Damocles didn't move.
Priad spent his time fixing and logging faces. His optic gaze wandered through the thickets of the crowd, blink-recording and tagging each face and figure he saw and adding them to his suit's internal memory. Not only persons, but the structure and dimension of the hall, the number and site of the exits, the position of the band. A warrior of the phratry was taught to assess and catalogue his location for tactical purposes wherever possible, usually a quick matter of key points. Now he had time to waste.
The number of valves or strings on each instrument. The number of frets. The number of buttons on a jacket or gemstones on a gown train. The number of facets on a wine glass. The number of beads on the chandeliers.
He logged and identified the robust commander of the local PDF, flamboyant in red satin robes. Five subsector governors and their staffs. Lord Militant Farnsey, two Navy commodores and a cluster of Guard officers who, like Damocles, had been sent to the coronation to represent their institutions. The Princess Royal of Cartomax, a beautiful young woman with a surgically perfect face framed by the gauzy fields of a personal force-veil, and perfect breasts pushed up and out in a balcony of diamonds. The Imperial Hierarch, Bishop Osokomo, his bulk supported on grav plates, his extravagant mitre three metres tall. A ranking emissary of the Navis Nobilite wearing a holographic face to hide his unseemly third eye. Nine senior adepts of the Guild Astropathicus. The chief clerk of the Administratum Iorgu, with sixteen higher recollectors. Six merchant princes.
A man in black robes which did not completely hide his golden prosthetic hand.
Priad jolted.
'Andromak.'
'Brother-sergeant?'
'You have charge here.'
'Yes, sir.'
Priad strode across the packed room. Men and women, the cream of Iorguan society, fled out of his path, aghast that one of the statues was now moving. Priad ignored their whispers and exclamations, and headed for the rear exit of the great hall. The man in black robes had made a hasty retreat in that direction.
The outer passageway was dim and quiet, though Priad's optics saw into the shadows as if it was day.
He drew his bolter. An ammo load tally immediately appeared on his visor display, alongside a floating target cross. He stalked along the passage, studying every centimetre of the lime-cast view, from the dark teal of the coldest, deepest shadows to the fizzling white flares of the lamp reeds.
A tall figure in black stepped out from behind a pillar to face him. Hands – one gloved, one gold – came up and pulled the hood of the black robe down. White hair, an angular, pinch-skinned face.
'Well met, brother-sergeant.’ said Inquisitor Mabuse.
'You make no attempt to hide from me?' Priad said, disconcerted, wondering if he should prepare for some ordo trick, some ordo magick.
Mabuse smiled, revealing small, neat white teeth. 'I am an inquisitor, Brother-Sergeant Priad. My business is looking and finding and revealing... and knowing how well others do the same. There is small point in a mere mortal trying to conceal himself from an Astartes warrior.'
'Yet you fled the hall as soon as I saw you.’
'When we last met, on Ceres, we did not part on cordial terms. I suspected perhaps that, seeing me, you intended me some harm.'
Priad was insulted by the idea. 'I am a servant of the Golden Throne, inquisitor. I do not indulge in spite or petty retribution against another of the Emperor's servants... despite what I might think of them.'
Mabuse nodded. 'Yet... your weapon is drawn and armed and pointing at me.'
Priad realised it was. Annoyed with himself, he locked the safety and holstered the bolter.
'What are you doing here?' he asked bluntly.
'In this passageway? In truth, brother, I withdrew from the hall so that we could speak privately'
'I meant-'
Mabuse held up his delicate golden hand to interrupt. 'This is important, Priad. Only you know my true name and calling. The court of Iorgu knows me as Sire Damon Taradae, a sericulture merchant. I would like to retain that disguise a while longer.'
'No one will hear the truth from me, or from my men.'
Mabuse nodded again, pleased. 'That is good. Thank you, brother-sergeant.'
'Now will you answer my question less literally?'
'Of course. Come...'
