Then.........

The interior of the Cathedral of Saint Sardavia rang with music. The great nave, a series of Gothic arches three hundred meters high and nearly a kilometer long, was hung with tens of thousands of sacred buntings. Each bunting was an individual work of art, a piece of silk which had been lovingly dyed in votive patterns and stitched with hair of the supplicant to create stylized devotions to Saint Sardavia and the God Emperor. Many of those patterns had already begun to run, the interiority of the cathedral so monumental that the breath of the hundred thousand congregants below was condensing and falling as a misty rain. Streams of varicoloured water ran down the vast oozlite column which supported the arches vanishing into cracks in the ancient stone floor. The noise was enormous. The simple breathing of a hundred thousand human beings created a continuous semi-gale which guttered the flames of the foot thick votive candles which sprang from the floor like fungus in a dark cave. The sheets of melted wax glittered with votive coins, tossed by pilgrims against the walls of the chapel to eventually be covered over by fresh candlemelt. Some, those that landed close to burning flames, grew hot and sank slowly into the wax around them, giving an impression of impatience. The millions of tapers added a sibilant hissing burn to the mix as well as heating the air almost five degrees above Sigma Nillium’s balmy midsummer twenty. The cries of preachers and pardoners, the ringing of bells, and the buzz of conversation combine to create an almost physical pressure which squeezed the chest like a vice.

And that was before the music.

Nine choirs of nine hundred and ninety nine choralists. Women below the age of twenty one and gelded males raised their voices in a version of the Triumph of Terra so intricate and so baroque with polyphonic embellishments that it was all but mesmeric. Each choir sang to a Hymnal - a latent psyker who had been ritually lobotomized and then grafted into one of the nine pillars. Each pillar rose, seemingly from the gilded cervical vertebrae of the blinded and gilded Hymnals, branching out from the their frost covered backs in twisting verdegris traceries before splitting and coiling up towards the arches. The music, received from the choirs and transmitted through the hymnals flowered through thousands of pipes, ringing through the cathedral as more than just sound. It pulled at the mind and tugged at the soul praising the God Emperor in a might antiphonal chorus which reflected and refracted off the walls and ceilings until it reached such a pitch of intensity that newcomers to the cathedral fell to their knees and and wept.

The reason for the crowds, and the music, was that on this day, Saint Sardavia’s day, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine young women, had been gathered to offer their vows to the God Emperor of Terra. They would speak their oaths of devotion and then be taken off to Cannon schools to begin the harsh and arduous training which might eventually lead them to a place in one of the Sororitaic orders. Most would go to the Hospitalars and Dialougues but a few might one day win the ultimate honor of admission into the chambers Militant. That was, at least, the theory. A selection of girls, chosen for their beauty and lack of political connections, would find themselves quietly sold off to slavers who would convert them to high end joy girls for deviant Ecclesiarchs, reprobate nobles, and other interested and well monied parties. Among the Ecclesiarchs it was semi open secret, tolerated in exchange for a river of bribes, inducements, and favormongery.

“Keep your censor straight or I shall have you whipped!” Reverend Father Pytor Grim snapped at one of the two temple guards who flanked him. The guards wore flowing robes of white and crimson cloth, their faces covered by gold veined porcelain masks which had been etched to resemble jigsaw pieces. They carried brass censors attached by chains to the ends of long wooden poles. The smell of burning menander root wafted out, sharp and pungent. The guard straightened his pole without comment. Each of the Reverend Fathers, noticeable for their brown robes and long conical head dresses, had a pair of such guards. Pytor muttered in disgust as he walked along the assembled ranks of girls, their eyes all upturned to the massive gilded aquila at the end of the nave, it’s fifty meter wingspan cunningly designed to reflect the musical worship back down the cathedral as though the voice of Terra itself were singing. High Prelate Comier himself stood between its feet atop a pulpit so encrusted with gold and jewels that the simple white robed vestments of his office seemed to shine like a diamond amid the tacky splendor. Hundreds of servo-skulls, each one taken from one of Sardavia’s martyred companions, circled around him like predatory fish.

Father Pytor returned his gaze to the kneeling girls. Each one wore a white shift and a gauzy veil secured by a chaplet of wild flowers. Behind them stood two sponsors. In most cases these were parents, though a few were represented by minor nobility or even Ecclesiarchs if they warranted it. Pytor touched each on the forehead with a brush dipped into a vial of sacred oil, mentally noting the prettiest specimens as possible candidates for sale. Those with run down looking sponsors, simple artisans in their best clothes, or down on their luck traders renting luxury garments they could not afford were the best candidates. No one to follow up on a child who was certainly serving the Emperor off world. His eyes fell on the petulant face of a young woman, perhaps thirteen years old. She was quite lovely, with rich brown hair that curled slightly beneath the constriction of her chaplet. Honey colored eyes blazed from beneath her veil and her youthful slimness was already giving way to what would become her womanly figure. Her skin was clear and her garments were fine, her sponsors though… they were clearly muscle, their identical suits of synthweave marking them out as the guards of some noble house. Pytor nodded inwardly, this wouldn’t be the first noble house looking to rid itself of a troublesome daughter and gain some favor in the eyes of the Emperor in the process. The girl had probably been brought here against her will, the guards more to prevent her from fleeing than to vouch for her soul. Pytor added her to his list.

