True to her word, Amelia used her psychic senses to track down an isolated mutant who was brought down in an ambush. The terrified scavenger, one of the Ragged Duke’s men returning from a mission, first served the Inquisition by verifying the Duke’s location, and then by delivering a letter of introduction in the form of a vellum scroll, a small data slate containing Inquisitorial identification cyphers and a message burned directly into the mutant’s mind. The wretch took off at a sprint and Amelia sensed his disappearing form vanish from her range. Since then, they had been shadowed by discrete watchers. Mutants creeped up to their path in ones or twos, camouflaging themselves amongst the catacombs of twisted steel and soil. As they drew closer, their watchers became more obvious. At first, they saw a mutant with a tall spear leaning against the wall, putting on a disinterested air as he chewed some tobacco substitute. Soon, scattered pairs emerged from their hiding place to get a better view of the strangers from the surface.

It was clear to see that deliberate effort had gone into the creation of the paths upon which they now walked. The earth had been flattened and coated with plates of steel or salvaged flagstone, to create some semblance of a road, the roof of the cavern had been forced upwards by great salvaged girders and the buildings on either side had been excavated and reinforced to create some approximation of Imperial architecture. The improvised causeway ran alongside what was once the second floor of the buildings, and was lit in the glow of hundreds of dangling strings of lightbulbs, crisscrossing the ceiling like a starry sky. Indistinct figures crowded behind the windows, mutant parents holding their children up to get a better look at the new arrivals. Wherever circumstance or deliberate effort had created a commanding position there stood a mutant guard, equipped with flack armour and an autogun of a patter the acolytes were unfamiliar with.

The agents of the Inquisiton moved down this pale imitation of a triumphal causeway like the soldiers of a defeated nation, paraded before the masses in a triumph. Amelia stood at the head of their group, moving forward with determined strides that were marked by the clack of her staff as it struck the pavement. Helena and Luka walked a few paces behind her, while the Stormtroopers had formed two long lines on either side. Amelia could feel their eyes moving along the walls, trying in vain to keep track of so many potential enemies. Helena moved as if in a dream, and artificial state induced by painkillers and reinforced by her mind’s inability to comprehend her now useless arm, which was strapped to her chest. To Luka, this was the grandest place she had ever seen and her head darted around with childlike wonder at this faded example of Imperial glory. Amelia had withdrawn into the cold calculus of leadership. This was not the Duchy she had been expecting to find, and she found their surroundings distinctly unnerving.

After some distance, the causeway was split by a titanic statue. Once, it would have towered above the ancient denizens of this place atop an enormous plinth, but even with its feet buried in dirt it still towered over the acolytes. It depicted a man in dark grey power armour trimmed with gold. Though he was armed with a greatsword, it was held point down in his left arm, while his right held aloft a tome of folded plates of steel in which sat a brazier that may once have held a triumphant flame. His armour was decorated with representations of fire, and his right shoulder bore a flame burning within a book. His face, though devoid of hair, had a comforting, paternalistic, look and his head was turned towards the stars above. It was strange, Amelia thought, that in spite of every comforting feature, the statue unnerved Amelia on a deeply primal level. Nothing more remained to say who this nameless warrior had been, and Amelia had no intention of disgracing herself before the mutants by stopping to scrabble through the dirt for answers.

The cavern widened around the statue, perhaps the site of some ancient intersection, and the empty space was filled by two disorderly mobs of incredibly well armed mutants. They flanked the Acolytes on either side, and for all their apparent ill-discipline they were utterly silent as Amelia passed them by. Like the guards, they were dressed in khaki-coloured flak armour and armed with autoguns, though many also held the vicious blades and improvised weapons more commonly seen in the underhive. The Duke had been building an army.

The War Rooms apparently lay through the balcony of some ancient structure, and the balustrade had been knocked aside to create an easy entrance. Two mutants stood on either side of this door, sentries guarding the ruler of these lands, and they stepped aside to let Amelia pass. The building itself was unlike anything Amelia had seen. It had all the hallmarks of Imperial architecture, but the intricate gothic designs seemed wholly absent in favour of sweeping columns and long hallways of bright white stone. This was no dingy Imperial palace, but a bright and airy space meant to serve a wholly different sort of society. The entire building was well lit, it must have had its own power supply, and Amelia was stunned when the doors somehow sensed her advance and opened of their own accord. Wherever she was, it was old.

