Koorland marched towards the gate where the multi-lane Praetorian Way became a straight tunnel through the wall. To be coming home like this, alone, the bearer of half-truths and propagandic distortions, blunted the glory of their triumph over the orks. The moon was still in the sky. The wall stood strong in the face of its aggression, but scarring from its attacks opened up gaps all over the Palace’s skylines. Despite these reminders of vulnerability around them, the Senatorum Imperialis would doubtless go back to its infighting.
The blackness of the gate tunnel swallowed him, and the crowd’s jubilation was silenced. Shame dogged his footsteps and determination drove him on.
This state of affairs could not be allowed to persist. It was a thought that would not be quieted all the way through the giving of honours and renewal of fealty that took place in the Senatorum Imperialis at the end of their march.
After the ceremony was over, the highest of the high were ushered into a giant hall clad in ornately carved tiles of malachite and onyx. There an interminable feast began, bookended by pompous speeches. The food was quite exquisite, but Koorland was so invested in his problems he found himself insensible to the flavour. He filled himself as he had been trained to long ago, shovelling delicacies into his mouth to fuel his transhuman metabolism as if they were the lowest gruel. There were so many ingredients in each dish that a confusing amount of information flooded his brain via his neuroglottis, further darkening his mood.
After the feast came the reception, a grand and tedious party where Koorland was besieged by a stream of dignitaries that would not stop flowing. Their mouths dripped honeyed comments, a request or criticism behind every one. Koorland politely listened to his interlocutors, insisting he had no say in the policies of the Senatorum Imperialis, and that he had no intention of parlaying the assembled Chapters’ might into political influence. ‘I am a servant of the Emperor,’ and its variations became a phrase repeated as often as a battle catechism.
The High Twelve and many of the greatest of the lesser lords kept themselves distant from him. Those that attempted an approach shied away under Udo’s glowering. When Vangorich appeared at his side it was so unexpected that Koorland did not at first recognise him.
‘Good evening, Chapter Master,’ said a wiry man. He surveyed the room, not lifting his face to look at the Imperial Fist. Koorland prepared himself for the usual back and forth of insincere small talk and relentless probing, but something made him hesitate in returning the man’s greeting. He was armed only with a goblet of wine and a sardonic manner, but there was something about him, a mixture of poise, alertness and confidence that the others lacked and that signalled he was the most dangerous man in the room. Then he looked up, held out a hand, and Koorland knew him.
‘Drakan Vangorich,’ said Koorland.
Koorland’s giant fist engulfed Vangorich’s hand and they shook in the civilian manner, palm to palm.
‘I recognise you from our discussion. I thank you for your… recent good wishes.’
‘I am only happy they were well received,’ said Vangorich.
‘How could I not heed you? You are dangerous,’ said Koorland.
‘My, you are blunt. You don’t think these other fine ladies and gentlemen are?’ said Vangorich.
‘Not in the same way as you,’ said Koorland. ‘Not immediately. None of them would stand a chance against me in combat, but I suspect you might. And you also possess their political power. There are several of the greatest lords of the Space Marines in this chamber, but I think you are the most dangerous of us all.’
Vangorich shrugged slightly. He was small by unaltered human standards, and minute by those of the transhumans.
‘Correct again, Chapter Master. I suppose I am exceptionally dangerous. Shall I tell you another difference between myself and my fellow High Lords? You and I, Koorland, are on the same side.’
‘We are all on the same side,’ said Koorland. ‘The orks are on the other.’
‘Oh, Chapter Master, please!’ Vangorich tutted. Koorland noticed that when the Assassin spoke he hid his lips from prying eyes behind his goblet. ‘Don’t play the naïf with me. I’m a remarkably good judge of a man’s mood no matter their type. A necessary skill in my role. It is plain that you are not pleased nor are you satisfied by what you see here on Terra.’
‘I am not,’ admitted Koorland. ‘My brothers are all dead. I hold the men and women in this hall responsible.’
‘You are not alone in doing so. There are others of us who are frustrated by the failure of the Senatorum to contain the orks. Now that, Chapter Master, is why we are on the same side. I am sorry, by the way, about your brothers. There was one, Daylight, who was a passing acquaintance of mine.’
Koorland looked down at Vangorich hard. Daylight had been his company representative on Terra. ‘I have had enough of barbed words hidden in flattery. If you seek to goad me, I advise you to seek your sport elsewhere.’
‘I mean nothing ill by it,’ said Vangorich. ‘I will not say Daylight was my friend, but I spoke with him every day and I always regarded him well. He was an honourable man. It is a shame he realised his dream of going to war. It proved his end.’
‘War is our purpose. To die in battle is an honour.’ As Koorland said the words he doubted them. He remembered the devastation on Ardamantua. There had been little honour won there.
‘How refreshing,’ said Vangorich. ‘These others here, some few of them might hold such noble sentiments. Juskina Tull,’ he pointed out a tall woman in a complicated dress. She held herself aloof, and her face was blank of emotion. ‘She, for example, for all her delusions in initiating the Proletarian Crusade, her motives were at least pure — in part. Many of the rest of them cannot even claim that. They do not see beyond their own concerns, or they actively promote their own interests. Naturally, they all invoke the Emperor, and the good of the Imperium. But frankly it never ceases to amaze me how convenient it is that the will of the Emperor coincides with the aims of every High Lord, no matter how contradictory their statements appear when set one beside another.
‘See,’ said Vangorich, pointing. ‘The Provost, Zeck. He is perhaps a little overly concerned with his office. He is very good at his job, but too good to be effective on the council. Lord Commander Militant Verreault is at odds with Lord High Admiral Lansung, and is in Udo’s pocket. The telepaths Anwar and Sark are occupied so much with their own, vital efforts to keep the Imperium together that they are too easily swayed by quick solutions, whereas the Paternoval Envoy Gibran cannot be swayed at all.’ As he spoke, he indicated the High Lords one at a time. ‘Lansung is a brilliant military commander, but of all of them he is the most responsible for this sorry mess.’
‘His ship stood back while we attacked,’ said Koorland.
‘As it did when Tull’s Crusade went forward. I cannot think why. He has perhaps lost his self-belief. I’m sure his own follies were driven by the idea that he was the best man for the job. That only he knows the way to extend the Imperium’s reach. But his manoeuvring was nearly the end of us. They all think that they alone know the answer. Confidence and zealotry, a terrible mix. He hoarded his fleet when he should have attacked, all for the chance at an office he will now never hold. The Inquisition seeks to repair the machineries of government, but cannot agree with itself and falls to infighting.
‘The fat man there in three countesses’ worth of jewellery is Mesring, the Ecclesiarch. A less holy man I have rarely met. And let us not forget Kubik, of course, hiding away on Mars up to no good. He’s turning into something of a threat to the Imperium, between you and me. All the signs suggest he seeks to assert the supremacy of Mars over that of Terra.’ He sighed and waved his goblet around him, taking in all the dignitaries, toadies, servers, servitors and every other human being in the room. ‘A room full of agendas does not make for happy governance. It is, all things told, a sorry mess of a game.’