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'What's the second？' asked Aemos。
'The second？'
'The second mission？'
I looked at them all。 'We all know how serious the Cadian matter is。 But I made a vow to Gideon。 I want to find out what was behind
the outrage here。 I want to find it； hunt it out and punish it。'
You know； it's funny how things turn out。
IT WAS LATE； and we were devouring a splendid meal Jarat had prepared for us。 Nayl was telling a devastatingly crude joke to Aemos；
Medea and Bequin and I were talking over the rearrangement of the Distaff and the missions ahead。
I think she was feeling excited。 Like me； she'd been taking a back seat for too long。
Kircher came up the terrace； entering the filmy green light。
'Sir； you have a visitor。'
'At this hour； who？'
'He says his name is Inshabel； sir。 Interrogator Nathun Inshabel。'
Inshabel was waiting for me in the library。
'Interrogator。 Has my staff offered you refreshment？'
'None needed； sir。'
'Very well… so to what do I owe this visit？'
Inshabel； no more than twenty…five； pushed his thick blond hair out of his eyes and looked at me fiercely。 'I… I am masterless。 Roban
is dead…'
'God…Emperor rest him。 He will be missed。'
'Sir； do you ever think what it would be like if you died？'
The notion stopped me in my tracks。 I had； in all honesty； never considered it。
'No； Inshabel。 I haven't。'
'It's a terrible thing； sir。 As Roban's senior acolyte it falls to me to disburse his staff； his fortune； his knowledge。 I'm left to tidy up； as it
were。 I have to make sense of Roban's estate。'
'You will not fail in that duty； interrogator； of that I'm sure。'
He smiled weakly。 'Thank you； sir。 I had… I had thought to come to you； and beg you to take me on。 I so very much want to be an
inquisitor。 My master is dead； and I know that your own… your own interrogator is…'
'Indeed。 I choose my own staff； of course。 I—'
'Inquisitor Eisenhorn。 Begging you to take me on as a driftwood student was not why I came here。 As I said； I had to close up Roban's
estate。 That meant filing and authorising the pathologica statement of his death。 Inquisitor Roban was killed by a cargo servitor
manipulated by a rogue psyker。'
'Yes？'
'So to complete the papers； I had to review the death notice of Esarhaddon so as to establish causal motive。'
'That is the procedure；' I admitted。
'The statement was very brief。 Esarhadon's corpse was burnt from the calves upwards and utterly immolated。 As in the incidents of
spontaneous human combustion； the relics left by the plasma weapon were little more than the flesh and bones of the feet and ankles。
Just bare vestiges。'
'And？'
'There was no Malleus brand on the ankle flesh。'
'It… What…？'
'I don't know who Inquisitor Lyko burned on the lawns of the Lange house… but it wasn't the heretic Esarhaddon。'
NINE
EECHAN； SIX WEEKS LATER。
A WORD WITH THE PHANT。
KNIVES IN THE NIGHT。
THE BICEPHALIC MINDER in the squalid doorway of the twist bar regarded us with one of his lice…ridden heads； while the other glazed
out； smoking an obscura pipe。
'Not your place； not your kind。 Get on。'
The sap rain was falling heavily on our heads through the rotten awning； and I had little wish to stand in it any longer。 I nodded a
sidelong glance to my companion； who tugged back his hood and showed the minder the cluster of malformed； winking eyes that
mottled his cheek and ran down his pallid throat。 I raised my own damp cloak and revealed the knot of stunted tentacles that sprouted
from an extra sleeve slit under my right armpit。
The minder got off his stool； one head nodding dozily。 He was big； broad and tall as an ogryn； and his greasy skin was busy with
tattoos。
'Hnh…' he muttered； limping around us as he sized us up。 'Maybe then。 You didn't smell like twists。 Okay…'
We went inside； down a few dark steps into a nocturnal club room that was fogged with obscura smoke and pulsing with a brand of
harsh； discordant music called ''pound''。 Panes of red glass had been put over the lights of the lanterns and the place was a hellish
swamp； like the damnation paintings of that insane genius Omarmettia。
Mal…forms； deforms； halfbreeds and underscum huddled or gambled or drank or danced。 On a raised stage； a naked； heavy…breasted；
eyeless girl with a grinning mouth where her navel should have been gyrated to the pound beat。
We reached the bar； a soiled curve of hardwood under a series of hard white lights。 The barkeep was a bloated thing with bloodshot
eyes and a black snake tongue that flickered between his wet； slit mouth and rotting teeth。
'Hey； twist。 What will it be？'
