‘What did you mean… special ones?’ Mkoll hissed.
‘Voi shet–’
‘My language!’ Mkoll whispered. ‘I know you have some. Why are we marked out by your Anarch?’
‘Khet nen–’ Olort gurgled.
Mkoll pinned him by the throat with his left forearm, and used the edge of the ritual knife to cut open the seam of the damogaur’s tunic pocket. He fished out the Tanith pin and held it up for Olort to see.
‘Why does this matter?’ he growled.
‘Y-you are the ones,’ Olort gasped. ‘He whose voice drowns out all others has identified this. You are enkil vahakan. You–’
‘Those who hold the key of victory.’
‘Kha! Kha! Yes!’
‘So he fears us?’
Olort shook his head.
‘Nen. He will take the key from you. For the woe is already within you.’
‘Woe?’
‘The Herit ver Tenebal Mor!’
‘The bad shadow? The Heritor’s bad shadow?’
‘Yes. It was cast upon you a long age ago, mortekoi.’
Mkoll glared into the damogaur’s eyes. He relaxed his grip.
‘Next question,’ he whispered. ‘How do we get out of here?’
Two: Other Business
‘Enough,’ said the First Lord Executor.
More than forty people were present in the chamber, and all of them had been talking. At his word, most of them stopped: all the regimental commanders, tacticians, adepts and advisors at least. Only the lords general and militant kept going, because they were used to being the senior figures in any room.
As quiet descended, even they trailed off. Someone coughed, uncomfortably.
‘It seems there’s been a misunderstanding,’ said Lord Executor Ibram Gaunt quietly. He sat at the head of the table, the area in front of him stacked with data-slates, folders and strap-bound blocks of Munitorum forms. He was studying one of the data-slates. His long, lean face carried no expression. ‘This isn’t a discussion. Those are orders.’
Gaunt looked at them. Everyone at the table, even the most senior lords, winced. There was still no expression on Gaunt’s face. But no one liked to be fixed by the fierce and cold gaze of his artificial eyes.
‘Go and execute them,’ he said.
Chairs scraped across the etched black stones of the floor. Staff members rose to their feet, and gathered their papers. There was some quick nodding, a few salutes. Murmuring, the personnel left the Collegia Bellum Urdeshi.
Only Adjutant Beltayn remained, perched on a chair by the wall. He clutched data-slates in his lap, and a portable field-vox sat in its canvas carrier at his feet.
‘Me too, sir?’ he asked.
‘Stay,’ said Gaunt.
The four Tempestus Scions assigned to him as body-men stayed too. They closed the hall doors after the departing officers, and took up their stations, silent and rigid, hellguns locked across their broad chests. There was no point dismissing them. They went wherever Gaunt went.
Gaunt had come to consider them as furniture, the dressing of any room he occupied. Sancto and his men were humourless, sullen and unyielding, but that was the product of indoctrinated loyalty, and such loyalty ensured confidence and discretion. Gaunt had been First Lord Executor for little more than three days, but in that time he had learned many things about what his life would be like from now on, and one of those things was that the Scions were simply bodyguard drones. However annoying their constant presence, he could speak freely around them.
Gaunt sat back and steepled his fingers. He could hear the distant crackle of the void shields surrounding the Urdeshic Palace and, more distant, the moan of raid sirens echoing across the city of Eltath. Occasionally, a burst of klaxon welled up from the palace beneath him. A recurring fault, he had been told.
The air in the Collegia smelled of stale cigar smoke and hot wax. The many candles flickered, shimmering the more constant light of the hovering lumen globes.
‘What’s done?’ Gaunt asked.
Beltayn rose to his feet, and consulted one of his slates.
‘Called in Militarum reinforcement to Eltath, Zarakppan, Orppus and Azzana. Despatched Lords Kelso and Bulledin to secure the Zarakppan front. Instructed Lord Grizmund to consolidate the south-west line of the Dynastic Claves. Sent Lord Humel to coordinate the liberation of Ghereppan. Brought the war-engine legions up to the ninth parallel. Asked Lord Van Voytz to prepare for the arrival of the Saint–’
Gaunt watched his adjutant read down the list. There was no sign of it ending in the near future.
