by Dan Abnett
‘But–’
‘Vaynom, what are you scared of? Is it dying?’
‘Throne, I’m not ready to die!’ Blenner spluttered. ‘I haven’t made my peace yet! You might be braced for it, but I surely–’
He stopped and looked at the doctor.
‘That was a terrible thing to say. I apologise.’
‘No need. You’re right. I’m ready. What we’re heading for doesn’t frighten me at all.’
‘Well, I’d like a little of whatever you’re having, then,’ said Blenner.
‘That can be arranged,’ said Dorden. ‘Look, Vaynom, I wonder if this is actually not about dying. I wonder if what you’re really afraid of is being found out. I wonder if you’re scared about being put in the line of fire and letting him down.’
Blenner sighed.
‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t even considered that. I was still hung up on the dying part.’
Dorden smiled. He got up and took a small brown bottle down from a crowded shelf. He handed it to Blenner. It was full of little oval pills.
‘One of these every day, or when you feel agitated. They will improve your fortitude and help you think clearly. Come to me when you need more.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Blenner. ‘Now listen. I don’t want this–
‘I can assure you that what’s just passed between us will remain in confidence.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One last thing, commissar. If you really want to fortify yourself, you should do what I’m about to do.’
‘Yes?’ said Blenner.
‘Prayer and worship, commissar. I have become a regular shrine-goer. I think it’s kept me alive longer than any pills. Look after the soul, and it benefits the man built around it.’
Shore services were usually held in the camp chapel, but during the Makeshift Revels, the ecclesiarchs had taken to preaching and blessing in the open, out in the fair.
Ayatani Zweil was just beginning his morning address when Dorden arrived. Zweil was standing on a munitions box, codex in hand, with two young boys from the camp train stood either side of him swinging censers. They looked bored, but he’d paid them to do it. He’d chosen a site at the end of one of the stall rows, and a crowd had gathered. Dorden joined the back of it.
‘The Saint, Saint Sabbat, made these worlds,’ Zweil said. ‘She made these worlds with her grace for us to live in, and that’s why we’re fighting to free them. She watches us, you see. When we work and fight and sleep and eat. She even watches us when we’re on the privy, which is disconcerting, I know, yet reassuring. Where was I?’
The old priest’s sermons were certainly unconventional. When he had finished, he came down through the dispersing crowd to find Dorden.
‘I’m always happy every morning to see you in my congregation,’ he said, taking Dorden’s hands.
‘Because I’m evidence of another soul brought into the fold?’
‘No, just pleased you haven’t died in your sleep. I had a dream.’
‘You do have those…’
‘Last night. Lovely young ladies in it. Very distracting. Then I had another dream. The Saint came to me.’
‘Did she?’ asked Dorden.
‘No, she was busy with something else, so she sent a dog. The dog said, ayatani, it said, you have to pray and do good works. It’s your job to make sure that Dorden outlives you.’
‘I see.’
‘Have I told you this before?’
‘Yes, last week.’
‘Ah, I ought to get some new material. Maybe a parable. Parables are good. I had one once, a very nice blue it was, but rather too tight.’
‘You don’t really know what a parable is, do you?’
‘How obvious is that?’
‘Father, coming to you each day to pray is doing me good. I know it. I have been granted more life than I had reason to expect.’
Zweil took him by the arm and they began to walk along the bustling row, two old men together. The boys with the censers followed.
‘I’m going to look after you,’ said Zweil. ‘I am. It’s only right. I sort of got you in this terrible pickle. If I hadn’t swapped blood samples on you, it would have been me with the cancer.’
‘Father, medicine’s not really a strong field of expertise for you either, is it?’
‘Balls. I know what I mean. I’m going to look after you. Of course, taking you to war’s probably not the best plan in that case.’
‘I’ve always liked the Makeshift Revels,’ said Dorden. ‘Great spirit to them. Great anticipation.’
‘Bag o’nails.’
‘What?’
‘Bag o’nails. It’s another name for these revels. A corruption, you see, from “bacchanals”. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. The face of the beati. Your boy Lesp, he does ink, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. The beati. With illumined clouds.’
