The silent king, p.22
The Silent King, page 22
‘My Lord Cawl keeps his intimates to a manageable number. He trusts few people completely. There is Primus, but I suspect you would like him even less.’
‘This is a very delicate matter.’
Qvo nodded. ‘I know, but it is me, or it is nobody.’ He raised a mechanical hand and waved it. There was a subtle change to the noospheric vibrations in the gallery. ‘There is a privacy field in operation. Please speak freely.’
She stared at him, saying nothing.
‘Then allow me to do so. You are here on behalf of the Omnissian sect to ask if Belisarius Cawl would consider putting himself forward for the candidacy of Fabricator General of Mars.’
‘I am here on behalf of the Synod of Mars,’ she corrected.
‘That is not strictly accurate,’ said Qvo. ‘You are here on behalf of a faction within the Synod of Mars which is not pleased with the performance of the new Fabricator General. I shall save your time, and inform you that Belisarius Cawl does not have, never has had, and never will have any interest whatsoever in assuming high office.’
‘If you are correct in your surmising here, and we shall pretend as a game of theory that is so, we are not discussing high office, we are discussing the highest of offices,’ said Sobel-Phi. ‘The overlordship of the Empire of Mars.’
‘Firstly, the highest office is the least attractive high office of all,’ said Qvo gently. ‘Secondly, there is no Empire of Mars, only a collection of overlapping fiefs and spheres of interests, which is why the Omnissiah of the Imperium of Man sits on Terra, and not Olympus Mons. Those factions who see the Adeptus Mechanicus as capable of becoming a force unified enough to challenge the hegemony of Terra are sorely mistaken.’
‘You are very confident in assigning me opinions.’
‘Cawl has predetermined much of your conversation in advance. He finds it saves time.’
‘He is arrogant.’
‘He is Belisarius Cawl,’ said Qvo, as if that excused everything.
Sobel-Phi placed her hands over where her stomach had once been. She enjoyed eating, so had replaced much of her alimentary system with hyper-efficient digestion bladders rather than discarding it entirely. The energy gained that way was minimal, but the pleasure she derived was worth the effort.
‘Listen to me. The Cult of the Machine is disunited. Someone like your master could bring unity to our people. He could concentrate our power, and help us shrug off the dead hand of Terra. We would reign supreme as the ultimate expression of humanity, not a beggared offshoot.’
‘Interesting,’ said Qvo, who said it because Cawl often said it himself. ‘When you say unity, you mean the unification of the factions that support Cawl. Those that see him as a divine agent, or as a genius, or as a messianic polymath. I hear there are even some who think he is the Omnissiah himself.’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘Only as ridiculous as some of your other assertions. Your unity would lead to war between the forges of the Cult. The Red Planet would run with the blood of our people, and that would be only the start of it, for after that there would be war with Terra, and civil war throughout the Imperium.’
‘There would be no war. There would be renegotiation.’
‘There would be war. After Oud Oudia Raskian perished, the new Fabricator General was chosen with perfect respect to the lore. You are preaching rebellion. Cawl will have no part in these schemes.’
Sobel-Phi took a step closer. Qvo held his ground, his expression still infuriatingly mild. ‘Cawl shirks his responsibilities. He could be the one who reinvigorates all of our species, the one to lead us to full comprehension, yet he refuses. He is selfish.’
‘He is wise,’ said Qvo. ‘What do you think the regent would say to this? Or the rest of the Cult who do not happen to share your convictions?’
Sobel-Phi allowed herself to feel amusement. ‘Are you threatening me? I have many allies. I could bring unwelcome attention upon your master.’
‘Which is why there will be no message sent. Cawl thanks you for your offer, but he has no interest in the intrigues of the Red Planet. He is a scientist. He intends to save humanity, and he cannot do that if he is shackled to your schemes.’ He paused. ‘If I may deviate from the instructions Cawl pressed upon me, and share with you a confidence?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Sobel-Phi.
