Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 6

  The others seemed to be handling things with more aplomb. Telmar had cornered some unlucky nobleman and was being politely menacing. Quin was studying the banquet table in obvious confusion, a tiny plate clutched gingerly in his massive hands. Alkenex and Thorn mingled silently, observing rather than participating. He heard the boom of Cyrius’ laughter, and an appreciative titter from the small crowd he’d gathered about him.

  After long moments of silence, Corynth swallowed thickly. ‘I thought you came to help him.’ The re-evaluation continued. Fulgrim could see the man’s internal calculations becoming more complex. Fulgrim was neither the largest of his brothers, nor the most intimidating. He was beautiful and graceful, and those things put the human mind at ease. All but the most wary quickly forgot that he was a primarch, and not simply exceedingly tall.

  ‘I came to bring Byzas into compliance I would prefer to do so as efficiently as possible.’ Fulgrim watched the dancers glide gracefully across the floor. Part of him longed to join them. But not now. Not today. ‘It does not matter to me who rules, only that they rule in the Emperor’s name.’

  Corynth looked away. ‘Our people have no say, then?’

  ‘Which people? Those starving villagers you mentioned? Or the patricians, who, in their ceaseless politicking, have brought your world to the edge of ruin?’

  ‘Both. All men are the sum of Byzas, and Byzas is the sum of all men.’

  Fulgrim looked at him. ‘You sound like a philosopher.’

  ‘One has to be, in order to maintain equilibrium here. Reality is a thing of competing disparities. Parsing them requires a certain fluidity of thought.’

  Fulgrim chuckled. He’d often thought much the same about his time in the Palace on Terra. Every word he’d spoken was analysed and dissected by a thousand competing factions, each of them seeking their own advantage. ‘Compliance requires stability. I would prefer to leave Byzas in better shape than I found it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Fulgrim gestured, pleased. It was the opening he’d been waiting for. ‘Improved living and working conditions for the rural population. A lessening of the stranglehold the patricians have on the high-yield industrial farms of the Chalkedonian Lowlands and the ore-processing centres in the Anabas Hills. They will still control manufacture of raw material, but have less influence on how it is employed. We will begin a series of reforms designed to strengthen the continental government, so that it is no longer completely beholden to an archaic caste system designed solely to prop up a few inbred neo-barb clans.’

  Fulgrim made no effort to speak quietly. There were ears listening and he wished for them to hear everything clearly. Obfuscation would only slow compliance. Better to provoke the foolish into action as swiftly as possible.

  Corynth looked as if he were choking on something. ‘Y-you can’t! That’s… How?’ he spluttered, forcing the words out in a tangled rush.

  ‘Compliance is not solely about forcing worlds to surrender the sovereignty, Belleros. It is also about bringing them enlightenment. It is about showing them - showing you - that there is a better way. And that is what I intend to do. My question to you, Belleros, is, will you help me?’

  The chancellor stared up at him. He shook his head. ‘I don’t… I-‘ He was saved from answering by the sudden arrival of Pyke and the Hereditary Governor.

  ‘My lord, you are avoiding your duties,’ the Primary Iterator chided. ‘A guest must greet his host. It’s only polite.’

  Fulgrim nodded. ‘So it is. I have been most remiss, Hereditary Governor Pandion. My most profuse apologies.’ As he bowed to Pandion, he glimpsed Pyke hooking Corynth’s arm and deftly leading him away. Fulgrim liked the man, and hoped that he wouldn’t prove to be an obstacle.

  Fulgrim studied the Hereditary Governor. Pandion IV had been a big man, once. But that mass had shrunken tight against his bones, and his flesh hung loosely on him in places. His robes of state had been cut for a larger man, and they now enveloped him like a shroud. Fulgrim could smell sickness on him, beneath the layers of incense. Despite his obvious illness, the governor seemed more at ease than he had earlier.

  ‘Quite a party, isn’t it?’ he asked, his voice a thin whisper.

  ‘I was just commenting as much to Chancellor Corynth,’ Fulgrim said. He took a proffered wine glass from a servant’s tray. He paused as he raised it to his lips, spotting an out-of-place expression in the crowd. Anger, quickly masked by amiability.

  ‘They’re scared of you,’ Pandion went on.