“Bless you my child,” Pytor intoned as he anointed her forehead.

“Do you swear to defend the Imperial…” the High Prelate’s voice swelled from innumerable tannoys and speakers held aloft by servitor cherubs. Pytor watched the girl out of the corner of his eye. According to the data slate she was the bastard daughter of the Duke of Belforma, one of the great planetary dynasts. Like many of his bastards the girl was more vital and energetic than his listless legitimate heirs, necessitating their removal from dynastic politics. Belforma was consequently, if illegitimately, well represented in the schola progenium, ministoroum, and other arms of Imperial authority. So long as it was off world, and out of the lines of succession and dynastic politics.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to the nave, not so much sound, even gunfire would have been muted over the buzzing roar of the High Prelate. Instead there was a wave of jostling as a ripple of movement transmitted itself from the entrance to the knave. Sponsors and temple guards tried to shield priests and initiates with their bodies, preventing an incipient trample with knots of braced muscle. The hymn faltered slightly, the audible portion dropping out of sync with the psychic undersong. Pytor muttered a curse and glanced around to see one of his guards leaning down to whisper in the girl's ear. He opened his mouth to shout a reprimand to the man when he saw the girl’s eyes open wide. One of her sponsors reached out to shove the guard away but with a shocking turn of speed the temple guard grabbed the man’s hand and yanked him off balance, bringing his knee up to crack into his victim's chin. The second sponsor took a step backwards and drew a handgun from his jacket. The girl dropped sideways into a three point brace on both hands and one leg. Her other leg lashed out and drove her foot into the side of her minder’s knee. There was a crack as bones and cartilage gave and a scream audible even over the increasing chaos that was engulfing the knave. The minder’s gun went off blasting skywards like a starter's pistol at a gymnasium. The crowd opened like an iris around the gunfire, the faux temple guard whirled his staff and knocked the gun from the screaming minder’s hand. The girl caught it with one hand, tearing off her chaplet and veil with the other as she leaped to her feet. The fake temple guard drove the iron ferrule at the bottom of his staff into the groaning man’s belly, air and vomit exploded from the stricken sponsor's mouth. The girl shouted something triumphant and then ran for one of the side exits followed by the false guard. Every few seconds she fired into the air, sending people diving out of her way as she vanished from the cathedral, the sound of her silvery laughter somehow hanging in the air.

Now.......

The Old Man was dead. Auspex confirmed it. Their own eyes confirmed it. Orthelio Bathazar Belchite, by the Grace of the Immortal Emperor, Captain and Rogue Trader, lay in the bottom of a rocky gully encrusted with spurs of glyphsalt in hues of reddish purple. He was naked, or nearly so and his waxy skin was salt burned and sand blasted, save where the chrome of his augmetics had been polished bright by the wind blown grit. The Old Man had been an impressive specimen, something Imperial science could be proud of given his nearly three hundred years of age. He looked to be around fifty, powerfully built with the compact physique of a boxer. There was a look of surprise on his lined face, a look justified by the cratered wound that had nearly decapitated him. Judging from the look of it, the wound was made by a las blast, the skin around it partially cauterized and then broken open by the liquid shock passing through the tissue.

Camilla Atrantio slid down into the gully, triggering a small avalanche as her booted foot dislodged dirt and crystals of glyphsalt. She was pleased that she had dressed for this occasion, a form fitting body glove with integral cooling and armor plating stitched into its fiber weave covered her from head to toe. A long scarf had been wound around her head and her eyes were protected by large polarized goggles that gave her a vaguely insectile look. Even with all that protection the relief from the constant enervating wind that the gully provided was immediate. Godfarthing was an arid place, ninety percent of the surface covered with salt deserts and rocky badlands. Civilization, such as it was, existed in a pair of hives at each pole, and in long canyons cut through the limestone of ancient and long evaporated seas. There were isolated freeholds out in the desert where the nomads harvested glyphsalt but they were strange, exotic, and little trusted by the canyon dwellers. By an accident of geological topography the world was unusually flat with a maximum variation in altitude of less than a hundred meters. The result of this was that great wind storms howled around the globe encountering nothing that could check their progress and break their momentum. Over the passage of the eons the wind had stripped more and more soil and rock as it circled the rock, slowly sand blasting what little resistance the limestone could muster.

The slow excoriation was a blessing for the world, something the preachers never failed to point out in their interminable sermons, as the slow erosion had exposed the glyphsalt which was the source of the world's considerable wealth. Camilla was no Magos Biologos but she understood that the valuable crystals were the remains of a life form which had existed on this planet millions of years ago, crushed and condensed by the passage of time in the same way as prometheum. The Old Man had come here to negotiate with the locals for a cargo of the stuff. He had come down from orbit nearly a week ago and hadn’t made contact since. He might never have been found, might have been sanded away to nothing by the winds out here in this lonely gully, if it hadn’t been for his augments. The metallic elements weren’t much, but the crust of Godfarthing had no native minerals that registered ferric on the auspex and the tech priests on the Navarre had been able to scan the area around the Old Man’s last known location.

“Damn,” Camilla muttered as she pulled down the scarf which protected her lips and face from the ever present sting of flying grit.

