I leaped over an emaciated flagellant, hitting the floor and putting three rounds from my autopistol into a screaming tribesman. Blood spurted and holes blossomed in his chest cavity and neck just before he collapsed. I was moving even before his face hit the floor, following in Emmaline's wake. I could feel her distress like ice shards plunging into the periphery of my mind. The electric wiring roiling out of the archway in the parody of a maw, I entered, stepping as carefully as I could. I needed to hurry, but in my state it would be almost impossible to pick myself up again without damaging myself internally, and as heroic as it would be, my agonizing death would help my team little.

I managed to enter the room just as Emmaline was knocked off her heels. Fortunately I was already running, and so I merely needed to redirect my feet to catch her before she fell into the skeletal remains of the bodies, catching her within my sword arm and aiming my pistol at the next brute, my next bullet punching through the augmetic eye and crumpling the near-human mongrel. My next rounds tore into two psykers, ending their servitude and sending their souls to the emperor's side. Emmaline looked up at me with her wide blue eyes, and I gave a tight smile.

"Hence the importance of firearm accuracy without tricks," I teased with a raised eyebrow, referring to our bet in my first attempt at teaching her the value of target practice. She gave a dazzling smile, and I could have kissed her if we did not have another acro-flagellant bearing down on us. I aimed and fired, but my autogun was empty. Cursing, I pushed Emmaline to the wall and ignited my powersword, the blade roaring to life as I brought it in line to skewer the murderous zealot. It tore through the former-man like ripping through wet paper, but its weight still hit me. I cried out more pitifully than I would have liked when I felt the pressure of his entire upper half hitting my torso.

"Hadrian!" Emmaline cried as I grimaced, gripping my abdomen and stubbornly keeping to my feet. She ran to my aid, but I shrugged off her hands and gave her a look. One of trust and command in equal measure. I hastily reloaded by autogun, squaring my jaw.

"Kill the psykers and that bastard in the center." I told her, having surmised the plot swiftly enough, stumbling off to the left and using the energy weapon to scythe a path through the bodies, bones melting at every swing. The autogun's muzzle flashed and more rounds ripped into trapped psykers as the priest at the center began to yell, his voice rising in volume, the words spilling out of him as if drawn by some eldritch power.

Lazarus had picked his way through the bodies with his extra limbs, spidering over tables and chairs and thick wiring as he approached the center of the room. He braced himself against a pillar and fired his weapon again, the trans-uranic arquebus detonating his immediate surroundings and punching through two caged psykers, rending steel and leaving a blue flame in its wake.

All around me was chaos. The air tasted soapy with sublimed calcium that flayed at the back of the throat. The zealots behind us were charging the door, their screams drowned out by the howl of Elecktra's evicerator as she wove it in great figure eights, sending limbs, heads, and bisected bodies flying in all directions in a welter of blood. Hadrian and Lazarus were killing the psykers as fast as they could. The barrel of Lazarus' weapon was glowing white from firing, the air around it shimmering and twisting. I couldn't see Clara or Ortega but judging from the chatter of las fire and the continual boom boom boom of Ortega's shot gun suggested they were fully engaged. I looked up at the priest, above us. The psykic shield was weaking but slowly, too slowly. I knew what the scroll said, and where in the liturgy the command word came. However much we had dampened the psykic signal, many thousands of Imperials were about to be ensnared.

I would like to say that inspiration struck, but in my experience, desperation beats inspiration everytime. I grabbed the cables connecting a now dead psyker to the altar and yanked them free. Flesh ripped with a horrifying sucking sound followed by two metallic pops. I caught the bloody ends of the cable and wrapped them around my force staff. With a a jolt of mental effort my mind tore up the conduit and into the altar, twisting along kaledoscipic wheels of light and meaning. I could taste the salty stink of the warp all around me, feel the gibbering minds of the captive psykers being drawn into the altar, feel them dying as Hadrian and Lazarus continued their bloody work. The command was building in the mind of the priest, there were only moments before the ritual was finished. The shade of the dead assassin I had raised gibbered in the corner of my consciousness. I had to concentrate.

It is a hard truth of the Warp that if you can touch something, it can touch you. Every psyker learns this, or is destroyed by what lies beyond. I just had to find the connection. My mind scrabbled on the inside of the ritual, like blind fingers feeling along impossibly smooth glass. I found it and wormed my way through, clawing my way up into the priests mind. I heard him start screaming on the inside as he felt me coming, his mind frantically trying to form the words of the liturgy. I had a fleeting moment of connection, I felt his desperation. He wasn't a heretic, not in his own mind, he merely wanted to bring the entire hive, the entire universe into perfect and unerring devotion to the divine Emperor. His will locked with mine. He was strong, as strong as any I have ever known. His mind was hard edged, bitter and fanatic. He began to drive me back, his mouth forming around the edge of the word. I clawed at him, slashed at him, but he was reciting a litany in his own mind. Abhor the Psyker, Suffer not the Witch to Live. Abhor the Psyker, Suffer not the Taint of the thrice cursed to lay upon thy flock. Abhor the Psyker. I was giving him everything I had but this was his play ground, his mind, a ritual space he had constructed and repaired, as strong willed and desperate as I was he was going to drive me out and say the unword. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

Except there was.

I blasted him with Lucius' memories of the Emperor of Mankind. Not a divine and omnipotent god, but a mortal man, tired from ceaseless wars, fallible and human. I shoved the borrowed memories deep into his brain. The third party nature of them was far more devastating than anything I could have come up with. From me it might have seemed a lie, a stratagem to be dismissed, but they very authenticity of them made them cut like a power blade. The Priest screamed and I opened my eyes to stare down over the dead psykers and the pit of profaned bones. I was larger, clumsier, my balance was all wrong without the weight in my breasts and hips. I was stronger and older. I saw myself gripping the end of a cable forty feet below, electric shocks jolting through me ever second which flashed dizzying images of the bones in my hand. I could see Hadrian and Lazarus hewing down the remaining psyhic batteries. I felt the priests sadness at their loss, along with a sense of joy that they had died for the Emperor. I saw Elektra who I had raised from the gutters hewing down my devoted servants. I saw the light of the pict receivers as they recorded my stalled sermon. I looked down at the scroll infront of me and my liver spotted hands.

I jumped from the dias.

There was a brief sensation of vertiginous drop and then the connector cords that plugged my augments into the altar snubbed, caught my decent for a second and then ripped free in a welter of blinding pain. I screamed, the sound ripping from two throats in a confusing doppler as I plunged towards the bones. I caught a flash of red and the whir of chainsword blades as pain ripped through my left side as my leg and part of my hip were carved away, the feeling of ceramite blades grinding and sawing through my bones seeming to take far too long for the few instants it should require. I crashed into he bones, screams abruptly cutting off as a shattered femur drove through the cartilage of my throat. Wheezing I lifted my hands to try to stem the blood pouring from the terrible wound, though I knew that the arterial blood spurting from the stump of my leg must finish me first. I tried desperately to push myself up, lifting my head just in time to see Elektra's chain blade sweeping towards my eyes in a flat horizontal cut.

The mental link broke as the zealot's chainsword took off the top of the Priest's skull at eye level. If I had been able to apprehend fact I might have decided that she had been aiming for decapitation but had misjudged the strike as the priest slipped in the bones, but that was far to subtle a distinction for me as I screamed and vomited simultaneously. I gripped at my leg and my eyes all at once, trying to curl myself up into a ball with enough force to strain muscles. I just had time to cough up a spray of blood and bone dust before I plunged into merciful oblivion.

Our blades rang, the sound of steel striking steel echoing off the walls as I pressed my advantage. My opponent was older, perhaps a bit slower, but had centuries of experience beyond my own. His defenses were refined, orderly, but growing weaker as I advanced. My pallasch drove into his abdomen, or I thought it had until he gave a parry so late I almost could not believe it, but that was his last trick. I grimaced in annoyance, our blades crossing like an X as I began to hammer down on him, attempting to make a pull cut. He redirected the sword, but only to put me in line with a downward cut that banged against his hilt. I sensed victory, tasted it. With a cry I hacked again at his exposed collarbone, knowing he had no way of defending. I laughed at my victory.

Inquisitor Kronus stepped into my cut and nearly sundered my chest cavity with a pommel strike. My blade had no strength left in it as spittle flew from my lips, vision blurring. I felt more than saw him disarm me, and with a shove I hit the padded ground. The sameter training vest broke the brunt of my fall, but I felt my pride plummeting as I saw Kronus standing over me, watching with his dual gaze. His left eye was stern, but very human, and even a bit of sympathy was laden in its depths. His augmented right eye, placed in by Lazarus himself, watched me with a cold, bleak judgement that only the emptiness of the void of space could match.

"How did I beat you?" He asked simply, speaking to me as if he were asking a dog why they wet the carpet or why a child lied to their parent when they knew full well the consequences of choosing the incorrectly. I collected myself as best I could, getting up quickly, doing my best not to sway.

"You pretended to tire," I surmised, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Drew me in and let me defeat myself."

"You are not a blunt instrument," Kronus said, turning and walking to the sword rack. Wiping the blunted blade with a cloth, he placed it on the rack and flexed his neck with a small twist of his head. I was thirsty, but Kronus had never brought water to our bouts. He rarely ate in front of anyone, and only recently had he allowed me the privilege of knowing just how he took his tea. His right hand flexed, the artificial neurons pumping hydrocarbon through his system instantaneously to grant his augmented limb function that could even surpass his flesh and blood arm. I should have known that arm would not have weakened. Why had I not seen that?

"No, sir." I said, standing erect now and at attention. I could show my disappointment or disdain openly, but I still arrayed myself well in his presence. I was merely seventeen, but I was treated as an adult as soon as I was granted the privilege of the mantle of interrogator. I was glad to be given the responsibilities, or at least the expectations, of a senior operative.

