Epilogue

* * *

"Hello, hello, my friend!"

Inquisitor Ordo Malleus, named Lazar Carnot Wimpfen, was sitting in a chair amidst mountains of equipment and racks of records, looking like a junkman. And he was smiling, looking at Kryptman through his glasses. The Inquisitor was cordial, affable, and polite beyond belief. And very strange.

Outwardly, the demon hunter looked like an acolyte who sat in the master's chair as a joke. Older, rather untidy, like a man so busy that he might be glad to look after himself, but was deprived of such an opportunity. Vast baldness crept up to the top of his head and ran to the back of his head, leaving jagged strands of gray hair above his ears. His beard and mustache seemed to have been more or less trimmed, but ineptly and long ago. His eyes, half concealed by swollen eyelids, were hidden behind spectacles, and, as far as Kryptman could tell, they were real, with impressive diopters.

On his skinny body hung a technical overall as old as the owner's, long and painstakingly modernized for the owner's needs. Some details, boxes, and pouches were glued to the dense grey-brown fabric, and connectors and plugs protruded in different directions. A transparent tube of drip was peeking out from under the neck hoop, sticking the trunk of a needle with a piece of plaster into the cervical artery. Above the Inquisitor's ears were twisted vox headset wires, not just cut, but torn, as if they had been chewed.

"I pay my respects and..."

"And everything else, too," Lazar waved his palm carelessly. The fingers on the glove were unevenly cropped. "Throw the folder... well, somewhere, see for yourself where it won't fall. When I'm in the mood, I'll read it. Sit down."

Fidus could barely keep from shrugging his shoulders and complied with the instruction. Finding a place to sit proved difficult, and in the end, the young inquisitor vacated one of the chairs, placing directly on the riveted floor a bundle of very old papers, yellow and brittle with time. The chair, like everything else here, including the master of the room, gave the impression of being hastily made, strictly for a specific task - simple, rough, functional, with no attention to appearance, much less any harmony.

"Well," Lazar rubbed his palms together, rustling the rough cloth. "Well, this is it. By the way, I knew your father."

"A lot of people knew my father," Fidus pursed his lips.

"A spiky little fellow," Wimpfen smiled with thin lips, and the chewed wires bobbed on the sides of his head in time with the movement. "Spiky. I like that."

Kryptman, ready to make a vigorous speech about how tired he was of comparisons of a talentless descendant to his great father, closed his mouth and looked at the old sage in surprise.

"Let's get this straight," Lazar said, businesslike. "I've been assigned to investigate what happened in Beacon, as an outside observer who's not attached to anything and is looking at everything with a new eye. Probably won't find anything, but it may be the other way around. You were accordingly urged to work with me, and you thought it prudent to agree. This shows that your steady reputation as a feeble-minded epigone is, at least in the first instance, wrong."

Fidus pressed his lips together and stared at the Inquisitor's shiny top under the lamp.

"You think of me as a penance," Lazar continued as if nothing had happened." A way of rewarding you, and getting you out of the Ordo Hereticus at the same time. To avoid..." Wimpfen indefinitely twiddled his thumbs in the void. "This and that. Right?"

Fidus nodded silently. From behind a stack of papers as high as Kryptman's chest came a wonderful beast, shifting on short legs. It looked like a cat, but it was about a meter long, with very long ears and a "beard" tied in a neat pigtail. Its long fur, once orange, now shimmered in every shade of dull brown, camouflaging the beast perfectly against the cabinet. The beast lost its whiskers, and a long, curved fang protruded from one side of its mouth. It looked as if the cat was one-eyed, too, for symmetry, and a blue ball glowed in the reflected light on the side of its face where the fang was missing.

The animal looked at Fidus, and the young inquisitor flinched slightly. Kryptman had heard of girinks, but this was the first time he had seen one. Kryptman knew that Eldar cats were not intelligent, but... the look in the bright blue eye with the triangular pupil seemed very strange. Not animal-like, attentive, or evaluative.

"Ah, there you are, Horus," Lazar was clearly delighted. "Come here, you bastard."

Kryptman merely shook his head, refraining from commenting. Girinx staggered to the chair and climbed onto Lazar's lap, clawing at him with his hooked claws. The animal moved with difficulty, overcoming either pain or old flesh, but it did so with extreme determination.

"Yes," the old inquisitor replied cheerfully to the unspoken question. "Surprisingly wicked creature, so I named him to match his character."

