It was on the fourth night his travels with Priscilla when the Inquisitor finally lost his coachman.
The coachman-the same woman, coincidentally, who had first driven him to the Manor Lawford- had been observed, when they stopped at a coaching inn referred to as The Standfast, to linger for a while after getting the geno-horses stabled. Her head, although for a time in her hands, ultimately rose like an artillery piece being sighted; and, resolutely, firmly, she strode off into the night.
Her absence was first noted by the Inquisitor; the Duchess, perhaps taking servants for granted after decades of marriage, raised an eyebrow as he lept to his feet and stormed over to the bar's shutters.
"Something wrong, Prewellyn?" she asked, looking up from the day's Courant; they now, although it was admittedly difficult to travel incognito in as well appointed a carriage as the Duke's, were making an attempt at secrecy.
"Why, nothing much, Prissy. I suppose you can't get the staff nowadays." The Inquisitor flung open the shutters, and gazed out into the night. He remained there for a few moments, the winds howling. "Ah. There." He pointed. A flash of something on the opposite hillside. Moonlight on a belt buckle, perhaps, or on the coachman's horse pistols. "She was to meet us five minute ago. This has not occurred. She bolted, Prissy."
Prissy, upon leaving to check this for herself, immediately returned and asked the Inquisitor to assist with a pursuit of the quarry (those being her exact terms.) The Inquisitor was against it, on grounds of secrecy; so the pair of them retired to their private chambers, and reflected on why the coachman might have left the service of the Inquisition.
"Well," Prissy began, "she was never one of our best servants." She rolled over on the double-bed, and reached for the wine.
The Inquisitor was certain that she was not; indeed, he was surprised when he had found his favourite sniper to have been using servants in the first place.
"Whyever not? After years of travelling the galaxy and dodging las-bolts, I just wanted a normal life." Prissy smiled, stretched, shrugged. "Well, a normal life with expensive tastes."
"And a title."
She stuck her tongue out at him. "And a husband I first met in a warzone. Which, by our standards, is pretty normal."
"Perhaps." The Inquisitor considered this. He remembered the stiff, conscientious lieutenant of the Rifles he had first met on-what was the world called again?
"Selekan Prime. And having people at my beck and call, now, is certainly normal by some of our standards."
"You mean my own, I suppose?"
"By the authority of the God-Emperor of-"
"Be still, someone could be listening."
Which, after a time, they concluded could have been the root cause of their problem with the staff.
"We initially swore her to secrecy."
"Yes." A pause, slight, but there. "Yeees."
The Inquisitor went on. "And, thus secured, we discussed our former acquaintance."
"Which, amazingly, some people may find unnerving."
Rain pattered against the shutters, like the fingers of the dead.
It had been quite a discussion. Battles lost and won. A bar on the Singing Spires of Lorkas VII, looking out over the bays below as the world's final sunset began, a harpsichord playing all the while. (Which tune was a matter of debate.) Painting classes. A goshawk, which Priscilla had kept. And…
"Well, there were some aspects of the discussion which, strictly speaking, should not have been spoken at all."
"The demonic ones."
The Inquisitor said nothing. He just nodded, slowly.
"That coachwoman," Priscilla began again. "She is in open country. Alone."
The Inquisitor nodded. He rose, and began to dress.
"We should, maybe…"
"Take steps."
"For the greater good."
"Yes."
"Quite."
"Quite."
"She was never… one of my best servants. And very, very talkative, but for Throne's sake please we don't have to kill her."
But the Lady Priscilla was already on her feet, reaching into one of her larger cases, and producing what resembled, to the untrained eye, a number of wood-and-brass components that could be used for anything. A music stand, perhaps.
Alas, it was neither of those things, but a fowling piece. One which she concealed under the skirts of her cloak, just as the Inquisitor concealed his pistols, as they set out into the night.
At this time in, the Saggitarrian system had a number of unique classifications for its firearms. A fowling piece could mean any number of things, for fowl varied widely. In this case, it was a long lasrifle, chased in brass and finely carved of nal-wood from Old Tanith. It was accurate, in daytime in skilled hands, to a distance of several miles. And, despite its length of over five feet, the Duchess handled it expertly. For the Lawfords were nothing if they were not martially inclined.
It was designed to be of little encumbrance in a long hunt, which was fortunate. The tracks were soon discovered, leading into the hills. Priscilla, who had hunted men for a long time, and knew the victim well, suggested that she was in a state of panic. The Inquisitor agreed.
But it is in the matter of pistols where the most confusion can arise. There were three main categories, which will be explained as follows.
There are duelling pistols. They are impressive looking, long, ornate and highly accurate, but designed to wound, to humiliate with low-power las rounds, rather than to kill. They are the weapons of a gentleman, who has to deal in matters of honour. The Inquisitor possessed a pair of these, of common wood furnishings. His, whilst accurate and extremely impressive, fired bolt shells. To merely humiliate a target was rarely enough for him.
