Once again, I was sitting at my desk, and van Calox before me. It appeared we were making a habit of it, but what we needed to discuss couldn't be brought out in the open of the bridge. I shan't lie — I was embarrassed at his return; it's not often that a man you insulted before fucking his brains out comes back. And that discounts the sorry state of my outfit after running through the worst places in Footfall. Who knew sewers could be that nasty, and that I would be too much of a thoughtful leader to nearly swim in them instead of sending someone else to do it?

Despite van Calox's ever cool facade, I felt some awkwardness in his stance, too. But the matter at hand superseded any personal mortification we had: the broken lens I had retrieved from underneath Theodora's shelf was laid out before me, and the Inquisition, in the person of Master van Calox, had formed an opinion about it. Several seals had been apposed to it, too, in what I presumed to be an attempt to bind the Chaos in it — unless it was a peculiar filing system. In any case, they removed most of the nasty aura that clung to the thing, making it look like a botched Candlemas decoration.

'It is definitely tied to the cult of the Final Dawn,' he said. 'The symbols etched on it are irrefutable.'

'I told you so.'

He shrugged. 'Despite the unreliability of current astropathic communications, I was able to get in touch with Lord Inquisitor Calcazar. He told me nothing about lady Theodora that hinted to a heretical taint. But he encouraged me to keep looking into that cult, in fear it hasn't been fully eradicated yet, and its potential ties to your dominion.'

Calcazar — that distant boss of his, who had tasked Theodora to retrieve his acolyte and bring him to Footfall. Perhaps it had been an innocent calling in of favours after all, and not a hidden inquest.

'I must therefore ask you once more, Rogue Trader, to join your retinue. I'm afraid I shall have to look for the Final Dawn in the worlds of your protectorate.'

The regicide table taunted me in the background, and the memory of what we had done atop it as well. I could decline his request and merely ferry him around as needed; it would be enough cooperation to placate the Ordo Xenos. On the other hand, a professional might come in handy if I found Chaos cults in my new dominion. I may despise the Inquisition, but they are usually competent at what they do. Terrifyingly so. And if I had him in my retinue, I would perhaps be able to limit his zeal — avoid, for example, a whole planet condemned to Exterminatus — as long as I was the one holding the guns. Besides, at our ages, we should be able to do the dirty and hold an adult, professional, relationship afterwards.

His eyes rested calmly upon me. He already knew I would agree, for these reasons. To choose otherwise would be idiotic. Nodding to him, I said: 'Of course. I need my regicide teacher: no one else in my retinue knows how to play.'

Van Calox chuckled. A sound I had last heard when my head was resting upon his chest. It stirred something deep inside me — but I wasn't done.

'I have conditions, though.' I raised my closed fist and unfurled a finger. 'First, no interrogating my crew without my leave. A friendly chat I will allow. Any use of your psychic abilities, however, needs my approval, or I'll dump you on the closest rock without first checking for an atmosphere. And don't think I won't know if you go behind my back.'

'But you cannot assist to the interrogation without my leave.'

'Fair enough.' And a second finger. 'And you don't decide where the ship goes next, or when we depart. I'm the captain. You're a passenger. I have my own business in the Koronus Expanse... although I'm open to discussion.'

A shade of protest coloured his face; he frowned. But he agreed.

Through the windows behind me, slightly dimmed, the cold light of the Furibundus sun washed away the rich colours of my study in sickly mahogany and blue. I had lit glow-globes, to counteract it, and the Interrogator and I sat in an island of visual warmth. I wanted to pace, but I forced myself to immobility as I spoke.

'So, that thing. I can see three possibilities: if it belonged to Theodora, it could have been a useless trophy that broke by accident. Or it could have been for use and broken by active handling. Or it belonged to the Master of Whispers, and it was destroyed by Theodora's hand during the fight where she was killed.'

I had ordered us tea. The fine, translucent porcelain appeared even clearer in van Calox's gloved hands, covered in supple brown leather; when he drank, he caught me staring and the crease of a smile formed by his lips.

'Your analysis is very sound. I would also add a fourth possibility: that the artefact was planted in Theodora's rooms in order to throw suspicion on her. Or you.'

'How perverse. I would have needed an inquisitor's deviousness to think of it.'

'Not everyone can be blessed with a Commissar's — may I say naive — outlook on life.'

That sardonic look — he wanted to get under my skin. I obliged and theatrically rolled my eyes.

'I prefer the term of unrelenting honesty. But, poor me, who believed the houses of Imperial Knights bred good-mannered men, who didn't resort to childish insults!'

'My family disowned me when it was discovered I was a psyker. Shame in our past is something we have in common, Rogue Trader.'

Something stopped my scathing reply before it formed in my throat — a pity, because it would have been a good one. Something — perhaps a subtle change in his breath, perhaps a minute stiffness in his neck. This wasn't banter. This hurt.

I am by no means a perfect woman, but I don't punch down.

'I am sorry to hear that,' I said politely. And then, I realised it had been a confidence. 'How did it happen?'

