‘Ah,’ said Gobleka. ‘Of course. Because of your infamous willpower. Your will, so firm and unshakeable that no temptation or malice can topple it. Eisenhorn, listen… I may have mocked you, but I’m not an idiot. I know you’re a man of considerable talents and abilities. Your career shows that. You have particular strengths and skills that could make you very useful to us. To Lilean. Not in your present state, of course. I know you’d never join us. I respect that, even. But this isn’t a choice you’re going to make.’

Eisenhorn glared at him.

‘Seriously,’ said Gobleka. ‘The Torment antigenic is horrible. This will hurt. Most subjects do not survive. Only Magos Sark has ever lived through more than one shot of it. But I think you will, simply because you’re so strong. And the inoculant, once it’s scorching through your system, will have plenty to work with. That psyker mind of yours, for example. You have walked in the dark for too many years, exposed your psi-active mind to the warp. It’s left its imprint on you. You are an… etheric sensitive, far closer in nature to the creatures you hunt than you’d ever care to admit. You are ripe and ready. A very suitable candidate.’

‘Where do you want it?’ Davinch asked.

‘Throat,’ replied Gobleka. He looked back at Eisenhorn.

‘Forget your will,’ he said. ‘Forget resisting. It’s not a matter of that. The Torment antigenic will modify you, alter your entire state of being. You will see the warp and be the warp, and that will be all. It won’t be a matter of accepting it. It will simply be true.’

‘You’re very certain of these things you keep describing as facts,’ said Eisenhorn.

‘It’s my job,’ said Gobleka. ‘My service to Orpheus, the King in Yellow. He trusts me to get it right.’

He glanced at Davinch.

‘Hold him steady,’ he ordered.

Davinch closed in, reaching up to drag Eisenhorn’s collar down and expose his throat. Gobleka stepped forwards with the injector.

Eisenhorn’s hands were cuffed with military-issue binders. He couldn’t pull them apart, so he clenched them together instead, fingers intertwined. As Davinch closed in to seize him, he swung his fists like a club into the tattooed man’s gut.

He was not as tired and weak as they had presumed.

Davinch barked out air and doubled up. Eisenhorn brought his hands down, now separated, so that the cuff-chain hooked around the back of Davinch’s neck. He slammed down, driving Davinch’s face into the metal bracing of his rising kneecap.

Bone cracked. Davinch fell away, moaning and choking. Gobleka was lunging in with the injector.

Every movement hurt. Eisenhorn’s gut wound was severe, and just moving abruptly, raising his knee to take down Davinch, had torn the traumatised wound and broken the sealant packing. He felt blood suddenly spill down his back.