Her suspicions were confirmed as she entered a long gallery that took her breath away. One side contained a long row of windows that had long since lost their battle with geology, submerging half the floor under a layer of dirt, but the other wall held something truly majestic. The entire wall of the gallery, perhaps thirty metres long and ten metres high, was occupied by a colossal landscape painting. It depicted the meeting of two sides on a field of flowing wheat before a titanic mountain range. On one side stood what could only have been the ancient people of Nova Iberia; an eclectic collection of humans in tight-fitting clothing of bright colours that were lined with slashes that let flashes of coloured shirts show through. At their head stood a cluster of figures in archaic steel armour carrying halberds, swords and bolt-action rifles. Behind this delegation, and stretching off into the distance, the people of Nova Iberia looked on. Every face, lovingly rendered in intricate detail, seemed to convey a mixture of uncertainty and a profound sense of hope.

Standing opposite, but not in opposition, to them were warriors in dark grey suits of what was unmistakably power armour. These Space Marines, who were tall but did not seem to loom, were intermingled with personnel from across the Imperium. Robed adepts of the Mechanicus had been discretely added into the background, as if the artist felt their deformities didn’t quite fit the theme, and soldiers in tall bearskin hats held their rifles in the air, with one carrying a banner upon which the Imperial Aquila was prominently displayed. There were figures in ornate brown robes, whose purpose Amelia could not fathom, and an eclectic collection of citizens from all walks of life, clutching paints, easels, books and any number of other strange items. Of the marines, only their leader was unhelmeted and he stood before the locals with one arm outstretched and the other holding an ornate tome, from which he seemed to be reading.

Beneath this image, set in the golden frame, was a small metal plate. ‘The Word is brought to Castile’ it proclaimed in High Gothic before listing the painter as one ‘Adrian Sameth, 467th Expeditionary Fleet.’ It did not take long for Amelia to piece together the connection. The Warrior Cults were older than even the Inquisitor had imagined, and the rot reached earlier than even their wildest fears. The question now was, how much can be saved?

Beyond the beautiful painting, Amelia was met by a guide. A mutant woman in an elegant dress of the type common amongst the servants of nobility who led her down a great staircase into the depths of the old municipal building. There was far less grandeur in the basement, indeed it seemed to have been built explicitly for war, but the bunker complex held wonders of its own. It seemed that these rooms had been forgotten by Iberia, and Amelia passed archeotech that would have been the envy of any tech priest. There were storerooms upon storerooms of flack armour and autoguns, most of which were now bare and enough billets to sleep an army. Beyond that, the War Rooms seemed to have been some ancient command and control centre, with great maps of the planet and its orbit sitting before tiered terminals like the stage of a theatre. Astoundingly, these machines were lit and displayed accurate information of the airspace and orbit. Amelia could see the Silent Observer in its perch above the spire, marked out with a simple red rune.

The Ragged Duke met her in one of these control rooms, behind a large conference table that glowed with green light. He was surrounded by bodyguards, hulking mutants who each bore modern lasrifles or bulky shotguns. Before him, the table was laid with a spread of dishes that seemed to have been imported from the hive itself and mutant servants stood beside the table with their arms neatly folded in front of them. At the head of this parody of a nobleman’s dinner sat the Ragged Duke himself. He wore a rich green suit in a style popular with Imperial merchants, to which he had attached several plates of flack armour. His face was weathered with age, and his hair, which he had swept backwards, was entirely white. He looked at Amelia with piercing blue eyes which, though incomparable with the Inquisitor’s gaze, seemed to silently judge Amelia.

As she stepped forward, Amelia waved a hand towards her stormtroopers, signalling for them to stay back. She stepped up onto the raised dais that held the table, before offering her best curtsey to the seated figure.

