"Vengeance belongs to the Emperor. Such is his law. But we are his hands and the expression of his divine will upon the universe. If we stand as one, if we act as one, if we think and pray as a single being, devoted without question to his purpose, then may we act without doubt or feat in his name. And, as we act thus, we may incarnate the very essence of his Imperial will.

"So, then, might righteous and honourable vengeance flow out of us and onto the cursed heads of the vile traitors that would seek to oppose the proper will and order of the Emperor's undying light!"

- Final sermon of Galen Arc-Manifold, apostate priest

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Lancet swore that Manchurian had told him that he had seen Dire's signal. Manchurian, meanwhile, insisted that it wasn't Dire's signal he had seen, but a Drill Abbot - he had been sure it was Mongrel - approaching his storeroom. Either way, he had started punching Lancet immediately and making improbable accusations before the pair of them, hooting and yelling, had fled, long before they had a chance to see Mongrel himself emerge from the storeroom, or to see Dire sneaking out behind him.

It didn't matter to Dire, either way. The whole event had been a watershed for him. So many things had come into sharp focus in his young mind through the events of the previous day, from his victory over Malpas and his acknowledgement, albeit sub rosa, as an aspirant inquisitor, to the strange encounter in Poldue's room. Dire has spent four years thinking of his mind as a paltry second-place award compared to the possession of a tall, strong frame and the commanding presence of a future commander. But, overnight it felt, he had discovered that the mind was the key to an entirely different armoury he had never imagined existed.

He had never struggled to harness his malice against those who sought to cross him, but the scale of his reprisals had been infantile - soiled beds, stolen slates, spit in food and dead mice in shoes. Nasty things at a child's level, but in terms of exercising...

What was it that Poldue had said? "Authority unused is authority undeserved" or something like that. The rabble needed to feel the lash to remember it was there.

As he walked in silence to classes from the matins chants, he saw the progenii around him as rabble for the first time. Not enemies. Not threats. No comrades in aversity. But rabble. Even his allies were rabble, he thought. They were useful and reliable up to a point but, he knew, with the slightest opportunity they would turn on him, just like everyone else: not with cunning or calculation but out of simple instinct. It was how they had been raised and trained. There was no love but the Emperor's love. No mercy but the Emperor's mercy. No light but the Emperor's light. And if there was no Emperor - if his crumbling frame turned slowly to dust, like a dead cat bricked into the wall - what did that leave for someone like Dire?

He needed to send a message, he thought. He needed to let people know that Goge Dire was no longer a target you aimed at without consequence. He needed... not to remind the rabble of the lash, but to show them it existed at all! And his eyes roved the faces of those shuffling into their next lesson - mathematics and logistics - as he wondered how to do so and, most importantly, who to use as his first choice of target.

Lancet and Manchurian were too close. He couldn't begin by alienating his allies. They needed to believe that their proximity to him was a protection; that being his friend was a good long-term investment. To strike at a Drill Abbot was too ambitious by far and, in any case, how could he single out just one for his attention when they were all such golden examples of humanity?

Poldue... wasn't beyond his reach, but he couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of... gratitude? Or perhaps it was pity, he wasn't sure. Either way, the sixth floor boy was more use to him as a contact than a victim.

No, there was really only one good target, he thought, as he ran his hand over his aching jaw one more time.

Codzecher.

The boy was two rows in front of him. He had clearly given up trying to follow what the Drill Abbot was explaining about effective accounting, budget management and negotiations, because he was diligently scribing a grotesque phallus into the wood of his desk with a pocket knife. Inspired by his enemy's lack of focus, Dire committed himself to an attempt to match Codzecher in the opposite direction and gave the Drill Abbot his full attention. But it wasn't long before their teacher strayed from the main thrust of his less into a field well beloved to all of their respected masters: that of traitors and heretic and the many signs by which one could detect them.

'...a nauseating miasma!' decried the Drill Abbot, Master Aloysius Goon. He was an entertaining instructor, despite the dry nature of his subject, because he had spent seventy years with the Missionaria Galaxia, at the fringes of the Imperium, and could be distracted into highly instructive tangents regarding his many encounters with xenoforms and other foul enemies of mankind. 'Even as your eyes fall upon them, might you feel the bile well up in your throat and the rise of your gorge!'