  ‘Are they?’ Fulgrim continued his observation of the crowd. A turbulent knot of conflicting emotions. Fear, anger, anticipation. Pyke’s junior iterators mingled freely, conducting subtle interviews with those parties they’d marked as useful. Later, Pyke would approach those individuals herself, and begin the private negotiations that laid the foundation for any compliance.

  The governor smiled. ‘Pleases me to no end, honestly. It’s about time something frightened them. They’ve grown arrogant in their complacency.’

  ‘I am glad to be of service,’ Fulgrim said, with a slight bow.

  Pandion chuckled. ‘You’ve come at the right time. They were just about to become unbearable. And I’d like to enjoy my remaining years in something akin to peace.’

  Fulgrim nodded, listening with half an ear. He scanned the crowd, parsing body language, until he’d isolated a dozen individuals. They were ill at ease, but attempting to appear casual. All were moving, drawing closer to the governor, using the crowd as cover while they moved into position.

  Assassins. Their attempts at subtlety only rendered them more obvious to his eyes. Amateurs, then. He sipped his wine and blinked. ‘Well, that is unfortunate’

  ‘What?’ Pandion goggled at him.

  ‘Someone just tried to poison me. How unexpectedly rude.’ He signalled surreptitiously to Cyrius.

  ‘I’ll alert the guards at once.’ Pandion began. Fulgrim dropped a steadying hand on his shoulder. The governor nearly buckled beneath the sudden weight ‘No. I believe a demonstration is in order. Act as if nothing is wrong.’

  ‘But-‘

  ‘I have suffered an insult, Hereditary Governor. I beg your leave to solve it in my own fashion.’ He glanced at Abdemon. One look was enough to alert the lord commander to the situation. Abdemon stiffened and began to make his way towards Fulgrim. As he did so, the others followed suit, one by one, breaking off conversations in mid-word.

  They cleared pathways through the crowd, moving without hurry, waiting for their primarch’s signal, trusting in him to guide their actions. Such discipline had served the Legion well, on countless worlds.

  Fulgrim hoped today would not be the first day it failed to prove its worth.

  ‘This is foolishness,’ Lord Commander Frazer muttered. The welcome gala was in full swing. The attendees were limited to the Imperial representatives and those members of the patricians who had been invited by the Hereditary Governor, or had otherwise bribed, begged or bullied their way into the mix.

  Pyke ignored Frazer’s grousing. Instead, she watched her subordinates mingle. Every so often, one of the junior iterators would glance back her. She would gesture, or not, signalling them to continue the conversation they had started, or break it off. Compliance often started with a foundation of subtle influence. Bribery mostly, but occasionally veiled - or not so veiled - threats. Overwhelming military force was good for making a point during negotiations, but other methods were required to create something lasting.

  ‘Foolishness,’ Frazer said again. More loudly this time, drawing disapproving looks from those closest to them.

  Pyke sighed. ‘Enlighten me, Herodotus. Which foolishness are you referring to?’

  This.’ Frazer gestured. We should be bringing them enlightenment. Not celebrating.’

  ‘We are doing both. Or do you prefer bloodier methods of ensuring compliance?’

  ‘Compliance means compliance,’ Frazer grunted, glaring about him. He was a handsome man, with the
hawk-like mien and supercilious air the Europan aristocracies bred for. He wore the crimson and silver of his regiment, one thin hand draped over the basket hilt of his dress sabre. His fingers tap-tapped a martial rhythm on the silver guard.

  His junior officers were scattered throughout the crowd, doing their bit to bring honour to the regiment. They spoke with their opposite numbers, taking pains to quietly emphasise the inevitable result of any serious resistance by local military commanders. Pyke had great confidence in their ability to be threatening.

  The Archite Palatines were a blooded regiment, drawn mostly from the military households of Europa. They had participated in the Antarctic Clearance, among other campaigns, and won the right to wear the aquila on their silver cuirasses for their heroism during the Selenite Purge. The Palatines had fought alongside several Legions in their storied history, but had found their match in the Third. Aristocrats were only truly comfortable among others of their kind.

  She wondered what Frazer and his ilk thought of Fulgrim’s programme of inducting common-born Chemosians into the Legion. Then, they were probably willing to look the other way, bar a few mutterings. Even the most illustrious bloodline needed an infusion from hardy peasant stock every century or so, after all.

