by Dan Abnett
Sindermann shrugged. 'I confess, I've been better.’
"Your injuries still-'
'I've healed in body, Garviel, but...' Sindermann tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. 'I'm unsettled. I haven't felt much like speaking. The fire's not in me just now. It will return. I've kept my own company, and I'm on the mend.’
Loken stared at the old iterator. He seemed so frail, like a baby bird, pale and skinny necked. It had been nine weeks since the bloodshed at the Whisperheads, and most of that time they had spent in warp transit. Loken felt he had begun to come to terms with things himself, but seeing Sindermann, he realised how close to the surface the hurt lay. He could block it out. He was Astartes. But Sindermann was a mortal man, and nothing like as resilient.
'I wish I could-'
Sindermann held up a hand. 'Please. The Warmaster himself was kind enough to speak with me about it, privately. I understand what happened, and I am a wiser man for it.'
Loken got out of the chair and allowed Sindermann to take his place. The iterator sat down, gratefully.
'He keeps me close.’ Loken said.
mo does?'
The Warmaster. He brought me and the Tenth with him on this undertaking, just to keep me by him. So he could watch me.’
'Because?'
'Because I've seen what few have seen. Because I've seen what the warp can do if we're not careful.’
Then our beloved commander is very wise, Garviel. Not only has he given you something to occupy your mind with, he's offering you the chance to reforge your courage in battle. He still needs you.’
Sindermann got to his feet again and limped along the book stacks for a moment, tracing his thin hand across the spines. From his gait, Loken knew he hadn't healed anything like as well as he'd claimed. He seemed occupied with the books once more.
Loken waited for a moment. 'I should go.’ he said. 'I have duties to attend to.’
Sindermann smiled and waved Loken on his way with eyelash blinks of his fingers.
'I've enjoyed talking with you again.’ Loken said. 'It's been too long.’
'It has.’
'I'll come back soon. A day or two. Hear you brief, perhaps?'
'I might be up to that.’
Loken took a book out of the basket. These comfort you, you say?'
Yes.’
'May I borrow one?'
'If you bring it back. What have you there?' Sindermann shuffled over and took the volume from Loken. 'Sumaturan poetry? I don't think that's you. Try this-'
He took one of the other books out of the chair's rack. 'The Chronicles of Ursh. Forty chapters, detailing the savage reign of Kalagann. You'll enjoy that. Very bloody, with a high body count. Leave the poetry to me.’
Loken scanned the old book and then put it under his arm. Thanks for the recommendation. If you like poetry, I have some for you.’
'Really?'
'One of the remembrancers-'
'Oh yes.’ Sindermann nodded. 'Karkasy. I was told you'd vouched for him.’
'It was a favour, to a friend.’
'And by friend, you mean Mersadie Oliton?'
Loken laughed. You told me you'd kept your own company these last few months, yet you still know everything about everything.’
That's my job. The juniors keep me up to speed. I understand you've indulged her a little. As your own remembrancer.’
'Is that wrong?'
'Not at all!' Sindermann smiled. That's the way it's supposed to work. Use her, Garviel. Let her use you. One day, perhaps, there will be far finer books in the Imperial archives than these poor relics.’
'Karkasy was going to be sent away. I arranged probation, and part of that was for him to submit all his work to me. I can't make head nor tail of it. Poetry. I don't do poetry. Can I give it to you?'
'Of course.’
Loken turned to leave. What was the book you put back?' he asked. 'What?'
'When I arrived, you had volumes in your basket there, but you were also studying one, intently, it seemed to me. You put it back on the shelves. What was it?'
'Bad poetry.’ said Sindermann.
THE FLEET HAD embarked for Murder less than a week after the Whisperheads incident. The transmitted requests for assistance had become so insistent that any debate as to what the 63rd Expedition undertook next became academic. The Warmaster had ordered the immediate departure of ten companies under his personal command, leaving Varvaras behind with the bulk of the fleet to oversee the general withdrawal from Sixty-Three Nineteen.