‘Where are you going to get it?’
‘Here on Menazoid Sigma,’ said Zweil. ‘Oh, now doesn’t he look disturbingly smart!’
They had crossed the path of trooper Wes Maggs. Maggs was wearing full dress uniform and looked very uncomfortable.
‘Don’t mock me, father,’ he said. ‘I hate getting gussied up.’ The uniform was a blue so dark it was almost black, with silver braiding and insignia, including the old 81st emblem. There was a red sash, silver aiguillettes and, on the left breast, the formal medal of Belladon: the belladonna flower, its stylised scarlet petals shedding a single drop of blood like a tear.
‘What’s this all in aid of?’ asked Dorden.
‘I’m part of the honour guard,’ said Maggs. ‘For the influx. I don’t know why they picked me. I don’t do ceremonial.’
‘Which influx?’ asked Dorden.
‘The Belladon one,’ said Maggs.
‘Don’t keep them waiting,’ said Zweil.
‘Is it true?’ asked Dorden.
‘Is what true, doctor?’ asked Maggs, fiddling with his cap band.
‘About Wilder?’
‘So I hear,’ Maggs called as he hurried away.
‘You’re late,’ said Major Baskevyl as Maggs ran up.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Take your place.’
Two full companies had assembled on the landing skirts in dress uniform. Banners were flapping in the wind. There was the flower of Belladon and the Tanith crest. The landing ship had just come in.
‘Stand ready,’ said Baskevyl as he walked to join the other officers.
D Company was his, and F belonged to Ferdy Kolosim. Both companies snapped to attention. Kolosim nodded as Baskevyl approached.
‘A good day for us,’ said Kolosim. ‘A new company. A Belladon company. Yes, sir. Just the sort of reinforcements this regiment needs.’
‘This regiment does all right,’ said Baskevyl. ‘But the point is well made.’
‘Is it true? It’s Wilder’s brother?’ asked Captain Sloman.
‘That’s what I hear,’ Baskevyl replied. ‘It’s his brother. He personally requested the transfer to join us. They’ve been trying to catch up with us for three years.’
‘Just in time for this show,’ said Kolosim. ‘Do we know what sort of strength he’s bringing? A full company? What specialism?’
‘We don’t know anything,’ said Baskevyl.
‘We could use heavy infantry,’ said Sloman. ‘Maybe some serious crew weapons.’
‘Start showing those damn Tanith scouts how to fight a war Belladon style,’ said Kolosim.
They all heard something. A sudden loud crash and blast.
‘What the–?’ murmured Baskevyl.
Drums. Marching drums, rattling and hissing, beating a perfect pace. Cymbals. The thud of bass kettles. Over that, suddenly like sirens, the bellow and parp of brass.
The reinforcement company came down the ramp of the landing ship into the suns-light to meet them.
‘Is this a joke?’ said Ferdy Kolosim.
&
nbsp; It was a full colours band. They came out in match step, hammering their slung drums. The brass of their instruments gleamed. Their banners were bright and crisply new. At least half of the musicians were women.
‘Fury of Belladon…’ said Sloman.
‘Quiet!’ snapped Kolosim.
The band wheeled and marched until it was formed up and facing the reception guard. Their parade drill and formation work was certainly impeccable. They halted, and the bandmaster timed the music to a precise finish.
He stepped forwards beside his commanding officer to meet Baskevyl’s group.
‘Major Baskevyl, Tanith First,’ said Baskevyl, taking the salute. ‘With me, Captain Kolosim, Captain Sloman and Commissar Blenner. Commissar Blenner has been recently instructed to focus on discipline for the Belladon contingent.’
‘An honour,’ snapped Blenner.
Baskevyl was relieved to see Blenner. The commissar had arrived late, only taking his place during the band display.
‘Captain Jakub Wilder,’ said the commander. ‘This is Bandmaster Sergeant Major Yerolemew.’
Baskevyl could see it. Wilder had the look of his late brother, the man who had led the 81st and been Baskevyl’s commander and friend. Lucian Wilder, war hero, had given his last command on Ancreon Sextus more than five years earlier. Jakub looked like a younger, slighter version.
