The gun-cutter lofted from the beach, ran the length of it, and then came back towards the downed shuttle.
May the Emperor forgive me and my staff for the deaths of Riggre and the two flight crew. Their deaths were the only way I could maintain my security.
'Fire/ I heard Nayl tell Medea.
The gun-cutter's ordnance strafed the Cadian shuttle and blew it apart. By dawn, the jetsam along the remote islet's shore would suggest nothing but a tragic crash caused by the hellish storms.
We banked up through the cover of the storms towards orbital space. Though no one told me, I knew our flight plan was covered by someone else's authority code.
Neve's was my guess. Probably with her permission.
The
'Now what?' I asked Fischig hoarsely.
'Dammit, I've risked everything I count dear to get you this far/ he replied. 'I was kind of hoping you'd know what to do now/
'Cinchare/ I said. Tell Maxilla to get us to Cinchare/
There are some secrets that are worth keeping.
'What's at Cinchare?' Bequin asked.
'An old friend/ I said.
'Not a friend, exactly/ added Aemos.
'No. Aemos is right. An old associate/
Two old associates, to be specific/ Aemos added.
Bequin pulled a particularly angry face. 'You pair and your old intimacies. Why don't you ever give a straight answer?'
'Because the less you know, the less the Inquisition can harm you if we're caught/1 said.
The new lean you/ syruped Maxilla as I walked onto the
I had shaved away my beard, had my ragged hair clipped back, and dressed in a suit of black linen after my shower. I was still terribly weak on my feet and in no mind for Maxilla's foolery.
'Course is set for Cinchare/ Maxilla said stiffly, apparently recognising my mood. His gold-masked servitors chimed in agreement. His hooded navigator, all senses fixed on some different, quite other place, said nothing.
'I have a question/ said Inshabel. He was seated at secondary navigation position, reviewing the star-maps. Why Cinchare? A mining world out in the edges of the Segmentum, almost a Halo Star. I thought we'd be trying to find Quixos.'
There's no point.'
'What?' Maxilla and Inshabel asked, almost in unison.
I sat down on a padded leather seat. 'Why make the endeavour to find Quixos when he would surely kill us at a stroke? We've barely survived individual encounters with two of his daemonhosts. We haven't the strength to fight him.'
'So?' asked Inshabel.
'So the first thing we do is find the strength. Prepare. Arm ourselves. Make ourselves ready to take down one of the most powerful evils in the Imperium.'
And for that we need to go to Cinchare?' Inshabel whispered.
'Cinchare's the start, Nathun/ I said. Trust me.'
SEVENTEEN
Rogue star.
Doctor Savine, Cora and Mr Horn.
In the annex.
Even at full warp, it took the
True, we took a circuitous route, avoiding all possible encounters with the forces of the Imperium. I hated that. For once, I hated the subterfuge.
We learned, indirectly, a few weeks into the voyage, that my escape from Cadia had been discovered. The Inquisition – and other agencies – were hunting me. I had been formally declared Heretic and Extremis Diabolus. Lord Rorken had finally counter-signed Osma's carta.
I was now something I had never been before.
A fugitive. A renegade. And in aiding me, my band of comrades had made themselves fugitives too.
We had a few scrapes. Refuelling at Mallid, we were discovered and pursued by an unidentified warship which we lost in the empyrean. At Avignor, a squadron of Ecclesiarchy battle-boats, standing picket watch along the border of the diocese, tried to run us to ground. We only escaped that one thanks to a combination of Maxilla's shipcraft and Medea's fighting nous.
On Trexia Beta, Nayl and Fischig ran across a band of arbites hunters while they were trying to hire an astropath. They never told me how many they had been forced to kill, but it sat badly with them for weeks.
On Anemae Gulfward, Bequin succeeded in obtaining the services of an astropath, a sickly female called Tasaera Ungish. When Ungish found out who I was, she begged to be returned to her backwater world. It took a
long time to convince her that she was in no danger from me. I had to open my mind to her in the end.
At Oet's Star, we were discovered by an Inquisitor Frontalle during a resupply layover. As it was with Riggre and the Cadian pilots, I will always be haunted by those necessary deaths. I tried to reason with Frontalle. I tried very hard. A young man, he believed that taking me down was the key to a famous career. Eisenhorn the Heretic, he kept calling me. They were the last words on his lips when I pitched him into the geothermal heating exchanger.
From Trexia Beta onwards, there was an almost permanent rumour that a kill- team of the Ordo Malleus's Grey Knights was hunting us. And the Ordo Xenos's Deathwatch Chapter too.
I prayed to my God-Emperor that 1 could complete this task before the forces of righteousness overtook me. And I prayed to him that my friends might be spared.
Between those escapades, there were only the long, slow weeks of transit in the deep warp. I filled my time with study, and with weapons practice with Nayl, Fischig or Medea. I battled to get myself healthy again. The Carnificina had wasted me, both in body and spirit. The weight I had lost would simply not go back on, despite Maxilla's generous banquets.
And I felt slow. Slow with a blade, slow on my feet. Slow and clumsy with a gun.
Even my mind was slow. I began to fear that Osma had broken me.
Tasaera Ungish was a semi-paralysed woman in her fifties. The arduous rituals of the warp had left her broken and all but burned out, consigned to a life as a junior telepath in the class- chambers of Ane-mae Gulfward. Her raddled body was supported by an augmetic exo-skeleton. I believe she might have been beautiful once, but her face was now hollow and her hair thin where the implant plugs of her calling had been sited.
'That time again, heretic?' she asked as I walked into her quarters. This was about the twentieth week of the voyage.
'I wish you wouldn't call me that/ I said.
'Coping strategy,' she purred. 'Your woman Bequin connived me out of a safe life on Anemae Gulfward, and made me party to a heretic's private crusade.'
A safe life, Ungish? A bad end. You'd have been dead in another six months, the