“Orthelio!” Yvrine Caldes cried, scrambling past Camilla to throw herself down atop the body. Yvrine was dressed much as Camilla was, though she was taller and broader, heavily muscled where Camilla was lithe. Yvrine’s skin, visible now only at the back of her neck, was dark, almost black. Camilla had sailed with her uncle for nearly five years and the fact of his death seemed impossible. So many times she was sure he had died, only for him to reveal it was some clever ruse, some trick or stratagem. Not this time. Not ever again. Camilla turned away from the weeping Yvrine, her own eyes stinging. Before she left this planet she was going to find out who did this. Find out, and make them pay.

_____________
The heretic screamed, though the sound was muffled by the huge glass helmet he wore. They liked killing heretics on Godfarthing, though the heresy did tend to be more in the nature of settling scores with unpopular and powerless neighbors rather than actual collaboration with the Archenemy of Mankind. The method was unique at least, though it was doubtful this fact much comforted those condemned to it. Rather than fire, heretics on Godfarthing were executed by wind. The man on the gallows had been fitted with a helmet of clear glass that was connected by hoses to the howling wind storm which raged above the canyon wall of Jujeni Primary. The hoses funneled the grit down into the helmet at firehose pressure, the abrasive blast stripping away the soft tissue of the head, face, eyes, lips, by slow degrees. It was technically possible to drown as the sand filled the execution hood, but most people bled out from shredded veins and capillaries long before the mix of sand and blood could choke the ruins of their lungs. Men in long sober robes and women in dresses of blue or green with starched wimples watched. A few children threw rocks at the dying heretic, though patrolmen in flak armor and bowel helmet with sun visors half heartedly dispersed them with blows and threats. A preacher, ecclesiarch would have been two strong a word, dressed in the scarlet robes of a Red Imam, called the Emperor's judgment on the man who was still, incredibly, not finished dying.

Camilla took another bite of the ploin and chewed thoughtfully. She was a striking woman apparently in her mid twenties. Long brown hair was coiled up in a crown braid that framed a beautiful face with high cheekbones which gave her a lean and hungry look. Her skin clear and sunkissed like expensive sidan wood. Intricate traceries of electrum had been laid into her skin, the outward sign of fabulously expensive neurolinkages and synaptic architecture. Where the dress of Godfarthing tended towards the severe and practical, she was dressed extravagantly, in a shimmering jacket of woven skarsilk, a pair of long, form hugging, trousers, and a pair of leather boots crisscrossed with intricate tooling. Jewels glittered at her fingers and throat, hung with fine sapphires. A pistol, a chrome Hecutor-10, hung in a quickdraw rig on her left side, and a long blade with an ornate hilt hung in a leather scabbard on a belt across her chair. The other patrons of the cantina, mostly staff members of the Hugensulk Administratum Liason, gave her a wide berth and suspicious glances. Godfarthing was a conservative place, Emperor help it but it seemed to be an affliction that all desert words shared, and she did not fit in. That was all right, Rogue Traders did not fit in anywhere, they were, by definition, outsiders.

“We should return to the ship,” Yvrine remarked, not for the first time. The Seneschal’s face was puffy from recent tears, though her voice was steady. With The Old Man gone, they needed to return to the ship, formally pass the Warrant on to his successor, read his will for Throne’s sake. Camilla shook her head. Despite Yvrine’s entreaties, she wasn’t going to return to the ship until whoever had slain her uncle had been brought to justice.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting Madmoiselle Captain,” a pinch faced man in a suede doublet apologized as he strode into the cantina followed by a pair of sanctioners, or magistratum, or whatever they called themselves here on Godfarthing. The Holy Order of Emperor Bothering Tough Guys With Clubs Club or something, Camilla had no doubt. The speaker was Anwarna Abadi, the senior law enforcement officer in Jugeni province. His rank was something like equivalent to a High Marshall though few world’s this far out in the Zionian Spur conformed exactly to the regulations of the centralizing bureaucracy. Anwarna was a pinch faced man, his face seemingly ill equipped to deal with the flabby excess of a sedentary life style, with a wispy collection of gray hair which had been combed over his head in a sad attempt to deny the ravages of age.

“Make it up to me by having something useful to say,” Camilla encouraged, her voice a rich contralto with the slightest touch of aristocratic haute. Both of Abadi’s bodyguards stiffened, accustomed to dealing with such disrespect with blows but unwilling to risk such a thing against an off worlder of uncertain, but certainly high, status.

“I have reviewed my department’s files on the matter, and I am afraid that I can only conclude that your friend…”

“My Captain, Rogue Trader Orthelio Bathazar Belchite ,” Camilla interjected. She was being petty, but that was how one dealt with petty officials afterall.

“Your Captain as you say,” Abadi continued, “was murdered by desert bandits.” Abadi drew a folio of pale brown paper from his coat and opened it, spreading it out to reveal picts of the gully. A tent of metallized canvas had been erected over the gully and the sight had been picted and searched by what passed for local forensics. There were further pictures from the medicare mortis autopsy, analysis of the wound, tissue sampling. All of it made sense and yet, none of it did.

“This is the same file you transmitted to me yesterday,” Camilla observed, her voice level.

“The same, inadequate, file.”

“With respect Captain…” Abadi began.

