“What I don’t fathom,” began a voice from behind them, “is how in Stars the bugger got the poor fool up on the ceiling.” Yosef and Daig turned to where Reeve Warden Berts Laimner stood, a fan of picts in his meaty paw. Laimner was a big man, dark-skinned and always smiling, even now in a small way at the sight of Norte’s grotesque death; but the warm expression was always a falsehood, masking a character that was self-serving and oily. “What do you think, Sabrat?”
Yosef framed a noncommittal answer. “We’re looking into that, Warden.”
Laimner gave a chuckle that set Yosef’s teeth on edge and discarded the images. “Well, I hope you’ve got a better reply than that up your sleeve.” He pointed across the room to an entranceway. “The High-Reeve is just outside that door. She wants to weigh in on this.”
Daig actually let out a little groan, and Yosef felt himself sag inside. If the precinct commander was putting her hand on this case, then the investigators could be certain that their job was about to become twice as hard.
As if Laimner’s words had been a magical summons, the door opened and High-Reeve Kata Telemach entered the office with an assistant trailing her. Telemach’s appearance was like a shock going through the room, and every reeve and jager scrambled to look as if they were working hard and being diligent. She didn’t appear to notice, instead making a direct line for Yosef and Daig. The woman was wearing a well-pressed dress uniform, and around her neck was a gold rod with one single silver band around it.
“I was just telling Reeves Sabrat and Segan of your interest, ma’am,” said Laimner.
The commander seemed distracted. “Progress?” she asked. The woman had a sharp face and hard eyes.
“We’re building a solid foundation,” offered Daig, equally as good at giving non-answers as his cohort was. He swallowed. “There are some matters of cross-jurisdictional circumstance that might become an issue later, however.” He was about to say more, but Telemach shot Laimner a look as if to say Haven’t you dealt with this already?
“That will not be a concern, Reeve. I have just returned from an audience with the Lord Marshal of the Adeptus Arbites.”
“Oh?” Yosef tried to keep any sarcasm out of his voice.
Telemach went on. “The Arbites have a lot of wine in their glass at the moment. They’re engaged in a few operations across the planet. This… case doesn’t need to be added to that workload.”
Operations. That seemed to be the current word of choice to describe the actions of the Arbites on Iesta Veracrux. A colourless, open term that belied the reality of what they were actually doing—which was quietly dredging the lower cities and the upper echelons alike for the slightest evidence of any anti-Imperial sedition and pro-Horus thinking, ruthlessly stamping out anything that might blossom into actual treason.
“It’s only bodies,” noted Laimner, in an off-hand manner.
“Exactly,” said the High-Reeve. “And quite frankly, the Sentine are better suited for this sort of police work. The Arbites are not native to this world, and we are. We know it better than they ever will.”
“Just so,” offered Yosef.
Telemach graced them with a tight smile. “I want to deal with this in a swift and firm manner. I think the Lord Marshal and his masters back on Terra could do with a reminder that we Iestans can deal with our own problems.”
Yosef nodded here, partly because he knew he was supposed to, and partly because Telemach had just confirmed for him her real reason for wanting the case closed quickly. It was no secret that the High-Reeve had designs on the rank of Landgrave, head of all Sentine forces across the planet; and for her to get that, the current incumbent—and so the rumours went, her lover—would need to rise to the only role open to him, the Imperial Governorship of the planet. The Landgrave’s only real competition for that posting was the Lord Marshal of the Arbites. Showing a decisive posture towards a crime like this one would count for a lot when the time for new installations was nigh.
“We’re investigating all avenues of interest,” said Laimner.
The High-Reeve tapped a finger on her lips. “I want you to pay special attention to any connection with those religious fanatics that are showing up in the Falls and out at Breghoot.”
“The Theoge,” Laimner offered helpfully, with a sniff. “Odd bunch.”