‘We stand ready to join the Tanith First,’ said Wilder. He held out a scrolled document with a red ribbon to Baskevyl. ‘Our attachment paperwork is in order, and has been approved by the Munitorum.’
‘You’re a ceremonial band,’ said Kolosim.
‘Three sections, with a fourth reserve,’ said Wilder.
‘The thing is, we don’t… we don’t really need a marching band,’ said Kolosim.
‘Captain Kolosim means,’ said Baskevyl quickly, ‘that we weren’t expecting to have the ceremonial aspect of our regiment enhanced in this way.’
‘We don’t just play instruments. We have weapons,’ said Wilder, his mouth tight. ‘We know how to fight.’
‘No insult was intended,’ said Baskevyl.
‘If I may?’ asked the bandmaster, stepping forwards. He was a tall, older man, with a lined face and a vague trace of white hair. He wore a mighty, square-cut beard and a monocle. In his left hand was his golden baton. He had no right hand. The right sleeve of his long tunic coat was pinned up, empty.
‘Nearly seven years ago, we were instructed to join the 81st,’ he said. ‘Captain Wilder, my commander’s brother, had requested us, for morale purposes.’
I remember, thought Baskevyl. I remember him saying ‘I’ve written for them to send us a band, Bask. I think it’ll put a spring in our step.’ Throne, I thought he was joking.
‘You know what transit connections can be like,’ said Yerolemew. ‘We were delayed. We arrived at Ancreon Sextus long after you had departed. I assumed we would be rerouted to join another Belladon regiment. But Captain Wilder here, he… he was very keen to join his late brother’s command. He got himself assigned to us and pushed for the posting to be ratified.’
‘It’s difficult,’ said Wilder. ‘There were other delays. A squad of bandsmen and their instruments is easily subbed out for a combat team if transport is limited. We were always a lower priority. But I wanted to be here. We wanted to be here.’
He swallowed hard. Baskevyl saw a boy trying to do his best, desperate not to let down his big brother. He made the sign of the aquila and held out his hand.
‘I knew your brother,’ Baskevyl said. ‘It was an honour to call him friend. And it’s an honour to have you here. Welcome to the Tanith First, Captain Wilder.’
At his side, Commissar Blenner palmed another pill from the bottle in his stormcoat pocket, dry-swallowed it behind a pretend cough, and then smiled.
He felt better already. Whatever the poor doctor had given him was splendid stuff.
A colours band. A colours band. He could manage that. It was precisely his kind of thing. Soldiers, but without the annoying fighting part.
‘What the feth?’ murmured Larkin. ‘Is that a band?’
‘Nah, you’ve been at the hard stuff again, you mad old bugger,’ replied Jessi Banda. ‘It’s a hallucination.’
‘Actually,’ said Raess, ‘Larks is right. It’s a fething colours band.’
With Larkin in the lead, ten company marksmen, the ten best, had been making their way through the revel crowds together. The going was slow, because the old sniper wasn’t as fast on his feet as he used to be. He limped on the artificial foot. Mad or not, they were all deferential to him, even the cocky Verghastite Banda and the hard-as-nails Belladon Questa. They all had lanyards, but Larkin could outshoot any of them.
The crowd had parted, affording them a brief view down onto the landing skirts where the transports were coming and going. They could see the Belladon banners, the flash of suns-light on brass.
‘Throne,’ muttered Lyndon Questa. ‘My lot have brought a bloody band with them.’
‘Good to see the Belladon adding to the combat strength of the regiment,’ said Banda.
‘Screw you,’ said Questa.
‘In your dreams,’ she smiled.
Nessa signed a question, and Larkin signed back, pointing her towards the scene below. She hadn’t heard the drumming.
A smile crossed her face.
‘Do they sound good?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s the important bit to focus on, Nessa,’ said Banda.
They left the crowd and entered a loading dock hall where Munitorum crews and servitors were unloading supply crates from long-bed trucks.