Horus finally climbed onto his host's lap, looking at his guest with a look that made Fidus feel like the most insignificant and despised creature in the galaxy. Girinx yawned, showing a set of long but thinned teeth by at least a third, and fidgeted to make himself comfortable. Curled up, the Eldar "psy-cat" was surprisingly compact and easy to stroke. Lazar did not fail to start stroking and scratching the insolent beast behind the ears.

"I'm used to him," the inquisitor smiled. "He's a vile beast, but we've seen so much together... Be warned, he pisses in the boots of those he doesn't like. And Horus dislikes everyone, so be careful what you wear."

"Where did he come from?" Fidus asked, feeling as silly as an adult at the morning recitation of prayers by schoolchildren "for the glory of the good Grandfather Emperor.

"A gift from an Eldar witch," Wimpfen explained. "We had an affair that turned into a joint investigation. Or vice versa... it's hard to say, it was... complicated. It's always like that with the Eldar, an amazing race, they turn the simplest things into a ritual of unthinkable intricacy. I was young and... shall we say... careless. However, I must say, it turned out well. In every sense. You have to admit, not everyone can say that he slapped Horus in the face."

"Ah..." Fidus noded.

"But we were distracted," said Wimpfen, businesslike, as he continued stroking the shoe defiler. "What were we talking about?"

"The penance," said Fidus. "Which I was subjected to."

"Yeah, that's right."

Lazar grinned, and for a moment Kryptman felt uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He remembered at once that the funny and slovenly grandfather sitting across from him did not have any high-profile cases, saving entire sectors, battles with the champions of Chaos, and other great deeds in his biography. But Wimpfen is one of the first, if not the first, in his Ordo in terms of rank-and-file, unremarkable, and accomplished investigations. A man-combatant, nicknamed "The Emperor's Grinder" for his single-mindedness and unwavering output in any condition.

"So," Wimpfen continued as if nothing had happened. "In fact, you pulled out a lucky ticket to a happy future."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You just haven't realized it yet because you're young and stupid."

Kryptman was silent again. Lazar scratched the exorbitantly long ear of the girinx and continued with sudden seriousness: "Let's just say that your transfer to our Ordo was really an exile. A compromise, to be exact. That's a fact. But, fortunately, I've come to your attention. A boon, you might say."

"Thank you," Fidus lifted his chin. "I'm ready to get down on my knees and lap the heel of my benefactor."

"Good intention," the old man nodded graciously. "But we're not on Seferis Secundus, so we don't have to do this nonsense. So, my friend, I've read your case carefully. Again, I knew your father. And I wondered why his descendant was so far from success."

Fidus clenched his jaws and remained silent.

"Don't grit your teeth," Wimpfen advised. "I'm not trying to insult you. Now we're talking strictly business and very substantive."

The old man moved, shifting his position. Horus opened his eyes in displeasure and silently dug his claws into his master's thigh, showing his displeasure.

"I told you, mean creature," Wimpfen said, tugging at the cat's ear. "I'll make a rug out of it someday. Or scarecrow, I haven't decided yet. Yeah... so there you go. Kryptman Sr. was a very nasty man. They used to call this sort of man various words like "asshole" and other unflattering things. But he was effective. Extremely effective. Yes, you can argue about methods and collateral damage, but your ancestor achieved his goals, and they were so meaningful that even the stacks of corpses that Fidus piled up in the process looked like a very moderate price to pay. And in tandem with the morally deprived Schmettau, Kryptman was invincible. What's wrong with you...?"

Fidus Junior thought the question was rhetorical, not requiring an answer, and it turned out to be.

"It's all on the surface," Wimpfen said thoughtfully. "On the surface... You're not a bad inquisitor, my young friend. Not bad, indeed."

"Many people would disagree with you," Kryptman said with unexpected bitterness.

"Fuck them," the old man brushed them off with glorious indifference. "A good investigator has to look at the root of things, to see the essence of things. I am a good investigator because I always look further and deeper."

Fidus again felt a chill slide down his spine. Under the unblinking gaze behind the thick glasses, it became uncomfortable and unsettling, like an insect in a test tube.

"And I see your point," Wimpfen continued. "Nepotism is not as bad as most people think. It has some good points. But it also has disadvantages. Kinship can bring the wrong man to the right place. Or bring the right person, but... too soon."

"Too soon?"

"Yes. You have all the gifts and capabilities to be a great protector of the House He built."

Lazar blessed himself with an aquila, and Kryptman repeated his movement like a shadow.

"But you became an inquisitor too soon. Too soon you were hidden by your father's glorious shadow. You are now like an imago, just waiting to spread your wide wings and soar toward the sun."