  Frazer’s hostility towards Byzas and its people was no mystery, at least. The noble families of Terra saw the potentates and dynastic clans of the frontier worlds as usurpers and upstarts. What worth was there to a bloodline only a few thousand years old? The aristocracies of Terra barely acknowledged each other as peers. Fruits grown in foreign soil weren’t even to be considered.

  ‘These people are primitives,’ Frazer continued, warming to his subject. ‘Fit only for the lash or the plough. What use is a planet that’s already half turned to glass, because its inhabitants are too stupid to resist lobbing atomic weapons at one another?’

  ‘Shades of Old Night, I dare say, Herodotus.’ Pyke sipped the wine, noting the traces of at least three different toxins. She frowned and glanced at Frazer. ‘Don’t drink the wine.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘It’s poisoned,’ Cyrius said, as he joined them. The Space Marine had a glass in his hand. It looked tiny, like a child’s toy. He studied Pyke. ‘I’m surprised you noticed.’

  ‘The benefits of a cultured palate.’ Pyke held her glass up. ‘It’s starting a bit earlier than I expected. Someone is impatient.’ Assassination attempts were an inevitable part of the diplomatic process. Usually, they occurred later, when the local powerbrokers became fully cognizant of what compliance meant.

  Cyrius blinked. ‘You expected this?’

  ‘Treachery,’ Frazer said. His hand groped towards the hilt of his sabre. Knowing him as she did, Pyke suspected the blade was fully functional, rather than simply ceremonial. Duelling came as easily to the officers of the Palatines as it did to the warriors of the Third - one of the reasons the two worked so well together.

  ‘Yes, and yes.’ Pyke laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘We are in dangerous waters and the fish are biting. Has Fulgrim noticed yet?’

  ‘Noticed what?’ Frazer demanded, as Cyrius nodded.

  ‘He has. He sent me to see to your safety. Quin and the others will deal with the assassins.’ He smiled politely. We expected this as well.’

  Frazer looked around. ‘Assassins?’

  ‘Ten of them,’ Pyke said. She had noticed them earlier, but assumed they were there for some unlucky member of the patricians. Murder was endemic among the upper classes here, whether through duelling or assassination. The aristocracy of Byzas was a glorified pit of vipers.

  ‘Twelve, actually,’ Cyrius murmured, ushering them off of the floor. The crowd parted easily before him. Pyke smiled and patted his forearm.

  ‘My eyes aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid.’

  Fulgrim watched the assassins draw closer and fought to conceal his growing amusement. His first impression had been correct. These were amateurs. Revolutionaries, possibly. Or simply ambitious nobles, looking to stage a public coup. Perhaps they wanted to halt the compliance negotiations. Their reasons would become clear in time.

  They had hesitated, when they realised the poison in his drink had had no effect. But they had found their courage quickly enough. There was no faulting the people of this world in that regard. It spoke well as to their future in the Imperium.

  The other guests had at last realised that something untoward was occurring in their midst. The atavistic instinct for incipient violence, which all humans possessed, took hold. The dancers and servants melted away into the crowd. The raised voices of the gentry faltered and fell silent. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

  For Fulgrim, whose perceptions were far beyond mortal, it was an eternity, in which to prepare for what came next.

  The closest assassin stepped into the open, eyes wide, smelling of fear and excitement. From beneath his robes, he drew a small, low-velocity stub pistol of ornate manufacture. A prized heirloom, no doubt. This was not simply a murder, but a statement. Fulgrim focused on the weapon, calculating the range and probable trajectory in seconds. The ammunition cylinder clicked, sounding like thunder to his ears.

  Everything slowed down, as Fulgrim sped up. The flash from the weapon’s muzzle expanded like a firework. The roar of the crowd pulsed like the voice of the ocean. The slug erupted, moving faster than the human eye could follow.

  Fulgrim’s hand snapped out, intercepting the projectile before it could reach Pandion. The lead slug punched into his armoured palm at high velocity, and the banquet hall echoed with the impact. Pandion stumbled back, mouth working soundlessly. Silence fell, as all eyes became fixed on the primarch. Fulgrim retracted his hand and dropped the smoking slug into his wine glass. ‘Well, now the party is officially ruined,’ he said.