"Why do we do what we do, Drakos?" He asked me, turning to the mat again, though he did not deign to look at me.

"We, sir?"

"The Inquisition," he clarified.

"To protect the Imperium." I said at once.

"Vague answers do not give you partial credit." He reminded me, something of which I had been told often the last four years. He continued, stalking back and forth, a terrible gleam appearing in his remaining organic eye. "The Imperial Guard protects the Imperium. The Adeptus Astartes protects the Imperium. The Artbites, the Adeptus Sororitas, the Custodes themselves. The Imperium is not in need of another shield or warfront. We are not here to protect the Imperium. We are here to hunt."

"Hunt." I said, absorbing the word.

"The Daemon, the Xenos, the Heretic. Ours is not the battlefield. Ours is the shadows. The library. The Underhive. The corruption within the Governor's household. The Daemon summoning within the forests of the feral worlds. We are not blunt instruments. We are Inquisitors, Hadrian. And you cannot succeed as an Inquisitor unless you use your head."

---

"She was merely suffering under psychotomimetic-induced hallucinations from involuntary consumption of drugs," I said, reclining back in my chair in the offices sequestered within the crux between the lower and upper hives. Ortega looked at my without betraying any emotion, expression unreadable.

"And if they say that is insufficient?" Ortega asked. "Or if they wish for me to elaborate on that point?"

"Then you can tell them that is a tergiversation and the Inquisition is not in the position to allow such questioning in our endeavors."

"Somehow, I don't think the Grand Provost Marshall will appreciate that. But I suppose you would say he should get used to it."

"You must be psychic, you read my mind." I said. My eyes met Emmaline's. She wore her bodyglove, albeit after having it cleaned, her hair still in a bun. The following hours after the death of the Priest, a man who's prints we matched with a Cardinal Simon Philovong of the Ecclesiarchy. A rogue bishop who had taken his evangalism into the Segmentum Obscurus, evidently in a bid to seek out dissidents on Hydra Cordatus. That was all I could surmise from the autoseance and the prints Ortega was allowed to collect. Emmaline smiled, but kept quiet as Ortega sighed.

In the other room, Elektra was under armed guard, her hands shackled. After the death of her supposed master, she had been unresponsive save our directives to lead her out of the room and into custody. Emmaline insisted on Elektra being granted a second chance, and knowing she had seen the woman's experiences that led her down that path, I had acquiesced and told Ortega we were taking her, which was a difficult sell as the Grand Provost Marshall likely needed to pin the blame on someone living so there could be an execution and a trial, in that order of importance. Ortega wished for a strip of the scrolls as well, but I had denied that without prejudice and burned them all with promethium, utilizing an incinerator and Lazarus' keen eye to make certain every last scrap of it was decimated.

"Is there anything else, Arbites Ortega?" I asked patiently.

"Where are you going, then?" He asked, giving up with the whole situation. He turned on his vox and told his men to prepare the prisoner for extraction and release.

"Savaven," I said. "In the Quinrox Sound Sub-sector."

Ortega blinked. "I am surprised you would tell me, Inquisitor." He said.

I smiled. "I have no fear of the adeptus arbites, and even if there were traitors in your ranks, the planet is home to fourteen billion people. Good luck finding us."

Ortega grinned, and gave a salute. "Thank you, Inquisitor. And even you, Mamzel. Good luck and good hunting," He said, and turned to step out of the office. Once he was out, Emmaline closed the door. Lazarus whirred in binary, and his eyes shined red as he paced to a small desk and pulled out a small piece of cloth, from the robes of the deceased Simon Philovong.

"I retain my conclusion. There is a 98.7% this cloth was granted by the Ecclesiarchy on Avignor. But perhaps you should have remained silent rather than having lied to the arbites. He could be accused of lying for us, if the word gets out."

"I trust him to remain silent, and if he's not, or is made to speak, then our enemies will look for us elsewhere. Misdirection is the first step to any victory." I said. "Now, get your affairs in order. The Caledonia will depart in two days."

"Maybe then you can keep from falling apart," Emmaline quipped, and I shot her a look. She stuck her tongue out at me, but she winked and I softened. Somehow, despite the corruption of this Nagripp and Simon going into the upper echelons of the Ecclesiarchy, I felt it would turn out alright.

I was not correct, I would later find out.

That trips through the hellish realm of the Immaterium can be idylls of peace is a paradox known to many Imperial travelers. Certainly I have always found this to be the case, except for that time on the Prospect of Redemption of course. As a Rogue Trader the Caledonia was luxuriously appointed with every amenity. Hadrian was able to receive proper treatment for his wound opting, to Lazarus' disgust, for a cloned organ rather than an augmetic. Selenica clucked and fussed over him. Lazarus did whatever it is tech priests do. Elektra, having opted to enter Hadrian's service in order to atone for her sins, spent her time in the Caledonia's small chapel, ritually scourging herself. This ritual, conducted nude, had attracted the attention of several of the Caledonia's crew, until Elektra had caught them watching and put three of them in the medical bay. It was fortunate that she didn't have her chainblade and thus our voyeurs remained in one piece. I spent several days in a kind of fugue as I struggle to disentangle my mind from that of the late Simon Philovong, a rigorous process of directed meditation which slowly cleaned my mind. Now and again I caught glimpses of the shade of Jogar Carden in the corner of my eye, but I resolutely ignored him.

I spent some time reading, though Hadrian always contrived to accompany me when I did, transparently concerned that I might delve into his tomes of forbidden lore without guidance. This rather soured the pleasure and I soon gave up on the practice and returned to the real work of the Inquisition. It may surprise the uninitiated, whose view of the Ordos is of stern faced heroes dispensing the Emperor's justice with a bolt pistol, that the vast majority of time is spent grinding through data. The Imperium of Man runs on record keeping, and I am convinced that any mystery may be solved if one simply has the patience to deal with the mountains of numbers generated by the Administratum. We had converted one of the Caledonia's guest quarters to a kind of operations center by removing most of the furniture and piling up documents and data slates. The walls we had covered with picts and notes linked together by sacred scarlet cord, a tradition of the Inquisition whose origins had been lost in the mist of time. There were masses of new material to be added, picts of the burned printing presses which had been used to create the scrolls, notes on the Under Council and their purchases of unsanctioned psykers and on and on. I was sipping an amesec and making notes on some of Philovong's sermons He had been an articulate man and a gifted orator. His doctrine of radical obedience to the word of the Emperor wasn't heretical in and of itself but I could trace the man's progress. Radical obedience to the word of the Emperor quickly became a kind of soft anti-clericalism, the hierarchs of the Church were no closer the Emperor's Grace than the humble street preacher and so on. I could see where he had become a target for the cult who could offer him a Word that was Obedience. Philovong had begun with the good intentions that the road to heresy is so often paved with. I was pondering if that meant my ambivalent intentions were actually a better recommendation for Imperial service when the door hissed open and Urien bustled in, grinning like the cat that ate the syber bird. He offered a formal bow and extended a leather case to me, embossed with the signals of an astropathic communique. I opened it and took out the printed flimsy inside.

"Better get the others," I told him.

______

"Meet Inquisitor Teritus Vorn," I told the party when they had assembled. I was wearing a dress of shimmering cloth of gold with varying inlays of silver and copper thread. On the wall was a new image, this one depicting the Inquisitor Hadrian had fought on Havenos. Unlike the psy-casts had made of the man, which were slightly fuzzy with the fear and confusion which had colored my perception of him, this image was clear and precise, part of an astropathic communique we had received in response to the query we had sent out months earlier. Time was not always reliable when it came to astropathic messages, and who knew what favors Hadrian had called in to get the beauracracy of the Ordos moving.

"Ordo Hereticus, sterling record, marked for great things by all accounts," I told them, summarizing the few details that had been appended to the name and picture.

"Purged the Pyrarchy on Cadavitz, prosecuted the arch-deacon of Leinster and successfully convicted him, broke a ring of xeno-antiquity traders on Remic II," I continued, then paused and shrugged my shoulders. "By all reports a dyed in the wool mono-dominant."

"I've never heard of him," Hadrian declared bluntly. I nodded my head. In some ways the Inquisition was a small community, but the galaxy was a very large place.

"He is assigned to the Ordo Angevin, in the Orphidian Sub," I noted. Inquisitors could, in theory, go anywhere but as a matter of administrative origination, they were grouped into rough geographical units. Most sub sectors were headed by a Grandmaster or Inquisitor General who oversaw operations.

"He is a long way from home then," Lazarus noted, retriving the datum which had taken me to the library to run down in a few moments.

"Hereticus." I said, my tone neutral. Emmaline could see my eyes moving as thoughts whirred in my head. She had done some fine detective work, but something did not feel right. It felt as if the answer were right in front of me, but I needed to parse the facts. I glared at Lazarus for a brief moment, until Emmaline drew my eyes.

"Problem?" Emmaline asked, raising her brow. She wore a shimmering dress that suited her. I merely wore my usual fatigues and newly stitched jacket, now finally able to move about without half my torso bandaged up and crushing my ribs. I snapped my fingers for Lazarus to approach with his data slate, my hand out-held to retrieve it. Once in my hands I thumbed through the data.

"On Havenos, he wore Malleus Power Armor. You not only need to be in my ordo, but one of the more esteemed members to even have the access to don such a blessed suit. Being of the Ordo Hereticus makes little sense," I explained.

"Then he just found a Malleus Inquisitor and killed them?" Clara suggested. She seemed more able to think back to that day. Earlier the mere mention brought shudders to her, the inhuman dimensions of the eternal city having done its damage on her sense of self for some weeks.

