‘I didn’t call you,’ said Eisenhorn. He got to his feet. He looked at the city shimmering in the distance beyond the veil of golden dust.

‘Oh, but you see, you did,’ said Cherubael. The daemonhost hovered in front of Eisenhorn, his broken chain dragging in the dust. ‘From the hidden way.’

‘The regia occulta?’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Cherubael. ‘I knew there was a proper name for it. The re-gi-a o-ccul-ta. You called to me as you walked along it.’

‘And you came?’

‘It’s what a friend does,’ grinned Cherubael.

Eisenhorn shook his head. The fire had gone out. The pain had gone. All the pain had gone, in fact.

‘I can’t have,’ he began. ‘I don’t control you like that. I have never been able to. It takes months to bring you out, constant effort to bind you and keep you contained. The very limit of my mind and my will just to get you to stay calm. I didn’t call you. And even if I did, in my madness, I couldn’t keep you tame.’

‘You can now, Gregor,’ said Cherubael.

‘No.’

‘Indeed, yes,’ Cherubael laughed. ‘I like it, actually. The fight is gone. The constant struggle, me and you, all that pain and heartache. Blanked out. You call me and I come. That’s how it works now. I cannot even begin to resist you. I prefer it this way.’

‘This is an illusion,’ Eisenhorn said to himself. ‘It’s just… another stage of the Torment. Another mind-trick…’

Cherubael glanced around. His chain rattled.

‘Who are you talking to?’ he asked.

Eisenhorn looked at him.

‘This isn’t real,’ he said to the daemonhost. ‘You’re not here. I’m not here. I didn’t call you, and I know for damn sure I couldn’t control you. My psykana’s burned out. I must be close to death. The end-stage delusions of the Torment.’

‘No, you’re not dead,’ said Cherubael. ‘Not dying. Not hallucinating. You’ve simply arrived. This is the place you were always going to, and you’ve got here. I’m impressed. Honestly. I don’t say that to people very often.’

‘The place?’ asked Eisenhorn.

‘Physically,’ said Cherubael, ‘and metaphysically. I suppose you get to decide which matters more. The physical place is the City of Dust, inside the City of Queen Mab, on Sancour, in the Angelus Subsector. The year is 500. Give or take a year. Metaphysically, well… that’s up to you.’

‘Sancour?’

‘Yes, yes. Absolutely dreadful place, between you and me, but not my choice. You call the shots, now. You did… you did want to be here, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Eisenhorn. ‘I… I don’t know.’

‘It’s where she asked you to go,’ said Cherubael. ‘That untouchable of yours, you know, whatsername…’

‘Alizebeth.’

‘Yes, A-liz-e-beth. She asked you nicely.’

‘It was just the Torment in her form.’