“Yes, just push in, push in, that’s it. Can the lads and ladies in the front rank crouch a little further? Thank you! Sisters, remove yourselves to the second row. Lovely!”

  Marsh Silas felt out of place in his dress uniform. He and the other officers in Avalanche Company were invited to the celebratory dinner service hosted by the van der Byl family. No one had mentioned a media event preceding the party. Now, he stood among Bloody Platoon who were afforded the accommodations of the Rogue Trade family’s household guard. He would have preferred to wear their green and khaki fatigues rather than stand out.

  Hyram and Major Rosenfeld, standing on either side of him, looked equally uncomfortable. Along the dark demi-fortress walls, illuminated by lamps, the other platoons were assembled in front of flashing picters. Gabler appeared quite unenthused and even Prince Osgood seemed perturbed.

  He shifted on his feet and winced. The Ork that had kicked him had fractured several of his ribs. A mild dose of nullifiers swam in his veins but even that was not enough to completely dull the pain. Even worse, the extensive bruising on his chest ached from the stiff, starched tunic. Stifling hot, he felt sweat gathering underneath his arms and across his back. All the medals and the amber sash made it heavier than it actually was.

  “If they don’t take a bloody pict bloody soon somebody’s gonna bloody die,” he whispered.

  “They better have some good amasec or old-foiz at this damned thing,” muttered Hyram. “What I wouldn’t give for my firewine ration right now.”

  “I’d rather skip out on the whole affair like that scallywag Overton,” said Marsh. “If my platoon doesn’t get to have a party, neither do I.”

  “We’ve no choice, it’s come from Warden-Colonel von Bracken himself,” said Major Rosenfeld. “Regardless, rejecting a Rogue Trader’s offer is in bad taste. Haven’t you taught him how to be a noble, Hyram?”

  “I’ve done my best, sir, but he’s just an old hound. Quite mangey too.”

  “Says the man with scraps of hair hanging from his jaw.”

  “Alright, they’re all here? Good, get ready!” yelled the morale director. Marsh scanned the line of picter-servitors and menials, then did a headcount of his own Kasrkin. Bloody Platoon was short by over a dozen individuals. He broke ranks and the director, a man with an ornate blue robe and a thin mustache, hurried over. “Sir, sir, we’re just about ready to—”

  “No, you are not.”

  Marsh looked around, and spotted the Ogryn, Ratlings, Jacinto, Merriweather, Aralyn, and Little Mac standing off to the side with Commissar Seegar. He waved them over but only Seegar approached. She clicked her heels in front of him. “Commissar, get them over here so we can get this ruddy business over with.”

  “Apologies, sir, but as it was explained to me,” she said, side-eyeing the director, “Abhumans are banned from being featured in local press bulletins.”

  Marsh Silas’s confusion shifted to anger and he towered over the adept. The director clasped his hands together and smiled charitably. “It is the express wish of the local departmento that psykers and abhumans are not to be seen in public images,” he explained. “Adepts of Mechanicum typically—” Marsh Silas cut him off by swiftly pointing at the group.

  “All of them fought to save this city from greenskins,” he growled. “It might just be a few picts to you, but they deserve to be seen.” Even if some of them disobeyed your orders? The curiosity in Barlocke’s tone was complemented by his sardonic probing. Marsh ignored him as the director shrugged coyly.

  “Well, sir, while I am indeed grateful for the services they rendered, I am constrained.”

  “By what? A few rules? Or do you just not want folks who look different in your shot?”

  “Forgive me, but these…” He fluttered his fingers in their direction. “…things are not made in the God-Emperor’s holy image for humanity. Even if I were permitted to display them in my departmento’s work, I would not. Now, sir, please get back in line, we have to snap a pict and then ask a few questions.”

  The director returned to his retinue of imagists and issued several, sharp orders. Marsh Silas’s fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms. He marched up behind the director, spun him around by the shoulder, grabbed the collar of his fancy robe, and drew him close.

  “If you don’t put those folks in your precious little pict, I’m taking that fellow’s picter and I’m going to shove it so far up your arse, they’ll see the bulb flash in your throat.” The director, his eyes bulging, nodded hastily. Marsh released him, letting the little man stagger back into his workers. Fixing his collar and catching his breath, he waved the others over.

  Marsh smoothed out his tunic as he joined them. He smiled at the Ogryn and kindly guided them to the rear of the platoon so they could stand over the men. It was the only way the massive abhumans could be seen. Jacinto shyly led Merriweather and Aralyn back to the command squad in the center, while Tolly approached the front rank with her Ratlings. She stopped by Marsh Silas and gazed up at him. Her smile was not as cheerful as it usually was.

