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Description
THERE WAS NO mistaking the smell. It was as though I had a tin of Thok’s breath in front of me. I remember being able to smell it even as I approached the broken, mashed remnants of his body. Chainbers had called from outside, where he was propped up against the wall of the garage. I hadn’t listened.

I had, however, carefully mapped what was left of Thok. I could see the compound fractures where the warp-thing’s limbs had contracted around him, the rippled mess that had once been his face and the blackened hole where he’d been impaled. I reached out a hand to start searching his bloody rags and realised that I was still shaking. I clenched the hand and willed my heart-rate down, trying to find a calming, happy memory to focus on.

Gently lifting away shreds of his green suit, I had found Thok’s gun, the ruined meat of his chest welding it to his ribcage. I also took a largely ruined notebook, a mostly melted hand-vox and a pack of very boiled hypodermic stimulants. Getting ready to leave, I spotted another lump in a lower pocket, where the material was still mostly intact. That was where I had found the tin. About ten centimetres square, it was slightly blackened on one edge, and unpainted, but it seemed to have the remnants of a paper label still stuck to the lid.

Now I had heard him using the vox, I had seen him jot down notes in the book, and I doubted he’d have been stupid enough to put anything incriminating in it; but I had never once laid eyes on this tin, and I had been watching Thok very closely. That meant either that it held something that Thok hadn’t needed – and he seemed far too practical to carry unnecessary kit – or that he had been very carefully hiding it from me. My suspicions raised, I had stowed the tin within the voluminous folds of the coat I had thought redundant, hoping that the armoured mesh that was woven into its make-up would keep my plunder hidden from the scanners on the Zarola.

WITH THE PALM of my right hand still throbbing beneath its bandage, I carefully played my scalpel along the length of the soft, oily surface of what appeared to be a fillet of something. The odour coming off it was almost overpowering, strong brine and aromatic spices. A fine coating transferred to the blade, thick and shiny and slightly stringy. I transferred it to a slide and loaded it into my multi-glass. It began scanning the ingredients while I quickly, almost stealthily sliced off a tiny corner of the fillet and popped it in my mouth. It was a whim that drove me, and I instantly regretted it as the sickly, bitter, vile taste made an instant acid reflux boil up my throat, I spat the tiny sliver of stuff onto the floor and dry-heaved noisily before collecting it up and dropping it back into the tin. It took me three days to get rid of the taste.

‘What said he when he came unto himself?’ there came a voice from high in the shadowed ceiling of my room, one I had become accustomed to since my departure from Guryan. It and I had discussed the futility of code-speak, and many other things on our journey to Calverna.

‘Once more in Gothic.’ I wheezed through my sticky, burning throat, before spitting a gobbet of brownish mucus into my bin. There was a pause while the voice decided what it was going to say. Using lines from ancient theatre is one thing, there are only so many phrases and words to learn, but Low Gothic is a huge and complex language. I felt the struggle would be worth it, though; for the diversity of expression it would impart.

‘Are you correct?’ the voice ventured. I was in no mood to begin a lesson on common phrases now, so I let the mistake slide.

‘Yes, quite correct thank you.’ I refer to the creature I had taken to calling ‘Karlotta’ – after an infamous female killer from Morlond – as a disembodied voice because that is exactly what she had been to me for the four month voyage. I assumed that she must have been stealing food from the canteen and water from my washroom, and I had repeatedly failed in my attempts to draw her down from the rafters. It seemed she rather enjoyed the power that being unseen gave her, a sentiment I can very much relate to.

‘How does Ingram remember Calverna, the planet?’ Indeed, syntax was still an issue at this point. Lottie would eventually come to have a very good grasp of language, superior to that of many other associates of mine, but I still recall her formative years with amusement.

‘The operation went as well as was to be expected,’ I said, not entirely believing my own words, ‘but I’m afraid you and I might be in for a bumpy few weeks.’

‘Is Ingram going away to leave?’ I couldn’t be sure if the voice was expressing genuine concern or just interest. Intonation was secondary to vocabulary as far as our lessons went. I had thought it better to let her pick that up naturally from other people, as I was aware that my own idiolect had a tendency to be rather flat.

