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'Yes； sir。'
'Good。 I will return to the Gudrun estate no later than ten months from now。 I trust it will be the home I expect。'
It was a promise I would fail miserably to keep。
'What of the Distaff； sir？' asked Surskova。
'I want to divide that；' I said。 'I want six of the best Distaff members sent to Gudrun to bide there at my wishes。 The future of the
Distaff itself I see as separate from my living arrangements。 I have a lease on a spire…top residence on Messina。 That will be the new
official home of the Distaff。 Surskova； you will supervise the move and establishment of the untouchable school there。'
She nodded； shocked。 Bequin seemed taken aback。
I looked round at the hundred…plus servants； warriors and aides crammed into the room。
'That's it。 Until I see you all again； may the God…Emperor protect you。'
I WAS LEFT alone edea and Nayl。
'Not for us the chores of moving house；' I said。
'I had a hunch not；' smirked Medea。
'For us； two missions。'
'For us？' asked Bequin。
'Yes； Alizebeth。 Unless you think you and I are too old for such diversions？'
'No； I… I—'
'I've been too long at the back of things。 Too long relying on my capable staff。 I yearn for field work。'
'The last field work we were in nearly got you killed；' scolded Bequin darkly。
'Proving that I'm losing my edge； I think。'
'For shame！' muttered Nayl with a smile。
'So we're going to have an adventure； all of us。 Just the few of us。 Remember what those were like； Aemos？'
'Frankly； I'm still not over them； Gregor； but yes。'
'Alizebeth？'
Bequin crossed her arms ill…humouredly。 'Oh； I'd just love to come and watch you get killed…'
'We're all agreed； then？' I said。 I can't help being deadpan。 Gorgone Locke made sure of that。 But my delivery was good enough to get
Nayl and Medea raucous with laughter and Aemos chuckling。
Alizebeth Bequin grinned despite herself。
'Two missions； as I said。 After this briefing； I'll allow you to recruit a few personnel from the staff。 Nayl … a fighter or two you can
count on。 Aemos … an astropath we can use without worry。 Alizebeth … one or two from the Distaff。 A maximum of ten in the party； all
told。 No more； you understand？ Argue it out between yourselves。 Don't bring me into it。 We leave in two days； and I don't want to
even hear about any arguments second hand。'
'So what are the missions？' asked Medea； lounging back in her padded chair and slipping her long legs over the arm。 She took a long
swig of her weedwine and added； 'You said two； right？'
'Two。'
I pushed a stud on a data wand in my hand and a hololithic screen fogged into life over the table。 The words of the message I'd
received before the start of the tumult on Thracian were displayed in shimmering letters： 'Scalpel cuts quickly； eager tongues revealed。
At Cadia； by terce。 Hound wishes Thorn。 Thorn should be sharp。'
'Shit！' cried Nayl。
'Is that authentic？' Medea asked； looking at me。
'It is。'
'God…Emperor； he's in trouble； he needs us…' Bequin murmured。
'Very probably。 Medea； you have to arrange transit for us to Cadia。 That's the first port of call。'
'What's the second？' asked Aemos。
'The second？'
'The second mission？'
I looked at them all。 'We all know how serious the Cadian matter is。 But I made a vow to Gideon。 I want to find out what was behind
the outrage here。 I want to find it； hunt it out and punish it。'
You know； it's funny how things turn out。
IT WAS LATE； and we were devouring a splendid meal Jarat had prepared for us。 Nayl was telling a devastatingly crude joke to Aemos；
Medea and Bequin and I were talking over the rearrangement of the Distaff and the missions ahead。
I think she was feeling excited。 Like me； she'd been taking a back seat for too long。
Kircher came up the terrace； entering the filmy green light。
'Sir； you have a visitor。'
'At this hour； who？'
'He says his name is Inshabel； sir。 Interrogator Nathun Inshabel。'
Inshabel was waiting for me in the library。
'Interrogator。 Has my staff offered you refreshment？'
'None needed； sir。'
'Very well… so to what do I owe this visit？'
