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osed；
off the trailer supply。 Alizebeth was sat at the far side on a ladderback chair with a dropcloth of cream felt behind her。 Bakunin was
facing her； carefully adjusting his hololithic camera； a brass and teak machine mounted on a wooden tripod。 He looked round at me
curiously； his hands still polishing a brass…rimmed lens。 Alizebeth rose out of her seat。
'Gregor？' she asked。
'The good lady is just sitting for a portrait； sir。 It's all very civilised。' Bakunin peered at me； unsure what to make of me。 He smiled and
offered his hand。 'I am Bakunin； artist and hololithographer。'
'I am Eisenhorn； Imperial inquisitor。'
'Oh；' he said and took a step backwards。 'I… I…'
'You're wondering why a servant of the Ordos has just walked into your booth；' I finished for him。 Bakunin's mind was like an open
book。 There was； I saw at once； no guile there； except for the natural money…making trickery of a fairground rogue。 Whatever else he
was； Bakunin was no heretic。
'You took a portrait of Lord Froigre at the fete held on his lands just the other day？' I said； thinking of the picture on the harpsichord
back at the hall。
'I did；' he said。 'His lordship was pleased。 I made no charge for the work； sir。 It was a gift to thank his lordship for his hospitality。 I
thought perhaps some of his worthy friends might see the work and want the like for themselves； I…'
He doesn't know； I thought。 He has no clue what this is about。 He's trying to work out how he might have drawn this investigation to
himself。
'Lord Froigre is dead；' I told him。
He went pale。 'No； that's… that's…'
'Master Bakunin… do you know if any other of your previous subjects have died？ Died soon after your work was complete？'
'I don't； I'm sure。 Sir； what are you implying？'
'I have a list of names；' I said； unclipping my data…slate。 'Do you keep records of your work？'
'I keep them all； all the exposed plates； in case that copies or replacements are needed。 I have full catalogues of all pictures。'
I showed him the slate。 'Do you recognise any of these names？'
His hands were shaking。 He said； 'I'll have to check them against my catalogue；' but I knew for a fact he'd recognised some of them at
once。
'Let's do that together；' I said。 Alizebeth followed us as we went through the back of the tent into the trailer。 It was a dark； confined
space； and Bakunin kept apologising。 Every scrap of surface； even the untidy flat of his little cot bed； was piled with spares and partly
disassembled cameras。 There was a musty； chemical stink； mixed with the scent of Penshel seeds。 Bakunin's pipe lay in a small bowl。
He reached into a crate under the cot and pulled out several dog…eared record books。
'Let me see now；' he began。
There was a door at the end of the little room。 'What's through there？'
'My dark room； along with the file racks for the exposed plates。'
'It has a door to the outside？'
'Yes；' he said。
'Locked？'
'No…'
'You have an assistant then； someone you ordered to hold the door shut？'
'I have no assistant…' he said； puzzled。
'Open this door；' I told him。 He put down the books and went to the communicating door。 Just from his body language； I could tell he
had been expecting it to open easily。
'I don't understand；' he said。 'It's never jammed before。'
'Stand back；' I said； and drew Barbarisater。 The exposed blade filled the little trailer with ozone and Bakunin yelped。
I put the blade through the door with one good swing and ripped it open。 There was a loud bang of atmospheric decompression； and
fetid air swept over us。 A dark； smoky haze drifted out。
'Emperor of Mankind； what is that？'
'Warpcraft；' I said。 'You say you mix your own oxides and solutions？'
'Yes。'
'Where do you get your supplies from？'
'Everywhere； here and there； sometimes from apothecaries； or market traders or…'
Anywhere。 Bakunin had experimented with all manner of compounds over the years to create the best； most effective plates for his
camera。 He'd never been fussy about where the active ingredients came from。 Some…ming in his workshop； something in his rack of
flasks and bottles； was tainted。
I took a step towards the dark room。 In the half…light； things were flickering； half…formed and pale。 The baleful energies lurking in
Bakunin's workshop could sense I was a threat； and were trying to protect themselves by sealing the doors tight to keep me out。
I crossed the threshold into the dark room。 Alizebem's cry of warning was lost in the shrieking of tormented air that suddenly swirled
around me。 Glass bottles and flasks of mineral tincture vibrated wildly in metal racks above Bakunin's work bench。 Jars of liquid