"That's highly unlikely for many reasons, and for an unordained, veritably impossible. Such a suit could devour the man within if they were found unworthy. No, no this makes me believe that he was not wearing what I believe he was wearing, or the information is wrong. Perhaps both." I remarked, a galactic map surging onto my screen, fingers sliding the expanse of space down as I veered the tablet's screen northward. "And you are wrong, Lazarus."

"Pardon?" Lazarus asked, binary spewing forth a scant second after the statement. It was rare to see the Tech Priest rocked back on his heels. Selencia perked up.

"You are wrong." I said simply, glancing at him. "I haven't known you to be wrong about an empirical fact since I've met you. The Orphidian subsector is quite close to Avignor. It's all within the Scarsus Sector of Segmentum Obscurus. And Emmaline's information of his origins is quite odd. Both Angevin and Ophidian are the names of relatively recent crusades in Imperial history."

"The Ophidian sub was named after the crusade," Lazarus noted, though whether to try and regain a bit of dignity or to see if he was capable of answering correctly, I did not know. He was impossible to read to most humans, but I could see he was disturbed at his own failure at making a single incorrect statement. Lucius Raj watched the exchange with interest from the back, his super human eyes more accustomed to seeing small micro-twitches that betrayed emotion.

"Correct. In fact it was one of the most successful crusades in the history of the Imperium. It was as if the forces of Chaos had fled after the fighting had barely started, hailed as a miracle and a sign of the Emperor's favor. The Angevin Crusade had a similar record, and is known in my Ordos as being one of the few crusades Ordo Malleus has openly aided in. I do not know the specifics of Ordo Hereticus and their conclaves, but I find it difficult to believe they would have one named after the Angevin crusade."

"What exactly are you suggesting, Hadrian?" Emmaline asked, placing a hand on her hip. She seemed slightly put off at my interruption, and while I did not take any pleasure from it, she looked fetching when she was frustrated. "That my information is wrong?"

"Not necessarily." I clarified, handing the dataslate back to Lazarus. "He may very well be Teritus Vorn of the Ordo Hereticus. However, he is not the true enemy. The Ordo Malleus does not go after men, but the very daemons of the warp, and when they are concerned, you trust nothing. This cabal has infiltrated every level of not only a Hive World, but now the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition? And he has developed away to strip millions of imperial citizens of their free will all on his own? This man, Teritus Vorn, is just a cog in a greater wheel. There are only two explanations. Either not every piece of information we received is truthful, or there is a much more sinister and devious aspect to their methods. One that might explain your information and Lazarus' misstep."

"Mors Logicae?" Lazarus responded, looking up from the dataslate I have granted him. On the screen, he had been granted access to the entire history of the phenomena. He could absorb the information quicker than I could explain, but I deigned to do so for the congregation listening. Urien watched in fascination and both Selencia and Emmaline glanced at one another before looking back at my position.

"Discovered by Inquisitor Jaq Draco in the late 38th millennium, it is a taint of psychic origins, a ward. Some classify it as a 'disease of truth.' The Mors Logicae activates when one approaches a certain subject intellectually, granting false leads and giving the researcher an inherently wrong mental synapse of the topic in question. Fortunately, Jaq Draco was able to dismantle it by learning two simple weaknesses. Firstly, the Mors Logicae can only work when one does not consider its existence as the cause. Secondly, while it can alter ones perception of facts, it cannot alter facts themselves. It is a taste of the warp, but not chaos made manifest. Therefore, what we have seen is indeed fact, and now that we have acknowledged it is a very real possibility this alleged Teritus Vorn is utilizing it, then we cannot be fooled again unless it is by others who have been fooled."

"That means all information we gather will be false, though," Clara surmised.

"Not exactly. It only works on someone who is looking into a specific subject, as I said. For instance, this Teritus Vorn can land on Avignor, tell everyone he is Teritus Vorn, and he is an inquisitor, and he will have to convince them on his own. If someone there was to ask him his business on the planet specifically, he could tell them any lie he wished. However, if one were suspicious of his motives and deigned to pick them apart, everything they would hear or surmise regarding him would be scrambled by the neurons in their mind or the mind of others. Unless, of course, they suspected the use of Mors Logicae. As we now do. His whereabouts or mundane activities would not be unknowable."

Lazarus snapped the dataslate shut, and with a string of binary that sounded like a long sigh, he approached me and, to my surprise, patted me on the shoulder. I had been about to explain how the Ordo Angevin and Ophidian claim was likely based upon the Mors Logicae choosing the two most illustrious words in the Scarsis sector to garner trust by local inhabitants, but Lazarus spoke first.

"Kronus would be proud," He whispered. I gave a smile.

I was much less certain than Hadrian seemed to be about the existence of this so called curse. Power armor was power armor and I suspected with a little reworking anyone could wear it. This whole thing seemed less likely than Hadrian was just spinning an elaborate self deception to convince himself Lazarus couldn't make a mistake. The pronouncement however set of a babble of conjecture and questioning.

"How have we come up with correct leads so far?" Clara wanted to know. A reasonable concern though easily explained if you knew the underlying psykannic principles. The scheme wasn't protected but Vorn was. That said something interesting about the enemy and their priorities.

"Why wasn't ever aspect of chaos cloaked this way?" Selenica enquired.

"Did this mean we could trust Lazarus on his analysis of priestly vestments?" and so on and so on.

I slipped out during the general furor and headed aft and upwards towards my quarters. I changed quickly (for me) out of my golden dress and into a simple black body glove with a mantled coatlet of soft grey leather. It may surprise you to learn this but the Caledonia was a cold ship, and a humid one, as though a mist were perpetually about to form. Apparently this was some kind of tribute to the world that Urien and his crew hailed from, and a unique one in my experience. Just keeping the air breathable at all is a struggle on all but the most luxurious of ships, and even those tend to go for a dry sterility that will avoid rust and other mechanical issues.

I left the room and wandered the ship, partly to keep working on cleaning my mind from my recent contact with the dead Bishop Simon, partly just to think. My efforts were perhaps not competely successful, as quite by accident I found myself at the Caledonian's chapel. Modest is a term to be used in context when it comes to both Imperial chapels and Starships, but it is fair to say that this one was modest. It was one of the few areas of the ship that stuck me as completely Imperial, without the embellishments of Urien and his crew. It even felt warmer, though this was likely due to the votive candles and braziers that rimmed the roof twenty meters above with a perpetual mist of smoke. I stepped inside and took a seat at the back out of sight, contemplating the march of stately columns up to the stained glass window of Him on Terra, depicted here gazing up to the stars, perhaps about to embark on his great crusade. I thought about Simon Philovong, whom I had jumped to his death, still in the unshakable belief that he did the Emperor's work. A man so devout that it had led him to become a heretic, killed by a woman whom, despite having no faith at all, served the Emperor's avowed purpose. Not forgetting raising the shade of a dead heretic to get answers in the bargin of course. Was I the real Heretic? Was Philovong? Both of us? Neither? I bowed my head and did something like pray.

I must have dozed off because when I woke my face was pressed against the front of the pew. I hastily wiped the drool from the corner of my mouth and glanced about to make sure my dignity was intact. It was, but a moment later I saw a figure enter the chapel. Elektra walked, head bowed, to the altar, her evicarator held before her like an icon. She laid the weapon on the altar and stepped back, sheding her cloak to reveal the rippling muscles of her back. She drew a length of knotted rope from a pouch and began to chant rythmically. At the end of each verse she whipped herself hard across the back. It didn't quite draw blood, she was too toughened for that, but I saw mottling of bruises form as she chanted her devotion to the God Emperor. I wondered at her devotion, reliving the flashes of divine inspiration I had seen in her mind during out mental contact. I was going to have to slow down or I would have snap shots of half the sub sector living in my brain. After a shockingly long time Elektra ceased the flagellation. She was tough, but even so she was trembling. Reverently she reached out and retrieved the sword then turned to leave. Either she didn't see me sitting in the dark or she didn't dain to comment. Instead, she strode regally from the chapel like a queen, leaving me alone and wondering at her devotion.

A cardinal world was not too dissimilar from a hive world, though the Ecclesiarchy would certainly take offense to such a comparison. Untold billions lived, worshiped, and died in the vast halls, holy citadels, and pilgrim apartments of the opulent world. From the sky, the planet looked like a great beacon of gold, lights that could be perceived from beyond orbit gleamed brightly even on the dark side of the world. They ruled entire systems, sometimes whole sectors, utilizing resources from hundreds of other worlds to maintain the infrastructure for the billions of men and women who flocked there to give thanks and find guidance from the all-consuming light of the Emperor.

I had only been to a cardinal world once, on Ophelia VII during my youth as an interrogator under Inquisitor Kronus. I still remember how small everything on the planet made me feel, from the statues to the spires to the holy relics set within immense chapels where millions bent in prayer.

We were a full two weeks ahead of schedule. The warp was unpredictable at the best of times, and evidently a month's journey had been cut in half from some fluke that I could, perhaps ironically, credit to divine favor. I figured we arrived when we needed to. I had already had discussions with Selencia and Clara on the aspects of the Mors Logicae, and once they realized it changed very little, particularly for us, they had understood. Once one perceives the ward, one could pierce its veil, and it can not hide physical evidence. The enemy, whoever they were, would hide their true nature from the Ecclesiarchy with or without the ward, so asking an official what they knew served no point regardless. We had them, on their world, weeks before they would anticipate us, if they even anticipated us at all.

The only worry, other than the cabal of chaos infiltrating the most holy Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy, was the addition of the Mors Logicae meant that there was a greater daemon of tzeentch at work, which was a complication. So far our primary enemies had been of the dreaded and bloated followers of nurgle. Either the two factions were aligned in goals, or one was using the other to further their own ends. But to what end? That was my primary concern as the shuttle with Emmaline, Clara, Selencia, Lazarus, Elektra, and I, entered the planet's atmosphere.

