Kazader raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘As you wish, colonel-commissar,’ he said. ‘You are evidently a cautious man.’
‘That probably explains why I have lived so long,’ said Gaunt.
‘Indeed, sir, we presumed you dead. Long dead.’
‘Ten years dead.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the Urdeshi.
‘I never lost faith.’
Gaunt turned. The voice had come from the shadows nearby, under the lip of the dock overhang. A figure stepped out into the rain, flanked by aides and attendants. Guards with light poles fell in step, and their lanterns illuminated the figure’s face.
Gaunt didn’t recognise him at first. He was an old man, grey-bearded and frail, as if the dark blue body armour he wore were keeping him upright. His long cloak was hemmed in gold.
‘Not once,’ the man said. ‘Not once in ten years.’
Gaunt saluted, back straight.
‘Lord general,’ he said.
Barthol Van Voytz stepped nose to nose with Gaunt. He was still a big man, but his face was lined with pain. Raindrops dripped from his heavy beard.
He looked Gaunt in the eyes for a moment, then embraced him. There was great intent in his hug, but very little strength. Gaunt didn’t know how to react. He stood for a moment, awkward, until the general released him.
‘I told them all you’d come back,’ said Van Voytz.
‘It is good to see you, sir.’
‘I told them death was not a factor in the calculations of Ibram Gaunt.’
Gaunt nodded. He bit back the desire to snap out a retort. Jago was in the past, further in the past for Van Voytz than it was for Gaunt. The general had been a decent friend and ally in earlier days, but he had used Gaunt and the Ghosts poorly at Jago. The wounds and losses were still raw.
At least to Gaunt. To Gaunt, they were but five years young. To Van Voytz, an age had passed, and life had clearly embattled him with other troubles.
Van Voytz clearly did not see the reserve in Gaunt’s face. But then Gaunt’s eyes had famously become unreadable.
Eyes I only have because of you, Barthol.
Van Voytz looked him up and down, like a father welcoming a child home after a long term away at scholam, examining him to see how he has grown.
‘You’re a hero, Bram,’ he said.
‘The word is applied too loosely and too often, general,’ said Gaunt.
‘Nonsense. You return in honour and in triumph. What you have achieved…’ His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
‘We’ll have time to discuss it all,’ he said. ‘To discuss many things. Debriefing and so forth. Much to discuss.’
‘I was given to understand that the warmaster wished to receive my report.’
‘He does,’ nodded Van Voytz. ‘We all do.’
‘The office of the warmaster will arrange an audience,’ said the aide beside Van Voytz.
‘You remember my man here, Bram?’ said Van Voytz.
‘Tactician Biota,’ Gaunt nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Chief Tactical Officer, Fifth Army Group now,’ Biota nodded. ‘It’s good to see you again, colonel-commissar.’
‘I wanted to be the one to greet you, Bram,’ said Van Voytz, ‘in person, as you stepped onto firm land. Because we go back.’
‘We do.’
‘Staff is in uproar, you know,’ said Van Voytz. ‘Quite the stir you’ve created. But I insisted it should be me.’
‘I didn’t expect my disembarkation to be witnessed by a lord general,’ said Gaunt.
‘By a friend, Ibram,’ said Van Voytz.
Gaunt hesitated.
‘If you say so, sir,’ he replied.
Van Voytz studied him for a moment. Rain continued to drip from his beard. He nodded sadly, as if acknowledging Gaunt’s right to resentment.
‘Well, indeed,’ he said quietly. ‘I do say so. That’s a conversation we should have over an amasec or two. Not here.’
He looked up into the rain.
‘This is not the most hospitable location. I apologise that the site of your return is not a more glorious scene.’
‘It is what it is,’ said Gaunt.
‘Not just the weather, Gaunt.’ Van Voytz turned, and placed a hand on Gaunt’s shoulder, as if to lead him into the interior chambers below the lip of the dock. ‘Urdesh,’ he said. ‘This is a bloody pickle.’
Gaunt tensed slightly.
‘When you use words like “pickle”, Barthol,’ he said, ‘it is always an understatement. A euphemism. And I immediately expect it to be followed by some description of how the Ghosts can dig you out of it with their lives.’
There was silence, apart from the patter of rain on the dock and the awnings.
‘I declare, sir,’ said Kazader, ‘a man should not speak in such a way to a lord general. You must apologise immediately and–’
Van Voytz raised his hand sharply.
‘Thank you, Colonel Kazader,’ he said, ‘but I don’t need you to defend my honour. Colonel-Commissar Gaunt has always spoken his mind, which is why I value him, and also why he is still a colonel-commissar. What he said was the truth, emboldened by hot temper no doubt, but still the truth.’
He looked at Gaunt.
‘The Urdesh War will be resolved by good tactics and strong command, Gaunt,’ he said. ‘It requires nothing from you or your men. The real pickle is the crusade. Fashions have changed, Bram, and these days are perhaps better a time for truth and plain speaking. This is a moment, Bram, one of those moments that history will take note of.’
‘My relationship with time and history is somewhat skewed, sir,’ said Gaunt.
‘You suffered a lapse, did you not?’ asked Biota.
‘A translation accident,’ said Gaunt.
‘You’ve lost time,’ said Van Voytz, ‘but this time could now be yours. It could belong to a man of influence.’
‘I have influence?’ asked Gaunt.
Van Voytz chuckled.
‘More than you might imagine,’ he replied, ‘and there’s more to be gained. Let’s talk, somewhere out of this foul weather.’
Twelve: A Place Of Safety
Below him, through the heavy rain, Gol Kolea watched the Armaduke discharge its contents.
He was standing on an observation platform high on the ship’s superstructure. The platform had extended automatically when the ship’s hatches opened. Down below, like ants, slow trains of people processed down the covered gangways onto the dockside, and the dock’s heavy hoists swung down pallets laden with material and cargo.
He smelled cold air, faintly fogged with petrochemicals, and tasted rain. He felt the cold wind on his skin. It wasn’t home, because he’d never see that again, but it was a home. It reminded him of the high walls of Vervunhive.
In his life there, he’d only been up onto the top walls of the hive a few times. A man like him, a mine worker from the skirtlands of the superhive, seldom had reason or permission to visit such a commanding vantage. But he remembered the view well. His wife had loved it. When they had first been together, he had sometimes saved up bonus pay to afford a pass to the Panorama Walk, as a treat for her. He’d even proposed to her up there. That was an age ago, before the kids had come along.
The thought of his children pained him. Gol hated that he registered fear and pain every time they crossed his mind. Though it didn’t feel like it for a moment, it was ten years since he’d led the drop to Aigor 991 for the resupply. Ten years since he’d heard the voice. Ten whole years since the voice had told him he was a conduit for daemons, and that he had to fetch the eagle stones or his child would perish.
The terror of that day had lingered with him. He tried to put it out of his mind. When you fought in the front line against the Archenemy, the Ruinous Powers tried to trick you and pollute you all the time. He’d told himself that’s all it was: a warp trick. He’d made a report to Gaunt too, about the voice and its demand, but not about everything. How could he report that? For the sake of his child, how could he admit he had been condemned.