'Are we not uncounted individuals, striving for a common purpose? Why must they deny us our fate? Who are they to control and direct from afar, when we know ourselves as they never can?
The man's words struck a chord deep within Brielle's heart, yet she knew he trod a path at odds with the teachings of the Imperial Creed, and he did so openly, in the shadow of an abandoned cathedral.
'The old ways hold no meaning for us! He was pointing straight at Brielle. 'Only we can avert doomsday, and only then by uniting for the good of all!
The old ways have no meaning. Brielle was shocked to hear such words spoken on a world of the Imperium, yet she found they spoke to her more than a thousand sermons of the type she had grown up with. The people here listened, and considered the speaker's words, they did not make hollow and meaningless responses learned by rote but never truly understood. She was beginning to understand the apparent ennui evinced in the behaviour of Luneberg's court. Perhaps they were not simply bored, casting around for distraction as she had assumed. Perhaps they were simply free of the constraints that bound so many worlds of the Imperium.
Yet, what remained once obedience and faith were stripped away? How deep did the teachings of this man, and his like, cut? Brielle could sympathise with a wish to be rid of the shackles of rule, after all, she was a rogue trader and existed outside of such laws, but still she held on to a core of faith in the Emperor. The boundaries of that faith were being redefined as she listened, but she also knew that nothing the speaker could ever say would make her reject the God-Emperor of Mankind. Nothing would change her belief in Him.
'Change is the only constant! the man bellowed, bowing to his audience before departing with a flourish. The crowd cheered, mightily impressed at such a witty turn of phrase.
'The wise adapt. Brielle whispered, standing in silence as the crowd broke up around her.
Brielle had found herself wandering aimlessly along the city's streets, the crowds thinning as the night drew on. She headed in the vague direction of Luneberg's palace, yet she cared little to return to the company of her father and her stepbrother. Her wanderings brought her back through the centre of the merchants' quarter, were she slowed, idly looking for some distraction that would delay her return to the palace.
This part of the city remained busy. Commerce, it appeared, never slept. Merchants in their gaudy dress paraded the streets, ostentatious in their displays of personal wealth. The sounds of drunken merriment emanated from the establishments that crowded the streets, signs above each announcing their specialised venality.
Brielle was in no mood for shallow vices. She wandered on, until she heard the rumble of shouting and yelling from an entrance ahead. Reaching it, a sign above the door declared that it was an auction house, and by the sound emanating from within, she had no doubt that a sale was in progress, even at such a late hour.
She entered, a pair of burly guards letting her pass without question, and followed the sound of the shouting up a wide set of stairs, a threadbare, though once elaborate carpet running its length. At the top of the stairs, an archway of crumbling stone led to a gallery, through which Brielle could see crowds of people up on their feet, waving their hands in some agitation.
She stepped through the archway, and pushed past the rear ranks of the crowd.
'Sold to the representative of the Drefus Cartel! A wave of disappointed jeering swept the crowd, and several men, wealthy merchants by their dress, threw papers to the floor, cursing colourfully. Brielle looked to the front of the hall, and saw that she stood upon one gallery of many, arranged around a central pit. The auctioneer sat on a podium, opposite, and appeared to have a large speaker grille for a mouth and a periwig that trailed almost to the floor.
The auctioneer waved chubby hands, his distorted, artificial voice shouting, 'Order please gentlemen, order! through his speaker-mouth.
A modicum of calm filled the hall, the merchants chattering excitedly nonetheless. 'Our next sale is an exquisite example of out-rim xenocana.
An attendant stepped out onto the floor of the pit, and a hush descended over the crowd as he held aloft a white staff capped with an elaborate array of multi-faceted jewels and fluted panels. The attendant circled the pit, the staff held high for the closest of the bidders to examine.
'This fine item comes to us from many light years away, and many brave men perished to capture it. It was once the staff of office of the Terror of the Trident Nebula, who wielded it against the orks of the Chrazhgkek tribe. The crowd cooed in awe at this, although Brielle had to struggle to stifle a laugh. As much as she was amused at the blatantly fraudulent description, she was even more surprised to witness such an artefact, whether or not it was genuine, on view and for sale on a world of the Imperium. She sighed, beginning to enjoy the freedoms she was witnessing around her.
'What am I bid for this fine, rare item?
A comically overweight merchant, half of his bulk spilling over the gallery's railing, threw his hand in the air. The bidding was on. Brielle watched in wry fascination, her incredulity growing as the bidding increased. She noted that the bidders tendered trade bonds, promissory notes she guessed, that tied them to a common, local market. Such tender would be meaningless outside of Mundus Chasmata, and appeared a deliberate policy to ensure that the trade did not attract the attention of outside authorities.
As the bidding reached its finale, so the bidders became more unruly. Brielle realised that up to this point, she had not seen the Chasmatans exhibit much in the way of emotion beyond studied disinterest. She wondered whether the acquisition of xenos artefacts, even ones that were likely to be fakes, was merely a new distraction that temporarily sated their apparent languor. The auction reached its conclusion, and the auctioneer hammered his gavel, the crowd erupting once more into bedlam.
Except that one person stood quite still, and Brielle felt his gaze upon her before turning to see him looking in her direction from the next gallery. A moment later, the robed figure nodded, and ducked into the crowd. Brielle froze, her father's advice coming to mind: when in doubt, eyes open, mouth closed.
A minute or two later, and just as the crowd was beginning to quieten, the robed man appeared at Bridle's side, as she had suspected he would. She turned to face him as he pulled down his hood, to reveal a shaved head, and a square-jawed face, flowing Gothic script tattooed across the cheeks and a heraldic device upon the forehead.
'Naal? Brielle asked.
The man bowed, a smile creasing his sombre face. 'Indeed my lady. It is an honour to be remembered'
'Not at all' Brielle demurred, wincing as the auctioneer bellowed the details of the next item to be sold, the crowd exploding into raucous chaos once more.
Naal indicated the archway with a sweeping arm. 'Shall we?
She nodded, and walked by his side out of the gallery. 'If you don't mind my asking, madam, do you wish to be escorted back to the palace, or might I be permitted to show you the real sights of Chasmata Capitalis?
'The real sights? Brielle liked the sound of that. 'Why not?
Swirling, discordant rhythms filled the hall, driving howling cadences into Brielle's skull as she reclined upon a low couch of exquisite brocade. The highborn elite of Mundus Chasmata passed the night away on similar seats, all around. Gossamer drapes suspended from low, carved archways afforded the courtiers a ghostly aspect, their features obscured behind the rich, diaphanous fabric.