The acolytes step on the gangway and board the Cygnan Martyr. Barely minutes after their arrival, the sailors move the last crates onto the airship, fuel hawsers are removed and the Martyr pulls away with a dull hum of its thrusters. The other guests have gone inside.
Drizz and Yuri are shown a tiny, austere cabin with bunk beds, a small table and a metal chair bolted to the floor. The only decoration is a mass-produced devotional picture showing the Emperor on the Golden Throne. As soon as they are alone, they sweep the place for listening devices and install their own surveillance gear. They do this automatically, barely talking about a procedure that has become as habitual as a short prayer. After that, the Acolytes step into the lounge of the airship to meet their fellow travelers.
The Cygnan Martyr cannot be called luxurious, but the lounge is clean and spacious. Its large windows afford a great view on the Balemire Sea, and its ceiling is painted with scenes from the Angevin Crusade. Groups of low tables and armchairs, as well as a simple bar at the back of the lounge complete this area. Here the passengers will spend most of the time, unless they prefer to retreat to their own small cabins or move around on the observation deck.
Apart from the ever-present sailors – two of which are standing guard in the lounge with stubby shotguns – the acolytes soon make out four groups of travelers and learn their names from the ever-helpful Nahun Grist, the ship’s steward and cargo master, who also manages the bar if time allows. Nahun seems to be a close friend of the captain, and also tells of the close connection of the men serving on this airship to their master - “them being in the same rotten guard regiment as me and captain Shadrack for half-score years, and to hell and back, and knee-deep in greenskin guts.” Maybe it would be unwise to underestimated the guards in their bulky chemsuits. Nahun points out a spindly guilder named Lanus Cisten, who sits at a table with two middle-aged, non-descript men wearing rugged, well-worn clothing and bearing large sidearms. Lanus Cisten seems to do all the gesturing and most of the talking, while his neighbours at the table just nod or grunt. At first glance, they seem to be his bodyguards, but Nahun tells the acolytes that these men have their own passage to the House of Dust and Ash – they are independent operators, using the names Vymer and Quill. A table further along, two men and a woman in grey-blue flak armour surround an attractive young lady in strict, black business attire. A hooded and robed adept is working on a data slate, while the lady dictates something in a low voice. The armed trio seems to fill all kinds of functions, apart from being obvious bodyguards – they have the bearing of experienced servants, able to melt away and to become one with the background of any social activity. The adept seems to be a personal assistant: It is not unusual for prosperous guilds and trading houses to provide their agents with helpers which keep the numbers ready, while the negotiators do the talking. The lady goes by the name of Octavia Nile; that is all Nahum Grist can tell, although the acolytes notice that notice that Nahum - and some of the other men in the lounge - steal a glance or two at the pretty agent. Finally, at the part of the lounge farthest away from the bar, at the prow of the ship, a corpulent, bald priest of the ecclesiarchy holds court. He is surrounded by a gaggle of malnourished, ragged men. Ostensibly, he and his followers belong to one of the many sects which preach poverty and neglect of the body as the true paths to the Emperor’s blessing. The priest’s high voice cuts through the hum of the engines and the small-talk going on at the bar and the tables. “Abbot Tamas of Shale, on a pilgrimage with a few favored believers, but he’ll tell you so himself soon enough. Preaching without pause since he put his feet on the Martyr. I wonder why he is so fat, while his men are so thin.” Nahum Grist wipes down another glass.
The acolytes thank Grist for his time and start to make the acquaintance of the others. Lanus Cisten is only too willing to talk to them. A dilettante historian and would-be collector of artifacts from Solomon’s past, he seems to be close to his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase some “real” relics of history. He seems to know a lot about Solomon and seems to be smart enough, but as Yuri will put it later, “does not know when to stop the yapping.” Vymer and Quill, on the other hand, do not talk at all, neither about their reasons for being here nor about themselves. When asked directly, Vymer basically tells Drizz to mind his own business. Octavia Nile, on the other hand, is more open. While she, too, talks of a business partner who wants to stay unknown, she freely shares her impressions of the other travelers, while subtly gauging the acolytes. In her eyes, the priest is a holy fool, Cisten on an expensive pilgrimage of his own, while Vymer and Quill seem to work for another business concern. When she asks the acolytes about their intentions concerning the auction, Drizz tells a finely woven net of lies. He is a “far going trader” who is on the lookout for interesting gadgets or information left by the extinct Haarlock dynasty, but he also hints a shady patrons. Octavia’s face stays bland, but she seems to accept the story at face value. Apart from the priest and the dilettante, everyone aboard the Cygnan Martyr seems to work for powerful, secretive people who sent minions to do the bidding. “We will have to learn the hidden allegiances of each of them” Drizz thinks, “and Emperor help us if they work out who our master is.”