Warily, Priad followed the inquisitor into an alcove between thick basalt columns where light reeds fizzled and glowed. Mabuse raised his golden hand again, and the little finger detached with a tiny click and hovered beside them at shoulder height on a beam of repulsor energy. Priad's visor-view suddenly fogged and scrambled.
'Open your visor.’ he heard Mabuse say, his words dulled by Priad's armour.
Priad undid the magna-lock and removed his helmet, looking down into Mabuse's eyes.
'Don't worry,' Mabuse said, gesturing lightly to his hovering digit. 'It's generating an anti-vox.’pict field around us so we can speak openly. There is danger here, Priad.'
'Danger? What danger?'
Mabuse shrugged. 'I don't know. Not yet. I've been here six weeks, since the old queen died. It is standard practice for the Inquisition to send a representative to investigate the death of any significant Imperial potentate, and Queen Gartrude, may the Emperor gather her to himself, was certainly that.'
'Foul play?'
'Oh, most certainly. She was murdered. But in such an exquisitely subtle way, it looked like the action of old age.'
'Murdered?'
'Yes. The Medicae Royal missed the signs, but I am certain.'
'Then it must be reported! It must-'
Mabuse reached out with his golden hand and rested it on Priad's armoured sleeve. It was a curiously bold yet informal gesture and Priad fell silent at once, out of surprise more than anything else.
'Knowing she was murdered is not the point, brother-sergeant. Knowing why and by whom is the job of the Inquisition.'
'The boy... the new king. He would have most to gain.’ said Priad.
Mabuse chuckled. 'You are a greater warrior than I will ever be, Brother-Sergeant Priad. But you are no detective.'
I-
'Hush. King Elect Naldo is not the culprit. Of that, I am assured. I had considered that possibility. No, the regicide is down to someone else. Person or persons as yet unknown. I have suspicions. I may be able to act on them soon. For now, I simply wish to broker peace between us, Priad. Indulge me and keep my mission secret. When the time comes, I may have need of the mighty Iron Snakes.'
IV
That night, once the duties in the great hall were done, Damocles went without rest. In the lamp-lit gloom of the apartments provided for them, they waited and loitered, wargear loosened or partially stripped off. Some talked into the night. Others ate and drank from the rich fares provided, just for the novelty. Xander hand-wrestled with Aekon and Andromak. Old Pindor played a game of regicide with Scyllon.
Priad watched them move the pieces across the inlaid board. How inappropriate, he thought to himself.
He opened a glazed brass hatch and let himself out onto the balcony that terraced their apartment level. The night was warm, with the scents of dune-orchids and exhaust fumes on the dry desert air. Straits of silvery cloud barred the moon and shone against a sky as dark and purple as fresh heart muscle. Lit by a soft amber radiance, the city lurked beneath him. Dots of light, the running lamps of air traffic, muddled along the canyons of streets below. Occasionally, a higher altitude transport hummed past, soaring between the gilded spires.
Priad rested his bare hands on the balcony rail and looked down. The lights of the traffic made a long glittering river, like a kraretyer, a giant bull-wyrm, rising to bask.
'Brother?' It was Khiron. The noble Apothecary had teased out his mane of grey hair so it fell around his wide shoulders.
'Khiron. We must be on our guard for trouble.’
'I knew there was something on your mind. What kind of trouble?'
We'll know it wh
en it comes.’
There was a low rumble. Priad wondered if Khiron had growled something. Then a distant flash and another grumble.
Thunder.
Priad heard a tapping sound.
Rain, heavy drops of it, was beginning to fall.
There would be, Seraskier Duxl explained, four days of celebration. Four daily rituals and observances leading to the full coronation. Damocles would walk in the van of the great procession on each of those days as the rites were performed. On the first day, the king elect would march to the Imperial Basilica at the head of an entourage of ten thousand worshippers and there his suitability would be judged using the ancient treasures of Iorgu. Ten million citizens would line the streets and praise him.
Priad asked about the rain. Unusual, the seraskier admitted. The rains only came once every few decades. But a good portent, nevertheless.
