'Het-het-het. Why would you want to do that, by Terra's teats?'

'You've insulted my honour. You've played games with forces beyond your comprehension.' He leaned down, so close that the curling vapours of his rebreather wafted around the broker's mechanized face. He would not tolerate this disrespect any longer. The fool had nothing to offer. 'I shall eat your heart, broker, if you have such a thing. Your skull shall adorn my throne.'

'No, no... Not Pahvulti. Not when he's been sent for such a task.'

Sahaal paused. 'What task?'

For the first time the broker's face clouded — losing its contemptible grin. For the first time, Sahaal fancied, the man was taking him seriously. 'I was sent as a spy,' he said, optics chattering in the place of his cheeks, 'by a witch of the Inquisition.'

Warning bells shrieked in Sahaal's mind.

Kill him! Kill him!

'The Inquisition? You admit to it freely? What madness is this?'

'Het-het-het. She thinks to make a fool of me, friend. She thinks to threaten and cajole, to have me tell tales. I have chosen to confound her.'

'Oh?'

'I have chosen to help you instead.'

'Help?' Sahaal forced a bitter laugh. 'How could you help me?'

Still the man gave no indication of being put off, lips twitching apart. 'Knowledge,' he said, simply. 'Nothing is beyond Pahvulti. Nothing escapes him. He sees all...'

Riddles and delays. Kill the worm. Be on your way.

But...

But if he sees all...

Sahaal wet his lips, an uncomfortable thought swimming into focus.

'Such as?'

'Places, people... Names... I know you understand, Marine. I know there's a name you want to hear.'

He's lying. He's crawling to save his life. Kill him!

But...

But what if...

'What name?'

'Slake. Little collective Slake. Hiding from you. Cowering in the dark. Het-het-het!

Sahaal's blood ran white hot.

'You... you know where he is? Tell me!' He pushed a claw through the man's chest, snapping through layers of rubber and steel as it went, an irritable, truculent gesture — venting his spleen. It had little effect.

'Not he. They. Of course I know. I built them. Het-het-het.'

'Tell me! Tell me where they are or I'll rip you to shreds!'

'No, no... Not Pahvulti. Not when he knows so much.'

'What do you think you know, fool?'

'I know what you're doing, yes. I know who you're doing it with. Where your little empire festers, I know. I've seen it. Eyes everywhere. Het-het-het! He blinked, a languid affair, like a crocodile nictitating its eyes. 'I know what you are!

Sahaal rocked back on his haunches. 'And what am I, little worm?'

'Het-het-het. Traitor Marine. Child of the Rebellion. Ally to the Great Betrayer. Night Lord!' He grinned. 'Recognised your markings the instant I saw you.'

Sahaal forced down the surprise in his belly. He had not expected this. 'And?'

'And I've been listening to rumours. Gossip in the dark.'

'What gossip? Confound your tongue!'

'A holy warrior — that's what you're calling yourself, yes? Your little tribe, you've told them — het-het-het — you've told them you're here to deliver them. You've told them you're a lovely little candle, a rose of purity in the darkness of corruption. That your brothers are coming to help you. Yes? I hear such things, such lies... You told them, didn't you? You told them you must prepare for your brothers. Yes? That is what you've said, isn't it?'

'What of it?'

He knows so much!

'We both know it's a lie, Night Lord. We both know they're not coming to save the hive. Het-het-het. Quite the opposite...'

'You threaten to expose my falsehoods? Is that it? Is that your best threat?'

'No threat, Night Lord. Only confirmation of my suspicions.'

'Then what do you want? Why should I spare you? Tell me!'

'Slake. You should spare me for Slake.'

'Tell me where he is.' Sahaal struggled with the words. 'I'll spare you. I'll vow it.'

I'll kill him! I'll cut his face from his skull!

'Het-het-het. No, no... last time... last time I helped you, what was the price?'

'There was no price! I spared your life. That is all!'

'Yes. No price. First one is always free, I told you. This time... this time Pahvulti's expenses are far greater.'

For the first time in his life Sahaal found himself speechless.

'Y... you...' he stammered, oceans of rage and astonishment pummelling against his restraint. 'You don't get to... to make demands of me, worm! You're nothing! I'm the Talonmaster! I'm the chosen of the Haunter! I'll cut you into a thousand p—'

'You will do nothing. Not if you want Slake.'

And that was the crux.

The Corona was everything. The Corona was mightier than his esteem, mightier than his rage, mightier than his pride.

Through Slake, it would be his.

And through Pahvulti, he could find Slake.

Kill him! Rip him to shreds! Slice him apart!

Still angry, those inner voices, but growing fainter: swallowed by the cold sludge of his pragmatism. That Chaotic part of his soul, tainted indelibly by the invitation of the Dark Gods' patronisation, raged and stormed ever one, but slowly, struggling with each word, he blotted out its tumult and swallowed his pride.

'What... What is your price, broker?'

'Power, Night Lord. The witch will go without the reports she expects me to make. I shall give you Slake. Your brothers will come, the city will fall. Who will reign in their wake?'

He smiled, steely teeth sparkling.

'Me. Pahvulti will reign.'

Mita awoke to the sound of screaming. She was on her feet and poised for combat before even her dreams had receded, and she stood in addled bewilderment for long seconds, blinking in the light, before reality distinguished itself from fantasy.

God-Emperor, it's freezing...

The invidious cold of Equixus had been invading the hive in disparate tiers for days: thermal conditioners sputtering and falling silent, power flickering and dying in random quadrants. Such interruptions were, of course, temporary, but as teams of techpriests and armies of acolytes roved from switchboard to grid-centre, chanting and blessing, diverting power from here, there, anywhere, still the tremulous vagaries of heating ducts and silent fans couldn't hold the frost at bay. Mita wondered what the power failures signified and who was responsible. She felt she could take a pretty good guess.

She shivered, not entirely from the cold, and peered around.

The alleyway where she'd slept was unchanged: filthy walls covered with oil and rust. No snarling vindictors loomed over her with power mauls flaring, no hive-mobs threw bottles and swore in the gloom, and no fiery purgatists poked at her raggedy form with barbed rods, hollering imprecations and zealous damnation. For two days she'd lived thus: a streetsleeper, an outlaw — freezing by night, starving by day. She'd exchanged the gaudy threads of her Inquisitorial robes for thick rags, and had cut her hair short and ragged, guided only by the reflection in a sump-puddle. There were more than enough agents of hostility against vagrants, without encouraging recognition at the hands of Kaustus's agents. Given the fierceness of the environment and the apathy of its population, she supposed it was little wonder that she hadn't thus far encountered a single other vagabond. Such unfortunates had two choices: to descend into the bosom of the underhive where their status allowed acceptance — but not affection — or to die.