Once Tenth Company had been chosen as part of the relief force, Loken had found himself too occupied with the hectic preparations for transit to let his mind dwell on the incident. It was a relief to be busy. There were squad formations to be reassigned, and replacements to be selected from the Legion's novitiate and scout auxiliaries. He had to find men to fill the gaps in Hellebore and Brakespur, and that meant screening young candidates and making decisions that would change lives forever. Who were the best? Who should be given the chance to advance to full Astartes status?
Torgaddon and Aximand assisted Loken in this solemn task, and he was thankful for their contributions. Little Horus, in particular, seemed to have extraordinary insight regarding candidates. He saw true strengths in some that Loken would have dismissed, and flaws in others that Loken liked the look of. Loken began to appreciate that Aximand's place in the Mournival had been earned by his astonishing analytical precision.
Loken had elected to clear out the dormitory cells of the dead men himself.
Vipus and I can do that.’ Torgaddon said. 'Don't bother yourself.'
'I want to do it.’ Loken replied. 'I should do it.’
'Let him, Tarik.’ said Aximand. 'He's right. He should.’ Loken found himself truly warming to Little Horus for the first time. He had not imagined they would ever be close, but what had at first seemed to be quiet, reserved and stern in Little Horus Aximand was proving to be plain-spoken, empathic and wise.
When he came to clean out the modest, spartan cells, Loken made a discovery. The warriors had little in the way of personal effects: some clothing, some select trophies, and little, tightly bound scrolls of oath papers, usually stored in canvas cargo sacks beneath their crude cots. Amongst Xavyer lubal's meagre effects, Loken found a small, silver medal, unmounted on any chain or cord. It was the size of a coin, a wolfs head set against a crescent moon.
'What is this?' Loken asked Nero Vipus, who had come along with him.
'I can't say, Garvi.’
'I think I know what it is.’ Loken said, a little annoyed at his friend's blank response, 'and I think you do too.’
?'I really can't say.’
Then guess.’ Loken snapped. Vipus suddenly seemed very caught up in examining the way the flesh of his wrist was healing around the augmetic implant he had been fitted with.
'Nero...'
'It could be a lodge medal, Garvi.’ Vipus replied dis-missively 'I can't say for sure.’
That's what I thought.’ Loken said. He turned the silver medal over in his palm. 'Jubal was a lodge member, then, eh?'
'So what if he was?'
'You know my feelings on the subject.’ Loken replied.
Officially, there were no warrior lodges, or any other kind of fraternities, within the Adeptus Astartes. It was common knowledge that the Emperor frowned on such institutions, claiming they were dangerously close to cults, and only a step away from the Imperial creed, the Lectio Divinitatus, that supported the notion of the Emperor, beloved by all, as a god.
But fraternal lodges did exist within the Astartes, occult and private. According to rumours, they had been active in the XVI Legion for a long time. Some six decades earlier, the Luna Wolves, in collaboration with the XVII Legion, the Word Bearers, had undertaken the compliance of a world called Davin. A feral place, Davin had been controlled by a remarkable warrior caste, whose savage nobility had won the respect of the Astartes sent to pacify their warring feuds. The Davini
te warriors had ruled their world through a complex structure of warrior lodges, quasi-religious societies that had venerated various local predators. By cultural osmosis, the lodge practices had been quiedy absorbed by the Legions.
Loken had once asked his mentor, Sindermann, about them. They're harmless enough,' the iterator had told him. 'Warriors always seek the brotherhood of their kind. As I understand it, they seek to promote fellowship across the hierarchies of command, irrespective of rank or position. A kind of internal bond, a ribwork of loyally that operates, as it were, perpendicular to the official chain of command.'
Loken had never been sure what something that operated perpendicular to the chain of command might look like, but it sounded wrong to him. Wrong, if nothing else, in that it was deliberately secret and thus deceitful. Wrong, in that the Emperor, beloved by all, disapproved of them.
'Of course,' Sindermann had added, 'I can't actually say if they exist.’
Real or not, Loken had made it plain mat any Astartes intending to serve under his captaincy should have nothing to do with them.