  “He’s not wrong, ya know,” she said. “I don’t mind bein’ a halfling one itty-bit, but tah Emperor didn’t make me. Tat’s what tah preachers ave’ always said and it is why we must repay Him with good works.”

  “All subjects of the Imperium must honor Him with good works,” said Marsh. “Some folk believe throwing a lavish dinner is a service. But you were out there fighting and there is no greater work anyone could do for the God-Emperor, abhuman or not. Even if you disobeyed my order.”

  This he said not unkindly. Tolly smiled bashfully and twirled a lock of her auburn hair around her forefinger. Her eyes flitted up and there it was, that impudent smirk.

  “Much like how you disobeyed tah colonel?” she teased. Marsh bristled, then turned her around and gently pushed her after the other Ratlings.

  “Get in line,” he growled. Marsh waited until all had found their places. Only one was missing. Little Mac stood beside him, unreadable behind his low crimson hood. As still as he was, and quite odd-looking without his tall power ax, Marsh found his hunched posture reticent. He walked over to the enginseer, who gazed down at him. “Don’t know where to go?” Little Mac nodded. “Rather be somewhere else?” Again, the enginseer nodded. Marsh Silas smiled kindly. “Aye, me too. C’mon, let’s get this grox-shit over with.”

  Taking Little Mac by the arm, he guided him into middle ranks. He found a spot for him just behind Walmsley Major and in front of the space between Wit and Hack. Both he and the platoon sergeant tapped the enginseer on the back. Marsh looked over his shoulder at Wit. “You alright, big man?” The Bone’ead raised a meaty fist, then flicked his thumb up and smiled happily. Marsh laughed and returned the gesture. “Outstanding!” he laughed, feeling a bit better.

  As the picters finally flashed, Marsh glanced at Seegar, just in front of his shoulder. He leaned closer to her. “It is admirable you would not stand without the Ogryn.”

  “I find I too would not stand if the entire platoon were not present,” she replied quietly. “Such a feeling comes as a surprise, I must admit.”

  “Perhaps, it does not,” countered Marsh with a smile. “The Commissar who separated herself from the men was not the same one who braved a burning Valkyrie to rescue a wounded man. Reminds me of a fellow who believed psykers to be animals and yet suffered wounds for him.” This he said teasingly to Fremantle, just beside Seegar, who scoffed.

  “I am better for such wounds,” he said in reply and Marsh chuckled.

  “You led your Ogryn with distinction,” he said to her. “I’ll be giving you a medal for it.”

  “Twas they who led me,” she said. “They charged after you to help. What else could I do but follow. It appears they have lessons to teach me as well. In Carstensen’s scriptures, she states that to be a teacher, one must forever be a student. I shan’t forget that.”

  Marsh’s smile softened and his eyes drifted away from the picters, briefly. He did not feel so burdened by the air, his uniform, or the meddlesome adepts before him. It was as if some gentle wind drifted through him and cooled his spirit. I will not forget it again either, he thought.

  Several interviewers in the morale party stepped forward. A few wore chest rigs with folding, miniature typewriters. Others had small, collapsible table tops attached to theirs, complete with inkwells and quills. “Major Rosenfeld!” cried one. “Do you care to comment on your daring attack?”

  “I comment only that it was devised by my executive officer, Staff Captain Hyram, and first platoon leader, Lieutenant Captain Cross,” he answered proudly, and placed his hands on their backs.

  “Captain Cross! How do you feel to have saved Jonkhers, vital trade hub that it is?”

  “There were many civilian workers and soldiers cut off by the Orks, and I am grateful to the God-Emperor, the warriors under my command, and my fellow Kasrkin of Avalanche Company that we saved so many. I wish we had only gotten here soon so the citizens and defenders of Hydraphur needn’t have fought alone for so long.”

  “Captain Hyram! How is it that officers newly arrived from a different segmentum can so quickly devise a strategy that leads to such success?”

  “I can credit numerous academies I attended on Cadia since I became a Kasrkin,” began Hyram. “As well as over five solar years of practical experience against countless foes, the compatible relationship between myself and fellow officers, and our own reformative efforts to—”

  “He also means to credit the sanction of his superiors!” Marsh Silas winced as von Bracken strode in from behind and wrapped his arms around him and his brother. The Warden-Colonel’s hand clenched his injury tightly, causing painful spikes to shoot horizontally across his breast. Marsh had to bite his tongue to avoid groaning and set himself firmly so as not to shudder. Sweat pooled on his lower back and beads gathered on his forehead.

