‘That will be the decision of my physician, not you. Make no mistake, Simlex, I will no longer permit your life to be risked needlessly. From this day forward you will be constantly monitored, and guards will be posted outside your quarters to ensure you are not press-ganged into another ill-conceived flight.’

‘Thank you, Governor Dolos,’ I said, bowing my head.

‘Stylee?’

The steward was suddenly beside her. He must have been hidden by the folds of her robes.

‘Take the propagandist to his room.’

He bowed low, skuttling behind me and steering the hoverchair away. Iwazar made to follow, but one of the guards seized the seer-skull by its spindly limbs. It whined in alarm as he dragged it away.

‘Wait!’ I said, trying to turn. ‘You cannot take–’

‘For your own sake, be silent!’ Stylee hissed, quickening his pace.

‘But I need the–’

‘Governor Dolos has decreed the device be detained until adepts of the Mechanicus can conduct necessary repairs and data-scrubs.’

‘Data-scrubs? What exactly does she think it has seen?’

‘It does not matter,’ he said as we exited the throne room. ‘It is beyond your ken or concern. Do as you are told and the governor will ensure you have everything you need to complete your work. Focus on that and forget anything else you think you saw, unless you want to end up like your friend.’

My quarters had undergone renovations. The silken sheets and luxurious bed had been replaced by a medi-cot that would not have been out of place in the bunker. The tables and chairs had also been removed, and the windows reinforced with iron bars crudely nailed into the wood. Mizar was still present, wedged into the panel carved from the Marauder bomber, but there was no sign of Kikazar.

As prisons went, it was not so awful. The physician attended me regularly, applying healing balms and monitoring my vitals. I was soon back on my feet, albeit with a borrowed cane and pronounced limp. Not that there was anywhere I could go. The door was guarded, and any request I made to leave the chamber was deemed against the physician’s advice.

I had a vox-unit, but my attempt to contact Confessor Maric von Shard was unsuccessful, as I could not access an external link. My conversations were limited to the kitchens and servants, neither of whom were particularly attentive to my summons. Meals were simple things: black bread and a mulch stewed from roots and some of the softer insect parts. This restricted diet complemented my convalescence. That’s what they told me, but I suspect it was another subtle punishment. Tellingly, my penitence included a bottle of wine with my evening repasts, though if I held it to the light, I swear I saw thin veins of black threaded throughout the liquid. Each day, I made a point of pouring it out the barred window.