“With respect,” said Daig, “they’re hardly fanatics. They’re just—”
Telemach didn’t let him finish. “Odium spreads wherever it takes root, Reeve. The Emperor did not guide the Great Crusade to us for nothing. I won’t have superstition find purchase in this city or any other on my watch, is that clear?” She eyed Yosef. “The Theoge is an underground cult, forbidden by Imperial law. Find the connection between them and this crime, gentlemen.”
If it exists or not, Yosef added silently.
“You have an understanding of my interest, then?” she concluded.
He nodded once more. “Indeed I do, ma’am. We’ll do our best.”
Telemach sniffed. “Do better than that, Sabrat.”
She walked on, and Laimner fell in step with her, shooting him a weak grin as they moved off.
“It’s only bodies,” parroted Yosef, in a pinched imitation of the Warden’s voice as he watched them go.
“What he means, it’s only little people dead so far. No one he has any interest in.” He blew out a breath.
Daig’s expression had become more pessimistic than normal. “Where does that effluent about the Theoge come from?” he muttered. “What could they possibly have to do with serial murders? Everything Telemach knows about those people comes from rumours, trash based on nothing but hearsay and bigotry.”
Yosef raised an eyebrow. “You know better, do you?” He shrugged. “Clearly not,” said the other man, after a moment.
After he had put Ivak to bed, Yosef returned to the living room and took a seat by the radiator. He smiled to see that his wife had poured a glass of the good mistwater for him, and he sipped it as she set the auto-launder to work in the back room.
Yosef lost himself in the honeyed swirl of the drink and let his mind drift. In the fluids he saw strange oceans, vast and unknown. Somehow, the sight of them rested him, the perturbations soothing his thoughts.
When Renia coughed, he looked up with a start, spilling a drop down the side of the glass. His wife had entered the room and he had been so captured by reverie that he had not even been aware of her.
She gave him a worried look. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Renia was not convinced. Fifteen years of loving someone gave you that kind of insight as a matter of course. And because of that, she didn’t press him. His wife knew his job, and she knew that he did his best to leave it at the precinct every time he came home. Instead she asked him, just once. “Do you need to talk?”
He took a sip of the wine and didn’t look at her. “Not yet.”
She changed the subject, but not enough for Yosef’s comfort. “There was an incident at Ivak’s schola today. A boy taken out of classes.”
“Why?”
“Ivak said it was because of a game some of the older children were playing. The Warmaster and the Emperor, they called it.” Yosef put down the glass as she went on. Somehow, he already knew what Renia was going to say. “This boy, he went on about the Warmaster. Ivak’s teachers heard him and they reported it.”
“To the Arbites?”
She nodded. “Now people are talking. Or else they are not talking at all.”
Yosef’s lips thinned. “Everyone is uncertain,” he said, at length. “Everyone is afraid of what’s behind the horizon… But this sort of thing… It’s foolishness.”
“I’ve heard rumours,” she began. “Stories from people who know people on other worlds, in other systems.”
He had heard the same thing, hushed whispers in the corners of the precinct from men who couldn’t moderate the sound of their voices. Rumour and counter-rumour. Reports of terrible things, of b
lack deeds—sometimes the same deeds—attributed to those in service of the Warmaster and the Emperor of Mankind.
“People who used to talk freely are going silent to me,” she added.
“Because I’m your husband?” Off her nod he frowned. “I’m not an Arbites!”
“I think the Lord Marshal’s men are making it worse,” she said. “Before, there was nothing that could not be said, no debate that could not be aired without prejudice. But now… After the insurrection…” Her words lost momentum and faded.
Renia needed something from him, some assurance that would ease what troubled her, but as Yosef searched himself for it, he found nothing to give. He opened his mouth to speak, not sure of what he would tell her, and somewhere outside the house glass shattered against bricks.
He was immediately on his feet, at the window, peering through the slats. Raised voices met him. Down below, where the road snaked past the stairs to his front door, he saw a group of four youths surrounding a fifth. They were brandishing bottles like clubs. As he watched, the fifth stumbled backwards over the broken glass and fell to his haunches.