He raised his hand.
‘That was sort of rhetorical,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ said Beltayn. He lowered the slate. ‘Not clear from context, sir.’
‘My apologies,’ said Gaunt. ‘I was looking for concision. Your answer could have simply been “everything on the day list”, Bel.’
‘Noted, sir,’ said Beltayn. ‘Except–’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s not everything on the day list. Generals Urienz and Tzara have both requested audience, the Munitorum has a list of queries regarding resupply quotas, an inquisitor called… umm…’ He checked the slate. ‘…Laksheema, Inquisitor Laksheema, has asked for urgent attention–’
‘Concerning?’
‘Unstated. Above my pay grade, sir. There’s also, of course, the other regimental business you asked me to note–’
‘Ah, that,’ said Gaunt.
‘Yes, and also the matter of your staff personnel selection.’
Gaunt sighed.
‘I just need good people,’ he said. ‘Tactical. Communication. Administration. Can’t they be assigned?’
‘I think the feeling is you should appoint them, sir,’ replied Beltayn.
Which meant interviews, evaluations, isometrics. Gaunt sighed again.
‘This is the Astra Militarum,’ he said. ‘People are supposed do what they’re ordered to do. It’s not a personality contest.’
‘There’s a certain… prestige involved, sir,’ said Beltayn. ‘Appointment to the private office of the Lord Executor. It carries… significance. You’re the chosen instrument of the warmaster…’
‘I am,’ said Gaunt. He rose to his feet. ‘I set the rules now. Rule one. People follow orders. I don’t care if it’s front line grunts or lofty staff level Astra Militarum. Do as you’re told. I need a good tacticae core.’
‘Biota seemed willing, sir,’ said Beltayn.
‘Well, he’s very capable. But he’s been Van Voytz’s man since forever.’
‘I think Tactician Biota is eager to distance himself from the lord general since… since the lord general’s disgrace.’
‘Van Voytz is not disgraced.’
‘Well, you know what I mean, sir.’
‘Tell Biota he’s got the job. Tell him to hand pick three… no, two advisors he deems capable.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell Urienz and Tzara I’ll see them in an hour.’
‘And this inquisitor?’ asked Beltayn.
‘The inquisitor can go through channels and make the nature of the matter clear. Then I’ll assign time.’
‘Yes, sir. Uhm, I expect you’ll want a staff adjutant assigned too. I mean, I’m happy to fill in for now–’
Gaunt looked at him.
‘You’re my adjutant.’
Beltayn pursed his lips. ‘I’m a company level vox-officer, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m not–’ he gestured at the hall around him, as if the grandeur of it somehow made his point for him.
‘You’re my adjutant,’ Gaunt repeated.
‘Yes, but you’ll be transferring me back to First Company soon,’ said Beltayn. ‘I’m a line trooper. Lord Grizmund did advise about–’
Gaunt looked at Belt
ayn sharply. He was well aware of the off-the-record conversation he’d had with Grizmund a few hours earlier.
‘You’re not Tanith any more, Ibram,’ Grizmund had said with a sad smile. ‘Your line days are over. Oh, the Tanith will remain in your purview, but the scale has changed.’
‘You remain the commander of the Narmenians,’ Gaunt had replied.
Grizmund had nodded. ‘Yes, but that’s fifteen armoured and eighteen infantry regiments. Brigade level. Backbone of my divisional assets numbering seventy thousand men. I don’t ride a tank any more. Nor do you personally command a little recon scout force. Put someone else in the top spot, form up division assets – in your position, you can have a free choice – and put your Ghosts somewhere in the midst of them. They’ll still be yours, but they’re a small part of a much bigger picture. Regimental business is no longer your business, Ibram. Make the break. No sentiment. And make it fast. That’s my honest advice. Take it from me, it’s heartbreaking otherwise. All those years of toil together then you elevate above them. Make the break, and make it fast and clean.’
‘Something awry, sir?’ Beltayn asked.