"And?" Fidus said indefinitely.

"And I can teach you."

"I don't understand," Fidus admitted honestly. "Do I have a choice? As far as I understand, my exile to another Ordo, as a junior assistant, is a prerequisite for certain things to be... forgotten."

"I'll explain," Wimpfen smiled faintly. "What makes an inquisitor the scourge of the Imperium's enemies? It is knowledge, character, and experience. The three legs on which all success is based. And your stool has one leg sawn off. So far, sawed-off."

Lazar intertwined his fingers, looking intently straight into Kryptman's eyes.

"Experience, that's the main thing you lack. You went off on your own too soon. And predictably, you stumbled. And failures at the beginning of the journey have broken much stronger people. These injuries to the soul are like badly healed fractures. You can get back on your feet, but you'll still be walking with crutches for the rest of your life."

Fidus leaned back on the thick wire backrest, hands at his sides, trying to be restrained and impenetrably cold-blooded. However, the young man was beginning to feel that the old inquisitor was reading him like an open book of typewritten letters.

"Just experience..." Wimpfen emphasized "just," managing to put an abyss of meaning into short words, starting with irony. "That's what you need to mend your broken bones. To get rid of your complexes. Leave behind the failures. Experience will toughen you, strengthen you, teach you. And give you a team that will carry you through the decades. A team without which you are worthless, believe me."

Wimpfen sighed and adjusted his glasses.

"Everyone knows the glorious, formidable names of the great inquisitors... but behind the successes of each of them were always unnamed, unknown people, faithful acolytes. If you want to succeed, you need a team of associates."

"I have a retinue," said Fidus grimly, expecting a mockery and ready for it. "I have it now."

"Not all of them seem to have agreed to go with you, do they?"

"Not all of them. Some chose to remain purificators."

"Funny panopticon," Wimpfen sniggered. "The convicts, the bastards, the punishers."

"People I can trust. I have seen their blood and wounds, and they have seen mine. We have gone to hell, side by side, and when the hour comes, we will go again."

"I like that "when." They usually say "if". And yes, it's worth a lot," the old man agreed, suddenly and very seriously. "You have a good retinue."

"A."

"Beaten by life, but not broken. Accustomed to risk. Ready to learn. Calculating, but with a drop of the right idealism. More or less a working team. They're good. Many inquisitors started with less. I started with less."

Wimpfen leaned forward, careful not to disturb the napping cat.

"But just as you are just a blank for the future inquisitor, so they are just blanks for a chisel. Who, in time - maybe! - will carve them into true acolytes. Loyal, militant, energetic. Experienced. Besides, there are very few of them, and your war would require an army."

The inquisitors, old and young, were silent, thinking about their own things. Girinx also dozed silently, not giving the bald monkeys even a glance, much less a purr.

"What's next?" Fidus asked cautiously at last.

"I'll give you everything Kryptman Jr. lacks," Wimpfen calmly promised. - I'll polish the talents of your rabble-rousing company. And, among other things, I'll help you build up your team. Share my experts. I'll fix what your mentors, blinded by the bright light of the name "Kryptman," have ruined. I will make a true inquisitor out of you."

"I don't understand," Kryptman admitted honestly. "That sounds like a bargain, doesn't it?"

"That's correct."

"I will get effective practice from one of the most experienced investigators, Ordo Malleus. And a team that will be worthy companions in future endeavors. Right?"

"Yes."

"But what is your interest? What can I give you in return?"

"Responsibility. And dedication."

"Explain."

Lazar waited a moment, then shoved the Eldarian animal off his lap without much reverence. Girinx bellowed loudly and grudgingly, jerked his short tail, and staggered to the shadows of the far corner of the room, shifting on weak legs.

"I know your fetish," Wimpfen said blandly. "The myth that poisoned your father's life and will probably lead you to an equally sad ending."

"It's not a myth," Kryptman snapped. "I've seen them with my own eyes."

"Or not "them". Or not seen," Wimpfen smiled faintly." But it doesn't matter.

"?"

"You see..." Lazar ran his fingertips thoughtfully over the tube of the dropper, which injected drops of some kind of elixir into the inquisitor's veins. "I did not choose you because I feel pity for your almost ruined career and life. Not out of deference to your late father's persona. And not to benefit our service with another talent that needs to be discovered and polished. You're here because you know..."

Wimpfen interlocked his fingers. The corners of his lips dipped down, giving his face an expression of sardonic sadness.