There had never been any sign that anyone in the Tenth was involved in lodge activities. Now the medal had turned up. A lodge medal, belonging to the man who had turned into a daemon and killed his own.
Loken was greauy troubled by the discovery. He told Vipus that he wanted it made known that any man in his command who had information concerning the existence of lodges should come forwards and speak with him, privately if necessary. The next day, when Loken came to sort through the personal effects he had gathered, one last time, he found the medal had disappeared.
In the last few days before departure, Mersadie Oliton had come to him several times, pleading Karkasy's case. Loken remembered her talking to him about it on his return from the Whisperheads, but he had been too distracted then. He cared little about the fate of a remembrancer, especially one foolish enough to anger the expedition authorities.
But it was another distraction, and he needed as many as he could get. After consulting with Maloghurst, he told her he would intervene.
Ignace Karkasy was a poet and, it appeared, an idiot. He didn't know when to shut up. On a surface visit to Sixty-Three Nineteen, he had wandered away from the legitimate areas of visit, got drunk, and then shot his mouth off to such an extent he had received a near-fatal beating from a crew of army troopers.
'He is going to be sent away.’ Mersadie said. 'Back to Terra, in disgrace, his certification stripped away. It's wrong, captain. Ignace is a good man...'
'Really?'
'No, all right. He's a lousy man. Uncouth. Stubborn. Annoying. But he is a great poet, and he speaks the
truth, no matter how unpalatable that is. Ignace didn't get beaten up for lying.’
Recovered enough from his beating to have been transferred from the flagship's infirmary to a holding cell, Ignace Karkasy was a dishevelled, unedifying prospect.
He rose as Loken walked in and the stab lights came on.
'Captain, sir.’ he began. 'I am gratified you take an interest in my pathetic affairs.’
'You have persuasive friends.’ Loken said. 'Oliton, and Keeler too.’
'Captain Loken, I had no idea I had persuasive friends. In point of fact, I had little notion I had friends at all. Mersadie is kind, as I'm sure you've realised. Euphrati... I heard there was some trouble she was caught up in.’
There was.’
'Is she well? Was she hurt?'
'She's fine.’ Loken replied, although he had no idea what state Keeler was in. He hadn't seen her. She'd sent him a note, requesting his intervention in Karkasy's case. Loken suspected Mersadie Oliton's influence.
Ignace Karkasy was a big man, but he had suffered a severe assault. His face was still puffy and swollen, and the braises had discoloured his skin yellow like jaundice. Blood vessels had burst in his hang-dog eyes. Every movement he made seemed to give him pain.
'I understand you're outspoken.’ Loken said. 'Something of an iconoclast?'
Tes, yes.’ Karkasy said, shaking his head, 'but I'll grow out of it, I promise you.’
They want rid of you. They want to send you home.’ said Loken. The senior remembrancers believe you're giving the order a bad name.’
'Captain, I could give someone a bad name just by standing next to them.’
That made Loken smile. He was beginning to like the man.
'I've spoken with the Warmaster's equerry about you, Karkasy.’ Loken said. There is a potential for probation here. If a senior Astartes, such as myself, vouches for you, then you could stay with the expedition.’
There'd be conditions?' Karkasy asked.
'Of course there would, but first of all I have to hear you tell me that you want to stay.’
'I want to stay. Great Terra, captain, I made a mistake, but I want to stay. .1 want to be part of this.’
Loken nodded. 'Mersadie says you should. The equerry, too, has a soft spot for you. I think Mal-oghurst likes an underdog.’
'Sir, never has a dog been so much under.’
'Here are the conditions.’ Loken said. 'Stick to them, or I will withdraw my sponsorship of you entirely, and you'll be spending a cold forty months lugging your arse back to Terra. First, you reform your habits.’
'I will, sir. Absolutely.’
'Second, you report to me every three days, my duties permitting, and copy me with everything you write. Everything, do you understand? Work intended for publication and idle scribbles. Nothing goes past me. You will show me your soul on a regular basis.’
'I promise, captain, though I warn you it's an ugly, cross-eyed, crook-backed, club-footed soul.’
