There was an expectant silence across the compound. More and more vehicles had come, bringing in robed dignitaries and guards, until seven groups of soldiers manned the perimeter, in various states of professionalism. Most were dressed and armed in much the same way as Luka, with practical autorifles and simple fatigues, while others were fared better or worse. One group were dressed in flowing robes like the nomadic tribals, and carried ornately engraved bolt-action jezzails. Another wore expensive carapace armour painted a sandy brown, and carried lasrifles that would not look out of place on an Imperial Guardsman.

The seven groups did not interact with each other, but they did cooperate. An unspoken animosity existed between them, and so they took up positions around the compound that covered the possible angles of attack while keeping each group separate. The seven groups spent as much time eyeing each other as they did the roads beyond, and tension hung heavy in the air. No group would dare to break the peace by attacking any other, but no group believed the others would be so honourable.

As the first to arrive, the detachment from the College of the Purifying Blade had been able to snag the position of honour besides the main doors of the compound, and so all other groups passed beneath the barrels of their guns. Luka was not with the two sentries on watch, instead waiting behind the cover of the wall with the remainder of the detachment. From the outside, the compound would be indistinguishable from the innumerable others that filled the merchant quarter of the second tier.

After some time, the double doors to the compound’s main building swung open, and a column of robed figures exited. These were the masters of six of Iram’s foremost colleges, the six colleges that had cast aside their ties to the Imperium and embraced another power. The seven entourages moved separately, but they still put on some pretence of unity for their lower followers. Once the building was empty, the seven detachments drew back to their masters.

Luka followed the small number of robed figures back to their transport, where Vladimir Benevente was waiting with the other two delegates. He smiled as she approached, and she waited patiently instead of filing in to the van with the others as Faisal gave his report to the nobleman. Once he was done, she stepped up to Vladimir and bowed her head once in greeting.

“How did it go, sir?”

“About as well as could be expected. The Colleges will never agree with each other, but at least they recognise that some things are more important than their own ego. Still, there is one thing we need to talk about.”

Luka slung her rifle onto her back and looked up at the senior instructor with a coy expression.

“Oh?”

His wolfish smirk told her that she had made the right call.

“Just what was that little display of affection earlier?”

Luka moved closer to him, taking care not to scrape against his skin with her spikes. She reached up with a hand and caressed the trio of scars that crossed his cheek, scars made by her own claws. They were deep, and had not properly healed. He could have had them fixed in any number of ways, from skin grafts to rejuvenat treatments, but instead he had decided to keep them.

“You are the strongest of us, Warlord. I have sworn loyalty to you in both body and spirit. I am yours, to do with as you like. If you were to order it, then I would die for you.”

These words were spoken at a near whisper, her lips hovering a mere centimetre from his ear as her arm moved to his shoulder. She ran her had along his epaulette, and retrieved a small metal disk from where it had been hidden.

“So, you offer yourself to me because I am the strongest? And what if another were to come along and prove himself stronger?”

“Then I would fight for them, if I had not already died in your defence.”

Vladimir grabbed her chin in his hand and drew her lips to his own, as his other hand found itself on her waist. They stood there for the briefest of moments, before he gently pushed her away.

“My loyal squire, I would have it no other way.”

The two separated, Vladimir climbing into the cabin of the van while Luka took the last seat in the back. The other instructors surrounded her with good-natured mocking and leering, and they began to settle in to the easy camaraderie of siblings in arms. Their convoy made its way back through the winding streets of the Second Tier, before travelling up the great motorway that lead up to the First. The sun was high in the sky, and the harsh glare of the van’s windscreen irritated Luka. She had become accustomed to the sun, but she still didn’t like it. It was fortunate that she had not been made to spend much time under its baleful gaze.

Soon the van left the horrors of the open sky for the comforting familiarity of the fortified garage of the College of the Purifying Blade. The detachment dismounted, under the watchful eye of heavy stubber emplacements manned by security staff and senior students. The guns had not been there when they left, and the entire college appeared to be in a state of readiness. In front of them, Master Crozier and Confessor Sacharine dismounted from their valet-driven car and took the salute of an officer dressed in the uniform of the College’s security detail.

They exchanged a few short words, much to quietly for Luka to hear, before the officer saluted again and departed, sending a few hurried words into a portable vox-mic. The gun teams began to disassemble their weapons, unloading the belts of brass rounds and resealing the ammunition boxes before separating the guns from their tripods and stowing them both in a secure case. Within moments, the gunners had left the room and it was as if the alert had never happened, as if the College had no secrets to hide.

