He saw a figure dart for cover along a catwalk: the tattooed man, Davinch, his twin laspistols in his hands.

Eisenhorn fired again. In partial cover behind a flywheel, Davinch blasted back. The las-fire went wide of Eisenhorn, to the left this time. The Cognitae fool was a poor shot. He’d had three decent tries at Eisenhorn and missed by a margin each time.

Eisenhorn crawled back, until he was half-shielded by a spinning cog. He took careful, considered aim on the flywheel above, waiting for Davinch to poke his head out again.

Eisenhorn focused his will.

+Davinch!+

It hurt, like a hot spike between the eyes. Eisenhorn tried again. A mental goad like that, particularly when you knew a man’s name, was usually enough to jerk him out into the open. He got into the hindbrain and gave it a flick the target couldn’t resist. Under optimal circumstances, he could psyke into a man’s head and make him jump to his death or shoot himself, a look of horror on his face as his body turned against him.

But these circumstances were far from optimal. The Loom’s dissonance field was both snuffing out his psionic ability and reflecting what little he could broadcast.

Eisenhorn began to move again, keeping low as he headed along the platform. Another burst of fire chopped at him. Hard rounds this time, an assault weapon from the rate. The metal slugs ripped across the platform and sparked off a brass bearing behind him.

Different weapon. This was someone else. Blayg, or Gobleka, perhaps. Again, the aim had been wide. Were they all terrible shots?

No, they weren’t. The evidence was plain. Keshtre was a vital facility, but the Cognitae had only staffed it with a handful of operatives. Just enough to keep it running. So they had to be good, the very best. Elite cult soldiers, hand-picked for their skills. Eisenhorn knew from the case file that Gobleka was a fine marksman. He’d cut down Interrogator Arfon Kadle on Gudrun with a single headshot at three thousand metres.

These men weren’t trying to kill him. They were trying to drive him.

He kept low and scanned for movement. He glimpsed Blayg, the short, jowly one, switching positions. Eisenhorn got off a single shot. Blayg dropped out of sight. A moment later, he reappeared and hammered the deck beside Eisenhorn with autofire.

Eisenhorn fought back the pain clouding his head and made a decision. He had to change tactics. He had to use whatever edge, whatever chance, however desperate, to seize back some advantage. They were trying to drive him. They wanted him alive. If he was their prisoner, he might be taken closer to the very place he was struggling to reach. But it had to be convincing.

He rose to his feet, clearly visible.

‘You want to drive me, do you?’ he yelled. ‘Herd me?’

He fired two shots in Blayg’s direction.