I have dealt with the Adeptus Mechanicus. Before a single seer-skull was entrusted into my care, I had to memorise the catechisms of repair and perform the rituals of maintenance. I do not know to what extent the tech-priests entrusted these rituals to the common soldiery, but I suspect Plient’s work went beyond whatever had been sanctioned, perhaps bordering on tech-heresy. But then I would see him cheerily chant psalms of sacrifice as he laboured, paying thanks to the God-Emperor each time an aircraft left the hangar. It seemed impossible such a devout soul could harbour heresy in his heart. No, the reason he laboured was simple: there was no one else to complete the repairs.

We were losing the war.

I had not realised this when I first arrived on Bacchus, assuming the flurry of activity indicated a thriving base that supported vast forces. But it was the same faces I saw each day, and they hurried and bustled because there was too much to do and too few of them doing it.

And it did not take a logis to calculate that when the aircraft took flight, not all of them returned.

Governor Dolos’ personnel were also stretched thin, though I cannot say their labours contributed much to the war effort. An inordinate amount of time was dedicated to beautifying the estate. A futile act, given the conflict, but they persisted. I saw work teams scraping the walls and attempting to patch the section of roof damaged by the errant Valkyrie. Steward Stylee oversaw it all. He did not sleep as far as I could tell, driving the servants day and night.

But his work paid dividends, for I awoke one morn to find the upper level of the château in full bloom. I could see the blossom from my window, the flowers an unreal-looking, vivid blue. I stepped outside for a closer view, and found I was not alone. A small crowd had gathered, some ground crew, others the governor’s staff. But they were united in their admiration of the spectacle, and at their centre stood the beaming Stylee.

‘Good morrow to you, my lord,’ he said, bowing as deep as his ageing limbs would permit. Ever since the revelation of my apparent noble lineage, his manner to me had shifted. He now did an admirable job of hiding his disdain. Well, an adequate job, anyway.

‘Good day to you as well,’ I said, and nodded to him as Kikazar rose upwards, inspecting the flowers. ‘This is certainly a spectacle.’

‘It would hardly be the Harvest Banquet without mandack blossom,’ he replied. ‘To think, some claimed it would not flower this year! But even this dirty war cannot overshadow the passage of seasons.’

‘It does this every year?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Remarkable,’ I murmured. ‘I have never seen flowers blossom this quickly.’