out for running or singing or chatting, so walk away while you still can. I’m done for already, but you can still save yourself Walk, walk, walk, for Throne’s sake, walk…
Gaunt stopped in his tracks, and began to back away. A big grin crossed Blenner’s face. Yes, you’ve got it, Bram…
Two men suddenly shoved past Blenner, and burst out of the cloisters into the sunlight. They both had laspistols. They both had the same face: two of Rime’s agents.
They aimed their weapons at him.
“Ibram Gaunt!” one yelled. “By order of the holy Inquisition, we demand your immediate surrender! Do not resist. Get on the ground, face down, with your arms spread!”
“Why?” asked Gaunt.
“Do as I say!”
“I don’t recognise your authority.”
“You are consorting with a known warp cultist. Guilt by association. Get on the damn ground!”
Eye-blink fast, Gaunt drew his bolt pistol and aimed it at the Sirkles.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
The Sirkles baulked slightly.
“Take him,” one said to the other.
There was a bone crack. Vaynom Blenner had wrapped his fists together and smacked them across the back of one of the Sirkle’s skulls.
“Run, for Throne’s sake, Bram!” Blenner yelled as the Sirkle he had struck went down onto his knees.
The other Sirkle looked at his twin, distracted.
Gaunt put a bolt-round into the quad paving at the Sirkle’s feet. The boom was gigantic, and echoed around the vast area. Flocks of startled birds exploded up into the blue from cloister roofs. Visitors looked around, wondering what the hollow thunderclap meant, not recognising the sound of gunfire.
Who on Balhaut recognised the sound of gunfire anymore?
Hit by paving debris, the other Sirkle staggered backwards. Gaunt started to sprint across the sunlit open ground, his stormcoat flying out behind him like ragged wings.