  Von Bracken wore his bright red dress tunic with pressed olive trousers. He wore a multi-colored sash, signifying the dignified awards he earned over the years. All his medals, descending all the way to the center of his tunic, were freshly polished and glinted in the picter flares. He smiled in a forceful yet affable way that was attractive for the lenses. “The 10th Kasrkin has achieved victory after victory under my command. I have always made it a point to enfranchise my officers, from my battalion commanders all the way down to my platoon leaders. All Cadians are taught to seize the initiative, and I would prove myself an obstinate, obtuse commander if I were to deny the men on the sharp end their natural tendencies. I’m afraid we’re pressed for time, gentlemen, we must away!”

  More bulbs flashed and the interviewers asked more questions regardless, but the platoons dispersed. Platoon sergeants rallied the Kasrkin and led them away to the castle barracks while Commissars dismissed the imagists. Von Bracken held his smile until the last lens lowered, then turned his scowl on Marsh and Hyram. “I ought to clap you both in irons for disobeying me.”

  “They acted only by my command,” said Rosenfeld, tersely. “Direct your rebuke to me, sir.”

  “Oh, I have words for you, Major. You conciliate when you should be firm. Too often you have enabled these hellions to conduct themselves however they wish. Now, they’ve forgotten they are soldiers before anything else. I don’t tolerate softness or disobedience. You get your headquarters and platoon leaders in check or I’ll take away your blasted company.”

  Marsh Silas and Hyram pressed closer together in front of Rosenfeld. “Sir, we only acted as we thought was best,” said Hyram. “If we had followed your orders, the castle would have fallen and the wall would have been breached. Hundreds, thousands would have needlessly perished.”

  “Their sacrifice would have been remembered.”

  “As footnotes scrawled at the bottom of a page in your book?” asked Marsh. Von Bracken’s eyes flared briefly but his fury shifted to menace. Standing nearly nose-to-nose with Marsh Silas, he curled his lip back like a snarling dog ready to pounce.

  “We all mean to leave our mark in this life,” he growled. “Your Carstensen is not the only one who deserves to be immortalized on a page. Her time has passed.”

  Marsh’s violet eyes burned, his hair bristled, and his hand squeezed so quickly into a fist that his entire arm shook. Hyram’s hand snatched his wrist and trapped his arm against his torso. Von Bracken’s glowering grimace shifted to a sneering smirk. “Is that not what you desire as well? Heed my word and it will be so. Consider yourself fortunate that you are lauded as a hero and that we are on the precipice of such a grand endeavor. The same goes for you two. Now, if you wish to make yourself useful, I have a task for you.”

  Feeling Hyram’s warning gaze on him, Marsh released a breath and freed his arm. He flexed his fingers and fixed his tunic. Von Bracken stepped back, put a lho-stub to his lips, and lit it with an engraved, golden-plated lighter. “Other regiments gather to join the campaign and there is word that we will be joined by Adeptus Astartes. This will become quite the army. But, this dinner party affords us an opportunity. House van der Byl is rich with ships, manpower, supplies, arms, and money. Lord Karl has a daughter, a princess, who is old enough to be wed and I plan to broker a marriage alliance to secure as much material as possible. Cross, as great a pain in my arse as you are, you are nonetheless a Hero of the Imperium and a noble officer. Seeing as it was I who sponsored you into the Kasrkin, you are also my charge. I expect you to court her.”

  Marsh Silas might have gasped if his voice had not become choked in his throat. His mouth instantly became dry and his tongue became a rough rock. Wide-eyed, he swallowed hard. “No, sir,” he finally croaked. “I do not wish to take a wife.”

  “Whatever you wish is none of my concern. You will make a wife out of this princess, make her fat with children, and put Lord Karl’s military at our disposal.”

  “I will not be compelled, sir. You are not my father nor the head of my house.”

  “I am your commander and you do not have a choice in the matter,” snapped von Bracken.

  “You cannot deny my agency. I will take no wife, for mine is already dead.”

  “As I understand it, she was never your wife.”

  Marsh saw his fist strike von Bracken, he saw him throw the officer to the cobblestone, and he saw his hands wrap around his throat. He watched as he squeezed the life out of him, his face turned red, blue, then purple. The eyes rolled back as the death rattle passed his lips and his trachea collapsed. But he blinked the image away, feeling only Hyram’s hand around his wrist again.

  Von Bracken puffed on his stub and blew smoke into the evening air. “You should be grateful; I reward you with a bride and riches when I ought to shoot you,” he said snidely. Adding to his contempt, he grinned and tapped Marsh hard on his injured side. He did so several times over, deliberate and harder than the last. Each impact sent agonizing waves through Marsh’s torso.

