The bag landed on Bravian Staur’s desk with a thud followed by several soft clanks as the contents shifted. The rogue trader raised an immaculately curated eyebrow and stared down at it. The bag appeared to be made of several different kinds of leather stapled together and Staur had the unsettling notion they were all different kinds of skin. Given who was currently seated in his chair, boots up on his desk as if he owned it, Staur would not have been surprised.

‘As promised.’

Nac’caleth’s voice oozed from between thin lips that curled back into an amused smirk, revealing teeth that had been filed to needle points. The drukhari watched Staur for a reaction, as if hoping his impudence and the macabre drawstring bag might be enough to elicit one for his entertainment.

‘We shall see,’ Staur said, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Allsance, the scale if you please.’

The savant lurched from his place in the corner like a marionette with its strings suddenly pulled. Allsance shambled to a side table and procured a scale of gold and brass which he brought over to Staur’s desk and placed beside the skin bag. He checked the scale to make sure it was tarred correctly before bowing and returning to his corner.

Staur picked up the drawstring bag in a gloved hand, moving gingerly as if he expected the leather to come apart in his grasp. His free hand disappeared into the bag. When it reappeared it held a gemstone. The stone was ovoid in shape, blue in colour, and polished smooth to a reflective sheen as perfect as any mirror. Staur placed the stone upon the scale and waited as the instrument measured its weight.

‘They are all of this quality?’ the rogue trader asked.

‘Every one,’ Nac’caleth replied. ‘You may check each one if you do not trust me,’ the drukhari added tauntingly.

Staur waved a hand dismissively as he produced a second stone from the bag and held it up to his eye. This one was blood red and as it caught the lumen strips recessed into his office ceiling it seemed to suddenly glow with an inner fire.

‘Your source for these?’

‘Myriad, as always.’

‘Vague, as always,’ Staur replied.

‘Some things are better that way,’ Nac’caleth said with an oily smile. ‘No need to worry yourself with morals.’

‘I never do.’

Nac’caleth’s smile seemed to flicker at the rogue trader’s response but the lapse was momentary. ‘They will fetch you a fortune, same as the others I have supplied.’

‘Yes,’ Staur said. ‘A pity I will not get the chance to profit from them.’

Nac’caleth’s smile vanished, genuine confusion on his face. He moved to speak and he missed the shadows suddenly shifting behind him. A hand clad in green armour clamped itself over Nac’caleth’s mouth a moment before a chainsword burst through his chest. Staur was quietly impressed. It was an elegant weapon that made a mockery of its Imperial counterpart. It did not roar or snarl. Its whirring teeth made no mess. Its passing was a whisper and it cut as cleanly as any straight-edged blade.

The sword remained where it was as the life fled from Nac’caleth’s eyes. When it retracted, the drukhari slumped sideways, body striking the floor with a thud. A red smear and a hole marred the chair’s back cushion.

‘Could you have at least done that without ruining the chair?’ Staur asked.

The shadows around the edge of the room shifted and several shapes solidified from them. All wore segmented green armour and carried chainswords. Most wore insectoid helmets with mandibles that Staur noted were actually some sort of close range weapon. One, the one that had slain Nac’caleth from behind, stepped around the ruined chair. This figure wore no helm, but their left hand was encased in a weapon designed to look like a scorpion’s pincer. Her face was sharp and angular, and seemed to be set in a look of perpetual annoyance. Intelligent blue eyes flashed beneath a mane of fire-red hair tamed back into a series of braids that cascaded down her shoulders. She gave the drukhari’s corpse a dismissive look as she stepped over it and presented herself to the rogue trader.

‘The chair was important to you?’ Exarch Ral’thala asked, her voice heavily accented as if her tongue was not accustomed to speaking Low Gothic.

‘Valuable is a better word,’ Staur said after a moment’s contemplation.

‘Then it is no matter,’ Ral’thala replied. ‘You will have value enough from our agreement.’

Staur tilted his head. ‘Your kin will honour the agreement?’ he asked. ‘What assurances can you provide?’

‘None,’ Ral’thala said, a wry smile curling her lips. ‘At least not until you arrive above Ishyntra and are not fired upon by the wardens there. Until then, you have upheld your end of the bargain, luring out the wretch dealing in our spirit stones. Trust that we will uphold ours.’

‘I did not live this long by trusting,’ Staur said.

Ral’thala laughed. ‘Then there is some wisdom yet left in your race.’

‘Wisdom?’ Staur mused as he watched Ral’thala retrieve the bag of spirit stones. The shadows shifted again, swathing the Striking Scorpions around the room. It engulfed them and they bled away as silently as they had arrived. There, on the rogue trader’s desk where the bag had been, was a scrap of paper with coordinates on it. Staur picked it up.

‘It’s just good business.’