“I piss on your respect!” Camilla snapped, her voice like a whip crack. The guards put their hands on their truncheons but didn’t attack. Abadi stood up fast enough that his chair tipped over and hit the paved floor with a crash.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that a Rogue Trader, who came to this planet with three armsmen, went alone into the desert and was killed by random bandits. Bandits who your own people noted, never operate this close to the canyon? That these imaginary bandits not only killed him, but stripped him of everything of value except for priceless augmetics?”

“Mad’am I…” Camilla swatted Abadi across the face with the folio and then tossed it to the ground, scattering picts and reports over half the cantina.

“If you and your officers are too incompetent to see that, then I will find someone who can,” she declared, standing and tucking the folio into her jacket. With a flick of her wrist she settled her sword belt around her waist, high on her right hip.

“And as it happens, I have the perfect man for the job….”

@POOHEAD189

I killed a man, the day I met her. Running down a hab block on a hive world called Castobel. Another mark on the God Emperor's ledger of potential judgements. I thought the act had sent a beacon to the stars. Even here, hiding on a world of two hundred billion souls, my guilt and my past had come for me. I suppose I should be flattered. In my experience, misdeeds are often rewarded, or at least granted clemency in the cogs of self righteous logic. The end justifies the means, and all that. I was not above the notion. If you worked in the dark long enough, you became the dark, a wise man once said. Strange then, that no matter where I went, I was chased by the ghosts of my previous life. Or so I often thought. Later I learned it was not my past that haunted me, or not merely that. It was the future calling to me, grinding me down to better serve a purpose, and a woman, I would come to know. After three years at the academy, and seven years in the adeptus arbites, I had felt I had enough. I went and crawled into the darkest, most crowded hole I could find. When she found me, she had pulled the curtains and revealed the sun. Painful, uncomfortable, but later I realized, I could finally see.

Greasy rain slithered down stone and plasteel habs, thin rivulets rushing through the streets of the deserted blocks. It made the ground look alive, gave life to a place that did its damned best to kill whoever was stupid enough to make a living here. Clarions sounded in the distance, but past the sirens and the rain, all Alcander could hear was his own breathing. He was pressed against the wall of a hab, jacket soaked to its core, weapon up and the safety off, waiting for his moment. Not for the first time did he curse the bloody rain. To maintain air pressure, the glorious leaders of Hive Isobel vented the polluted air that coalesced at the top of the middle hive, equalizing it with injections of scrubbed air, and the more hot, humid air causing the bastardized rain. It tastes like the hab-block was sweating.

His knee still stung from when he fell, and he still tasted the bitterness of gunsmoke and rockcrete that had flown during the mad pursuit not minutes before. Rain drummed on his wide brimmed hat, and his retinal implant gave off a pale shine, the only indicator he was a probator of the local bastion. Well, that and his badge, but every probator knew it was a grox-shit way to identify one another, considering how good the gangers had become at fraudulent badges. Alcander had heard most bastions did not even use them anymore, and they had insisted they wear other means of communication and identification when necessary, and so the probus had given them arms slates, usually hidden from sight by long sleeves. They had kept the badges mostly as tradition, but the arm slates were meant to be copy-proof, unable to be given to anyone who had not earned it.

But it seemed even that wasn't enough. Ranborne had taught him that.

Pallid light glinted off the watery rockcrete street, loudly contrasting the long shadows cast by the various habs, massive pict boards in disrepair, and the overturned Solas-Harkonstar, laying like a dead beast across the block. Good car, he had heard. A couple of years ago he might have been able to afford it, but those days were as far off as Terra, in his mind. Had he known the tires weren't so good in rain, he likely would have thought better than to buy one, anyhow. It had not done Ranborne any favors. Then again, neither had his greed.

Alcander inched slowly to the edge of the corner, poised in the alleyway. Briefly, he thought he heard something. A soft, rhythmic noise. Something solid. Footsteps? He wasn't sure, it could have easily been the heavy drip of rain from a pipe. He held his breath, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. His eyes snapped open when the ident on his arm slate pinged. It wasn't loud, but it was loud enough. Something had changed, and he realized the noise had stopped. Without pausing to consider, Alcander dove out of cover as plasteel and rockcrete burst around him, its hard surface no match for the propellant base, mass reactive detonator cap of a bolt round, with a depleted deuterium core and diamantine tip. He knew the sound before he even looked, having used and been fired at with bolt pistols in several operations on distant worlds.

Alcander hit the ground in a roll, water scattering like shrapnel, catching himself with his foot on the edge of a pothole. His hat gone, Alcander's black hair matted and whipping as he raised his own gun, a standard issue laspistol courtesy of the bastion. He had always hated laspistols during his years as an arbites. They were too bright, and had less stopping power than he was comfortable with. He much preferred autoguns, but his probus had insisted, and the brass decided what was what. Alcander saw a figure through the glare and the rain, moving to kneel in the street, so fast was Alcander that Ranborne looked like molasses as he pivoted his hip and realigned his boltpistol. The bald pate and congenial face curled into a mask of anger and fear. He did not like that was the last memory he would have of him. He had counted Ranborne as an ally; a friend, even. But his friend had tried to kill him, and was turning to finish the job.

Alcander pulled the trigger, and finished it first.

