Chapter 1
The Colonel was trying to hide his nervousness. And well he might be nervous, reflected Inquisitor Quaestorious. After all, finding your Commissar dead from violence did not generally happen in well-ordered Guard Regiments.
oOoOo
It was raining. It was the kind of steady, penetrating rain that found its way into every garment. Quaestorious was glad that the supply shuttle he had come down in had set him down right in the middle of the parade ground rather than at the far side of the compound by the stores. The Young Lieutenant flying it had at least a sense of decorum – a saturated inquisitor was scarcely an impressive object even to a Praetorian Colonel who looked himself like a drowned rat. At least this planet – or rather, this region of it – was relatively pastoral, so that rain was just the standard slightly carbonated water. No heavy pollutants to worry about.
The shuttle hummed behind Quaestorious as the pilot took it closer to the unloading area. They would be up and down for several days from the cramped, uncomfortable Warp-Transport on which Quaestorious was currently a passenger. He considered sardonically that the Colonel must have received news that an Inquisitor was aboard with mixed feelings – relief at being able to pass the buck of his murdered Commissar tinged with a healthy drop of fear.
oOoOo
The Colonel surveyed Quaestorious gloomily as they passed together into the dry of the main barracks block. It was a plain building of plascrete, with little attempt at decoration beyond a minimally ornamented gothic archway to the main entrance. Even the gargoyle supporters of the arch roots were undistinguished and miserable looking. Inside was little better. The passageway was narrow and dark . Sometime in the past, scenes of the lives of saints had been painted along the walls, but it had been so long since they had been renewed that they were cracked and peeling. Somehow the result was worse than if the walls had been left bare, the peeling saints appearing reproachful in their decrepit dignity.
Quaestorious had been requested to attend Colonel Rebet Strong at the small barracks on the colony world of Brummigan. The Inquisitor had agreed to break his journey since the stopover was a scheduled one for the supply ship. The Colonel had seemed strained when he had spoken on the commlink when he reported the murder of the Commissar, as well he might; and now Quaestorious wanted him to expand upon that bald statement..
"My Commissar was brutally murdered in his own room" Colonel Strong said. "And he's not been with us that long – the previous one died in battle. I thought I ought to report this…"
Quaestorious nodded, more encouraging him to go on than as a signal of agreement.
"He was murdered" repeated Strong. "And by his own bodyguard! I could scarcely believe it – but the evidence… you'll want to see it…" a tic started in his face, and he tugged tremulously at the gold braid on his scarlet tunic.
"I'll see the evidence and see what it says to me" Quaestorious said quietly. "You have held the bodyguard?"
"Oh yes, Inquisitor, he's in the cells."
"Does he confess to the crime?"
"Well… sort of."
Quaestorious stared at the man.
"'SORT of'? What kind of reply is that? Either he admits or denies guilt. 'Sort of' sounds to me like a confession obtained by coercion, Colonel" he fixed the frightened officer with a piercing gaze over his high hooked nose. Strong swallowed.
"He said it was his fault, Inquisitor. He wouldn't say any more. No one's coerced him at all" he tried to explain hastily. Quaestorious snorted.
"It doesn't occur to you that a conscientious bodyguard might just consider his principal's death to be his fault by his failure to protect him?" he asked scathingly. "This man does not sound over endowed with brains – but I suppose that's not a requirement for a minder."
The colonel smiled thinly.
"Burdock's an Ogryn. Smarts aren't their long suit" he said dryly. "But it's not just his claim that it's his fault that is the reason I have to suspect him – Sollinius' head was stove in. Surely only an Ogryn hand could do something like that – and he was stumbling around and confused when I got there. Poor man, he must have suffered a brainstorm. I don't think he remembers anything about the incident."
Quaestorious grunted non-committally. He had no intention of forming a theory without being in possession of all the facts; and he told the colonel so.
"And" he added pompously "I need to see the body before I can proceed any further."
