'Brother Schongard?'
'My lord, I agree. It was a desperate and rash action by Eisenhorn. Carefully handled, the Necroteuch would have provided us with all measure of advantageous knowledge. Its arcane secrets would have been weapons
against the foe. I may applaud his rigorous efforts in thwarting Glaw and his conspirators, but this erasure of occult lore earns only my opprobrium/
'Brother Voke? What s-' Lord Rorken began, but I cut him off.
'Is this a court, my lord? Am I on trial?'
'No, brother, you are not. But the magnitude of your actions must be analysed and considered. Brother Voke?'
Voke rose. 'Eisenhorn was right. The Necroteuch was an abomination. It would have been heresy to permit its continued existence!'
'Brother Endor?'
Titus did not rise. He turned in his seat and looked down the hall at Konrad Molitor. 'Gregor Eisenhorn has my full support. From your moaning, Molitor, I wonder what kind of man I am listening to. A radical, certainly. An inquisitor? I have my doubts/
Molitor leapt up again, raging. 'You knave! You whoreson bastard knave! How dare you?'
Very easily/ replied Endor, leaning back and folding his arms. And you, Schongard, you are no better. Shame on you! What secrets did you both think we could learn, except perhaps how to pollute our minds and boil away our sanity? The Necroteuch has been forbidden since before our foundation. We need not know what's in it to accept that prohibition! All we need is the precious knowledge that it should be destroyed, unread, on sight. Tell me, do you need to actually contract Uhlren's Pox yourself to know that it is fatal?'
Lord Rorken smiled at this. He glanced at the Space Marine. 'Brother-Captain Cynewolf?'
The captain made a modest shrug. 'I command kill-teams charged with the extermination of aliens, mutants and heretics, lord. The ethics of scholarship and book-learning I leave to the savants. For whatever it's worth, though, I would have burned it without a second thought/
There was a long silence. Sometimes I was almost glad no one could tell when I was smiling.
Lord Rorken sat back. 'The objections of my brothers are noted. I myself commend Eisenhorn. Given the extremity of his situation, he made the best decision/
Thank you, my lord/
'Let us retire now and consider this matter. I want to hear proposals for our next course of action in four hours/
'What now?' Titus Endor asked as we sat in his private suite aboard the
'The remnants must be purged/ I said. 'Dazzo and the rest of the heretic fleet. They may have been cheated of their prize, and they may be running now. Perhaps they'll run for years. But they have the resources
of a battlegroup at their disposal, and the will to use it. I will recommend we hunt them down and finish this sorry matter once and for all/
Aemos entered the chamber, made a respectful nod to Endor, and handed me a data-slate.
The admiral's astronavigators have finished plotting the course of the heretic fleet. It matches the estimations Maxilla has just sent me/
I scanned the data. 'Do you have a chart, Titus?'
He nodded and engaged the functions of a glass-topped cogitator unit. The surface glowed, and he entered the reference codes from the slate.
'So… they're not running back into Imperial space. No surprise. Nor out to the lawless distances of the Halo Stars/
'Their course takes them here: 56-Izar. Ten weeks away/
'In saruthi territory/
'Right in the
Lord Inquisitor Rorken nodded gravely. 'As you say, brother, this business may be less finished than we thought/
They cannot hope to count the saruthi as allies, or believe they would give them safe haven. The entente between Glaw's forces and the xenos breed was fragile and tenuous to say the least, and what peace existed between them was rained by the violence. Dazzo must have some other reason to head there/
Lord Rorken paced the floor of his state chamber, brooding, toying with the signet ring of office on his gloved finger. His flock of cherubs roosted uneasily along the backs of armchairs and couches around the room. Twitching their gargoyle heads from one side to another, they watched me keenly as I stood waiting for a reply. 'My imagination runs wild, Eisen-horn/ he said at last.
'I intend to question the archeoxenologist, Malahite, directly. I am sure he can furnish us with additional intelligence. Just as I am sure he lacks the capacity to resist displayed by his aristo master Urisel/
Rorken stopped pacing and clapped his gloved hands together with a decisive smack. Startled, the cherubs flew up into the air and began mobbing around the high ceiling. 'Course will be laid for 56-Izar at once/ said Lord Rorken, ignoring their lisping squawk. 'Bring me your findings without delay/
Naval security had imprisoned Girolamo Malahite in the secure wing of the battleship's medicae facility. The injury I had given him had been treated, but no effort had been made to equip him with a prosthetic limb. I was looking forward to opening his secrets.
I passed through the coldly lit infirmary, and checked on Fischig. He was still unconscious, though a physician told me his condition was stable. The chastener lay on a plastic-tented cot, wired into wheezing life-supporting pumps and gurgling circulators, his damaged form masked by dressings, anointing charms and metal bone-clamps.
From the infirmary, I passed down an unheated main companionway, showed my identification to the duty guards, and entered the forbidding secure wing. I was at a second checkpoint, at the entrance to the gloomy cell block itself, when I heard screaming ringing from a cell beyond.
I pushed past the guards and, with them at my heels, reached the greasy iron shutters of the cell.
'Open it!' I barked, and one of the guards fumbled with his ring of electronic keys. 'Quickly, man!'
The cell shutter whirred open and locked into its open setting. Konrad Molitor and his three hooded acolytes turned to face me, outraged at the interruption. Their surgically gloved hands were wet with pink froth.
Behind them, Girolamo Malahite lay whimpering on a horizontal metal cage strung on chains from the ceiling. He was naked, and almost every centimetre of skin had been peeled from his flesh.
'Fetch surgeons and physicians. And summon Lord Rorken. Now!' I told the cell guards. 'Would you care to explain what you are doing here?' I said to Molitor.
He would, I think, have preferred not to answer me, and his trio of retainers looked set to grapple with me and hurl me from the cell.
But the muzzle of my autopistol was pressed flat against Konrad Moli-tor's perspiring brow and none of them dared move.
'I am conducting an interview with the prisoner…' he began.
