Legion by Dan Abnett

again, refusing to allow panic to dig in.
    A water-carrier came up to him and offered a ladle of water.
    ‘No, thank you,’ Grammaticus said. ‘God love you anyway,’ the carrier replied, moving on.
    Grammaticus shuddered. What the water-carrier had actually said literally translated as, The Primordial Annihilator immolate your living soul.
    What’s wrong with me, Grammaticus thought? Last time I was here, I slipped easily from street to street. This time, I’m behaving like an amateur. My head is swimming. This is… this is stupid.
    He crossed through two more busy streets, looking for familiar landmarks. It felt as if Kurnaul district was further away than ever. It was as if something was distracting him, baffling his abilities.
    On impulse, he reached into the bag of mineral salts hooked to his broad over-belt, and closed his fingers around the memeseed hidden in the salt inside. The seed was the size of an earlobe, set into a small silver clasp. Gahet had given it to him. The seeds, fruited from some xenotype tree on a world somewhere in the Cabal’s range of influence, were psychically sensitive. If they grew warm, or desiccated in any way, it was a sign that psychic activity was close by.
    Grammaticus looked at the memeseed. It was always a little warm and dry, because it reacted to his own talents. In his hand, the seed was positively hot, like a burning coal. It had shrivelled in its setting.
    He was in trouble. The memeseed screamed a warning that something was nearby, perhaps something hunting him.
    ‘D’sal? D’sal Huulta?’
    Grammaticus looked over his shoulder and saw a portly merchant waving to him. The man had been standing in conversation with a group of his brethren on the steps of a counting house, but he left them to hurry over. Grammaticus quickly put the memeseed away.
    What is his name? His name? You’ve met him before. ‘D’sal, my good fellow,’ the portly merchant declared, making the all-the-sunlight gesture and adding a bow. ‘I have missed your face at the market these last few days. What news of the fire-brick deal we sketched out on our last meeting? Has your supplier delivered?’
    H’dek. H’dek Rootun. That was his name.
    ‘H’dek, my good fellow, I am pained to respond that my supplier has become a goat’s maw,’ Grammaticus answered politely, ‘taking more than it gives. It turns out I can’t deliver on that fire-brick deal. I apologise.’
    H’dek waved his pudgy hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry! I quite understand. In these times of hardship and oppression, with the alien siege at our door, things like this happen.’
    He looked at Grammaticus more earnestly. ‘You have my fetish, my gene-print? Yes? Good, we can deal in future! I look forward to receiving your envoy.’
    ‘I am always your servant, H’dek,’ Grammaticus mumbled. He made the sign of all-the-sunlight, and added the gesture of the moons-entire as he ended the meeting.
    He strode on down the length of the street feeling as uneasy and lost as before. Then he hurried into an open square, where the foot traffic was lighter, hoping the freedom of the space would give him room to clear his head, and perhaps even identify the source of the psychic activity the seed had detected. Clarity obstinately refused to come.
    Grammaticus paused, and slowly raised his eyes.
    He was standing in the Pa’khel Awan Nurth, the square of the pre-eminent temple in Mon Lo. High above him on the temple’s tympanum, a bas-relief frieze showed the four properties of the Primordial Annihilator: death, ecstasy, mortality and mutability, blending together into one, huge, ghastly symbol of unity.
    What gross mistake had led his feet here, what clumsy mis-turn? This was the last place in the city he would have visited voluntarily.
    The tympanum symbol seemed to pulse, to throb, pressing his eyeballs back into their sockets. Sunlight flared and buzzed. He gagged, and forced hot reflux back down into his gut. His previous visit