Pandion peered up at him. ‘You’re serious,’ he said after a minute.
Fulgrim smiled. ‘A month, Hereditary Governor Pandion. On my honour, as the commander of the Twenty-Eighth Expedition, and a son of the Emperor, I will bring this planet into compliance, in exactly one month.’
‘He did what?’ Pyke sat up so quickly that something popped. She winced and leaned back. ‘Is he insane?’ she demanded, her shout startling the birds in the branches above. She reclined on a divan in the palace gardens, surrounded by her scribes and assassins. Fulgrim, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. The primarch seemed content to leave her to her work without hovering over her shoulder, unlike some of his brothers. She suspected that had less to do with confidence in her abilities, and more to do with boredom.
‘The Hereditary Governor raised the same question,’ Chancellor Corynth said, smiling in amusement. ‘Are all of these… primarchs so confident?’ He sat on a bench across from her, doing his level best to ignore her bodyguards.
‘Fulgrim’s response is actually quite measured compared to some,’ Pyke said, glancing at Abdemon. The lord commander stood nearby, face like stone, but with a twinkle in his eye that let her know he was in good humour. Trust a Space Marine to see something funny in a situation like this. ‘Others would have drowned the streets in blood at the first sign of resistance.’
‘We did consider it,’ Abdemon said without smiling.
‘There are only six of you,’ Corynth said pointedly.
‘Eight,’ Pyke corrected. ‘Counting the lord commander here, and Lord Fulgrim. In any event, three of them would be enough to shatter the gubernatorial forces in a stand-up fight, from what I’ve seen.’
Corynth made to protest, thought better of it, and nodded, if grudgingly. Cyrius and the others had been busy making themselves visible since their arrival. They were currently touring the gubernatorial barracks, asking pointed questions and looming impressively. ‘It’s not them you have to worry about, at any rate’
‘The patricians,’ Abdemon said.
Corynth nodded. ‘There is talk of resistance in the hinterlands. The farther you get from Nova-Basilos, the less they pay even lip service to the Gubernatorial Throne. Worse, it’s not just the nobility.’ Pyke eyes closed, massaged her temples. ‘The peasants are revolting.’ Abdemon looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Old joke. Forgive me. Do go on, Chancellor.’
Corynth frowned but continued. There have been disturbances in the agri-circle as well as the ore processing facilities in the mountains. Civil unrest in the western provinces. The gubernatorial army is doing what it can, but its resources are stretched thin.’ ‘What sort of disturbances?’ Pyke asked.
Corynth looked uncomfortable ‘Riots. Protests. Some noble families wield the lash more freely than they ought on their lands. As long as they pay their tithes, Pandion doesn’t care. But the people grow restless.’
Pyke glanced at Abdemon. His face might as well have been a mask. ‘How restless?’ she asked. ‘An uprising?’
Corynth said nothing. His silence was answer enough. Pyke felt a headache coming on. ‘I’m going to need more wine,’ she muttered.
‘We require all available information on these matters,’ Abdemon said. ‘Every record, every report. The more data we have; the more quickly we can formulate an appropriate response’ He looked down at Corynth. ‘Are you willing to provide us with this?’
Corynth looked startled. He nodded. ‘Everything I have is at your disposal’
Abdemon smiled. That’s what I like to hear?
‘When is Pandion making the announcement?’ Pyke asked. ‘How much time do we have before the whole planet knows why we’re here?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. He wishes to make the announcement about the compliance ceremonies tomorrow. And Lord Fulgrim agrees.’
‘Of course he does,’ Pyke grumbled. ‘Why make this easy, after all?’ She sagged back. ‘One month from tomorrow, then. I suppose we’d best get to work.’
When the chancellor had departed, Abdemon turned to her. ‘Thoughts?’
‘Fulgrim has made an error,’ she said. She met Abdemon’s frown head on. ‘He has,’ she insisted. ‘If the situation is half as unsettled as it sounds, it’s going to take more than a month to sort out And more than six of the Emperor’s own.’
‘Eight,’ Abdemon corrected.
Pyke waved the interjection aside. ‘Two more or less will make little difference, even if one of them is Fulgrim. We can’t fight a planet.’