Gaunt hesitated. He wanted to say it was too much, to confide in his adjutant that there was now so much to consider. The constant dataflow, the push-back from the command staff, the clashing personalities…
But that was an unfair burden to drop on Beltayn. ‘Above his pay grade’, wasn’t that how Beltayn had put it? Gaunt was another breed of creature now.
Rather than reply, he waved his hand at the piles of slates and documents.
‘A lot to process,’ he said.
‘And they don’t listen,’ said Beltayn.
‘Who?’ asked Gaunt.
‘The lords,’ said Beltayn. He looked reluctant to say any more, but then plunged on anyway. ‘It’ll take them a while to get used to the fact you’re above them now. Leap-frogged them all. In my opinion. Just take them a while to get used to taking orders from you.’
‘How long did it take you, Bel?’
Beltayn smiled. ‘I was a common-as-feth slog trooper, sir. I did as I was told right off the bat because otherwise you’d, you know, shoot me and everything.’
Beltayn looked over at the stacked documents.
‘As for that,’ he said. ‘Triage.’
‘Triage? Meaning?’
‘Permission to speak candidly, my lord?’
‘Always.’
‘Most of that, it’s just noise,’ said Beltayn. ‘I’m a field adj, a vox-officer. How do you think I kept my eye on the actual vitals in the thick of it? When it was all going off, and the artillery was coming in, and there was fething las shrieking hither and yon? How did I keep it neat and get you the stuff you needed, no extraneous crap?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Focus. Triage. Data triage. Most of that stuff is only wildfire las whipping around you. Screen it out. Filter it down. Or find someone who can do that for you. Always worked for me.’
‘You ignored things?’
Beltayn shrugged. ‘Only the stuff that didn’t matter, sir.’
‘I’m almost glad I didn’t know this before now.’
‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’
Gaunt smiled. ‘Judgement call, then?’
‘Always. Works on the ground. Should work for you. I mean, your judgement is what got you that high and mighty rank, right?’
Gaunt nodded. His smile faded.
‘I’ve got ten minutes. I’ll handle that other business now.’
‘The regimental business, sir?’
‘The regimental business,’ said Gaunt.
He was learning things, learning them fast as part of his new role. One was that he could walk and read at the same time.
The Scions flanked him at all times, two in front, two behind. If he stayed aware of the heels of the men in front of him, Gaunt could speed-read data-slates as he strode along, confident that Sancto and his men would steer him around corners, avoid obstacles, and open doors without him even having to look up.
He reviewed the slate again. Disposition reports on the Tanith First, laid out in simple unfussy terms. The main strength of the regiment, under Rawne, was still down at the Tulkar Batteries in the Millgate Quarter, following the brutal repulse of the enemy push three days before. Two companies – V and E – nominally under the command of Captain Daur were billeted in the palace itself, along with the retinue.
For nearly four days, he hadn’t been able to find time to go and see either element in person, not even the section secure in the palace with him.
And just four days before, Ibram Gaunt would not have allowed such an oversight to happen. He’d been colonel-commissar then, and his men had been his only priority.
How things changed. How perspective shifted. Maybe Grizmund had been right. He’d had no reason to lie. Make the break and make it fast. No sentiment. Otherwise it’s heartbreaking.
The trouble was, it was heartbreaking.
As a soldier rose through the ranks of the Imperium, he was obliged to leave many things behind. Gaunt knew that. He’d walked away from the Hyrkans after Balhaut. He wondered if he could ever do the same to the Ghosts.
But it wasn’t the officer in him responding to these things, it was the human being. It was personal, it was sentiment. The feelings made him doubt his suitability for the rank he now held, and he had hidden them from other lords militant for fear of their scorn.
Just a few lines on a report, and they had cut him through. Line items that mattered to him as a man, not as a soldier.
At the Tulkar Batteries, there had been significant losses. He’d reviewed the casualty lists sadly, wearily. It had always been a painful task.
One thing had stood out. Sergeant Mkoll, MIA. Presumed dead. Mkoll, chief of scouts, had always been core to the Ghosts, one of the most able soldiers.
And a good friend.
Gaunt couldn’t believe that Mkoll had finally gone.