"Certainly, Inquisitor" Colonel Strong gave no sign that the Inquisitor's fussy and pedantic manner might irritate him. A mere Colonel of the Guards, even the vaunted Praetorians, did not criticise an Inquisitor!
oOoOo
Strong led Quaestorious to the officers' quarters. The corridor was a little wider here, and had been finished in synthwood effect panelling. It had been painted dark brown however, and the dark walls appeared to converge overhead. A few tracts and icons had been hung haphazardly along the walls; Quaestorious played a game with himself as they proceeded of trying to guess who the icons were supposed to represent. He was pulled up short by one at the contrast it made with the others in its sheer staggering beauty. Unlike the gaudy, flat and unimaginative attempts that had preceded it, this painting was redolent with life. It showed an unmistakable image of Saint Lysander converting heathen, with a small figure of Mercarious in the background. It seemed to glow with light and hope.
"This is good" Quaestorious commented.
"You think so?" The Colonel sounded surprised. "It was hung there to cover a wet patch. I find it rather dull and colourless compared to the others."
"Who did it?"
The Colonel shrugged.
"One of the men. He was always daubing. He got killed in the last campaign. Not much of a soldier, anyway."
Quaestorious counted slowly to ten.
"Move this to a place that is not damp" he said. "It could be a treasure of your regiment one day. And if there are other paintings, I would like to see them."
The Colonel looked surprised.
"I expect they were burned" he said, indifferently. "The body is this way."
Quaestorious resented the attempt at a subtle rebuke.
"It's waited several hours for me." He said mildly. "It will wait a few minutes more."
Tenderly he unhooked the painting and exchanged its position for that of one of the undistinguished daubs. Then he contemplated it whilst praying fervently to the Emperor for patience in this uncultured hole. When he was ready, he nodded to Strong.
"I am at your disposal" he said.
oOoOo
Commissar Sollinius' day room was a contrast to the corridor. It was mellow and light, with a large window overlooking the chapel. The walls displayed the same synthwood panelling, but here the wood colour chosen had been light ash, and someone had tried with a modicum of success to enhance the moulded grain with darker paint. Rich hangings added to the atmosphere of comfort, and although the room exuded more of an air of luxury than Quaestorious approved of, it was at least a welcome change from the dreary corridor. A single picture hung on the wall between a pair of golden velvet drapes, and Quaestorious had no trouble recognising the style of the dead soldier artist. It showed the Emperor enthroned, head in hand, gazing thoughtfully out from sad, loving eyes. Quaestorious caught his breath. Even the scorch marks along one edge did not mar its beauty.
"Since this unit seems so sacrilegious as to try to burn sacred paintings, even of the holy Emperor" he remarked, angrily, "I trust you will not object if I take this painting into my own care. Unless the deceased has relatives."
"Take whatever you want!" The Colonel said, hastily. "I know of no relatives. But I assure you, no sacrilege was intended – we can't store the work of every common soldier who thinks he can profane the saints with his messes."
It was that he was a common soldier, Quaestorious decided. Had the painter been an officer, perhaps this boor would have seen some merit because he expected to. He wanted to say a lot; but contented himself with,
"From simple hearts and minds come forth true praise and worship" gravely he genuflected before the portrait of the Emperor, and went to work.
The body had not been moved,; Quaestorious supposed he should at least be glad of that. The Commissar had been a big man, and even death had not erased the laughter lines around the one identifiable eye. The other eye was not merely missing; it, and the majority of the left hand side of the man's face had been driven inwards, the skull crushed like an eggshell, brains seeping in a reproachful grey ooze from what remained of the cranium. Strong retched dry, and Quaestorious suspected that it was not for the first time.
"I do not require you to stay in here" he said. Strong fled, gratefully. Quaestorious knelt, with a grimace, to examine the wound more closely. Blood and brain had spattered far, and he was obliged to kneel in some of the human detritus in order to get a better look. He peered at the wound, noting its ovoid shape, deepest in the middle of the blow. He frowned, thoughtfully. The blow had been from a smooth object perhaps a little smaller than a man's head, carrying great force or weight behind it. The blow had been to the left temple, and seemed to have knocked Sollinius right out of his chair at the desk on to the floor. He had been seated, then, when his assailant had struck.