‘No. No, I shouldn’t think so. However, it would be better if you and I were to stay close for the foreseeable future, I think.’ I was eager that during these early years of my career, I must have a hidden ace, something to call upon only in the most dire of circumstances. I had yet to assemble my own team of advisors, hence my borrowing of Lady Juhász’ heavies for the mission on Calverna, and this meant that I would be vulnerable for a while. For as long as Lottie remained a secret, I would never be entirely defenceless. In addition to which, the presence of the betrayers in Juhász’ party had made me exceptionally paranoid about allowing myself to be influenced.

After twenty minutes, the multi-glass returned its analysis, revealing that Thok had been hiding some kind of mollusc or shellfish, pickled with a variety of naturally-occurring spices and salts. I saved the list of molecular structures and fragmented DNA profiles to an encrypted file in a hidden memory bank in my pocket-slate. This then sent a copy of the file to the minute data cell in my Inquisitorial rosette, lest I lose the original. The rosette would also let me remotely wipe the pocket-slate’s memory if needs be. My plan was to cross-reference the data with the Inquisition’s huge archive once we returned to Guryan.

Even with the most epiphanic music and the Zarola’s extensive library to distract me, for the rest of the evening my thoughts were divided between the potential ramifications of Thok’s hidden habit and my own horrific memories of the warp spawn. It was there, howling and bawling and lunging at me, whenever I closed my eyes. Numerous times I thought I saw it creep from the shadows, and when my guard faltered or I came close to sleep I always flinched and yelped as I felt it press its searing metal surface against my skin.

Eventually, I decided that sketching the thing would be the best way to rationalise my fear, and I worked for some hours to produce a detailed and realistic drawing of the creature, having to fight my imagination’s desire to further hyperbolise its already fearsome aspect. When all was said and done, I had filled two sides of paper; one with the sketch and frantically scribbled notes on how the thing moved and articulated, the method by which I had killed it, possible weaknesses in its design and the material it had consisted of, the other with largely nonsensical lists of adjectives which I felt described it, a brief account of how it had come into being, and a few little prayers and devotional doodles which I thought might ease my traumatised psyche.

Mercifully, a loud knock stopped me having any more paranoid hallucinations. I made doubly sure that I had left nothing important on the desk or any screen before opening the door.

‘Fancy helping me welcome Timmins back?’ Lady Juhász sang in an absurdly cheerful tone. I peered up at her through my hooded, stinging, bloodshot eyes and really considered shooting her, just for an instant. Since then I have learned that many Inquisitors deal with the horrors they encounter with a reflexive flippancy. I’ve yet to decide whether or not that is the more sane method. I nodded and she almost seemed to skip off down the hallway, even in her armour and coat. I plodded after her in the direction of the hangar, my limbs and mind still heavy.

TIMMINS LOOKED SOMEWHAT the worse for wear; his left eye was swollen and purple, his bare torso mottled with bruising and marks that suggested that he had not gone down easily. Dominating the area just below his sternum was a sizeable fist-print in angry, yellowish brown. I fancied this may have been Lady Juhász’ ‘coup de grâce’, to use an antiquated phrase, driving the wind from him and ending his struggle. He was already loaded into an Excruciator, held by the thick pins in his knees, elbows, hips and collar. The device held him upright, but didn’t allow him to walk. Instead, he was brought out on a grav-motored gurney, the frictionless ride would make the journey to the brig unduly painless for him, I felt, but I didn’t doubt that Juhász would have something creative and efficacious in mind.

Sure enough, Timmins was in tears just a few minutes after the interrogation began. Juhász was an uncompromising block of cold fury, as I had expected, and the way she read her list of charges was enough to torment the traitor’s already exhausted a fractured mind. Add to this that he was suspended from the Excruciator mechanism, totally humiliated, and he was in no position to resist our questions; my job would be to bargain with Timmins once he had been broken down, to be a voice of calming, reassuring logic after Lady Juhász’ onslaught. Whatever I was obliged to agree to, however, Timmins’ fate was decided. He would suffer and atrophy in the Excruciator for a number of days, before undergoing his transformation into a living weapon of the Ordos. I would have the privilege of convincing him to reveal what had brought him so low, and if I could publish an essay on the outcome, I would gain a measure of widespread respect in the Hereticus, providing I stayed well clear of any of my more progressive theories.