chemicals and unguent oils shattered and sprayed their contents into the air。 The little gas…jet burner flared and ignited； its rubber tube
thrashing like a snake。 Glass plates； each a square the size of a data…slate； and each sleeved in a folder of tan card； were jiggling and
working themselves out of the wooden racks on the far side of the blacked out room。 There were thousands of them； each one the
master exposure of one of Bakunin's hololiths。 The first yanked clear of the shelf as if tugged by a sucking force； and I expected it to
shatter on the floor； but it floated in the air。 Quickly others followed suit。 Light from sources I couldn't locate played in the air； casting
specks and flashes of colour all around。 The air itself became dark brown； like tobacco。
I raised my sword。 A negative plate came flying at my head and I struck at it。 Shards of glass flew in all directions。 Another came at
me and I smashed that too。 More flew from the shelves like a spray of playing cards； whipping through the air towards me。 I made a
series of quick uwe sar and ulsar parries； bursting the glass squares as they struck in。 I missed one； and it sliced my cheek with its edge
before hitting the wall behind me like a throwing knife。
'Get him out of here！' I yelled to Alizebeth。 The trailer was shaking。 Outside there was a crash of thunder and rain started to hammer
on the low roof。 The hurtling plates were driving me back； and Barbarisater had become a blur in my hands as it struck out to intercept
them all。
Then the ghosts came。 Serious men in formal robes。 Gentlewomen in long gowns。 Solemn children with pale faces。 A laughing
innkeeper with blotchy cheeks。 Two farmhands； with their arms around each other's shoulders。 More； still more； shimmering in the
dirty air； made of smoke； their skins white； their clothes sepia； their expressions frozen at the moment they had been caught by the
camera。 They clawed and tugged at me with fingers of ice； pummelled me with psychokinetic fists。 Some passed through me like
wraiths； chilling my marrow。 The malevolence hiding in that little trailer was conjuring up all the images Bakunin had immortalised in
his career； ripping them off the negative plates and giving them form。
I staggered back； tears appearing in my cloak。 Their touch was as sharp as the edge of the glass plates。 Their hollow screaming filled
my ears。 Then； with a sickening lurch； the world itself distorted and changed。 The trailer was gone。 For a moment I was standing on a
sepia shoreline； then I was an uninvited guest at a country wedding。 My sword hacking and flashing； I stumbled on into a baptism；
then a colourised view of the Atenate Mountains； then a feast in a guild hall。 The ghosts surged at me； frozen hands clawing。 The
innkeeper with the blotchy cheeks got his icy fists around my throat though his face was still open in laughter。 I chopped Barbarisater
through him and he billowed like smoke。 A sad…faced housemaid pulled at my arm and a fisherman struck at me with his boat hook。
I began to recite the Litany of Salvation； yelling it into the leering faces that beset me。 A few crumpled and melted like cellulose
exposed to flame。
I heard gunshots。 Gabon was to my right； firing his weapon。 He was standing on the pier at Dorsay at sunset； in the middle of a intervillage
game of knockball； and a harvest festival； all at the same time。 The conflicting scenes blurred and merged around him。 A bride
and her groom； along with five mourners from a funeral and a retiring arbites constable in full medals； were attacking him。
'Get back！' I yelled。 Barbarisater was glowing white…hot。 Thunder crashed again； shaking the earth。 Gabon shrieked as the bride's
fingers ripped through his face； and as he stumbled backwards； whizzing glass plates chopped into him like axe heads。
His blood was in the air； like rain。 It flooded into the ghosts and stained their sepia tones crimson and their pale flesh pink。 I felt
fingers like knives draw across the flesh of my arms and back。 There were too many of them。
I couldn't trust my eyes。 According to them； I was standing on a river…bank； and also the front steps of an Administratum building。 The
locations overlaid each other impossibly； and neither was real。
I leapt； and lashed out with my blade。 I hit something； tore through and immediately found myself rolling on the rain…sodden turf
behind the trailer。
Lightning split the darkness overhead and the rain was torrential。 The storm and the bizarre activity around Bakunin's booth had sent
the commonfolk fleeing from the meadow。 The trailer was still vibrating and