by William King
I studied the men who were assembled to greet us, knowing that before me lay an index of those who had conspired to replace Macharius. If they felt the slightest embarrassment it did not show on their faces.
General Tarka looked resplendent in his Hussar’s uniform. Piercing icy-blue eyes looked out of his lean, severe face from beneath bushy eyebrows, and his thin narrow mouth was drawn in a tight smile beneath his clipped moustache. He wiped away a speck of imaginary dust from his dress uniform’s sash. He could not have held himself any taller and straighter than he did but he gave the impression of suddenly being on parade.
Beside him General Arrian gazed up at Macharius’s approach with his bright, mad and fanatical eyes. He was a man who believed in the crusade still beyond any shadow of a doubt. The question was whether he still believed in its leader and the answer, given his presence here, was most likely no.
Looming over the pair like a starscraper over a domestic hab-block was General Cyrus, so tall he looked almost like a mutant, although you would not have said that from a distance. His body was perfectly proportioned. His face looked like it was carved from a block of granite and his eyes were like chips of grey stone.
In his shadow, as if he sought to remain out of sight, there was General Crassus, a man of medium height, almost as broad as he was tall. In the intervening years since I had last seen him, he had put on some weight around the belly and acquired a number of new chins. His face was pockmarked and a scar ran from his brow to the corner of his mouth. There was something about the man that drew the eye despite his attempt to blend in with his companions, an aura of power, of ruthless intelligence, that told you that he was dangerous.
Off to one side, surrounded by a guard of honour, stood another group of robed dignitaries representing the great Administratum of the Imperium. The two groups stood conspicuously apart as if they were having nothing to do with each other. Smiling affably, Macharius advanced to meet them. All of the officers saluted crisply, a gesture Macharius returned with perfect punctilio.
The head of the cabal from the Administratum strode towards Macharius and bowed. It was a complex, ambiguous gesture and it served to remind everyone that he was not part of Macharius’s command. He was another tall man, with glossy dark hair going grey at the temples and a small spade beard. His eyes were of such a dark brown they seemed almost black. Three floating skulls orbited his body at shoulder height, a mark of his status, a badge of his power. And those skulls were something more. They were repositories of knowledge and advisors of great cunning.
‘Lord High Commander,’ said the cardinal, in a rich, rolling bass voice. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance at long last.’
Macharius’s glance was cold and measuring. ‘And you are…’
‘I am Cardinal Septimus,’ said the newcomer. ‘As I explained in my message–’
‘I received no message from you.’ Macharius paused to look pointedly at his generals. ‘Or anyone else.’
‘But I assumed you were here because you received my invitation.’ Cardinal Septimus gave a very good imitation of a man being flustered by unexpected events. If he had not been who he was I might even have believed it.
‘I came because I had received reports of my commanders gathering here on Acheron and I wondered what could be so important as to detain them from their duties to the Emperor and the crusade.’
‘Alas,’ said the cardinal, ‘I fear I am to blame for that. I sent the Imperial summons to all of your generals and yourself.’ He paused and added with just a hint of irony. ‘Clearly some of my messengers have been delayed as the one to you was.’
‘So you have summoned me here,’ Macharius said. His tone was mild. Only a fool would have assumed that he was anything but dangerous and I doubted the cardinal, despite his manner, was a fool.
‘I believe you are still subject to the commands of the Emperor and his chosen representatives,’ said Septimus. There was steel in his voice. ‘You are a great hero of the Imperium, Lord High Commander.’
He glanced at the skulls floating around him. For a moment, as if subject to some unheard-of command, their circling ceased and their eyesockets all turned to regard Macharius. My hand went to the shotgun, just in case. ‘Once these too belonged to heroes of the Imperium.’
He let the words hang in the air for a moment then said, ‘Are you still subject to the commands of the Emperor and his representatives?’
Utter silence descended. Everyone stood absolutely still, straining to hear Macharius’s response. There could only be one answer to that question which would not result in civil war, a thing Macharius had spent his whole life ending.
Macharius smiled at the cardinal and said, ‘You bear tokens proving you are who you claim to be.’
‘My messenger carried documents marked with the appropriate seals.’
‘We have already ascertained that your messenger never reached me.’
‘Then I can present you with my credentials when we have returned to my palace.’
‘Your palace?’
‘I have requisitioned a fitting domicile for myself and my staff,’ said the cardinal.
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to present them to me in person,’ said Macharius. The two men stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. ‘At your earliest convenience.’
‘Of course,’ said Cardinal Septimus, after the lapse of ten very long heartbeats. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
Macharius nodded as if he had expected nothing less and swept ahead, through the massed ranks of troops, leaving the generals and the Imperial dignitaries to follow in his wake.
The airship carried us over the ancient city towards the palace that had been prepared for Macharius. I watched the city slide by through the portholes while I eavesdropped on the conversation of my betters. Starscrapers that resembled great ebony tombstones drifted by. Alien runes appeared on their sides and vanished with no apparent reason. Black flames danced through the sky overhead. In the shadows of these monstrous xenos artefacts the human buildings seemed smaller, shabbier and more impermanent.