For the next three hours, Lady Juhász let the full force of her rage and anguish come to the fore. She stayed clear of physical torture, to her credit, but she allowed herself to be animated and loud, to emphasise her advantage of mobility over Timmins, who became shifty and restless in his awkward, stretched position. Throughout the rant, I remained silent and taciturn, ensuring that I met his gaze often enough to show that I was complicit in his interrogation, but stayed clear of active participation to enhance his natural sense of dread, making it nice and clear that there would be more to come. Once Lady Juhász had finished, she dried her eyes, spat in Timmins’ face and stormed out.

I stayed quiet for a good ten minutes, letting the air grow thick and tangy with Timmins’ sweat and tears. When I felt he was scared enough, I slowly crossed to the stack of plastic chairs in the corner of the holding cell, took the top one – reminding myself painfully that my hand was still healing – and sat directly behind Timmins. For this bit, he needed to feel alone. My part of the interrogation would have more in common with psychological therapy than any sort of trade-craft.

‘Well,’ I began, giving the word a good long while to echo around the cell, ‘I thought that was never going to end.’ Timmins continued to sob. I considered that it might have been a strategy to ensure he had nothing to say, but it certainly seemed genuine enough. I heard a faint tap as a spot of mucus hit the floor. If he was acting, then he was jolly good.

‘I get the impression that what she is really upset about is the breach in trust. You know as well as I do that she’s had her fair share of rogue agents in the past, but you…’ Timmins choked, I carried on, ‘…you’re something different entirely.’ His sobbing seemed to have calmed somewhat now. Instead, he made a noise like a disgraced hound.
‘I already know that you plotted to deceive her. I’m afraid one of the Arbites teams I sent out as decoys was slaughtered to a man. Caught in your ambush. Were you there personally?’ Timmins gave no answer; I assumed he had not been present. ‘In any case, we have already uncovered enough of your little scheme to justify a death sentence, but I’m more interested in the ‘why’ than I am the ‘what’, ‘where’ or ‘how’.’

‘What do you want me to tell you?’ he mumbled through blood-encrusted lips. Evidently he had undergone significant duress when he was apprehended and on the flight from Kenajoz, probably from the other members of Juhász’ team. I was less interested in hurting the poor man.

‘As I understand it you and she were on good terms until you were deployed to Calverna. What changed?’ Timmins gave no answer. I decided to press the issue. ‘Your fate has already been decided, Oscur. You’ve no reason to protect anyone, and I find it hard to believe that you had this epiphany entirely on your own.’

‘Why should I tell you anything? I don’t have the faintest clue who you are.’ As planned, he was now resenting me; suspicious of the civility.

‘I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a friend on this ship. Chainbers had to be strapped to his bed, and Captain Akin wouldn’t even let you on board. He thinks we’ve got you in stasis.’

‘So you’re here to milk me for secrets before I’m frozen.’ Now he sounded more sardonic than anything else, he was evidently aware that his sobbing had not mellowed me.

‘Not quite.’ I told him, careful not to give too much away. Fear might ruin the interrogation otherwise, ‘That said, have you any secrets for me to milk?’ Timmins exhaled loudly through his nose, I fancied I could hear the smile on his face.

‘You’re not very experienced, are you?’ he said, practically following a script I had written. Now it was my turn to smile.

‘More than you might think, actually. Despite what you’re expecting, I’m not here to administer any sort of torture.’

‘Oh come on. I’ve worked with you people for five years. Torture is the only thing you’re any good at.’

‘Is that why you decided to betray your Mistress?’ No answer, Timmins knew that I wanted insight, but he also wanted to do everything he could to save his own skin. I think Juhász had been taken in by his act, and had left me with a fair bit of work to do. I did have one route open to me, though. ‘Listen, Oscur, I’m aware that Lady Juhász and you were intimate. I know that she trusted you enough to let you operate on Calverna alone. I know that you discovered the Church of Matas during the course of your investigation, and that you found out that Mrs Moralez was running a retirement community for unsanctioned psykers.’ A faint creak came from the Excruciator as the occupant shifted slightly, ‘I know that you, for whatever reason, decided that it would be better to falsify the outcomes of your investigation.’

