‘They are carrying a wounded man,’ replies Saturnalia. ‘The Death Guard will not survive much longer. They should have left him at the crash site. To risk everything by keeping him with them is illogical.’

‘Would you leave an injured Custodian behind?’ asks Nagasena.

‘No,’ admits Saturnalia.

‘They are still bound by their oaths of brotherhood,’ says Nagasena sadly. ‘They are acting with honour. Not behaviour I would expect from traitors.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘And you were mistaken,’ says Nagasena, ignoring Saturnalia’s question and pointing to the spattered trail of blood on the ground. ‘They are carrying twowounded men.’

ATHARVA BATTERED A fist on the painted metal door and waited for an answer. The building was a ragged lean-to built at one end of a refuse-cloaked square partially sheltered by tattered canvas awnings. A number of narrow streets led here, and ironwork crows were perched on many of the surrounding buildings, staring impassively down into the square like mute observers. Though they remained out of sight, Atharva knew at least a hundred pairs of eyes were upon them.

‘Just kick the damn door down,’ snapped Tagore, and Atharva saw the pulse of the veins at the side of his head. The neural-implants grafted to his skull fizzed in the cold air, and Atharva wondered what damage it was wreaking in the delicate mechanisms of his brain.

‘We need this chirurgeon to help us,’ said Atharva. ‘How well disposed towards us do you think he will be if we break down his door?’

‘You say that like I give a damn,’ replied Tagore, planting a foot in the centre of the shutter and battering it down with a single kick. The door crashed down inside a room dimly lit by a low-burning lantern of crude oil and animal grease. The smell of chemicals, hung herbs and spoiled meat that wafted out was potent.

Asubha and Kiron dragged Gythua inside and deposited him on a wide cot bed that groaned in protest at his weight. Subha carried Kai over one shoulder, the astropath’s body looking limp and already dead. His aura was dull and listless, but Kai was not beyond saving and it would blaze fully once again.

‘Put him there,’ said Atharva, indicating a wooden bench pushed up against one wall.

Subha gently lowered Kai to the bench and Atharva took a moment to survey their surroundings more fully. The room was made small by their presence, yet from what Atharva had seen of the Petitioner’s City, he suspected it would be considered expansive.

The walls were hung with bundles of dried herbs, mouldering shanks of salted meat and curling sheets of paper depicting chemical structures and anatomical references. A number of tables sagged under the weight of heavy books and trays of rusting surgical equipment. Cupboards with cracked glass fronts contained hundreds of unmarked bottles of fluids, powders and crushed tablets. A bank of bio-monitors sat in the corner next to a petrochemical generator, though Atharva doubted any of them still worked.

‘Are you sure this is the place?’ demanded Tagore. ‘Looks like just another shitty house to me. You really think a chirurgeon lives here?’

‘The signs all pointed to this place,’ said Atharva, lifting a dusty copy of The Book of Prognosticsfrom a nearby table. He saw other works by Hippocrates, scattered without thought for any system he could discern, amongst the writings of Galen of Pergamon, Abscantus and Menodotus. These were ancient texts and priceless beyond imagining, though woefully outdated.

‘What signs?’ asked Kiron, wiping a smear of resin from his shoulder. ‘How can people live like this?’

‘People live how they must,’ said Atharva. ‘And the signs were there for anyone with eyes to see them. This is a Serpent House.’

‘A what?’ said Subha.

‘A place of healing,’ explained Atharva, pointing to a mural on the door Tagore had kicked down. The door was in two pieces, but it was still possible to make out the image of a bearded man clad in a long toga who bore a staff with a coiled snake entwined along its length.

‘Who is that supposed to be?’ asked Kiron.

‘He is Aesculapius,’ said a hoary old voice from the shadows. ‘An ancient deity of the Grekians. Or at least he was until your ugly bastard friend put his bloody foot through him.’

A lumpen shape rolled from a previously unseen bed at the back of the room, and Atharva now picked out the reek of the man’s unwashed body and sweat from the cocktail of chemicals hanging in the air. Tagore was on the man in an instant, lifting him up by the neck and pinning him against the wall. Killing fury lit his eyes as his fist pulled back to strike.

‘Don’t kill him, Tagore!’ cried Atharva.

Tagore’s fist slammed into the wall, breaking it apart and sending a cloud of brick dust and fragments falling to the floor.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘You’re in my house,’ snapped the man. ‘I’m the chirurgeon, who do you think I am?’

‘Tagore, let him go,’ said Atharva. ‘We need him.’

Reluctantly, Tagore lowered the man and pushed him towards Atharva.

‘My apologies, medicae,’ said Atharva. ‘We mean you no harm.’

‘Are you sure heknows that?’ said the man glaring at the World Eater and rubbing his neck. ‘And who in the name of the Emperor’s balls are you?’

Wearing only a thin nightshirt, the medicae was an unimpressive sight. From the smell of him and the look of his eyes, he was a drunk and an imbiber of narcotics, but the signs had led them to this place, and there was likely to be no other practitioner of the healing arts close enough to be any use.

‘I am Atharva, and we need your help. What is your name, friend?’

‘I am Antioch, and I’m not your friend,’ said the chirurgeon. ‘It’s too bloody late for this kind of thing, so what are you doing here, breaking my door down and insulting my housekeeping? I’m too drunk and messed up to do anything for you just now.’

‘This is a matter of life and death,’ said Atharva.

‘That’s what they all say,’ snapped Antioch.

‘He meant yours,’ said Tagore, looming over Antioch’s shoulder.

‘Threatening me?’ said Antioch. ‘Good one. That’sthe way to get my help.’

Atharva took the diminutive chirurgeon’s shoulder and led him towards the bench and table where Gythua and Kai were laid out.

‘What’s wrong with them?’ asked Antioch, barely looking at them.

‘I thought you were the chirurgeon,’ snapped Kiron. ‘Can’t you tell?’

Antioch sighed and said, ‘Listen, tell Babu Dhakal if he wants to keep injecting his men with growth hormones and messing with their gene-code then he can count me out of helping him get them back on their feet. He’s going too far now.’

‘Babu Dhakal? I don’t know who that is,’ said Atharva.

Antioch snorted and looked up at him sharply, as though seeing him clearly for the first time. He peered from beneath bushy eyebrows and through rheumy eyes, studying Atharva and the warriors around him intently.

‘You’re not from the Babu?’

‘No,’ agreed Atharva. ‘We are not.’

Antioch came closer and craned his head upwards, the reality of his situation now penetrating the fug of whatever narcotic haze was enveloping his brain. He rubbed his eyes with a stained sleeve and blinked furiously as though clearing it of grit.

‘You are of the Legiones Astartes…’ he breathed, looking from warrior to warrior.

‘We are,’ said Atharva, guiding him towards Kai. ‘And he needs your help.’

‘Help Gythua first,’ said Kiron.

‘No,’ stated Atharva. ‘Gythua can wait, Kai cannot.’

‘Gythua is a Legionary,’ protested Kiron. ‘You would put a mortal above him?’

‘I would put him above you all,’ said Atharva, before turning to Antioch. ‘Now heal him.’

Antioch nodded, and Atharva almost felt sorry for the man, woken from a stupor to find angry giants demanding that he save two lives that hung by the slenderest of threads. Even a man as disoriented at Antioch could sense that his life hung on those same threads.