Dan Abnett - Ghostmaker

And, unlike on Voltemand, Sturm wasn't in charge here. The Monthax offensive was under the supreme command of Lord Militant General Bulledin.

Gaunt saw Commissar Volovoi, serving with the Roane Deepers, and stopped to talk with him. It was mostly inconsequential chat, though Volovoi had heard some word that Bulledin had consulted the Astropathicus. Rumours of psyker witchery on the planet below had started to spread. There was talk that auguries and the Tarot had been consulted to deter mine the truth of the situation.

'Last thing we need,' muttered Volovoi to Gaunt. 'Last thing I need. The Roane are the very devil to keep in line. Good fight ers, yes, when they're roused to it, but damned idle for the most part. A few weeks of transportation confinement like this, and I'll have to kick each and every one of their arses to get them down the drop-ship ramp. Languid, lazy – and this makes it worse: they're superstitious, more than any band of men I've ever known. The rumours of witchcraft will get them spooked and that will make my work twice as hard.'

'I sympathise,' Gaunt said. He did. His old regiment, the Hyrkans, were tough as deck plate, but there had been times when the thought of psyker madness had balked them in their tracks.

'What of you, Gaunt?' Volovoi asked. 'I hear you're taken up with a low-tech rabble now. Don't you miss the Hyrkan discipline?'

Gaunt shook his head. The Tanith are sound, quietly disciplined in their way.'

'And you have actual command of them too, is that right? Unusual. Tor a commissar.'

'A gift of the late Slaydo, may the Emperor watch his rest. I resented it at first, but I've grown to like it.'

'You've done well with them, so I hear. I read the reports on that campaign in the Menazoid Clasp last year, and they say your men turned the key that opened the door at Bucephalon too.'

'We've had our moments.'

Gaunt realised Volovoi was studying something over Gaunt's shoulder.

'Don't turn, Gaunt,' Volovoi went on, without changing the timbre of volume of his talk. 'Are your ears burning? Someone's talking about you.'

'How so?'

The Blueblood general. Sturm, is it? Arrogant piece of yak flop. One of his officers just came on deck and is bending his ear. And they're looking this way.'

Gaunt didn't turn. 'Tet me guess: the newcomer is a big ox with hooded eyes?'

'Aren't they all?'

This one's a piece of work even by the Volpone standards of breeding. A major.'

That's what his rank pins say. You know him?'

'Not particularly, though even that is more than I'd care for. Name's Gilbear. He and I and Sturm had a… difference of opinion on Voltemand eighteen months ago.'

'What sort of difference?'

They cost me several hundred men.'

Volovoi whistled. 'You'd think it would be you whispering about them!'

Gaunt smiled, though it was dark. 'We are, aren't we, Volovoi?'

Gaunt made to leave. Crossing the Orrery deck, he was afforded a better view of the Volpone staff. Gilbear was stood alone now, staring at Gaunt with a burning look that did not flinch. Sturm, escorted by his aides, was heading up the long flight of steps to the Tord Militant General's private chambers in the spire above.

Walking the troop decks with Gaunt, Corbec brought his commander up to speed.

'Quiet really. There was a fight over some rations, but it was nothing and I broke it up. Costin and two of his pals got falling down tipsy inhaling paint thinners in the armour shops and Costin then fell down for real, breaking his shin.'

'I've warned the armouries to lock that sort of material up…'

They did, but Costin has a way with locks, sir, if you get me.'

'Put him and the others on report and punishment detail.'

'I'd say Costin's paid for his ill-gotten—' Corbec began.

'I won't stand for it. They've got rations of grog and sacra. I can't use men with fume-ruined heads.'

Corbec scratched his chin. 'Point there, sir. But the men get bored. And some of them use their sacra rations up in the first few days.'

Gaunt turned to his second, anger flickering in his eyes. 'Let it be known, Colm: the Emperor grants them recreational liquor and smokes. If they abuse that privilege, I'll take it away. From all of them. Understand?'

Corbec nodded. They stopped at the rail and looked down into the vast troop bay. The air was laced with smoke and rank sweat. Below them, bench cots by the hundred in rows, men by the hundred, sleeping, dicing, chatting, praying, some just staring into nothing. Priests walked the rows, dispensing solace and benediction where it was requested or simply needed.

'Is there something on your mind, sir?' Corbec asked.

'I think trouble's brewing,' Gaunt said. 'I'm not sure what yet, but I don't like it.'

There was someone moving in the outer room.

Gaunt awoke. It was night cycle on the troop-ship and the wall lamps had been doused by the automatic control. He had fallen asleep on his cot with a weight of data sheets and slates on his chest.

Movement from the ante-room beyond his bed quarter had roused him.

Gaunt rose silently, placing the data sheets on a wall shell His boltgun and chainsword were slung over a wooden statu! in the outer room, but he pulled a compact laspistol from his foot locker and slid it into the back of his waistband. He was dressed in his boots, trousers, braces and an undershirt, He thought for a moment about re-donning his jacket and cap, but cast the idea aside.

The cot-room door was ajar. The light of a tight-beam flash light stabbed the darkness beyond. Someone was going through his things.

He moved in an instant, kicking open the door and grabbing the intruder from behind, turning him, twisting his arms, and slamming him face first into the round observation port of the outer room. The man – robed, struggling – protested until the moment of impact. His nose broke against the glass and he lolled unconscious.

The lights went on. Gaunt sensed there were two others behind him. He heard the whine of charging las-packs.

He spun and threw his unconscious prey at the nearest, who tumbled under the weight. The other tried to take a bead with his gun, but Gaunt dropped, slid sideways, and broke his jaw with a heavy blow. Only then, a few seconds after the whole thing had begun, did he see the man he had dropped was a security trooper dressed in the brown armour of the hexathedral. His comrade, scrambling up from under the weight of the fallen robed man, lunged forward, and Gaunt turned, catching his probing hands, breaking an elbow with a deft twist and then flooring him with a straight punch to the bridge of the nose.

Gaunt pulled out his compact and covered the room. Two hexathedral troopers and a man in long robes lay at his feet, twitching and moaning.

The door opened.

'Many would look with disfavour at such violence, commissar,' the figure who entered the room announced softly.

Gaunt kept the gun trained at the intruder's throat. 'Many look on intrusion and burglary in a similar way. Identify yourself.'

The figure moved into the light. She was tall, dressed in a simple uniform of black: boots, breeches, jacket. Her ash-fair hair was pinned tight up around her skull. Her face was calm, angular, lean, beautiful.

'I am Lilith. Inquisitor Lilith.'

Gaunt lowered the pistol and set it down on the side-table. 'You have not requested my seal of office. You believe me then?'

'I know of you. Pardon, ma'am; there are few females holding your rank and duty.'

Lilith moved forward into the room and gently kicked one of the troopers. He moaned and roused. 'Get yourself out of here. These two as well.'

The bloodied trooper clambered to his feet and dragged the others out.