‘True,’ said Imus. ‘Also true, and a fact you know well… All inquisitors end. They are, by necessity, finite. The work they do… How can I put it? It tarnishes them. They are carriers. Infected with the torment of their duty. No matter how noble and dedicated, it gets them all in the end. Doesn’t it?’

‘The Inquisition has safeguards–’

‘Indeed it does,’ said Imus. ‘Retirement from active service. Restraint. Incarceration. The Inquisition watches itself. When one of its own goes too far, becomes too lost, he is declared heretic as quickly and undeniably as any Archenemy rogue.’

‘That’s how it must be.’

‘But you consider yourself an exception?’ asked Imus.

‘No, I…’ Eisenhorn paused.

‘You always knew the path you were walking. You knew the cost. You knew the inevitable–’

‘I always accepted that.’

‘But now you deny it,’ said Imus. ‘For so many years, sir, they tried to get you to stop. To retire before it was too late. Your friends – forgive me, I misspoke. The people you described as your friends, they all tried, didn’t they? And you ignored them. Because you knew better. You overruled them. You cast them aside. They stopped being the people you described as friends. Some died, and you never cared. Some battled you to halt your progress, and you crushed them for it. And now you’re here in this room. Even the Holy Ordos, which you claim to serve so dutifully, have declared you a heretic. Diabolus extremis. And yet, they are wrong. Because you know better. You will disregard their authority and carry on anyway, alone and friendless – though you always were – claiming to serve the Inquisition even though it no longer wants your service.’

‘I know things that–’

Imus held up a hand so small and scrawny it looked like a bird’s claw.

‘No one’s listening any more, sir,’ he said. ‘Not even you. Look at yourself – broken beyond measure, obsessed. Serving on for decades, beyond any point that is wise or healthy. Always driving forward because you know best. You serve mankind, but you have only contempt for the people who cross your path. You use people. You neglect any bonds that might be considered friendship and which constitute the foundation of humanity. You forget the faces and the names of those whose lives you change. People die for you, and you care not.’

Imus pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

‘You should think about it, interrogator,’ he said, ‘why you do what you do.’

‘I know why,’ said Eisenhorn.

‘The thing is, you poor fellow, you don’t. And it’s right there in front of you. The truth, staring you in the face. You’re so good at finding the truth, yet you fail dismally to find it in yourself.’

‘And what is the truth, Master Imus?’ Eisenhorn snapped.

‘Look at yourself, sir, and tell me what you would call a man like you,’ said Imus.