Quaestorious took his tweezers and several bags from his utility pouch, and a number of swabs, and began to take systematic samples from the wound. Emperor knew if he'd turn anything up, but he could swear that there was a greyish silver mark on a shattered shard of bone that was something other than brain matter. It bore further investigation under lenses and with the alchemical analytical engine he had….acquired….from the Adeptus Mechanicus. Quaestorious grinned to himself remembering the verbal battle royal he had had with that self important fool of a chief priest. He, Quaestorious, had managed to put the most pompous, the most sesquipedalian, the most polishedly specious arguments as to why he required this marvellous machine – and training in how to use it. A reputation for pompous fussiness made most people write him off as a finical fool and give way more easily for a quiet life – and also covered his meticulous investigations under a cloak of sheer nosiness and interference. Quaestorious did not think that he would meet with the bland resistance so often presented from this colonel; he SEEMED at least genuinely concerned for the matter to be dealt with. But one never knew. No, one never knew. Quaestorious got gingerly to his feet, trying not to touch the revolting stickiness around him, and started to look around the room. As he searched he whistled a praise to the Emperor tunelessly between his teeth. It was a bad habit, he knew, and his Father Inquisitor had sometimes commented that those who did not know him might think it heretical, but it helped him to think.
Something was missing. Something very important.
Quaestorious had not expected to find a blunt instrument left for him to discover; but there were certain items standard to the equipment of a Commissar. And one of them was a Dataslab. But the dead man's dataslab was nowhere to be found.
Quaestorious exited the room.
"The Ogryn did not kill his officer" he said bluntly. "But I suspect he may have been drugged by the real culprit to provide an easy scapegoat. Unfortunately there will not be any trace of a drug left in his system by now so we'll have no clues from that."
"Are you sure?" asked the colonel. Inquisitor Quaestorious fixed him with a steely glance and he flinched. "I – I only meant, how did you come to this conclusion, sir?" he amended.
"Then say what you mean" Quaestorious primmed his mouth and looked scornfully over his hook nose. "The wound is not large enough for an Ogryn fist – though someone has been to considerable effort to make it as big as he could. Also, there are no marks consonant with knuckle marks. The blow was made with a smooth object."
The colonel swallowed.
"I see" he managed. "So – so you will need to examine everyone here."
Quaestorious shrugged.
"Probably – but maybe not. Perhaps colonel you can help me – by telling me who disliked the Commissar."
Strong blinked.
"Why – no-one!" seeing the Inquisitor's disbelief, he added, "Sollinius was a popular man – he pursued his duty in a – a gentle way, dropping a quiet word in the ears of those who strayed from political correctness. He told me that example had a far better effect on the morale and reliability of men than punishment and fear. It seemed to work – even Captain Anthony moderated his comments after Sollinius had chatted to him!"
"Ah?"
The Colonel made an impatient gesture.
"Anthony thinks that the Hierarchy are too ready to see demons and chaos in normal human weakness. Other than that he's a good officer. That's all."
"All? It's convicted many more powerful men than a mere Captain" Quaestorious' voice was mild, but the Colonel shuddered.
"He means no harm." He defended his officer. "At least – I did not think so… perhaps I was wrong…I'm no expert on doctrine…" he tailed off in his attempt to distance himself from one of his staff who might prove dangerous. Quaestorious gave him a sardonic look. The Colonel tried again,
"I would not permit blasphemy if I thought it was present… I did not know… I did not think he meant harm…"
"I will judge that" Quaestorious said, firmly. "Now, I will speak with the Ogryn – Burdock, I think you said his name is?"
oOoOo
Burdock was very pleased to get out of the undersized prison.
"It Dark in dere, sah!" he explained, saluting the Colonel a trifle stiffly with the wrong hand.
"Yes, well, we know that you didn't kill Sollinius so you can come out now" the Colonel explained with some impatience creeping into his voice. "And if you'd told us you'd been drugged in the first place and didn't know what had happened, you'd not have been in there at all."