Ranborne's body hit the ground, and his boltpistol clattered onto the street, the barrel still smoking like the flesh on Ranborne's visage. Alcander caught his breath, wiping his eyes and pulling his hair away from his face. The world had been all black and white, until his laspistol had blared red, the discharge still burned into his retinas. After a moment, he drew himself up to his feet unsteadily, and still keeping his gun trained on Ranborne, approached the fallen man. He had wanted to talk to him, to ask him why. To give Alcander a damn good reason for his betrayal. He wouldn't have accepted money, or pressure. He had to know, dammit. But there was nothing, he knew. He looked down at Ranborne's corpse, and he realized he would never find out.

He holstered his laspistol, and after taking a moment, he withdrew his sleeve to activate his armslate and call in the verispecs. But on the touch screen, he saw a notification. It was what had sent the ping earlier, and he read it. It was a call from bastion command to come in, he was being relocated, to turn on the beacon on his armslate to await transport. Briefly, Alcander wondered if this was another trick by Ranborne, one final play from beyond the grave. But he dismissed the idea, and activated his locator. A small, red flash ticked on and off, and he set himself down by the curb to wait, watching the corpse of his former friend, making sure the rats didn't get to him.

Minutes later, lights flared as a groundcar turned a corner, bumping up and down as it rolled down the street. It pulled up just a meter from Ranborne's body, and Alcander knew it wasn't the verispecs. Whoever this was, they were quick bastards. He couldn't see through the tinted windows, but the car door opened a moment later, and a man he did not recognize stepped out. He wore an expensive jacket, not the cheap-novaplas the merchants and business men of the upperhab tried to pull off as rich. The truly wealthy wore natural fibers, and this man, with his slicked backed brown hair and sharp eyes, had to be from wealth, or work for it.

"Alcander Mires?" He asked. Alcander noticed he ignored the rain, like him. "Come into the vehicle, have a lho-stick. We need to talk."

"I need to wait here until the verispecs arrive. And I don't smoke, I quit a few months ago." Alcander remarked. He felt somewhat jaded, petulant. Ranborne's body was not even cold, and he had so many unanswered questions. He did not care if this man was Sanguinius himself, he was not the least bit interested in what he had to say. "Whatever you want to tell me, you can tell me right here. I'm working."

"I've been told you're no longer on this investigatus, but whatever you wish." He said, straightening his jacket. The rain had somewhat abated, as if it did not mind wetting Alcander or Ranborne's corpse, but it made an exception for one of the gilded. "I am a representative and aide of your new employer. You are to be taken to the nearest gate, and transported to the upper hive, where we have a transport waiting to take us off world. At that time, we wi-"

"Off-world? I fought hard for this station, I'm not going anywhere. And who the hell do you represent?"

"The Lord Captain and Rogue Trader Orthelio Bathazar Belchite, Architect of the Trade, and the Emperor's Chosen servant, guardian of these systems."

Alcander just stared at him, and the two men merely looked at one another for a handful of seconds before the probator rubbed his eyes with two fingers, and stood up, taking in a deep breath. "You said there would be lho-sticks?"

"I thought you quit." The man reminded him.

"I've had a rough day."

The starport rattled as the interplanetary cog descended from high orbit. The battered intrasystem hauler rocked unsteadily in the stream of dust and grit which passed for atmosphere, scouring of rust and any pretense of paint to leave the cog bare and oddly pristine looking, save where leaking lubricant caused the sand to stick and beard in long ugly cancers. The grit-men, bedecked in heavy canvas suits, lumbered out at once to begin the process of attaching fuel lines, data hoses, and air scrubbing lines to such ports as the flying death trap still possessed. Camilla regretted not sending one of the Navarre's Aquilla class shuttles. It would be embarrassing if their off world expert died because a cog built when Horus was a boy finally burned out and smashed into the sand with all hands.

"You really think this burned out old Arbite is going to solve the Old Man's murder?" Yvrine asked sourly. The Seneshal had made no secret of the fact that she thought Camilla's plan was a foolish extravagance and they should get back to the ship and install her officially as the holder of the Warrant of Trade. Camilla knew that the Seneshal only wanted to do what she considered proper, but the moment she set foot upon the deck of the Navarre there would be too many demands on her attention and she would eventually be forced to let the murder go. It would be proper, necessary, what the Old Man would have wanted, but it would still be a surrender.

"I think you might be surprised, he made the holonews a few times and that isn't easy to do," Camilla counted.

"There is no news in a backwater like this," Yvrine replied morosely.

"Oh I don't know: Rogue Trader murdered?" Camilla suggested. The First Officer and the Seneshal were standing behind a thick wall of armorcrys in what was part arrivals longue part shipping hangar. Ragged locals mixed with mercantile factors in coats with impractically starched collars. A few tech adepts in threadbare robes walked along bundled conduits chanting in their language and pasting fresh blessing strips on junction boxes. None of them came anywhere near a pair of well dressed and obviously armed strangers. Even the few security men, little more than another flavor of ganger, eyed the off-worlders, but none dared to make trouble against such well armed quality. Camilla rested her hand on the elaborately jeweled hilt of a slender rapier, drumming her fingers on a hilt wrapped with the interwoven hides of two different animals, one smooth and supple, one rough like a sharks for better grip.

