Unfortunately, the delay meant that her late husband’s funeral and wake could not be held quickly and discreetly, as she’d have preferred. News of her bereavement had preceded her, and she’d come back to a boiling insects’ nest of activity. Most critically, various other houses had received enough notice to send their condolences – or gloatings dressed up as condolences – in the form of representatives too high-ranking to simply be acknowledged and then shunted away somewhere. And so they all assembled on one of the great dining roofs of the main palace of House Brobantis, under the oppressive sky, and proceeded to subtly posture at each other around the casket of black crystal where Azariel’s body lay, and where her two children, Felicia and Ranovel, wept over the father whose death she had arranged. It wrung at her heart to see them so distraught, but she would never have done it had she not been absolutely convinced that it was in their best interests.

‘How many are we up to?’ she asked quietly. She was dressed in a mourning gown of black lace, encrusted with midnight sapphires from the Night Mines of Amatryx, which left her right shoulder bare. Her veil was anchored in place by a blacksteel diadem set with black onyx stones, and she wore long, black silk gloves reaching to above her biceps. Her tachydon ivory cane was an appropriate fit with the ensemble, and in any case Chetta was far too stubborn to forgo her favourite walking aid for the sake of propriety. Besides, she needed it: the floor was slippery, because she’d instructed her servants to disengage the void shield which would have kept the rain off. If she had to put up with all these visitors, then she wanted them just as miserable as she was.

‘Four Novators now, my lady,’ DeShelle murmured back. ‘Balevolio…’

‘Stuck-up prigs,’ Chetta muttered.

‘Xan’Tai…’

Chetta grunted in mild surprise. ‘He’s a long way from home.’

‘The Celestarch of House Belisarius…’

‘Now that is a shock,’ Chetta commented. ‘But I suppose you can only spend so long with the Space Wolves before you want some civilised company.’

‘And of course, Dukarr,’ DeShelle finished.

‘Of course,’ Chetta sighed. Sen Uru Dukarr was the person she least wanted to speak to right now, and so naturally he’d turned up. ‘What about Jo’Sin? Is Veel coming, or has he foisted the Leech off onto us?’

‘Lord Veel has sent his apologies and condolences, and his son Lord Jalamar.’

‘The Leech,’ Chetta corrected her aide, taking a petty pleasure in using the name she couldn’t say in public. Jalamar Jo’Sin was his house’s great hope for the future, seeing as how he’d managed to ensnare and marry the Lady Morandia, Azariel Brobantis’ younger sister, after her arranged marriage to a different house had come apart when they’d suffered a terminal case of the Ordo Hereticus. Chetta respected Jalamar’s ambition, but it didn’t mean she had to like him. What made matters worse was that Morandia had always viewed Chetta’s marriage in the exact same way, despite the fact that Chetta had never had any say in the matter whatsoever, short of taking her own life to avoid it. Morandia was always going to be here, of course – she and Azariel had been genuinely fond of each other – but if Veel had come then Chetta could have at least dealt primarily with him, rather than his son.