"You know... or you think you know what it's like to be the only guardian of the truth. A shepherd who sees in the darkness the greedy gleam of wolves' eyes. The sighted among the blind."

"You... too?" Fidus managed only to utter.

"What...? Oh, no, of course not. I don't believe in secret xenos who remain in the shadows for years, unrecognized and undiscovered. Or, more accurately, I believe that such xenos can exist. Why not, after all? Who better than us inquisitors to know how big the world is beyond our knowledge and borders. The deepness of the darkness beyond the Emperor's light. I simply do not believe in their danger, as your father did. Such a thing is mathematically impossible; an enemy of that level would have shown himself sooner or later."

"But then..." Fidus grimaced, unable to hide his disappointment.

"The main thing," Lazar held out his hand, pointing at Kryptman, as if taking aim at him. "That you believe in them. You see..."

The old man leaned back in his chair, as if tired from a long conversation.

Your xenos may be true. Could be a delusion. But my enemy is real. He is material, terrifying, deadly. And he is always in the shadows, invisible, inaudible... I know that he exists, but unlike you Kryptmans, I was smart enough not to shout it in every corner. Because a word without proof is worth nothing, and instead of usefulness it turns out to be detrimental.

"What do you need me for?" Fidus asked straightforwardly.

"I need a helper. Someone who understands my troubles and can look where others only turn away bewildered. In return, I will make you a true inquisitor. And help you with your..." Lazar snorted. "Xenos, when we've finished my business. As you can see, it's simple."

Fidus was silent, clutching the edge of the metal seat with numb fingers. For a minute or more the young inquisitor thought intensely under the old man's cold and penetrating gaze.

"It will take time," Kryptman finally said, softly. It sounded both like an assumption and a statement.

"Years," Wimpfen nodded. "I've had this case for fifteen years, and I'm as far from successful as I was the day I..."

He stopped talking before he had finished.

"Years," Fidus repeated. "But I can't lose so much time..."

"Yes," Lazar shrugged, "Or you could. How much did your father search for? Without succeeding, by the way. If your terrible enemies exist, they've been lurking, like parasites, in the body of the Imperium for decades, perhaps centuries. An extra year, two, ten, or half a century will not destroy the House of the Emperor... perhaps. But it will give you experience, wisdom, strength, and the opportunity to finally make the secret visible, to bring it out of the shadows into the light. And when we are done with my case, I will help you as you will help me now. Two inquisitors in a relentless search are better than one."

"What if I don't agree? If I don't want to waste my time and am willing to take the risk?"

"The door is right behind you. My courier ship will take you anywhere you want to go."

"Can I..." Fidus gasped, coughed, and shook his head as if pushing a lump of hot air down his throat. "Count on any help? Little help, at least?"

"Kryptman," Lazar grimaced. "Don't haggle. You are not in church, and I do not absolve the Emperor for a modest donation. I have a great responsibility on my shoulders. And a great debt, which, alas, only I can bear. Your value to me is only in the fact that you are more familiar with this feeling than anyone else. And in the fact that you have good skills that I can sharpen for my tasks. A less experienced specialist or acolyte is of no use to me. A more experienced and promising inquisitor will show excessive initiative or simply interfere, considering the search useless. I gave you the terms. You either agree or you don't. Make up your mind."

Kryptman stood silently and strode up a winding path between work shelves, piled files of old reports, drawers of uncertain functionality with half-erased symbols on the painted wood and metal with rust spots.

"Again," Fidus stopped and turned to his interlocutor, snapping his fingers. "We're on your... case. To a victorious conclusion, long and dedicated. Just the two of us."

"Yes."

"And after that, we do my case. Just as persistently and selflessly. With all your resources."

"Yes."

"And I risk dying long before then. Or end my life in a fruitless search for something that doesn't exist."

"Yes," Wimpfen repeated for the third time. "My enemy exists. But, of course, it is likely that our lives will not be enough to expose him."

Kryptman sighed heavily and wanted to say something, but Lazar beat him to it by speaking softly:

"Take your time, my friend. I'm giving you a choice. And you'll get a lot if you go my way. A lot. But there's no turning back or taking a step out of the way. Rest assured, I have many ways to make you respect our treaty, should it come to pass. So choose wisely."

"Yes..." Fidus sighed again. "Why is everything always so complicated?"

"And everything seemed simple and clear before, didn't it?" Wimpfen smiled. "Alas, when you're fighting shadows, you have to descend into darkness and fight with a blindfold on. To know your enemy and to fight him face to face is a luxury we rarely have."

"Compromises, contracts, step backwards to make two forwards."