Our arrival could not be announced or perceived, and so we made a fiction, Emmaline and I masquerading as nobles from the planet Gudrun, wishing to find solace for the spirit of our child that died at birth. Emmaline was overjoyed we would be able to go shopping, as our plot required more gowns and finery than the Caledonia tended to carry. Once we made a 'beachhead' so to speak, and found leads to the whereabouts of this so called Teritus Vorn, we would invite down Lucius Raj and perhaps Urien and his men.

The problem, as always, was finding our quarry. Unfortunately, that struggle would cost countless people their very lives...

"Most exquisite my lady," the polished looking clothier asked. They were androgynous and completely bald, lacking even eyebrows, dressed in a flowing robes of gray silk. Like everyone else on the planet, he dressed in vaugley Ecclesiachal fashion. Even on Agnivor, a world of towering cathedral spires and shining minauretes most people were not actually members of the church, but dressing as though you were, earned you an extra measure of respect.

"You'd say that if I were dressed in a sack," I retorted as I admired myself in the micron fine mirror. The dress was of fine brown cloth stitched with gold thread. The seams were of pale cream silk masterfully dyed with scriptoral verses, apparently from the Life of Saint Ecklverta. The clothier simpered but didnt respond to my joke. I adjusted the stole of cream and orange fur around my neck.

"I'll take it," I responded, nodding to the pile of gowns and garments stacked on a guilded cart. The days shopping was not limited to gowns, it also included reliquaries, illuminated books of hours, small pomanders of herbs that proofed against the varied effluvia of pilgrims, incense, and the background grease of millions of candles.

"Your husband is calling again Madmosielle," one of the ushers said in a professionally respectful voice. I touched my belly and grimaced slightly, as though feeling the loss of my imaginary child. Ignoring Hadrian was a good way to establish my cover, but I was still dealing with some residual pettishness as well. In case of a real emergency he could reach my psycically.

"I'm not to be disturbed," I responded snappishly. I gazed out of the luxurious store into the two story drop to the flagstone street below. Thousands of pilgrims thronged the streets, ranging from well dressed nobles to penniless mendicants who had worked passage on starships or stowed away. The two ends of the social spectrum were not homogonous, the nobles had retinues that kept the hoi poloi at bay, while the unwashed masses crashed around them like surf. Preachers stood on street corners on makeshift plinths draped with painted silks, shouting out the Emperor's message while hard faced thugs in aquilla marked robes stood vigils.

The crowd moved in an out of temples in long unending lines, like food passing through a digestive tract. Pilgrims were marked by servitor scribes with strokes of ink at each genuflection. Slowly, over thousands of strokes, the Benediction of St Hildesheim. The prayer was seven hundred thousand words in length, so it required scores of pilgrims to complete a single iteration. I couldn't see it from here, but I knew that the ground water was stained black from the effluent. The Golden Jubilee of the Saint was bringing pilgrims from all over the sub-sector. That might be coincidence, but after what had happened on Gravemire, I had a bad feeling.

"Madmoiselle, your husband..."

"I am not to be disturbed!" I snapped. Then I moderated my temper.

"Bring me something in burgandy."

I was surprised my eye was not twitching.

"You look nice," Lazarus complimented, fixing my collar, despite the fact I had fixed it not a minute ago.

"I did not realize your skills included accurate critique of apparel." I remarked, taking a deep breath as the voxx went deaf again. It seemed Emmaline was having a bit too much fun in there. I supposed I should let her enjoy herself. She had been through a lot, and honestly we had scant time for us, recently. At least I could let her act the part of a wife, if we did not have much time for being lovers. Not that I felt we were growing distant. Far from it, actually. Working together brought us even closer, but that only made our busy schedule all the more frustrating.

"Inquisitor Kronus stipulated certain conditions before he deemed me fit for service. The appropriate camouflage for an inquisitor is to appear unremarkable, even if that very role is in and of itself, remarkable. You must look every inch the imperial lord. And might I say, you already have the handsome features and unrelenting arrogance down."

I glared at the tech-priest, and then rolled my eyes. "How kind of you to say. But rather than fix my collar for the third time, why not allocate us some transportation?"

The two of us stood in my newly acquired bedroom, in an immaculately furnished apartment. I knew my sizes and had Emmaline tell the courtier to send me back something presentable. For her part, my lover decided she needed a bit more time for herself while I got dressed and prepared for the celebrations. Apparently, there would be a procession in the early afternoon this very day, our arrival having coincided with what passed for early morning on Avignor.

"Already done. It's hours away but if we had to walk the length we would already be late," Lazarus said, following by a digital beeping from somewhere on his person. "Our aircar will get us there within half an hour."

"Excellent." I said, turning to the mirror once more and straightening my dress jacket. A knock from the door drew our attention, and with my consent to approach, the door opened. Clara, her hair in a bun and her outfit tactical military fatigues, stepped in to hold the door open for a member of the ministorum. He looked somewhat young, though likely at least a score of years my senior. Meekly he performed a short bow, and gave a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Hello and welcome to Avignor, I have the honor of speaking to Blasius Deckard, lord of Gudrun?" The priest said. He had green eyes, but the conical hat hid his hair.

"You do, sir. And to whom do I attribute these greetings to?" I asked, clearing my throat.

"I am Confessor Leibowitz, assistant to Deacon Talhouser of the western wing." He said, and I knew he meant the western wing of the central cathedral, which was the size of a continent on this most holy of planets. "I have been tasked to be at your disposal, granting you access to sites of worship and directions for your stay. Erm, I don't mean to pry, but is uh, one of these fine ladies your wife?"

He gestured to Clara and Elektra, who stood in the central chamber behind the confessor in similar garb to Clara. He had a bewildered look when he had entered, and I had to hide a grin from the realization he had never seen a woman so muscled in his life. Clara hid her own smile as best she could, but with less success.

"No, unfortunately. My wife seems to be missing in search of a wardrobe. Perhaps we shall go and greet her ourselves?"

I looked critically into the mirror at the latest gown. This wone was scarlet with inlays of black and gold. Its generous neckline might have been indecent save for roughs of fabric a shade or two paler than my skintone. It pinched tight around the waist and the curve of my hips was highlighted with braided golden cords in successive rows. It fell into a bussel the was slightly narrower than my hips, giving me the look of a tulip bulb from the waist down. One shoulder was left bare while the other rose into an ornately starched steeple that nearly reached my chin before joining a hood which cowled my face. The top of my hair protruded through the cowl like a horseman's top-knot, bound up in a cage of gold wire that added several inches to my height.

"Very well," I approved as the courteous staff appraised me. This was as close as could be had to current Gudrun style, or Gudrun style a year and a half ago when we last touched on that pleasant world. It would add to my credibility that I bought something similar to what I was used too and the overall effect wasn't unpleasant.

"I'll take this as well, you may charge it all to my husbands account," I declared imperiously. The clerk rung his hands together for a moment.

"Madam the total is consider..." I slapped him hard across the face.

"Do as you are told sirrah!" I snapped. A noblewoman from Gudrun would never allow a servant to question her finances afterall. The functionary bobbed his head and smiled subserviently, as though I had done him a great kindness. I felt like a bully, but that what was expected.

"Do you wish to change madam or..." the clothier persisted. I avoided glancing at my hand, judging by the mans face my fingers might be covered with cosmetic powder. The question was answered a moment later when a servant appeared and sponged my fingers with a cool cloth that smelt faintly of rosewater. I pretended it was beneath my notice.

"No, I shall wear this to my next appointment," I said with a frosty smile that only my mind could make conciliatory. Without further comment I climbed down from the modeling diaz and headed down through the front of the opulent store, heading for where my palanquin should have been waiting, instead I found Hadrian and a priest whom I didn't recognize waiting for me.

"Husband," I greeted in a cool tone.

"Wife," I responded imperiously, placing my hand out for her to take. She regarded the gesture for a few moments as if she considered refusing me, but she acquiesced and placed her hand in mine.

"Madam Deckard, you are positively radiant." The confessor complimented politely, and to my delight he did not leer at her. Whilst I believed in the holiness of the faith of the God Emperor, I was not unaware of the corruption of abuse in the adeptus ministorum. Confessor Leibowitz seemed so far to be a just man, though perhaps he was merely trying to keep his head on his shoulders. Offended lords could easily demand punishment on someone not sufficiently high in any hierarchy, even in the Ecclesiarchy.

For her part, Emmaline only gave him a hint of a smile. I decided to interject when no response was forthcoming. "My dear, we are ready for the procession if you are."

"I am a bit peckish..." Emmaline responded, and I could not tell if she was merely trying to be difficult.

"Once we arrive, there will be food brought to you and your husband, I assure you." Leibowitz promised, a kindness on his visage. "Your seats will be on the Alpha Seira, overlooking the munificent square of the Vicarus Cathedral. You may sup and eat at your leisure as the pilgrims and citizens ready themselves for the festivities. I must admit I feel blessed to be accompanying you. It will be the best vantage point over the entire affair."

"What festivities are those, if I might ask?" Emmaline inquired, her accent excellent, I noted. She had told me she had been to Gudrun in the past, but still impressive nonetheless. I inclined my head, smiling to the priest. "We will, of course, attend. But we are sick with grief over our boy. We were not expecting a large to-do, you see. Apologies if we offend with our ignorance."

"No, of course, of course." Leibowitz said, bowing lower to show hospitality. "We recently lost one of our chief cardinals some months ago. The cardinals have finally chosen a successor to add to their ranks, and will be inducted after the procession. Truly, the Emperor has blessed you both with a timely arrival. Your son is safe in his loving embrace, and he brings you at a time of great change and hope to his holy church."

I gave him a nod, and bade him to lead on to the aircar. He did so without complaint, and I led Emmaline out of the lobby hand in hand toward the transport where Clara, Lazarus, and Elektra waited.

