‘Or you could perhaps inform them that the Lady Chettamandey of Navigator House Brobantis is using her warp-sight to assess the situation and determine whether it poses any further threat,’ DeShelle suggested mildly.

Arqueba snorted a laugh. ‘What would we do without your diplomacy skills, DeShelle?’

‘Since I appointed her, those skills are technically mine via delegation,’ Chetta pointed out. ‘I’m sure you can deal with them, Anja. Just hold our position steady for a little longer. I need to take a proper look at this.’

She turned away, closed her physical eyes to shut out all distractions, and opened her third eye. It always felt blind at first in real space, as if she were staring into a lightless void, but as the seconds passed things started to come into focus. There were the very faintest sparks of life from other ships, the souls of their crews as they skimmed the warp by the nature of their very existence. Here and there shone brighter lights – astropaths, perhaps, or other psykers, whose essences were more closely connected to the empyrean and so attracted her gaze more. But they weren’t what she wanted to see.

She focused past and around them, looking for the warp echoes of Gallimo Prime’s fate, and saw it almost instantly. It was a flickering wound hanging in space – not active, not a portal through which a ship could pass, for example, but still something from which the energy of the warp could infinitesimally bleed. It was a ragged tear in–

No. No it wasn’t. Chetta clenched her fingers on the head of her cane until her knuckles protested and looked closer, forcing herself to concentrate. She had to be absolutely certain about this.

She was absolutely certain about it. It wasn’t a tear.

It was a cut.

‘My lady?’

Chetta realised she’d spoken aloud. She closed her warp eye and opened her physical ones, then turned around to see DeShelle regarding her with a look of concern. She debated whether to keep what she’d just learned to herself, then instantly decided against it. Such information was too important to risk on the continuing good health of one Navigator.

‘Captain,’ she called, motioning to Arqueba. ‘Would you care to join us, please?’

Anja Arqueba’s command throne floated majestically over to them, borne aloft by a combination of anti-grav motors and suspensor cables that disappeared into the bridge’s vaulted ceiling. Arqueba was another Navy veteran, although she and Chetta had never seen combat together, and what could be seen of her hair amidst the neural interface cables dotting her scalp was an iron grey.

‘High lady?’