There were rumours amongst galley slaves and the warp engine crews that rival factions were on the verge of intra‐Chapter war. The slaves were scared, even more so than usual. They walked timidly, keeping their eyes down, hoping to avoid the attention of their Blood Gorgon masters. Some saw the strife as a good thing, as an opportunity, perhaps, for liberation. But Sufjan knew that nothing good would arise out of it. If the Chapter were to go to war with itself, the slaves would be the first to suffer.
Sufjan did not intend to suffer. He had earned a trusted position standing sentry outside a little‐used staircase from strata 23/c that led to the upper spines of the ship. His familiar staircase 23/c, with its rusty spiral stairwell and the globe‐lamp larvae that hung in small, grape‐like clusters. Compared to other slaves, his job was simple: to keep order amongst the menials and lower caste servants. In doing so, he earned a double ration of protein strands and a billet in the guard barracks. It was not something he intended to relinquish easily.
The vacuum hiss of blast shutters opening woke Sufjan from his fretting.
Suddenly he felt nervous, as he fussed over his orange silks and began to buff the brass etchings on his breastplate. Although the Blood Gorgons were piratical by nature, they enforced uniform infractions amongst the black turbans with a heavy hand.
Thudding footfalls echoed down the corridor. Sufjan bladed his shoulders and stood to attention. His horse‐headed halberd was angled in salute, planted forty‐five degrees out from his upcurled boot toes.
‘None may pass…’ Sufjan began to say.
The Blood Gorgon’s shadow fell across him. It was Sabtah the Older. The slaves knew him as the old brown wolf. Sabtah was followed by a squad of Blood Gorgons that Sufjan did not recognise. They were heavily armed, unusually so. Perhaps the rumours were true.
‘Step aside,’ Sabtah said in a weary, almost languid tone.
Fighting against his sense of self preservation, Sufjan remained at attention in front of staircase 23/c. ‘My apologies, master… but Master Muhr has ordered me to refuse entry at this time.’
89
‘I am countermanding those orders. Step aside.’
Sufjan felt the prick of sweat on his scalp. Master Muhr had been very specific in his instructions that no black turbans were permitted to allow access for anyone to his spire chambers. It had seemed straightforward at the time, but Sufjan had not expected this.
‘Master Muhr was very specific,’ Sufjan said timidly.
‘Why are you even looking at me?’ Sabtah asked, his voice remaining even.
Sufjan dropped his gaze to the floor. He realised he was trembling. In his mind, he tried to weigh up the danger of disobeying Master Muhr with the danger of antagonising Master Sabtah, but he could not think properly. All he could think about was the calibre of a boltgun. Zero point seven five. It filled his mind like a void.
‘Master Muhr does not wish to be disturbed,’ Sufjan murmured into his chest.
‘I will kill you, then,’ Sabtah said, his hand shooting out to clamp Sufjan’s throat. ‘Hold still, you won’t feel it.’
‘No, master, please!’
The bolt pistol swung down to his forehead like an executioner’s axe. Cold steel pressed against his skin. He heard the round being chambered. It vibrated through his skull with finality.
‘I know things! I’ve heard things!’ Sufjan screamed, his words overlapping each other.
The gun wavered.
‘What do you know, slave?’
Sufjan felt weak. He leaned against his halberd for support, his rigid salute collapsing as fear shook his body. ‘Muhr, he talks. Other slaves can hear it in the air vents from corridor 25/Upperlevel‐32 and in the lavatories of the guard barracks if the warp echo is strong.’
Sabtah seemed interested. He smiled, a flash of curved fangs parting his beard. ‘More.’
‘Muhr talks constantly with someone he calls Overlord. He wishes to merge the Blood Gorgons with his new master. That’s all we know!’
Sabtah seemed to ponder that. His eyes took on a glazed, distant look. But his grip on Sufjan’s throat did not loosen and the boltpistol did not waver.
‘Slaves heard this?’ he said finally.
‘I am sure,’ Sufjan croaked. ‘They listen. Not me personally. But others do.’
Sabtah unlatched his grip from Sufjan’s throat. He smoothed the slave’s collar with a delicate finger. ‘That may be so. But we can’t have eavesdropping slaves. You understand?’
The boltpistol clinked. It was the firing pin. Sufjan had never fired a gun before, but somehow he knew it was the firing pin.