Friday, January 29, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Cygnan Martyr
Marr pauses and looks at his two servants. “If push comes to shove, I will intervene with all the powers at my disposal. But it will not come to this. You will observe; you will listen. You will stay incognito. You will make up a convenient cover story, and I will give you the means to make it believable.” With a wave of his hand, Marr orders the menial to bring forth a large metal box. Inside, Drizz and Yuri find chem-cloaks, respirators, a medkit, a purse filled with 1000 throne-coins, and four sets of clothing cut to the latest fashion in Hive Gloriana. The menial hands them an invitation to the auction, a large sheet of vellum filled with spidery scrawls and embossed with the seals of the administratum and the sorrowful guild, a data-slate containing the names and profiles of about a hundred lesser criminals and a credit block over one million thrones – a fortune in the shape of a small brass automatism. Marr smiles “Don’t think about running to the bazaar and gorging yourself. You need a banking matriculator to extract these funds and relay them to the Chancellery Court. The provost will have such an item. Use the money to bid on artifacts you want to keep out of the hands of the other visitors or to bolster you cover story. Or bribe the right people with it. You are used to make decisions on your own, and I trust you will use these funds wisely. Do you have any further questions?” Drizz and Yuri look at each other. Both are very eager to discuss their strategy – but not in front of Marr. They shake their heads. “Then it is time to for me to bid farewell and wish you the best of luck. The airship Cygnan Martyr has been chartered to ferry the participants to the House of Dust and Ash. You will travel to the Telfer Port District; a speeder will get you there in less than an hour." After that last exchange, inquisitor Marr bids the two acolytes goodbye.
After retrieving their weapons they are brought to a speeder, an arrow shaped antigrav jumper, its hull covered with hammered silver and reliefs showing the triumphs of imperial man, the pilot an integrated servitor. As the vehicle ferries them to the outskirts of Hive Gloriana, the two talk about their new assignment. The stummer provided by their mistress hums along, as the acolytes talk strategy. Yuri snorts “Observe! Listen! Bullshit! Something big is going on, but this Marr-fellow would not tell us even if his rancid comfy-chair was on fire. We are played as pawns, and I don’t like it one bit.” “I concur, but we do not know nearly enough now to act on our own. Also, we have no backup at all, apart from what he promised. We should go with his assignment, for now. As soon as we find out what kind of game Marr plays, we consider our options.” “Void’s teeth, it’s like that rotten time on the His Omniscience again.” Drizz grins “As they said at home: If you do not like catching snakes, beware of becoming too good at it, or you will do it the rest of your life. Concerning our cover story: I will pose as the trader in obscure goods and antiques who wheedled an invitation at the last moment and came from far away to take part. Asked about the How, I shall hint at blackmail or worse. You are my bodyguard. I will talk to the other buyers, you will mingle with their servants and hired guns.” Yuri just nods. The rest of the flight they concoct cover names and arrange gestures, expressions and stances for their cipher code language: Even a well-practiced team like these two needs to update their ciphers in while.
After an hour of fast flight, the speeder sets down in the dock area of the Telfer Port District. The hive ends in a steep cliff, about 200 feet above the churning, acidic waters of the Balemire Sea. Towards the horizon, the ruins of chemical works and hive structures jut out of the waves. Gantries, pipes and gangways reach out from the cliffs to a dense mass of airships. The area is covered with a dense, orange haze – each breath scours the throat. The acolytes don their respirators and shove through a mass of dockside workers and travelers, most of them clothed in heavy chem-resistant gear, towards the docks. A very long time ago, normal ships plied the routes on Solomon’s oceans, but now the waters are so corrosive and the chemical fog so heavy that airships have to be used. Between two heavy gas tankers, Yuri makes out a fish-shaped airship about 40 meters long and 14 meters wide with a fine painting of an imperial saint pierced by a multitude of arrows – the Cygnan Martyr. The ship looks tarnished, but well cared-for. A house-sized cabin with two observation decks is slung beneath the armored gas balloon. A row of long lighting rods runs down the airship’s spine, and at its stern steering fins cluster around heavy directional thrusters. At the front, a iris-like observation dome surrounded by searchlights houses the cockpit. Fuel lines and steel cables tie the airship to the docks. A dozen men in gas-masks and heavy working gear make some last preparations for the voyage or carry crates with supplies into the belly of the ship. At the lower balcony, close to the gangway, some human shapes in heavy cloaks with faces hidden by ornate respirators watch the bustle. Drizz whispers “Our competitors. Let’s try to make a fitting first impression.”