‘Cawl will never take the kind of power you offer. It would imprison him. You seek to use his genius to your own ends. You do not wish him to rule. You wish to rule through him. He is nobody’s figurehead. He treads his own route to enlightenment, and he does so in the full view of the Machine God, Omnissiah and Motive Force. Cawl has no need for your plots. He is divinely mandated. The Emperor is the Omnissiah. Cawl has His trust. They knew each other.’
‘Knew a part of him, maybe. Cawl is as much an abomination as you are,’ said Sobel-Phi.
‘I see,’ said Qvo. He took a step back. ‘If we have reached the point of insults, then I judge this interview over. Thank you for your time. The answer is no, and shall remain so.’
Qvo walked away from Sobel-Phi. He was slight, a feeble facsimile of a man. A blasphemy, she thought.
‘Qvo!’ she shouted after him.
Qvo stopped, and shuffled around to face her.
‘Does your master know how Oud Oudia Raskian died, or why?’
‘No,’ said Qvo.
‘Very few know. Those that learn this truth are in grave danger. Here.’
She sent forward one of her skulls.
‘This data carrier was sent only to be read by Cawl himself. He refuses to see me. Very well. He shall not have the bounty of information I bring.’
A neural impulse had the skull drop to the floor. The bone shattered on the stone. The exposed mechanism burst into flames.
‘Tell him from me that there are things he does not know, and that he cannot conceive of, and that he should know. The time of the Emperor is coming to an end. War is coming to the Imperium whatever he does.’
‘War is ever-present.’
‘Civil war,’ she said, her tone hard. She was triumphant, the gloating of a woman who wishes the worst to happen, if only to prove her point. ‘Will your master sit back while the sons and daughters of mankind fall upon one another? Ask Cawl to think on his future. Ask him to take a side before history decides for him. At least then, he will have a choice.’ She gathered her remaining servo-skulls to her. ‘When he wishes to know what I would freely tell him, bid him come to me. I will say nothing until I have his ear. I have nothing more to say to you.’
She left the strange half-man wondering what news she might have, and what price would be worth paying for it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
sicarius and messinius
sons of the primarchs
new duties
A pair of Adeptus Custodes barred the way to Guilliman’s librarium with crossed spears. They were faceless giants in gold, their tall, conical helms making them seem even more inhuman. Born of the same science as Messinius, they were unknowable to him for all their kinship. When he approached, they looked over his head as if he were not there.
Instead, members of the Victrix Guard in immaculate armour moved to meet him. They should have been more relatable, but they were among the mightiest heroes in all the Imperium, and their angled, wing-adorned faceplates judged all who came to the primarch’s inner sanctum with the disdain of raptors.
Messinius had twenty men with him. They stood to attention in four ranks of five at a respectful distance. Their armour was the same blue as that of the Victrix Guard, and just as burnished. It reflected every glance of light from the candles and lumens, so clean and pure the battle plate seemed to be carved from gemstones.
This reunion with the regent should have been a homecoming of sorts, yet Messinius was tense.
‘I have an appointment to speak with the lord regent,’ he said.
‘Wait here,’ was the only response he got. He returned to his men, and his nerves grew tauter.
Silence seemed to spill from the librarium’s closed doors into the antechamber. The Custodians and Victrix Guard did not move or speak. His men were similarly silent. The noise of the ship’s systems was a distant hum under the metal, as unobtrusive as the shushing of his own heart. The near-imperceptible noise of power packs working at low output whined like biting insects.
He found it oppressive.
He waited.
The Custodians stood suddenly to attention, the blades of their guardian spears ringing off each other as they uncrossed. The doors yawned inward. A Space Marine Messinius knew well came out.
‘Captain Sicarius,’ Messinius said.
Sicarius extended his arm in friendship, though throughout their short conversation his other hand remained on the hilt of his sword.
‘My brother.’
They clasped arms, then Messinius drew the Ultramarine forward into a brief embrace.