"Oh, if only it were that simple," the old man smiled again. "But I guess you've already understood how we work. The rest is a matter of practice."

"Who is our enemy?" Fidus asked, stressing the word "our," and Lazar shook his head slightly to indicate his acceptance of his young colleague's choice.

"To your right, in that locker over there," Wimpfen pointed. "The top sheet is on the red folder."

Kryptman spun a drawing depicting a gray-and-white skull with eyes. The deadhead was divided in half by a vertical line, the colors alternating symmetrically on either side of the line-white eye with a black pupil, the black eye with a white pupil, and so on. On the forehead of the skull were two ones, and above the top hung a typical star like a spiky wheel. Not... no, not your typical star. It took Fidus a moment or two to realize there were ten rays, not eight. Kryptman looked questioningly at Wimpfen.

"Skull and Eleven? Malal? The false god of Chaos?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Malal does not exist," said Fidus glumly, clearly regretting having agreed to participate with Lazar in his crusade.

"Well, why not," Wimpfen said with a touch of irony. "Anything abstract can be real, one way or another. For instance, I'm sure you've never seen the Emperor. But He is."

Fidus automatically blessed himself with an aquila, releasing the sheet. The disappointment on the young inquisitor's face was becoming clearer and clearer.

"God of apostates, renegades, dissidents," continued Wimpfen, who seemed genuinely amused by his colleague's reaction. "He exists only to the extent that one is willing to believe in him. But you're right."

With unexpected ease, Lazar stood up, and Fidus marveled at how quickly and easily the old inquisitor moved, looking like a mummy in a spacesuit.

"Yes, you're right. My enemy is too clever to hide. Instead, he hides in plain sight. He pretends to be a single leaf in a huge forest."

Wimpfen walked over to Fidus and leaned over for the drawing. He held the sheet in his hands with an expression of concentrated, aged hatred on his wrinkled face.

"Who is he?" Kryptman asked.

Wimpfen was silent for a while, looking at Fidus questioningly, as if deciding whether he was worthy of sharing the secrets. Then he spoke:

"Many years ago an agent of mine was killed. You'd think, what's so surprising about that? Unpleasant, yes. Kind of humiliating, yes. But that's our trade. Inquisitors, alas, die often, acolytes - constantly and in plenty. But there was one strange moment..."

Wimpfen folded the sheet neatly, his eyes fixed on Kryptman, but Fidus could have sworn that the old man was looking through his interlocutor, into the distant past.

He was a novice acolyte and was engaged in an equally small, insignificant case that suited his qualifications perfectly. The usual beginner's coaching before he began his more specialized training. Enemies of his level would have used the traditional weapons - poison, knife, bullet, gag, torture to death, and so on. But the agent was killed in a terrifying, sophisticated way that indicated great mastery of witchcraft practices. Before he lost his mind completely, the poor man managed to utter two words. Only two. I assumed that the agent had accidentally touched something bigger and had fallen prey to it. I began to search. At first, to retaliate against those who dared to kill a servant of the Emperor, however small and insignificant. And then in earnest...

Wimpfen smiled crookedly and ran his fingertips over the IV tube.

"After the first assassination attempt."

Head of the old inquisitor tilted slightly.

"Yeah, exactly the first one?" Fidus remarked, not so much asking as affirming.

"Definitely. My enemies have nothing. No name, no nickname. Just symbols they use from time to time to cover their tracks. The sign of a false deity and an equally false star. I suppose they're scattered crumbs that lead down a false trail. A mockery of me."

"RIght," Lazar clarified:

"And also over all of us."

"Discusable..." Fidus's mind began to work, trying to interpret the new patron's vague speech correctly. "So they're not heretics? Not Chaosites or demon-worshippers?"

"Or they are all together and nothing apart from what you have listed. They are the ones who are willing to put on any mask."

"Marvellous," Fidus said.

"It is," Wimpfen agreed, without a trace of humor. "From what I've seen, they're just as sophisticated and deadly. At least. Only not as well-intentioned."

"Now, who are we talking about?" Kryptman finally lost his patience.

"About their trace, we speak," Wimpfen said. "More than once they have surfaced, but invariably accompanied by horrific crimes. Moreover, a display of cold, incredibly calculating intelligence. The last time my nets picked up these words was a year ago, along with a reference to the Ice Port. And, as you can see..."

There the inquisitor grinned wryly, without finishing his sentence.

"Unexpected. Did you catch those words?" Kryptman asked, realizing that the lot has been cast.

"Solving the error - Corrigendum errorem"

* * *