‘It’s so ironic, sir,’ said Drusher. ‘Ironic to the point of comedy. You suspect everyone. You believe there’s a spy in your midst. You think it’s Voriet, perhaps correctly, but you use him for your own ends, to rebuild the bridges you burned with the Inquisition. And then the real spy turns out to be Jaff. Not just an agent of your ex-masters but, worse, an agent of your true enemy.’

‘She hid it well. That’s what the Cognitae do.’

‘You hate that the ordos cast you out, don’t you?’ asked Drusher. ‘You hate the fact they declared you a heretic?’

‘I hate the fact that the ordos are blind and stubborn,’ replied Eisenhorn. ‘I could achieve a great deal more, a great deal faster, if I had their blessing, their cooperation and their not inconsiderable support.’

‘Or… you have no friends and you don’t like it,’ said Drusher.

‘Pure sentiment,’ Eisenhorn responded.

‘Well, I have a friend, and I’m going to help her.’

‘This is a dangerous location, magos, and you are no combatant. You don’t have the skill-set to do her any good.’

‘So help me,’ said Drusher.

‘No,’ said Eisenhorn. ‘Macks is not a priority.’

‘That there, sir, is why you don’t have any friends,’ said Drusher. He turned away. ‘I’ll go do whatever I can. You go do what you need to do. I hope this isn’t goodbye, but I think it probably is, and so I wish you well in your efforts.’

He walked down the platform and began to descend the stairs. Eisenhorn stood and watched him for a while. Then turned, limping painfully, and disappeared in the opposite direction.

Drusher stopped and looked back. Eisenhorn was gone.

‘Throne,’ he muttered to himself. He had been quite sure Eisenhorn was going to change his mind and come after him. The old bastard really was as cold as stone.

And now Drusher was alone. He had no clue what he was going to do or how he could achieve it. Eisenhorn had been right. Valentin Drusher was no fighter. He wasn’t going to last a second against any of Gobleka’s ruthless minions.

He was way out of his depth. He had been since the moment Harlon Nayl had hammered on his front door.

He continued down the steps. For what little good it might do, he took the gun out of his coat pocket and clutched it tightly.

It took a while to reach the base levels of the tower. Longer, in fact, than Drusher fancied it should have taken, as if the tower were much taller than any real tower could be, as if its dimensions stretched down into impossible depths.