But a duelling pistol is not a reliable weapon. The gentleman typically fights in clement weather conditions, on mutually agreed ground. As the chill seeped into his heavy wool coat, therefore, the Inquisitor fretted. He chewed at his scarf, glared at the next hill, and gripped his cane tightly.
Despite his best efforts, Priscilla noticed that he had started to shiver. She did not mention it. She knew him well.
Time passed. Slowly.
Then there are horse pistols. These are large calibre guns, often bell mouthed to fire scattershot, and are often military issue. They can be carried on horseback, and are extremely deadly at close quarters. They were also issued to the armed servants of the House Lawford, for the Lawfords were nothing if they were not martially inclined.
And one of them was encountered lying by a low stone wall, used to demarcate a field of tubers. The mud dribbling up the wall, and the scraps of black cloak found upon it, suggested that the weapon's wielder had just vaulted it in some haste.
"Our servants," Priscilla said, already slithering quietly over the wall, "have a brace of these." She gestured for the Inquisitor to take the gate, a few yards downhill. To flank a gunman's line of fire, for the field beyond was fallow, and completely bare.
They both advanced five paces. Five squelching paces, across an open field, with a copse of little trees beyond it, and the wind pouring rain into their faces, and all the world able to see their every movement for miles around, if there was enough light for it. There was not, but both had met enemies before which would not have cared in the slightest. They made their five paces, bent double, and both froze.
For, in the trees, they saw light.
Priscilla turned and signalled at the Inquisitor with an elegantly gloved hand. A fire. Recently lit. Take left.
Both therefore, regretting the damage done to their fine clothes, crawled through the mud and into the trees.
There wasn't a convenient clearing, they saw as they approached. They were on a hilltop, and the trees were mostly stripped bare by the scouring weather. The fire was guttering under the storm, but it was being determinedly re-lit by a gas lighter.
The Inquisitor, approaching from the left, spotted her first. Their coach-driver, huddling under a clutch of roots, bundled in what remained of her cloak. As on their drive to the Duke's ball, she was talking like a gatling. But the subject matter was quite different this time.
"Tale of demons and witchery and Barrabas and sorcery and by the saints and primarch its blooming cold, and please let me go, oh Emperor please, and I hope I saw them off. That they don't follow. Can't see why. Won't tell a soul. Won't tell anyone anything. He seemed such a quiet man. Not the sort to do that sort of muck, but he's a foreigner. They all do. Damn flask. Damn horses. Damn everything. Just want to go home. Please, just…"
She had not seen them, the Inquisitor was sure of that. He began to crawl closer, and drew the first of his pistols. But a man who uses a cane is not one who can move silently.
The cane snapped a twig.
And the woman jumped to her feet, whipping out a pistol. Her hand shook.
"Show yourself! Show yourself, in the name of the God-Emperor!" she shrieked.
Nothing.
"Look, look, if you're one of… them, then… then be-begone!" She recocked her horse pistol, click-click. "I will use this! I mean it, I'll use this! And my faith is my shield!"
Nothing.
She began to pray. The Litany Against the Mutant. "Emperor, let Your undeniable light burn on the mis-mishapen and the-"
"Madam," the Inquisitor said, rising suddenly from the trees, "you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension."
The coachwoman tightened her lips, and the grip on her pistol. "That you are… a mutant?"
The Inquisitor ignored her question. "That your defiance will do you any good."
"P-perhaps not. I mean, oh please, oh by the Emperor please, forgive me, I ran, I was a coward, I won't tell a soul-"
"But, Madam, you have told a soul. You have told the winds and elements about us, you have shouted our every action to the world In your dreary, miserable chatter. And our adversaries, unlike your passengers, will doubtless care. They will-"
Then the world seemed to turn to thunder, as the woman pulled the trigger of her pistol. "Look, just fake away off!" She cried. "Leave me alone!"
She closed her eyes when she fired. A common mistake. But at this range, with that much buckshot, she could hardly miss, and…
She opened her eyes. The Inquisitor lay before her. She breathed again, at last, heart pounding-
The Inquisitor rose to his feet, there was the crack of a las-shot, and she knew no more.
Priscilla pounded across the field, guardsman fashion, legs pumping. "Prewellyn!" she called. "Prewellyn! No, don't you stand, you're the worst damn doctor ever!" She reached him, saw his coat shredded by shot, saw him leaning on his cane.
But he was very much alive. "I am quite alright. She was a most inexpert shot. Yes. A most inexpert shot. We're getting rusty." He laughed, and only then did he relax. "Haven't done this in a long while."
They both laughed, holding each other close. Priscilla hadn't noticed how the Inquisitor, facing the pistol, had gripped his cane and just stepped, when no man should have been able to.
