The prisoners came in aboard Valkyries, with armed guards. Prassan was among those waiting for them to land with a unit of intelligence officers and a platoon of Mordians. He had learnt all the uniforms of the rebellious Guardsmen and he screened those that dismounted. There was a mix of second line regiments, but primarily they wore the drab uniform of the Ongoth Jackals.

He saw the prisoner he was looking for – a colonel in the uniform of the Swabian Fusiliers.

‘Bring him with me,’ he said.

Two Mordian troopers brought the man into Prassan’s Centaur.

The traitor had been handsome once, with well-manicured moustaches and a patrician set to his jaw. But now his nose had been broken, his upper lip split. There was dried blood crusted about his nose. He looked beaten. Prassan nodded to say that the Mordians could leave now.

He did not fear this man. He had been disarmed, his hands were bound, his spirit broken. Prassan took him in. ‘What is your full name?’

‘Colonel Skall. Swabian Fusiliers.’

Prassan checked the name against the dataslate before him. The man appeared to be telling the truth.

He questioned him about the units on Tor Kharybdis. Their morale.

The colonel answered all of his questions with a fierce pride. ‘We are defiant,’ he announced. ‘We will prevail. It has been foretold. Your days are over!’

Prassan wanted to shoot the man himself, but he had to turn him over to the Commissariat.

‘Any Elnaur Chasseurs on Tor Kharybdis?’

‘Why?’

‘Answer the question.’

The Swabian started to laugh. ‘Is that who you fear, Cadian?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Holzhauer has never been defeated, you know.’

Prassan couldn’t help himself. ‘Until last night, you mean?’

There was a moment’s pause as the colonel held his tongue, and it was Prassan’s turn to smile.

The Centaur arrived at the designated depot. It was a nondescript building a mile from the General’s Palace. He could hear the singing of the pilgrims and hangers-on. In their words he could hear the name Ignatzio repeated over and over.

Prassan accompanied the prisoner to the cell in the basement of the command bunker. Two burly Cadian intelligence officers were ready for the questioning. They were a scarred, mean-looking pair. They seized the man by the arms, slapped him about and then, when they were done, they threw him into a chair, lashed him down and hit him about some more, swearing and cursing.

The colonel took the beating well. But to Prassan’s dispassionate eye there was a practised, ritual element to the violence. The atmos­phere changed when the door opened and a figure in a black leather coat entered. Even the intelligence officers paused. He was tall, his face a mask of scar tissue.

Prassan was amazed that he had returned from the front so swiftly, and that he looked so vigorous.

The newcomer spoke quietly. ‘My name is Chief Commissar Shand.’