The uproar of the procession was worse than any battle. Horns and trumpets blared and cymbals clashed. The millions cheered and strewed their way with palm fronds cut fresh from the doum trees. Glittering regiments of Imperial Guard and PDF flowed down the main boulevards of the city, escorting nobles in lift-litters and motor limousines, columns of tracked war machines, bands of painted dancers, and packs of glabrous sand-sloth, swinging their massive heads and barking as their jockeys cropped and goaded their wrinkled flanks.
During the long and tedious ceremony at the Basilica, thunder rolled again, and a fume of aurora lights flushed the darkening sky. The citizenry moaned and howled in awe at this great sign. By the time Bishop Osokomo got to the verses where the treasures were to be brought forth, rain was hammering on the roof-dome and streaming like molten glass down the multi-coloured windows. The stained light in the Basilica shifted and danced.
The treasures were unimpressive. A crown, an orb, a sceptre, a tore, ancient things that were only brought out for coronations. They were the heirloom legacies of the first monarchs of Iorgu, preserved for all time in the Sacred Mound where the founding colony had built its original fastness.
Apparently, they possessed arcane power, and would react in supernatural rebuke if presented to a ruler elect who was not fit. The treasures did not stir on their silk cushions as they were waved under Naldo's face.
He was, so it seemed, fit to rule.
The crowd cheered, drowning out the thunderstorm. The cavalcade withdrew to the Palace. The next day, they would process to the Astropathicae for the subsequent round of mumbling rituals.
The storm did not let up. Rain pelted into the evening, and more flamboyant auroras marked the heavens. Tense and unnerved, Priad withdrew Damocles to their apartments.
At midnight, an aide from the staff of Lord Militant Farnsey came to them and requested a private interview with Priad.
'My lord wishes it known that there is some alarm in the visiting dignitaries,' said the aide.
'I see.’ said Priad.
'The weather, the lights in the sky... they seem to be more than portents. Omens, perhaps.'
Priad shrugged.
'Great war-brother,' the aide said uncomfortably, 'there is disquiet in the city. In the low quarters there has been some rioting. Also, reports of apparitions and visions stalking the streets. Murmurs in the warp, unsettling the Guild Astropathicus. Unrest is growing.'
'I have noticed as much,' Priad said.
'It is feared the forces of fate do not wish this coronation accomplished.’ said the aide. 'If it continues – if it grows - the lord militant and all the off-world guests will be forced to withdraw from Iorgu. My lord trusts that the acclaimed Iron Snakes will escort them to safety, if that becomes an issue.’
'I serve the Emperor and his vassals.’ Priad said, remembering his Chapter Master's instructions.
'Good.’ said the aide. 'The lord militant will be delighted to know that.’
By dawn, it was very much worse. Panic-induced riots had scoured through the city's suburbs in the night, despite the brutal response of the Magistratum, leaving several wards in flames, smashed and unpoliced. The vast crowds now filling the avenues and boulevards of the central quarter had become protesters, not worshippers. They chanted for help, and for release from the curse that had fallen on Iorgu, even as the Magistratum's riot-trucks hosed them off the streets with their water cannons. Lightning had struck the steeple of the Astropathica, killing forty-two adepts and injuring scores of others. Unextinguishable corposant flickered and burned around the pylon tops of eighteen city towers. It was said the silk-makers' quarter had been entirely abandoned after a terrible phantom had been glimpsed roaming there.
On Priad's behest, Kules had made contact with their orbiting battle-barge. The transmitted picts he had received in answer were troubling. Six satellite towns around Iorgu City showed signs of rioting and civil unrest. Whole stretches of desert had bloomed with unseasonal foliage and bright flowers, turning the pink landscape green and white for thousands of hectares.
The deluge had washed fresh, shallow tides into the basins of the old dry seas.
V
Lord Militant Farnsey didn't send an aide this time. Surprisingly, he came in person.
'Rioters and common filth snap around the palace and rise in numbers. We are departing the planet.'
"We, lord?' asked Priad.
'The nobility, sergeant. The worthy guests. Augurs say that Iorgu is about to fall in fire and damnation. We must not be here when that happens.'
