Lord of the Night

'A grave allegation,' Kaustus said. The blade stayed where it was.

Orodai eyed the inquisitor along the sword's edge, lip curling, and abruptly he seemed to sag, shoulders drooping. 'She'd bring down the wrath of the Inquisition on my world...' he said softly, his voice almost plaintive.

'Aaah...' Kaustus lowered the sword with a chuckle, sliding it into its sheath. 'Suddenly it all becomes clear.' His voice was thick with amusement. 'Your objection has more to do with your fear of me than of whatever bogeyman my interrogator has exposed.'

Orodai rallied with the look of man determined to preserve as much dignity as he could, though there was precious little to salvage.

'Your organisation's reputation precedes it,' he snapped, fingers questing for blemishes at his throat. 'I've heard the stories. Worlds virus-bombed on the strength of a single rumour. Whole populations wiped out for fear of one heretic.' His jaw tightened. 'I won't trust the fate of my city to the word of... of...' he glanced across at Mita, searching for some sufficiently derogatory term, settling finally for a derisive: 'that!'

'Nor,' said Kaustus, enjoying every moment, 'would I'

And right on cue the retinue chuckled its vicious amusement. Orodai re-holstered his gun, mollified by the shared ridicule of the psyker, the mutant, the wretched interrogator.

Mita bowed her head and thought: In shared cruelty lies acceptance — her own lesson, recalled time and time again.

The Emperor loves me. The Emperor loves me. The Emperor loves me.

Bitter comfort.

She acknowledge with a start that she despised them all, every last one.

'So you don't believe me,' she said, doing her best to ignore the laughter.

Kaustus seated himself again and waved an untroubled hand.

'Spare me your damaged pride,' he said. 'I've already told you I believe you. Something is loose in the underhive and it must be brought to heel. There's no question of that.' He fixed her with a pointed look. 'Whatever that "something" might be.'

'My lord! I recognised the traitor's heraldry!' Her voice came almost as a whimper. 'A fanged skull, leather-winged and homed, rampant against a field of lightning.'

Kaustus's casual posture did not change.

'The mark of the Night Lords!' she shouted, furious at his tranquillity. 'I would not mistake it! I've studied the Insignium Tratoris! I was zealous in memorising such th—'

'Your schooling is of no consequence, interrogator. If reading ancient texts is the full measure of your wisdom then I suspect your tenure with my retinue shall be very short.'

Another guffaw from the mob, another burning moment of shame and hatred.

'My lord...' her voice was quiet, almost plaintive. 'You must believe me.'

'Child.' Kaustus preened at the sleeves of his robe, voice sceptical, 'if a heretic Marine is indeed at large, perhaps you could account for how it is that you — a mere interrogator — were able to escape him?'

Mita opened her mouth.

And closed it again.

In truth, she had barely been able to believe it herself. She had lashed out at the monster with an impetuous psychic strike, a panicky assault without measure or hope of success. It was as if the Night Lord had been utterly unprepared, not just lacking in psychic defence but unaware that such a thing even existed. His mind had been like that of a child, as if the very last thing he had expected to face was a psyker.

Not the type of vulnerability one identified with the Traitor Legions.

'I... I don't know my lord,' she muttered, beaten, 'but I'm certain of the identifica—'

Kaustus silenced her with a sigh.

'That is beyond the point, interrogator,' he growled, looking away with a dismissive wave. 'We thank you for your report nonetheless. It shall be dealt with.'

She opened her mouth to remonstrate, to make him see sense, to scream and shout and vent her frustration until her throat bled, but Kaustus cut her short with a raised palm and a glare.

'It shall be dealt with,' he repeated. 'But not by you.' He turned to face the retinue, crooking a finger to beckon forth a solitary member. 'Dissimulus!'

A man, whose name Mita did not know, stepped from the throng and turned to face him, dipping his head. Mita instinctively dipped inside his mind, tasting the surface of his thoughts. Visually he seemed unremarkable, what few features his robe betrayed were average — his age was indeterminate, his hair cut to a medium length, physically neither tall nor short. Little wonder, Mita reflected, that she'd paid so little attention to him: amongst the menagerie of personalities comprising the retinue he was positively mundane.

In the boiling ocean of his mind, however, he was unique.