"You do look nice," I admitted, keeping my eyes forward.

“Thank you,” I responded sotto voce as we were escorted to the air car, a sleek luxury model which Hadrian had purchased or leased for work here. It lofted us up over the streets, curving between massive towers and chantries that dripped with gargoyles and rang with the sound of bells. This was briefly a problem as one of the bells, apparently seldom rung, sounded close by and discouraged a flock of black bird like lizards which would have pounded the air care to pieces if Clara’s quick reflexes hadn’t thrown us into a stomach churning dive to avoid them.

We landed in a discrete parking structure beside a massive boulevard bedecked in hundreds of thousands of silk buntings, each hand painted to detail some incident in the life of some saint or another. Viewing platforms had been erected along its length, some simple things of wood and rope covered with canvas, others, like ours, permanent structures. We exited the car,, climbing a series of ornamental stairs before being led to a sectioned balcony in which the great and good could view the procession. Body guards, of which there were many, lounged on a slightly lower tier, looking like a pack of leopards separated from their cubs. Gilded security, employed by the Church, guarded the stairs to the upper balcony. I could make out silver inlaid circuits which spoke of reaction enhancers and the subtle bulges of grafted stim glands beneath the skin. Each guard carried what appeared to be some kind of halberd, though I noticed they also had high caliber handguns in subtle holsters inside their quilted livery jackets. Clara and Elektra joined the waiting muscle, allowing us to proceed alone.

“Was it a contentious election?” I asked Leibowitz as he guided us to surprisingly comfortable seats of carved rose wood. The confessor made a clucking sound that I could not interpret.

“The Will of the Emperor is made manifest by the wisdom of His prelates Madam,” he declared grandly. I wondered at the timing of it, but the vagaries of Warp travel and the fact that old men did, occasionally, die, made it impossible to correlate. I made a note to pass the information to The Blind Idiots. The uncharitably named Idiots had been my idea. Four senior members of Urien’s crew were given basic information about the case and invited to speculate. The trick of it was that we had not explained the Logicae Mortis to them, and so they were still subject to its effect. This meant that any theory they came up with would necessarily be false and could be safely ruled out when passed back to us. Lazarus derided such a tactic as anti-data but it seemed to me worth the minimal effort. When I suggested that the same technique could be used to unravel the mysteries of the Machine God he turned a color that I didn’t think his augments should have allowed and then stalked off muttering about Heretechs and witches. It would make a stubborn monodominant like Hadrian proud.

Refreshments proved to be a bit of an understatement. We were presented with fried kash nuts, small bitter chocolates, slivers of grox cooked in amasec, candied loins, fish and vegetables wrapped in transparent starches, all washed down with excellent wines. I had to force myself to eat slowly and daintily. A lifetime of leeching off aristocrats teaches you to eat when you can, but I needed to maintain my pose. To that end, Hadrian and I maintained a somewhat desultory conversation about Church politics on Gudrun. To amuse myself I invented a vague rumor about an amorous relationship between the Primate of Gudrun and a member of one of the local houses. Yes, that rumor. Look, how was I know it was going to make it’s way back to Gudrun and end up touching off that blood feud?!

To my vague surprise, Leibowitz proved to be quite good company for a priest. He had an ecclesiastical bent of course, that was to be expected, but he was witty and well educated, capable, with a little encouragement on holding forth on recent Imperial history and politics in the subsector. I wondered why such an erudite man had not risen further in the Ministorum, but no Imperial organization is truly a meritocracy, with the possible and terrifying exception of the Holy Ordos themselves.

“Cardinal Umberto Ratsini is a very learned man, famous for his commentary on the Life of St Hudweck the Eyeless,” Leibowitz enthused as the parade proper began. A column of ‘scribes’ began marching down the boulevard, preceded by a weaponized version of the March of the Primarchs, so loud that it drove the pilgrims from the path of the procession with the efficiency of a fire hose. Young boys in the red and white livery of the local house of healing ran before them with brooms, sweeping litter out of the path and dragging the occasional drunk or corpse off to the side. Scribes was kind of a generous term. A cynical observer might note that the staves of office they carried were remarkably similar to shock halberds, or that the high narrow helmets they wore were alot like armor. I suspected that beneath their scarlet robes other items of scribe uniform might be rather multi-purpose as well. There could be no doubt that they were scribes though, otherwise they would be violating the ban on the Ecchlesiarcy keeping men under arms.

“We are not surprised to see such a luminary rise to glory,” Hadrian lied. I’ve no doubt that scholars occasionally rise in the ranks of the Church, but it seemed unusual in this case. With drill that would have made a Mordian sergeant blush, the scribes began echeloning off, forming a cordon on either side of the boulevard. As each ten man section fell into place they snapped their staves horizontal in unison, creating a physical barrier, ferrule to ferrule.

“Were the other candidates equally formidable?” I asked casually, taking a sip of wine. Leibowitz nodded.

“Primate Hingaberg and Primate Von Mandelbrot? Yes both formidable, though more in,” Leibowitz coughed to insert a pause for effect, “temporal power shall we say? The triumph of Ratsini over such potent men is widely seen as the hand of the Emperor at work.” I wondered if Leibowitz really believed that. More likely Hingaber and Mandelbrot were entrenched power players who had found themselves at loggerheads with no path forward.

“Is the new cardinal an aged man?” I prodded. Leibowitz nodded in confirmation.

“Nearly two hundred in fact, this will be the crown in a long career or service to Him on Earth,” the confessor enthused. An old man without too many years left in him. A compromise candidate tacitly endorsed to delay the showdown between the two power players. The street below was now lined for more than two kilometers with a double line of scribes with staves extended. Two files of white robed women advanced inside the cordon as the March of the Primarchs concluded. They were hooded but obviously young, perhaps members of some holy order. The street was suddenly silent as the echos of brassy marshal music died away and then the women, at some unseen signal, began to sing, their voices soaring in complicated harmony into a Te Deum Imperialis of staggering beauty. From the processional arch at the end of a boulevard the Triumph of Cardinal Ratsini began.

“The Seven Hundred Penitents,” Leibowitz explained unhelpfully, but his meaning soon became clear. A mass of men, naked to the waist marched forward into the swelling beauty of the choral music. Each carried a votive taper in his left hand and a barbed flail in his right. At regular intervals they scourged themselves with sharp strikes of the flails. This was no ceremonial show of devotion, spatters of blood flecked the stones as the marched, tearing their backs open to sanctify the progress.

“Impressive,” Hadrian admitted as the men advanced. Behind them came ranks of clergy, each caring a book of scripture held aloft and open. Impressive but unhelpful. Was Ratsini’s fortuitous elevation part of the Heretics plan? Was he involved? Or was it merely happenstance that had frustrated one of the other Primates. Could it have been done without the knowledge of at least one faction of the Church?

A parade of reliquaries was passing by. I had no doubt each bejeweled box held some item of deep significance to the gathered pilgrims who thronged the viewing platforms. Handfuls of rose petals, presumably imported from off world were being scattered from the heights surrounding the boulevard, floating down to be churned to redish mush under foot. The air began to ring with the tolling of countless bells as a vast altar was drawn into the boulevard by two rhino armored transports. It was an enormous thing, bedecked with gold aquila and waving standards. Clouds of incense lifted to the skies as dozens of priests tossed handfuls of the stuff into brass braziers that stood like bollards along its side. In the center of it, on a high backed golden chair bedecked with red silk sat an old man in a Cardinal’s miter so large I thought it might do him a neck injury. It was difficult to tell much about him from this distance, but the sheer ostentation of the altar throne made him seem small and fragile in comparison.

“You will have to pardon the noise,” Leibowitz shouted, “Every cathedral tower on the planet is ringing to celebrate this blessed day.” A slight smile touched my lips.

“It is enough to wake the dead,” I agreed with a quirk of my lips.

I watched, my face unmoved but my sensibilities assailed by the vast ringing and the chorus of men and women beneath us. It was a humbling experience to watch an entire planet rise in celebration for the infallible divinity of the God Emperor. Two million souls were in sight, and they looked as plentiful and malleable as grains of sand on the streets below. I wondered how many were native to this world, and how many were simply lucky to have arrived on time to watch the coronation amongst the masses. I almost forgot our reason for being here for a merciful few moments, appreciating the grandeur of this Imperium of Man of which I had dedicated my life to safeguarding. I wondered if Kronus had seen something similar to this in his lifetime. I wish he was still here to ask.

Cardinal Ratsini stood upon a resplendent dias, held by four cardinal-servitors, loyal and devoted to the death, with augmented limbs that would keep the cardinal perfectly steady as they walked and he stood still, his eyes closed in humble contemplation even as men and women screamed at him from a mere dozen meters away. Thirteen grand deacons strode before him, heads held high, so that the Emperor may look through them to see the sinful waiting for absolution. Cleansing the ground before them so the Cardinal may receive his station without stain on his soul.

Slowly, artfully, the dias was turned, and pressed against the immense altar before the Elder of the Ecclesiarch. The two faithful faced one another, and the Cardinal Ratsini knelt before the Elder, bowing his head as a chorus of sonorous hymnals rose. Men and women in robes chanting, raising their hands to the sky as if trying to catch the attention of the God-Emperor. As the regiments of the military procession wheeled around to present their arms and the security lined every building, spotters and men with longlas's perched at every vantage point, the ritual was going off without a hitch. Even Abbadon the Despoiler would think twice about storming this planet, with its huge orbital batteries and fleets patrolling above. Even one of my order could not infiltrate so far and halt this, surely. Perhaps after the ceremony we would have a chance to meet this new Cardinal and ascertain if he knew any information on the matter. It would take several days to find an audience, even with our 'noble' status, but it was an idea.