Then there was the report, filed by Commissar Fazekiel, of an incident during the evacuation of V and E companies from the Low Keen billet. It made so little sense. Three Ghosts dead, one of them Eszrah ap Niht. Another miserable personal loss.
Gaunt wanted an explanation. The three had died during an incident involving his son.
Except Felyx Chass was, apparently, no longer his son.
And that was the hardest thing of all to understand.
Captain Daur was waiting for him in the anteroom of the private quarters assigned to him. He stood as Gaunt entered with his Scion honour guard, set aside the book he had been reading, and snapped smartly to attention.
Sancto and his men looked at him dubiously.
‘Wait outside,’ Gaunt said. The Scions withdrew. He could feel their reluctance.
‘At ease, Daur,’ Gaunt said.
‘My first opportunity to congratulate you, my lord,’ said Daur.
‘Thank you,’ Gaunt replied. ‘My first opportunity to attend to any regimental matters. My apologies. You’ve been holding the fort, I trust?’
‘Both companies and the retinue are housed in the undercroft, lord,’ said Daur. ‘There are the usual run of issues to deal with. I have them in hand, though Major Baskevyl is very keen to speak to you directly.’
‘About?’
‘Major Kolea, lord. Detained by the Intelligence Service in regards to the assets recovered at the Reach.’
‘I’d heard something about that. I have a hunch that explains why the ordos are sniffing around too. Tell Baskevyl to come up and I’ll get to him as quickly as I can.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘I need to deal with this first,’ Gaunt said. ‘It’s overdue.’
‘Of course. She’s in there,’ Daur said, gesturing to the inner door.
‘An account, please,’ said Gaunt.
‘I wasn’t present,’ said Daur. ‘Blenner and Meryn were the officers of record at the time. Fazekiel is in charge of the investigation.’
‘And I’m sure she’ll be thorough. A summary, please.’
‘Gendler attacked Felyx in the shower blocks at Low Keen,’ said Daur. ‘The piece of shit… Excuse me, sir. It seems he believed Felyx has access to private funds, and wanted a slice. Jakub Wilder was in on it too. Never liked him either. Too much in the shadow of his war-hero brother… which, by the by, will give you problems as far as the Belladon are concerned. That’s two Wilders deceased under your–’
‘I’m aware, Ban.’
Ban Daur studied his face, frowned slightly, then continued.
‘Gendler attacked Felyx,’ he said. ‘Bungled it. Ezra discovered them, killed Gendler. Wilder killed Ezra. Meryn and Blenner found this total fething lunacy in progress. Witnessed it, for the most part. Blenner executed Wilder on the spot.’
‘And Felyx?’
‘Is your daughter. Merity Chass. She’d been disguising her gender.’
‘Why?’
Daur shrugged. ‘The son of the great hero of Vervunhive stands to advance faster than any daughter? I don’t know, to be honest. Verghast was always damned patriarchal. There’s an issue of honour here, primogeniture, succession. Shame.’
‘Shame?’
‘Take your pick,’ said Daur.
‘She’s in there?’ Gaunt asked.
Daur nodded. ‘You haven’t asked how she is,’ Daur said.
‘I’m going to find out, Ban,’ replied Gaunt.
‘Do it gently,’ Daur suggested.
‘I’m aware of the sensitivity,’ said Gaunt. ‘Her mother is de facto governor of Verghast. That means F– Merity could succeed in turn. If she acquires enough status here at the front line for the families of Verghast to take her seriously. To return with any disgrace or stain on her reputation would guarantee a lack of confidence from the rival houses, and that would in turn lead to a power struggle and instability on the planet that–’
‘Not that,’ said Daur. ‘I know that. I meant because she’s scared.’
He let himself into the room, closing the door behind him. His bedchamber was a simple space of white-washed stone. There was a folding cot and a wash stand, and his kit bag and effects had been brought up by an attendant and piled in the corner. A freshly laundered uniform had been laid out on the cot. Items had been ordered up from the Munitorum stores: black trousers with dark silk piping and a black pelisse jacket with black frogging. Gaunt had been very specific about a lack of ostentation. He wondered if the clothes would fit.
Anarch - Dan Abnett Page 2
