During the voyage

Bad poetry

Secrets

DURING THE TWELVE-WEEK voyage between Sixty-Three Nineteen and One Forty Twenty, Loken had come to the conclusion that Sindermann was avoiding him.

He finally located him in the endless stacks of Archive Chamber Three. The iterator was sitting in a stilt-chair, examining ancient texts secured on one of the high shelves of the archive's gloomiest back annexes. There was no bustle of activity back here, no hurrying servitors laden with requested books. Loken presumed that the material catalogued in this area was of little interest to the average scholar.

Sindermann didn't hear him approach. He was intently studying a fragile old manuscript, the stilt-chair's reading lamp tilted over his left shoulder to illuminate the pages.

'Hello?' Loken hissed.

Sindermann looked down and saw Loken. He started slightly, as if woken from a deep sleep.

'Garviel.’ he whispered. 'One moment.' Sindermann put the manuscript back on the shelf, but several other books

were piled up in the chair's basket rack. As he re-shelved the manuscript, Sindermann's hands seemed to tremble. He pulled a brass lever on the chair's armrest and the stilt legs telescoped down with a breathy hiss until he was at ground level.

Loken reached out to steady the iterator as he stepped out of the chair.

Thank you, Garviel.'

'What are you doing back here?' Loken asked.

'Oh, you know. Reading.’

'Reading what?'

Sindermann cast what Loken judged to be a slightly guilty look at the books in his chair's rack. Guilty, or embarrassed. 'I confess.’ Sindermann said, 'I have been seeking solace in some old and terribly unfashionable material. Pre-Unification fiction, and some poetry. Just desolate scraps, for so little remains, but I find some comfort in it.’

'May I?' Loken asked, gesturing to the basket.

'Of course.’ said Sindermann.

Loken sat down in the brass chair, which creaked under his weight, and took some of the old books out of the side basket to examine them. They were frayed and foxed, even though some of them had evidendy been rebound or sleeved from earlier bindings prior to archiving.

"The Golden Age ofSumaturan Poetry7.' Loken said. 'Folk Tales of Old Muscovy7 What's this? The Chronicles of Ursh7'

'Boisterous fictions and bloody histories, with the occasional smattering of fine lyric verse.’

Loken took out another, heavy book. 'Tyranny of the Panpacific,' he read, and flipped open the cover to see the tide page. '"An Epic Poem in Nine Cantos, Exalting the Rule of Narthan Dume"... it sounds rather dry.’

'It's raw-headed and robust, and quite bawdy in parts. The work of over-excited poets trying to turn the matter

of their own, wretched times into myth. I'm rather fond of it. I used to read such things as a child. Fairy tales from another time.’

'A better time?'

Sindermann baulked. 'Oh, Terra, no! An awful time, a murderous, rancorous age when we were sliding into species doom, not knowing that the Emperor would come and apply the brakes to our cultural plummet.’

'But they comfort you?'

They remind me of my boyhood. That comforts me.’

'Do you need comforting?' Loken asked, putting the books back in the basket and looking up at the old man. 'I've barely seen you since-'

'Since the mountains.’ Sindermann finished, with a sad smile.

'Indeed. I've been to the school on several occasions to hear you brief the iterators, but always there's someone standing in for you. How are you?'

Sindermann shrugged. 'I confess, I've been better.’

"Your injuries still-'

'I've healed in body, Garviel, but...' Sindermann tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. 'I'm unsettled. I haven't felt much like speaking. The fire's not in me just now. It will return. I've kept my own company, and I'm on the mend.’

Loken stared at the old iterator. He seemed so frail, like a baby bird, pale and skinny necked. It had been nine weeks since the bloodshed at the Whisperheads, and most of that time they had spent in warp transit. Loken felt he had begun to come to terms with things himself, but seeing Sindermann, he realised how close to the surface the hurt lay. He could block it out. He was Astartes. But Sindermann was a mortal man, and nothing like as resilient.

'I wish I could-'

Sindermann held up a hand. 'Please. The Warmaster himself was kind enough to speak with me about it, privately. I understand what happened, and I am a wiser man for it.'

Loken got out of the chair and allowed Sindermann to take his place. The iterator sat down, gratefully.

'He keeps me close.’ Loken said.

mo does?'

The Warmaster. He brought me and the Tenth with him on this undertaking, just to keep me by him. So he could watch me.’

'Because?'

'Because I've seen what few have seen. Because I've seen what the warp can do if we're not careful.’

Then our beloved commander is very wise, Garviel. Not only has he given you something to occupy your mind with, he's offering you the chance to reforge your courage in battle. He still needs you.’

Sindermann got to his feet again and limped along the book stacks for a moment, tracing his thin hand across the spines. From his gait, Loken knew he hadn't healed anything like as well as he'd claimed. He seemed occupied with the books once more.

Loken waited for a moment. 'I should go.’ he said. 'I have duties to attend to.’

Sindermann smiled and waved Loken on his way with eyelash blinks of his fingers.

'I've enjoyed talking with you again.’ Loken said. 'It's been too long.’

'It has.’

'I'll come back soon. A day or two. Hear you brief, perhaps?'

'I might be up to that.’

Loken took a book out of the basket. These comfort you, you say?'

Yes.’

'May I borrow one?'

'If you bring it back. What have you there?' Sindermann shuffled over and took the volume from Loken. 'Sumaturan poetry? I don't think that's you. Try this-'

He took one of the other books out of the chair's rack. 'The Chronicles of Ursh. Forty chapters, detailing the savage reign of Kalagann. You'll enjoy that. Very bloody, with a high body count. Leave the poetry to me.’

Loken scanned the old book and then put it under his arm. Thanks for the recommendation. If you like poetry, I have some for you.’

'Really?'

'One of the remembrancers-'

'Oh yes.’ Sindermann nodded. 'Karkasy. I was told you'd vouched for him.’

'It was a favour, to a friend.’

'And by friend, you mean Mersadie Oliton?'

Loken laughed. You told me you'd kept your own company these last few months, yet you still know everything about everything.’

That's my job. The juniors keep me up to speed. I understand you've indulged her a little. As your own remembrancer.’

'Is that wrong?'

'Not at all!' Sindermann smiled. That's the way it's supposed to work. Use her, Garviel. Let her use you. One day, perhaps, there will be far finer books in the Imperial archives than these poor relics.’

'Karkasy was going to be sent away. I arranged probation, and part of that was for him to submit all his work to me. I can't make head nor tail of it. Poetry. I don't do poetry. Can I give it to you?'

'Of course.’

Loken turned to leave. What was the book you put back?' he asked. 'What?'

'When I arrived, you had volumes in your basket there, but you were also studying one, intently, it seemed to me. You put it back on the shelves. What was it?'

'Bad poetry.’ said Sindermann.

THE FLEET HAD embarked for Murder less than a week after the Whisperheads incident. The transmitted requests for assistance had become so insistent that any debate as to what the 63rd Expedition undertook next became academic. The Warmaster had ordered the immediate departure of ten companies under his personal command, leaving Varvaras behind with the bulk of the fleet to oversee the general withdrawal from Sixty-Three Nineteen.