Chetta was in the mood for a blazing row with someone, and this dried-up jigfruit of a man would have served admirably, but it would achieve nothing. She sighed pointedly and hauled herself to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane and wincing at a twinge in her elbow. That was all she needed: her hip wasn’t so bad today, but if her main supporting arm decided to start playing up as well then she might as well get a grav-chair like Kennevario Xudine and have done with.

Not today, she thought fiercely as she turned to leave Gurrit’s chambers without dignifying him with a farewell, flanked by two of Krane’s best and preceded by obsequious, black-robed menials of the Administratum whose only purpose appeared to be making Gurrit and his visitors feel important. Not today, and not tomorrow. After that… we’ll see. She’d repeated the same mantra for the last fifteen years, and it had kept her going so far. It seemed you really could fool yourself, even if you knew you were doing it.

She allowed herself to be ushered through the grand doors of bronze-plated Catachan teak, and out of the presence of the man whom countless adjuncts had breathlessly told her she was so unbelievably lucky to be able to see at such short notice, at her request, and what a grand honour was being afforded to her in recognition of her rank as spouse of the former Novator of House Brobantis…

The warp take them all, Chetta thought bitterly, as she stumped across the prefect’s antechamber where his other appointments were waiting, then hastily recanted it inside her head when she remembered that what she was trying to achieve was to make sure that in fact the warp didn’t take them all, herself included. It wasn’t that she was superstitious, but there was no use in borrowing trouble, as Azariel would have said. A sensible adage in uncomfortable times.