The Benevente gestured to the other instructors, who followed him in two files of four. They made their way down through the college’s halls, which were now beginning to fill with the students and academics engaged in the usual business of the day, and into an armoury filled with all sorts of weapons. Their autorifles were unloaded, and the rounds removed from the magazines and returned to metal canisters. The weapons were cleared and handed over to a stocky armourer, who set them back onto the racks and locked them in. Normally, the weapons would have been signed in and out, but that would hardly have been appropriate for a covert mission.

The instructors ascended the tower, taking the elevator to the uppermost floors, where they cast aside their shemaghs and exposed their faces. They were a mismatched bunch; the sons of nobility rubbing shoulders with grizzled veterans, murderous assassins and the dregs of humanity. They had their own mess on the top floor, and they eagerly consumed bowls of poached eggs and meat from Sumer’s native Sahlehs. Conversation flowed easily between them, in spite of their difference in social status, and they spoke of the training ahead, and the typical gossip that filled the halls of any college.

After a while, Luka bid her leave, taking some few pieces of fried lizard with her. As she approached her room, she cast off the simple khaki smock, which had become ripped and torn in spite of her best efforts. The other instructors liked to joke about the impact Luka had on their clothing budget, and she preferred to wear simple sleeveless garments that were less vulnerable. She walked over to her small window, looking out over the streets of the holy city, and opened it to the heat of the day. She placed her pilfered meat on the windowsill, and waited with a hunter’s patience.

Her silence was rewarded with a flap of wings as a sandy brown hawk perched itself in the windowsill, the same hawk that had greeted her this morning. It pecked awkwardly at the pieces of meat, and Luka moved cautiously up to it until she could caress its rich feathers with her fingers. She retrieved the small metal disk that she had planted on the senior instructor, and concealed it within the feathers of the bird as she stroked it. When the creature flinched back, she stepped away and left it to its meal. Once the hawk had satisfied itself, it flew away without alerting her.

The hawk flew away from the immense tower of the colosseum, ducking and weaving through the spires of the great Colleges and temples of the First Tier. It flew across the skyline of the Doctrinopolis, basking in the rays of the sun. In time, it descended towards a hole in the surface of the platform, an open cavity that allowed hot air to rise up from the enclosed lower tiers. The warm air sent the hawk skyward, until it folded its wings against its body and dropped down into the artificial light of the second tier. The air here was dirtier, and there was less open space, but the hawk flew easily along the streets of the Merchants Quarter.

When it reached a particular building, it beat its wings to gain height and swung itself over the lip of the roof, before perching on a leather glove worn by a red-robed figure. The Mechanicus adept spoke a terse phrase in lingua-technis and the artificial bird stilled, its servitor brain shutting down. The adept brought the construct down through the roof access and into the Interrogator’s base, running his finger through its feathers until he had retrieved the metal disk.

This disk was presented to Interrogator Lafayette, who looked it over before handing it off to a more senior Mechanicus adept, waiting besides a simple cogitator. The disk was the very height of Imperial technology; a simple cogitator grown small enough to be concealed in a button, or beneath an epaulette, and capable of storing up to four hours of audio. The disk was placed reverentially into the larger cogitator, and the adept of the Mechanicus began to peruse the hidden workings of the small machine, coaxing out the secrets it contained.

As the Interrogator and her senior agents watched, the cogitator began to emit the low buzz of conversation, as the meeting began in earnest, before the nose was silenced by the sound of a gavel striking three times.

‘Now that we are all here,’ sounded an authoritative voice, ‘we can begin.’

“The machine-spirit is parsing through the audio now, Interrogator. If there is a match in our records, then we will be able to identify the speaker.”

The Interrogator simply nodded as the recording continued.

‘This meeting has been called to address the dismantling of the College of the Penitent Priest by the Arbites. It is vital that we coordinate a response. As always, the final decision is in your hands.’

“This man is not in our records.” The Tech-Priest did not sound particularly surprised, if he was even capable of the emotion.

‘However, before we begin it is vital that we gain a complete understanding of what has transpired. Each of you has your own intelligence resources, and no doubt you have some picture of what transpired here. I trust you will not keep secrets now of all times.’

‘You’re referring to me, no doubt, honoured Speaker.’

“Voice-recognition identifies this speaker as Master Sadat, of Saint Permaneo’s College.”

Behind Amelia, Helena’s mind linked the name to the information her adepts had gathered.

“Saint Permaneo’s College. One of the first colleges to open. They’re considered a path to the upper levels of the Ecclesiarchy’s leadership.”

“Once we’re done here, I want you to gather a list of every graduate of that college who holds the position of Bishop or higher.”

“By your will, Interrogator.”

Another wordless signal and the recording sputtered back into life.

‘The Arbites launched their raid after one of the students confessed to murder. That would have been containable, but he brought with him certain recordings.’

‘Oh, please tell me they weren’t…’

“Master Crozier, College of the Purifying Blade.”

