‘So it’s a useful lie? That’s all you have to say on the matter?’

‘No, actually.’ Eisenhorn looked at him. There was a fierce gleam in his eyes. ‘I am an inquisitor. It has been my life. I know I am true in the defence of the Golden Throne. If the echelons of the Inquisition, and the other august institutions of the Imperium choose – in their ignorance – to deem me otherwise, then it is they who are wrong, not me.’

‘One might describe that as a terrifying level of self-delusion, sir,’ said Drusher.

‘You can describe it however you like, magos,’ Eisenhorn replied.

He glanced over his shoulder.

‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered. ‘A psykanic event like this… and Jaff’s screams… will not have gone unnoticed.’

Drusher followed Eisenhorn across the platform. He didn’t really want to, but he wanted to stay put even less. He glanced back at Jaff’s remains.

‘Do we just leave her there?’

‘Hurry,’ Eisenhorn replied.

They moved down some steps to the next platform stage and hid in the shadows of one of the great cogs. From concealment, they could see the stage they had just left. Eisenhorn reached into his coat and drew a large and ornate autopistol. It looked the size of a standard carbine to Drusher.

‘What do we–’ Drusher began.

+Remain silent.+

A man appeared on the platform above. It was the tall man with florid tattoos that Drusher had seen before. He hurried to Jaff’s body, recoiled in disgust, then anxiously began to look around, a laspistol raised.

‘Blayg!’ he called.

The heavy man appeared a moment later, out of breath.

‘What did you find? What was that cry?’ he asked.

‘Jaff’s done for.’

‘Damn,’ the fat man gasped, seeing the corpse.

‘Eisenhorn’s handiwork,’ replied the tattooed man. ‘He’s here, and he’s loose.’

‘What did he do to her?’ the fat man asked, tilting his head in ghastly fascination as he stared at Jaff’s body.

‘Who cares, Blayg? We have to find him before he does worse.’

‘Streekal’s already hunting,’ said Blayg, running a pudgy hand through his thin grey hair. He hefted up the heavy combat las he was carrying.

‘Streekal’s efficient, but she’ll need help,’ replied the tattooed man. ‘This bastard is as dangerous as his reputation suggests. Go up to the cage. Tell Gobleka what’s happened.’

‘He’ll be furious, Davinch.’

‘Of course he will. So tell him gently.’

Davinch, the tattooed man, glanced at his portly colleague.

‘Go on!’

‘Where are you going?’ Blayg asked.

‘I’ll check down from here,’ said Davinch. ‘Right down to the cellar. I want to see if Jaff put that magos fool in a cage before this happened to her. Otherwise, we’ve got two interlopers loose. And tell Gobleka someone needs to get outside. There’s the other loose end, the Betancore woman. She needs to be tidied up too.’