‘Then it’s a good thing we’re not planning on it,’ Abdemon said. ‘At the moment, little of the anger here is directed at us. It’s an internal matter.’
‘That will change after tomorrow.’
Abdemon nodded. ‘By then, the Phoenician will have come up with a suitable plan of action.’
Pyke eyed him. ‘You have that much faith in him?’
‘Don’t you?’
Pyke sat back. ‘I’m too old to have much faith in anything besides myself.’ She tapped her lips with a finger, considering. An iterator was well-schooled in the mathematics of chance. Compliance was never a certain thing no matter how it might look from outside the process. There were always obstacles to the process, and now Fulgrim had added one more - a time limit.
Then, what was it to her if the deadline passed before things were settled? In fact, it might be better for all concerned if Fulgrim were taught the consequences of hubris as soon as possible. A dose of reality, to puncture that perfectionist bubble of his.
‘But… what if?
She looked at Abdemon. ‘Is it possible?’
Abdemon shrugged. ‘Anything is possible.’ He held up a hand, staying her reply. There are two possibilities. The first is that tomorrow’s announcement stifles any thoughts of revolution. The patricians will be too busy trying to maintain their influence to plan a hopeless war.’
‘And the second?’
‘That the announcement will provoke them into action.’ Abdemon frowned. ‘The Phoenician is counting on the latter, I suspect. Easier to deal with them if they reveal themselves.’ He paused. ‘He takes the assassination attempt personally, you know. Someone tried to kill the senior members of the delegation last night, and he sees it as a stain on his honour.’ His frown deepened. That they thought they could get away with it is an insult to the honour of the Third.’
Pyke sighed. ‘Rest assured, that insult has been repaid.’ She’d seen to it herself. Not an hour after Fulgrim’s capture of the airship, she’d already had the names of those involved in the poisoning attempt. Some, she would have disposed of quietly. Others, she would suborn, and make use of what they knew. It was always useful to have spies in place. One never knew when they might come in handy.
Nova-Basilos was riddled with conspirators of one sort or another. The palace was swarming with plotters, each of them with their own agenda. Most were inconsequential, as far as the 28th Expedition’s mission was concerned. But some bore watching. And, if necessary, excision from the body politic. ‘Where is Fulgrim now?’ she asked. ‘If I am to perform my function to the best of my ability, I must know what this plan of his is.’
Abdemon hesitated. ‘He has gone to see Apothecary Fabius.’ His grimace as he uttered the Apothecary’s name spoke volumes. Fabius had been given quarters in the lower levels of the palace, well away from anyone who might be disturbed by whatever he was up to. Something Pyke was growing increasingly thankful for.
Pyke shivered. ‘I will speak to him later, then.’
Abdemon nodded gravely. ‘A wise choice.’ He sighed. ‘Six against an entire world. Some might call that hubris.’
‘Eight,’ Pyke said.
‘Nine, actually.’ Abdemon smiled. ‘If we’re counting you.’
Pyke laughed. ‘How can we lose?’
The lower levels of the gubernatorial palace were clean, high corridors of plain stone, lit by sodium lanterns. Teams of warders, clad in dark uniforms, patrolled these corri
dors. Their hands never strayed far from their sidearms or the reinforced batons that, when called upon, they wielded with vigour.
Fulgrim wasn’t challenged in his descent. Whether that was due to the governor’s orders, or to simple fear, the primarch didn’t know. That they stayed out of his way was enough. As he moved through the cramped corridors, he tried to ignore the sounds coming from the cells. There weren’t many prisoners - most lawbreakers in Nova-Basilos were subject to lunar transportation, or hard labour in the agri-cirde. But some were considered too dangerous to be transported. They were rabble-rousers of one sort or another. Agitators and dissidents, looking to overturn the natural order, as the continental government saw it.
There had been similar movements on Chemos during his rise. The Callax worker protests and the harsh, often brutal responses of the executive clans. He remembered clouds of stinging gas rolling through cramped streets, and the crackle of the Caretakers’ shock-batons as they met flesh. Unconsciously, his hands curled into fists.