‘Did you kill Gloraña?’

‘Yes. Now I’ve yet to decide if what you did was intended purely to protect what you felt was an innocent organisation making things easier for the people the black ships didn’t get, or if you were looking for any excuse to organise the death of a respected Inquisitor.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Mmm, why indeed? That’s the one I’m wrestling with now. But the fact of the matter is that I was lied to about the Church, and I have the Tabulae Mortem of four Arbites on my desk as a result of it.’

‘I’m not telling you anything.’ That wasn’t considered, it was just mindless defiance. I hadn’t convinced him of my intentions yet.

‘Why? Do you think that will make things easier for you? Your desire to prolong your suffering is charming, but it’s quite obviously meant to imply that you have something to bargain your life against. I’ve no interest in playing games with you, Oscur. If I don’t have something concrete by the end of this session I’m going to assume that you know nothing of any value. I won’t be coming back again.’ Timmins was quiet again, and for a long time. Minutes passed and all that could be heard in the cell was his heavy breathing. The excruciator was holding him in such a way that his lung capacity was limited, causing his breath to come in short gasps which would become louder and more painful as he dehydrated.

‘I didn’t plot to kill Lobelia.’ Timmins whispered eventually. I sat for a few more seconds, considering my next move, then stood. Timmins remained silent while I returned my chair to the stack in the corner and left the cell.

‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ I said as I passed him on my way out.

‘Have I been sentenced to death?’ he called after me as I reached the door. I turned and looked him in the eye. Despite the pain he was in, his broken body and his humiliation, his eyes were wide and lucid. He didn’t flinch when I looked at him.

‘No.’ I said calmly before shutting the door behind me. As I left the holding area, I fancied that, despite the soundproof cell, I could hear Timmins start to sob again.

Description
THERE WAS NO mistaking the smell. It was as though I had a tin of Thok’s breath in front of me. I remember being able to smell it even as I approached the broken, mashed remnants of his body. Chainbers had called from outside, where he was propped up against the wall of the garage. I hadn’t listened.

I had, however, carefully mapped what was left of Thok. I could see the compound fractures where the warp-thing’s limbs had contracted around him, the rippled mess that had once been his face and the blackened hole where he’d been impaled. I reached out a hand to start searching his bloody rags and realised that I was still shaking. I clenched the hand and willed my heart-rate down, trying to find a calming, happy memory to focus on.

Gently lifting away shreds of his green suit, I had found Thok’s gun, the ruined meat of his chest welding it to his ribcage. I also took a largely ruined notebook, a mostly melted hand-vox and a pack of very boiled hypodermic stimulants. Getting ready to leave, I spotted another lump in a lower pocket, where the material was still mostly intact. That was where I had found the tin. About ten centimetres square, it was slightly blackened on one edge, and unpainted, but it seemed to have the remnants of a paper label still stuck to the lid.

Now I had heard him using the vox, I had seen him jot down notes in the book, and I doubted he’d have been stupid enough to put anything incriminating in it; but I had never once laid eyes on this tin, and I had been watching Thok very closely. That meant either that it held something that Thok hadn’t needed – and he seemed far too practical to carry unnecessary kit – or that he had been very carefully hiding it from me. My suspicions raised, I had stowed the tin within the voluminous folds of the coat I had thought redundant, hoping that the armoured mesh that was woven into its make-up would keep my plunder hidden from the scanners on the Zarola.

WITH THE PALM of my right hand still throbbing beneath its bandage, I carefully played my scalpel along the length of the soft, oily surface of what appeared to be a fillet of something. The odour coming off it was almost overpowering, strong brine and aromatic spices. A fine coating transferred to the blade, thick and shiny and slightly stringy. I transferred it to a slide and loaded it into my multi-glass. It began scanning the ingredients while I quickly, almost stealthily sliced off a tiny corner of the fillet and popped it in my mouth. It was a whim that drove me, and I instantly regretted it as the sickly, bitter, vile taste made an instant acid reflux boil up my throat, I spat the tiny sliver of stuff onto the floor and dry-heaved noisily before collecting it up and dropping it back into the tin. It took me three days to get rid of the taste.

