'Is that true?'

'I have no idea,' said Urbican. 'Old Serenity was killed an hour later, but it sounds good, eh? Ah! Here we are.'

Urbican emerged from the back room, carrying a long, cloth-wrapped bundle, which he reverently laid on the table before Uriel. Even before Urbican unwrapped it, Uriel knew what it was and felt his pulse quicken as the sheathed sword of Captain Idaeus was revealed.

'Eversham brought your sword here, Captain Ventris,' said Urbican, 'and I have kept it safe for you.'

Uriel drew the golden-hilted sword from its scabbard, his fingers naturally slipping around the wire-wound hilt and the quillons fitting neatly against the top of his fist. To hold his blade once more and feel the connection to his heritage as a Space Marine was a sublime sensation, another sign that their exile from the Chapter was almost at an end.

He turned the blade in his hand, the pale light of the gallery reflecting along its gleaming, unblemished surface. 'Thank you,' he said. 'This blade means a lot to me.'

'A fine piece,' said Urbican, 'although I feel the blade is perhaps not the original.'

'You have a good eye, Lukas,' said Uriel. 'The blade was broken on the world of Pavonis. I forged a new one on Macragge.'

'Ah, that explains it. Still, it is a fine weapon,' said Urbican. 'Perhaps you could tell me of its illustrious history sometime?'

'I would be proud to,' nodded Uriel, attempting to buckle the sword around his waist, but finding that without the bulk of Astartes plate, the belt was too large. Seeing the difficulty Uriel was having, Pasanius said, 'Is my armour here also, curator?'

Urbican smiled. 'Indeed it is, sergeant, Mk VII if I'm not mistaken, Aquila pattern?'

'That it is,' confirmed Pasanius. 'You know Astartes armour?'

'Only a very little,' admitted Urbican. 'It is a passion of mine to study the battle gear of our most heroic protectors, although I confess I have only ever had the chance to study armour and weapons of a far greater age than yours.'

'You have studied Space Marine armour?' asked Uriel. 'Where?'

'Well, here of course,' replied the curator, with an expression of puzzlement, which suddenly turned to one of unalloyed joy.

'Ah, I see! Oh, you must come with me,' said Urbican, setting off down an aisle leading deeper into the gallery.

'My friends,' said Urbican, 'you are not the first Astartes to come to Salinas.'

For someone who had faithfully served Leto Barbaden in the Achaman Falcatas, Mesira Bardhyl had fared particularly poorly in the years following Restoration Day, thought Daron Nisato. Many times while the regiment had fought through some tough campaigns, Nisato had seen the shivering form of Mesira next to the colonel, her stooped form lost in the Guard-issue greatcoat, and felt a stab of sympathy for her.

He'd known it was wrong to feel like that, for, as a company commissar, it could easily have fallen to him to put a bullet through her brain in the event of her psychic powers becoming dangerous.

For all her apparent frailty, however, Mesira had served the regiment and never once faltered in her duty.

And this was her reward upon mustering out: a roughly built, brick and timber structure on the outskirts of Junktown; anti-Imperial slogans painted over the walls and crude representations of horned monsters on the door. The street was empty in both directions, but that was no surprise; the arrival of a growling Chimera in the black and steel livery of the Barbadus Enforcers had a way of emptying streets like no other.

Nisato pulled himself up from the commander's hatch of the vehicle and slid down the armoured glacis to drop to the hard-packed, sandy ground. His armour weighed heavily on him, but it would be foolish to come this close to Junktown without it. He scanned the street again, his eyes flicking from rooftops and windows to recessed doorways where an opportunistic gunman might wait.

He turned back to the growling vehicle and said, 'I'm going inside.'

'You want backup?' asked a voice in his helmet: Lieutenant Poulsen.

'No, wait here, I'll only be a few minutes.'

'We'll be ready if you need us,' said Poulsen and Nisato heard the man's eagerness. Poulsen had been a junior commissar at the outset of the Salinas campaign and took Nisato's lead in all things, following him into the Enforcers after the muster out after Restoration Day.

It hadn't offered much in the way of advancement, but at least they were not as hated as the men and women who had chosen to remain with the Falcatas. At least as keepers of the peace and upholders of the law, they could be seen to be doing some good.

At least that was what Daron Nisato told himself before he went to sleep each night.

'Stay alert,' ordered Nisato, 'and if I'm not out in ten minutes, come in and get me.'

'Understood, sir.'

A squad of five enforcers sat in the baking confines of the Chimera, armed and armoured for combat, but Nisato did not think he would need them. Mesira was a lonely, afflicted woman, but she wasn't dangerous. When he had seen her at the palace, he had seen the desperation etched into her face and although it fell somewhat beyond his remit of upholding the law to check on her like this, he felt he owed her a duty of care.

For, if not him, then who?

Nisato rapped his gauntlet against her door, hearing the empty echoes of it up the stairs and feeling the give in it that told him it wasn't locked. He pushed the door open, not liking the stale, abandoned air he felt from the dwelling. Dozens could live in a place like this, but fear of Mesira's abilities had kept her isolated, for who wanted to live with a witch?

His hand went to his bolt pistol as he slid through the door, keeping his steps as light as he was able. Inside the door was a narrow vestibule with boarded up doors and a staircase that led up to a landing. Weak light filtered down the stairs from a skylight above and dust motes spun in the air where his opening of the door had disturbed them.

'Mesira?' he called, deciding that there was no need for stealth after having knocked. 'Are you in here?'

There was no answer. Nisato drew his pistol, his instinct for trouble warning him that all was not right. Carefully, knowing that Mesira lived on the first floor, Nisato climbed the stairs, keeping his pistol trained on the space above him. Keeping his breathing even, he eased onto the landing, seeing an open door along a wooden floored corridor with flakboard laid along its length in lieu of carpet or tiles. The reek of khat leaves was strong, telling him that this was Mesira's home; many psychics turned to narcotics to allow them to sleep without dreaming.

Checking both ways along the corridor, Nisato called Mesira's name once more, again receiving no response. He swept along the corridor until he reached the door and pressed himself against the wall beside it. Reaching up, Nisato snapped his helmet's visor down and reached up to amplify the aural gain on its auto-senses.

Amid the crackling static, he listened for the tread of footsteps, the rasp of frightened breath or the sound of metal as a pistol was cocked. Nisato remained motionless for several minutes until he was sure there was no immediate threat.

Taking a deep breath, he spun around and kicked the door inwards, moving swiftly inside, twisting this way and that to cover his blind spots and check the dead zones where an assailant might be lurking.

With quick, professional skill, Nisato moved from room to room, seeing no evidence of a struggle or any sign of Mesira.

He did, however, see plenty of evidence of a lost, desperate soul in need of a friend. Rumpled, dirty sheets covered a threadbare mattress in the corner of one room. Empty bottles of raquir lay scattered everywhere and the air reeked of khat leaves. Food wrappers lay where they had been thrown and Daron Nisato felt a terrible regret at not reaching out to Mesira.