It was a common theme of their many instructors - and of the Order Brethren who served in the chapels, and of the Magisters, the rarely-seen masters of the collegia themselves, that traitors (or heretics) could be detected on first principles from the effect they had upon the faithful. Dire wasn't sure by what mechanism it was supposed to take place, and he could only imagine that the idea that heretics (or traitors) might make a righteous man, in encountering them, feel an instant sense of nausea must have originated in some confessor's metaphorical flourish, only to be seized upon with enthusiasm. Got a hangover from an overindulgence in synthetic mead? No, it's just that there's a traitor (or heretic) nearby. Suffering the runs from your quartermaster buying up cheap grox meat and pocketing the difference? No, you're just feeling the effects of the heretics (or traitors) on the other side of the battlefield.

Dire could easily imagine how the notion could be manipulated. And as he let Master Goon's rhetoric wash over him, he found himself concocting a strange daydream in which some senior churchman - let's say a bishop - caught sight in his travels of a certain book: an oxblood leather-bound codex, a first illuminated edition of the Canticles of Saint Joan of the Nine Flails. And, having enquired of the owner, been told that it wasn't for sale. And, having inquired of his comptrollers, been told that the family that owned said book were both up-to-date with the their tithes and generous contributors to the Ecclesiarchy, well thought of among their community and prosperous in their industry.

And, being taken with his encounter, therefore, the bishop of Dire's imagination called up the family patriarch to attend him in his palace to receive his personal blessing - a blessing a loyal and devoted Imperial citizen would, of course, be anxious to receive. Yet, on his arrival, it seems that the bishop has been suddenly taken unwell. He should return the next day. But on the next day, when he arrives, he learns that the bishop, having seemingly recovered quite quickly, is suddenly once more taken ill with nausea.

At which point, of course, the bishop would turn to his closest advisors and ask if they themselves did not, perhaps, feel some kind of nausea or biliousness. Those bodyguards and sycophants would know this dance very well and immediately agree that, yes, they had indeed felt a sense of abdominal unease, and the bishop's greater sense of illness must have arisen because of his particular holiness. Moved by suspicion, therefore, the bishop orders an inspection of the family's accounts, and it proves that they have, indeed, made some small miscalculations in their favour here and there, because a young cousin was in love with a girl from another family and "borrowed" some funds to impress her, only it turned out that the girl's family had an aunt who had been associated with a sect that was banned. And at the same time it seemed that the family had been supplying for years a settlement whose leader's father had been burned for heresy thirty years ago...

From such fragmentary tangents and whispers and rumours could a froth of anger whip up against this poor family, who soon find themselves attacked in the streets. Their businesses are stoned. Their homes are burned. There is rioting against them. And the wise and compassionate bishop therefore dispatches the Templars to enforce order...

Such a tragedy that the family patriarch should die in the chaos. So unexpected that his wife and children should be arrested for raising arms against the Templars! How frightful that it should turn out that the suspicions were right all along and that this ostensibly righteous and good-natured local family should turn out to be heretics (or traitors) in waiting, that they would turn upon the representatives of the God Emperor over such a tiny provocation.

Oh, and their businesses and properties are now forfeited to the Ministorum such that they might be repaired and renewed in righteousness through service to the Temple of the Saviour Emperor in general and to the bishop in particular.

And once the dust has settled, a certain oxblood leather-bound illuminated first edition would make its way to the hands of that same bishop who would, with a smile, settle it atop a burning brazier, watch it burst into flames and contemplate that the other, identical copy that sits upon the shelves at his back, is now increasingly rare and valuable...

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The feelings of physical reaction to treachery (or heresy) were obviously rubbish to Dire's mind. After all, by any reasonable definition of a heretic, Goge Dire was a heretic. He had no faith in the God Emperor whom he thought was most likely a corpse, at best, if not entirely fictional. He did not believe in saints or miracles or blessings. He didn't even believe in the Ecclesiarchy as anything but an extortion racket. He scarcely believed in humanity's divinely ordained right to rule the stars except so far as he was happy for it to rule whatever part he was currently occupying. Had he the opportunity to do so without censure, he would spit on the icons and statues and worse. He would cheerfully piss in the Ecclesiarch's face and half suspected the old bastard would enjoy it.

And yet, despite that, no one had ever expressed any particular sense of digestive incongruity in his presence.

But still...