After retrieving their weapons they are brought to a speeder, an arrow shaped antigrav jumper, its hull covered with hammered silver and reliefs showing the triumphs of imperial man, the pilot an integrated servitor. As the vehicle ferries them to the outskirts of Hive Gloriana, the two talk about their new assignment. The stummer provided by their mistress hums along, as the acolytes talk strategy. Yuri snorts “Observe! Listen! Bullshit! Something big is going on, but this Marr-fellow would not tell us even if his rancid comfy-chair was on fire. We are played as pawns, and I don’t like it one bit.” “I concur, but we do not know nearly enough now to act on our own. Also, we have no backup at all, apart from what he promised. We should go with his assignment, for now. As soon as we find out what kind of game Marr plays, we consider our options.” “Void’s teeth, it’s like that rotten time on the His Omniscience again.” Drizz grins “As they said at home: If you do not like catching snakes, beware of becoming too good at it, or you will do it the rest of your life. Concerning our cover story: I will pose as the trader in obscure goods and antiques who wheedled an invitation at the last moment and came from far away to take part. Asked about the How, I shall hint at blackmail or worse. You are my bodyguard. I will talk to the other buyers, you will mingle with their servants and hired guns.” Yuri just nods. The rest of the flight they concoct cover names and arrange gestures, expressions and stances for their cipher code language: Even a well-practiced team like these two needs to update their ciphers in while.
After an hour of fast flight, the speeder sets down in the dock area of the Telfer Port District. The hive ends in a steep cliff, about 200 feet above the churning, acidic waters of the Balemire Sea. Towards the horizon, the ruins of chemical works and hive structures jut out of the waves. Gantries, pipes and gangways reach out from the cliffs to a dense mass of airships. The area is covered with a dense, orange haze – each breath scours the throat. The acolytes don their respirators and shove through a mass of dockside workers and travelers, most of them clothed in heavy chem-resistant gear, towards the docks. A very long time ago, normal ships plied the routes on Solomon’s oceans, but now the waters are so corrosive and the chemical fog so heavy that airships have to be used. Between two heavy gas tankers, Yuri makes out a fish-shaped airship about 40 meters long and 14 meters wide with a fine painting of an imperial saint pierced by a multitude of arrows – the Cygnan Martyr. The ship looks tarnished, but well cared-for. A house-sized cabin with two observation decks is slung beneath the armored gas balloon. A row of long lighting rods runs down the airship’s spine, and at its stern steering fins cluster around heavy directional thrusters. At the front, a iris-like observation dome surrounded by searchlights houses the cockpit. Fuel lines and steel cables tie the airship to the docks. A dozen men in gas-masks and heavy working gear make some last preparations for the voyage or carry crates with supplies into the belly of the ship. At the lower balcony, close to the gangway, some human shapes in heavy cloaks with faces hidden by ornate respirators watch the bustle. Drizz whispers “Our competitors. Let’s try to make a fitting first impression.”
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Call of Pripyat
This is my second foray into reviewing a PC game, and, somehow, I end up writing about a game that is basically the twin brother of S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Clear Sky. But you know how brothers turn out: One becomes a quite competent used-car salesman, while the other becomes a professional knife fighter who is married to a brain surgeon and studies Russian literature in his spare time. And that knife-wielding maniac would be S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Call of Pripyat.
The third installment of the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series is a straight sequel to the first. You play as a member of the Ukrainian secret service who is sent into the Zone to find out why a flight of military choppers vanished from the screens and why stuff is happening in the Zone that nobody can explain.
