“Here? In a stinking street with the works burning behind us? I don’t think so. Boy, Smeltery One is the property of Noble House Gavunda. We are all Lord Gavunda’s souls. If he hears of this—”
“I answer only to House Sondar. As should you. Don’t threaten me.”
“Where’s the gakking threat, you idiot?” Soric asked, looking round at his massing workers and getting a spirited laugh in answer. “A one-eyed cripple like me? Let us through.”
“Aye, let us through!” bellowed a worker beside Soric. Ozmac, probably, but it was impossible to tell under the soot. Other workers jeered and agreed.
“Do you understand what a State of Emergency is, old man?” Bownome asked.
“Understand? I’m gakking living it!” Soric blurted. “Stand aside!” He tried to push past the VPHC officer, but Bownome pushed back and Soric fell off his crutch onto the debris-littered paving.
There were shouts of disbelief and anger. Workers surged forward. Bownome backed away, pulled out his autopistol and fired into the approaching mass.
Ozmac fell dead and another collapsed wounded.
“That’s it! Enough! Be warned!” yelled the commissar. “You will all stay where—”
Soric’s axe-rake crutch shattered Bownome’s skull and felled him to the ground. Before any of the troopers could react, the workers were on them like a tidal wave. All of the troopers were killed in a few seconds.
The smeltery workers gathered up their weapons. Worker Gannif handed the commissar’s pistol to Soric.
“I’ll see you right!” Soric barked. He waved for them to follow him down the transit channel. They cheered him and moved on, at his heels, into the city.
“Marshal Gnide is dead,” High Master Sondar told the Legislature. The hall had remained silent as the High Master’s floating throne ascended to the main dais with its stone-faced VPHC vanguard. Sondar’s throne had locked into place above the High Legislator’s dais and the master of Vervunhive had spent a long moment looking out at the assembly before speaking. He was dressed in regal robes, his face masked with a turquoise ceramic janus.
“Dead,” Sondar repeated. “Our hive faces a time of war—and you, noble houses, low houses, guilders, you decide it is time to usurp my position?”
Silence remained.
Sondar’s masked visage turned to look around at the vast swoop of the tiered hall.
“We are one, or we are nothing.”
Still the nervous silence.
“I believe you think me weak. I am not weak. I believe you think me stupid. I am not that either. I believe that certain high houses see this as an opportunity to further their own destinies.”
The High Master allowed Noble Anko to rise with a wave of his hand.
“We never doubted you, High Lord. The Trade War fell upon us so suddenly.”
You witless weakling, Chass thought. Sondar has led us to this blind and you reconcile sweetly. Where is the fervour that had us vote to take executive action this afternoon?
“Zoica will be denied,” Sondar said. Chass watched the High Lord’s movements and saw how jerky they were. It’s not him, he thought. The wretch has sent another servitor puppet to represent him.
“We have sent word to the Northern Foundry Collectives and to Vannick Magna. They will bolster us with garrison troops. Our counterattack will begin in two days.”
There was delighted commotion from the commons pit and the guild tiers.
Chass rose and spoke. “I believe it is in the interests of Verghast as a whole to send to the Imperium for assistance.”
“No,” responded Sondar quickly. “We have beaten Zoica before; we will do it again. This is an internal matter.”
“No longer,” a voice said from below. The assembly looked down at the benches where the officials of the Administratum sat. Hooded and gowned, Intendant Banefail of the Imperial Administratum got to his feet. “Astropathic messages have already been sent out, imploring Imperial assistance from Warmaster Macaroth. Vervunhive’s production of ordnance and military vehicles is vital for the constant supply of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade. The warmaster will take our plight seriously. This is a greater matter than local planetary politics, High Lord Sondar.”
