>>5645958***
The Oligarchy Gate. The afternoon of the ninth day, at Slaydo’s left hand. Ahead, the famous Gate, defended by the woe machines of Heritor Asphodel. Mud lakes. Freak weather. The chemical deluge triggered by the orbital bombardment and the Heritor’s toxins. Molten pitch in the air like torrential rain—
Gaunt walked towards the bright vista. It was untouched. War-clean. It was Balopolis as it had been.
Wire barbs skinning the air. The thuk of impacts, so many impacts. Clouds of pink mist to his left and right as men were hit. Ahead, below the Gate, the machines whirring again—
(...)
Jaume brandished his props. “The assistant stands in a pose that matches the pose of the family’s loved one in an old pict, and then I match the face in later. It’s most satisfactory. The families are
always delighted to be reunited in that way, one last time.”
“How do you get the uniform details right?” Gaunt asked.
“To be honest,” said Jaume, “many of the old picts I’m given to work from are not in formal dress, or sometimes the uniforms just aren’t very… compelling. Heroic, if you like. The families are always keen to make their loved one look as dashing and martial as possible.”
“So you make it up?” asked Gaunt.
“I manufacture commemoration, sir,” said Jaume. “I give my clients a memento of the way things should have been.”