The game is much better that its direct predecessor, for many reasons: If you liked the other S.T.A.L.K.E.R. installments, you will love this game. The best parts of the two earlier games are allowed to shine. For example, you can hire mechanics to upgrade your weapons and armor and thus acquire heavily personalized equipment geared to your tactical style, just like in Clear Sky. Guides reappear who will get you to different places for a fee so you don’t have to slog it all on foot if you do not want to.
Artifacts are difficult to find in the earlier stages of the game, but worth having. Stashes do not have to be marked on your map to exist, but even with a marker they are hard to find - so if you go about your business with open eyes you might find them without plundering any old PDAs. Weapons sell for a decent price if they are in good condition – in fact, about a third into the game, money stops being a problem. The grinding is reduced, and the game is more immersive for it.
The game can be hard on higher difficulty levels, and the AI is quite accomplished. Enemies try to encircle you and flush you out with grenades, but this also means that your allies are not completely useless. There are two short sequences where you are railroaded along, but apart from that, you will be free to explore. And there is a lot to explore – while there are only three maps, they are the size of about three maps of Clear Sky each. The city of Pripyat makes a return, but no maps from the earlier games are recycled, so you are not traipsing along the Cordon again. As always, the atmosphere is striking, although the second map suffers a bit from theme park syndrome. Some of the places are eerily beautiful, and where the anomalies work their influence, the landscape can become quite surreal, without losing the bleakness that characterizes all S.T.A.L.K.E.R. installments.
Factions return, but not in the capture-the-flag mode that marred Clear Sky. But you will surely make some interesting friends and enemies. Some of the characters now have distinct faces, and what faces they are. My favorite mechanic looks like Vladimir Putin with anorexia and a silver earring. And if a character is named “Sultan”, well, you can bet he has a sultan’s face. The common aesthetic of protagonists in PC-games does not apply - these guys look like desperadoes and treasure hunters who don't mind braving the radioactivity for a handful of rubles. Each of these figures has his own story and motives. For this reason, this game is more of a RPG than Fallout 3 in some respects: You don't level up, you don't get to select skills and stats. But the interaction with the various figures in the Zone is believable: Characters like Sultan or Zulu seem much more realistic than their counterparts in normal RPGs. Some of them are assholes, but they are fascinating assholes. If you want to join a faction, you are free to do so, but the plot does not force you to. In retrospect, a lot less people start to shoot you on sight, but at least one of them pissed me off in a way that made me ambush him when he left the local sanctuary, which made his colleagues mad at me. There are also a few brand new breeds of mutants infest the Zone and some of them are really nasty.
So there you are, with very basic equipment and weaponry as well as 2500 rubles cash, at the edge of the Zone, and the world is your oyster.
The third installment of the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series is a straight sequel to the first. You play as a member of the Ukrainian secret service who is sent into the Zone to find out why a flight of military choppers vanished from the screens and why stuff is happening in the Zone that nobody can explain.
The game is much better that its direct predecessor, for many reasons: If you liked the other S.T.A.L.K.E.R. installments, you will love this game. The best parts of the two earlier games are allowed to shine. For example, you can hire mechanics to upgrade your weapons and armor and thus acquire heavily personalized equipment geared to your tactical style, just like in Clear Sky. Guides reappear who will get you to different places for a fee so you don’t have to slog it all on foot if you do not want to.
Artifacts are difficult to find in the earlier stages of the game, but worth having. Stashes do not have to be marked on your map to exist, but even with a marker they are hard to find - so if you go about your business with open eyes you might find them without plundering any old PDAs. Weapons sell for a decent price if they are in good condition – in fact, about a third into the game, money stops being a problem. The grinding is reduced, and the game is more immersive for it.
The game can be hard on higher difficulty levels, and the AI is quite accomplished. Enemies try to encircle you and flush you out with grenades, but this also means that your allies are not completely useless. There are two short sequences where you are railroaded along, but apart from that, you will be free to explore. And there is a lot to explore – while there are only three maps, they are the size of about three maps of Clear Sky each. The city of Pripyat makes a return, but no maps from the earlier games are recycled, so you are not traipsing along the Cordon again. As always, the atmosphere is striking, although the second map suffers a bit from theme park syndrome. Some of the places are eerily beautiful, and where the anomalies work their influence, the landscape can become quite surreal, without losing the bleakness that characterizes all S.T.A.L.K.E.R. installments.