‘I was gladdened to hear you had returned from the warp. It was a sad day when we lost you. Heroes like you are sorely needed.’
‘It was a long road back to Terra,’ Sicarius said, in a tone of voice that made Messinius look at him closely. Sicarius sounded different. He supposed that should not be surprising, considering Sicarius’ adventures. On the way to deliver Primaris material to the Ultramarines, his ship had been attacked by daemonkind while in the warp. He had lost many of his men. By some miracle they had eventually emerged from the warp, but such an experience would tax any man, Adeptus Astartes or no. Sicarius had become even more brutal, his manner distant.
‘I heard you acquitted yourself well, and saved a lost world into the bargain.’
Sicarius had never been an ebullient man, but this quietness was new. ‘A warrior finds his duty before him, wherever he goes. I made my way back to Macragge. There, I found the position of Second Company captain had been awarded to my brother Acheran, so I returned to seek guidance from the primarch. I was still lost. Now you see me as I am, lost no more.’
‘Captain of the Victrix Guard, no less. There are few higher honours.’
This elicited the ghost of a smile from the Ultramarine.
‘There are no higher honours. As a man who served the primarch directly, you should know that. What brings you here?’
‘As you said, a warrior finds his duty before him. A summons from the old man himself.’
Sicarius put his hand on Messinius’ pauldron. ‘Then you too will receive high honour. He regards you well, Vitrian, and he should.’
Guilliman’s latest equerry came out of the librarium. He was unarmoured, and wore a robe with an unfamiliar badge. So many Chapters had been founded since the crusade had begun it was impossible to keep track of them all. He went bareheaded, his scalp shaved down to his skin, which was a rich, reddish brown. His features bore the stamp of Rogal Dorn.
‘The Imperial Regent will see you now, lord lieutenant. He bids me apologise for the wait.’
Messinius was struck by the emptiness of the librarium. Guilliman travelled everywhere with a great number of books in all mediums. Now, the librarium’s high shelves were empty. A few crates stood with their hinged lids open, ready to receive the last documents laid out upon the primarch’s desk. Without the muffling quality of paper, every sound was greatly amplified.
The equerry escorted him to the librarium’s centre, a large space where Guilliman sat on a heavily reinforced chair. He had been unable to remove his armour since his resurrection, and the combined weight of his body and battle plate was considerable. All furniture he used had to be heavily reinforced. Despite the difficulties wearing the armour presented, still he managed to write hundreds of documents a day. He was writing then, as Messinius approached him, one hand delicately manipulating an autoquill, the other resting on a touch-active screen. The fingers were thick in their gauntlets, not dextrous, but Guilliman managed both instruments with an ease Messinius did not believe he could match himself with his armour off. The paperwork was but one of the myriad things Guilliman must attend to. If Messinius’ own duties as lord lieutenant and commander of Battle Group Jovian had seemed onerous, they were nothing compared to the burdens borne by the last loyal son.
‘I shall fetch refreshments,’ the equerry said to Messinius. ‘It will be good for him to stop working for a while.’ He departed by a side door, leaving Messinius alone with the primarch. Guilliman continued to work.
‘I am sorry, Vitrian,’ he said without looking up. ‘I shall be done with this in a moment. Please, take a seat.’
There was a single chair on Messinius’ side of the table fashioned for a Space Marine wearing armour. Messinius did not take it immediately. It had only been a few years since they had last met, but Guilliman looked older. Primarchs were supposedly immortal. They had called him the ‘Old Man’ during the Terran Crusade as a mark of affection, but seeing the faint purple smudges under the primarch’s eyes, the looser skin on his cheeks, the nickname made Messinius uncomfortable. Guilliman was a leader, a lord, a saviour, but the weight of government had changed him, the incomprehensible mass of it settling around him like a glacier encroaching on a pinnacle of rock, the ice accentuating the stone in the landscape before engulfing it and crushing it to sand.