Renia was already opening the wooden case on the wall where the watch-wire terminal sat. She gave him a questioning look and he nodded. “Call it in.”
He snatched his greatcoat from the hook in the hall as she shouted after him. “Be careful!”
Yosef heard feet on the stairs behind him and turned, one hand on the latch, to see Ivak silhouetted in the gloom. “Father?”
“Go back to bed,” he told the boy. “I’ll just be a moment.”
He put his warrant rod around his neck and went out.
* * *
By the time he got to the road, they had started throwing punches at the youth on the ground. He heard yelling and once again, the name rose up at him, shouted like a blood-curse. Horus.
The fifth youth was bleeding and trying to protect himself by holding his arms up around his head. Yosef saw a particularly hard and fast haymaker blow come slamming in from the right, knocking the boy down.
The reeve flicked his wrist and the baton he carried in his sleeve pocket dropped into his palm. With a whickering hiss, the memory-metal tube extended to four times its length. Anger flared inside him and he shouted out “Sentinel” even as he aimed a low sweeping blow at the knees of the nearest attacker.
The hit connected and the youth went down hard. The others reacted, falling back. One of them had a half-brick in his hand, weighing it like he was considering a throw. Yosef scanned their faces. They had scarves around their mouths and noses, but he knew railgangers when he saw them. These were young men from the loading terminals, who by day worked the cargo monorails that connected the airdocks to the vineyards, and by night made trouble and engaged in minor crime. But they were out of their normal patch in this residential district, apparently drawn here by their victim.
“Bind him!” shouted one of them, stabbing a finger at the injured youth. “He’s a traitor, that’s what he is! Whoreson traitor!”
“No…” managed the youth. “Am not…”
“Sentine are no better!” snarled the one with the half-brick. “All in it together!” With a snarl he threw his missile, and Yosef batted it away, taking a glancing hit on his temple that made him stagger. The railgangers took this as a signal and broke into a run, scattering away down the curve of the street.
For a split second, Yosef was possessed by a fury so high that all he wanted to do was race after the thugs and beat them bloody into the cobbles; but then he forced that urge away and bent down to help the injured youth to his feet. The young man’s hand was wet where he had cut himself on the broken glass. “You all right?” said the reeve.
The youth took a woozy step away from him. “Don’t… Don’t hurt me.”
“I won’t,” he told him. “I’m a lawman.” Yosef’s skull was still ringing with the near-hit of the brick, but in a moment of odd perceptivity, he saw the lad had rolls of red-printed leaflets stuffed in his pocket. He grabbed the youth’s hand and snatched one from the bunch. It was a Theoge pamphlet, a page of dense text full of florid language and terms that meant nothing to him. “Where did you get these?” he demanded.
In the glare of the streetlights, Yosef saw the youth’s pale face full on; the fear written large there was worse than that he had shown to the thugs with the bottles and bricks. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, shoving the reeve back with both hands.
Yosef lost his balance—the pain in his head helping that along the way—and stumbled, fell. Shaking off the spreading ache, he saw the youth sprinting away, disappearing into the night. He cursed and tried to get to his feet.
The reeve’s hand touched something on the cobbles, a sharp, curved edge. At first he thought it was part of the scattering of broken glass, but the light fell on it a different way. Peering at the object, Yosef saw what it actually was. Discarded in the melee, dropped from the pocket of… who? he wondered. It was a harvesting knife, worn with use and age.
THREE
What Must Be Done
The Spear
Intervention
Stripped to the waist, Valdor strode into the sparring hall with his guardian spear raised high at the crook of his shoulder, the metal of the ornate halberd cool against his bare flesh; but what awaited him in the chamber was not the six combat robots he had programmed for his morning regimen, only a single figure in duty robes. He was tall and broad, big enough to look down at the Chief Custodian, even out of battle armour.
