After a long and challenging negotiation with the Novamarines, the man had finally agreed to help the Inquisitor, but as she had watched the Sergeant berate and belittle the woman, it had taken all her strength for Luces Aspea not to smash his genetically modified face.
"We are on the same side," Prasia had reminded her.
"Then they could act more like it," the Sister had replied.
She was tired. Tired of being on this planet, tired of being away from her Convent and her kin. And yes, it had been her idea to enlist the Astartes, but that had been out of a sense of obligation to the Inquisitor and her mission to purge any impure or unclean elements present on Iaxrak VI. And her as a person trying to do her best for her family and the Emperor despite everything happening here.
Prasia understood her duty. And for that, she was to be supported. And commended.
"Where are we to deploy?" the Primarius had asked later, once his Sergeant had stormed out like a spoiled child.
"We will make a show of force in two days' time, during the Ecclesial procession," the Sororitas had answered, attempting to contain her concern.
It was a risky move, she knew. And had warned the Inquisitor of the fact.
"The fervour of the masses will be high," she had said later, as they travelled back from the Novamarines' chapter barracks, knowing how the Ministorium liked to whip up the ardour and intensity of the crowd.
Luces had seen it before, on the world she had fought against a Kroot incursion and been gifted the long scar that now ran down her face. The city had been under constant assault, but the priests there had stirred up the population to such a point that at the end, full of zeal, they had stormed out of the gates and met the Xenos full on.
Indeed, it had helped turn the tide.
"It is a double edged sword," she had continued, attempting to properly warn Prasia of what might happen. "It can go either way."
"It will go my way," the Inquisitor had countered, showing more self assurance than usual.
Did she know something that the Sister did not?
"Let us prepare," Luces said now, back at the quarters that had been assigned to them at the Von Stromms.
Of her, that would mean prayer and reflection. For Prasia, she wasn't sure.
Right now, she seemed to be arguing with Feronnika about some sort of party…
Auka had run away.
Run from the death of Kiri, from the stranger's subsequent coldness, from the gangers and crowds and revolution.
Run back to the place it had all started, to the window where she had first seen the sun.
"I wish you would just go away!" she shouted, watching the light as it glinted and gleaned off the hive below her.
So much had changed, and it had changed her. She had become famous, hated it, loved it, and now feared it. Would someone shoot her, like they had so many others.
Like they had Kiri.
"Where are you?!" a voice rang out then, and Auka stiffened.
They had found her.
"Damn it," the voice continued.
Having heard it twice now, it didn't really sound like Fren or Redor, or even the stranger. It sounded..younger.
"Got ya!" the voice cried, and suddenly, a boy about her age emerged into the open area near the window.
The two children stared at each other across the space, neither saying anything.
"Sorry," the boy said, and it was then that Auak noticed that he had a dead creature in his hand, one of the same kind she knew roamed these tunnels and passageways.
"Are you going to cook it?" she asked him, curious about what it might taste like.
It had been a while since she had eaten anything. She had run away from the hideout without really thinking about food.
Or anything else for that matter.
"No," the boy smiled. "I was sent to kill it. By a Space Marine."
Now it was Auka's turn to smile.
"Oh yeah?" she poked, not believing him.
She knew that there were angels living in the Spire but she didn't think they would have anything to do with someone like…
"What is your name?" she asked then.
"Dannor," the boy replied. "Who are you?"
The stranger entered the small cell and looked down at the man laying in his own filth on the floor.
"Moab Kryptmel," he said. "Wake up."
Ob Or'es covered his face, the stench of the merchant overwhelming him.
"Who's there?" the man asked, roused out of his stupor.
"What did you know of Kiri Enike?"
Inexplicably, the large man started to laugh.
"I know that I wish I had never heard that name, that's what I know…"
Then the laughter turned into tears.
"She's dead," Ob Or'es told him.
"Good," the merchant replied, between wet sobs.
Between this man and Plirk Holyow, the death of the woman had caused quite the stir. True, the Tau had been fond of her, but lacked the personal connection. Still, he had been saddened by her passing, but took solace that she had sacrificed herself for something larger - a trait rare in humans.
"Do you want to leave this place?" he asked Moab then.
The man's crying lessened, and he turned his swollen face upwards.
"How?"
"I need you to go to a party," Ob Or'es told him.
Hours later, the merchant was washed and dressed, standing in front of a long mirror with the stranger behind him.
"I'm not sure this is the right outfit," the man observed, adjusting one of the cuffs on the fancy jacket he had been given to wear. "Yellow is not really my colour…"
Such vanity, the Tau thought. Such self-absorption and pride. If only the Gue'la could think beyond their own individual wants and needs.
"I will need flowers," Moab said then, as if on cue.
"Flowers?" Ob Or'es asked, surprised.
"I am a flower merchant. If I don't come with a grand bouquet, it will be seen as a slight. This is Feronikka von Stromm we are talking about here."
The stranger stared blankly at the large man.
"I don't expect you or your kind to understand, but here, there are rules and orders to society. Certain things are expected."
"I will send someone to your shop. I'm sure there are probably some–"
"No, no," Moab snorted. "I must go. There are questions of style, and composition."
And so the merchant was sent with Renor and Fren to retrieve the flowers, and when then returned after a while, the man was visually shaken.
"I spent my life building that shop…" he complained. "And to see it in such a state."
Ob Or'es strugged to understand Moab's relationship to what humans called money. The idea of only providing goods or services to someone who had 'the coin to pay for it', as the man had said, seemed one of the more remorseless elements of the Gue'la's Imperium.
"Whatever happened to Plirk?" Moab asked, as they were about to leave again, to escort him to the Von Stromm residence atop the spire.
As if on cue, the Arbite stood in the doorway, dressed not in his usual uniform but instead in a sharp suit of grey and crimson.
"Our fortunes seem to have improved," the merchant smiled.
Your usefulness has changed, Ob Or'es thought to himself. Nothing more.
"Shall we? Plirk asked.
"You are coming?" Moab inquired, obviously surprised.
"I am your guard for the evening."
"Splendid!"
"And your keeper," the Tau added. "If you step out of line, or say anything that–"
The merchant shook his head.
"I understand what you want me to do. And I'll do it," he replied snobbily. "I am, after all, a professional."
Ob Or'es doubted that very much, but the risk was worth it. If they managed to pull this all off, it would advance the cause of the revolution more than all the fighting and riots ever could.
[To be continued...]
