I have no arms.

I have seen two hundred and six Shadowkin since I came to this place. I have seen many more refugees.

Each carries a weapon. He has built an army.

Far above, seated in the boiling heart of the trance, Mita was staggered. The inculcati link was not strong — remaining sapient in the deluge of another being's thoughts was far harder than she had imagined, and the conflicting inputs of Pahvulti's body with her own had all but severed the connection at its start — but still she was overwhelmed by the broker's secret admiration for the domain the Night Lord had built.

One point two metres above me, to my right, He says:

'Bring them forwards.'

I have given him Slake. All is well.

The scouts — three of them, all men, though one is an albino of the Pallor House — push their prize forwards. No doubt the Night Lord is mixing the resources at his control, forging links between those who serve him voluntarily, and those who have discovered themselves dominated. It is a salient tactic: There is no shortage of loyalty in this place.

The scouts found the collective in the safehouse I revealed. The Slake members seem bewildered at the heart of the Shadowkin camp: there are two remaining, and with a third of their efficiency compromised their situation confuses them. They are rendered children, summoned before an elder. When the male stumbles his companion falters with him: linked to his temple by a cord of copper umbilicus.

The woman was once Sicca Yissen, aspiring heiress to the Yissen Guildhouse. The man, at one time, was Apolus Jaque, illegitimate child of the Rogue Trader Corleoni. And their missing member was Kuloch Sven-Dow, whose putsch of the WestHab trading consortium failed so spectacularly.

I know their names because I created them. They came to me, disgraced by guild and gold, each hungry for a second chance. They needed an edge above their competitors, and so I created the gestalim. I fused their memories together, I gave them the power of the cognitor but preserved their personalities. They have existed for three years, four months and sixteen days. In that time they have become junkies.

Information-narcotics. Middlemen desired and sought-after all over the hive, but indebted only to me.

Until today I have patronised their custom with paternal pride. I have allowed them autonomy (at the price only of their loyalty) and even hidden them, in this time of peril. I have been like a father to them.

And now the Night Lord has demanded them, and I have provided.

Poor, poor little Slake.

Something lands in the mud at their feet, cast down from above and behind me. It is a skull, polished clean, shining sockets above each eye trailing useless cables like antennae.

Kuloch Sven-Dow. Rest in peace, fool.

The Slake collective is reunited in a tangle of scrabbling grasps and piteous groans. Its living members need no prompt, they jack into the dead skull like starving slaves presented with a meal, lolling and mewling in pleasure at the surge of data.

The collective is reunited, and whatever childish anxiety they had suffered is eclipsed in an instant. When the initial rush has passed they face the Night Lord with disinterested eyes and say:

'You are going to kill us, then?'

They speak together, perfectly in harmony. It is an amusing effect.

If their straightforwardness is of consternation to my new master, he does not show it.

'I will,' he says. 'But there are a thousand deaths at my disposal. Some are slower than others. You understand.'

The collective trades glances. I know they are discussing within the confines of their secret union, unheard voices crackling back and forth. They display no outward signs of fear.

'We accept,' they say. 'It will be painless?'

The Night Lord shrugs. 'It will be fast.'

They were a fine creation, the gestalim. I shall be disappointed to see them gone, but we are all of us made slaves in the Night Lord's presence, and to accept his dominion is the clearest, easiest path.

'There was a package,' he hisses, and I fancy that one point three seconds into his pause there comes a quiet sigh, unheard by all but me, and I wonder what thoughts circulate in his mind. 'You commissioned the Glacier Rats to steal it.'

'We did.'

'How did you know it was coming?'

'Our buyer anticipated its arrival. He employed us as middlemen. We would locate and hire agents to retrieve the item. Their fee, as was ours, was generous.'

He hisses behind me. He is eager.

'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.'

In the throne, the monster leans forwards. He deploys his most pertinent query like a pict-gambler presenting an ace of cups.

'Who,' he said, unable to disguise the hunger in his voice, 'is the customer?'

In the world above, through pain and sweat, Mita cleared her consciousness and focused, struggling to hold the inculcati connection. This, her senses told her, was a critical moment.

The package...

Something stolen from the Umbrea Insidior.

Something worth a thousand deaths to pursue.

The package was at the crux of it all.

She pushed further into Pahvulti's consciousness, straining to hear.

'We do not know,' the collective says.

There is no hiss from the Night Lord, no explosion of temper and carnage. I wonder, perhaps, if he has come to anticipate disappointment.

'We have only a location,' Slake continues, harmonious voice unwavering. 'A meeting place and a signal code, to summon the customer's agents. They come to collect, and to make payment!'

'And where,' the Night Lord says, voice a whisper, 'is that?'

'The Macharius Gate! The Macharius Gate!'

A cowled scribe — who had made a spirited attempt at tackling her legs — received a heel in his face for his troubles. She sprinted on, past bemused acolytes and oblivious servitors, shouting as she went. 'Orodai! Orodai, you bastard! The Macharius Gate!' The Cuspseal Preafect-precinct was busy, even for the insanity that passed as the norm in these parts. She leapt over a scrum of off-duty Dervishi — too slow to intercept her — and pounded up alabaster stairs to the next level. 'Orodai! Orodai!'

Obstruction to her hurtling progress was certainly growing now. She'd bolted past the fat desk sergeant at the precinct's entrance with a discourteous ripple of psychic energy — not enough to kill, but plenty to leave him sagging and corpulent in his chair. By now alarms would be ringing in higher levels, squads would be closing like black-glossed claws upon her hellish advance, and perhaps someone, some unctuous little aide, was informing Orodai that a madwoman was indulging in a laughable attempt to deliver an unsanctioned message. She just hoped the news pricked his curiosity. Nothing's ever easy.

'Orodai! The Macharius Gate! Damn your eyes, man! Can you hear me? The Macharius Gate!'