The giant warrior's brow furrowed in intense concentration. He was, Quaestorious reflected, quite the largest Ogryn he had ever seen, made taller by the pith helmet he insisted on replacing on his head to salute with. At last Burdock said,
"Was I drugged, Colonel sah?"
"Yes."
Another long, painful thought.
"But I didn't know dat, Colonel sah. So I fort it was my fault for falling asleep. So I couldn't have told you nuffin' about it could I sah?"
Quaestorious managed to keep a straight face over this application of Ogryn-style logic. Strong seemed ready to burst the buttons off his tunic as he fought to retain some semblance of patience.
"If I may, Colonel…" Quaestorious spoke softly, but Strong stiffened to attention at the authority in his voice.
"My Lord?"
"I would talk with Burdock alone. I'm sure you have plenty of paperwork concerning this – unfortunate - occurrence."
Strong knew a dismissal when he heard one, and turned on his heel, trying not to seethe at this cavalier treatment.
"Come, Burdock, let us go to your quarters" said Quaestorious. "It will be more comfortable – and besides, I intend to move into your late Commissar's rooms as soon as they have been cleared up." He smiled to himself as he saw the big man observing him covertly. Curiosity was a sign of higher than usual intellect in Ogryn – perhaps Burdock knew more than he realised and would be able to be of significant help!
Burdock saw a tall lean man dressed in a plain, black robe with a cowl drawn loosely up onto the head. His eyes widened at the inconspicuous but informative 'I' badge that marked Quaestorious' calling. Burdock had never met an Inquisitor before, and felt a brief moment of fear; but the face within the cowl seemed ordinary enough, even handsome by human standards. The nose was large and hooked, the eyes deep sunk but piercing, strangely light grey in a face weatherbeaten and tanned. The face was not young, but nor was it yet old. There were light, almost imperceptible lines around the eyes and at the top of the nose, suggesting that worry was not unknown but had not yet made its mark overmuch, or was combated by the sardonic humour evidenced by the laughter lines at the eyes. The high cheekbones were prominent in the lean visage, and the shadows below them stopped barely short of lending it a cadaverous look. Instead the face was more wolfish, predatory, with the aquiline nose seeming to lead the man to his quarry. His hair was dark and fell forward in an unruly lock above one winged, satirical eyebrow. There was humour in the face, and gentleness, Burdock thought, not like the stories people told. He grinned, suddenly.
"Awright me lud" he said, cheerfully, and trailed after Quaestorious to the scene of the tragedy.
oOoOo
Quaestorious also like what he had seen of Burdock. Most Ogryn were simple and straightforward; this one had as well a cheerful countenance, snub nosed and child like. His fangs were relatively clean, and his eager blue eyes twinkled brightly. He did not even seem to have a noticeable body odour. The tunic, which mimicked that of the praetorians, was threadbare but not as grubby as he had expected. Especially in the light of the Colonel's unwashed collar. True, the collar of Burdock's tunic was littered with dandruff, but doubtless the poor man had little control over that.
oOoOo
As he questioned the Ogryn, Quaestorious knew his initial assessment of Burdock's intelligence had been correct. The big man took his time over his replies and needed plenty of time to think; but when he spoke he had obviously considered deeply over each question. He had, it seemed, eaten as usual and had almost immediately felt both tired and dizzy. The next thing he remembered was hearing, as though in a dream, his officer cry out, more he thought in exasperation than fear or pain.
"I tried to go frew" he explained "but nuffin worked – it was like I was finkin' inside cotton wads for bandagin' wounds if you see what I mean, sah – I mean, me lud."
"'Sir' does just fine. Just carry on" Quaestorius laid a reassuring hand on the big fist that was balled tight from the effort of thinking, the grief at the loss of one who was evidently loved and respected. Burdock nodded.
"Well, then it got black again. No, not black – more sort of dark grey and mushy" he amended. "An' then there was people shoutin' and I manage ter git up an' struggle frew an' there he is. An' the Colonel, he asks me questions an' I know it's all my fault for not waking up an' goin' to him when he cries out, see?"