The chorus fell, and the Elder slowly, painfully stood from his chair. He was emaciated, but unburdened by guilt. He spoke a word, too soft and too far for I to hear, but Cardinal Ratsini responded, and the newly anointed man stood to take his oath.

It was at that moment, the cardinal-servitors exploded with the force of two hundred tons of TNT. The blast was sudden and instantly blinding. I threw my hands over my face as shrapnel and immense waves of concussive force ripped through the ranks of soldiers and civilians. The inferno of all four servitors plumed upward, smoke and flames rising high as if in mockery of the choir and worshipers but a moment before. I felt Emmaline clutch my coat, and I held her tight as I blinked, my vision return to see the flames and destruction unfold before me. Where the Cardinal had once been, there was nothing left but scorched pavement. The altar was half ruined, its front walkway sundered by the immense force. The Elder's form was prone and unmoving, a dozen feet from where he had been standing a moment previously. Men and women screamed in fear and disbelief as pandemonium erupted, the waves of believers roiling below, men and women falling under their fellow pilgrims as the crowd surged, trampling tens of thousands as chaos ensued.

The chaos spread like promethium vapor exposed to an open flame. Hundreds had been killed by the initial blast, and hundreds more as the crowds stampeded away in panic. A great cloud of dust billowed away from the blast choking and blinding the panicking pilgrims. The scribes were trying to maintain some semblance of order, using their staves as clubs as they tried to rescue surviving churchmen or simply keep the crowd at bay. Then the marksmen began firing their long las into the crowd, probably in an attempt to save the great prelates from being trampled to death. I watched in transfixed horror as the crowd went berserk with fear, surging over the Scribes, beating them down with fists and votive icons in a blind terror to flee the crowded street.

Things were not much better in the box we were in. Dozens of men were on their feet shouting. At least one noblewoman had fainted, and judging by the grayish pallor and convulsions a grossly overweight man was in the throes of a heart attack. Gunfire erupted below as the bodyguards were compelled to open fire to stop the mob from crashing in through the doorway like the ties.

“We need to get out of here,” Hadrian declared, speaking quickly into his vox bead. I could sense the frustration and anger roiling off him. He wanted to fight, but there were no enemy here, the men and women being trampled and gunned down were the Emperor’s Faithful, not minions of the arch enemy. Leibowitz was wringing one hand in the other in frantic prayer, his eyes wide and staring. I opened my mouth to reply when a second massive blast ripped through the street, the portico of a large chapel blasting outwards to scythe down hundreds of fleeing pilgrims.

I opened my mouth to ask him how he planned to do that, when the fans of an aircar roared down from above, hovering on dynamic thrust a few feet from the edge of the box. The pilot was white knuckled and praying, no doubt hoping that a sniper wasn’t about to blow his brains out and drop a half ton of steel and aluminum into the street below. Clara and Elektra, summoned by Hadrian, came rushing up the stairs. The guilded bodyguards made a perfunctory attempt to stop them, but quailed back from the bloodied evicisorator in Elektra’s hands and the fanatic glow in her eyes.

“Let them pass damn you,” Hadrian yelled out, giving the men the excuse they needed to not get involved.

“Get her aboard,” Hadrian said, hooking a thumb at me.

“I can get myself…” I began, but was seized by the two women and bodily carried across the gap into the passenger compartment of the car. Hadrian followed a moment later with Leibowitz, slamming the door closed and yelling at the driver to get us out of here. That worthy needed no encouragement, sending us howling upwards and into the night.


________


The death count was still unknown when, later that evening, we sat around our luxurious apartment. Columns of smoke rose from the city where fighting and riots were raging. Primates Hingaberg and Von Mandlebrot were both appealing for calm. Appeals which were not stopping their contingents of monks and fraternus militia from taking to the streets.

To make matters worth a cadre of street preachers were already whipping up the pilgrims, declaring the days events punishment for a Church which had lost its way, and that divine retribution was needed to restore the holy faith. Whether this was a result of heretical agitation, or simply the natural path of religious thought, was difficult to determine. Clashes between all three factions were spreading beyond control, accompanied as always by a fair amount of looting and the settling of personal scores.

“Don’t they have a PDF or Arbites or something?” Clara demanded as she stared out the window. Night had fallen and fires burning were reflected on tall cathedral towers to eerie effect.

“We are planet of prayer madmoislle, not a planet of war. The scribes are doing what they can, as are the Primates but … well this is dreadful,” Leibowitz moaned. The days events had hit him hard. Clearly Ratsini had been an idol of his, and the old mans violent death was a blow beyond measure.

I glanced at Hadrian who cocked an eyebrow at me. I knew he had been debating whether to openly play his Inquisitorial hand but was reluctant to do so for fear of driving out unseen assailants into hiding. That the bombing was their work we had no reason to doubt. It seemed likely that it had something to do with the election, though we had no idea which Primate might have been behind it, if either of them had. The problem we faced was that without flashing a rosette we had limited excuse to involve ourselves in the matter, and that was limiting our ability to gather information. I looked up at the night sky and wondered how many of the stars above were actually ships in orbit. An idea formed in my mind and I shot a glance at Hadrian. He nodded his head for me to proceed, a mark of trust given he had no idea what I might be about to say.

“Husband, did you not quell the riots on Secundus Finalus with men from your ship?” I asked, leaning on Hadrian’s supposed naval background before his retirement to his lordship on Gudrun.

“Perhaps you can bring men down from the void ships to do it?” I suggested breathily, apparently overtaken by the idea of my husband the dashing naval hero. Whether or not we ever landed any naval boarding parties, the idea that we could would give Hadrian an excuse to poke his nose in with both Primates by way of coordinating a response.

I gave a look of unapologetic smugness, grin and all when I regarded Emmaline and her suggestion. It had merit, and it was a good loophole. My chest swelled and I looked at Clara, gesturing with my head, as if informing her to sweep the perimeter. She knew the cue and saluted before she walked out, and I pointed imperiously as Lazarus.

"Inform the men above to outfit themselves accordingly and make planetfall within twelve hours. I want all hands. Get them outfitted and on the Thorium Gama platform in the west wing. Confessor Lebowitz, see to it the area is cordoned off. My men and I are at the disposal of the blessed Ecclesiarchy. I have some experience with situations akin to this one. Grant me an audience with the cardinal as well if his mind is troubled. In sixteen hours the blast zone will be cleared and the area will be set to order."

Lebowitz seemed flummoxed at the sudden turn, but I made a note to ignore it and instead lean closer to Emmaline, her hand cradling my cheek as our noses touched. Elektra looked at the confessor, and he knew it was his cue to leave, face red and eyes darting back and forth, trying to remember my directions. I had faith he had it well in hand.

---

Half of the Caledonia's crew was on the ground in 10 hours, Emmaline and I awaiting their arrival at the landing zone. Dozens and dozens of feral worlders stepped out, tribal tattoos displayed on their oversized arms and deep set eyes gazing at the wondrous architecture about them. Each had an autogun or a lasrifle, with heavy stocks, some layered in steel. Feral worlders had a tendancy to use ranged weapons as clubs due to their nature. I was more concerned about their manner amongst the crowd than with any potential enemies. Most of them wore blue smocks, but many had varying layers of clothing from across the breadth of the imperium, likely traded on an outpost or in some underhive.

"If only their arms and uniforms matched." Emmaline sighed.

"They might stand out a bit, but nobility hire less reputable men at the lightest convenience." I said. I wasn't necessarily trying to convince myself, but I did thank the Emperor the ministorum had more pressing issues than the manner of my 'house' security. "As effective as it would be, we don't require the Mordian Iron Guard."

Urien approached, his barbaric visage producing a broad smile. "Havna 'ad action in years, 'Adrian. We're readeh."

"Good to have you." I said, giving him the customary greeting. Our hands gripped and we pressed our chests to one another in a form of half-hug. "Once we clear the area, you'll likely get bored again. Just make sure your men keep their hands to themselves and travel in groups. If we need you, you'll know it soon enough."

"Noon of 'us 'ave ever been tae a world like this'n. Are aul the buildings saw big?" He asked, looking past me.

"Bigger."

"An' how're ye teh doin? Are ye...?" He made an odd gesture with his fingers, and both Emmaline and I sighed. It was an open secret that the men of the Caledonia were curious about our relationship. Mostly because of the ceremonial dances and parties we had, they all felt like we were one big family and our business was also theirs. Whilst Emmaline and I were warming up to one another again, their intervention wouldn't help and this was no time to get into it.

"Let's just get down to the floor. Get them in a line and follow me. Lazarus is waiting at the bottom floor. We'll be walking for around half an hour. Try not to shoot anyone."

There proved to be very little opposition as we marched to the Basilica of the Blessed Sight. There were a few wary looking fraternus militia, identified as loyalists of Primate Von Mandlebrot by strips of gold fabric tied around their upper arms or worn as cowls. Evidence of spirited theological debate lay scattered everywhere: shell casings, dropped weapons, the occasional severed finger. There were few bodies, though judging by long blood trails on the cobblestones this might have been because the various factions were cleaning up after themselves. Graffiti was everywhere, daubed on elegant temple pediments and porticos. Hildebrand the Heretic. The Emperor Chooses Mandlebrot. Hear the Voice with a large M. Only once did we see a body, a thin musuclar man who had been stripped naked and crucified, though judging by the autogun rounds that had riddled his lower body, this might have been post mortem.

"Nay fate'n'um," one of our spacers groused, spitting as we passed one of the longing zealots to communicate his point. I was walking in the center of the column, though it might have been better for my cover to be carried, Hadrian had not wanted to highlight me for snipers if there were any working around. This concern apparently didn't extend to his own well being, as he was marching at the front of the column.

"Its the colors," I explained to the spacer, "they don't know who we are and they don't want to start something they cant finish." The faction colors were gold and white, so the appearance of a contingent dressed in blue was enough to throw the calculus off.

