In summary, it is my recommendation that Kai Zulane be returned to the auspices of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica for immediate rehabilitation. This will reaffirm our commitment to the XIII Legion, and effectively allow House Castana to pass the burden of responsibility elsewhere.

I remain your humble servant in all things, and can offer further clarifications, should they be required, on Kai Zulane’s psychic pathology at your convenience.

Bellan Tortega

Neuro-psychic attendant 343208543.

Antonius, do what the unctuous little chirurgeon says.

Throw Zulane back to the City of Sight.

He can be their problem instead of ours.

V.

It is the hour before dawn when the hunters come for them.

Nagasena checks his rifle, already knowing it is fully functional. On a day like today he needs the solace of things done in the right order. Too many of this newly emergent Imperium’s people rush around without taking the time to ensure they are properly prepared. Truth and order are Nagasena’s watchwords, for they provide a centre from which all other things can flow. He has learned this from the teachings of a wise man born in these parts in an age now long forgotten.

Those teachings survive only in scattered texts comprising gnomic aphorisms and proverbs, each one passed down from mentor to student over thousands of generations in secret script known only to a chosen few. Nagasena has lived his life by these teachings, and he feels they have guided him well. His life has been lived truthfully, and he has few regrets.

This day’s hunt will, he thinks, be one of them.

He uncoils from the cross-legged position in which he sits and slings his rifle across his shoulder. Around him, men come to their feet, energised by his sudden movement.

‘Is it time?’ asks Kartono, handing him a long bladed sword with just the barest hint of a curve. It is a wondrous weapon, sheathed in a scabbard of lacquered wood, jade and mother of pearl. A master of the metal arts crafted this blade to Nagasena’s exacting specifications, yet it is no sharper, no lighter or in any other way superior to the millions of sword blades churned out by the armouries of Terra. But it was crafted with love and an attention to detail that no machine can ever replicate.

Nagasena knows the weapon as Shoujiki, which means Honesty.

He nods respectfully to Kartono as Golovko approaches, bullish and bearing the scent of gun oil, sweat and lapping powder. In an elder age Nagasena’s ancestors would have considered him a barbarian, but now he is an honoured man. Golovko’s armour is bulky, cumbersome and designed to intimidate. His face looks much the same.

He gives no greeting and his lip curls in instinctive distaste as he sees Kartono.

‘We should have struck in the middle watches of the night,’ he says, as Nagasena slips his sword through the black sash tied at his waist. ‘We would have surprised them.’

‘It would make no difference what time we came,’ says Nagasena, smoothing out his long black hair and settling a long scalp-lock over his shoulder. ‘Such men as we hunt will never truly be at rest, and there will never be a best time to fight them. As soon as the first is taken, most likely even before then, the rest will be instantly alert and dangerous beyond imagining.’

‘We have three thousand soldiers,’ points out Golovko, as though numbers are all that matter at a time like this. ‘Black Sentinels, Attaman Janissaries, Lancers. Even the high and mighty Custodians sent a squad.’

‘And it may still prove to be insufficient,’ says Nagasena.

‘Against thirty?’ says Golovko, but Nagasena has already dismissed him from his thoughts.

He turns away from the bellicose general and moves through the assembled soldiers silently awaiting his signal. They are nervous, dislocated. Most of all, they are horrified that they are about to take up arms against those who fight in their name on worlds far distant from Terra.

Nagasena looks up at the building that houses the Crusader Host. It is known locally as the Preceptory, and it is a triumphant structure of rearing golden lions, fluted columns and warrior statuary, capped by a lightning-shot dome of black marble. Heroic imagery adorns the fresco of the pediment high above the portico, and the grand approach leading to the entrance is paved with enormous flagstones bearing the names of worlds the Legiones Astartes have brought to compliance.

Every day these flagstones are cut with fresh tallies, and Nagasena wonders how these men of war feel to see the litany of their brothers’ victories grow ever larger while they remain on Terra, ever more distant from the bloody edge of the Imperium’s frontier.

‘What are your orders, lord?’ asks Kartono.

His companion is unarmed, but needs no weapons to be lethal. His former masters trained him to such a high degree of lethality that he is a weapon himself. Many people dislike Kartono for reasons they can never quite articulate, but Nagasena has long since grown used to his presence. He looks at the soldiers, confident that they are well hidden in the warren of gilded avenues and columned processionals that garland this region of the Imperial Palace like jewellery around the neck of a favoured concubine.

Three thousand armed men await his signal to advance, and Nagasena knows that by giving that signal, many of those men will die. Maybe all of them. He relishes few of his hunts, but this one in particular sits ill with him. He wishes he were back in his mountain villa, where his only concerns are the mixing of paints and tending to his garden, but his likes and dislikes are immaterial here.

A mission has been set, and he is duty bound to obey. And though he does not like this order, he understands it.

‘Walk with me, Kartono,’ says Nagasena, stepping out onto the grand walkway of victories. Kartono trots after him, surprised at his master’s sudden movement. Nagasena hears Golovko through the vox bead situated in his ear and pulls it free. The man’s protests become tinny and distant.

‘They will know we are coming for sure now,’ says Kartono, and Nagasena nods.

‘Your presence alone will have alerted at least one of them,’ he says. ‘Did you really think so many armed men could approach a place like this without its occupants knowing of it?’

‘I suppose not,’ agrees Kartono, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The Major General will not be pleased. He will make trouble for us.’

‘That is a problem for another day,’ says Nagasena. ‘I will be sufficiently pleased if we live through this morning. It is highly likely we will die here.’

Kartono shakes his head. ‘You are fatalistic today.’

‘Perhaps,’ says Nagasena as they climb the first steps of the Preceptory. ‘I dislike rising before the sun. It feels impolite.’

Kartono knows his moods well. Nagasena has grown tired of hunting, but this task has been given to him by a man whose orders come with the highest authority. Refusal was not an option. He feels the chill of the day through his silken robes, but does not allow it to lessen his focus. Knowing that his armour would afford him little protection against the weapons of his prey, he did not have Kartono encase him within its lacquered plates of bonded ceramite and adamantine weave.

A figure steps into view on the portico above, and Nagasena feels his heart beat just a little quicker. He is tall and broad shouldered, as one would expect for a warrior genhanced to be the pinnacle of physicality, but there is a gracile quality to him that is unexpected. His hair is longer than is usual, tied in a short ponytail, and his face is broad, with the congenital flatness of features so common amongst his kind. Nagasena is reassured to see that he wears no armour, perhaps indicating that he has not come to fight. His robes are crimson, edged in ivory, and a jade scarab set in amber rests upon his chest.