  Tires squealed as a convoy of open-topped, official-looking armored cars draped with banners, flags, and laurels, assembled in front of the gate. The other platoon leaders, company commanders, and officers of each battalion and regimental staff, boarded. Valets and drivers in bright, ostentatious, frilly outfits bowed and offered assistance, although they were mostly ignored by the Cadians. “Now, get your arses moving.”

  As he departed, Marsh Silas freed his hand from Hyram. He released a heavy, ragged breath and clutched his side. Hot pain resonated in his chest. “That son of a bitch, I’ll, I’ll—”

  “Whatever you’re about to say, save it,” hissed Rosenfeld. “Do not utter any word that would give him cause to put you up against a wall.”

  “The bastard is no better than Isaev or Osniah,” exclaimed Hyram. “Another vainglorious tyrant masquerading as a war leader.”

  “And yet he is still your superior and you will afford him the respect of his rank.” Rosenfeld raised his head and ensured von Bracken was out of earshot. “As for the man, I care only that you keep those opinions to yourselves.”

  Marsh Silas nodded as he gripped Hyram’s arm to steady himself. The ache became duller, yet deeper. As he regained his composure, he felt a hand take him by his shoulder and turn him carefully. Ruo, her eyebrows knitted in concern, stood on her toes to meet his gaze.

  “Just keep breathing, sir. Slow and shallow, be mindful of your injuries. You really shouldn’t attend this party, you need rest.”

  “If I could, I would happily return to my bed,” groaned Marsh.

  “You’ll have another stimm.” She waved Holzmann over and shared a hushed word with the medic. He dug into his bag, produced a vial and injector, filled it a quarter of the way.

  “Here, sir. This will give you some added relief but shan’t muddle your mind.”

  “Oh, muddle it some, it’ll make the night pass faster.”

  Both the medic and the Sister, although still worried, nodded. The effect of the stimm quickly passed through him and Marsh sighed in relief. Inhaling deeply, he donned his peaked cap, thanked the pair, and reluctantly bade them farewell. He followed Hyram and Rosenfeld to the second armored car. Marsh allowed the former to help him into the back seat where the plush, leather padding alleviated some of the strain on his body.

  The valet closed the doors to the little vehicle and hurried around to take the front passenger seat. Just as he did, Major Bristol caught it and stood over the small, well-dressed man. “Find a different car,” he growled. Puny next to the Jakal, still in his dark armor, the valet slipped away. Bristol got into the seat and slammed the door shut.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Sir, you appear somewhat underdressed,” joked Hyram. “Are you sure you are invited?”

  “Cadians might like to dress up whenever they want but a Tempestus Scion needn’t partake in such garish flash. We tend not to pin a medal on our chest whenever we stop to take a piss.”

  “I can’t believe I’m glad you’re being dragged into this pointless affair too,” muttered Marsh.

  He heard the familiar trot of hooves on the cobblestone. Prince Constantine drew alongside on his beautiful white horse, Eighty. The officer was clad in a black dress uniform with a crimson mantle. Only a few of his medals decorated his chest. He gazed down at Marsh with his one eye.

  “It has been too long since we had last ridden together, Cross.”

  “I’m not fit for it, presently. Nor would I refuse such transport.”

  “True officers should ride,” said Constantine. He leaned forward and brushed Eighty’s fine, long mane. The horse snorted affectionately, its pink nostrils flaring with each breath. “Von Bracken used to, but it has been many years since the man has been in the saddle. One loses perspective when he does not enter battle with reins clenched between his teeth and a pistol in each hand.”

  With much clatter, the gate rose and the lead car, carrying von Bracken, drove through. Constantine snapped the reins and trotted up to the slow-moving vehicle. Marsh’s car followed and the convoy rolled into Jonkhers. Thousands of freemen, menials, slaves, and servitors toiled across the spaceport, clearing the wreckage from the battle. Craters were filled by tractors equipped with dozers or were shoveled full by hundreds of workers. Sentinel Powerlifters conveyed debris to trailers towed by Cargo-8’s or directly into the huge beds of larger Cargo-20’s. Goliath trucks, affixed with towing cables, pulled down the still-towering bulkheads of the Ork lander that had been destroyed. Other parts of the wreck were assaulted by Rockgrinder variants of the Goliath, using their drilldozer blades to crunch the metal. Mining lasers and incinerators melted the remnants to slag. So many energy weapons and power tools flashed at once that the lighting arrays erected across the landing strips seemed unnecessary.