Many of them had an abandoned half-complete look that showed how recently they had been put up. It had been the intention to make Acheron the capital of the newly created sector. Its strategic position across the interstellar routes made it suitable as such. Now I doubted the city would ever be complete.
Beneath us I could see vast makeshift camps containing the forces of the generals. Around the edges were parked Baneblades, Shadowswords and other Imperial armour. There was no sign here of the shortages we had known on Loki. I recalled Macharius’s suspicions of a conspiracy against him and the gathering of generals here had proved that correct. I wondered if he was correct, too, about supplies being withheld and the supply chain being sabotaged. He was a man who made few mistakes about such things.
‘We can’t assume that just because they are not here they are loyal,’ Drake was saying. His voice was low, urgent, pitched for the ears of Macharius. ‘They may, as Septimus says, simply have not gotten the message.’
‘Or they may be lying low, afraid to commit themselves, until they see what happens.’
‘Equally you cannot assume that just because they are here the officers present are against you. It is difficult to ignore a direct summons from the Imperium.’
‘Particularly if one is ambitious,’ said Macharius. There was a note of irony in his voice. ‘Tell me what you know about Septimus.’
‘What does anyone really know about a man like him?’
‘I am sure you can tell me more than common scuttlebutt. I am sure your network of agents has been busy here for some time.’
‘He is a powerful, clever, ambitious man,’ Drake said.
‘The fact that he holds the position he does tells me as much,’ said Macharius. ‘The Imperium would not have sent a fool here.’
‘He will not thank you for making him present his credentials to you.’
‘What was I supposed t
o do? Take him at his word?’
‘You could have been more diplomatic.’
Macharius shrugged. ‘How do you think this will be played?’
‘You will be sent home, summoned to Terra, loaded with honours.’
‘My work is not done.’ Macharius sounded completely convinced of that.
‘Clearly there are those in the Administratum who feel differently.’
‘If I am replaced no one will be able to rein in Tarka and his ilk. The crusade will disintegrate as they try to achieve their ambitions unfettered. Give them a decade and they will tear the army apart, it will be the Schism all over again.’
‘You cannot be sure of that.’
‘I picked those men. I have commanded them for decades. Believe me, I know them and have done so since I humbled every last one of them on the battlefield.’
‘There are some would say that was a flaw in your plan,’ said Drake. He was not a man afraid to put forward opinions that might have got someone else shot. ‘A bid to make yourself irreplaceable. Some would say it was a sign of a lack of humility, of disloyalty to the Imperium even.’
‘Some would say, inquisitor? What would you say?’
‘I am just setting out the arguments that will be used against you. Septimus will be able to present himself as just someone seeking to sort out a succession crisis.’
‘In order for there to be a succession, I would have to die.’
‘You are planning on becoming immortal, are you?’
‘I am not planning on dying any time soon.’
‘Has it occurred to you that there may well be others who are planning on your death?’
‘People have been doing that since I was eleven years old. I am still here.’
‘You won’t be forever. No man can be.’
‘Has it occurred to you, inquisitor, that there are those who would profit by the return of the old Chaos, of a new Schism.’
‘Yes. That is why I think some of your command decisions have been unwise.’
Macharius laughed. ‘I found those men leading armies that had conquered scores of worlds. They swore loyalty to me. They are the best generals in the Imperium for the kind of war we are fighting. It was not simply vanity and megalomania that made me choose them. They chose themselves. Of all the men in all the worlds, they are the ones who had survived and been victorious. They have conquered more worlds for the Imperium than any men since the time of the Emperor.’
Drake nodded. Macharius clearly had a point. ‘You could have replaced them.’ He was not about to give up.
‘With men just as violent, just as ambitious and perhaps less competent? You don’t get to be an Imperial general by being a herbivore, inquisitor. You didn’t survive on the killing grounds of the Schism by being the toughest sheep in the herd. You survived by being a wolf.’
‘And now your pack is turning on you.’
‘You have made your point.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You think we are approaching a point where I may be of more use to the Imperium as a dead hero than a live general?’ There was a trace of mocking humour in Macharius’s voice.
‘I am sure there are some who might.’
‘They will change their minds when I have dealt with Richter.’ Once again it was there in Macharius’s voice, that note of querulous obsession. He seemed to have convinced himself that overcoming his nemesis would put everything right, would regain any lost prestige, would make things as they once were. Could he really not see how broken things were?
‘I have had my people sweep your palace. It is clean, as far as they can tell.’ That meant that it was as secure as was mortally possible.
‘That is always good to hear,’ said Macharius. I knew he had his own people checking as well, just in case. I would see reports about it soon enough.
The airship docked with Macharius’s palace.
We accompanied the general to his penthouse chambers and were dismissed.
