She tilted her head, drew a deep breath and blew it out. The map was festooned with pins, a frankly alarming number of them.

‘Do you see any pattern here, Grange?’ she asked.

‘None whatsoever, captain. It’s… anarchic,’ he said heavily.

‘I was afraid you’d say that,’ she said, folding her arms and scowling at the map.

‘Should we petition the regent militant for additional resources?’ asked Grange. ‘We could certainly cite a time of exceptional travails, based on the evidence we have here.’

Regent Militant Selvador Mathenio Aranesis. The man was a war hero, had been a young initiate amidst the ranks of the Sigmarite crusade that had claimed this region all those years ago. He’d slain a champion of the Dark Gods in single battle while standing protectively over the fallen form of the arch-priest he followed, and his rise thereafter had been meteoric. Helena had a healthy respect for the regent militant’s drive, his faith and his belief in the ongoing war of reconquest. However, he was an old man now and Helena had long suspected that, unable to stride out and claim his own glories, Selvador sought to live vicariously through those he ruled. He raised ever larger and more magnificent shrines to Sigmar in the richest districts of the city and surrounded them with statuary that imitated the glory of Azyrheim itself. He pushed recruitment drives every turning, Sigmarite warbands training under the watchful eyes of the city’s militia-militant and then setting out into the wilds to the north with hammers and flails in hand.

Helena could well imagine how the regent militant would respond, were she to request a diversion of funds away from his grand undertakings. Was the faith of her watchmen not sufficient, he would ask? Was she perhaps incapable of discharging the duties she had sworn to perform? Had she tried increasing the prayer rotas for the men and women under her command, or issued them with fresh Sigmarite charms, or perhaps enforced the application of new faith tattoos?

None of this she said to Grange, however. Instead, Helena walked over to her desk, recovering the coglock pistol from her drawer and the scabbarded blade that leant against the table’s side. She buckled both onto her belt. Taking her captain’s cloak off its hook and fastening it with the ruby brooch of her office, she smiled humourlessly at Grange.

‘We don’t ask for help with that we can do ourselves, lieutenant. Get a team of scribes in here, second class or above, and have them go over everything again. They’re to look for patterns, links, common cause, anything we may have missed.’

‘And what will we be doing in the meantime, captain?’ asked Grange looking, she thought, a touch too eager.

‘Our duty, Grange,’ she replied.