A line of passengers began disembarking from the cog before its ramps even touched down, spilling people, live stock and servitors out into the blistering dust. There were only a few feet to the dubious safety of woven canvas cargo shoots but the offworlders still flinched and cursed as they stumbled into the cover the chutes provided.

"Hey," Yvrine said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You want me to introduce you?"

Alcander had never liked warp travel. It made his stomach churn, and felt all too vulnerable. The time disparity also never sat right with him. He was never keen on situations he couldn't have some modicum of control. However, after the journey from Castobel to Godfarthing, he recalled he did not much like interplanetary travel either.

They had been picked up by something Alcander fancied looked like an Arvus Lighter, only sleeker and longer, with a reinforced hull. The liason had called it an Avro-transport, a old craft refurbished by the Arkon corporation, evidently. He had never heard of them, but then again, Alcander had been out of the public eye the past few years. He had tried to bury his head in the sand as much as he could, so it was to be expected. Even so, despite the solid transport and the in-flight refreshments, it was met with turbulence from solar winds, and unexpected void debris, making the two day journey a three day slog with little in the way of sleep. It did little to help his mood. His badge, arm slate, even his laspistol had been confiscated from him by the bastion chief. Evidently it was up to his 'new' employer to provide what he needed for him, beyond his clothes and good looks, and he doubted he still had the latter anymore with his recent luck with women.

The Avro-transport made a relatively smooth transition through the atmosphere, and the hot white planet rose up around them as they approached slowly. He saw the distant figures of great hive cities hundreds, if not thousands of miles away. But where they were landing was in the middle of nowhere, hardly noticable until they were a mere mile above the surface. The starport was bigger than he expected, but still a podunk, obscure spit of civilization in the vast cracked wastes and gullies that filled the horizon. The transport touched down with a soft lurch, and within a minute the door opened, hot air carried by an insistent wind scythed into the cabin.

Two low level security men and the liaison stepped out first, followed by Alcander, who shielded his eyes from the hot sun above. He wondered if this world even had clouds.

"There they are," the liaison remarked, pointing north. "You can finally get some answers, and maybe something to eat."

Alcander said nothing. His armored, black coat had been taken away, replaced by a worn duster. He grabbed the hems and straightened it, despite the wind calming down. Flanked by the security, Alcander approached what looked like two women, his guess turning correct as he walked closer. One was a darker skinned, muscled woman, with a strong jaw and keen eyes. She was nearly as tall as him. To her right was an olive skinned vixen, a woman he had considered merely beautiful that became stunningly beautiful as he approached. Most probators in his position would have counted himself lucky, being taken off world at the behest of a rogue trader, meeting with gorgeous women on a clandestine world. But he had chosen his life of anonymity. That, and he was not so keen on a beautiful woman. He didn't trust them. Call it prejudice, but he had experienced his fair share.

"-younger than I expected," he heard the dark woman say softly, only catching the tail end of their exchange.

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, before blanketed his face into a neutral look once again. Despite his reservations, he wouldn't be disdainful. Once the probator was a few meters away from the two, he opened his mouth to speak, but the darker woman cut him off.

"Welcome. You stand in the presence of Heir Presumptive to the Warrant of Trade, Camilla Belchite Del'a'Trantio. And I am Yvrine, honored Seneschal of Lord Captain and Rogue Trader Orthelio Bathazar Belchite." She said, a small accent slipping through her clipped speech, using the high gothic. This Camilla looked at her funny, but their eyes widened a fraction when he gave the proper hand sign of meeting nobility, speaking back to them in the same dialect.

"Honored. I am Alcander Mires, probator of Castobel and servant of the Imperium." He said by way of greeting, the wind picking up again, swaying his duster and unruly hair, still unbrushed from the journey of the void. As standard as the transport was, it was still a small vessel without a proper shower. He had to make do with a change of clothes and a small restroom. He cleared his throat, and despite his restless state, his eyes were set and penetrating. "Now, would you be so kind as to let me meet your Lord Captain? I admit I am limited on my information. And could I trouble you for a meal?"

Yvrine's already dark face darkened further and she tensed, her hand straying for a weapon. Camilla placed a hand on the Senshal's wrist, restraining further action. Alcander looked mildly perplexed but not worried. The situation was more complicated than the investigator understood but Camilla fancied she could follow the gears turning in his eyes.

"Yes Yvrine, let's feed the good probator then take him to meet the Rogue Trader."

An hour later, after a meal of pickled vegetables fried with some kind of cheesy flour bater, Camilla led Alcander into a cold, sterile room beneath a local medicae facility. They were deep below the ground and the air was so cold that their breath steamed out in long plumes that caught the bright overhead lumens. There was a strong smell of counterseptic overlaying the more unpleasant scent of death and base organic chemicals. Medicae Mortis in their dark robes shuffled past, faces wrapped in heavy woolen cloth, pierced only dark red lenses mounted in dark tubes. Some sported brutal looking mechadendites tipped with saws, clamps and other surgical tools that gave them an oddly arachnid appearance.

