The Beast Arises

‘See,’ said Vangorich, pointing. ‘The Provost, Zeck. He is perhaps a little overly concerned with his office. He is very good at his job, but too good to be effective on the council. Lord Commander Militant Verreault is at odds with Lord High Admiral Lansung, and is in Udo’s pocket. The telepaths Anwar and Sark are occupied so much with their own, vital efforts to keep the Imperium together that they are too easily swayed by quick solutions, whereas the Paternoval Envoy Gibran cannot be swayed at all.’ As he spoke, he indicated the High Lords one at a time. ‘Lansung is a brilliant military commander, but of all of them he is the most responsible for this sorry mess.’

‘His ship stood back while we attacked,’ said Koorland.

‘As it did when Tull’s Crusade went forward. I cannot think why. He has perhaps lost his self-belief. I’m sure his own follies were driven by the idea that he was the best man for the job. That only he knows the way to extend the Imperium’s reach. But his manoeuvring was nearly the end of us. They all think that they alone know the answer. Confidence and zealotry, a terrible mix. He hoarded his fleet when he should have attacked, all for the chance at an office he will now never hold. The Inquisition seeks to repair the machineries of government, but cannot agree with itself and falls to infighting.

‘The fat man there in three countesses’ worth of jewellery is Mesring, the Ecclesiarch. A less holy man I have rarely met. And let us not forget Kubik, of course, hiding away on Mars up to no good. He’s turning into something of a threat to the Imperium, between you and me. All the signs suggest he seeks to assert the supremacy of Mars over that of Terra.’ He sighed and waved his goblet around him, taking in all the dignitaries, toadies, servers, servitors and every other human being in the room. ‘A room full of agendas does not make for happy governance. It is, all things told, a sorry mess of a game.’

‘I cannot see this as a game, Grand Master.’

‘But it is a game, Koorland,’ said Vangorich. ‘A very serious game, but a game nonetheless.’

‘If all the pieces are compromised, then what is left?’ said Koorland.

‘What is left is you and I,’ said Vangorich, tapping a finger against Koorland’s chest eagle. ‘So we best hope you are successful in hauling our collective skins out of the fire. I do not wish to see the time come when the Imperium has to rely on the Grand Master of the Assassinorum. We are gardeners, we Assassins. A snip and a prune. We are not intended for the wholesale remodelling of government, or, the Emperor forfend, the wielding of power.’ He smiled innocently, his scar twisting his face. Unlike Udo’s disfigurement, it somehow made the Assassin appear even more genial.

For a man who protested his lack of interest in power, thought Koorland, he seemed remarkably adept at wielding it.

‘Ah, my goblet appears to be empty,’ said Vangorich. ‘This evening, I feel like drinking. This week has been taxing.’ He rested a hand on Koorland’s vambrace, and said sotto voce, ‘Let us continue this some other time.’ Vangorich sauntered off, greeting men and women with a warmth shot through with insolence.

Thane came to his side. The Chapter Masters had been besieged by coteries of adepts, some of whom were there at Udo’s behest to keep them apart. But when a Space Marine in full battleplate chose to move through a room, people had no choice but to quickly remove themselves from his path.

‘I tire of their flattery and wheedling,’ said Thane.

‘This room is a vipers’ nest,’ said Koorland.

‘Aye, and Grand Master Vangorich is the biggest snake of all. Be wary of him, brother.’

‘A life of war, of bolt and blade, was preferable to this,’ said Koorland.

‘I agree. But Issachar has it right. We have a different kind of battle to fight now.’ The supplicants kept their distance from the Chapter Masters’ quiet conference, all save one: the fat man sealed into ceremonial ecclesiarchal robes so encrusted in jewels they were thick as battleplate, Ecclesiarch Mesring. He came over, sweating under the weight of his robes of office despite the four hollow-eyed, shaven-headed acolytes holding his train. A whole host of others trailed him: priests, scribes, and petitioners anxiously awaiting a moment to speak with him.

Mesring interrupted the Space Marines impolitely. ‘Chapter Masters! I come to offer my thanks. You do the Emperor’s duty. He is pleased.’

Koorland turned from his conversation with Thane. ‘You are Mesring, Ecclesiarch of the Adeptus Ministorum?’

Mesring was taken aback at Koorland’s feigned ignorance, but rallied well. ‘A grandiose title for a humble role. I am fortunate to interpret the Emperor’s will.’ He bowed stiffly from the waist, his chins wobbling with the effort. ‘And it is glorious to stand before His favoured servants, His holy sons.’ His pale flesh gleamed, and he slurred his words despite his manners. Koorland suspected he was drunk.