Factions return, but not in the capture-the-flag mode that marred Clear Sky. But you will surely make some interesting friends and enemies. Some of the characters now have distinct faces, and what faces they are. My favorite mechanic looks like Vladimir Putin with anorexia and a silver earring. And if a character is named “Sultan”, well, you can bet he has a sultan’s face. The common aesthetic of protagonists in PC-games does not apply - these guys look like desperadoes and treasure hunters who don't mind braving the radioactivity for a handful of rubles. Each of these figures has his own story and motives. For this reason, this game is more of a RPG than Fallout 3 in some respects: You don't level up, you don't get to select skills and stats. But the interaction with the various figures in the Zone is believable: Characters like Sultan or Zulu seem much more realistic than their counterparts in normal RPGs. Some of them are assholes, but they are fascinating assholes. If you want to join a faction, you are free to do so, but the plot does not force you to. In retrospect, a lot less people start to shoot you on sight, but at least one of them pissed me off in a way that made me ambush him when he left the local sanctuary, which made his colleagues mad at me. There are also a few brand new breeds of mutants infest the Zone and some of them are really nasty.
So there you are, with very basic equipment and weaponry as well as 2500 rubles cash, at the edge of the Zone, and the world is your oyster.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Talking to Marr
The black door opens without a sound. Behind it is a large, silent room. After the door closes, the roar of the Chancellery Court is completely muffled, and the only sound is the ticking of a clock, somewhere in the dark niches. Pale light filters from windows set in the ceiling, and the walls are covered with the black spines of large books. An empty-eyed menial appears and offers refreshments. Glasses in hand, the acolytes scan the bookcases. The silvery letters on the covers tell of pending cases which are all older than a century. Right now, there might be a lesser heir waiting on the steps, wasting his last thrones and hoping for a word from the Chancellery Court, while Drizz idly leaves through his case, being the only one in a generation to even touch the paper listing the proceedings.
As Drizz replaces the book, two walls glide away and a strange procession enters the room. Two hulking servitors carry a sedan-chair with a tattered silk roof. The chair is occupied by an old man with long, stringy hair, completely covered in grey robes and soiled shawls. His hands are resting in his lap, two gnarled, bony hands gripping some small object. His face is deeply lined, with blade-thin nose and a sharp chin. The body of the man is a wreck, dissolving in a last bout with disease, age or something worse, but his yellow eyes shine with sharp intelligence and inhuman will. Next to him stands a young woman with a shaved head and a weary face. She is wearing a bone corset too big for her lanky figure and a crown of strange scars around her skull. The man rights himself and speaks: “I am Inquisitor Marr, and it seems that you are…mine.” He coughs, and the young woman bends down to dab his lips. When she removes the handkerchief, the acolytes spot blood. “I heard of your exploits and it seems you are tireless and subtle investigators who are not afraid to act if the situation demands it. You have done good work in the past and you will to continue to do so, I believe, in the future. Regrettably, all my own servants are tied up in other places, in schemes I can ill afford to toss aside at the moment, so I went to the length of asking your kind mistress for a favor.” The acolytes nod, not asking the obvious questions – why us? why you? – there would not be an honest answer anyway. Marr continues “You shall be my spies. You shall observe a singular event in the history of this world, maybe even this sector, and you shall be my eyes and ears, taking the measure of the men and women participating in this event. You might know that Erasmus Haarlock, the last heir to the great rogue trader dynasty of Haarlock, was declared dead not long ago, lost in the Halo Stars. With him, this great house has finally been extinguished.” Everyone in the room knows the house of Haarlock, and the stories entwined with the fate of this family. Yuri knows more than most, as the voidfarers and rogue traders tell many things about Solomon Haarlock and