‘Mr Michelangelo Borgia, also known as the Ragged Duke, I am Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette of His Imperial Majesty’s most Holy Inquisition. I bring an offer from my Lord; Inquisitor Ishmael Heydrax of the Ordo Hereticus.’

‘Indeed,’ the Duke offered in response, his lip curling back in an amused smile, ‘but I never discuss business of an empty stomach. Please, sit. I assure you there is no need for your coat or respirator indoors; the air in the War Rooms is purified.’

Amelia put on a polite smile as she removed the respirator, though she was glad to be free of its restrictive grip. As she took off her coat, she became faced by the dilemma of what to do with her now full hands. Normally Helena would have sorted it, but she was still very out of sorts, and Amelia was surprised when, without a word or prompt, Luka came up and took the outdoor garments, thus saving Amelia from an early loss in the cutthroat game of high society.

Though she was silently grateful, she did not acknowledge Luka and instead sat in the only other chair, conveniently set opposite the Duke. The food, much to Amelia’s surprise and delight, was delicious, if a bit richer than she was accustomed too. No doubt a real noble would consider it poor fare, but both Amelia and the Duke were, after all, only playing at being nobility.

‘These ruins are beautiful,’ Amelia spoke with a slight emphasis on the word, ‘am I right in assuming they date back to the Great Crusade?’

‘They do indeed.’ If the duke had picked up on her subtle insult, then he made no indication. ‘The building above us, which now serves as my fortress, was once the seat of the provisional Government established after unification, back when this city was known as Castille. It is humbling to see accounts of life before the crusade. I find it helps place things in perspective. I take it you are not a native.’

Amelia widened her false smile at the small joke.

‘Indeed not, I was born in the Segmentum Ultima, the planet of Parravon in the Ghoul Stars to be specific.’

His eyes widened a fraction in entirely justified shock.

‘You are indeed a long way from home my dear. Do you think you will ever return?’

‘No.’ Amelia flatly denied, not wanting to spend long on such thoughts. ‘Unfortunately, my duties will keep me away for the rest of my life, still it’s nice to know that it’s still out there.’

Their dialogue, and the meal, continued for some time. It was a delicate dance bound by the strict rules of respectability. Each sought to unnerve the other so as to gain the advantage when the conversation turned to serious matters, but to resort to open insults would be to see their meeting descend into armed conflict. The Ragged Duke, for all his low birth, was far more experienced in these matters than Amelia, but her psychic gifts allowed her to read his surface emotions. Although Amelia couldn’t dig too deep, for fear of detection, she was able to level the playing field.

The meal itself was fantastic, and the serving girls brought out rich steaks from the local wildlife, imported vegetables and some kind of risen pastry dish that held a rich gravy. Once this was gone, the servants cleared the table before bringing out the true prize, of which the Duke was unashamedly proud. A rich tiered cake was placed on the table, its component parts having been brought down from the upper city before being mixed and baked into a rich sponge cake with three layers of icing. Bloated with food, but immensely satisfied, Amelia and the Duke turned their attention to the matter at hand.

‘I must admit, this is not what I expected from your organisation.’ The duke leant forward as he spoke, resting his left arm on the table and sending shadows across his lower face.

I had rather thought’ he continued ‘that, if the Inquisition would even bother coming my way once you were finished destroying the nobility, I would be faced by an army, instead of a particularly cunning redheaded girl.’

Another false smile at his dismissive comment, then Amelia continued.

‘As you are apparently aware,’ she looked around at the terminals and screens of the command centre, ‘the Governor was recently convicted of Heresy, aiding and abetting Heretics, Secession, and the attempted murder of Imperial agents. His death, coupled with our purge of the nobility, creates a power vacuum, and my Lord is determined to ensure that Nova Iberia doesn’t slip into horrific anarchy the moment we leave.’

‘How refreshingly forward thinking of him.’ The Duke interrupted.

‘Indeed.’ Amelia spoke, successfully hiding her irritation. ‘To that end, we are establishing a Provisional Government under a Committee of Planetary Unity, to be comprised of eighteen of this world’s most influential figures. You have been invited.’