  The convoy passed a column of shuffling slaves as they were prodded and whipped by foremen. Marsh turned as much as his injuries would allow him to watch them. On and on, the mass of humanity staggered by.

  “Poor bastards,” murmured Marsh.

  “Don’t feel too sorry for them,” said Bristol. “A lot of these people are scum and criminals.”

  “Many are not,” remarked Hyram.

  “What do you expect from Rogue Traders?” asked the major as he leaned back in his seat. “They’re just well-organized pirates who get away with their crimes thanks to the services they provide. Most could care less about the Emperor or the Imperium so long as they can line their pockets with cash and acquire the best loot. They’ll cavort with xenos if it means a payday.”

  “Then it is more time wasted on them,” grumbled Marsh Silas.

  “We are preparing to embark on a campaign and yet we exhaust the little time we have with celebrations and parties,” added Hyram. “Von Bracken seems to think that the mere martialing of forces is enough to conduct such a large operation. He fails to see all that must be done to support each of these regiments. Food, ammunition, armor, helmets, medicine, weapons, uniforms, boots, extras of all the above, transportation, housing, organization, distribution. Payroll, of course, Liternati to guard the payroll, assay and enforcement corps to monitor the Liternati as well as the other rear echelons. Laborers, engineers, pioneers, siege experts, and countless other necessary Departmento Munitorum personnel. Then food, uniforms, housing, and pay for them. Let alone things from building materials to parchment.”

  “I bet my boots he thinks we can overcome the whole Ork army at Vellania as we did here.”

  The convoy followed a winding road up through Hive Jonkhers. They passed through hab-blocks of increasing affluence. Civilians who had been hurrying to industrial lifts during shift changes at the manufactorums below were instead enjoying the city’s nightlife. Neon signs above restaurants and clubs vibrating with strange electronic-sounding music passed overhead. Upper-class citizens drank openly on the sidewalks, danced in balconies and rooftops, or lined various food stalls. Others entered commercial centers filled with screens depicting everything from bathing products to gleaming groundcars. Dozens gathered around kiosks, waiting their turn to insert their credit chit and get their hands on a new, velvet garment or a gemstone ring.

  “To think, just a few days ago there was a siege just below them,” said Hyram. “Do you think they even knew of the battle?”

  “It seems von Bracken is not the only one who does not understand the war we are in.”

  They passed by one of the hubs where a throng of people gathered in front of a huge monitor. Hundreds cheered and clapped as an announcer on the screen, clad in sharp black clothes, featured what appeared to be a new home cogitator. Text on the screen indicated it had faster and easier access to the noosphere. It even featured ports to connect up to three data-slates.

  Marsh Silas’s nose wrinkled as he watched the jumping, shrieking denizens. “What is all this?” he asked aloud. “These folks spend their money on all this? Fancy clothes, jewelry, cogitators that could buy a month’s worth of rations. Who needs that many data-slates for their daily life? I have nearly a hundred people under my command and I only have one.”

  “Look at this place,” complained Hyram. “No statues of their heroes and honored dead, no banners or flags, not even a proper depiction of the God-Emperor, the Primarchs, or any of the Saints. They think slapping a few golden aquilas and skulls below road signs is enough? Nothing but self-indulging wastrels. I mean, we drink and make merry ourselves, but this?”

  “Aye, and they stand upon the backs of the slaves and workers beneath us.”

  “And talk about defense.”

  “What defenses are there to speak of? No checkpoints, bunkers, pillboxes, bastion towers, or patrols. They think a couple of out-of-shape enforcers watching skirts pass by are enough?”

  “Do not get me started about the roads, these straight paths are—”

  “Boys, you aren’t on Cadia anymore,” laughed Bristol. “This is a part of the Imperium you’ve been defending your whole lives and you can find many more just like it. Get used to it.”

  Marsh Silas thought of those swaying searchlights and bellowing cannons that he listened to his whole life. Hazy soldier halls, parade grounds, morale posters, fortress spires, turret emplacements, fortified houses—all memories. He thought of Faye, Ghent, little Sydney, and Isabella and felt his heart grow heavy.

  The convoy climbed further up Jonkhers and the habs grew more opulent. Instead of commercial zones and apartment blocks, there were metropolitan mansions, private gardens, and deluxe establishments. Theaters and music halls were attended by guests in glittering dresses and fine suits. Singers and harpists entertained outdoor galas. Lines stretched from colossal restaurants. Marble statues of noble figures, although unknown to Marsh Silas, stood above the gardens.