"Heh, we'rn'ta Empres sid," he boasted. Aren't they all? I thought to myself but didn't voice it. The enemy must have some reasons for wanting this tangle of factional infighting to go on, and that meant it was bad for us and the Imperium.

________

"Primate Ostenheld Von Mandlebrot!" a silver masked monk declared in a ringing soprano voice. The doors to the audience chamber swung open with ponderous grace to reveal a massive audience chamber flanked on both sides by enormous stained glass windows. White robed men stood every few feet holding incense censors from the end of long staves of polished wood. On a guilded throne at the end of the hall sat a surprisingly fit looking man in simple unadorned robes. He swatted irritably at a cyber cherub that floated too close to him, before straightening. He was a surprsingly young man for such a senior position, he looked to be in his early forties, though research said he was nearly eighty. There was a blandness to his face that was at odds with the keen intelligence in his eyes. A cluster of senior looking clergy in much more elaborate robes surrounded him. All were looking at us, some with skepticism, some with hostility.

"Ah Lord Deckard, and the most excellent Liebowitz! This is good fortune!" Von Mandlebrot declared in an orators voice that rang through the hall. He stood up and strode down the long red rug which ran the length of the hall, the cyber cherubs buzzing to catch up.

"I am Primate ... well I was just announced, but you may call me Osten," he declared shaking Hadrian's hand.

"And Lady Deckard," he said turning to me, "I am surprised to find you with your husband in such... uncertain conditions. Pleased of course, most women I get to speak with are Sororitas, but surprised." I offered a slight curtsey.

"Your Grace," I responded formally, "I would be more comfortable aboard our vessel, but alas my vow of pilgrimage does not permit it."

"Ah, a pious woman," he approved, "Come, come." The Primate led us through several galleries into a sitting room in which a skeletal man in brown robes waited. He made a formal bow to the Primate as he entered.

"This is Salavere, he is the Principle of Electors. A man I have spent rather too much time with these last few months," the Primate said. Salavere gave Hadrian a bow, though much slighter than he had given the Primate. The Principle of Electors was a lifetime position granted to an obscure monk, the only duties assigned were tallying votes and presiding over the election of new cardinals. This kept the position as neutral as possible, and meant that the Principle only had to do actual work when an election took place. Given that the hierarchs of the Church had access to rejuv treatment and lowly monks didn't this might mean a Principle never had to work a single day in his life. Salavere was apparently getting a lifetime of excitement in all at once.

"Salavere, this is Lord Deckard whom we discussed, I think he will be an ideal solution to our problem." Salavere looked skeptical but spread his hands.

"Lord Deckard..." his eyes cut to me but he opted not to comment. "It is my sacred duty to tally the votes." He made a sweeping gesture to the table. Thirty four silver scepters, each the size of a tea spoon lay on a red velvet cloth. Thirty three scepters in gold lay beside them.

"These are the votes as the stand, thirty four for Primate von Mandlebrot, and thirty three for Primate Hildebrant," Salavere explained. Hadrian nodded and then glanced at von Mandlebrot.

"Are congratulations in order Your Grace?" he asked. In actual fact, Hadrian already knew that it took Thirty nine votes to reach the threshold for election, but he asked the question to probe for a reaction. Salavere made a condecening snort.

"According to Cannon Lore a man cannot be elected to the Cardinal's chair without thirty nine votes, symbolic of the thirty nine worlds that were converted to His worship by Saint Eustace in the time of Blessed Macharius."

"Ah..." Hadrian responded, looking suitably impressed.

"When can we expect the remaining Cardinals to cast their votes then? My men should not be seen to be partisan to one side or the other."

Von Mandlebrot nodded his understanding and turned his body to draw our attention to a large and somewhat baroque map of the Cathedral City.

"Unfortunately we don't know, there have been two... accidents already, besides the Blessed Ratsini of course, and the remaining Cardinals are reluctant to come forward. With the riots and the clashes between my ...ahhhh adherents and Hiderbrant's thugs, they are afraid to come forward. The Church would like you, a neutral party, to find these missing cardinals and encourage them to cast their votes."

"Find the missing Cardinals? Do they not have residences?" I asked, a bland question one unused to such investigations might ask, but it was still prudent.

"Categorically," The Primate said with a wan smile. He gave a flourish of his hand, the long arm of his robe spilling past his hand so he might better grip a pewter jug filled with wine, set atop a porcelain tray upon a table set aside from the central walkway, pouring himself a cup. "There are, of course, sanctioned areas on Avignor where they preside and have abodes, but despite our claims of humbleness, we are inevitably men of means. Many of my peers have houses on estates, sequestered in some closed off area on the planet to pray in silence and contemplation."

I was a true believer, having seen the holy light of the emperor with my own eyes. However, I was a bit too traveled to believe even these holy men only seek isolation to better concentrate on the Emperor. It is unfortunate, but I am certain in some of the residences I would find substances or practices that might be frowned upon if brought to light. I dearly hoped these remaining five were an exception. It would be paramount to gather them without complication so we may better get to the bottom of the assassination.

"Is that normal?" I asked, a servant bringing me my own cup. I took it, then handed it to Emmaline, before accepting one of my own. "Is it possible they were so lost in their...contemplations that they might have simply forgotten to vote? And failing that, would their absence imply that we should not bother checking their sector's at all, and merely ferret out their estates and villas?"

Von Mandlebrot seemed to consider for a moment, before replying: "I have sent dispatches to their offices, already. Out of the five, only two have returned with messages of their aides assuring us of their absence. However, there is a curiosity." He turned back to the map, pointing at the upper left section of the map. A large swathe of the city looked almost shaped like a leaf-bladed sword, the main drag forming the fuller and two great cathedrals waxing and waning along the causeway, with a multitude of outer-lying buildings forming the finer points of the architectural painting. "Primate Fulstes is the closest of those absent, and we have yet to hear anything back from his aide, strangely enough. If you were to begin somewhere, I would start there."

"I don't suppose we can just land there and expect to be granted full access to the tombs and reliquary?" Emmaline added, sipping her wine with an aristocratic air.

"Good point, my lady. I will grant your husband, yourself, and any five men of your company with the seals of the ecclesiarchy. You may use them at your discretion." He conceded.

"You are putting a lot of faith in us, Osten. I am honored, but with all due respect, we just met. I am just a noblemen of Gudrun, after all." I added, having yet to touch my drink.

The Primate gave me a helpless smile. "I have little choice, now don't I? I trust you did not come here to dismantle any of our infrastructure, as even if you were complicit in the assassination of Primate Ratsini, you were only given leave to bring your handful of men down after the fact from a chance meeting, and no one save the Primates themselves knew of the voting debacle. It seems the emperor has brought you and your lovely wife to our aid. See to it you don't disappoint him. No pressure, of course."

"Surely Lord Deckard, more comfortable accommodations can be found for your wife while you undertake this scared duty?" Salavere objected. Hadrian made a brushing gesture with his hand, body language current on Gudrun but not widely spread beyond.

"You will forgive me Cleric Salavere, if given what I have seen of your security, I prefer to undertake my wife's protection myself," he spoke coldly. Salavere flushed and Osten grimaced at the rebuke implicit in the words but neither contradicted them.

"If your Excellencies will excuse us we will see about rounding up your stray Primates."

_____

"I don't like this," I told Hadrian as we headed out into the street once more. Urien's troops were deployed in rough columns to either side of us with Clara and Lazarus forming the advance party. Between weapon's master and the skitarii there seemed little chance of us blundering into anything unprotected.

"Which aspect?" Hadrian asked, "the politics, the fraternus militia, the bombing?" I shrugged my shoulders and pulled the grey cloak Clara had given me to conceal myself around me.

"All of it, none of it, I don't know," I temporized, trying to find the words to describe what I was feeling.

"Who cares who wears which pretty hat, we came here to find heretics and now we are collecting votes?" I asked. Hadrian's lips pursed slightly at my words, he knew that the time I had spent with Lucius Raj had eroded my faith in the Emperor to a degree that was best not openly voiced but for him the God Emperor and His Church remained as fixed and immovable as the stars.

"We know that the heretics had something to do with the assassination, so we pull at this thread until we learn more," Hadrian replied. He hesitated as though considering what to say next, and then went on.

"My old Master taught me that Inquisitors act like the anti-bodies of the Imperium, seeking out wrongs and corruptions of all kinds, and that in that pursuit we will inevitably find the enemies of Man at work. We will find something, trust me."

"We also need to still appreciate that we are under cover. If we go busting down one of the four hundred thousand doors, we'll alert our quarry and be no closer to catching them." I reminded her. "I definitely empathize with your frustration. I would love to call in the Ordo and lock the planet until they are found, but the Ecclesiarchy is a powerful force in the Imperium. A civil war between the Ministorum and Inquisition is not preferable."

"I know, I know." She said, sighing from exhaustion. Not at myself, I believed, but at the situation. "Let's just get this done."

"Agreed."

"My files indicate that our realm of success is three hundred eighty four thou-"

"Shut up, Lazarus," Emmaline and I said in unison. The tech-priest bleated in binary but did not continue with his odds of success on our mission or its likelihood of being connected to this conspiracy. The toughs beside us wisely remained quiet, and my 'wife' and I hooked our arms and walked back to the aircar.

Over the next day, we received the schematics for the Pentecostal Rememberance, the stretch of land that Primate Fulstes directly oversaw. Lazarus was able to even find the blueprints for the sewage system and all additions added since it's creation two thousand years previously. I concluded that we approach by the ground, to appear as a more mundane approach, and dress our men in militant fatigues to better hide our true intentions. Once inside, we would head for the main chapel on the eighteenth floor, and if the Primate was still missing, his chambers which were, conveniently, down a mere three corridors to the west. It was likely heavily guarded, but our passes would allow us in and we would be close enough by that point to enter without the Primate able to flee and make a fool of himself.