Having thought that, it still seemed to him that there was something about Codzecher that did, indeed, give him a feeling not unlike what was described by the frothing Master Goon. Codzecher's intellectual bankruptcy and lazy malignancy really did make Dire feel ill. His gross assurance of a smooth passage through life in which he would be free to abuse, maim, rape and murder indiscriminately offended Dire on a level that was almost sublime enough to make him ponder the actual existence of a soul.

And all of that gave him the germ of an idea of how to make sure the rabble knew where they stood with Goge Dire. But first...

First, Codzecher had to know that it was coming.

*

Gerant Codzecher didn't think of himself as a bad person. In fact, he tried very hard to be the person he thought the Emperor wanted him to be, to fit himself into the image that the Drill Abbots had painted for him of the ideal Officer of Templars: someone who would follow orders with unyielding faith, to do whatever needed to be done for the betterment and safety of humanity, regardless of how callous or brutal. He was expected to think - to be able to plan, to understand those beneath his command, to direct them about their tasks, and to offer them an example of Imperial manhood: loyalty, faith and obedience. He was expected to take a wife and father children upon her who might grow up to be a fresh generation of soldiers in the Emperor's service.

No, he didn't think he was a bad person at all. He just happened to think that he was especially blessed to have been given a purpose in life to which he was so obviously, eminently suited, because he enjoyed it so much. He really enjoyed following the Drill Abbots' orders when it came to keeping order amongst the lower floors and even amongst his own peers. He enjoyed it so much that he used the critical thinking skills he was expected to show to creatively interpret their orders to give himself the maximum opportunity to do so. In fact, he went out of his way to make himself available to receive such orders whenever he could, directly and indirectly.

In fact, he was such a good, loyal, faithful and obedient future soldier of the Ecclesiarchy that he would happily construe his own orders from the words of the daily sermons, the lessons of the Drill Abbots and the examples of his seniors. And, after four years, he had never once been told that he was wrong to do so, or been given any reason to think that the model of behaviour he had built around himself was anything but entirely consistent with his purpose in life.

Until Dire.

Dire had been little more than punctuation in his life's narrative for the last four years: an easy subject for intimidation, with no protection network or sponsor to support him. Codzecher didn't hate Dire. He barely saw him as anything but an ambulatory punching bag for those occasions when a more apposite target failed to present itself. So forgettable was he on Codzecher's personal radar that the larger boy had to remind himself of the smaller's name every time he hit him.

It had seemed like a good name up to now: Dire. It meant dreadful, awful, well below standard. It seemed right for such a scrawny, useless creature. But something had changed, recently. There had been a subtle shift in how he was treated by the Drill Abbots and the seniors that had made his previously invisible self somehow more prominent. It had elevated Dire to some new, unspoken rank amongst his peers that placed him alongside the ones seen as future cardinals or grandmasters, even though he was in the Administratum contingent. And there was no question that it wasn't just that Dire had moved up in the hierarchy, somehow. There was something else going on that Codzecher didn't understand, because whenever he looked up, it seemed, Dire was watching him or, if not watching him, just... nearby. He would open the door of his room and Dire would be passing in the corridor. He would sit down at class and find Dire sitting next to him. He would finish his plate at refectory and there Dire would be, clearing the table, leaning over him.

He would normally have taken the fragile little ink-spot by the collar, dragged him to a quiet corner and given him a thorough kicking. But that just didn't seem to be an option that was on the cards any more. Without anyone explicitly saying so, it just felt as if word had gone around that Dire was somehow off limits. But he hadn't been given any orders. No one had said "don't hit Dire anymore". There hadn't been any hints or nods or gentle pushes he could interpret with any certainty that he wasn't supposed to do it. There was just... a vague sense of unease that surrounded him when he took the measure of the situation.

Perplexed and frustrated, Codzecher did the same thing he always did in such situations. He took it to confession.

Every seventh day in the Schola was a rest day, which meant that the progenii spent their morning undertaking various physical tasks of maintenance and cleaning under the supervision of the sixth floor then, after refectory, they would spend the next three hours in chapel. Chapel services varied slightly throughout the seasons, with services dedicated to particular feast periods, saints, historical remembrances and particular rituals. Their structure usually followed the framework of a short, preliminary sermon of perhaps one third of a hour, followed by chants and psalms, then a reading from a canonical text, then a substantive sermon of an hour or so, followed by hymnals, prayers and benedictions.

