‘Really?’ asked Gaunt. ‘A tempting prospect? I’ve heard neither of you confirm that her deployment is a deliberate tactic of provocation. I’d be reassured if you said so. It’s clinical, and risky, but it’s ruthlessly effective. What troubles me is that staff is unaware of the effect.’
‘Once again, sir,’ said Kazader indignantly, ‘you speak with an insulting tone that–’
‘Shut up,’ Gaunt told him. He took the wand from Biota and adjusted the table view to a greater scale.
‘The Archenemy of man is an unholy monster,’ said Gaunt, ‘but we’d be fools to underestimate his intelligence. And idiots to presume his motives are the same as our own. See? In the Ghereppan zone, Sek’s entire approach has shifted. By placing the Saint there, we have altered the enemy’s plans. He’s not interested in Urdesh. He’s interested in the Saint.’
‘We did…’ Cybon began. ‘That is to say, the warmaster did reckon on a shift of tactics. The Saint isn’t bait. More… a goad. You have pointed out that Sek’s mode of warfare has altered. We have begun to push him into rash structural positioning and unsupported advance.’
‘Thank you, sir, for confirming my appraisal at last,’ said Gaunt. ‘Yes, it is working… but it must be capitalised on. Sek could be broken at Ghereppan. You’ve made him clumsy, and weakened his core. But if this ruse fails, he takes the Saint and we suffer a critical loss.’
‘It will be capitalised on, sir,’ snapped Cybon.
‘It can be capitalised on by the commander on the ground,’ said Gaunt. ‘There are huge opportunities to throttle or even crush the enemy forces. Of course, the commander on the ground needs be aware of the situation in order to capitalise on it. Is she?’
There was silence.
‘Does the Saint know she’s your goad, Lord Cybon?’ asked Gaunt. ‘If she doesn’t, for feth’s sake… She won’t appreciate the enemy’s weakness and won’t be able to exploit it.’
‘She has senior officers,’ said Van Voytz. ‘Advisors…’
‘Is staff here advising her too?’ asked Gaunt. ‘Or are we just assuming? Bait needs to know that it’s bait if the trap is going to work.’
Cybon rose to his feet.
‘That crest, Gaunt, has made you impudent,’ he said. ‘You lecture us about tactics?’
‘I think these are Macaroth’s tactics,’ said Gaunt. ‘I think he sees it very clearly. He has assigned staff to implement them, perhaps without fully explaining his thinking. Staff is executing a plan without fully appreciating why it’s a plan. This, I think, is an example of the lack of interchange you complained to me about.’
‘Now listen, Gaunt,’ said Van Voytz, his face flushed.
‘I want to win this war, general,’ said Gaunt. ‘I doubt I’m the only person in this room who thinks that’s the foremost priority. Before we implement the warmaster’s orders, we need to comprehend his ideas.’
‘Are you done?’ asked Cybon.
‘I’ve barely started,’ said Gaunt. ‘It’s not just the Saint. You think she’s the only bait here on Urdesh? Chief Tactical Officer Biota related to me the “madness” of Sek’s operations on this world. Both sides should be striving to acquire, as intact as possible, the considerable resources of this forge world. After all, that’s why the reconquest wasn’t given to the hammer-fist of the fleet. Sek’s schemes have, for months, seemed to be disjointed, as if the monster has lost his way, descended into feral nonsense. But what we’re seeing today at Ghereppan can be enlarged planet-wide. From the outset, Sek has been less interested in Urdesh than in the value we place upon it. We are holding back so that Urdesh remains intact. He is counting on that. He is counting on the fact that we value this planet as a commodity to be preserved. I believe that he is so anxious to prove his worth… or so anxious to repudiate his reputation in the eyes of the Archon… that the possession of Urdesh is secondary to him. He has set the trap. He has laid the bait for us. That bait is Urdesh and Sek himself. We are so eager to take this world whole and end him. So eager, we have brought the Saint. The Saint, the warmaster, and a significant section of high command staff.’
Gaunt looked at them.
‘Sek doesn’t want Urdesh,’ he said. ‘He wants to decapitate the crusade.’
The late morning had brought heavy rain in across the bay and Eltath. It was dismal. Baskevyl, Domor and Fazekiel had sheltered for two hours under the colonnades of the ordo stronghold, listening to the rain patter off the yard’s paving slabs. The last time Baskevyl had tried the porter’s office, a surly man had emerged after repeated knocks and told him that transport would be arranged, and that because of a scarcity of drivers, they would have to keep waiting.
‘We’ve been waiting for a while,’ Baskevyl had replied, biting back the urge to shout at the man.
The porter had shrugged as if to say, ‘I know, what can you do, eh?’
This time, Fazekiel had gone to the door and hammered hard. There was no response. She tried the door, and found it was locked. So was the door to the main atrium.
‘Have they just left us out here?’ asked Domor, knuckling rain drops off his nose.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Baskevyl.
‘No, it’s typical,’ said Fazekiel. ‘They made us wait when we got here, they’re making us wait again.’
‘Why?’ asked Domor.
‘It’s a game,’ said Fazekiel.
‘What’s the point of the game?’ Domor asked.
‘To show us who’s in charge,’ she said.
Baskevyl buttoned up his jacket.
‘How far is it to the billet?’ he asked.
Domor shrugged.
‘Seven, eight miles?’ he said.
‘We could have walked home by now,’ said Baskevyl. He started off towards the gate and the street beyond.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Fazekiel.
‘Walking it,’ said Baskevyl.
Apart from the rain, Gaelen quarter was quiet. Baskevyl hadn’t paid much attention on the drive in, but now he was conscious of how empty and bleak the streets surrounding the ordos stronghold were. It wasn’t derelict. The area was full of mercantile offices, commercial buildings and counting houses, and they were all well kept and in good repair. But they were all shut, closed, locked and barred. Shutters covered their windows, and cages were padlocked across their doors. There was no sign of life. Baskevyl wasn’t sure if it was simply a non-business day, a holy day, perhaps, or if the premises were permanently closed. They all looked like they’d been locked up the night before, never to be opened again.
‘We just walk,’ said Baskevyl.
‘You know the way?’ asked Fazekiel. ‘We don’t know this city.’
Baskevyl grinned at her, and jerked a thumb towards the despondent Domor.
‘Shoggy’s Tanith, Luna,’ he said. ‘He’s not going to get lost.’
Baskevyl looked at Domor.
‘You’re not, are you?’
Domor shook his head.
‘This way,’ he said, taking the lead. ‘Top of the hill, then to the left. I don’t remember the route they brought us, but I can find Low Keen from here.’
They trudged up the hill in the rain, soaked.
‘There’s a good omen,’ remarked Fazekiel.
Someone had daubed the words the saint stands with us on the side of a nearby townhouse.
‘If she stands with us,’ said Domor, ‘she’s soaked to her underwear too.’
The hill was steep. At the top, on a junction, they were able to look back and see the grey smudge of the bay beyond the sloping rooftops. The weather was coming in off the sea, a grey haze. They could see the shadows of heavy rain slanting from even heavier cloud.