'I can't pull strings, Maxilla.'
He laughed humourlessly and looked me in the eye. 'Of course you can! But that's not what I'm asking. With an inquisitor present, they will treat
the Essene with more respect. I'll not have them root through this vessel mindlessly.'
I thought for a moment. This smacked of the favour I had a feeling he might call in. Worse, it stank of impropriety on his part.
'I'll agree to be present for the sake of order, provided you can assure me you have nothing to hide.'
'Inquisitor Eisenhorn, I-'
'Save your indignation for the inspection, Maxilla. Your assurance is all I require. If I assist you only to find you have some dirty secret or illicit cargo, you will have a great deal more to worry about than the Imperial Navy.'
There was a look of great disappointment on his face. Either he was a superb actor, or I had truly wounded his feelings.
'I have nothing to hide/ he hissed. 'I fancied you and I had become… if not friends then decent acquaintances at least this voyage. I have shown you hospitality and freely given information into your confidence. I am hurt that you still suspect me/
'Suspicion is my business, Maxilla. If I have wronged you, my apologies/
'Nothing to hide!' he repeated, almost to himself, and led me off the bridge.
A navy pinnace, matt-grey and deep hulled, drew alongside the massive Essene and clamped itself to the fore starboard airgate. Maxilla and I were there to meet it, along with Fischig and two of the ship's primary servitors, spectacular creations of gold and silver machine parts.
I'd summoned Fischig on the basis that if the sight of an inquisitor would help, then an Arbites chastener would do no harm either. Betancore was instructed to keep everyone else with the cutter.
The gate-locks cycled open and the hatch jaws gaped, exhaling torrents of steam. A dozen large figures emerged through the haze. They were all dressed in the grey and black body armour of naval security, with the crest and sector-symbol of Battlefleet Scarus displayed on their chests and gold braid edging their epaulettes. All were masked in form-moulded ceramite helmets with lowered visor plates and rebreathers. They were armed with compact, short-frame autoguns.
The leader stepped forward and his men grouped behind him. They didn't form a neat echelon. Messy, I thought, casual, lacking the usual drilled discipline of the infamous naval security arm. These men were bored and going through the motions. They wanted this formality over and done too.
Tobius Maxilla?' barked the leader, his voice distorted by his mask and vox-amplified.