‘What are we gn… gn… gn… doing here, Larkin?’ asked Merrt, his crude augmetic jaw forcing his trademark stammer.
‘It’s a surprise,’ said Larkin. ‘Gather round.’
A group of Tanith lasmen were already present, led by Captain Domor.
‘Morning, Shoggy,’ said Larkin.
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Domor.
‘Well,’ said Larkin. ‘Commander said we’re going to be doing some specialist training, didn’t he? My shooters, your boys?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t say what, and he didn’t say why,’ said Domor.
‘Ah, but one has got to be smart,’ said Larkin. ‘One has got to sneak past Gaunt’s adjutant, perhaps by distracting him. I find Banda works well.’
‘Beltayn’s putty in my hands,’ purred Banda.
‘Then, while Bel’s got his hands full–’ said Larkin.
‘Metaphorically speaking,’ Banda put in.
‘–one has got to take a look at the regimental supply manifests. See what sort of kit is coming in, and who it’s been assigned to. One can then build a picture.’
‘Is one going to share this picture,’ asked Raglon, ‘or is one going to get a punch in the mouth?’
‘Patience, Rags,’ said Larkin. He hobbled over to a stack of crates. ‘These are yours, Shoggy. Full of kit for your boys. These are mine. Give me that crowbar, Raess.’
Raess handed Larkin the bar. The old marksman began to lever the lip off one crate.
‘You can’t do that!’ a Munitorum tech exclaimed.
‘Feth off,’ Banda growled at him. The man scurried away.
‘Well, look at that,’ said Larkin, lifting the first item out of the packing crate with a smile.
‘What in the name of the God-Emperor is this?’ asked Raess.
‘Hard-round rifles,’ said Banda, taking one for herself. ‘Old, shoddy, bolt action hard-round rifles. What the gak?’
‘What’s this ammo?’ asked Questa. He held up a large calibre round. It had a brass firing cap and a head that looked like it was made of glass.
‘I want my longlas,’ said Banda. ‘I don’t want this.’
‘What are we supposed to be hunting?’ asked Nessa.
Larkin tucked the rifle he was holding up to his cheek, eased the old but well-maintained bolt action, and took a sample aim.
‘Lar
isel,’ he said. ‘Like in the old days.’
‘The old coot’s finally lost it,’ said Banda.
Larkin swept his aim, and suddenly found he had a target squared in his iron sights.
‘Sorry!’ he exclaimed, lowering the rifle. ‘Didn’t see you there, mam.’
‘I’m looking for Captain Daur,’ said Elodie.
‘He’s down at hall two, mam,’ said Domor. ‘For the influx reception.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Elodie. She was holding the dress jacket. ‘I thought he said four. Thank you.’
She hurried back out into the suns-light.
‘Are you going to explain?’ Raess asked Larkin.
‘Certainly,’ said Larkin, still savouring the feel of the weapon.
‘And why am I here, exactly?’ asked Merrt. ‘You know I can’t gn… gn… gn… shoot any more.’
‘Mertt, my friend,’ said Larkin. ‘You were the best shot I ever saw. I’ve decided I’m going to teach you how to do it again.’
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ said Elodie. ‘I got lost.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Daur. He took the jacket from her and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve got time yet.’
‘Do you need me?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can take it from here.’
‘I’ll see you later, then,’ said Elodie.
‘There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.
‘It can wait until you’re done with this,’ she said, and slipped away.
Back at their quarters, she tidied a few things away. She hoped she hadn’t caused a problem by being tardy with the jacket.
Elodie started packing. Under a small pile of books in a locker drawer, she found a small set of documents.
Petition for Allowance to Marry, the papers said.
Ban Daur put on his dress jacket and buttoned it up. Then he put on his cap and buckled on his officer’s strap and holster.
Major Kolea appeared in the doorway, flanked by Commissar Ludd. Both were in full dress too.
‘Are you ready now?’ asked Kolea.
‘Yes.’
They walked out through the depot hall on top of the oil-stained landing apron in front of it. The Arvus lighter had just set down. Steam was weeping from its drive vents.
