Nemesis

The ruby eyes glared across the table. ‘My esteemed Sire Culexus,’ came the terse reply. ‘How long would you have us wait? Until the revolt reaches our door?’ She turned her jewelled gaze on the only other woman seated at the table, a figure whose face was hidden behind an elegant velvet visor of green and gold, vaned with lines of droplet pearls and dark emeralds. ‘Our sister’s agent has failed. As I said he would.’

The woman in the green mask stiffened, and leaned back in her chair, distancing herself from the ire of Callidus. Her reply was frosty and brittle. ‘I would note that none of you have yet been able to place an operative so close to the Warmaster as Clade Venenum did. Tobeld was one of my finest students, equal to the task he was set upon–’

That drew a derisive grunt from a hulking male behind a grinning, fang-toothed rictus made of bone and gunmetal. ‘If he was equal to it, then why isn’t the turncoat dead? All that time wasted and for what? To give the traitors a fresh corpse at Horus’s doorstep?’ He made a spitting sound.

Siress Venenum’s eyes narrowed behind their disguise. ‘However little you think of my clade, dear Eversor, your record to date gives you no cause to preen.’ She drew herself up. ‘What have you contributed to this mission other than a few messy and explosive deaths?’

The fanged mask regarded her, anger radiating out from the man behind it. ‘My agents have brought fear!’ he spat. ‘Each kill has severed the head of a key insurrectionist element!’

‘Not to mention countless collaterals,’ offered a dry, dour voice. The comment emerged from behind a standard-issue spy mask, no different from the kind issued to every one of the sniper operatives of Clade Vindicare. ‘We need a surgeon’s touch to excise the Archtraitor. A scalpel, not a firebomb.’

Sire Eversor let out a low growl. ‘When the day comes that someone invents a rifle you can fire from the safety of your chair and still hit Horus half a galaxy away, you can save us all. But until then, hide behind your gun sight and stay silent!’

The sixth figure at the far end of the table cleared his throat, cocking his head. His mask, a thing made of glassy layers that reflected granulated, randomised images, flickered in the dimness. ‘If I might address Sire Culexus and Siress Callidus?’ said Sire Vanus. ‘My clade’s predictive engines and our most diligent infocytes have concluded, based on all available data and prognostic simulations, that the probability of Tobeld’s survival to complete his mission was zero point two percent. Margin of error negligible. However, it did represent an improvement in proximity-to-target over all Officio Assassinorum operations to date.’

‘A mile or an inch,’ hissed Culexus, ‘it doesn’t matter if the kill was lost.’

Siress Callidus looked up the table towards the man in the silver mask. ‘I want to activate a new operative,’ she began. ‘Her name is M’Shen, she is one of the best of my clade and I–’

‘Tobeld was the best of the Venenum!’ snapped Sire Vindicare, with sudden annoyance. ‘Just as Hoswalt was the best of mine, just as Eversor sent his best and so on and so on! But we’re throwing our most gifted students into a meat-grinder, sending them in blind and half-prepared! Every strike against Horus breaks, and he shrugs it off without notice!’ He shook his head grimly. ‘Is this what we have been reduced to? Every time we meet, listening to a catalogue of each other’s failures?’ The masked man spread his arms, taking in his five cohorts. ‘We all remember that day on Mount Vengeance. The pact we made in the shadow of the Great Crusade, the oath that breathed life into the Officio Assassinorum. For decades we have hunted down the enemies of our Emperor through stealth and subterfuge. We have shown them there is no safe place to hide.’ Sire Vindicare shot a look at Sire Vanus. ‘What did he say that day?’

Vanus answered immediately, his mask shimmering. ‘No world shall be beyond my rule. No enemy shall be beyond my wrath.’

Sire Culexus nodded solemnly. ‘No enemy…’ he repeated. ‘No enemy but Horus, so it seems.’

‘No!’ snarled Callidus. ‘I can kill him.’ The man in the silver mask remained silent and she went on, imploring. ‘I will kill him, if only you will give me leave to do so!’

‘You will fail as well!’ snarled Eversor. ‘My clade is the only one capable of the deed! The only one ruthless enough to end the Warmaster’s life!’

At once, it seemed as if every one of the masters and mistresses were about to launch into the same tirade, but before they could begin, the silver mask resonated with a single word of command. ‘Silence.’