'Just how stupid do you think I am?' I asked.
He floated up a little higher, cocked his head on one side, and smiled. 'It was worth a try/
I was at the door when he called my name again.
'I'm content, you know. Being bound to you/
'Really?' I replied with disinterest.
It nodded gleefully. 'It gives me ample opportunity to corrupt you entirely/
On the nineteenth day, it nearly got me. When 1 entered the hold, it was sobbing on the floor. I tried to ignore it, checking the sigils, but it looked up.
'Master!' it said.
Verveuk?'
Yes! Please, master! It's gone away for a moment, and I have control again. Please, cut me free! Banish it!'
'Bastian, I-'
'I forgive you, master! I know you only did what you had to do and I'm more grateful than you could know that you chose me as worthy for this desperate work! But please, please! While I have control! Banish it and release me from this torture!'
I approached it, gripping my runestaff. 'I can't, Bastian/
You can, master! Now, while mere's a moment clear! Oh, the agony! To be locked in here with that monster! To share the same flesh! It is gnawing away at my soul, and showing me things to drive me insane! Give mercy, master!'
I reached out and pointed to a complex rune inscribed on his chest. You see this?'
Yes?'
That is the rune of voiding. It is an essential part of the binding transaction. It empties the host of any previous soul so that the daemon can be contained. In effect, it kills the original host. You are not Bastian Verveuk because Bastian is dead and departed from this flesh. I killed him. You mimick his voice well, as I would expect, because you have his larynx and palate, but you are Cherubael/
It sighed, nodded and floated up again to the limit its chains would permit.
You can't blame me for trying/
I slapped its face again hard. 'No, but I can punish you/
It didn't react.
'Understand this, daemon. Binding you, using you, that has cost me dearly. I hate myself for doing it. But there was no choice. Now I have you enslaved again, I am going to take no chances. The correct containment of you will now become my life's primary devotion. The history texts will not remember me as a man so driven to accomplish things he got lazy and slack. There is no escape from me now. I will not allow it. You are mine and you will stay mine/
'I see/
'Do you understand?'
'I understand you are a man of the highest piety and resolve/
'Good/
'Just one thing: how does it feel to be a murderer?'
* * *
Earlier, I remarked that very few citizens of the Imperium of Man would recognise a daemonhost or understand what one was. That is true. It is also true that the select group who would know included several of my followers. Those that had been with me on 56-Izar, Eechen, Cadia, Farness Beta.
Aemos and Medea certainly understood the concept of daemonhosting. I had briefed them myself. I felt that Medea, like Fischig, only vaguely understood what I had brought onto the
Aemos knew, though. He knew damn well. As far as I could tell, he knew everything that it was possible to know without going mad. But he had been with me longer than any of them. We had been friends and companions for more years than I dared count. I knew I had his trust and that I'd have to err wildly before he questioned my methods.
I realised after a day or two of the voyage that he wasn't even going to mention it.
I couldn't have that. I wanted openness. So I brought the matter up myself.
It was late one night, perhaps the fifth night of the voyage. We were playing double regicide (two boards in parallel, one played backwards using militants as crowning pieces, the other played long with sentries wild and a freedom to regent-up on white-square takes after the third sequence of play… this was the only formation of the ancient strategy game that even began to test his mind) and sipping the best amasec Startis could provide.
'Our passenger,' I began, picking up a squire piece and then putting it down again as I contemplated my next move, 'what are your thoughts? You've been very quiet.'
'I didn't believe it was my place to remark,' he said.
I moved the squire to militant three and immediately regretted it. 'Uber, how long have we been friends?'
I could tell he was actually about to calculate. 'I believe we first met in the seventh month of-'
'I mean roughly.'
'Well, to say friends, perhaps several years after our first meeting, which would make it-'
'Could we agree that a rough estimate would be… a very long time?'
He thought about it. 'We could,' he said, sounding unconvinced.
And we are friends, aren't we?'
'Oh, of course! Well, I hope so/ he said, promptly taking my dexter basilisk and securing a ruthless toe-hold into my second line. Aren't we?'
Yes. Yes, we are. I look to you for answers.'
'You do/
'Sometimes, I think those answers could come without me having to ask the questions first/
'Hmmm/ he said. He was about to move his yale. He raised the bone-carved piece and studied it closely. 'I have always wondered about the yale/
he said. A heraldic beast, obviously, tracing its origins back into the ages before the Great Strife. But what does it represent? The analogies of the other pieces, given historic traditions and the structure of Imperial culture, are obvious. But the yale… of all pieces in regicide, that one puzzles me…'
You're doing it again/
'Doing what?'
'Procrastinating. Avoiding the issue/
Am I?'
You are/
'I'm sorry/ He put the piece down again, taking one of my raptors in a move I simply hadn't seen coming. Now he had my militant in a vice.
Well?'
'Well?'
'What do you think?'
He frowned. The yale. Most perturbatory/
I rallied and took his yale abruptly. It was a foolish move, but it got his attention.
