The Children of the Serpent were gathered again. Sulaman Eichner had sent out word at Radimir’s urging, and they’d assembled inside Svet’s generator chamber once more. Their numbers were greater, this time. Radimir wasn’t sure if this was because the last meeting had been so rushed, or whether the pull of the cult had actually increased. He was uneasy, regardless of the cause. More people meant a greater chance of unknowns, of outsiders slipping in and everyone assuming that they were there with someone else. He watched as worshippers arrived, one after another, and was pleased to see that Aylen Marjuk appeared to be in charge of security. The former Guardsman vetted each new arrival, waving past those he knew personally and holding others until someone else could vouch for them.

It was an efficient and well-ordered process. How ironic was it, Radimir mused, that even the greatest bastions of order could be twisted to bene­fit Chaos? Some of the most gifted tactical minds the galaxy had ever seen had worked in its service. There was a place for the blind rage of a berserker, of course there was, but such power needed to be brought to bear in the right place, at the right time, and for the right purpose. An enemy understood was an enemy already half-defeated. The systems of the Imperium could be turned against it like a corrupted knife twisting in its gut, a malign canker against which its bloated body had no defence, for it thought it to be part of itself.

Some of his own might call him radical. Some of his own might even call him heretic. But Radimir Niklau had been taught to use his ­enemy’s weapons against itself, and he understood the wisdom of those teachings.

He let Eichner address them first. The archivist had a charming, ­earnest and almost childlike wonder to him as he spoke of the power and glories of the True Gods. He made believing sound so easy, Radimir realised. He was positive, uplifting. He was preaching to ranks of downtrodden workers – faceless manufactorum grunts, thoroughfare cleaners and boiler stokers – and telling them that when the Great Powers held sway, they would all be beautiful and unique.

The Imperial Creed was a lie, Eichner maintained. It was blinding and suffocating, demanding worship to one god when in fact there were many. It offered only miserable slavery, and not for reward, but simply under the threat of punishment for straying. A glorious new world awaited them, and they could be a part of bringing it about.