That trips through the hellish realm of the Immaterium can be idylls of peace is a paradox known to many Imperial travelers. Certainly I have always found this to be the case, except for that time on the Prospect of Redemption of course. As a Rogue Trader the Caledonia was luxuriously appointed with every amenity. Hadrian was able to receive proper treatment for his wound opting, to Lazarus' disgust, for a cloned organ rather than an augmetic. Selenica clucked and fussed over him. Lazarus did whatever it is tech priests do. Elektra, having opted to enter Hadrian's service in order to atone for her sins, spent her time in the Caledonia's small chapel, ritually scourging herself. This ritual, conducted nude, had attracted the attention of several of the Caledonia's crew, until Elektra had caught them watching and put three of them in the medical bay. It was fortunate that she didn't have her chainblade and thus our voyeurs remained in one piece. I spent several days in a kind of fugue as I struggle to disentangle my mind from that of the late Simon Philovong, a rigorous process of directed meditation which slowly cleaned my mind. Now and again I caught glimpses of the shade of Jogar Carden in the corner of my eye, but I resolutely ignored him.

I spent some time reading, though Hadrian always contrived to accompany me when I did, transparently concerned that I might delve into his tomes of forbidden lore without guidance. This rather soured the pleasure and I soon gave up on the practice and returned to the real work of the Inquisition. It may surprise the uninitiated, whose view of the Ordos is of stern faced heroes dispensing the Emperor's justice with a bolt pistol, that the vast majority of time is spent grinding through data. The Imperium of Man runs on record keeping, and I am convinced that any mystery may be solved if one simply has the patience to deal with the mountains of numbers generated by the Administratum. We had converted one of the Caledonia's guest quarters to a kind of operations center by removing most of the furniture and piling up documents and data slates. The walls we had covered with picts and notes linked together by sacred scarlet cord, a tradition of the Inquisition whose origins had been lost in the mist of time. There were masses of new material to be added, picts of the burned printing presses which had been used to create the scrolls, notes on the Under Council and their purchases of unsanctioned psykers and on and on. I was sipping an amesec and making notes on some of Philovong's sermons He had been an articulate man and a gifted orator. His doctrine of radical obedience to the word of the Emperor wasn't heretical in and of itself but I could trace the man's progress. Radical obedience to the word of the Emperor quickly became a kind of soft anti-clericalism, the hierarchs of the Church were no closer the Emperor's Grace than the humble street preacher and so on. I could see where he had become a target for the cult who could offer him a Word that was Obedience. Philovong had begun with the good intentions that the road to heresy is so often paved with. I was pondering if that meant my ambivalent intentions were actually a better recommendation for Imperial service when the door hissed open and Urien bustled in, grinning like the cat that ate the syber bird. He offered a formal bow and extended a leather case to me, embossed with the signals of an astropathic communique. I opened it and took out the printed flimsy inside. 

"Better get the others," I told him.

______

"Meet Inquisitor Teritus Vorn," I told the party when they had assembled. I was wearing a dress of shimmering cloth of gold with varying inlays of silver and copper thread. On the wall was a new image, this one depicting the Inquisitor Hadrian had fought on Havenos. Unlike the psy-casts  had made of the man, which were slightly fuzzy with the fear and confusion which had colored my perception of him, this image was clear and precise, part of an astropathic communique we had received in response to the query we had sent out months earlier. Time was not always reliable when it came to astropathic messages, and who knew what favors Hadrian had called in to get the beauracracy of the Ordos moving.  

"Ordo Hereticus, sterling record, marked for great things by all accounts," I told them, summarizing the few details that had been appended to the name and picture. 

"Purged the Pyrarchy on Cadavitz, prosecuted the arch-deacon of Leinster and successfully convicted him, broke a ring of xeno-antiquity traders on Remic II," I continued, then paused and shrugged my shoulders. "By all reports a dyed in the wool mono-dominant."

"I've never heard of him," Hadrian declared bluntly. I nodded my head. In some ways the Inquisition was a small community, but the galaxy was a very large place.

"He is assigned to the Ordo Angevin, in the Orphidian Sub," I noted. Inquisitors could, in theory, go anywhere but as a matter of administrative origination, they were grouped into rough geographical units. Most sub sectors were headed by a Grandmaster or Inquisitor General who oversaw operations.

"He is a long way from home then," Lazarus noted, retriving the datum which had taken me to the library to run down in a few moments.