  As they passed through the district, the air grew colder. The convoy took a turn at an intersection and crossed a bridge to a plate similar to Jonkhers Spaceport. Other groundcars drove up towards the plate in the opposite lane. All were sleek and polished, with golden rims and hood ornaments depicting house crests or fearsome animals. They slowed to allow the convoy to weave between the traffic.

  A massive whitewashed mansion waited on the hive-plate. Five stories high, with a seven story tower at each end, it was decorated with gargoyles, angels, and aquilas. There must have been fifty windows on the face alone and the lights from within lit up the gardens and paths underneath. Multiple vineyards, stables, garages, and a private landing pad for aircraft, studded the plate. The road looped into a wide cul-de-sac where a dozen marble statues depicting roguish yet elegant Rogue Traders stood in a ring.

  As the convoy rolled to a stop in front of the massive staircase leading to the entrance, dozens of pict-recorders activated and picter-bulbs flashed. Nobles clad in gaudy clothes, powdered wigs of various lengths, all cheered and clapped. Triumphant trumpets played as the officers of the 10th Kasrkin dismounted. Marsh Silas and Hyram, wide-eyed, stared at the horde of applauding, ancient aristocrats. Many were decrepit and bent, cognizant due to a cocktail of juvenant drugs. There were few among them who were not overweight, possessing double chins and drooping jowls. Some must have come from other parties, as they slurred and swayed drunkenly or seemed lost in a narcotic haze. Despite the cool air washing over the plate, countless nobles appeared overburdened by their heavy, layered raiments. Beads of sweat ran down their faces, leaving lines through their colorful makeup. Some were so overheated, it appeared as though their complexions were melting. Even priests among them appeared more like highborn patricians instead of Ecclesiarchy prelates.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” murmured Marsh Silas.

  “Is it too much to ask for an Ork to put a bullet in my skull,” grumbled Bristol just before he took a swig from a flash. Marsh Silas grabbed it and took a slug before the Jakal retrieved it.

  Von Bracken led the procession up the smooth, granite steps. Marsh Silas followed, walking as carefully as he could while he looked between the throngs on either side of him. Occasionally, he followed the example of other officers, nodding to the picters or waving to the onlookers. As he marched upwards, he felt a presence beside him. Barlocke’s ghost materialized beside him, a swirl of dust and particles emanating from his own body until he took form.

  “My, haven’t you moved up in the Imperium?” he asked teasingly. “Fret not, they can only see me if I allow them to. I merely wished to enjoy the celebration as much as I can.” The fragment’s visage let his long, dark hair spill across his shoulders and he waved to the picters.

  “This is too risky, Barlocke,” whispered Marsh, trying not to move his lips.

  “Relax, I have complete control of my power. You cannot expect me to stay in your head forever. It’s quite small and gets rather cramped.”

  “Fuck off.” Marsh smiled uncomfortably at the teeming masses, their makeup now running down onto their dresses. “Throne, is it always going to be like this?”

  “Many of these leaders are decadent and corrupt. They think themselves dignified inheritors of the God-Emperor’s kingdom when they are merely oligarchs and kleptocrats who grow fat off the work of small folk. You conduct yourself by duty and honor; these people know only greed and hedonism. Oh, how I missed them.” Barlocke giggled as he waved once more, even though the picters saw only open air where he walked. “You can’t imagine the thousands I placed in cells for all manner of crimes that our masters so easily overlook.”

  “These are our governors and rulers?” asked Marsh. “People deserve better than…this.”

  “Just as soldiers deserve good generals and officers, citizens deserve men and women of merit to lead them. There is little you can do about the latter now, but one day dear Silvanus, you’ll have both military and civil power in your hands, and you will have to contend with these people face-to-face.”

  “We have much to do,” said Marsh, tipping his hat slightly forward and narrowing his gaze.

  At the top of the stairs, the van der Byl entourage waited. Carapace-clad guards raised their shields and swords in salute. Standing at the forefront was Lord Karl, his stubby arms outstretched. He had a thick black mustache, slick with pomade, that contrasted with his powdered white wig. The rolls fell all the way to his thick waist. Portly, his face as rotund as his stomach, he possessed a casual air despite his immaculate blue, dress-like coat and golden blouse. His tunic’s shield-shaped crest featured a blue carnodon, a great felid creature with a mane and enormous teeth, on white relief.

  “The heroes of the 10th!” he exclaimed as the last trumpet blasts faded. “Welcome!”

  “You honor us with your hospitality, Lord Karl,” said von Bracken, bowing his head.