Inshabel； no more than twenty…five； pushed his thick blond hair out of his eyes and looked at me fiercely。 'I… I am masterless。 Roban
is dead…'
'God…Emperor rest him。 He will be missed。'
'Sir； do you ever think what it would be like if you died？'
The notion stopped me in my tracks。 I had； in all honesty； never considered it。
'No； Inshabel。 I haven't。'
'It's a terrible thing； sir。 As Roban's senior acolyte it falls to me to disburse his staff； his fortune； his knowledge。 I'm left to tidy up； as it
were。 I have to make sense of Roban's estate。'
'You will not fail in that duty； interrogator； of that I'm sure。'
He smiled weakly。 'Thank you； sir。 I had… I had thought to come to you； and beg you to take me on。 I so very much want to be an
inquisitor。 My master is dead； and I know that your own… your own interrogator is…'
'Indeed。 I choose my own staff； of course。 I—'
'Inquisitor Eisenhorn。 Begging you to take me on as a driftwood student was not why I came here。 As I said； I had to close up Roban's
estate。 That meant filing and authorising the pathologica statement of his death。 Inquisitor Roban was killed by a cargo servitor
manipulated by a rogue psyker。'
'Yes？'
'So to complete the papers； I had to review the death notice of Esarhaddon so as to establish causal motive。'
'That is the procedure；' I admitted。
'The statement was very brief。 Esarhadon's corpse was burnt from the calves upwards and utterly immolated。 As in the incidents of
spontaneous human combustion； the relics left by the plasma weapon were little more than the flesh and bones of the feet and ankles。
Just bare vestiges。'
'And？'
'There was no Malleus brand on the ankle flesh。'
'It… What…？'
'I don't know who Inquisitor Lyko burned on the lawns of the Lange house… but it wasn't the heretic Esarhaddon。'
NINE
EECHAN； SIX WEEKS LATER。
A WORD WITH THE PHANT。
KNIVES IN THE NIGHT。
THE BICEPHALIC MINDER in the squalid doorway of the twist bar regarded us with one of his lice…ridden heads； while the other glazed
out； smoking an obscura pipe。
'Not your place； not your kind。 Get on。'
The sap rain was falling heavily on our heads through the rotten awning； and I had little wish to stand in it any longer。 I nodded a
sidelong glance to my companion； who tugged back his hood and showed the minder the cluster of malformed； winking eyes that
mottled his cheek and ran down his pallid throat。 I raised my own damp cloak and revealed the knot of stunted tentacles that sprouted
from an extra sleeve slit under my right armpit。
The minder got off his stool； one head nodding dozily。 He was big； broad and tall as an ogryn； and his greasy skin was busy with
tattoos。
'Hnh…' he muttered； limping around us as he sized us up。 'Maybe then。 You didn't smell like twists。 Okay…'
We went inside； down a few dark steps into a nocturnal club room that was fogged with obscura smoke and pulsing with a brand of
harsh； discordant music called ''pound''。 Panes of red glass had been put over the lights of the lanterns and the place was a hellish
swamp； like the damnation paintings of that insane genius Omarmettia。
Mal…forms； deforms； halfbreeds and underscum huddled or gambled or drank or danced。 On a raised stage； a naked； heavy…breasted；
eyeless girl with a grinning mouth where her navel should have been gyrated to the pound beat。
We reached the bar； a soiled curve of hardwood under a series of hard white lights。 The barkeep was a bloated thing with bloodshot
eyes and a black snake tongue that flickered between his wet； slit mouth and rotting teeth。
'Hey； twist。 What will it be？'
'Two of those；' I said； pointing to clear grain…alcohol shots that a waitress was carrying past on a tray。 She would have been beautiful
except for the yellow quills stippling her skin。
Twists。 We were all twists here。 ''Mutant'' is a dirty word if you're a mutant。 They delight in referring to themselves by the Imperium's
glibbest and most detrimental slang； as a badge of honour。 It's a pride thing； a common habit with any underclass。 Non…telepaths do it
when they call themselves ''blunts''。 The tall； slender people of low…grav Sylvan do it when they call themselves ''sticks''。 A