'Two of those；' I said； pointing to clear grain…alcohol shots that a waitress was carrying past on a tray。 She would have been beautiful
except for the yellow quills stippling her skin。
Twists。 We were all twists here。 ''Mutant'' is a dirty word if you're a mutant。 They delight in referring to themselves by the Imperium's
glibbest and most detrimental slang； as a badge of honour。 It's a pride thing； a common habit with any underclass。 Non…telepaths do it
when they call themselves ''blunts''。 The tall； slender people of low…grav Sylvan do it when they call themselves ''sticks''。 A slur's not a
slur if you use it on yourself。
Labour laws on Eechan permit twists to work as indentured labourers in the industrial mill…farms and the sap distilleries； provided they
abide by the local regime and keep themselves to the licensed shanty towns huddled in the skirts of the bad end of Eechan mainhive。
The barkeep slapped two heavy shotglasses down on the counter and filled them to the brim a spouted flask。
I tossed a couple of coins down and reached for my drink。
The bloodshot eyes leered at me。
'What's this？ Perial coins？ Come now； twist； you know we ain't allowed to trade in those。'
I paused。 A glance down the counter showed me that the rest of the clientele were paying in mill…authorised coupons or nuggets of
base metal。 And that they were all staring and scowling at us。 A basic mistake； right off the bat。
My companion leaned forward and sipped his drink。 'Don't get fret with two thirsty twists who's happened to have lucked into a good
black score； eh？'
The barkeep smiled and his black tongue flickered。 He scooped up the coins。 'Ain't no fret； twist。 You earn 'em； I'll take 'em。 Just
sayin' you might not want to go flashing 'em； s'all。'
We took our drinks away from the bar； looking for a table。 It had taken six weeks to reach Eechan； and I was impatient for a lead。
The beat changed。 Another pound number began pumping through the underfloor speakers； which to my untutored ears was simply a
variation in auditory assault。 But the crowd clapped and roared approval。 The naked girl with the grinning stomach began rotating her
hips the other way。
'I have a feeling I should be leaving this to you；' I whispered to my companion。
'You're doing fine。'
'〃Don't get fret； twist…〃。 for God…Emperor's sake… where did you learn to talk like that？'
'You never hung with twists？'
'Not like this…'
'So I'm guessin' you don't s'love that genejack pound beat； twist？'
'Stop it or I'll shoot you。'
Harlon Nayl grinned and blinked with all his sixteen eyes in mock offence。
'Sup up； twist。 If that ain't Phant Mastik； I'll poke my eyes out。'
'Oh； let me；' I hissed； and slugged back my shot。 'Raise 'em and sink 'em and let's have another！' I grimaced to myself as the burning
spirit scalded down my oesophagus； and then scooped two more drinks from the tray of the porcupine girl as she sashayed past。
Phant Mastik sat with his cronies in a side booth。 Generations of rad…storm mutation had made him an obese thing with wrinkled flesh
and enlarged features。 His ears were frayed fan…like swathes of veiny skin and his nose was a drooping proboscis。 An incongruous tuft
of thick red hair decorated his neanderthal brow。
His eyes were deep…set and black。
And sad； I thought。 Tremendously sad。
He was drinking from a big tankard by snorting the alcohol up through his dangling nose。 His mouth； distorted by tusk…like jags of
tooth； was useless。 A twist whore； with an unnecessary number of arms； was sipping her drink； smoking an obscura stick； retouching
her makeup and doing something to Phant under the table that he was clearly enjoying。
We approached。
Phant's minders got up immediately to block us。 A homed brute and a twist whose entire head was a wrinkled skin hood for an
outsized eye。 They both reached into their robes。
'How you tonight； twists？' puffed Horn…brute。
'We fine。 No fret； just s'gotta talk to the Phant；' said Nayl。
'Ain't not gonna happen；' said Big…eye； his voice muffled by his clothing。 God…Emperor knew where his mouth was。
'I s'think so； when we have us such a scalding black score； him to enjoy。' Nayl didn't shrink back。
＋＋Let them through＋＋ Phant said； his voice conveyed by an augmetic carry…sound unit。 A vox…implant。 Few twists had the money for
that。 Phant was certainly a player。
The minders stepped aside and allowed us into the booth。 We sat。
＋＋Go on＋＋
'Twist； I s'tell ya； we be in the market for section…alpha brainjobs。 We s'hear you got one for the begging。'
＋＋Hear？ Where？＋＋
'Round and around；' said Nayl。
＋＋Uh huh。 And you are？＋＋
'Just two twists s'gonna earn us a deal；' I said。
＋＋That right？＋＋
We sa