A single tear trickled down the leathery cheek narrowly missing the enormous fang at the corner of Burdock's mouth.
"'Scuse me sah" he sniffed, wiping it with the back of his gigantic hand.
"You were fond of Sollinius?" asked Quaestorious.
"Sah, there weren't nobody had a bad word to say for him, 'cepting that little tart he spanked and that stuffed shirt Capting Ffarquar!" burst out Burdock. "He was – well, he was NICE! No one could want to kill him! Took care to find out people's problems, y'know? That's why he was down on that creepy confessor, f'rall he'd smarm around him tryin' ter lick his backside!"
Quaestorious forebore to point out that this was three people who might have possible motive. He merely asked,
"Why don't you tell me more about them? Maybe that will give me some clues."
Burdock shrugged.
"'T'aint much, sah" he began, adding hastily as Quaestorious looked stern, "Well, that Cybele, she's the chief of the Camp Followers. I mean, Morale Boostin' Female Auxiliaries." He added hastily, peering out at Quaestorious from under his lashes.
"Never mind the Political correctness" snapped Quaestorious testily. "I don't care what name you call the whores and cooks. Just tell me about her."
"Yes, me lud." Burdock strove to regain his train of thought. "Well, sah, Cybele, she prides herself on havin' infallible charms, so she comes on to Sollinius an' he can't stand her. So after she don't take hints so broad an Ork'd get it, he loses patience and spanks her right in front of the other women and tells her to stay the hell out of his way, beggin' your pardon for the language me lud."
The Inquisitor nodded.
"And the others? Ffarquar and the confessor?"
"Capting Ffarquar, he fancies himself to become a Commissar, sah, and he reckons he knows political right think better than Commissar Sollinius which don'' seem political right think to me. Sollinius says – said – that loving the Emperor was the only real pre – pre er, the only fing wot counted for real. Uvver fings were jus' extras. Ffarquar jus' kep' on an' on. I'm s'prised it wasn't him that confessor made up to – ol' Eliezer Cringe."
"That's not really his name?"
"Yes, sah, an' it suits him. He – well, he sort of OOZES at people, rubbing his hands together an' agreein' wiv everfing in his horrid creaky voice. Only the Commissar knew somefing bad about him, he told me – he said he was sure that he'd enough to – to stop the man's rot for good an' improve the morale of the regiment overnight!"
Quaestorious nodded. He held his own opinions of confessors, the self appointed guardians of morals for the common soldier. Many of them were either canting hypocrites or fanatics a few cards short of a full deck.
"Just tell me one more thing, Burdock." He asked. "How come you never told the colonel all this?"
Burdock hung his head.
"Well, o'course I never knew I was drugged" he began "An' I was upset at it bein' because I was asleep; an' he kep' askin' questions wivout givin' me time ter fink, an' sayin' 'speak up man'" - it was a creditable attempt at mimicking the Colonel's rather mincing tones – "An' I jus' couldn't keep up wiv his askin' so I give up. I was upset." He added again, plaintively. Quaestorious patted his arm.
"You've done very well." He assured him. "And you've given me several very good ideas to pursue over why Sollinius may have been killed."
Burdock looked pleased.
"It might be because of the stealin' too I guess." He added. Quaestorious looked at him sharply.
"Stealing? Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"You didn't ask, me lud. An' I've only jus' remembered" explained the Ogryn. "See, someone was sellin' stuff as surplus, only it weren't. The Commissar, he di'n't know who it was – it mighta even be da Colonel, so he jus' kep' quiet an' asked questions. I dunno if he'd found out who was doin' it or no. but it's all on his dataslab!" he added, brightening.
"Which is missing" said Quaestorious sourly. Burdock's face fell, and the Inquisitor forced himself to summon a smile. "But cheer up, Burdock! I shall find the truth – and I'm sure you'll help me!"
The giant nodded eagerly, and Quaestorious left him, to settle into the dead man's room, now bearing only traces of the evidence of his violent demise.
11