  “It is only natural, for you have saved much of my business!” laughed the old Rogue Trader. He clutched his purple belt and faced the nearest picter. “Over sixty percent of Hive Jonkhers’ commerce flows through my spaceport! Whether it’s animal feed, strong ale, lasrifles, or tanks, I ship it all and at good rates, too! But where are the heroes? Show them to me!”

  Von Bracken hid his annoyance well as he gestured towards Marsh Silas, Hyram, and the platoon leaders. Lord Karl snapped his fingers and a small man in a puffy tunic adorned with bells hurried over with a chest. A row of medals which took the shape of a carnodon head, sat on the cushion within. “I present to you all the Order of the Blue Lion, one of our highest awards! May the architects of this great victory step forward.”

  Marsh and Hyram waited until the attendants finished pinning the medals to their tunics. “Great victory,” whispered Marsh. “Did anybody tell him that most of the Orks got away with all that loot and a Hellhammer no less?”

  “And how that ridiculous warboss dropped a building on top of us?” added Hyram from the corner of his mouth. “Only the Emperor knows how we all survived. Hush, now.”

  Both men loomed over Lord Karl, not only shorter than a Cadian but smaller than the average man. “To you, I award the Golden Order of House van der Byl! With this degree, I ennoble you as counts of Hydraphur! You are hereby entitled to property, staff, and stakes in my business!”

  Two attendants handed the pair of Cadians a scroll which they promptly reviewed. “The percentage of all profits might appear small, but it is no small fortune rest assured. If you would be so kind as to bow.” The two men look up from the scrolls. Lord Karl held one of the golden medals himself and his eyes flitted down. Marsh cleared his throat and leaned forward so the Rogue Trader could drape the blue ribbon around his neck. After he honored Hyram he shook their hands.

  “My lord is too generous,” said Hyram, adopting his more aristocratic tone than his academic voice. “We performed only our duty.”

  “Your duty saved my enterprise, for that I can spare a few titles,” laughed Lord Karl. He looked up at Marsh and smiled inquisitively. “You are Knight-Captain Cross?”

  “Marsh Silas is what most folk call me, m’lord.”

  “I see, you are a humble fellow. In my younger years I played the part as well!” Marsh chewed the inside of his cheek to hide his disgust. Lord Karl extended his hand to the mass of servants behind him. “I beg to present my daughter, Princess Calanthia.”

  A lithe young woman with a flowing yellow gown glided across the granite towards Marsh. She had a small face and distant brown eyes. Her curly, white-blonde hair was her own, and her makeup was modest compared to her lord father’s. Demurely, she curtsied, causing the hooped skirt of her dress to bounce.

  “I am Calanthia van der Byl, Knight-Captain Cross,” she said in a frail, wispy voice. “Oh, beg pardon, Count.”

  “I am not one for titles,” said Marsh, stiffly. “You may call me Marsh Silas.” He offered her his arm and she delicately took it. Calanthia’s father clapped his hands together then.

  “Let’s not stand out in the cold any longer! Come, the tables are set, the food is hot!”

  Lord Karl’s guards stood aside and he led the entourage into the mansion. It was as if he entered a chamber of gold. Brilliant chandeliers, one after the other, lined the main hall. Fine armors lined the stairs and halls. Every wall was decorated with sumptuous oil paintings of voidships and van der Byl family members. Planters filled with overflowing, exotic flora bearing all manner of bright flowers and fruits, lined the floor.

  While torrents of other guests flowed down the first floor hallways, the main party ascended to the second floor. Marsh gazed between the guards that lined the stairs.

  “Where’s the captain of your guard?” he asked Calanthia. “I wanted to shake his hand.”

  “Flipsen? My father sacked him.” Marsh turned to face her so quickly his ribs hurt him. “He said the captain had failed to protect the spaceport and thus had no place as the head of our private guard. A shame, really, Flipsen was a decent man, brave, and an able administrator.”

  A deflated Marsh and his fellow officers were led to an outdoor patio that spanned the length of several Cadian manses. It was so large there were entire gardens at either end. Below was Jonkhers Spaceport, merely a series of flickering lights in a sea of darkness beneath them.

  Servants escorted each party member to their seats at a long, marble table in the center of the patio. It was wide enough to allow three individuals to sit at the head. Waiting there was Lord Karl’s wife, an altogether pinched-faced and slim woman compared to her husband. Much of the detail of her face was concealed by her powder, blush, and lipstick.

  “Ah, my dear Madelief, I have brought our guests from the 10th!”

  “Charmed,” she said, disinterested. “We are delighted to host you, esteemable heroes. Please, take your seats, we shall begin with the soups.”

