I turned to find Governor Dolos resplendent in auburn robes adorned with shining stars. Her headdress comprised almost a full exoskeleton, the fusion of insect parts extending to the base of her spine. She offered her hand. I had no idea what to do with it, but she quickly recognised this, pressing the tip of her thumb to my own and splaying my hand open with her remaining fingers. There was some twist of the wrist that followed, but I was completely lost at this point, having imbibed a little too much complimentary wine. Dolos did not seem concerned.

‘It’s wonderful to see you again,’ she said, smiling. ‘And you look splendid, every inch a member of Bacchus’ aristocracy. Come, let me make some introductions.’

This was clearly a lie, but so are most exchanges at such events. As the orchestra played, their instruments hewn from a hodgepodge of spider silk and repurposed carapace, I was presented to the various nobles and dignitaries. I got the impression Dolos was attempting to manage my interactions. Either that or, just like their revered insects, the nobility of Bacchus operated as a hive mind. I undertook the same conversations a dozen times. Kikazar was ever at my shoulder, its sensors logging each exchange.

Lord Pompo was an exception. I became cornered by him when Dolos disappeared to attend to some late arrivals. He was a portly man of noble bearing, his nose raised skywards, forcing him to regard me from the corner of each eye in turn. They were remarkably widely spaced, and I found myself wondering if the gentleman had bovine genomes in his ancestry.

‘So, you’re the fellow who will rid us of these wretched greenskins, what?’ he said.

‘I fear that would be beyond me, my lord,’ I replied. ‘My duty is merely to document events.’

‘Damn right,’ the elder man said, bristling. ‘Someone needs to show that those so-called soldiers aren’t doing their job.’ He paused for a moment as a servant refreshed his glass. ‘This year’s harvest has been a disaster. We are taking home barely half of what we once did. And the workers! Suddenly everyone is too busy whining about raids or about being conscripted to do an honest day’s work.’

He was slurring. It was understandable. The wine was sweet and subtle, somehow conveying soft sunsets and lazy evenings. There was none of the bitter tang I had previously tasted. I had thought myself half-cut, but Lord Pompo’s glazed eyes told me I somehow had the man at a disadvantage. At least, in theory. I suspected that even when sober his belligerence and self-importance would have made him an impenetrable conversationalist.

‘Blasted xenos,’ he murmured. ‘Scum, all of them. Did you know I served? Fought them… What are the blue ones called?’

‘T’au?’