The Ragged Duke laughed out loud, a seemingly genuine outburst.

‘I am a traitor, a criminal and the head of an army of rampaging mutants, and the Inquisition wants me to run the planet?’

Amelia had him on the wrong foot now, and she shifted her expression to one of neutral professionalism.

‘That’s right. You are a known critic of the old regime, and your unions have successfully influenced every factory in the hive. As for your mutants, you no longer need them. The Death Cults have been dismantled; their members executed as heretics.’

‘And why should I consider your offer? It is as you say, my enemies are dead and my control over the factories is unopposed.’

‘Except,’ this time it was Amelia’s turn to interrupt, ‘it really isn’t. Your cut of the union dues increases as you make the factories less efficient, but the administratum still needs its tithe. Press to hard, and you came close when you tried your takeover, and the supply chain gets interrupted. That brings down the Imperial Guard, and while your mutant army may be able to hold up to the PDF, it can’t stand against the might of the Imperial War machine.’

‘In addition, our recent… activities have left enormous gaps in the economy of this planet. Forty percent of Castille’s industry is now unowned, and will collapse within a month. My Lord has graciously decided to offer you these factories, as well as a sizable estate in the upper hive. Instead of leeching of the factories profits, you would have direct access.’

Amelia took satisfaction in watching the Duke’s eyes light up at the promise of wealth and, more importantly, a way to regain the high status he had so briefly enjoyed.

‘I am sure you have conditions,’ spoke his cynical side even as the rest of his mind dreamed of a palace in the sun.

‘An oath of loyalty is our primary concern, as well as allowing a mechanicus delegation to dismantle the War Rooms. They’re just too valuable to leave in the hands of mutants.’

‘I quite understand.’

‘In return for that, and your guarantee that these mutants will stay where they belong, then we are preferred to offer you this gift as compensation.’

Amelia drew a small needle from her pocket. It contained an opaque white liquid and the Duke stared at it in confusion as she placed it on the table.

‘When we detained the Governor,’ Amelia spoke in answer to the unspoken question, ‘he was engaged in a medical treatment. This was no accident, you understand, but a deliberate effort to strike him while he was most vulnerable. As a result, we managed to seize a small amount of rejuvenat drugs. What you see is a second lifetime.’

No amount of social grace could hide the Duke’s blatant coveting of the small vial, and he practically snatched it up before holding the liquid up to the light. The Ragged Duke was old, his skin crossed by a myriad of wrinkles, and he must have felt like he would die in the undercity, far from the light of the beloved sun. For a while, the two sat in silence until the Duke, tearing his eyes away from the miracle elixir, spoke up.

‘I cannot in good conscience accept this gift. It is far to valuable for the concessions you have asked, and so I offer you something valuable in return. This centre was once the heart of Iberian planetary defence, and it is still connected to the communications grid in Castle station. It’s what gives my smugglers the inside information needed to beat customs and excise. Every message on a military frequency, Iberian or Imperial, is relayed through this site. I heard your attack on the Raptor’s Nest as it happened, but more importantly I caught this broadcast.’

With a wave of his hand, a terminal of holographic light rose from the table and the Duke began to hunt through a list of files before settling one that simply read ‘Outgoing communication between Raptor’s Nest and Site E-4.’

A single voice emerged, somehow sounding stronger than the average human, but inlaid with subtle undertones that created a deep sense of unease.

‘Sextus to Site E-4. The Raptor’s nest is under attack by the PDF. Sejanus is dead, and I suspect I will follow. Subject Maria Benevente was dispatched before the attack began and should be with you shortly, for all the good it will do you.’

There the voice was drowned out by the sound of an explosion, which crackled abruptly into static.

‘Site E-4?’ Amelia sat forward, looking at the Ragged Duke with rapt attention.

‘I don’t know what it is, but I do know where. You will find it in a mountain range some two hundred miles from the Raptor’s Nest.’

‘Thank you.’ Amelia exclaimed wholeheartedly. She had finally found the Master in the Mountains, and retribution would be swift.