Camilla pushed open a door to a room that contained three steel plinths with surgical drains ringing their edges. Only one of them was occupied. The Old Man lay in state, he was as he had been found, still stained with the dirt and blood of his death. Camilla had ordered that no cleaning be done, nothing beyond what was absolutely necessary by the autopsy which had been conducted. She had wanted to set up a stasis field at the murder site but Yvrine had pointed out that by the time they bought one down from the ship, the blowing grit of Godfarthing would have scoured his flesh from his bones. The Rogue Trader's modesty was protected by a plastec sheet that concealed his wounds and most of his body.

"It is my honor to present Orthelio Bathazar Connar Travegion Sindilo Belchite, Duke of Cabreze, Hierophant of Colton's World, Captain General of Spinward League, Hereditary Colonel of the Coldface Dragoons, Lord of Breka, Commodore of the Illiadyen Argosy, by the Grace of the Immortal Emperor, Captain and Rogue Trader," Camilla intoned with funereal dignity. Yvrine shifted uncomfortably.

"We need you to find his killer."

Alcander had needed the meal, and had procured a toothpick to idly tongue in his mouth so as not to feel as strong of an urge for a lho-stick. The two ladies had been in an out, providing idle chitchat but not giving him much in the way of information, though granted he had not drilled them very hard, expecting the Rogue Trader himself to fill him in after he filled his own belly. Though he was not prepared for where they took him once the feast was over.

"Shite," he cursed under his breath, the toothpicky nearly dropping from his lips. He was stunned for a good moment, but the season ed probator quickly took a hold of himself. He gave Yvine and Camilla a brief, albeit sharp look. "Buildin' castles in th' aer, ye two are."

He felt his hopes of this being a simple misunderstanding or an operation he could potentially refuse dash. Even though the two women weren't Rogue Traders, the death of one was held in the up most secrecy, as were the details of his death. He was just given a great responsibility, even if he refused to solve the case, he would have to stick around until it was concluded or someone else was anointed, or someone would come after him.

"Of all th' bleedin' luuk," He muttered, walking past the ladies and eyeing the corpse. He had evidentally been a well established Rogue Trader with many years under his belt, if the titles alone did not denote such a thing. Alcander could spot rejuvenant work easily enough, these days. The old man had been well maintained, big and not without a good bit of muscle. Alcander noticed the calluses on his hands and the various, generational scars along his body. He placed a hand on his brow and lifted it to open Orthelio's blank, blue eyes. Neither were bionic, nor did he see telltale signs of certain poisons. He picked up the old man's wrist and checked for a pulse, before sliding his finger down to see any bloating on the ulnar artery.

"What are you doing?" Yvrine asked, a bit testily.

"Chekin' t' see if the auld man is dead, o' cairse." Alcander remarked.

"He would not be in here if he wasn't," Yvrine said. Alcander could feel her looking at Camilla with incredulity. The probator did not smile or respond. He had dealt with several cases where a man was hit with slow acting poison from the death world Veraekus. And there were other instances as well where the auspex and people's standard modes of checking signs of life were wrong. He wanted to be thorough.

He lowered the thin white cloth covering the corpse's extremities, finding a small exit wound to the left of his abdomen. There were no scorch marks, so it was not done from a lasgun. The wound did not seem big enough for a standard autogun, much less a bolt round. But, as he gently lifted the heavy man up a few inches with surprising strength and felt underneath for the small of his back, it was clear whatever had hit him had hit him from behind. Whatever kind of projectile, it had struck him right by the kidney, cutting into it a bit. "Hou loong had he ben ded before ye foond me on Castobel?"

"Two days." Camilla said.

Alcander's head shot up, blinking. "Ye better be coddin' me," he said, suspicion and annoyance warring with ettiquete. The woman, Camilla she had said, was obviously unfamiliar with the term, but the way he said it made it clear, and he saw it dawn on her eyes a moment later.

"I like to keep tabs on useful individuals." She said by way of explanation, and though she hid it well behind a neutral, professional face, he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. Alcander did his damned best not to mutter a curse on finding out he had been surveilled, even to a limited capacity.

Never trust a beautiful woman.

Alcander set the cadaver down gently and went to clean his hands. "If ye would be sae kind, please take me tae the site where ye found him, and on the way, ye might be tellin' me why he woos on this wairld."

Camilla and Yvrine exchanged glances. Camilla eventually decided that the probater was speaking Gothic, though the violence he did the language was considerable. Either an accent or he had suffered a stroke.

"We took picts so you wouldn't have to go back to the scene," Yvrine pointed out testily. Alcander picked up one of the hololithic plates and examined it without apparent interest.

"You took picts of what you though I wanted to see. That might not be what I actually need to see," Alcander pointed out reasonably. Yvrine shook her head in irritation. Camilla laid a hand on the Seneshal's arm for the second time.

"Now Yvrine, it wouldn't make much sense to locate an expert and then ignore his expert advice would it?" Camilla pointed out. She opened the door and led the way out, striding back down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later they were aloft in a small personnel shuttle heading towards the murder scene. Camilla sat at the controls the inlaid circuitry in her forearms linking her to the craft with more than mere physicality. She loved to fly and did so at every chance she got. Wind buffeted the craft erratically throwing them ten meters in any given direction no matter how well Camilla anticipated.

"How long will the storm last?" Alcander asked, looking less excited than Camilla at the the continual hammering of wind and the sibilant hissing of hundreds of tons of blown grit scratching across the hull every minute.