  For a moment, the tableau held. Then a second shot glanced off his armour, as the assassins recovered their nerve. Screams rose from the guests and people surged back and forth, or scattered for the exits. More shots came as Fulgrim turned, blocking the cowering Pandion from sight. The slugs struck his back, flattening themselves against his armour. ‘Rest easy, Hereditary Governor. No harm shall befall you.’ He turned his head slightly. Panic had thinned the crowd some, as he’d hoped. The assassins had lost the element of surprise. ‘Warriors of the Third - glory to His name, death to His foes!’

  The signal given, his gene-sons went to work. They’d homed in on the assassins with lethal patience From the corner of his eye he saw Kasperos punch a hapless gunman in the back, nearly folding the man in half. Quin trudged towards another, soaking up a fusillade of shots. When he got dose, he caught the assassin’s hand in an unyielding grip, crumpling weapon and limb both. An almost gentle slap spun the screaming man’s head around on his neck, silencing him.

  ‘Curb your enthusiasm, my sons, I want one alive,’ Fulgrim called out. He caught sight of Corynth crawling towards him, using tables and statues for cover, a look of determination on his face. He froze when he realised Fulgrim was watching him.

  ‘The governor - is he…?’ the chancellor said.

  Fulgrim looked down. Pandion was a bit glassy-eyed from shock, but otherwise unharmed. And he wasn’t panicking, like most of his courtiers. The old man had some steel in him, buried deep. ‘He yet lives.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone move that fast,’ Corynth said, staring at him.

  ‘I am one of the Emperor’s sons,’ Fulgrim said simply. He turned, scanning the room. It had gone quiet, save for the moans of those trampled in the mass exodus. The assassins were dead, except one, who was only mostly dead. Fabius held the slumped form of what looked to be a continental army officer by his ornate golden gorget. One of the chirurgeon’s syringe-limbs had jabbed itself into the unfortunate man’s spine.

  ‘Paralytic,’ Fabius said simply, at Fulgrim’s questioning look. The Apothecary hefted the limp shape onto his shoulder with ease.

  ‘Trust the Spider to use his venom,’ Thorn said. Fabius glanced
at him, but said nothing. Fulgrim shot Thorn a warning look. The warrior bowed his head and fell silent.

  Abdemon signalled him. ‘My lord, I’ve accessed the palace vox-feed. It appears they had an escape plan ready, in case they succeeded. A small airship is departing the palace aerodrome, ignoring all attempts to call it back. Should we…?’

  Fulgrim stretched. ‘No. I shall handle this. You stay with the governor.’ He started towards the nearest window, pulling on his helmet as he went. As the seals clicked into place, he patched into the palace vox and sensor feeds. They were primitive, but useful. He swiftly triangulated the quickest route to the palace aerodrome. When he hit the windows, he did so with some regret. He would commission new ones from the Legion’s artisans, by way of apology. He dropped to the ground and was moving before the sound of the breaking glass reached his ears.

  Shouts and alarms accompanied him as he raced towards the aerodrome. The gubernatorial palace was a circular labyrinth of columned walkways and jutting balconies. The aerodrome lay at the heart of the maze, within the vast glass bio-dome that served as the palace gardens. Fulgrim saw scattered groups of soldiers in government livery moving in the same direction, and increased his speed. He dropped from balcony to walkway, never slowing. He could run for hours without pause if need be, even in full armour.

  When he reached the outer shell of the bio-dome, he did not head for one of the dozen ornately wrought bronze entryways. Instead, he leapt onto the hardened glass of the outer shell and began to scale it with preternatural agility. The glass was divided into sections and set into a massive, reinforced frame. Fulgrim ascended, following the curve towards the summit. There would be an opening there, directly above the aerodrome. If the airship were looking to flee, it would have to pass through the top of the dome.

  As he climbed, Fulgrim calculated probable speeds and angles of ascent. His timing would need to be perfect. The slightest mistake would result in embarrassment - or worse, injury. His heart sped up with anticipation. The glass of the dome cracked beneath his weight, and the frame bent in his grip as he forced himself higher. Through the glass, he saw the manicured expanse of green within, wild groves of native trees bisected by meticulously arranged pathways, lined by clumps of colourful flora chosen and placed for effect. All very tidy, if lacking in true artistry. Precision taken to excess.