She glanced up at the cyberskull.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘All cobalt after all. Presumably because it is vague.’
‘What does it mean, “offspring”?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘According to your asset,’ said Laksheema, ‘that is open to interpretation. Allegedly, the word “offspring” can mean a thing made, or a child, or something spawned. It is the female noun, so it might refer to a female child, but apparently in the Archenemy tongue, things are female. Ships, as an example, are called “she”. In all likelihood, the statement refers to some construction of immense significance. My interrogators are pursuing the matter with the asset.’
‘Where is Mabbon?’ asked Baskevyl.
Laksheema replied, but the drone’s buzz obscured her words.
‘Do you know what the eagle stones are, ma’am?’ asked Fazekiel.
‘Undoubtedly xenos. Etruin is confident they match artefacts and cultural relics of the Kinebrach, a species that is known to have existed in the Khan Group until about ten thousand years ago.’
‘The age of the Great Crusade,’ said Fazekiel.
‘They persisted for a short while beyond that,’ said Laksheema. ‘Into the age of Heresy.’
‘But they no longer exist?’ asked Fazekiel.
‘Xenoarchaeologists believe they became extinct during that period.’
‘As a result of the Great Heresy?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘My dear major,’ said Laksheema, ‘you know full well how patchy our records of ancient history are. We have no idea what happened to them.’
‘I’ve heard the name, though,’ said Baskevyl. ‘When we were on Jago. The Kinebrach. They were the ones said to have built the fortress worlds.’
‘Oh, they didn’t build them,’ said Laksheema. ‘But they almost certainly used them.’
‘What are the stones for?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘We have no idea,’ said Laksheema. ‘Nor do we have any idea why the Archenemy considers them to be so valuable. But it is quite apparent they are held in high esteem. Your friend Gol is our most direct corroboration of that.’
She looked at the three of them.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to add?’ she asked. ‘Anything else you’d care to share? I advise you, in full view of Colonel Grae, that now is the time, in this convivial atmosphere. If it later transpires that you have withheld any pertinent information, your cobalt clearance and association with a militant commander will not be sufficient to shield you. If we are obliged to speak again, our discourse will be far less agreeable. Are we understood?’
They nodded.
‘Anything?’
Domor and Fazekiel shook their heads.
‘No, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl.
‘A moment,’ she said, and turned to Grae. The two exchanged a few remarks that were entirely screened by the drone’s aggravating buzz.
Laksheema looked back at them.
‘That will be all,’ she said.
They walked out into the stronghold’s courtyard. Savant Onabel had told them to wait, and that transport back to the billet would be arranged. Baskevyl was certain that meant they had several hours to wait. It was starting to rain. It wasn’t clear if the distant grumbling was thunder or a bombardment.
Baskevyl let out a deep, long breath. Fazekiel stood and fiddled obsessively with the buttons of her coat. Domor sat on a stone block and lit a lho-stick.
‘I’ll be happy for that to never happen again,’ he said.
Bask nodded.
‘I will talk Gaunt through it,’ said Fazekiel. ‘Relate what happened. Was it just me, or did either of you sense territorial gamesmanship here? The ordos, with their agenda, grinding against the Astra Militarum? Squabbling over how they divide information?’
‘I got that,’ said Baskevyl. ‘Grae was uncomfortable. This is clearly very big.’
‘I thought we were all on the same side,’ said Domor, exhaling a big puff of smoke. His hands were shaking.
‘We’re supposed to be,’ said Fazekiel.
‘But who pulls the most rank?’ asked Domor. ‘I mean, when it comes down to it? The Inquisition, or Astra Militarum high command?’
‘I would say the warmaster,’ said Baskevyl. ‘In the long run, no matter the clout of the ordos, the warmaster must have final authority. He’s the representative of the Emperor.’
Domor glowered.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘we should warn Gol as soon as we get back.’
‘Warn him?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘Well, we pretty much sold him down the river,’ said Domor. ‘Didn’t matter what we said or how we answered, Gol stayed in the frame. He was the poor feth it spoke to. Feth, right at the end there, what they were saying about him.’
Baskevyl looked at him.
‘What do you mean, “at the end”?’ he asked. ‘The drone was redacting them. We couldn’t–’
‘Feth me, Bask,’ said Domor, rising to his feet and grinding the butt of the lho-stick under his heel. ‘All these years serving with Verghast scratch company grunts, and you don’t watch mouths automatically?’
He tapped his augmetics.
‘Screw the fancy drone and its crypto-field,’ he said. ‘I was lip reading them the whole time. Second nature.’
‘What the feth did they say, Shoggy?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘That fancy bitch wants Gol. She told Grae as much. Says she wants him brought in right away, no arguments,’ replied Domor. ‘And from the look on Grae’s face, it wasn’t going to be a pleasant chat like the one we just had.’
Nineteen: Weeds
The yard in front of the Tanith billet was bustling. The munition resupply had finally arrived, in the form of three cargo-10 trucks in Munitorum drab. Hark, who had discovered that being the senior commissar attached to a militant commander carried more clout than being the senior commissar attached to a colonel, stood in discussion with the Munitorum adepts, processing the dockets. Spetnin, Theiss and Arcuda were supervising the men transferring the munitions off the flatbeds. Theiss and Elam had sand-bagged and dug-in one of the hab’s old washroom blocks as a dump, and ghosts were lugging the long boxes and crates down the path.
Gol Kolea sat on a hab doorstep, enjoying the pale sun that had emerged briefly between the day’s showers. In the makeshift kitchens nearby, the folk of the retinue had gathered to begin preparations for the ‘big feast’ Blenner had announced to celebrate Gaunt’s elevation. There was a lot of bustle and commotion, and a lot of laughter. Zwiel was lending a hand, and apparently seeing fit to bless every utensil and every ingredient. The children, bored by the work, had broken off to play, chasing through the ruined edges of the compound area, and playing skipping games in the yard. He could see Yoncy, skipping across ropes swung by two younger girls. He could hear them chanting, some weird sing-song thing that he’d been told was a play-yard song from Tanith. ‘The King of the Knives’. It sounded ominous, but then all the old scholam playsongs and nursery chants had darkness beneath their innocent words.
He watched Yoncy. Her shaved head was brutal, and she suddenly seemed bigger next to the smaller kids, almost ungainly. Tona had warned him. She was growing up now. She wasn’t really a child any more, no matter how she behaved. Maybe the haircut had been a good thing, though Gol knew she hated it. No more pigtails. No more pretending she was just a baby.