Gaunt began to answer.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said the man. ‘Sixteen. Sixteen. And Ghereppan’s the one to watch. That’s where the business will be done. The warmaster brings an array of lords militant to Urdesh with him, the cream of the corps, ninety-two per cent of the crusade high staff. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they could get their heads out of their arses, collectively, and deal with sixteen battles. The question really is… where’s my jacket?’
‘Here,’ said Gaunt. He took an old, black tail-jacket off the back of a chair. The brocade epaulettes were dusty, and the left-hand breast sagged under the weight of medals and crests.
‘Thank you,’ said the man as Gaunt held it for him so he could put it on over his nightshirt. ‘The question really is not what is happening here in Eltath, but why.’
He fiddled awkwardly with the collar of his jacket, trying to get it to sit straight, and looked at Gaunt.
‘Why? Isn’t that the curious question, Lord Militant Gaunt? Why now? Why like this? Why the tactical shift? What factors have influenced the timing? What has prompted such a drastic effort? Do you not suppose that it is those questions that should really occupy the consideration of the warmaster?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Is the correct answer. Tell me, Gaunt, was it you who started referring to me in the third person or me?’
‘You, sir.’
‘Honestly answered. Yes, well, I can’t be too careful. There are bastards everywhere. Let’s say it was you, because if we say it was me, then people would begin to doubt the clear function of my mental faculties, when I was merely occupied with thoughts of Melshun’s victory at Harppan when you came in and distracted me with notions of supper and the tray you don’t have. Why are you saluting?’
‘Because I should have done it earlier, sir,’ said Gaunt.
‘Well, you can stop it. We’re beyond that moment. You’re here now, and bothering me. I don’t like interruption. Not when I’m working. Interruptions break the flow. I can’t abide them. I need to get on. There’s so much to do. I had a man shot last week for knocking on the door.’
‘Shot?’
‘Well, he came in to polish my boots. Some Narmenian subaltern. I didn’t actually have him shot, but I made it very clear to him that if he did it again, there’d be a wall in the parade ground and a blindfold with his name on it waiting for him. But I actually wrote out the order. Didn’t send it. It was just boots, after all. I can always cross out his name and write in someone else’s next time it happens.’
‘I felt that I had to interrupt you, sir, I–’
The warmaster swatted Gaunt’s words away as though they were a fly buzzing around his face.
‘You’re all right. I had a mind to summon you at some point anyway. Interesting character. I’ve followed your service record. Low key, compared to some, but remarkable. Vervunhive. That was a superb piece of work. And after all, but for you, the Beati would not be standing with us. Have we met?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. Balhaut was a big place. It would have been there, if at all. I’ve kept my eye on you, over the years. You and your curious little regiment. Specialists, I do like specialists. People talk about Urienz and Cybon and their extraordinary track records, and they are remarkable, but you, Gaunt. Over the years, you have achieved on the field of war things that have truly shaped this undertaking of ours. Perhaps more than any other commander in the crusade’s ranks. Apart from me, obviously.’
He peered at Gaunt.
‘On the whole, that’s gone unrecognised, hasn’t it? Your contributions have often been small, discreet and far away from the major warzones. But they’ve chalked up. Do you realise, you are responsible for the deaths of more magisters than any other commander? Kelso would wet himself in public to have that kind of record. I suppose you’ve been overlooked because you’ve never commanded a main force, not a militant division of any size, and there’s that whole business of you being a commissar and a colonel. That made you a bit of a misfit. I suppose Slaydo was trying to be generous to you. He saw your worth. I see it too.’
He paused.
‘I miss Slaydo,’ he said quietly. ‘The old dog. He knew what he was doing, even when what he was doing was killing himself. A tough act to follow. The burden is… it’s immense, Ibram. Constant. Big boots to fill. More than a Narmenian subaltern can polish. Do you know Melshun?’
‘No, sir,’ said Gaunt.
‘Urdeshi clave leader, two centuries back. Fought in the dynastic wars here. Where’s the book gone?’
Macaroth began to leaf through the pile Gaunt had put on the desk. A few volumes fell onto the floor.
‘This library,’ he said as he rummaged, ‘it’s the dynastic record of Urdesh. Centuries of warfare. I believe in detail, Gaunt. The study of detail. The Imperium has fought so many wars they cannot be counted. So many battles. And it records them all, every last aspect and scrap of evidence. It’s all there in our archives. Everything we need to win supremacy of the galaxy. Every tactic, every fault and clue. Every battle turns, in the end, on some tiny detail, some tiny flaw or mistake or accidental advantage. Look here.’
He opened the old book and smoothed the pages.
‘Melshun’s clave was fighting the Ghentethi Akarred Clan for control of the Harppan geothermal power hub. He was getting his arse handed to him, despite a beautifully devised three-point assault plan. Then an Akarred officer, very junior, called… What’s that name there? I don’t have my glasses.’
‘Zhyler, sir. Clave Adjunct Zhyler.’
‘Thank you. Yes, him. He failed to close the lock-gate access to the island’s agriboat pen. A tiny thing. A detail. Nonsense really, in the grand scheme. But Melshun’s scouts spotted it, and Melshun sent forty per cent of his main force in through the lock on jet-launches. Forty per cent, Gaunt. Think of it. Such a risk. Such a gamble. Such a potentially suicidal commitment.’
He smiled at Gaunt.
‘Melshun brought down the Akarred. Took Harppan in a night. All thanks to one lock-gate. All thanks to one mistake. All thanks to Clave Adjunct Zhyler. I don’t look at the big picture, Gaunt. Not any more. It doesn’t interest me. The victory isn’t in it. It’s in the details. I look at the wealth of information that we as a race have retained. I analyse the details, the tiny errors, the tiny fragments of difference. And I learn, and I apply correctives.’
‘Your approach is micro-management?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Boo! Ugly term. This war won’t be won by a warmaster, or a lord militant. It will be decided by a single Imperial Guardsman, a common trooper, on the ground, doing something small that is either very right or very wrong.’
Macaroth sat down and stared up at the books surrounding them.
‘It’s all about data, you see?’ he said quietly. ‘The Imperium is the greatest data-gathering institution in history. A bureaucracy with sharp teeth. It’s a crime of great magnitude that we fail to use it. This chamber, for instance. Just a dusty library that gathers the records of one planet’s conflicted past. But it is full of treasure. You know, there’s not a… a mystical tome in this whole place? Not so much as one book of restricted lore or heretic power. Nothing the damned ordos would value and seek to suppress. Those wretched fools, locking data away, redacting it, prizing unholy relics. They wouldn’t look at this place twice. They have their uses, I suppose.’