Саймон Спуриэр - Lord of the Night

'Where is the package now? Was it opened? Was the seal broken?'

'It was not opened by us. It has been delivered to the customer.'

Oh, she'd been so stupid!

Two enigmas, one solution!

This was what Kaustus had been doing! This was why he had sent his retinue to quell the xenophile cells, rather than attending himself. This was what had kept him, day after day, sealed in the governor's company, dismissing every other thing.

Kaustus had the Corona Nox.

The doors opened some two and a half hours after they had first closed, and they did so upon an occupant ready for anything. She had had plenty of time to dwell upon the epiphany that had snared her. Plenty of time to allow disbelief and denial to seep across her senses, replaced ultimately by a deep, abiding fury.

She'd been right. Her master had been lying to her — to everyone — all along. He'd known the Night Lord was real. He'd known, somehow, that the Umbrea Insidior would come to Equixus. He'd been waiting with eager hands to take delivery of the Traitor Marine's greatest prize.

Why then had he resisted killing the beast? Why had he risked its wrath, its gradual attempts to reclaim what was rightfully its? Why had he done everything in his power to protect the monster?

She'd realised with gathering gloom that her epiphany had simply birthed a new generation of questions, and at the core of her simmering anger the fundamental issue remained ironclad and unaltered:

What are you up to, Kaustus? What are you doing, you bastard?

And so she stepped from the elevator with a laspistol in one hand and her senses on full alert, anticipating attack or flight. What greeted her eyes — and her psychic senses — was therefore far from expected.

There was no one waiting for her.

The elevator had delivered her into the heart of the governor's gallery. Treasures without count extended into the gloom on every side, plinths bathed in hard light bearing jewelled gewgaws and priceless archeotech. And just as her alertness settled and she began to relax, once more the terror consumed her, the overwhelming certainty rushed across her:

The Night Lord was here. He was nearby. He was close !

She stumbled forwards with the pitiful gun primed, feeling ridiculous and naked. The certainty of the creature's presence — a stormcloud at the forefront of her astral senses, lapping froth-slick pollution against her psionic self — was undeniable: the beast's mindscape a unique image that she could have recognised anywhere, at any time. He is here! Emperor preserve me, he's here! And yet... Between each gallery plinth there lurked only an open space. The shadows of the room's perimeter concealed nothing but walls and windows, and for the first time she could remember Mita found herself questioning her senses. She spun and ducked, straining her eyes and ears, all to no avail.

She was so sure! So utterly convinced that her foe was present... and yet, nothing. She followed the pulse of his psychic presence like a bloodhound tracking a scent, and she moved between each exhibit with exaggerated care, all too aware of the servitor eyes tracking her movements from the ceiling, long-barrelled weapons inert as long as she kept her distance. And then there it was.

It occupied the tallest plinth at the torus-room's natural epicentre, surrounded by a wall of blazing illuminators. Even had her senses not directed her to it she guessed it would have drawn her eye like the brightest star in the sky, by reason of its setup and positioning alone. Most peculiar of all, only it, amongst all the wonders of the governor's collection, had no judicious servitor to watch over it.

It was a box. A dull, uninteresting crate, shining with the oily lustre of adamantium. Across its surface ugly runes and obscene scriptures were daubed in red and white, and at its front — spread across the inverse of its hinge in the shape of a snarling skull, borne aloft on great red wings — was a cryptoseal. It was unopened, the beads of its interlocking plates remained meshed together, unprimed by the one word, the one cryptic phrase'code, that would send pins snapping into place in the tiny logic engine within, grinding upon ancient gears and unlocking the whole.

It radiated thought. It oozed malice. It exuded a palpable sense of presence that... yes, she was sure... that mimicked life itself.

She realised with a start that this was the prize. This was the item that had been stolen from the Traitor Marine, and the ocean of sentience that burned from within was so akin to the Night Lord's own mind that it had fooled her. This close up she could detect the tiniest of differences, the ugly inconsistencies that should have told her, long before: she had not sensed the presence of her foe. She had sensed his greatest possession, his dearest treasure, a mystical something that burned with an astral presence all of its own.

The Corona Nox.

'You begin to understand why I drugged you, perhaps?'

Kaustus's voice.

He was directly behind her.

He'd been watching. Of course.

Damn him! Damn him to the jaws of the warp! 'What do y—'

'I had to be sure I had the correct item. The thieves who stole it were hardly trustworthy, and whilst I could rely upon the governor's... interest in all things rare and valuable, even he lacked the resource to determine the item's true ownership. I knew that you would sense the beast's presence if I had the right package.'

Confusion gripped her. Had the duplicity truly gone so deep? Had he used her so mercilessly? 'This is... oh, God-Emperor, I don't under—'

'Naturally I couldn't let you get too close to the item. I'd already decided you were better off out the way. A microdart in your arm, child. It was the easiest thing.'

Stall for time, Mita. Draw him off guard. Keep him busy. Then shoot the warpshit bastard right in the face.

' I almost died! In my dreams... I... I couldn't get back to my body an—'

'Yes, yes. Very interesting.' Scorn dripped from his voice. 'Now put the gun down, interrogator. Kick it away.'

So much for stalling for time. She struggled to find a tone of rebellion in her voice but it was stifled, crushed down by the sense of defeat that gripped her.

'I'm not your interrogator any more'

'Ha. Very true. The gun. Now! '

She bent to do as he said, and as she placed the pistol against the floor she reached out with her mind, probing for weaknesses. But no, Kaustus's brain was as impregnable as ever, protected by whatever mental techniques the Ordo had bequeathed upon him. If he was accompanied by anyone else they failed to register in her psychic senses. There was nothing else she could do but comply.

She skittered the gun away into the shadows with one foot, and turned slowly to face her treacherous master.

He had stepped from the frescoed doorway linking the governor's throne room to the gallery, and stood flanked by six gun servitors: praetorian monstrosities with bodies moulded in polished bronze, bulging with stylised representations of human musculature, faceless heads swarming with sensory ganglia. In each iron-fused hand a weapon was hefted, and Mita found herself staring into the barrels of bolters, meltaguns and flamers alike. It was an impressive show of strength, but — psychically speaking — utterly blank.

'All this for me?' she mumbled, dazed.

'Ha, no.' Kaustus fiddled with a tusk, scowling. 'We were expecting someone taller. It seems he was delayed. I believe we have you to thank for that.'

'W-what do y... oh...'

And piece by piece, like a jigsaw completing itself, the fragments of enigma came together.

The Night Lord would have ascended in the elevator himself had he not been attacked in the Macharius Gateroom. He would be standing here instead of her, gazing down upon the prize he had spent so long seeking, had it not been for her actions.