So I was surprised to suddenly find myself staring at the face of a young woman clad in the robes of the Adeptus Administratum.

‘Good day, Propagandist Simlex.’ She smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes, though admittedly the left was a mechanical device that glimmered a piercing red. It reminded me of the seer-skulls.

I stared back, the bottle touching my lips.

‘Now, I appreciate this has been a challenging few days,’ she continued. ‘There was the storm, and the lightning, not to mention being flung halfway across the planet. And here you now sit, imprisoned, abandoned and powerless, awaiting near-certain death.’

She leant forward, her eyes fixed on mine.

‘Let me calm your fears. For, however bleak your present circumstances may seem, you must believe me when I say they can get so much worse.’

I shivered, despite the heat.

‘This conversation?’ she continued. ‘Right now? This is the most danger you have ever been in. Do you understand?’

There was no malice in her voice. She sounded almost sympathetic. Just doing her duty. Like the rest of us. In the distance, I could hear explosions, but they did not seem as threatening as her.

I opened my mouth but she raised her finger.

‘No. Do not say anything unless I ask first. You will only muddle through events. Just answer honestly. Assume I know more than you, because I do. Do you understand?’

I nodded, silent. She smiled at that.

‘Excellent. Now, do you know what you were searching for?’

‘No.’

‘Then how did you stumble across it?’

‘I saw the image in a painting.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Excuse me a moment.’

Kikazar suddenly surged upright, its flickering projector spraying a flurry of images, seemingly at random. They were splashed across the walls before it stopped abruptly, having located the painting.

‘Oh dear.’ She winced as a dozen images manifested around it. I saw flashes of Shard facing the orks, a banner-bug lunging from the swamp, Dolos presiding over the Harvest Banquet in all her finery. Then there was a sound. A siren? My gaze flickered to the window, but I could see little from where I sat. And I dared not move.

My interrogator sighed. ‘By the Throne, this is poorly organised. How do you complete your picts?’

I shrugged.

‘That wasn’t a rhetorical question.’

‘I… It has been difficult to stay on top of it,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps I can help if I know what you seek?’

She glared at me, before acquiescing. ‘Why not,’ she said. ‘So, who painted this? And these others?’

The triptych from the distillery flared into view.

‘I… How did you retrieve that image?’ I said. ‘Iwazar was taken. I did not have time to copy–’

‘Your other skull is still active. With my level of access to the network, it is ­trivial to transfer data from one node to the other. Look.’