But whatever minor details might change from one service to another, all progenii were expected to perform confession in turn, each being summoned one at a time from their places - all of them standing throughout - to the confessional box.

If was usually a relief to have the chance to sit for a few minutes, and progenii would commonly do their best to stretch out a confession as long as they could for that reason alone. But as no one could leave the chapel until all confessions were done, there was also a good motivation to get in and out quickly.

Still, Codzecher enjoyed confession. It always left him feeling cleansed and light-hearted and reassured in the righteousness of his life's purpose. And it was a fine opportunity to seek guidance from his superiors whenever he was in doubt.

'Forgive me, master, for I am a sinner before the Throne,' he said, almost before he finished kneeling at the grille and making the sign of the aquila across his chest.

'Bless you, dear servant of the God Emperor of Mankind,' said the duty Drill Abbot on the other side in bored tones. 'Unburden yourself of your guilt and shame and I shall grant you his absolution.'

Codzecher made a routine confession of his failures to pay close attention in class and not giving his maximum effort to all of his duties, which was his normal habit. Then, as the Drill Abbot was about to issue penance, he said, 'Um...'

'Is there something else, boy?' asked the confessor, perking up at the prospect of sins actually worth hearing about.

'There is a progenius called Dire, master,' Codzecher began.

'Does he attract your eye, boy?' grumbled the confessor, leaning closer to the screen.

'What?' said Codzecher, confused. 'No. Um. The opposite, I suppose. I feel like he is... lacking proper respect and discipline.'

'Then you should instill it in him!' urged the confessor, and Codzecher felt himself begin to smile at the assurance. 'Your duty is...'

There was a sudden pause on the other side of the grille.

'Did you say "Dire" was the boy's name?'

'Er, yes master,' confirmed Codzecher.

'Goge Dire, in Chimaera?'

'Yes, master,' Codzecher agreed, disconcerted. There were hundreds of Drill Abbots in the Schola. They rarely paid much attention to individual progenii until they were at least at the sixth floor. It was unsettling that this one would know Dire - even know his first name! Codzecher had known Dire for four years and didn't think he could have been certain of the boy's first name until this very moment.

'Is he in a lower floor to you?' asked the confessor in somewhat less confident tones.

'No, sir.'

'Is he inattentive in lessons? Tardy?'

'No, sir.'

'Is he sloppily dressed or unwashed?'

'No, sir.'

'So you would think to put this boy, Dire, in his place simply because you are bigger and stronger than he is, is that your plan?'

'Um...' said Codzecher, suddenly very much on the back foot. 'No. Well... I suppose...'

'Strength comes in many forms, boy,' said the Drill Abbot, moving away from the grille. 'And one cannot always judge the size or threat of a target without additional data. Do you feel threatened by this boy, Dire?'

'Threatened, sir?'

'Do you worry that he is a threat to you, boy?' murmured the confessor, leaning in again. 'Do you have secrets you should unburden yourself of, at this opportune time? Is it not better to release these things to your confessor, openly and sincerely and accept your righteous due, than to permit them to be exposed by another, and risk facing a far more severe sanction in the future?'

'No, sir?' said Codzecher.

'No, it isn't better to confess, boy? Or no, you have no secrets to share?'

'Um, no secrets, sir,' insisted Codzecher, deeply unnerved by the direction in which the conversation had turned and the unfamiliar sense of persecution that had been shifted in his direction. 'I love confession sir!

'Hm,' said the Drill Abbot, his voice a low growl. 'Love it, do you? Take pleasure from our sanctions and your due penance, do you?'

'No, sir!' insisted Codzecher, almost yelping in fear at this point, words tumbling from his lips. 'Unburdening myself of my sins lightens my heart and brings me joy! Penance restores my place of righteousness in the Emperor's sight!'

There was a sudden silence on the other side of the grille.

'Yes,' said the confessor eventually. 'Yes, it does. You will perform two rituals of adoration for your paltry sins, boy, and one full cycle of humble penitence to remind yourself that penance is not a pleasure in which to indulge, but a grueling necessity of the foul taint that lies upon your unworthy soul. And don't let me or any of my brothers hear the name Dire upon you lips ever again. Is that understood?'

'Yes, sir!' Codzecher almost sobbed, while his mind, more confused than it had ever been in his life, wailed No!