"Sending Deville to handle this really was the right call. That hound is even more capable than I'd thought."
Eden studied the battle reports a moment longer, then allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile.
With his mad dog having seized the initiative and tearing out throats across the theater, he could move to his next step.
Once the Empire's high nobles understood what had become of the rebels, they would—surely—choose wisely.
He flicked off the hololithic display, in fine spirits.
Lifting a glass, he tasted the latest tribute from a certain garden world—a red wine said to be crafted by the purest young merfolk maidens.
It had a singular character.
Not bad. There is, indeed, a breath of maiden-sweetness and the sea about it.
Eden did have a weakness for regional specialties—especially the rare ones with a particular charm.
"Tarko, how long have those high nobles been… enjoying the hotel?" he asked, glancing at the secretary-general waiting at his side.
Not long ago, he'd had every high noble arriving through the webway bussed straight to a luxury complex jointly built by the Ministry of the Interior, the Scholastica Psykana, and the Inquisition:
the West Ice Vault Grand Hotel.
There they would receive very special hospitality—
Twenty-four-seven "protective custody" under armed security and total surveillance; bell service on demand; cudgel-massage therapy; facial treatments; dynamic thought audits; psyker-guided mental "recuperation"; deep-water immersion sessions…
And, of course, nutritionally balanced meals.
If you weren't a high noble, you didn't qualify for so exalted a package.
"Half a month," Tarko replied with a respectful bow. "More high nobles are still arriving to check in. It seems the Grand Inquisitor's 'advice' has had its effect.
"No one wishes to depart. They are all waiting for Your Majesty's arrival."
"It seems they are paragons of Imperial loyalty," Eden said, well pleased, topping off his wine.
"Then let them wait a while longer. Let them enjoy themselves. No one in the Empire is more lenient toward the nobility than I am.
"I trust they'll repay the favor."
There was no need to rush.
The flame was not yet hot enough; it needed time to simmer.
"Your Majesty is merciful," Tarko said, bowing again. "I'll notify the hotel to extend their stay, and assign additional Inquisitorial cadres to the premises."
Having settled the reports and the West Ice Vault arrangements, Eden rose and returned to the Sanctum's private chambers.
He intended to sample the Lacas Sector's tribute next.
—
Half a month earlier.
Dawn City, outer approaches.
Shuttles dropped from the atmosphere one after another, angling toward the colossal structure rising kilometers into the sky.
Aboard one such shuttle…
Several high nobles sat together in quiet, tight conversation.
They were principals of the Lacas Pan-Sector League—the Empire's eminent bloodlines.
"Didn't expect we'd be joining the feast this soon—and negotiating with the Empire's New Sun," said Drew Ovelia, drawing deeply on a Krieg Death Cigar. The potent compounds twined pain with pleasure until he floated.
An expensive Dawn City import—its Drukhari-esque bite had conquered him quickly.
The heir of House Korda frowned.
He disliked narcotics—especially anything that dulled the mind. His house held that such vices were unworthy of an elite administrator.
He thumbed on the sub-dermal filters in his face, scrubbing the air of every offending trace.
Many high nobles took similar augmetics, the better to screen out toxins—including those favored by assassins.
It sharply improved survival odds.
Catching his breath, he said, "It appears the Savior means to compromise—otherwise he'd have delayed talks.
"At least until he finished crushing the Ascolon Sector. Everyone's watching that front.
"But it's understandable: the Tyranid swarms are stirring again; the Necrons' Silent King has announced an expansion; dead zones are spreading, and several Imperial fleets have already been annihilated; and there's even an unknown Traitor Astartes warband in the field.
"He hasn't time to dally with us."
Korda's heir fixed Drew with a look. "My advice stands. The Lacas Pan-Sector League should begin pressure immediately and extract more concessions.
"We must seize the moment."
The other League delegates turned to Drew, waiting on the candidate-heir of House Ovelia to decide.
"You press too hard. We wait," Drew said, shaking his head once more. Korda's blood was ever-restless—ever chasing profit by risking the blade's edge.
Drew disliked that kind of hunger. Not that it hadn't worked—Korda had soared quickly and reaped unnatural margins.
Even so, something in Drew's gut was uneasy—