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.”