The figure turned, almost casually, from a rack holding weapons similar to the one Valdor carried. He was tracing the edge of the blade that hung beneath the heavy bolter mechanism at the tip of the metal staff, considering its merit in the way that a shrewd merchant might evaluate a bolt of fine silk before a purchase.
For a moment, the Custodian was unsure what protocol he was to observe; by rights, the sparring hall belonged to the Legio Custodes and so it could be considered their territory. For someone, a non-Custodian, to appear there unannounced was… impolitic. But the nature of the visitor—Valdor was loath to consider him an intruder—called such a thing into question. In the end, he chose to halt at the edge of the fighting quad and gave a shallow bow, erring on the side of respect. “My lord.”
“Interesting weapon,” came the reply. The voice was resonant and metered. “It appears overly ornate, archaic even. One quick to judge might even think it ineffective.”
“Every weapon can be effective, if it is in the right hands.”
“In the right hands.” The figure at last gave Valdor his full attention. In the cold, sharp light tracing through the windows, the face of Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, was like chiselled granite.
For a moment, Valdor was tempted to offer Dorn the chance to try the use of the Custodes halberd-gun, but prudence warned him to hold his tongue. One did not simply challenge the master of an entire Astartes Legion to a sparring match, no matter how casually. Not unless one was prepared to take that challenge as far as it would go.
“Why am I here?” said Dorn, asking Valdor’s question for him. “Why am I here and not attendant to my duties out on the Palace walls?”
“You wish to speak to me?”
Dorn continued, as if he had not heard his answer. The primarch glanced up at the ornate ceiling above them, which showed a frieze of jetbike-borne Custodians racing across the skyline of the Petitioner’s City.
“I have blighted this place, Valdor. In the name of security, I have made this palace into a fortress. Replaced art with cannonades, gardens with kill zones, beauty with lethality. You understand why?”
Something in Dorn’s tone made the Custodian’s hand tighten on his weapon. “Because of the war. To protect your father.”
“I take little pride in my defacement,” Dorn replied. “But it must be done. For when Horus comes here, as he will, he must be met by our strength.” He advanced a step. “Our honest strength, Valdor. Nothing less will suffice.”
>
Valdor remained silent, and Dorn gave him a level, demanding stare. In the quiet moment, the two of them measured one another as each would have gauged the lay of a battlefield before committing to combat.
The Imperial Fist broke the lengthening silence. “This palace and I… We know each other very well now. And I am not ignorant of what goes on in its halls, both those seen and those unseen.” His heavy brow furrowed, as if a choice had been made in his thoughts. “We shall speak plainly, you and I.”
“As you wish,” said the Custodian.
Dorn eyed him. “I know the assassin clades and their shadow-killers are mounting an operation of large scope. I know this,” he insisted. “I know you are involved.”
“I am not a part of the Officio Assassinorum,” Valdor told him. “I have no insight into their workings.” It was a half-truth at best, and Dorn knew it.
“I have always considered you a man of honour, Captain-General,” said the Primarch. “But as I have learned to my cost, it sometimes becomes necessary to revise one’s opinion of a man’s character.”
“If what you say was true, then you know it would be a matter of utmost secrecy.”
Dorn’s eyes flashed. “Meaning, if I am not informed of such a thing, then I should not know of it?” He advanced again and Valdor stood his ground. The stoic, unchanging expression on the face of the Imperial Fist was, if anything, more disquieting than any snarl of annoyance. “I question the purpose of anything so clandestine. I am Adeptus Astartes, warrior by blood and by birth. I do not support the tactics of cowardice.”
Valdor let the guardian spear’s tip drop to the floor. “What some consider cowardly others might call expedient.”
Dorn’s expression shifted for a second, with a curling of his lip. “I have crossed paths with the agents of the Officio Assassinorum on the battlefield. Those encounters have never ended well. Their focus is always… too narrow. They are tools best suited for courtly intrigue and the games of empire. Not for war.” He folded his arms. “Speak, Custodian. What do you know of this?”
[Horus Heresy 13] - Nemesis Page 5