The priest smiled. It was a chilling smile – the kind of smile a petty person assumed when given massive power. Zidarov had seen it many times, from Adeptus Terra officials to Munitorum functionaries. It seemed that whenever you became part of the core Terran bureaucracy, something in your soul died.

‘Just as you wish,’ she said. ‘Please be respectful, though, probator – you are on holy ground.’

The priest with the collar grunted, and his fingers twitched. Perhaps he had a pistol under his robes. Or perhaps the collar had just given him a spike.

The three of them took him in and led him up a long series of winding staircases. The interior of the place was appropriately monastical – a far cry from Varangantua’s more normal secular sprawl. Candles burned in cut-stone alcoves, and the floors were rough-hewn flagstones. Zidarov heard chanting coming from up above – a low dirge that repeated maddeningly – and it smelled strongly of incense. If you let your focus loosen, you could imagine you were in one of the great cathedrals of the shrine worlds, those vast mountains of gargoyles and baroque altars they showed in the propaganda vids, but it didn’t take much to see beyond the facade. The stonework was mostly fascia, the candles electro-powered replicas. This place looked like it was rich, but Yvem Tora had always been a scratchy kind of institution, bereft of the serious tithe money that kitted out the bigger Ecclesiarchy temples.

Gurgev’s chamber was right at the top of one of the many towers. There were no elevators, so they tramped up the stairs, listening to the rain striking the walls as they went. By the time they reached the right floor, Zidarov was sweating. The woman with the staff smirked at him as she depressed the summon-chime.

‘This place is good for the soul, probator,’ she said. ‘If hard on the body.’

‘Respectfully,’ he replied, leaning against the stone wall, ‘get some elevators.’

The door opened, and a slim, frail-looking woman appeared. She wore the same habit as the others, though her hair was mouse brown and tied loosely in a ponytail. She was old – fifty standard, perhaps more – with a frayed look to her. The chamber she occupied was tiny, with a single window looking out over the courtyards and the bell towers. The window was open, making the place smell of rain rather than incense, which was a big improvement.

‘Sister Elina,’ the priest said. ‘Do you wish us to remain present?’

Gurgev shook her head. ‘It’s quite all right, Martre Superior Orbacha. I am content to speak to him alone.’

Orbacha looked sceptical, and hung around for an uncomfortable few moments, but eventually agreed to withdraw, taking the others with her. Elina shut the door, and smiled weakly at Zidarov.