his progeny, things not shared with dirtsiders: tales of a willful house, tremendously wealthy, steeped in hubris, quick to anger and terrible in its revenge, a house that trod forbidden paths and skirted open heresy. Solomon Haarlock traveled the stars of the Calyx Expanse long before Saint Drusus unified these stars under the banner of the Imperium and forged the Calixis Sector into being, and he did many great and secret things that shape the sector to this day. As they say: Saint Drusus threw a shining light on the Expanse, but it was Solomon Haarlock who traveled all its shadows. Yes, Yuri knows of the house of Haarlock, and he likes this assignment less with every passing moment. “As is right and proper, the estate of a house without an heir will be auctioned off under the aegis of the administratum. This auction is going to take place in two days time, at an ancient place called the House of Dust and Ashes, situated on a volcanic island in the Southern Ocean. The Haarlocks traveled far from the light of the Emperor and stirred up old shadows in their unrelenting quest for power and knowledge. They grew rich on their conquest and collected many strange things as well, and now their spoils are there for the taking, for mere money. To go there, and pay for the wonders of the Halo Stars with coin - the thought of it. All kinds of heretics, conspirators and criminals will try getting their hands on this treasure. And you will be there, finding out who shows his face, who is interested in which kinds of relics and heirlooms, who is dealing with whom, and why. From this knowledge, I will be able to work against those who might want to harm the Empire and also recognize those who are mere dabblers. This knowledge will provide the threads to weave a strong net. You will bring me those threads. Observe, listen, learn everything you can - this is your duty.” Drizz says, “My lord, why not just raid the place? If there is so much evil convening on this island, it might be easier to move in with inquisitorial storm troopers and be done with it.” Marr smiles. “The direct approach, often the right way to deal with such vermin, and I applaud the thinking behind it. But attacking the House of Dust and Ash would probably just hit the emissaries and brokers of those who want to stay hidden – and it is those in the shadow which I want, not their hirelings. My only way of identifying them is putting you amongst these emissaries, watching their every move and finding out whom they serve. Furthermore, The House of Dust and Ash is a holy place, where the great families of Solomon have buried their dead for centuries, and where they convene for all kinds of clandestine business – one of the few places here which are recognized to be truly neutral ground. An assault on this sanctuary would be ill received.” “But what if we come across something that could destabilize Solomon itself, if this auction is but the last step in some grand design to attack the rule of the Empire?” “You shall be able to contact me. I have an intermediary called Locutor Merryweather on the island. He is schooled in universal inquisitorial gesture language, bands one and three. He will not only fill you in on other visitors and recent developments on the island, but also takes care of the administratum’s long range vox. If you identify an existential threat in the House of Dust and Ash that you cannot tackle alone, you will vox me, and I will take all steps necessary.” Marr does not elaborate, but this hints at a cruiser in orbit, its lances trained on the island, or a company of elite troops ready to take apart the House of Dust and Ash, stone by stone if necessary. Drizz swallows when he looks at Marr’s eyes, and hides his awe behind the next question. “Lord, who is managing the island? The administratum? Are there parliamentary guards which we could use for our cause?” “The House is managed by the Sorrowful Guild, a local cult of mourners designated as eccentric, but still within the pale of the Ecclesiarchy. They take care of the buildings, are the hosts to the visitors of the House and they perform all the rites of mourning and remembrance. There are hints that they already existed when Drusus was but a child and the seas of Solomon were still blue. The presence of the administratum is rather light. A provost named Hiram Bland is in command, and there would be about twenty troops. Not that I think that security detail is necessary – as I said before, this is a sanctuary, and nobody would think of attacking it.”
