Perhaps it was the presence of Loken, or the quiet of the ship, but she found memories coming to her, sharp and unasked for. Maloghurst the Twisted looking down at her, his eyes hard, the corridors of the Vengeful Spirit, a smell of blood and smoke.

She shivered, and blinked. Loken was still looking at her, eyes steady, face unmoving. For a second, in the reflected light of Jupiter, he looked almost human.

‘How long?’ she asked, trying to suppress the tremor running through her nerves.

‘There are no ships swifter than the one we stand on,’ he said. ‘It will not take us long, but we may arrive to find that the enemy has made that journey, too. There are traitor forces moving into the inner system from above the orbital disc.’

Mersadie glanced back at the sleeping children.

‘It’s not too late,’ she said. ‘We still have time. Not much, but some.’

‘How do you know?’ he asked.

‘I can feel it,’ she replied. ‘It is like the cogs of a device turning just on the edge of hearing. It is still turning…’

Loken opened his mouth to say something…

‘Captain Loken,’ said Maloghurst. The image of the Warmaster’s equerry turned its gaze on her. ‘He trusts you.’

‘I am a remembrancer. I am recording his experiences for posterity.’

‘Remembrance… A strange idea to take to the stars, I have always thought.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She thought of looking around but that cold gaze held her. ‘I thought I was to be returned to my quarters,’ she said.

She had been taken from the training decks on the Vengeful Spirit by the bodyguard Maggard and a squad of soldiers. Sindermann and the others had been peeled away under their own guard, but Maggard had stayed with her, leading her through passages and corridors that she had not seen before. After a while he had stopped, and he had gestured at a door leading off the corridor.

Mersadie, the blood roaring in her ears, had not moved until Maggard shoved her forwards.

‘Tell me,’ said Maloghurst, his power armour buzzing as he shifted. ‘Does he trust you?’

‘What?’

‘Does Captain Loken trust you?’

‘I… I don’t–’

‘He favours you, talks to you, shares his remembrances with you. I think that he does trust you a great deal, Mersadie Oliton.’

The equerry to the Warmaster had smiled, and unwilled she began to turn to run. A hand on her shoulder stopped her dead. Heavy fingers squeezed with the smallest amount of pressure and the promise of bone-breaking force.

‘You see, Mistress Oliton,’ said Maloghurst, ‘we do not trust him, at all.’

‘Is there something wrong?’ asked Loken.

Mersadie found herself leaning against the armourglass of the viewport. Distant explosions flashed like tiny stars under her fingers. She shook her head, swallowing a breath that tasted cold in her throat.

‘Memories,’ she said, blinking. ‘Just memories…’