  Karl, Madelief, and von Bracken sat at the head of the table. Princess Calanthia took the seat closest to the Warden-Colonel, then looked up at Marsh expectantly. He blinked and looked over at Hyram. His brother raised his hands, pretended to grip the backrest, and pushed it in. Marsh Silas nodded, smiled at Calanthia, and pushed her chair in. He took his own seat and shuddered as one of the servants provided the same service.

  A small army of servers then marched onto the patio. The first ranks laid out bowls and silverware while the second pushed rolling carts conveying huge, sealed pots. When the covers were removed, a cloud of steam flowed from each one.

  “Will you be having the yarnau, hooknose, or palehawk, sir?” asked a server.

  “The bloody hell are any of those?” whispered Marsh after a hesitation.

  “Choose the yarnau,” whispered Calanthia. Marsh did and his bowl was filled with a rich golden broth with pink chunks of meat, slices of tato-starch, and three different kinds of green vegetables. The contents were so plentiful they formed a small hill in the center. He poked at it with the spoon. “Is something the matter?” asked the princess.

  “The soup I’m used to eating has grox in it if you’re lucky,” he said.

  “A wise decision!” commented Lord Karl. “Yarnau is an interesting beast; it could be a mere peasant dish but in the hands of the right cook, it can surely be a delicacy.”

  “If I recall, my lord,” said Hyram, “Vellania is home to the yarnau cattle.”

  “It is!Myself and the other Rogue Traders of Clan Kikkert as well as the noble families of the Navis Imperialis, have stakes in the trade. It is paramount—” he brought his fist down on the table, rattling his empty wine glass. “—that you end that invasion. I would have sent my son, Prince Pieter, but he is on an expedition. Why, if he only knew of his betrothed’s plight. Governor Maurizio Ovidio is engaged to my son, and with her trapped there, the wedding plans are ruined.”

  “Rest assured, Lord Karl, myself, the 10th Kasrkin, and this army will make haste to Vellania and remove the Orkish filth from its soil in record time.”

  “Oh, Emperor’s blessings, thank you. Ah, here comes the wine. I do recommend the red.”

  Marsh Silas didn’t wait for his glass to be filled and started to eat. It was better than any soup he tasted, even if each spoonful proved to be a battle. When he was halfway finished, he stopped to dab his lips with the napkin. Calanthia looked at him, curiously.

  “Apologies, m’lady. They didn’t teach me manners in the training yards.”

  “You need not apologize,” she said, smiling wryly. “I would not eat too much, there are five more courses.”

  “Five?” echoed Marsh. “How much food do these folks need?”

  “That’s the way it’s always been around here,” sighed Calanthia as she pushed her bowl away. “Nothing but expensive meals, long walks in the gardens, and entertaining guests. Day in, day out. There is little time to train. If my brother perishes, I am the heir to my father’s fleet and fortune. My brother is a fool, so I must prepare. I can’t do that sitting here with these fat boors. Oh, apologies.”

  “I don’t mind plain-speaking,” Marsh assured her and leaned closer. “This whole count business, does this make me your father’s subject?”

  “No, but he will attempt to treat you like one. As for your colonel, he is in his pocket now.”

  “But he did not make him a count.”

  “My lord father will grant him something greater: command of the campaign.” Calanthia leaned closer to him. “You have come to wage war but you are on Hydraphur. Rogue Traders, noble admirals, priests, and tech-adepts all vie for control. They will try to make something altogether different out of your war, and von Bracken is all too happy to benefit from such intrigues. Be on your guard, Marsh Silas, you are entering the fray.”

  As the servers returned, whisking away the half-full bowls of soup and replacing them with salad dishes, Marsh sat back in his seat. The sounds of countless conversations, tinkling glasses, forks scratching across porcelain plates, grew distant. He thought only of the trouble Bloody Platoon was no doubt making during their own celebration. Speakman was undoubtedly taking bets on some cockamamie thing, the Walmsley brothers were wrestling, Yoxall mixed firewine and amasec for a homebrew, and Rowley had found some way to pester Drummer Boy. Fremantle undoubtedly tried to rein them in; perhaps, he enlisted Seegar’s help. Strangely, he thought of the newer members; were the Sisters or Ogryn included? Had Jacinto joined in or was he spending time with Aralyn and Merriweather? Little Mac obviously kept to himself. The Ratlings must have been raising hell. Tolly would tease him mercilessly when she found out about the courtship. He smirked at the thought.

  Throne, he thought, I’d rather be with abhumans instead of this lot.