I don't think he expected this. He took a sip of tea, gently blowing in the surface to cool it, collecting himself. Hidden between the cup and the wave of hair that covered his brow, his expression was unreadable. He had given me ammunition to hurt him. He had wanted to be hurt, only for me to refuse. By the time he lowered the precious porcelain cup on its saucer — he was always so careful and deliberate in his movements — a sarcastic grin danced on his face.

'I'm usually the one interested in the pasts of those around me, not the reverse. You already know I come from the Knight world of Guisorn III. I belonged to a branch of one of the noble houses… until my exceptional abilities were discovered, when I was still a child. After that, I was sent on a Black Ship to Holy Terra, where I was trained and began my service for the glory of the Imperium.'

'A child? And your family never contacted you again? They just… sent you away?'

I may have ended up an orphan at six and therefore Schola fodder, destined to serve the Imperium, but if no one came for me it had been because they were all dead. Disowning a child — inflicting them by choice what necessity had put me through — was unthinkable.

'Yes. I was stripped of my family name — given a new one by those who trained me. I have no interest in remembering theirs.'

'What a bunch of fuckers,' I spat without thinking. My name, too, had been changed but, once again, it hadn't been by choice. No wonder he had turned out a cold-blooded torturer who enjoyed picking people's minds apart.

A faraway air washed over him, of the one that comes with remembered hardships. A bitter line marked his lips — I remembered how they had felt against mine, hungry and warm. His voice was charged with repressed sarcasm, self-deprecating, when he said: 'I deserved it. My great-aunt had a pet grink. One day, it bit me, and in sudden panic I boiled it from the inside out. An involuntary reaction, common in many psykers unaware of their curse.'

He looked away. Silence — I dared not speak, I didn't know what to say. And he added, very quietly, barely audible: 'And when my great-aunt slapped me for what I'd done, I boiled her, too.'

Oh. He had been a child. I could barely imagine the guilt and violence and fear — the disgust at himself, the self-loathing — he had grown up with. Before reclaiming those actions for the sake of the Holy Order of the Inquisition. At least I had been ten when I had first killed, and it had been to carry out a condemned criminal's sentence.

'So I suppose the joke about the grink, the old lady and the boy who walk into a bar is out of bounds, then?' Oh dear. Why had I said that? That big mouth of mine will be my undoing someday. Also, why did I want to make him feel better about it? I didn't even like him, and it had happened decades ago (how many could be anyone's guess, as biomancers famously control their ageing), several sectors away, to people I never knew.

There was incredulity and, yes, curiosity, in van Calox's voice when he replied that he didn't know that joke.

'Never mind,' I said. 'All humour in it has boiled away ages ago.'

Van Calox made the same sound Abelard uttered whenever I said something outrageous: half cough, half repressed cry for help, and all cat ready to cough up a hairball. Unlike Abelard, however, who then draped himself in wounded dignity, van Calox lost his composure in a snicker. Then a chortle, and his unflappable attitude crumbled in a great laugh tinged with culpability. Proud of myself, I drank some tea.

'You, Katov von Valancius, are a horrible woman,' he managed to say, wiping tears from his eyes.

'And you killed your great-aunt,' I proclaimed with a friendly grimace, waving my empty cup like a laspistol. 'As well as an innocent grink who only wished to ascertain the colour of your insides. How dared you defend yourself against a creature who just wanted to hug you with its teeth?'

'That was an accident,' he protested, still laughing. 'But you, you are doing this on purpose. You're truly the worst.'

'Of course I am.' I grinned from ear to ear and lost it too. It took us several minutes to calm down. I loved his laugh — open and sincere, quite at odds with the person he took great care to show the world.

Once we had regained a semblance of seriousness — I know my lips were still pinched in a cocky display of mirth, and van Calox's stance on his chair was still far too relaxed — I thought we'd get back to the matter at hand: finding leads about the Final Dawn in my protectorate. But he poured us some more tea, and he wasn't the stuffy interrogator anymore. Elegant posture — the curve of his gloved wrist was a thing of beauty as he lifted the pot — an easy-going smile — I felt as if I were falling from a great height. He settled back against the back of his chair, the black of his uniform glazed with blue from the hot Furibundus sun, and smiled, genuinely as far as I could tell.

'Once,' he said, 'I had a fleeting romance with a baroness… Raven hair, olive skin, and a fiery temper.' He delicately took his cup and drank a sip from it. His gaze held mine and he added, in a reverie: 'I suppose that's a combination that I like.'

Oh, the wiles of the Inquisition! How dirty they played! I set my elbows on the desk, hands joined as if in prayer, and rested my chin on them. Even if he was lying through his teeth, I took time to savour the moment.

'Are you trying to seduce me, master van Calox?' I asked innocently.

'I wouldn't dare to presume of your affections, Rogue Trader.'