He felt again the dull ache of a shock-baton slapping into his palm, and the look on its wielder’s face as he crushed it. The searing sensation of gas filling his lungs and burning his eyes as he fought his way free of the press of panicked humanity. Tullea had almost died that day, and Fulgrim had lost his temper for the first time. But not the last.
Things had been simpler then. Right and wrong were obvious, and his enemies easier to identify. But he’d been a child and had seen the world with a child’s eyes. As he grew older, he’d come to realise that the world was a complex machine - full of moving parts, each with its own function, and prone to breaking down. Concepts like right and wrong gave way to efficiency and necessity, as he delved into the inner workings of the machine. A broken cog might squeal as it was stripped loose, but it had to be replaced for the good of the whole mechanism. He knew this with unshakeable certainty.
Even so, there was a small part of him that still saw value in the broken cog. Purpose was defined by the craftsman, not by the mechanism. With patience and care, enough broken cogs might become something beautiful.
Fulgrim forced himself to relax as he entered Fabius’ lair. The Apothecary had secluded himself away from the others, much to Fulgrim’s disappointment. Fabius seemed determined to make himself a nuisance. But even a nuisance had its uses.
The rooms had been turned into an approximation of Fabius’ apothecarium on board the Pride of the Emperor. Equipment had been sent down from the ship and lay scattered in various states of unpacking. Generators hummed softly, casting striated shadows across the pale walls. Fabius had collected several hundred genetic samples since their arrival, and the tiny tubes of blood and plasma sat in their stand on a table, awaiting further study. Fulgrim was unable to resist peering at the samples, hoping to see some sign - any sign - of the potential they might hold.
Sadly, whatever secrets they held, they did not reveal to him.
A muffled groan drew his attention to the centre of the room, where an examination table had been set up. On it lay the prisoner they’d taken at the banquet. Fabius stood over him, arms red to the elbow. That the prisoner was still alive was no surprise. Humans were surprisingly hardy, for all their fragility.
‘What have you learned from him?’ Fulgrim asked softly. He didn’t bother to greet the Apothecary. He’d come to discover that such niceties were lost on Fabius. Another sign of his increasing isolation from his brothers.
Fabius didn’t turn. ‘Little you did not already suspect. Factionalism is rife There are currently twelve primary claimants for the gubernatorial throne, and at least three more lesser claimants with significant support.’
‘I’m surprised they weren’t tripping over one another.’ Fulgrim felt a twinge of annoyance. Pandion had said nothing about other claimants to the throne. That added an element of uncertainty to what had seemed an otherwise straightforward matter.
Fabius glanced at him. ‘They were. There were ten different toxins in the wine served to us last night. Four of them were non-fatal. The rest were meant to kill us. The doses all originated from different sources.’
‘Sloppy,’ Fulgrim murmured. The sheer, farcical chaos of such proceedings would have been amusing had he not been the one who was going to have to deal with it. ‘Unsurprising I suppose, given their numbers.’
‘It is not even simply the clans.’ Fabius set aside his tools and turned. ‘There are factions within factions, and organisations owing no allegiance to the old aristocracies. These people have turned treachery into a… a hobby. An art. Their schemes are built across generations, growing more complex with every decade, and ever less likely to come to fruition.’
Fulgrim restrained a smile. He had never seen the Apothecary look so incensed. ‘Plotting for its own sake,’ he said.
Fabius nodded tersely. ‘Madness.’
‘Cultural ennui,’ Fulgrim corrected. They have become locked into a malfunctioning system, unable to escape its pull. We shall correct the system and simplify it in the process.’ He studied the body on the slab. The man’s eyes were wide, but empty of any spark of awareness. His chest had been cracked open, exposing what lay within in all its crimson glory. His heart still thumped and the surrounding tissue was wet with life, thanks to Fabius’ skill. His veins had been extracted from his arms and legs, and were spread out across the sides of the table, unbroken, still dark with blood. In places, the meat had been scraped back, exposing the bone, and it was clear that Fabius had been taking marrow samples.