"Storm?" Camilla asked innocently, "this is just a breezy after.. whoa!" The shuttled dropped suddenly and the auspex readings lit up in concern. The thrusters roared as Camilla corrected keeping them on target.

"You said you would tell me what your Captain was doing on this world?" Alcander pointed out. Camilla wasn't sure whether this was to distract him from the choppy flight or simply because his mind was engaged with the investigation. No reason it couldn't be both of course.

"The salt they mine here is mildly psychotropic," Camilla reported as she threw the shuttle into a long bank. They were only a few clicks from where the body had been discovered but she didn't want to overfly the site and possibly disrupt it.

"Mildly to humans, but there is a Xenos breed out in the Hook, that is mad for the stuff. The Captain was going to haul a cargo of salt there in exchange for navigational charts and a look at their technosorcery, maybe some other baubles as well. It was supposed t be the first leg of an exploratory run out past Kaskar."

Alcander held on for dear life. He had always been none-too keen to flying, but the dust and multitude of rocks clattering against the windshield and the sharp turns was making him even more nervous than usual. It was good he was practiced in keeping his voice steady.

"I see," He said, bracing his body so he was not shaken about like a mix-drink. He tried not to verbalize his distaste at the mention of Xenos, but he supposed doing business with them was not so bad if it was to gain wealth from drug sales. It certainly was not giving them imperial weaponry to use. Alcander was not extremely devout, but he had seen Xenos twice in his life, and each time they had tried to kill him. He held no love for the bastards. "Bit ye still nae told me when th' stairm'll end."

"Just a few minutes. They never last too long here," She remarked, banking left and dropping low after cresting a small, jagged rise in the wastes. He wondered by Yvrine had not joined them, but he supposed even with the Rogue Trader dead, there was still a business empire to run.

Within ten minutes, the wind storm had abated, and the lander was placed a few hundred meters from the scene of the Lord's death. When Camilla stepped out of the transport and strode ahead of him, Alcander noticed her movements were fluid and poised. She traversed the gaping cracks in the dried ground and numerous sharp stones with a dancer's grace. He had no doubt in his mind she was an acrobat, perhaps an entertainer of sorts.

"What was yer relation t' the auld man, Lord Othelio." Alcander asked as they walked, glancing left and right, wary from the new terrain.

"I am...was, his cousin. I have been in his retinue a handful of years now. He had no other close relatives." She said.

His brows raised. "So...ye to be his successor?"

"Yes," she replied. She had a faint accent, not nearly as pronounced as his own, but he could not quite place it. But beyond that, she had essentially just informed him she was a princess of a multi-planetary dynasty and trade empire. Briefly he wondered if his manners had been adequate, but dismissed the concern as silly. What was more strange was that she was out here alone, with him. She must really trust him. He felt somewhat flattered, and that was hard to do.

"Here," she announced, stopping at the top of a gulley. It's length spanned for a few kilometers, he thought, but it wasn't too deep. Perhaps five meters, give or take. He stopped beside her, hands in his pockets as he peered down. Just as he imagined, the rocks were scattered, likely from the previous, or many storms over the last few day/night cycles.

"Let's gae doon." Alcander said.

Camilla reached for a small satchel in her belt. "Yes, of course. First let me-"

Her words were cut short as the pebbles her right foot rested on gave way, and the leg flew into the air. She tossed her hands up as her footing was compromised, and she gave a peculiar squawk. Had he heard the noise from afar, he would have looked on incredulously, but as he was right there and quick, he grabbed her flailing hand on instinct, planting his foot on a stone and helping lessen the fall so her rump did not bruise as it brushed the stones.

"Ye alright?" He asked her. She blew some loose strands of hair out of her face and regained her standing position, brushing her backside and leggings off.

"Yes, thank you. The rocks are treacherous, be careful." She advised. Alcander nodded, but hid a smile at the irony of her warning. The two traversed down the slope of the gully moments later, and juxtaposed to her momentary loss of balance, Camilla flitted down far more nimbly than Alcander, and he felt he was pretty light on his feet, generally. Once they reached the bottom, her keen eyes examined the ground, and she placed a well-manicured finger to her lips, before pointing a few meters to the left. "We found his body right there."

"Can ye shoo me exactly how it ley?"

"Show you?" She asked, clearly wondered if he meant she should lay on the rocks.

"Place yer feet where 'is feet would bae, and face the direction he ley." Al explained. She took a moment to get her bearings, and did just that. She seemed to be facing southwest, if he had an accurate summation of the direction of the sun through the remaining haze, an aftertaste of the storm. He went over and knelt down where Camilla's indication would have his stomach be, and examined the rocks. A few moments went by, and he began to move a few of the smaller stones aside. Curiously enough, he found no blood. He reached into his duster and pulled out an Auspec, and scanned the area.

"Some traeces o' organic matt'er," He breathed. "But nae blood."

He blinked, a realization dawning on him. "Don't Rogue Traders have a wee servo-skell?"

"Yes, but we couldn't find it. After we found him, we simply assumed whoever killed him stole it or blasted it to bits." She said. "We could not access it remotely when we attempted."

He rose to his feet, and gazed down the gully. "Les gae ep top and luuk aroond. If it was doon 'ere we'da seen it."