‘What said he when he came unto himself?’ there came a voice from high in the shadowed ceiling of my room, one I had become accustomed to since my departure from Guryan. It and I had discussed the futility of code-speak, and many other things on our journey to Calverna.

‘Once more in Gothic.’ I wheezed through my sticky, burning throat, before spitting a gobbet of brownish mucus into my bin. There was a pause while the voice decided what it was going to say. Using lines from ancient theatre is one thing, there are only so many phrases and words to learn, but Low Gothic is a huge and complex language. I felt the struggle would be worth it, though; for the diversity of expression it would impart.

‘Are you correct?’ the voice ventured. I was in no mood to begin a lesson on common phrases now, so I let the mistake slide.

‘Yes, quite correct thank you.’ I refer to the creature I had taken to calling ‘Karlotta’ – after an infamous female killer from Morlond – as a disembodied voice because that is exactly what she had been to me for the four month voyage. I assumed that she must have been stealing food from the canteen and water from my washroom, and I had repeatedly failed in my attempts to draw her down from the rafters. It seemed she rather enjoyed the power that being unseen gave her, a sentiment I can very much relate to.

‘How does Ingram remember Calverna, the planet?’ Indeed, syntax was still an issue at this point. Lottie would eventually come to have a very good grasp of language, superior to that of many other associates of mine, but I still recall her formative years with amusement.

‘The operation went as well as was to be expected,’ I said, not entirely believing my own words, ‘but I’m afraid you and I might be in for a bumpy few weeks.’

‘Is Ingram going away to leave?’ I couldn’t be sure if the voice was expressing genuine concern or just interest. Intonation was secondary to vocabulary as far as our lessons went. I had thought it better to let her pick that up naturally from other people, as I was aware that my own idiolect had a tendency to be rather flat.

‘No. No, I shouldn’t think so. However, it would be better if you and I were to stay close for the foreseeable future, I think.’ I was eager that during these early years of my career, I must have a hidden ace, something to call upon only in the most dire of circumstances. I had yet to assemble my own team of advisors, hence my borrowing of Lady Juhász’ heavies for the mission on Calverna, and this meant that I would be vulnerable for a while. For as long as Lottie remained a secret, I would never be entirely defenceless. In addition to which, the presence of the betrayers in Juhász’ party had made me exceptionally paranoid about allowing myself to be influenced.

After twenty minutes, the multi-glass returned its analysis, revealing that Thok had been hiding some kind of mollusc or shellfish, pickled with a variety of naturally-occurring spices and salts. I saved the list of molecular structures and fragmented DNA profiles to an encrypted file in a hidden memory bank in my pocket-slate. This then sent a copy of the file to the minute data cell in my Inquisitorial rosette, lest I lose the original. The rosette would also let me remotely wipe the pocket-slate’s memory if needs be. My plan was to cross-reference the data with the Inquisition’s huge archive once we returned to Guryan.

Even with the most epiphanic music and the Zarola’s extensive library to distract me, for the rest of the evening my thoughts were divided between the potential ramifications of Thok’s hidden habit and my own horrific memories of the warp spawn. It was there, howling and bawling and lunging at me, whenever I closed my eyes. Numerous times I thought I saw it creep from the shadows, and when my guard faltered or I came close to sleep I always flinched and yelped as I felt it press its searing metal surface against my skin.

Eventually, I decided that sketching the thing would be the best way to rationalise my fear, and I worked for some hours to produce a detailed and realistic drawing of the creature, having to fight my imagination’s desire to further hyperbolise its already fearsome aspect. When all was said and done, I had filled two sides of paper; one with the sketch and frantically scribbled notes on how the thing moved and articulated, the method by which I had killed it, possible weaknesses in its design and the material it had consisted of, the other with largely nonsensical lists of adjectives which I felt described it, a brief account of how it had come into being, and a few little prayers and devotional doodles which I thought might ease my traumatised psyche.

