‘For the most part,’ she replied. ‘The images are certainly breathtaking. What on earth are you wearing?’

‘I did not have time to properly dress,’ I replied, my gaze flickering to the door and the salvation it offered. ‘Forgive me, governor. I will depart and not return until properly attired.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘A man of your station can wear whatever he chooses.’

‘Station?’ I frowned, as one of the footmen poured me a blessed cup of recaff.

‘Indeed.’ She smiled. ‘You know, you were quite rude last night.’

‘Please, I did not–’

‘Imagine concealing that you are a direct descendent of Governor Zanwich,’ she continued, raising a hand before I could protest. ‘I know, you were being humble, and that is commendable. But think of the shame I would feel had I discovered a blood relative of the governor was relegated to floor thirty-seven? Condemned to a suite better suited to an officer, or high-ranking servant? Why, I would not have been able to show my face in public.’

‘Blood relative?’ I frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s correct.’

‘It’s quite correct,’ she insisted, voice suddenly sharp. ‘We maintain meticulous records. Admittedly, they did not contain details of your family, but after liaising with the Adeptus Administratum I confirmed you are, in fact, in line for Governor Zanwich’s title when he finally passes into the God-Emperor’s embrace.’

‘Really? I had no idea.’

‘Absolutely. Assuming his thirty-four remaining children, their various offspring and a score of cousins, nieces, half-siblings and assorted families expire first, you are next in line. Forty-three hundredth in line, according to our calculation.’

‘I see,’ I said, my gaze falling to the steaming recaff. Her words were both shocking revelation and frivolous trivia, had I but believed them. But I doubted my connection to the Zanwich family, long before I set foot on Bacchus. It seemed a little too convenient, and I knew from experience my superiors were happy to forge records when required. Still, I made no effort to correct her. After all, it was not a misconception likely to make my life harder.

‘You will be the talk of the Harvest Banquet,’ she continued, but I was not paying much attention. Mizar was needling the edge of my consciousness, the seer-skull’s machine-spirit detecting something it considered of interest.

I ignored it, focused on the governor. Her repast seemingly concluded, she rose, a chambermaid draping a robe over her shoulders.

‘So, besides this evening, what are your plans for the day?’ she said. ‘Do you need to set up a pict-recorder studio? Because I could clear the stables, the horses are all dead anyway.’

‘No, my seer-skulls are all I require,’ I said, and shrugged. ‘Still, I do not know how to capture aerial combat. I prefer to bear witness as events unfold, but I cannot keep pace with their craft.’