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tarnish their honour. Gleaming in their yellow plate, the Imperial Fists silently lined the route of the ‘Emperor’s’ cortege as it wound its way through the battered avenues of the High City to the necropolis.
    By order of the Warmaster, bending to the will of the chief captains and, most especially, the Mournival, no remembrancers were permitted to attend.
    I GNACE K ARKASY WANDERED into the retiring room and sniffed at a decanter of wine. He made a face.
    ‘It’s fresh opened,’ Keeler told him sourly.
    ‘Yes, but local vintage,’ Karkasy replied. ‘This petty little empire. No wonder it fell so easily. Any culture founded upon a wine so tragic shouldn’t survive long.’
    ‘It lasted five thousand years, through the limits of Old Night,’ Keeler said. ‘I doubt the quality of its wine influenced its survival.’
    Karkasy poured himself a glass, sipped it and frowned. ‘All I can say is that Old Night must have seemed much longer here than it actually was.’
    Euphrati Keeler shook her head and turned back to her work, cleaning and refitting a hand-held picter unit of very high quality.
    ‘And then there’s the matter of sweat,’ Karkasy said. He sat down on a lounger and put his feet up, settling the glass on his wide chest. He sipped again, grimacing, and rested his head back. Karkasy was a tall man, generously upholstered in flesh. His garments were expensive and well-tailored to suit his bulk. His round face was framed by a shock of black hair.
    Keeler sighed and looked up from her work. ‘The what?’
    ‘The sweat, dear Euphrati, the sweat! I have been observing the Astartes. Very big, aren’t they? I mean to say, very big in every measurement by which one might quantify a man.’ ‘They’re Astartes, Ignace. What did you expect?’ ‘Not sweat, that’s what. Not such a rank, pervasive reek. They are our immortal champions, after all. I expected them to smell rather better. Fragrant, like young gods.’ ‘Ignace, I have no clue how you got certified.’ Karkasy grinned. ‘Because of the beauty of my lyric, my dear, because of my mastery of words. Although that might be found wanting here. How may I begin…?
    ‘The Astartes save us from the brink, the brink,
    But oh my life how they stink, they stink.’
    Karkasy sniggered, pleased with himself. He waited for a response, but Keeler was too occupied with her work.
    ‘Dammit!’ Keeler complained, throwing down her delicate tools. ‘Servitor? Come here.’
    One of the waiting servitors stalked up to her on thin, piston legs. She held out her picter. ‘This mechanism is jammed. Take it for repair. And fetch me my spare units.’
    ‘Yes, mistress,’ the servitor croaked, taking the device. It plodded away. Keeler poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter and went to lean at the rail. Below, on the sub-deck, most of the expedition’s other remembrancers were assembling for luncheon. Three hundred and fifty men and women gathered around formally laid tables, servitors moving amongst them, offering drinks. A gong was sounding.
    ‘Is that lunch already?’ Karkasy asked from the lounger.
    ‘Yes,’ she said.
    ‘And is it going to be one of the damned iterators hosting again?’ he queried.
    ‘Yes. Sindermann yet again. The topic is promulgation of the living truth.’
    Karkasy settled back and tapped his glass. ‘I think I’ll take luncheon here,’ he said.
    ‘You’re a bad man, Ignace,’ Keeler laughed. ‘But I think I’ll join you.’
    Keeler sat down on the chaise facing him, and settled back. She was tall, lean-limbed and blonde, her face pale and slender. She wore chunky army boots and fatigue breeches, with a black combat jacket open to show a white vest, like a cadet officer, but the very masculinity of her chosen garb made her feminine beauty all the more apparent.
    ‘I could write a whole epic about you,’ Karkasy said, gazing.
    Keeler snorted. It had become a daily routine for him to make a pass at