Horns sounded, a pathetic gesture of pomp, and Legislator Anophy shuffled into the baptistry with his retinue: a long train of child-slaves, servitors and guards, some carrying banner poles. The banners and the robes were singed and grubby in places, and the slaves looked wet-eyed and terrified. Representatives of the guilds and high houses flocked in behind the Legislator’s procession, shouting and disputing.
Gaunt turned to Banefail. “You can help me immediately by keeping these worthies out of my face. Listen to their petitions and notarise them. I will review later—if there is an opportunity.”
“It will be done,” Banefail said. “May the Emperor of Mankind provide for you in this hour.”
As the Administratum staff swept away behind Banefail to head off the angry mob of dignitaries, Gaunt resumed his review of the battle data. The first of the vox-links had just been set up and Daur brought him a speaker set.
Gaunt selected a channel. “Vervunhive Command to Grizmund. Signal ‘Uncle Dercius’.”
“ ‘Uncle Dercius’ given and heard,” crackled the receiver.
“I need you to deny the approaches to Croe Gate and Ontabi Gate. From what I can see here, the main vehicular invasion is pouring in that way.”
“Agreed. But there are tank squadrons coming up through Sondar Gate too.”
“Noted. I’ll deal with that. May the God-Emperor guide you, general.”
“And watch over you, colonel-commissar.”
Adjusting his channel setting, Gaunt raised the commander of North-Col armour groups milling in confusion south of the Commercia. He directed them down towards Sondar Gate. Then he began to systematically contact all the tattered sections of infantry and Guard.
He got through to Corbec at Guild Githran Agricultural.
“Feth, commissar! I thought you were dead!”
“I thought the same of you, Colm. How is it?”
“Bad as anything I’ve seen. We’re holding, just barely, but they’re pouring it on. I could really do with a pinch of armour.”
“It’s coming your way as we speak. Colm, we need to do more than hold, we have to push them back. The Shield will only work for us if we can hunt them out from under it.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?”
“Never.”
“You’ll owe me a planet of my own for this, you realise?”
“I owe you that already, Corbec. Think bigger.”
A servitor brought Gaunt more data feeds from the newly engaged codifiers set up in the baptistry. Gaunt looked through them, his gaze stopped by a report relayed in from Varl.
“Daur?”
“Sir!”
“I want a list of guilds controlling fuel supply and accredited proof from every damn one of them that they closed their pipelines down.”
“Yes, commander.”
Gaunt spent the next ten minutes voxing tactical instructions to dozens of individual troop units throughout the hive. He was unable to reach Varl or any unit north of the Main Spine. As he worked, servitors and staff officers tracked the substance and matter of his battle-plan on a hololithic chart of the city, overlaying it with any data they received from the ground.
For a short while, Gaunt toyed with the settings of the vox- unit, hunting through the bands to locate the low frequencies the Zoicans were using. He still hoped they might intercept and unscramble the Zoican transmissions and eavesdrop on their tactical command net. But it was futile. The Zoican channels were seething with transmissions, but all in that incomprehensible chatter, the chatter that defied translation even by linguistic cogitators, a constant, meaningless stream of corrupt machine noise that gave up no secrets. Either that, or the chanting repeats of the Heritor’s name on the propaganda wavelengths. Gaunt had fought Chaos long enough to know not to call in human scholars or astropaths to try to decode the chatter. He couldn’t allow that filth to taint any mind in Vervunhive.
A commotion at the door roused Gaunt from his work. A detail of Vervun Primary soldiers was escorting General Sturm into the baptistry.
“We found him trying to join a party of refugees boarding a ferry at the viaduct jetty, sir,” the squad’s leader told Gaunt.
Gaunt looked Sturm up and down. “Desertion?” he said softly.
Sturm straightened his cap, bristling. “I am senior commander here, Gaunt! Not you! Vervunhive is lost! I have given the signal to retreat and evacuate! I could have you all shot for disobedience!”
“You… gave the signal to evacuate? Then why are all Imperial forces and planetary units still fighting? Even your own Volpone? You must have given the signal very quietly.”
“Don’t talk that way to me, you jumped-up shit!” Sturm croaked. The room fell silent around them and all eyes turned to observe the confrontation. “I am the senior general of the Royal Volpone! I am ranking officer here in Vervunhive! You will obey me! You will respect me!”
“What’s to respect?” Gaunt walked around Sturm, looking out at the watching faces with interest. No one showed any sign of leaping to the general’s defence. “You fled the assault on House Sondar. You fled the Main Spine and headed for the river. You gave up on Vervunhive.”
“I am ranking officer!”
With a brutal tear, Gaunt ripped Sturm’s rank pins of his jacket.
“Not any more. You’re a disgrace. A coward—and a murderer. You know damn well it was your orders that killed five hundred of my Tanith on Voltemand. Killed them because they managed to win what your Blue-bloods could not.” Gaunt stared into Sturm’s blinking eyes.
“How you ever made general, I don’t know.”
Sturm seemed to sag.
“A weapon…” he said weakly.
“What?”
Sturm looked up with blazing eyes. “Give me a cursing weapon, colonel-commissar! I’ll not be lectured at by a lowborn shit like you! Or punished! Give me a weapon and allow me the good grace of making my own peace!”
Gaunt shrugged. He pulled his bolt pistol from its holster and held it out butt-first to the general.
“Final request granted. Officers of the watch, so note General Sturm has volunteered to exact his own punishment.” He looked back at Sturm. “I’ve never even slightly liked you, Noches. Give me a reason to speak of you well. Make it clean and simple.”
Sturm took the proffered gun.
“Officers of the watch, also note,” hissed Sturm, “that Ibram