‘They were. It seems our Brothers wanted to keep a record of their initiation rituals. Nothing spiritual, thank the Gods, but plenty of torture and drugging of the students. Their chosen victim was the daughter of a powerful Sheikh in Dhofar. Enough to bring them down, but not enough to make the case worth forwarding on to the Inquisition.’

‘Are you certain this isn’t the work of the Inquisition? Should we not report this incident to Legion Command?’

“Mistress Geidi, of the College of Higher Mysteries.”

Helena’s response is quicker this time, as she thumbs through a data-slate.

“One of the eight women’s colleges in Iram. They supposedly follow Ganderin doctrine, with a focus on meditation and private study instead of engaging in the structures of the Ecclesiarchy.”

“A decay cult.”

“Most probably, ma’am.”

Crozier’s voice emanated from the cogitator as he responded, scorn dripping from every word.

‘Unlikely. From the psychological profile of Khadem Mason, the defector, it seems that Confessor Belial took it upon himself to corrupt the most devoted acolyte, and fucked it up. There’s nothing that suggests this was anything other than a case of overreach on the part of the College.”’

‘Should we not consider the possibility of Inquisitorial involvement?’

The Master of Saint Permaneo’s College actually laughed at that.

‘Oh please. Mistress Geidi, honoured councillors, I know it’s tempting to see the Inquisition in every shadow, but it’s simply not in keeping with the behaviour of Lord Inquisitor Heydrax. The Inquisitor is not a subtle man; Sapienter’s capital city is still burning five years on, two Sector Governors have been crucified in front of their own palaces and this whole Purge began with the genocide of the entire Nobility of Nova Iberia. He is a hammer, not a scalpel. There is no reason to attribute simple human error to ghosts in the sand.’

Master Crozier intervened, in his wizened and level voice.

‘I agree, Master Sadat, but I still believe that we should maintain some level of additional vigilance. We lose nothing by being cautious. Nevertheless, I do not believe we should rush to contact Legion Command. I fear their response would be much the same as the Inquisitor’s, to glass the city so as to prevent discovery of the True Matter.’

In the darkened room, emblazoned with the red heraldry of the Inquisition, Interrogator Amelia Lafayette closed her hands into fists and listened intently to every word. Her eyes burned with intense concentration, and the other Acolytes felt a chill in the air as her mind focused itself.

‘Should we not report this anyway, in case it is a threat? Our lives are inconsequential compared to its value.’

‘They are, Mistress Geidi,’ Sadat continued, ‘but our operations provide value of their own. Better to have two sources of power, than to eliminate one based on the merest possibility that the other may be threatened. Legion intervention could quickly make the Inquisition’s involvement a self-fulfilling prophesy.’

There were no words, but it seemed like the woman had backed down.

‘Which reminds me, what is the status of your operation, Master Ingram?’

‘We are still no closer to understanding the nature of the machines, though I am sure that doesn’t surprise any of you,’ a polite titter of laughter followed this new voice, whose accent was thick with local tones, ‘but our modifications have held so far. I am afraid we may have to seek aid from offworld if we wish to proceed further, perhaps through tricking some adept of the Mechanicus or inviting one of our own Mechanicum priests.’

“Master Narik of the College of the Shifting Sands, one of the lesser Colleges.”

“They take students exclusively from Sumer, I’ll have to take some time to look them up.”

“Do it. I want everything you can find out about them.”

The Speaker answered him, the second time the mysterious man had spoken.

‘I am afraid the restrictions on offworld movements still apply. We cannot risk transferring any personnel at present.’

‘Of course, honoured Speaker. It is a problem for another time.’

‘Very well then. It seems a consensus has been reached. We shall let the College of the Penitent Priest fall. We shall maintain additional vigilance to prevent any potential infiltration of our ranks, and we shall continue to direct resources towards the True Matter. Mistress Sarfait, the College of the Weeping Mourner will assume the duties previously held by the Penitent Priest.’

‘You honour me, Speaker.’

‘Indeed. With our business concluded, I declare this session of the Council over.’

Three strikes of the gavel sounded through the audio recording, as the conspirators made their way out. Once again, the small machine was overwhelmed by the murmur of polite conversation, but the Tech-Priest was able to parse out enough distinct speech to identify another twelve people, mostly senior Confessors within the Colleges, and identify the Master of the College of the Faithful Son.

With that, the machine picked up footsteps and the hushed conversation of two lovers, before the recording was ended.

Inside the secret third floor of the Harkon Trading Guild, the Interrogator sat in her office, engrossed in silent contemplation, while her staff worked through a mountain of papers as they cross-referenced ever scrap of information they had on the marked colleges. The Interrogator herself stood at the helm of this ship; she knew where the enemy was now, all she had to do was chart a course.