Medea and Aemos had survived.
They were cut and battered, but she had dragged Aemos from the cutter crash and got him to cover before Verveuk had ejected. They had lain in cover, dazed and breathless.
They had seen everything.
I embraced them both. 'You're both coming with me/ I said.
'Gregor… what did you do?' Medea asked.
'Just get on the shuttle.'
'What did she mean?' Fischig asked.
I didn't answer him directly. I was too tired. Too afraid that my stumbling explanation would not satisfy him. 'See that things here are done properly. I will contact you in a month with instructions/
I gave him my rosette badge of office so that his authority would be unquestioned.
It was gesture of the frankest trust, but it seemed to disturb him. Then I held out my hand, and he grasped it with a half-hearted grip.
'I'll do my job/ he said. 'Have I ever let you down?'
He hadn't, and I supposed that was his point. Fischig had never let me down, but perhaps now the reverse was not so true.
Two days later, we were ensconced in a suite of cabins aboard the far trader
I slept for long periods during the voyage, the deep and thankfully dreamless sleep of the soul-weary, but my fatigue lingered. The work on Miquol had been draining, mentally and emotionally. Each time I woke, feeling rested, there was a moment of precious calm before I remembered what I had done. Then the anxieties returned.
Every day of the voyage, I made two visits. The first was to the ship's chapel, where I said my observances more dutifully and strictly than I had done in a hundred years. I felt unclean, violated, though the violation was self-inflicted, I know. I longed for a confessor. In better days, I would have turned to Alizebeth, but that was not possible now.
Instead, I prayed for her survival. I prayed for Swole's health to be restored. I made offerings and lit candles for the souls of Poul Rassi, Duclane Haar and poor Dahault, who had perished in the cutter crash.
I prayed for Bastian Verveuk's soul and craved absolution.
I prayed for Fischig's understanding.
In my service to the God-Emperor, I have always considered myself a dutiful and faithful soul, but it is strange how the everyday customs of worship become so easily neglected. During that voyage, having stumbled closer to the path of heresy than at any time in my life, I felt, ironically, as if my faith was renewed. Perhaps it takes a glimpse over the lip of the abyss to truly appreciate the pure heavens above. I felt chastened and virtuous, as if I had survived an ordeal and emerged a better man.
During the moments of self-doubt and anxiety, and they were numerous, I wondered if that sense of spiritual improvement was simply subconscious denial. Had the events of Miquol really been an overdue wake-up call to steer me smartly back onto the puritan path, or was I deluding myself? Deluding myself like Quixos and all the others who had fallen into the abyss without even realising it.
The second daily visit was to the armoured hold where the daemonhost was secured.
The
I'd been in no mood to bargain with Startis. I'd simply established my credentials with my signet ring, given him my personal guarantee that the 'guest' would be properly monitored, and paid him three times the going rate for our passage.
That had made the whole venture more appealing for him.
I'd chained the daemonhost in the hold, and spent ten hours inscribing the area with the correct sigils of containment. Cherubael was still zombie-like and dumb, as if entranced. The severe trauma of its binding was still lingering, and for the while it was docile.
On each visit, I triple-checked the sigils and, where necessary, refreshed them. I used a quill and ink dye to permanently mark in the runes I had painted on its flesh in blood.
That was chilling work. Verveuk's body had healed and was now glossy and healthy. His eyes were closed, but his face was still that of the young inquisitor, though the boy's forehead was beginning to bulge with the vestigial nub-horns that were sprouting from the bone.
On the ninth day, it opened Verveuk's eyes. The blank wrath of Cherubael shone out. It had finally come through the terrible rigours of binding, rigours made worse by the crude and rudimentary way I had performed the rite.
'He wants you dead/ were the first words it spoke.
'Am I speaking to Bastian or Cherabael?'
'Both/ it said.
1 nodded. 'Nice try, Cherubael. I know Verveuk is gone from that body.'
'He hates you though. I tasted his soul as he passed out of this body and I passed in. He knows what you did and he's taken that dread knowledge to the afterlife with him/
The Emperor protects/
The Emperor craps himself at the sound of my name/ it responded.
I slapped its face hard. 'You are bound, lord daemon prince, and you will be respectful/
Floating off the dirty hold floor, wrenching at its securing chains, Cherubael began to scream obscenities at me. I left.
On each return visit, it tried a different tack.
On the tenth day, it was pleading, remorseful.
On the eleventh, sullen and promising grievous harm to me.
On the thirteenth, silent and uncooperative.
On the sixteenth, sly.
The truth of it, Gregor/ it said, 'is that I've missed you. Our times together have always been exhilarating. Quixos was a cruel master, but you understand me. On that island, you called on me for help. Oh, we've had our differences. And you're a tricky so-and-so. But I like that. I think my existence could be an awful lot worse than being in your thrall. So, tell me… what do you have planned? What glorious work will you and I do together? You'll find me willing, ready. In time, you'll be able to trust me. Like a friend. I've always wanted one of those. You and me, Gregor, friends, working together. How would that be?'
That would be impossible/
'Oh, Gregor…' it chided.
'Silence!' I said. I couldn't stomach its silky bonhomie. 'I am an Imperial inquisitor serving the light of the Golden Throne of Terra, and you are a thing of filth and darkness, serving only yourself. You are everything I stand against/
It licked its lips. Verveuk's canines were becoming ice-white fangs. 'So why did you ever decide to bind me, Eisenhorn?'
'I regularly ask myself the same question/1 said.
'Release me, then/ it whispered. 'Cut me free from these pentagrammic bindings and let me go. We'll call it even. I'll go, and we'll never bother each other again. I promise. Let me go and that will be the matter done/
