‘Chetta, my dear!’

‘Emperor preserve us,’ Chetta muttered, and took a firm grip on her cane. One way or another, this was going to be unpleasant.

She turned on the spot, and had barely finished her rotation before Sen Uru Dukarr was upon her, taking her by the shoulders and placing a kiss onto her veil just over either cheek. The Novator of House Dukarr was hale, loud and bluff, but whereas Vittariel merely spoke his mind, Sen Uru employed such mannerisms to establish dominance, or force others into confrontations for which they were not prepared.

‘A terrible thing,’ Sen Uru boomed, ‘terrible.’ His moustaches drooped in sympathy as he looked to each of them in turn. ‘So sorry to hear of your loss. Azariel was a great man, and I was proud to count him as a friend.’

He hated your guts, you two-faced heap of aeldari droppings, Chetta thought bitterly. You were politically convenient, nothing more. She frowned as she saw Sen Uru’s companions. There were three of them, all male and all apparently naturally bald, with the sort of heavy bone structure that made them appear to loom even when several paces away. They had to be related to each other, and just looking at them made her skin itch. Could any of them be a psyker? She daren’t open her warp eye to see if she could sense any spark of its touch on them, not with Sen Uru right there. A warp gaze was what traditionally constituted a Navigator duel, and to open’s one eye directly in front of another Navigator was considered careless bad form at best, and an act of aggression severe enough to warrant an official duel in any case, at worst.

Maybe she’d guard her thoughts a little more closely, just in case.

‘But perhaps some good can be achieved here, some happiness found even at this tragic event,’ Sen Uru continued, and Chetta realised with a sinking stomach that he wasn’t speaking loudly because that was just what he did; he wanted their conversation to be heard. ‘I brought my two children with me.’

Why would he bring children to the funeral of a man they’d never met? Chetta frowned in confusion as Sen Uru beckoned them forwards. She’d never met them either, but knew them well enough. Ban Uru, the boy, was the elder; Del Iri, the daughter, was the younger. Both had reached puberty – Ban Uru was nearly a man, in fact – and neither looked at all comfortable in their stiff mourning clothes, on this miserable rooftop.

Sick realisation dawned.

‘Oh, you are not doing this here!’ Chetta hissed, but Sen Uru either didn’t hear her or ignored her.