Free False Gods by Graham McNeill Page B

to make gambling chips (of which Karkasy now had quite a substantial pile back in his cabin) and the artists had whitewashed whole areas of the walls for their own daubings – most of which were either lewd or farcical.
    Men and women filled all the available tables, playing hands of merci merci while some of the more enthusiastic remembrancers planned their next compositions. Karkasy and Wenduin sat in one of the padded booths along the wall and the low buzz of conversation filled the Retreat.
    ‘Connections,’ repeated Wenduin sagely.
    ‘That’s it exactly,’ said Karkasy, draining his glass. ‘I heard the Council of Terra – the Sigillite too.’
    ‘Throne! How’d she get them?’ asked Wenduin. ‘The connections I mean?’
    Karkasy shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’
    ‘It’s not like you don’t have connections either. You could find out,’ Wenduin pointed out, filling his glass once more. ‘I don’t know what you have to be worried about anyway. You have one of the Astartes looking after you. You’re a fine one to be casting aspersions!’
    ‘Hardly,’ snorted Karkasy, slapping a palm on the table. ‘I have to show him everything I damn well write. It’s censorship, that’s what it is.’
    Wenduin shrugged. ‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but you got to go to the War Council didn’t you? A little censorship’s worth that, I’ll bet.’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Karkasy, unwilling to be drawn on the subject of the events on Davin and his terror at the sight of an enraged First Captain Abaddon coming to tear his head off.
    In any event, Captain Loken had later found him, trembling and afraid, in the commissariat tent, making inroads into a bottle of distilac. It had been a little ridiculous really. Loken had ripped a page from the Bondsman number 7 and written on it in large, blocky letters before handing it to him.
    ‘This is an oath of moment, Ignace,’ Loken had said. ‘Do you know what that means?’
    ‘I think so,’ he had replied, reading the words Loken had written.
    ‘It is an oath that applies to an individual action. It is very specific and very precise,’ Loken had explained. ‘It is common for an Astartes to swear such an oath before battle when he vows to achieve a certain objective or uphold a certain ideal. In your case, Ignace, it will be to keep what passed here tonight between us.’
    ‘I will, sir.’
    ‘You must swear, Ignace. Place your hand on the book and the oath and swear the words.’
    He had done so, placing a shaking hand atop the page, feeling the heavy texture of the page beneath his sweating palm.
    ‘I swear not to tell another living soul what passed between us,’ he said.
    Loken had nodded solemnly and said, ‘Do not take this lightly, Ignace. You have just made an oath with the Astartes and you must never break it. To do so would be a mistake.’
    He’d nodded and made his way to the first transport off Davin.
    Karkasy shook his head clear of the memory, any warmth or comfort the wine had given him suddenly, achingly absent.
    ‘Hey,’ said Wenduin. ‘Are you listening to me? You looked a million miles away there.’
    ‘Yes, sorry. What were you saying?’
    ‘I was asking if there was any chance you could put in a good word for me to Captain Loken? Maybe you could tell him about my compositions? You know, how good they are.’
    Compositions?
    What did that mean? He looked into her eyes and saw a dreadful avarice lurking behind her facade of interest, now seeing her for the self-interested social climber she was. Suddenly all he wanted to do was get away.
    ‘Well? Could you?’
    He was saved from thinking of an answer by the arrival of a robed figure at the booth.
    Karkasy looked up and said, ‘Yes? Can I help—’ but his words trailed off as he eventually recognised Euphrati Keeler. The change in her since the last time he had seen her was remarkable. Instead of her usual ensemble of boots and fatigues, she wore the beige robe of a female