Along the corridor they could hear the cheap metal rattle of the dinner trolley.

Dido closed her eyes. She looked in constant pain.

‘Shall I get more suppressants?’

‘No,’ Dido said. The orderly with the dinner tray came into the room.

Minka stood. ‘I’d better go.’

Night had fallen when Bendikt made his way to the chapel where the body of Saint Ignatzio was held. The praise birds had fallen silent. They swooped in tight figure-of-eight flight patterns. It was as if they could sense the import of the events happening inside.

Bendikt looked resplendent in his suit of finely crafted carapace armour. At his side was an archaic Mars-pattern laspistol – an ancient model, lovingly cared for and immaculately maintained by Bendikt himself. It was the same model that Creed had once used. As well as a fine weapon. It was his lucky charm.

Captain Ostanko had his helmet held in the crook of his arm. He made the sign of the aquila and stepped forward to greet General Bendikt. Behind him stood his veterans in kasrkin carapace, rebreather masks already engaged, hot-shot lasguns held ready.

‘Good evening, general,’ he said, and shook Bendikt’s hand. He turned to the garden, which was packed with pilgrims who had made camp on bedrolls and items of furniture pilfered from the palace. ‘They are not in the way. The Gerent is inside with the saint.’

‘Good.’

They followed Bendikt through the gateway. The garden was packed with the prone figures of men, women, camp followers, beggars. Some were scavenging, some asleep. Others were sitting around in prayer circles. A wild-eyed man, naked to the waist and with a beard that hung down to his chest, was walking through the crowd, calling out threats and punishments to the traitors. They parted like water before the figure of General Bendikt.

He looked like a figure of legend as he led his command staff across the garden to the stone steps before the chapel. Gerent Bianca’s lifewards were standing at the door. Lights were on inside the chapel, illuminating the stained-glass windows with a warm, yellow glow.

As Bendikt put his foot upon the steps the doors of the chapel were flung open.

Gerent Bianca appeared, resplendent in a suit of finely crafted armour, moulded with exaggerated muscles, like a statue of the Emperor. In her hand she carried an ornate sword – a fine duelling foil with a narrow blade and hilt worked in gold and jewels.

She beckoned General Bendikt up the steps, then held the sword towards him.

‘Its name is Paragon,’ she told him.

It was the most beautiful blade he had ever seen. He drew it and engaged the power stud and the blade lit with blue traceries of energy.