Nemesis

pressed itself to the front of his thoughts. Four words, a simple koan whose truth had

never been more real than it was in this moment.

Kell said it aloud as he fell towards his target.

“I am the weapon.”

Across the mountainous towers of the Imperial Palace, the sun was rising into the

dusky sky, but its light had yet to reach all the wards and precincts of the great

fortress-city. Many districts were still dormant, their populace on the verge of waking

for the new day; others had been kept from their slumber by matters that did not rest.

In the ornate corridors of power, there was quiet and solemnity, but in the

Shrouds, any pretence at decorum had been thrown aside.

Sire Eversor’s fist came down hard on the surface of the rosewood table with an

impact that set the cut-glass water goblets atop it rattling. His anger was unchained,

his eyes glaring out through his bone mask. “Failure!” he spat, the word laden with

venom. “I warned you all when this idiotic plan was proposed, I warned you that it

would not work!”

“And now we have burned our only chance to kill the Warmaster,” muttered Sire

Vanus, his synth-altered voice flat and toneless like that of a machine.

The master of Clade Eversor, unable to remain seated in his chair, arose in a rush

and rounded the octagonal table. The other Sires and Siresses of the Officio

Assassinorum watched him stalk towards the powerful, hooded figure standing off to

one side, in the glow of a lume-globe. “We never should have listened to you,” he

growled. “All you did was cost us more men, Custodian!”

At the head of the table, the Master of Assassins looked up sharply, his silver

mask reflecting the light. Behind him there was nothing but darkness, and the man

appeared to be cradled in a dark, depthless void.

“Yes,” spat Sire Eversor. “I know who he is. It could be no other than Constantin

Valdor!”

At this, the hooded man let his robes fall open and the Captain-General was fully

revealed. “As you wish,” he said. “I have nothing to fear from you knowing my

face.”

“I suspected so,” ventured Siress Venenum, her face of green and gold porcelain

tilting quizzically. “Only the Custodian Guard would be so compelled towards

ensuring the deaths of others before their own.”

Valdor shot her a look and smiled coldly. “If that is so, then in that way we are

alike, milady.”

“Eversor,” said the Master, his voice level. “Take your seat and show some

restraint, if that is at all possible.” The featureless silver mask reflected a twisted

mirror of the snarling bone face.

247

“Restraint?” said Sire Vindicare, his aspect hidden behind a marksman’s spy

mask. “With all due respect, my lord, I think we can all agree that the Eversor’s

anger is fully justified.”

“Horus sent one of his men to die in his stead,” Sire Eversor sat once more, his

tone bitter. “He must have been warned. Or else he has a daemon’s luck.”

“That, or something else…” Siress Venenum said darkly.

“Missions fail,” interrupted the silk-faced mistress of the Callidus. “It has ever

been thus. We knew from the start that this was a target like no other.”

Across from her, the watchful steel skull concealing Sire Culexus bent forward.

“And that is answer enough?” His whispering tones carried across the room. “Six

more of our best are missing, presumed dead, and for what? So that we may sit back

and be assured that we have learnt some small lesson from the wasting of their

lives?” The skull’s expression did not change, but the shadows gathered around it

appeared to lengthen. “Operative Iota was important to my clade. She was a rarity, a

significant investment of time and energy. Her loss does not go without mark.”

“There’s always a cost,” said Valdor.

“Just not to you,” Venenum’s retort was acid. “Our best agents and our finest

weapons squandered, and still Horus Lupercal draws breath.”

“Perhaps he cannot be killed,” Sire Eversor snapped.

Before the commander of the Custodians could reply, the Master of Assassins

raised his hand to forestall the conversation. “Sire Vanus,” he began, “shall we

dispense with this hearsay and instead discuss what we know to be true of the fallout

from our operation?”

Vanus nodded, his flickering, glassy mask shifting colour and hue. “Of course.”

He pushed at a section of the pinkish-red wood and the table silently presented him

with a panel of brass buttons. With a few keystrokes, the hololithic projector hidden

below came to life, sketching windows of flickering blue light above their heads.

Displays showing tactical starmaps, fragments of scout reports and feeds from longrange

observatories shimmered into clarity. “News from the Taebian Sector is, at

best, inconclusive. However, it appears that most, if not all, of the prime worlds

along the length of the Taebian Stars trade spine are now beyond the influence of

Imperial governance.”