Nemesis

not the one who rejected her own name! I didn’t turn my back on justice!”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” She looked away. “We both had a choice all

those years ago, Eristede. Escape, or revenge. But you chose revenge, and you

condemned us to a life where we are nothing but killers.”

The memory came back to her in a giddy rash. They were both just children then,

the scions of their family. The last surviving members of the Kell dynasty, their

holdings destroyed and their parents exterminated during an internecine straggle

among the aristocrats of the Thaxted Duchy. Orphaned and alone, they had been

drawn into the halls of the Imperial schola and there both secretly selected by agents

of the Officio Assassinorum.

Brother and sister had shown promise—Eristede was an excellent marksman for

one so young, and Jenniker’s genius for botany and chemistry was clear. They knew

that soon the clade directors would make their decisions, and that they would be split

up, perhaps never to see one another again. In the halls of the schola they had made

their plans to flee together, to eschew the assassin’s path and find a new life.

But then Clade Vindicare offered something that Eristede Kell wanted more than

his freedom; the chance to avenge his mother and father. All they asked for in return

was his loyalty—and consumed by hate, he gave it willingly. Jenniker had been left

behind with nowhere to go but to the open arms of the Venenum.

Months later, she had learned that innocents had been killed in the hit on the man

who murdered their parents, and that had been the day when she swore she would no

longer go by the name of Kell again.

“I’d hoped you might have changed since I last saw you,” she said. “And you

have. But not for the better.”

Her brother seemed as if he was on the verge of an outburst; but then he drew it

back in and looked away. “You’re right,” he told her. “You don’t know me. Now get

out.”

“As you command,” Soalm said stiffly.

156

TWELVE

A Single Drop

Messenger

Wilderness of Mirrors

The men guarding the chamber housing the Void Baron’s private reliquary had

allowed their concentration to falter. Spear listened to them speak as he stood in the

shadows beyond their line of sight, a few metres up along the vaulted corridor. News

had filtered down through the crew hierarchy aboard the Iubar, fractions of the

reports from the communicatory that warned of sightings of Adeptus Astartes on the

move. No one seemed to know if they were warriors still loyal to the Emperor of

Mankind, or if they were those now following the banner of the Warmaster; some

even dared to suggest that all the mighty Legions of the Astartes had turned their

faces from their creator, embarking on a jihad to take for themselves what they had

captured for Terra during the Great Crusade.

Spear understood only small elements of the unfolding war going on across the

galaxy; and in truth, it mattered little to him. The killer’s keyhole view of

intergalactic conflict was enough. He cared little about sides or doctrines. All Spear

needed was the kill. It was enough that his master Erebus had given him murders to

commit; perhaps even the greatest murder in human history.

But before that could happen, he had steps to take. Preparations to be made.

Spear allowed the daemonskin to regain a small amount of control over itself, and

the surface of his surrogate flesh shivered. Removing the shipsuit overall he had been

wearing, he stepped naked into the deep shadows. Hair-like tendrils emerged from

his epidermis, sampling the air and the ambient light all around. In moments Spear’s

body became wet with sticky processor fluids, changing colour until it was nightdark.

His features retreated behind a mask of scabbing crusts, and then he leapt

soundlessly to the high ceiling. Secreted oils allowed him to adhere there, and the

killer snaked slowly along his inverted pathway, passing over the heads of the guards

as they fretted and spoke in low tones about threats they could not understand.

At the entrance to the reliquary there was an intelligent door possessed of a

variety of sensory and thought-mechanical systems designed to open only to

Merriksun Eurotas, or a member of his immediate family. It was little impediment to

Spear. He slapped the daemonskin lightly as it whined in his mind, dragging on him a

little as it sensed the guards and expressed a desire to drink their blood. Chastened, it

obediently extruded a new, thickly-lipped mouth at his palm. Spear held the mouth

over the biometric breath sensor, as the same time sending new hair-tendrils into the

thin gaps around the edges of the door. They wormed their way into the locks and

teased them open one by one.

157

It had been easy to sample the Void Baron’s breath; simply by standing close to

him, Spear’s daemonskin sheath had plucked the microscopic particulate matter and

DNA traces of his exhalations from the air, and stored them in a bladder. Now the