Mercifully, a loud knock stopped me having any more paranoid hallucinations. I made doubly sure that I had left nothing important on the desk or any screen before opening the door.

‘Fancy helping me welcome Timmins back?’ Lady Juhász sang in an absurdly cheerful tone. I peered up at her through my hooded, stinging, bloodshot eyes and really considered shooting her, just for an instant. Since then I have learned that many Inquisitors deal with the horrors they encounter with a reflexive flippancy. I’ve yet to decide whether or not that is the more sane method. I nodded and she almost seemed to skip off down the hallway, even in her armour and coat. I plodded after her in the direction of the hangar, my limbs and mind still heavy.

TIMMINS LOOKED SOMEWHAT the worse for wear; his left eye was swollen and purple, his bare torso mottled with bruising and marks that suggested that he had not gone down easily. Dominating the area just below his sternum was a sizeable fist-print in angry, yellowish brown. I fancied this may have been Lady Juhász’ ‘coup de grâce’, to use an antiquated phrase, driving the wind from him and ending his struggle. He was already loaded into an Excruciator, held by the thick pins in his knees, elbows, hips and collar. The device held him upright, but didn’t allow him to walk. Instead, he was brought out on a grav-motored gurney, the frictionless ride would make the journey to the brig unduly painless for him, I felt, but I didn’t doubt that Juhász would have something creative and efficacious in mind.

Sure enough, Timmins was in tears just a few minutes after the interrogation began. Juhász was an uncompromising block of cold fury, as I had expected, and the way she read her list of charges was enough to torment the traitor’s already exhausted a fractured mind. Add to this that he was suspended from the Excruciator mechanism, totally humiliated, and he was in no position to resist our questions; my job would be to bargain with Timmins once he had been broken down, to be a voice of calming, reassuring logic after Lady Juhász’ onslaught. Whatever I was obliged to agree to, however, Timmins’ fate was decided. He would suffer and atrophy in the Excruciator for a number of days, before undergoing his transformation into a living weapon of the Ordos. I would have the privilege of convincing him to reveal what had brought him so low, and if I could publish an essay on the outcome, I would gain a measure of widespread respect in the Hereticus, providing I stayed well clear of any of my more progressive theories.

For the next three hours, Lady Juhász let the full force of her rage and anguish come to the fore. She stayed clear of physical torture, to her credit, but she allowed herself to be animated and loud, to emphasise her advantage of mobility over Timmins, who became shifty and restless in his awkward, stretched position. Throughout the rant, I remained silent and taciturn, ensuring that I met his gaze often enough to show that I was complicit in his interrogation, but stayed clear of active participation to enhance his natural sense of dread, making it nice and clear that there would be more to come. Once Lady Juhász had finished, she dried her eyes, spat in Timmins’ face and stormed out.

I stayed quiet for a good ten minutes, letting the air grow thick and tangy with Timmins’ sweat and tears. When I felt he was scared enough, I slowly crossed to the stack of plastic chairs in the corner of the holding cell, took the top one – reminding myself painfully that my hand was still healing – and sat directly behind Timmins. For this bit, he needed to feel alone. My part of the interrogation would have more in common with psychological therapy than any sort of trade-craft.

‘Well,’ I began, giving the word a good long while to echo around the cell, ‘I thought that was never going to end.’ Timmins continued to sob. I considered that it might have been a strategy to ensure he had nothing to say, but it certainly seemed genuine enough. I heard a faint tap as a spot of mucus hit the floor. If he was acting, then he was jolly good.

‘I get the impression that what she is really upset about is the breach in trust. You know as well as I do that she’s had her fair share of rogue agents in the past, but you…’ Timmins choked, I carried on, ‘…you’re something different entirely.’ His sobbing seemed to have calmed somewhat now. Instead, he made a noise like a disgraced hound.
‘I already know that you plotted to deceive her. I’m afraid one of the Arbites teams I sent out as decoys was slaughtered to a man. Caught in your ambush. Were you there personally?’ Timmins gave no answer; I assumed he had not been present. ‘In any case, we have already uncovered enough of your little scheme to justify a death sentence, but I’m more interested in the ‘why’ than I am the ‘what’, ‘where’ or ‘how’.’