Memories of the journey to Terra, the early parts of the Indomitus Crusade, his efforts to keep the primarch from harm, came to Messinius forcefully. The primarch was alone. Messinius wished to be a friend. It was presumptuous, dangerous maybe, to think that he could be anything more than a loyal servant. Roboute Guilliman was a son of the Emperor, the living god of humanity. What could Guilliman want from someone like Messinius? What could he possibly offer?
Guilliman looked up from his work.
‘Vitrian, is everything well with you? Please, approach, and sit as I asked,’ he said. Despite all he had to do, the evidence of which was laid out before him on the table, Guilliman’s concern was genuine. Messinius was humbled by it, then ashamed he had added to his gene-father’s burden.
‘I am sorry, my lord, it has been a long time since we met. I am struck by memory.’
‘And I neglect my manners,’ Guilliman said. He set down his quill. ‘Come. Let me put my distractions aside and give you my full attention.’
‘I understand your burdens,’ Messinius said. ‘I shall not stay long.’
Guilliman kept his eyes fixed on the Space Marine as he approached the table. Messinius remembered well the power of that regard, how it burned into him, calling into him a feeling both joyous and terrifying. His skin prickled at experiencing it again.
‘Nonsense,’ said Guilliman. ‘I shall make time for you. I heard Tanus. He wants me to rest more. He fusses, but perhaps he is right. I could do with a pause from my labours. It is good to see you again, my son.’
With a gentle tap the primarch deactivated the data-slate and pushed it aside. Reports from every part of the Imperium covered the table: maps, lists of names in a script almost too small to read, system charts, books of heraldry, all annotated in Guilliman’s neat hand.
‘What happened to your librarium, my lord?’ Messinius asked.
‘I have much to discuss with you, lord lieutenant. Not all of it of a pleasant nature, and some of it concerns you. So let us begin with an answer to your question. That at least is good news.’
Guilliman leaned back a little, as much as the armour would allow. Space Marines were bred to wear armour for long periods, months if need be, but Messinius could all too easily imagine the discomfort of being trapped in it.
‘The Macragge’s Honour was recovered from the Red Corsairs some time ago. It has been cleansed and refitted, and now it is ready. I shall take it again as my flagship once this business here is dealt with. It is a good omen. My possessions have been sent on ahead of me. That is why my librarium is empty.’ He looked around the empty room. Every sound the two of them made was reflected crisply back at them. ‘The Dawn of Fire shall continue in service. It has been a good ship to me, but the Macragge’s Honour is a symbol of continuity with the old Imperium as the Emperor dreamed it.’
‘It is also a more powerful ship.’
Guilliman smiled, as if acknowledging that even a primarch was not immune to the attraction of a more potent weapon. ‘Yes. It is, and it has many memories for me. It was my home for a long time.’
‘It is right that you should reclaim it.’
‘That it is.’
‘What of this bad news, lord? Perhaps we might deal with that? I do not wish to be kept in suspense.’
Guilliman began to speak, but closed his mouth when the door opened and Tanus returned with a tray. On it were two fine glasses sized for transhumans and a tall carafe of purple wine. No servants accompanied him. He set the tray down on a small side table, poured for the two lords, then left with a small bow.
Guilliman leaned over to take his glass. It took effort to be so delicate. The stem of the glass caught between armoured fingers, and he lifted it carefully to take a small sip. ‘Very well. I have had word of the White Consuls.’
Messinius tensed.
‘I am sorry, Messinius, none of your brothers survived the fall of Sabatine, so far as I can tell. The majority of your Chapter were fighting around the Cadian Gate when Abaddon attacked, and it appears most of them were killed in the course of their duties. A handful escaped. I have the whereabouts of fifteen of them. There may be more.’ Guilliman pushed a parchment towards Messinius. ‘This information is probably out of date. I shall secure more recent intelligence as soon as I can. I am sorry.’
Messinius took up the sheet. He scanned the names. He knew them all, of course; one thousand people was no great number.
‘There is only one other captain listed here. Borsellius. Are there no other officers?’
‘You and he are the last.’