Fulgrim glanced at Fabius, wondering if he’d made the correct choice in bringing the Spider out of his web. Fabius met his gaze without flinching. Whatever he’d done, the Apothecary felt no guilt for it. Fulgrim gestured. ‘Dispose of that at the soonest opportunity.’
Fabius bowed his head. ‘First, I need to analyse native physiology, and test its suitability for gene-implantation.’ He glanced at the body on the slab. ‘I have already made some headway in that regard. The prognosis is tentatively positive.’
Fulgrim nodded. ‘Do what you must, but quietly.’
‘Quiet as a spider,’ Fabius said as he turned back to his work. Fulgrim frowned, but didn’t rebuke him. Instead, he left the Apothecary to it.
Fabius, of all of them, knew exactly what was required of him.
Six
the patricians
The Gubernatorial Throne was less impressive than Fulgrim had hoped.
It was a sturdy seat, hooked into a barely functioning pneumatic lift, which wheezed alarmingly as it raised Pandion above his court. The throne’s dais was set beneath a massive circular window of coloured glass. As the throne rose, it carried the governor into the light streaming in, so that he was limned by the sun. At least, in theory. In practice, Pandion was forced to lean to the side and squint to see anything. He was likely deaf as well as blind, given the noise the throne made.
The groaning cacophony of pumps and pulleys was drowned out by the choir of youthful castrati arrayed about the dais. Their high, soft voices smoothed over the mechanical complaints, and lent an air of regal dignity to an otherwise ridiculous process.
‘Clever,’ Fulgrim murmured, as he watched the spectacle play itself out. Pandion would loom over any supplicants or accusers who chose to make themselves known. Corynth stood below him, on the dais, surrounded by a ceremonial guard clad in heavy sky-blue armour, marked by the sunburst sigil of the Continental Government. ‘It’s almost as if he’s removing himself from the line of fire.’
‘That’s exactly what he’s doing,’ Pyke said. She stood beside Fulgrim, waiting to be announced. ‘Pandion is adept at taking himself out of consideration. He’s made himself a virtual non-entity, and as a result, managed to just about hold onto what little authority he has.’ She frowned. ‘He’s utterly venal, but he’s smart.’
‘Which is why we are here’ Fulgrim looked around. The throne room was an amphitheatre, with raised benches to either side of the processional stretching from the doors to the foot
of the throne. The curved lines of benches were occupied by senior members of the patricians, or their duly appointed representatives. Each of them was accompanied by a gaggle of scribes, guards and hangers-on, all of whom were in constant motion, running messages between the seated representatives. The level of noise was staggering - a solid rumble of voices, cutting across one another. Occasional scuffles between messengers - or the representatives themselves - only added to the din.
‘It’s a mystery to me how they get anything done,’ Abdemon said from behind Fulgrim. He and Cyrius were acting as honour guard.
‘They don’t,’ Pyke said simply.
‘In that respect it’s little different than any human government.’ Fulgrim settled himself in for a long wait. Corynth had briefed him on how it would go. They would be announced last, after the assorted officers, merchants and tithe-collectors waiting for their moment with the governor.
The reasons for this were twofold. First, it was to disabuse any whispers that the Continental Government was no longer in control of Byzas. Second, Pandion hoped to lull the attending patricians into complacency, so that the announcement would pass without comment.
There was little hope of that, though. The patricians reminded him of the Chemosian executive clans. They scented blood, and they would never abide a new predator in their waters. In the days since their arrival, Pyke’s iterators had fielded hundreds of missives, bearing the seals of an equal number of noble families. Protests, demands as to their intentions, and the occasional abject surrender.
The masters of this world did not yet truly understand their situation. But soon enough, they would. And when they did, some would become openly hostile. Fulgrim looked forward to it. A worthy challenge. Or an interesting diversion, at least.
When they were announced at last, Fulgrim took Pyke’s hand and led her towards the throne at a stately pace. Unlike the others, they were not supplicants, and it would be unseemly to hurry. They had all the time in the world.
The patricians fell silent as they approached the throne, but only for a moment. Mutters swept the amphitheatre as men leaned forward. Some of them would have seen Fulgrim at the welcoming ceremony, or the banquet. But for most, this was their first glimpse of the primarch in the flesh.
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 8