'Indeed not.’ Priad replied. He stood at the head of Damocles facing the lord militant and his gaggle of assistants and bodyguards. All of Damocles were now in full wargear, battle-ready. Only Priad had his head exposed, his helm under the crook of his arm.
'I trust then you will escort us to the landing field and see us off planet.'
'The Imperial Guard...'
'Is occupied supporting the local Magistratum in putting down the riot. They have their hands full.’
'You'd leave them here?' Priad said.
Farnsey glared at him. 'Get some notion of priority, brother-sergeant. They are dog-soldiers and fighting is what they do. We are nobility and we will be afforded every respect. See to your duty and get us out of this hell-hole.’
'Of course.’ said Priad, turning to his squad and preparing to issue them with instructions.
A tiny, gleaming missile flew into the apartment, low enough over the heads of the lord militant and his entourage to make them duck in consternation. It came to a halt and hovered in front of Priad.
It was a perfect human index finger, machined in gold.
A soft focused hologram, tiny enough to cup in the palm of one hand, materialised in the air above it. An image of a man in a black robe.
'Brother-Sergeant Priad. The hour is nigh.’ crackled the voice of Mabuse through miniaturised vox-relay speakers. 'I call on you and Damocles. I have found the why and the who.’
'Can you proceed without us?' Priad asked quietly.
Yes, brother. But without you, I will not succeed, and Iorgu will perish.’
'Are you exaggerating for effect, Mabuse?'
'No.’ replied the little hologram. 'I am underestimating.'
'Damocles stands ready.’
'Follow where I point and find me.’ said the hologram as it dissolved. The golden digit swung around in the air and waited impatiently.
'Damocles! Arm up and set for combat! Follow me!'
There was a loud clatter of readying weapons.
What are you doing? Where are you going?' Farnsey bellowed as Priad led the squad out of the apartment past him.
'I have a real duty to perform, my lord.’ Priad snapped.
You'd leave us to the mob? How dare you, Astartes? I am a lord militant! You will conduct me to the landing field in safety!'
Priad turned back for a moment. 'I suggest you dig in and lie low, my lord. Damocles cannot assist you at this time.’
What the hell do you think you're doing?' raged Farnsey.
'Getting some notion of priority, lord.??
? said Priad.
Farnsey's curses followed them down the hallway. He would report them, discredit their name with the Chapter Master, ruin them and ruin their reputations.
The threats bounced off Priad's armour as harmlessly as raindrops.
The guiding digit led them down through the sprawling bulk of the Royal Palace. Some rooms and hallways lay deserted, some showed signs of ransack. In the corridors, they passed servants and aides who had pilfered what they could take and were busy getting clear, or the halted baggage trains of departing nobles, stewards calling out for servitors that were unlikely to respond. On one colonnade walk, PDF troopers were fighting a losing battle to secure shutters across window spaces blown in by the storm. Lightning splintered the darkness outside, and rain drenched in through the opening. They passed a hall where hundreds of palace inhabitants were kneeling in terror as agitated hierarchs led them in desperate prayers for deliverance.
The spinal elevators were choked and occupied, so they made their way to a service lift in the western side of the palace spire and commandeered it. The palace staff waiting to use it fled the moment the great Astartes appeared.
The service lift deposited them in a deep-set garage bay of slimy rockcrete. The wall-set lights flickered as the main power source fluctuated.
'Secure transport,' the little holoform of Mabuse said.
Most vehicles had gone. Laden, overcrowded transports were queuing up the exit ramp. The majority of the remaining vehicles were too small to take the whole squad.
'Here!' cried Scyllon, reading off his auspex. In a private side bay sat several of the lift-litters and repulsor barges used in the coronation procession. Amongst them was a long-hulled land-yacht of luxury-build. Liveried servants were struggling to load travel caskets and baggage aboard it.
Vacate the vehicle!' Priad barked on speaker. Some of the servants ran, dropping the luggage they were handling. Others froze and gazed at the approaching Space Marines in blank dismay. Pindor and Natus shoved them out of the way and boarded the yacht.