Nemesis

throng of people who had gathered since the previous day’s dusk, daring at last to

venture out into the streets. The silence radiated outward in a wave, crossing beyond

the edges of the vast city square, into the highways filled with halted groundcars and

standing figures. It bled out through the displays on patched streetscreens at every

intersection, relayed by camera ballutes drifting over the Governor’s hall; it fell from

the crackling mutter of vox-speakers connected to the national watch-wire.

The quiet came down hard as the planet looked to the sky and awaited the arrival

of their redeemer, the owner of their new allegiance. Their war-god.

Soalm’s hands were trembling, but she wasn’t sure what emotion was driving her.

The righteous passion erupting from laying eyes on the Warrant rolled and churned

around her as if she were being buffeted by more than just the gritty winds—but

there was something else there. Iota’s hard words about Eristede had come from out

of nowhere, and they pulled her thoughts in directions she did not wish them to go.

She shook her head; now of all times was not the moment to lose her way. The ties

that had once existed between Jenniker and her brother had been severed long ago,

and dwelling on that would serve no purpose. Her hands slipped towards the

concealed pockets in the surplice beneath her travelling robe, feeling for the toxin

cordes concealed there. She wondered if the Culexus would fight her if she refused to

carry out the Assassinorum’s orders. Soalm knew the God-Emperor would forgive

her; but her brother never would.

The tension of the moment was broken as two figures approached out of the haze

of the sandstorm, from the direction of the dry canal bed. She recognised Tros, his

189

steady, rolling gait. At his side was a dark-skinned man whose threads of grey hair

were pulled out behind him by the wind, where they danced like errant serpents. The

new arrival had no dust mask or eye-shield, and he gave no sign that the scouring

sands troubled him.

Sinope stepped towards him, and from the corner of her eye Soalm saw the

noblewoman’s men tense. They were unsure where to aim their guns.

Iota made an odd noise in the back of her throat and her hand went to her face.

Soalm thought she saw a flash of pain there.

“Who is this?” Sinope was asking.

“He came in from out of the storm,” Tros replied, speaking loudly so they all

could hear him. Nearby, people had been drawn by the sound of raised voices and

they stood at slatted windows or in doorways, watching. “This is Hyssos. The Void

Baron sent him.”

The dark man bowed deeply. “You must be the Lady Astrid Sinope.” His voice

was resonant and firm. “My lord will be pleased to hear you are still alive. When we

heard about Dagonet we feared the worst.”

“Eurotas… sent you?” Sinope seemed surprised.

“For the Warrant,” said Hyssos. He opened his hand and there was a thickset ring

made of gold and emerald in his palm—a signet. “He gave me this so you would

know I carry his authority.”

Tros took the ring and passed it to Sinope, who pressed it to a similar gold band

on her own finger. Soalm saw a blink of light as the sensing devices built into the

signets briefly communed. “This is valid,” said the noble, as if she could not quite

believe it.

Iota moved away, and she stumbled a step. Soalm glanced after her. The waif

gasped and made a retching noise. The Venenum felt an odd, greasy tingle in the air,

like static, only somehow colder.

Hyssos extended his hands. “If you please? I have a transport standing by, and

time is of the essence.”

“What sort of transport?” said Tros. “We have children here. You could take

them—”

“Tros,” Sinope warned. “We can’t—”

“Of course,” Hyssos said smoothly. “But quickly. The Warrant is more important

than any of us.”

Something was wrong. “And you are here now?” Soalm asked the question even

as it formed in her thoughts. “Why did you not come a day ago, or a week? Your

timing is very opportune, sir.”

Hyssos smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Who can fathom the God-

Emperor’s ways? I am here now because He wishes it.” His gaze cooled. “And who

are you?” Hyssos’ expression turned stony as he looked past Soalm to where Iota was

standing, her whole body quivering. “Who are you?” he repeated, and this time it was

a demand.

Iota turned and she let out a shriek that was so raw and monstrous it turned

Soalm’s blood to ice. The Culexus girl’s face was streaked with liquid where lines of

crimson fell from the corners of her eyes. Weeping blood, she brought up the

190

needier-weapon fixed to her forearm, aiming at Hyssos; with her other hand she

reached up and tore away the necklet device that regulated her psionic aura.

Against the close, gritty heat of the predawn, a wave of polar cold erupted from

out of nowhere, with the psyker at its epicentre. Everyone felt the impact of it,

everyone staggered off their balance—everyone but Hyssos.