of understanding and co-operation is exactly what I would have expected from a being as canny and clever as you/
'A compliment, Osma?'
He spat into the bracken. 'You were one of the best, Eisenhorn. Lord Rorken actually pleaded for you. I acknowledge your past triumphs. But you have been turned. You are Malleus. You are an abomination. And you will pay/
This is insane…' Neve muttered, limping towards us.
'And none of your business, inquisitor general/ Osma replied.
Neve faced him, her torn armour wet with her own blood.
This is my province, inquisitor. Eisenhorn has proved himself to me. This charade is interfering with Inquisition business/
'Read the carta, inquisitor general/ Osma told her. 'And shut up. Eisenhorn is clever and convincing. He has fooled you, lady. Be thankful that you're not implicated/
My companions were arraigned at Kasr Derth, under Neve's recognizance. No such luxury for me. I was flown south aboard a Cadian military lighter, through the dawn, to the furthest islet of the Caducades group, to the infamous Cadian prison, the Carnificina.
They had fettered my hands and feet. I sat on a bracket-bench dropped from the wall of the lighter's armoured hold, surrounded by Cadian guards, and read the carta by the shifting light that sheared in through the window slits.
I could scarcely believe what I was reading.
Well?' grunted Fischig from his seat in the corner. I had been allowed one spokesman, and I had selected Fischig, with his legal background.
'Read it/ I said, holding the carta out to him.
One of the impassive Cadians took it from me and passed it to the scowling Hubrusian.
After a few moments spent reviewing the scroll, Fischig blurted out an incredulous profanity.
'Just what I thought/ I said.
The Carnificina jutted up from the thrashing sea like the molar of a massive herbivore, the gum eaten away.
It had not been built so much as hollowed out of the upthrust crag. There wasn't a wall on the prison isle thinner than five metres.
Vicious plungers broke in white spray around its granite base and the western aspects were open to the worst of the pelagic abuse from the oceans beyond. Icebergs from the calving glaciers at Cadu Sound and the distant Caducades Isthmus jostled and splintered in the open water between the prison isle and the barren atolls opposing it.
Kelp and hardy, lean axel trees decorated its lower slopes.
The lighter swung in over the eastern ramparts and settled on a pad cut from the stone. I was marched under guard out into the cold sunlight, and then into the dank hallways of the rock. The white-washed walls sweated and stank of seawater. Rusting chains ran down from the ceiling to the hatches of forgotten oubliettes.
I could hear the shouts and screams of prisoners. The demented and infected of the Cadians lived here, mostly ex-servicemen who had been driven mad in the wars of the Eye.
The Cadian troops handed me over to a squad of red-uniformed prison guards who reeked of unwashed flesh and carried pain-flails and leather whips.
They opened up a fifty centimetre-thick hatch cover riven with studs, and pushed me into a cell.
It was four paces by four, cut from stone, with no window. It stank of piss. The previous incumbent had died here… and never been removed.
I pushed aside his dry bones and sat on the wooden bunk. I knew nothing. I had no idea if the Cadian Interior had captured that rogue starship, or if anyone had managed to track the flight of the thing that had been poor Husmaan.
The path to Quixos, the path we had been so lucky to strike at last, was disappearing by the second as we played these games. And there was nothing I could do about it.
When did you first decide to consort with daemons?' asked Interrogator Riggre.
'1 have never done so, or decided to do so/
'But the daemonhost Cherubael knows you by name/ said Interrogator Palfir.
'Is that a question?'
'It-' Palfir stammered.
'What is your relationship with the daemonhost Cherubael?' cut in Interrogator Moyag sternly.
'I have no relationship with any daemonhost/1 replied.
I was chained to a wooden chair in the great hall of the Carnificina, winter sunlight shafting down from the high windows. Osma's three interrogators stalked around me like caged beasts, their robes swirling in the draft.
'It knows your name/ Moyag said testily.
'I know yours, Moyag. Does that give me power over you?'
'How did you orchestrate the atrocity at Thracian Hive Primaris?' asked Palfir.
'I didn't. Next question/
'Do you know who did?' asked Riggre.
'Not precisely. But I believe it was the being you have referred to. Cherubael/
'He has been in your life before/
'I have thwarted him before. One hundred years ago, at 56-Izar. You must have the records/
Riggre glanced at his colleagues before replying. 'We do. But you have been searching for him ever since/
'Yes. As a matter of duty. Cherubael is a repellent abomination. Do you wonder that I would seek him out?'
'Not all your contacts with him have been recorded/
'What?'
'We know some contacts have remained secret/ Moyag rephrased.
'How?'
The sworn testimony of an Alain von Baigg. He states that you sent an operative code-named Hound out to make contact with Cherubael, one year ago, and that you refrained from telling your ordo master about it/
'I didn't think to bother Lord Rorken with the matter/
'So, you don't deny it?'
'Deny what? Hunting for Chaos? No, I don't/
'In secret?'
What inquisitor doesn't work in secret?'
'Who is Hound?' asked Palfir.
I had no wish to make Fischig's life more difficult just then. I said, 'I don't know his real name. He works clandestinely/
I thought they would press me, but instead Moyag said, 'Why did you survive the Thracian horror?'