I reiterated the plan to Emmaline. She did not seem entirely enthused, but she felt it was workable as long as we were stuck in this situation.

"I also had a... plan, that involved your skills." I admitted to Emmaline.

She raised an eyebrow and looked my way quizzically.

"I believe they would be more inclined to let us in without scrutinizing our reasoning if my men and I were accompanied by a confidant of the ministorum."

"Agreed, but...?"

"I believe an adeptus sororitas would suffice."

“Did you just have this laying around?” I asked Hadrian as Lazarus fiddled with the seals of the Sororitas power armor. It was very impressive, grayed ceramite with gold and red highlights and intricate traceries in gold and silver. I flexed my arm, listening to the slight whir of servos as I opened and closed my fist. My hair had been treated with a platinum/white dye and then pulled back into a severe braid that coiled around the back of my skull to keep it out of the way. Clara was artfully applying a black fleur-de-lis tattoo to my right cheek to better disguise my face while my left eye was covered with a combat view finder with a red glass lens. I had to admit I looked nothing like the mopy noblewoman I had been portraying till this point.

“I try to plan for a number of contingencies,” Hadrian replied blandly. We were sitting in one of the shuttles which connected us to the Caledonia. The sturdy vehicle would supply me the privacy to change as well as a short hop across the city, hopefully bypassing any unpleasantness that might have attended a direct route.

“Sure, I bet he has one of those leather death cult outfits for you in case the ‘contingency’ arises,” Clara snickered, making bunyip ears with her fingers at the word contingency. Hadrian shot her a look that quieted her laughter, even if it didn’t quite banish it from her eyes.

“I hope at least it has been deconsecrated,” Lazarus said, slapping a hand against my chestplate as he spoke the ritual of percussive maintenance. The view finder lit up with unintelligible runes and I felt the faint rush of environmental cooling systems against the plastec body glove I was wearing underneath it.

“There is nothing more holy than the work of the Inquisition,” Hadrian countered, avoiding a direct answer. A blat of binaric from Lazarus suggested the point had not passed him over either. Lazarus withdrew a slender parchment and placed it against my left breast. He let out another string of binaric and then produced a slender gun which spurted red wax over the top of the paper. He fumbled in his robes and withdrew a chain on which a number of brass seals hung like hab keys. Finding the appropriate symbol he pressed it into the wax to create a neat seal.

“Stand,” Lazarus instructed and I complied feeling the power of the servo assist as I did so. Clara passed behind me and fastened a short cape around my shoulders before lifting an ornate bolt gun from the engraved case which had held the armor. She wafted the incense over the gun, using both hands to bear its considerable weight.
“For Terra’s sake Em, don’t try to actually fire this thing,” she cautioned as she slung the weapon over my shoulder. I lifted the weapons experimentally, finding that with the power assist it had almost no weight at all.

“Your confidence in me is touching,” I told her, earning a quirked smile.

“I’m more worried about the holes you might put in me with it if you do,” Clara retorted. I slid the strap of the weapon around to keep it in place beside my thigh.

“If I’m a Sister of Battle shouldn’t I get a flamer or something?” I asked. There was a collective wince.
“Em, we love you, but I’m giving you a bolter only under protest,” Clara said gently. Lazarus nodded vigorously and made the cogwheel sign of the Omnissiah with his hands. I rolled my eyes and tried to make a rude gesture, the extra foot of height I picked up from the armored boots banged my fist against the low ceiling of the shuttle to the considerable amusement of the party.

___

Pentecostal Rememberence proved to be several square miles in size. It was ringed by a high parapeted wall, complete with baroque gatehouses encrusted with gargoyles. In more settled times the gates were opened at certain hours to allow pilgrims access to the gardens within, assuming of course they made an appropriate donation. Now the great wooden gates were closed and armed militia men walked the walls, pikes and las guns on obvious display. I strode forward at the head of our little party. We had left a score of our escort to secure the shuttle in the alms park a few blocks away, retaining a dozen of the blue smocked Caledonian’s for show. Clara, Elektra and Hadrian formed the other three points of a diamond with me, Lazarus having been left behind to command the men at the shuttle. Partially, this was because he was a seasoned soldier and attuned to the shuttle, partially it was to ease any potential theological difficulties between the two Imperial cults.

“Approach no further!” a voice called from the wall, “This precinct is closed while the Primate is in meditation.”

“Authority is not given to you to defy the will of the Most Holy Emperor of Mankind!” I called back, touching my words slightly with my psychic gift so that they echoed off the wall despite my lack of amplification equipment.

“Open your gates or He will see them opened,” I commanded. There was a long silence and then, just as I thought they were going to call my bluff, the gateway swung open. Fraternus militia stood on the other side in a wall to block passage. They were dressed in white robes which were more than a little grubby with dirt and gun oil. Most had las guns across their chest at something like porte arms. I strode forward with absolute confidence.
“I am Sister-Palatine Eudoxia of the Order of the Eternal Rose, I have come to deliver Lord Deckard, the duly appointed Ecclesiarcical Envoy to his Holiness,” I announced, glossing over the exact source of Deckard’s appointment. The leader of the militia stared at me for a moment before his eyes hardened.

“I am afraid I cannot allow…” I struck him full across the face with my armored gauntlet. I had meant it as a chastening slap, but the servo assisted armor struck him with the force of a scumball bat. His jaw snapped shut and he was hurled into the masonry of the gatehouse with a bruising crunch before dropping to the ground in a boneless heap.

“Frak,” I heard Clara say but I raise both my hands as though appealing to the heavens, not slowing my stride.

“Alas, your brother has sinned by impeding our progress. To impede the Holy Emperor’s work, even in error is a grave sin, for does not all heresy draw its strength first from error? Pray brothers and sisters, pray that such sin does not enter your own hearts, for should you sin again, having thus seen the Emperor’s Will made clear, you will stray from the shame of error into the abyss of heresy. Fall to your knees and pray that such heresy, and such need for chastisement, should never be needed in this holy place!” I patted my bolter for emphasis on ‘chastisement’ before continuing in a resonant voice: “For to be thrice mistaken is to be thrice damned, and condemned to the fires of perdition!” I pronounced, my face upturned as though in conversation with the Emperor as I strode past. One by one the Militia fell to their knees dropping their weapons and clasping their hands in prayer. We strode past them into the gardens, my face shining with a light which wasn’t exactly holy.

“Throne above Emmaline,” Hadrian hissed through clenched, “ease up on the whammy.” I let the psychic force I had been projecting fade to a background hum, the feeling of sanctity dissipating in my companions. All of them were trembling in the aftermath of my display, despite in Hadrian and Clara’s cases, being hardened by training against it.

“For fraks sake, your face was glowing, and for a second it looked like you had wings of light,” Clara muttered, making the sign of the Aquilla in the direction of the cathedral. Elektra was staring at me wide eyed in a disturbingly reverential fashion.

“Sorry, I got a little carried away,” I explained. It was easy to do in a place like this awash with the psychic background of Faith. Clara muttered something uncomplimentary as we continued on along a winding path that lead through the gardens. Gardens was perhaps a bit of a misnomer, it was more like an ornamental forest, complete with carefully tended groves, ponds and streams. It was laid out in an elaborate spiral that pilgrims were expected to walk before approaching the baroque cathedral that rose like a needle from its heart. Now and then agricultural servitors, gilding in the forms of praying saints, trundled past intent on their tasks. We ignored the circuitous root and marched across country as it were, arriving at the gates of the cathedral in time to be greeted by a trio of robed clerics.

“Envoy Deckard, Sister-Palatine,” the leader greeted us in a colourless voice, “His Holiness is expecting you.” We were lead through a series of halls and back passages to, of all things, a bed chamber. It was dominated by a vast four poster bed in which a frail man reclined in an absurd combination of bed clothes and a primates jeweled miter. His face was lined with great age and a pair of half moon spectacles had been surgically attached to the bridge of his nose. His face had an unhealthy pallor from the several pict screens around the room, some of which showed data that was meaningless to me and some of which showed video feeds of various sermons and reports.

“Ah, the Lord Deckard of which we have heard so much so recently,” he declared in a peevish voice. I performed a genuflection, my knee thumping a little harder than desired into the plush carpeting.

“And Sister-Palatine Eudoxia, yes welcome child,” he cooed.

“I am Primate Fulstes, which of course you know, and if you are here regarding my vote…” before Fulstes could continue one of the vid feeds enlarged with the flashing emblem of the Ministorum and then faded to show an aquiline man in his late middle years.
“My children,” the man, whom I recognised from picts as Primate Hildebrand, began.
“It is with great regret that I come before you today, so soon after the Ascension of Blessed Ratsini to his eternal reward.” He had a practiced oratorical voice, honed on years of sermonizing and theological debate.

“I would not violate the period of morning so appropriate for my departed brother without the gravest of justifications and I fear, these are graver than any we have heard in many years.”

“Heresy must never be far from the mind of the faithful and we must be ever vigilant for its stench, but to watch for heresy, and to discover it in our own institutions are too very different things. Therefore it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you of treachery so base that it is difficult even for me to believe.”

“Oh frak,” Clara muttered in the background.

“I have been shown incontrovertible evidence, that the murder of Blessed Ratsini was conducted by none other than agents of the false Primate Osten Von Mandelbrot! I call on all true sons of the Emperor to subdue this false prince so he may be questioned and punished.”

“I know this truth will be difficult to accept for we held this viper to our breasts as our very brother, but should any doubt the veracity of these claims…” The pict pivoted slightly to a silk covered cushion, with a theatrical whisk the Primate pulled the silk free to reveal a familiar object, the black and silver skull of the Inquisitorial Rosette.