'I've seen ugly.’ Loken assured him. The third condition. A question, really. Do you lie?'
'No, sir, I don't.’
This is what I've heard. You tell the truth, unvarnished and unretouched. You are judged a scoundrel for this. You say things others dare not.’
Karkasy shrugged - with a groan brought about by sore shoulders. 'I'm confused, captain. Is saying yes to that going to spoil my chances?'
'Answer anyway.’
'Captain Loken, I always, always tell the truth as I see it, though it gets me beaten to a pulp in army bars. And, with my heart, I denounce those who lie or deliberately blur the whole truth.’
Loken nodded. 'What did you say, remembrancer? What did you say that provoked honest troopers so far they took their fists to you?'
Karkasy cleared his throat and winced. 'I said... I said the Imperium would not endure. I said that nothing lasts forever, no matter how surely it has been built. I said that we will be fighting forever, just to keep ourselves alive.’
Loken did not reply.
Karkasy rose to his feet. Was that the right answer, sir?'
'Are there any right answers, sir?' Loken replied. 'I know this... a warrior-officer of the Imperial Fists said much the same thing to me not long ago. He didn't use the same words, but the meaning was identical. He was not sent home.’ Loken laughed to himself. 'Actually, as I think of it now, he was, but not for that reason.’
Loken looked across the cell at Karkasy.
The third condition, then. I will vouch for you, and stand in recognisance for you. In return, you must continue to tell the truth.’
'Really? Are you sure about that?'
Truth is all we have, Karkasy. Truth is what separates us from the xenos-breeds and the traitors. How will history judge us fairly if it doesn't have the truth to read? I was told that was what the remembrancer order was for. You keep telling the truth, ugly and unpalatable as it might be, and I'll keep sponsoring you.’
* Ф *
FOLLOWING HIS STRANGE and disconcerting conversation with Kyril Sindermann in the archives, Loken walked along to the gallery chamber in the flagship's midships where the remembrancers had taken to gathering.
As usual, Karkasy was waiting for him under the high arch of the chamber's entrance. It was their regular, agreed meeting place. From the broad chambe
r beyond the arch floated sounds of laughter, conversation and music. Figures, mostly remembrancers, but also some crew personnel and military aides, busded in and out through the archway, many in noisy, chattering groups.
The gallery chamber, one of many aboard the massive flagship designed for large assembly meetings, addresses and military ceremonies, had been given over to the remembrancers' use once it had been recognised that they could not be dissuaded from social gathering and conviviality. It was most undignified and undisciplined, as if a small carnival had been permitted to pitch in the austere halls of the grand warship. All across the Imperium, warships were making similar accommodations as they adjusted to the uncomfortable novelty of carrying large communities of artists and free-thinkers with them. By their very nature, the remembrancers could not be regimented or controlled the way the military complements of the ship could. They had an unquenchable desire to meet and debate and carouse. By giving them a space for their own use, the masters of the expedition could at least ring-fence their boisterous activities.
The chamber had become known as the Retreat, and it had acquired a grubby reputation. Loken had no wish to go inside, and always arranged to meet Karkasy at the entrance. It felt so odd to hear unrestrained laughter and jaunty music in the solemn depths of the Vengeful Spirit.
Karkasy nodded respectfully as the captain approached him. Seven weeks of voyage time had seen
his injuries heal well, and the bruises on his flesh were all but gone. He presented Loken with a printed sheaf of his latest work. Other remembrancers, passing by in little social cliques, eyed the Astartes captain with curiosity and surprise.
'My most recent work.’ Karkasy said. 'As agreed.'
Thank you. I'll see you here in three days.'
There's something else, captain.’ Karkasy said, and handed Loken a data-slate. He thumbed it to life. Picts appeared on the screen, beautifully composed picts of him and Tenth Company, assembling for embarkation. The banner. The files. Here he was swearing his oath of moment to Targost and Sedirae. The Mournival.
'Euphrati asked me to give you this.’ Karkasy said.
Where is she?' Loken asked.
