Bendikt did not trust his augmetic hand yet, so he shook their hands with his left, spoke some encouraging words, and passed on. The greeting line of planetary dignitaries led him through a wood-panelled entranceway. Inside, a broad marble staircase swept up under a line of crystal chandeliers. At the bottom of the stairs stood a fervour engine, with pseudo flames guttering from its open grates and three servitor skulls chanting hymnals on loop through snout-shaped vox-grilles. Another line of dignitaries stood at the door of the great hall. From within he could hear the distinct note of the military welcoming committee. He had been to many such meet-and-greet events like this. A room full of generals and their aides, typified by clinking glasses of amasec, politely mixing commanders, and a general air of how-long-do-we-have-to-stay-until-we-can-leave.

But they were important nonetheless.

He remembered how Creed managed such situations. Stiff and awkward until he’d had a glass or three of amasec, and then he had slipped into his own particular gear, which had mixed utter self-confidence with a brusque humour.

There was a brief flurry as Bendikt turned to the fervour engine. It was on a loop of sayings of Saint Ignatzio. Bendikt lit a votive candle. So far, the Mordian, General von Horne, had been in charge of prosecuting this war, and his arrival meant von Horne’s demotion.

The residual spine of a passing servo-skull brushed Bendikt’s shoulder. Someone took his augmetic arm. ‘This way, please, general.’

Bendikt paused at the entrance to the main chamber. A bell rang and a master of ceremonies announced his arrival, ‘General Bendikt of the Cadian Hundred-and-First.’

Bendikt felt the cold and hostile atmosphere within and took a deep breath before stepping inside the hall. He noted that the Mordian commanders of the 17th Field Corps stood apart. Their dress uniforms were so starched Bendikt imagined they could stand up by themselves. Under the peaked caps were faces dark and hard as Mordian granite.

Their commander stepped forward. ‘General Otto von Horne,’ he said, introducing himself.

‘Greetings,’ Bendikt said, and he used his augmetic hand to shake the Mordian’s hand. He heard the grate of gristle and bone, but the Mordian man’s face showed no trace of pain.

‘My men and I are honoured to fight alongside you,’ the Mordian said. There was no warmth to his words. They were cold and clinical. But Bendikt had prepared himself for something less worthy and he took the Mordian’s words at face value. From his experience, Mordians did not open their mouths to speak unless they believed what they said. They were prone neither to flattery nor dissimulation. And as a general rule for life, he always thought it better to assume the best motivations in others.