As Drizz replaces the book, two walls glide away and a strange procession enters the room. Two hulking servitors carry a sedan-chair with a tattered silk roof. The chair is occupied by an old man with long, stringy hair, completely covered in grey robes and soiled shawls. His hands are resting in his lap, two gnarled, bony hands gripping some small object. His face is deeply lined, with blade-thin nose and a sharp chin. The body of the man is a wreck, dissolving in a last bout with disease, age or something worse, but his yellow eyes shine with sharp intelligence and inhuman will. Next to him stands a young woman with a shaved head and a weary face. She is wearing a bone corset too big for her lanky figure and a crown of strange scars around her skull. The man rights himself and speaks: “I am Inquisitor Marr, and it seems that you are…mine.” He coughs, and the young woman bends down to dab his lips. When she removes the handkerchief, the acolytes spot blood. “I heard of your exploits and it seems you are tireless and subtle investigators who are not afraid to act if the situation demands it. You have done good work in the past and you will to continue to do so, I believe, in the future. Regrettably, all my own servants are tied up in other places, in schemes I can ill afford to toss aside at the moment, so I went to the length of asking your kind mistress for a favor.” The acolytes nod, not asking the obvious questions – why us? why you? – there would not be an honest answer anyway. Marr continues “You shall be my spies. You shall observe a singular event in the history of this world, maybe even this sector, and you shall be my eyes and ears, taking the measure of the men and women participating in this event. You might know that Erasmus Haarlock, the last heir to the great rogue trader dynasty of Haarlock, was declared dead not long ago, lost in the Halo Stars. With him, this great house has finally been extinguished.” Everyone in the room knows the house of Haarlock, and the stories entwined with the fate of this family. Yuri knows more than most, as the voidfarers and rogue traders tell many things about Solomon Haarlock and his progeny, things not shared with dirtsiders: tales of a willful house, tremendously wealthy, steeped in hubris, quick to anger and terrible in its revenge, a house that trod forbidden paths and skirted open heresy. Solomon Haarlock traveled the stars of the Calyx Expanse long before Saint Drusus unified these stars under the banner of the Imperium and forged the Calixis Sector into being, and he did many great and secret things that shape the sector to this day. As they say: Saint Drusus threw a shining light on the Expanse, but it was Solomon Haarlock who traveled all its shadows. Yes, Yuri knows of the house of Haarlock, and he likes this assignment less with every passing moment. “As is right and proper, the estate of a house without an heir will be auctioned off under the aegis of the administratum. This auction is going to take place in two days time, at an ancient place called the House of Dust and Ashes, situated on a volcanic island in the Southern Ocean. The Haarlocks traveled far from the light of the Emperor and stirred up old shadows in their unrelenting quest for power and knowledge. They grew rich on their conquest and collected many strange things as well, and now their spoils are there for the taking, for mere money. To go there, and pay for the wonders of the Halo Stars with coin - the thought of it. All kinds of heretics, conspirators and criminals will try getting their hands on this treasure. And you will be there, finding out who shows his face, who is interested in which kinds of relics and heirlooms, who is dealing with whom, and why. From this knowledge, I will be able to work against those who might want to harm the Empire and also recognize those who are mere dabblers. This knowledge will provide the threads to weave a strong net. You will bring me those threads. Observe, listen, learn everything you can - this is your duty.” Drizz says, “My lord, why not just raid the place? If there is so much evil convening on this island, it might be easier to move in with inquisitorial storm troopers and be done with it.” Marr smiles. “The direct approach, often the right way to deal with such vermin, and I applaud the thinking behind it. But attacking the House of Dust and Ash would probably just hit the emissaries and brokers of those who want to stay hidden – and it is those in the shadow which I want, not their hirelings. My only way of identifying them is putting you amongst these emissaries, watching their every move and finding out whom they serve. Furthermore, The House of Dust and Ash is a holy place, where the great families of Solomon have buried their dead for centuries, and where they convene for all kinds of clandestine business – one of the few places here which are recognized to be truly neutral ground. An assault on this sanctuary would be ill received.” “But what if we come across something that could destabilize Solomon itself, if this auction is but the last step in some grand design to attack the rule of the Empire?” “You shall be able to contact me. I have an intermediary called Locutor Merryweather on the island. He is schooled in universal inquisitorial gesture language, bands one and three. He will not only fill you in on other visitors and recent developments on the island, but also takes care of the administratum’s long range vox. If you identify an existential threat in the House of Dust and Ash that you cannot tackle alone, you will vox me, and I will take all steps necessary.” Marr does not elaborate, but this hints at a cruiser in orbit, its lances trained on the island, or a company of elite troops ready to take apart the House of Dust and Ash, stone by stone if necessary. Drizz swallows when he looks at Marr’s eyes, and hides his awe behind the next question. “Lord, who is managing the island? The administratum? Are there parliamentary guards which we could use for our cause?” “The House is managed by the Sorrowful Guild, a local cult of mourners designated as eccentric, but still within the pale of the Ecclesiarchy. They take care of the buildings, are the hosts to the visitors of the House and they perform all the rites of mourning and remembrance. There are hints that they already existed when Drusus was but a child and the seas of Solomon were still blue. The presence of the administratum is rather light. A provost named Hiram Bland is in command, and there would be about twenty troops. Not that I think that security detail is necessary – as I said before, this is a sanctuary, and nobody would think of attacking it.”
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