Knowing there would only be a short respite before the tidal wave of generals and bureaucrats descended on us, we headed down towards the apartments that had been assigned to us. All around an army of servants went about their business, padding through the marble-walled corridors, clad in green tunics, carrying themselves with the bearing of ancient aristocrats. Here at least were those who were still in no doubt of Macharius’s status. His glory reflected on them and they looked the part.
‘I wonder what they all do when we’re not around,’ Anton said as we strode past another arrogant-looking houseboy.
‘The palace does not look after itself,’ Ivan said. ‘They still have duties to perform.’
‘Aye, and food to eat and wine to drink, while we’ve been out in the trenches killing heretics.’ Anton sounded bitter in a way I had never heard him before.
‘What’s got into you?’ I asked. Behind his head, through a great arched window, I could see a mirrored black starscraper. On its side pictoglyphs formed and faded, spelling out some unguessable message in a tongue long lost to mankind.
‘Nothing,’ said Anton. His lips were compressed tightly. His scar looked livid on his forehead. His eyes were narrowed at their corners.
‘You sound angry,’ I said, just to goad him.
‘I am not angry.’
‘Petulant, then.’
‘I am not petulant.’ Of course, denying it made him sound exactly that.
‘He’s just annoyed there was no victory parade,’ said Ivan. ‘There’s always been a victory parade before.’
‘I am not worried about any sodding parade,’ said Anton.
‘It’s the lack of cheering crowds then. You miss them.’
‘I don’t give a toss about crowds, cheering, booing or otherwise.’
‘Then why are you so annoyed?’
‘It’s them…’ Anton said. We paused in front of a mural depicting yet another of Macharius’s triumphs. In this one, as in so many others, he was accompanied by his most important generals, each head of one battlegroup of the crusade. They were all there: Sejanus, Tarka, Crassus, Arrian, Fabius, Lysander and Cyrus. All of them looked only marginally less a supreme commander than their great leader.
‘Them?’
‘The generals, the nobles, the politicians, the high muckety-mucks.’
‘What about them?’
‘Yeah, what about them?’ Ivan asked. ‘They’ve always been frakkers. Why have you picked today to notice it?’
‘They’re talking about replacing Macharius. You heard what Drake said… It’s treason.’
‘It would only be treason if they were plotting against the Imperium,’ I said.
‘They’re plotting against Macharius.’
It hung in the air. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was listening. No one looked like it, but that meant nothing. In a palace like this half the servants were probably in the employ of someone or other, reporting back every word they heard.
‘Macharius is not the Imperium,’ I said. Was it my imagination or did one servant girl’s eyes widen slightly? I doubted that she could understand the dialect of Belial but you never know – if someone wanted to place an agent badly enough they might find someone who could.
‘What have all those other frakkers ever done for the Imperium?’ Anton asked.
‘Led its armies to victory.’
‘I am talking about the bureaucrats who stayed at home and counted their money while we fought and bled over half the galaxy.’
I said nothing. I looked at him disapprovingly, more for discussing this where we could be overheard than because I disagreed with what he was saying. The servant strolled off down the corridor. I told myself it must have been my imagination.
Fourteen
The Drunken Ratling was a new tavern pretending to be old. It was in a basement bunker deep beneath one of those old black, mirrored starscrapers. Its walls were covered in murals of Imperial Guardsmen winning great victories in the face of orks, eldar, and a bunch of
equally strange-looking xenos the likes of which I had never seen before and which most likely came direct from the imagination of some artist.
The place was full of men in uniform, drinking grog and pivo and brown beer. Hundreds of uniformed soldiers sat at long tables and clutched steins and jabbered at each other in the tongues of their home world. Anton and Ivan and I were no different. We spoke in Belial Hive dialect even though we had less and less use for it down the years. Most of Macharius’s guard came from his home world or had been co-opted in from other regiments when they had distinguished themselves in the service of the crusade. Still, it was nice sometimes to speak the old tongue and tell the old jokes and reminisce about a world that none of us had seen for thirty years or were ever going to see again. Sometimes it was good to be reminded of our youth, when life had seemed so simple.
We grabbed a corner table and a serving girl brought us the local beer, a very dark brew that fizzed slightly on the tongue as if there were some strange chemical in it or the water it was brewed from. I raised my glass and spoke a toast to the cog manufactorums of Belial and all those who laboured in them, and Anton and Ivan echoed it. We slopped a small libation onto the table in memory of all those who had fallen beside us on Loki. I don’t know where we had picked that habit up, but it seemed to take on more and more meaning as the years passed. We had seen a lot of faces pass and a lot of comrades fall and it seemed appropriate somehow to mark their passing even in such a small way.
I stared through the clouds of lho-stick fug and soma fumes. All around me were soldiers who seemed more subdued than normal, and I noticed that many of them were slipping furtive glances in our direction. One or two of them were even pointing at us and sniggering. I did not think too much of it at the time. In any large drunken gathering there’re always going to be a few who behave like idiots.
