More footage. The sky-fortress at the centre of the tempest, Shard’s Avenger bolt cannon tearing into scrambling greenskins. A sudden flurry of explosions.

‘Does that satisfy you enough to answer my question? Who painted it?’

‘I suspect Governor Dolos.’

‘Suspect?’ she said. ‘A dangerous word to employ against a planetary governor. Do you have proof?’

‘Nothing concrete, but I believe it to be the truth.’

‘Hmm.’

Kikazar hummed, and abruptly shifted projectors. I was treated to a dozen picts of the governor, her entourage, even her chambers.

‘What is that?’

I glanced at the displayed pict. It was the outside of the château; a moment snatched from one of my recordings.

‘I do not know,’ I replied. ‘What am I looking for?’

The image magnified a thousandfold, focusing on one of the upper windows. It was too blurred to see much, but she worked some visual wizardry, and the image cut to another and coalesced into the silhouette of a plant. I could just make out the amber-flecked leaves and puckered pink flowers. I recognised it easily enough.

‘I do not know. It belongs to Governor Dolos, but the species is unfamiliar to me.’

‘What did the flowers look like?’

‘Pink. They are ugly little things, like mouths. And it has berries. The governor is very fond of them.’

She swore, her gaze flicking as she reviewed some file invisible to me.

‘You didn’t eat any?’

‘No. Why?’

‘And how long has it been there? Is it rooted?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I overheard it was a gift. I take it the plant is not indigenous?’

‘No,’ she replied, still not looking at me. ‘Isha’s Needle is not indigenous, in the same way a blade inserted violently into the sternum is not a natural part of the human anatomy. Do you know who gave this so-called gift?’

‘Only what I overheard from the servants.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s obvious enough,’ she said. ‘By the Throne, the aeldari are a sneaky bunch. Destabilise an entire ecosystem through one well-chosen gift. Where is the governor now? Assuming she still has her sanity? By the God-Emperor, the visions she must have seen.’

‘I heard whispers she has fled this place.’

‘Running away? Very sensible. Let me just make a record of that.’

A quill was plucked from somewhere, and she recorded a note on a scrap of scroll, etching the letters with a cartographer’s flourish. She then sat back, triumphant, before glancing up at me. She looked surprised, almost as though my presence had been forgotten.

‘Ah, Simlex,’ she sighed. ‘I cannot say I have enjoyed this conversation as I know it will result in a hive’s-worth of paperwork. But it has been useful, so I should thank you for that.’

‘What will happen to me now?’

‘You?’

‘You said my life was in danger.’

‘Oh, it is. But not from me, thanks to your answers.’