‘What do you want me to tell you?’ he mumbled through blood-encrusted lips. Evidently he had undergone significant duress when he was apprehended and on the flight from Kenajoz, probably from the other members of Juhász’ team. I was less interested in hurting the poor man.

‘As I understand it you and she were on good terms until you were deployed to Calverna. What changed?’ Timmins gave no answer. I decided to press the issue. ‘Your fate has already been decided, Oscur. You’ve no reason to protect anyone, and I find it hard to believe that you had this epiphany entirely on your own.’

‘Why should I tell you anything? I don’t have the faintest clue who you are.’ As planned, he was now resenting me; suspicious of the civility.

‘I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a friend on this ship. Chainbers had to be strapped to his bed, and Captain Akin wouldn’t even let you on board. He thinks we’ve got you in stasis.’

‘So you’re here to milk me for secrets before I’m frozen.’ Now he sounded more sardonic than anything else, he was evidently aware that his sobbing had not mellowed me.

‘Not quite.’ I told him, careful not to give too much away. Fear might ruin the interrogation otherwise, ‘That said, have you any secrets for me to milk?’ Timmins exhaled loudly through his nose, I fancied I could hear the smile on his face.

‘You’re not very experienced, are you?’ he said, practically following a script I had written. Now it was my turn to smile.

‘More than you might think, actually. Despite what you’re expecting, I’m not here to administer any sort of torture.’

‘Oh come on. I’ve worked with you people for five years. Torture is the only thing you’re any good at.’

‘Is that why you decided to betray your Mistress?’ No answer, Timmins knew that I wanted insight, but he also wanted to do everything he could to save his own skin. I think Juhász had been taken in by his act, and had left me with a fair bit of work to do. I did have one route open to me, though. ‘Listen, Oscur, I’m aware that Lady Juhász and you were intimate. I know that she trusted you enough to let you operate on Calverna alone. I know that you discovered the Church of Matas during the course of your investigation, and that you found out that Mrs Moralez was running a retirement community for unsanctioned psykers.’ A faint creak came from the Excruciator as the occupant shifted slightly, ‘I know that you, for whatever reason, decided that it would be better to falsify the outcomes of your investigation.’

‘Did you kill Gloraña?’

‘Yes. Now I’ve yet to decide if what you did was intended purely to protect what you felt was an innocent organisation making things easier for the people the black ships didn’t get, or if you were looking for any excuse to organise the death of a respected Inquisitor.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Mmm, why indeed? That’s the one I’m wrestling with now. But the fact of the matter is that I was lied to about the Church, and I have the Tabulae Mortem of four Arbites on my desk as a result of it.’

‘I’m not telling you anything.’ That wasn’t considered, it was just mindless defiance. I hadn’t convinced him of my intentions yet.

‘Why? Do you think that will make things easier for you? Your desire to prolong your suffering is charming, but it’s quite obviously meant to imply that you have something to bargain your life against. I’ve no interest in playing games with you, Oscur. If I don’t have something concrete by the end of this session I’m going to assume that you know nothing of any value. I won’t be coming back again.’ Timmins was quiet again, and for a long time. Minutes passed and all that could be heard in the cell was his heavy breathing. The excruciator was holding him in such a way that his lung capacity was limited, causing his breath to come in short gasps which would become louder and more painful as he dehydrated.

‘I didn’t plot to kill Lobelia.’ Timmins whispered eventually. I sat for a few more seconds, considering my next move, then stood. Timmins remained silent while I returned my chair to the stack in the corner and left the cell.

‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ I said as I passed him on my way out.

‘Have I been sentenced to death?’ he called after me as I reached the door. I turned and looked him in the eye. Despite the pain he was in, his broken body and his humiliation, his eyes were wide and lucid. He didn’t flinch when I looked at him.

‘No.’ I said calmly before shutting the door behind me. As I left the holding area, I fancied that, despite the soundproof cell, I could hear Timmins start to sob again.