Prewellyn, on his part, failed to notice how, as her eyes fell upon the body of one of her servants, head gone from her own las-rifle, they filled with tears.
Finally, if we may return to weapons, there are belt pistols. These are firearms designed to be concealed, hidden under one's coat. They are not elegant things, but they serve a purpose. Such was the weapon carried by a horseman, dressed in black, who watched the Inquisitor, and his Assassin from a distance. He considered the pair of them, and began to whistle a tune. Unlike the Inquisitor, and his Assassin, he knew exactly what it was.
This concluded, he rode back into the night.
The two travellers were observed by few when they returned from their excursion, save for a cat with an augmentic eye. This served as security, ratcatcher and household pet, and was considered highly. The travellers woke early, and discussed their next move; for now they had no coachman.
Priscilla remarked, after much drinking of tea laced with amasec, that she could drive.
So, in much the same doom-laden tones, did the Inquisitor.
"Wherever we are headed."
"The Capital," the Inquisitor replied.
This was a respectable ride away: a period of weeks.
"Miles would be pleased. His fine lady headed to Town, rather than mouldering in obscurity." Priscilla considered further. "We could, I suppose, use Marcus Mallory."
The Inquisitor froze.
"He survived, do you know that?"
"I did, yes. But he is light years away, surely…"
Priscilla shook her head. "As a matter of fact, he's in a monastery twenty five miles away. Well, I say in… he is around that sort of area. And he was our preferred fellow for matters of transportation before."
"He has given up, hasn't he?"
"Well, make him un-give up. Better him than some hireling from this inn-no offence meant, waitress, none at all."
"The Monastery of… well, which one? There are several in these parts." The Inquisitor had moved to the edge of the Lawford lands; this particular area, according to the Countryman's Genteel Guide which he had propped open, was referred to dismissively as 'The Holy Land'. The Fashionable Man, it seemed, paid for indulgences in this area, for prayers on his behalf. He did not visit it himself, unless he felt the need, for some reason, to feel blessed.
"The Blessed Wulferic."
"I was intending to visit the Blessed Wulferic myself, as a matter of fact. To receive blessings. We can combine the purposes. Excellent."
This was agreed, ultimately, as a practical course of action.
"But still," the Inquisitor said, sighing, "one of us needs to drive."
There was a pause.
"We'll take turns," Priscilla said, holding his hand. And then, bravely: "I shall go first."
It goes without saying that neither of these Inquisitorial agents, although doubtless accomplished and talented in many ways, had never driven themselves before by a Saggitarrian carriage with a pair of powerful, proud-striding geno-horses in front.
The Country Gentleman's Genteel Guide advised that the journey from here to the Monastery of the Blessed Wulferic would take perhaps a day by good carriage. Two days, four hours, and sixteen minor collisions later, and the pair were finally confident of their carriage-driving skills.
They were fortunate indeed that the roads around here were almost entirely empty, for the great pilgrim seasons were in the summer. The Saints, it seems, were all fair weather men with regards to their miracles, conveniently allowing the humble travellers to come to holy days when the roads were in good condition, and to take their exercise in pleasant, sun-dappled glades listening to the choirs and prayers of the clergy in perfect harmony with the songs of birds. They would then leave their meagre donations, and return blessed.
"So," Priscilla asked from her perch on the coachman's seat, "who else?" She tugged at the reins, and cheered as they swung around another corner. The road was twisting now, rising up a hedge-lined slope. The hedges were overgrown, and tugged at her hat.
"I'm sorry?" a wary voice called up from within the carriage. "And slow down, please."
"Who else are you going to be meeting with?"
"I'll tell you in due course." The Inquisitor, however, considered his list. He had his Assassin. He would have a Coachman, Emperor Willing. Not the one he had hoped for, but he would serve. He needed his Seer, his Tehnologist, his Priest.
And Another.
He considered this, and for a brief moment, thought he heard a tune. He had no notion of what it was.
And the coach swerved. "Be out of our way!" he heard from the top. He glanced out of the window. A ancient mendicant, in ragged robes, sprawled in a ditch. His staff was broken, and an eye was lost; but he still shook his fist at the coach as it passed, and cursed them loudly in a most unholy manner, and there was something in his manner which the Inquisitor remembered.
"Mallory?" he called.
The head snapped around, and saw him.
"It is you, Mallory. Priscilla, stop the coach!"
The carriage stopped abruptly, too much so for the comfort of the horses, which protested vigorously; but the Inquisitor kept his eyes fixed on Mallory's face.
It was, above all things, in denial. As if trying, desperately, to wrench something away from itself.
"Mallory, I will be blunt. In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Long May He Reign, I have need of you once more. Mount up!" The Inqusitor rapped at the coach, and to his surprise the door swung open.
Mallory, with no choice, mounted up. But not before spitting in the Inquisitor's face.