Twenty-Nine
An individual was more vulnerable when he or she was alone. That was basic.
The Officio taught its agents and operatives to watch the behaviour patterns of a target patiently and methodically, learn their routines, and then carry out the play when the individual was most vulnerable.
Alone. In a bath, perhaps, or a bedchamber. On a retreat to a country property, or in transit in a small craft. When at his ease or relaxing, his guard down. Eating, that was a good moment.
Approaching a target when he or she was accompanied by other people made things much more difficult. The play might be compromised. A definitive killing action might not be possible. The individual might be surrounded by bodyguards, retainers or a security retinue. Whoever they turned out to be, and whatever their level of expertise, vigilance and reaction, they were witnesses. The presence of others increased the agent’s vulnerability. It reduced the chances of success, or anonymity. It reduced the chances of finishing the play and withdrawing alive.
There were eighty-four thousand, two hundred and forty-seven people with Lord High Admiral Lansung when Vangorich approached him. Vangorich knew the figure precisely because he had swept the immense domed chamber with a miniature sensor drone.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Lansung, dressed in the gold and scarlet robes of the Winter Harvest Battlefleet, had just finished delivering the commencement speech at the Imperial College of Fleet Strategy, and the vast audience of immaculate cadets and staffers was still applauding. Golden cherub servitors flew overhead among the banners and streamers, clashing cymbals and playing fanfares on long silver trumpets. Lansung was coming off-stage with his armsmen around him: twelve bodyguards from the Navy’s Royal Barque division. The Royal Barque was the name of a mythical, or rather conceptual, ship of the fleet. It was not an actual, physical vessel, though it had a serial code, a keel number and a registration mark, as well as its own sombre ensign design. When a man was selected to join the crew of the Royal Barque, he was being recruited into the Navy’s elite protection squad. Such individuals were all highly trained and experienced killers, who were then further trained and honed, and appointed as bodyguards to the high-ranking admirals and fleet officers.
They were all tall, stone-faced men in black uniforms with red piping and frogging. Each carried a sheathed cutlass and wore a pair of red dress gloves. One of them, the chief protection officer, carried the admiral’s fur shako.
The armsmen tensed slightly when they noticed Vangorich approaching through the crowd of cheering cadets, and the beaming tutors and executives hurrying to congratulate the admiral on his perceptive and inspiring remarks.
‘Step back,’ one of them snarled quietly, hoping to avoid a scene. Lansung was busy shaking hands with the Head of the Bombard School. Vangorich simply smiled at the armsman.
Lansung, alert as ever, saw Vangorich, and saw he was being challenged. He expertly detached himself from the Head of the Bombard School and swept in.
‘Really, Romano,’ he said to his armsman, ‘you must learn not to obstruct a member of the Imperial Senatorum.’
‘My apologies, lord,’ the bodyguard said to Vangorich. He clearly didn’t mean it. He had not recognised the modest and unostentatious man in black when he had approached, and he did not know him any better now.
‘Do you often come to hear me talk, Drakan?’ Lansung asked.
‘Almost never, my lord,’ said Vangorich. ‘But I must do so more often.’
They started to walk together through the huge chamber into the mobbing crowd, followed by the men from the Royal Barque detachment. Trumpeting cherubs and psyber-eagles flocked after them through the air. Lansung smiled and nodded to those he passed, shaking hands with some. He barely looked at Vangorich as they continued their conversation. Vangorich, for his part, paid more attention to the finely painted ceiling fresco visible through the flags and banners high above, great images of battlefleet ships at full motive, gunports open, crushing enemies.
‘Why have you come, Drakan?’ asked Lansung. ‘Surely not to kill me, or you’d have chosen a less public moment.’
‘Oh, you don’t realise how good I am at my work, my lord,’ Vangorich replied.
Lansung shot him a look. He’d made his comment in jest. There hadn’t been a sanctioned Senatorum assassination in a very long time.
‘My lord, I’m joking,’ said Vangorich. ‘Rest assured. Indeed, I chose this moment precisely because it was public. I’d have hated you to get the wrong idea if I’d shown up suddenly, unannounced, in a more private place. Things can get so complicated. Messy. I don’t know what it is. People just get jumpy around me. Must be my face.’
‘I’m busy, Drakan,’ said Lansung, energetically shaking hands with Lord Voros of Deneb.
‘Then I’ll cut right to it, my lord,’ said Vangorich. ‘We need to become allies.’
‘What?’
‘Political allies, my lord.’
‘Why?’
Vangorich smiled.
‘I know. It sounds insane. We’ve never been allies before, and I absolutely know why. I’m not important enough to cultivate. And you, my dear lord, you are about as important as it gets.’
‘Where is this going, Drakan, my good friend?’ asked Lansung, trying to glad-hand others.
‘Now there’s an encouraging phrase,’ said Vangorich. ‘Indeed. “My good friend.” I know you don’t mean it in any literal way, but it shows me you’re willing to make a decent show of civility, and put a good face on a public encounter. That does encourage me. So, let me press this. We need to become allies.’
‘Explain to me why before I lose patience,’ Lansung said, smiling a fake smile at two august fleet commanders.
‘You are a very important man, my lord,’ Vangorich said. ‘One day, perhaps one day soon, you may be the most important man of all. The balance of power you hold in the High Twelve is very solid. You, Lord Guilliman, his excellency the Ecclesiarch. You draw the others around you. None can stand against you.’
Vangorich wasn’t blind to the fact that he was standing in the middle of a vivid demonstration of Lansung’s personal power and influence, the cult of his personality. The Imperial College of Fleet Strategy, the Navy’s most elite academy, was on its way to becoming Lansung’s private youth movement. Lansung had been a graduate, and he favoured it unstintingly. All the best fleet promotions went to graduates from the College. In return, the cadets showed the Lord High Admiral a form of blind support that bordered on adoration. Many proudly referred to themselves as ‘Lansungites’, and modelled their tactical theories after Lansung’s career actions.
‘The trouble is,’ said Vangorich, ‘though none can stand against you, some might try.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It would be foolish. Divisive. But there are some parties, my lord, who might try to oppose you even if it was futile. And that could harm the Imperium at this time.’
Lansung looked at Vangorich directly for the first time, and held his gaze for a moment.
‘Who are you talking about?’ he asked.
‘It would be inappropriate to betray a confidence, sir,’ Vangorich replied, still smiling. ‘The point, sir, the real point, is Ardamantua.’
‘Ardamantua? Drakan, that’s an entirely military issue. Why is a political outsider like you even slightly interested in—’
‘We should all be interested in it, sir. All of us. Ardamantua is turning into a debacle. An extraordinary military calamity actually, and we don’t yet know what the consequences will be. But let’s imagine for a moment that they are the worst possible consequences.’