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swathed in cream coloured robes who Karkasy knew must be the Warmaster’s equerry, Maloghurst.
    An unsmiling figure in the black uniform of a Titan commander stood to attention at the forefront of the gathering, and Karkasy recognised the jowly features of Princeps Esau Turnet, commander of the Imperator Titan, Dies Irae . Turnet’s Titan had led the armada of enormous battle machines into the heart of the megarachnid territory on Murder and had earned the Legio Mortis the lion’s share of the glory.
    Karkasy remembered the huge Titan that towered over the architectural presentation that Peeter Egon Momus had given back on Sixty-Three Nineteen, and shivered. Even motionless, it had provoked an intense reaction in him, and the thought of such incredible destructive power being unleashed didn’t bear thinking about.
    The hissing collection of silver struts and whirling cogs that encased scraps of flesh in a vaguely humanoid form must be the Mechanicum adept, Regulus, and Karkasy saw enough brass and medals hanging from puffed out, uniformed chests to equip a battalion.
    Despite the presence of such luminaries, Karkasy found himself stifling a yawn as he and the rest of the audience listened to the Davinite lodge master, Tsi Rekh, performing an elaborate chant in the local tongue. As interesting as it had been to see the bizarre, almost-human locals, Karkasy knew that simply bearing witness to this interminable ceremony of welcome couldn’t be the reason why Captain Loken had authorised his presence at the War Council.
    A bland faced iterator named Yelten translated the lodge priest’s speech into Imperial Gothic, the precisely modulated timbre of his voice carrying the words to the very edges of the yurt.
    Say what you like about the iterators, thought Karkasy, they can certainly enunciate to the back row.
    ‘How much longer is this going to go on for?’ whispered Euphrati Keeler, leaning towards him. Dressed in her ubiquitous combat fatigues, chunky army boots and tight white vest top, Keeler looked every inch the spunky frontierswoman. ‘When is the Warmaster going to get here?’
    ‘No idea,’ said Ignace, sneaking a look down her cleavage. A thin silver chain hung around her neck, whatever was hanging on it, hidden beneath the fabric of her top.
    ‘My face is up here, Ignace,’ said Euphrati.
    ‘I know, my dear Euphrati,’ he said, ‘but I’m terribly bored now and this view is much more to my liking.’
    ‘Give it up, Ignace, it’s never going to happen.’
    He shrugged. ‘I know, but it is a pleasant fiction, my dear, and the sheer impossibility of a quest is no reason to abandon it.’
    She smiled, and Ignace knew that he was probably a little in love with Euphrati Keeler, though the time since the xeno beast had attacked her in the Whisperheads had been hard for her, and to be honest, he was surprised to see her here. She’d lost weight and wore her blonde hair scraped back in a tight ponytail, still beautifully feminine, despite her best attempts to disguise the fact. He’d once written an epic poem for the marchioness Xorianne Delaquis, one of the supposed great beauties of the Terran court – a despicable commission that he’d loathed, but one that had paid handsomely – but her beauty was artificial and hollow compared to the vitality he now saw in Keeler’s face, like someone born anew.
    Well out of his league, he knew, what with his generously proportioned physique, hangdog eyes and plain, round face; but his looks had never deterred Ignace Karkasy from attempting to seduce beautiful women – they just made it more of a challenge.
    He had made some conquests by riding the adulation for his earlier work, Reflections and Odes garnering him several notable carnal tales, while other, more easily impressed members of the opposite sex had been seduced by his witty badinage.
    He already knew that Euphrati Keeler was too smart to fall for such obvious flattery, and contented himself with counting