I closed my eyes. I remembered his chest against mine, his hands running against my naked back, the thrust of his hips. I remembered his obedience in kneeling before my open legs. And earlier this day, how he had wanted me to hurt him in words. I straightened myself and looked at him, who appeared to teeter between duty and desire. I wouldn't be the Inquisition's pawn. I rose.

'I am awaited on the bridge,' I said. 'I shall expect a written report on the Final Dawn two days from now, and please note which parts of it you will redact for me but have shared with Inquisitor Calcazar. Also, be prepared to travel to Footfall tomorrow morning after Lauds — combat-ready, urban setting. You will be briefed aboard the shuttle.'

He stood, once again a picture of formality.

'But of course, lord-captain.'

Once I had all but kicked him out, I didn't even pretend to go to the bridge. I went to my bedroom, threw myself face-first on the bed and bit my pillow to muffle a scream. The cloth was dry and bitter in my mouth. I could have slapped myself. I hit the mattress instead, so hard my knuckles hurt.

Come morning — dreadfully early — I reviewed those of my retinue I had chosen for what was to be my first illegal act as a Rogue Trader. Possession of xeno-artefacts would have landed anyone not blessed with a special dispense in hot water; helping a smuggler (even a cordial one) acquire them, and shedding more or less loyal human blood for that would have put anyone before a firing squad. At least, that's what I would have done had I caught any soldier of my regiment aiding and abetting such criminal endeavours. Which begs to ask why I had chosen to include the Inquisition's poster boy in the whole matter.

First, I wanted to give an appearance of transparency and collaboration. Look at my secrets, it said, I wouldn't hide anything from you, even the shady stuff. The best way to go about lying was, after all, to tell the truth most of the time. Then, as long as I had him under my eyes, he couldn't bolt and pursue his own business. I would relax my surveillance once the Emperor's mercy was at space again, but Footfall offered too many ways for him to contact his overlords without my knowledge. And, lastly, he was a good swordsman. I had seen him in action on Rykad Minoris as well as Eurac V and, while he was no soldier and therefore lacked discipline, he did know how to swing that power sword of his. Since he was here to stay, I would have to get someone (who wasn't me, as I didn't fully trust myself to face a sweaty van Calox in loose-fitting gymnasium gear) to train him how to work within a squad.

I was glad to see van Calox had ditched his Inquisitorial uniform in favour of a much more sensible bodyglove armour. Maybe it was also a discreet way for him to underplay his real allegiance. Anyway, I nodded approvingly. Argenta and Abelard were their usual selves; I suspected they both used heavy armour as pyjamas. Cassia I had forbidden to come: she was too young to face combat yet. This decision had been met with only the smallest hint of a sad aura, for which I had congratulated her. I had never had, nor wanted, children, so it was pretty much new territory for me, but treating her like an overeager, but clumsy, conscript whose parents were fleet admirals gave good results so far. What she needed more than anything was limits. The last member of my team was once again Idira, although I made sure she sat, in the shuttle, as far as possible from van Calox. No need to push my Unsanctioned Psyker to insanity sooner that was her fate.

During the short trip to Footfall, I gave one of the worst briefings of my life, as it boiled down to 'I have no idea what we're getting into, but if we punch hard enough we'll probably make it and, by the way, I forbid everyone from sneaking around and opening random crates'. Abelard obviously disapproved. My best guess was that he felt cheated of command: Theodora, unlike me, had never had any love for doing the shooting herself, and he had been used to being more than just a first officer when in the line of fire. I desperately needed him to warm up to me, though, and counted on battlefield camaraderie to cement his loyalty. Jokes, certainly, had failed so far.

This early on Footfall, there was none of the usual hustle and bustle. Late night revellers sprawled drunk in random corners, early morning shift workers hurried, and the whole station accomplished the feat of being even more dismal than usual. I grew up close to the savage wilderness of precipitous mountains cleft by stately valleys: I dislike space stations on a basis of principle, but Footfall was a particularly cheerless place. Besides, the small holomap we followed brought us to the Shadow Quarters, and I'll be kind and merely say they deserved their name. Badly lit, badly ventilated, no waste collection worth mentioning, and now and then shadowy corners that raised the hair on my neck.

It was from one of these that Jae Heydari came out, radiant as the morning sun, not a single curl out of place. Two thugs who looked like dressed-up orks followed her.

'Shereen!' she cried, dazzling all of us with that smile of hers. 'I wasn't sure you would come, but now I see you are true of heart — too pure for a wretch like me. Let's go, shall we?'

The warehouse that contained our prize stood nearby. Jae Heydari took an omnikey from an inside pocket; under her embroidered jacket, I glimpsed a holster that held a shuriken pistol with a grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Grenades hung from her belt like a socialite's dance cards, and I was sure that the golden ruffles of her dress hid an armoured bodyglove.

The omnikey beeped and turned green; the door opened. 'I'll go first, if you will,' said our fashionable smuggler with a mischievous grin, 'so you can see it's not a trap.'

I waved her forward. Of my retinue, Abelard took the point and Argenta the rear. The others managed best as they could, and we walked into the warehouse.