‘I said he speaks plainly,’ Van Voytz replied. ‘I’ve always admired that.’
He looked at Gaunt.
‘Has he slighted each one of us?’ Van Voytz asked rhetorically. ‘Yes. In some cases, many times. Have we seen past and borne those slights? Every time, for we have, ultimately, always come to see the greater sense of his intentions. This is not personal malice, Gaunt.’
‘And you all think this way?’ asked Gaunt. ‘Not just the six of you? All thirty tonight?’
‘Not all,’ said Cybon. ‘Some, like Grizmund, are new-made and still grateful to Macaroth. Some, like Urienz, had their careers forged by Macaroth and would never speak out against him. Some, like Kelso, are just too old and doctrinaire. But all feel it. All see it. And most would side with us if we made an intervention.’
‘But you are the inner circle?’ said Gaunt.
Tzara lifted her glass.
‘We are the ones with no agenda except victory,’ she said. ‘The ones with nothing to forfeit from his favour. We are the ones with the balls to act rather than struggle on in silence.’
‘And how will you act?’ asked Gaunt. He took a sip of his drink to steady his temper.
‘In coordination,’ said Cybon, ‘we can raise a declamation of confidence. This can be circulated through staff and countersigned. We all have allies. A majority will carry it. We are more than confident we have the numbers. Then we present it to him, and make our decision known to him.’
‘A formal and confidential request has already been sent to the Sector Lord of Khulan, the Masters of the Fleet and the High lords of Terra for their support in the disposition of the warmaster,’ said Blackwood.
‘This is no ward room coup, Gaunt,’ said Bulledin. ‘We have begun the process formally, and with due respect to the approved procedure. We are doing this by the book.’
Gaunt looked at the crest on the tablecloth in front of him.
‘This makes more sense now,’ he said grimly. ‘Another vote to carry the numbers. A militant commander in your pocket. You know I owe personal loyalty to at least three of you. You count on me being your man. It makes this rather hollow.’
‘It’s deserved, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘Fully deserved.’
Gaunt looked at him.
‘Tell me, Barthol, before this was pressed into my unsuspecting hand tonight, did you have the numbers? Or am I the one vote that sways the difference?’
‘We had the numbers, Gaunt,’ snapped Cybon. ‘We’ve had them for years. Your support would simply add to the strength of our voice, not force a majority.’
‘That crest, militant commander, was given to you for your service,’ said Lugo. ‘As Barthol says, it is fully deserved. But the timing…’
‘The timing, sir?’ asked Gaunt.
‘It was necessary to elevate you as soon as possible,’ said Lugo.
‘The process of deposition is under way,’ said Bulledin. ‘There was just one factor we did not have in place.’
‘And what’s that, sir?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Succession,’ said Cybon.
‘No man of rank less than militant commander could ever be elected directly to the post of warmaster,’ said Van Voytz.
‘Are you…’ Gaunt started to say. ‘Are you insane?’
‘We cannot simply depose Macaroth in time of war,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We cannot break the line of command. Deposition needs to go hand in hand with succession. To see this through successfully, we need to have the replacement standing ready. A candidate acceptable to all.’
‘We all have baggage,’ said Blackwood. ‘It can’t be any of us.’
‘Besides, that would smack too much of personal ambition,’ said Tzara.
‘But you,’ said Lugo, ‘the People’s Hero, the slayer of Asphodel, Saviour of the Beati, returned in glory, ten years missing, no litany of feuds and staff squabbles dogging your heels. And no history of ambition in the matter. Your hands are spotlessly clean. Why, you were unaware of the entire initiative until tonight.’
‘Slaydo almost did it after Balhaut,’ said Cybon. ‘You know that.’
‘You are our candidate, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We do not need your support. We merely need you to be ready when we declare you warmaster.’
Seventeen: Eagles
The regiment’s psyber-eagle was roosting on a fence overlooking the billet yard, one head tucked asleep, the other wary and watching the dawn fiercely.
The sky was pink and the angles of the shadows long and hard. Zhukova wandered into the yard, greeting the sentries at the billet doors.
‘Up early,’ said Daur.
‘So are you,’ she replied with a smile.
‘If I sleep for too long, the scar gets sore,’ he replied, patting the side of his belly with a grimace. ‘A little stroll stretches it out and eases the cramp.’
‘Elodie not mind you leaving her bed now you’re only just in it?’ asked Zhukova.
‘I’ll be back directly,’ said Daur with a grin. ‘Anyway, she’s been up half the night. Criid’s little girl, Yoncy. Tona had to shave her head. Lice, you know. Poor kid’s beside herself at the loss of her pigtails. They’ve been taking it in turns to sit with her and calm her down.’
‘I thought I heard sobbing,’ said Zhukova.
‘Oh, that,’ laughed Daur. ‘That’s just all the hearts you’ve broken. The men of T Company, crying in their sleep.’
Zhukova snorted.
‘I was going for a run,’ she said.
‘Check with the scouts. They’re watching the area. After yesterday.’
She nodded, and then paused.
‘What’s this now?’ she asked.
An armoured transport, unmarked, was rolling down the track towards the yard.
‘Is that Gaunt back at last?’ she asked.
Daur shrugged.
‘No idea,’ he said.
Fazekiel, Baskevyl and Domor emerged from the billet units behind them. Each of them was in a clean number one uniform.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Daur.
‘Exciting day,’ said Bask. ‘We’re summoned to the ordos.’
‘What? Why?’ asked Zhukova.
‘Because someone,’ said Domor, looking daggers at Baskevyl, ‘was daft enough to feth around with the fething special cargo, that’s why.’
‘It’s routine,’ said Fazekiel. She finished pinning up her hair, and put her cap on, peak first. ‘The ordos took charge of the trinkets we picked up, and they want to interview everyone who came in contact with them.’
‘Trinkets, she says,’ moaned Domor.
‘Luna’s right, it’s just routine,’ said Bask. He dead-panned straight at Zhukova and Daur. ‘When we don’t come back, dear friends, remember our names.’
Zhukova and Daur laughed.
The transport drew up in the centre of the yard, and a rear hatch opened. Inquisitor Laksheema’s little aide stepped down.
‘Fazekiel? Domor? Baskevyl?’ she called out, reading off her data-slate.
‘Keep it down, you’ll wake the dead,’ Baskevyl called back.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Onabel. She waited, sour-faced, as the trio walked over to her and climbed aboard. Baskevyl shot Daur and Zhukova a cheeky wave as the hatch closed.
‘Well,’ said Daur, ‘fun for them.’
‘They can keep that kind of fun,’ said Zhukova.
‘What is it?’ asked Felyx. ‘Is it my father?’
He was squirmed down in his bunk under a heap of blankets, just his face poking out. At the window, Dalin yawned as he looked out into the yard below.
‘No, some transport,’ he said. ‘Baskevyl heading off with Shoggy and the commissar.’
‘Ludd?’
‘No, not Ludd,’ said Dalin. He yawned again as the transport drove away. ‘Fazekiel. We should get up.’