11 Joint Consultation (II)

Ordinarily, within the Imperium, a sage of Belisarius Cawl's standing would receive an exceedingly grand welcome no matter what kind of world he visited.

The local governor would certainly appear in person, wearing the same fawning, ingratiating smile they had displayed before rising to power, their faces creased with effort as they exhausted every means at their disposal just to lick a speck of dust from between the fingers of the esteemed Mechanicum Archmagos.

And did Cawl enjoy such things?

The answer was a sacred, capitalized no bearing the mark of the Omnissiah, followed by a mouthful of his own spit—if he still had any.

Leaving aside the many years he had spent alone on Sotha, even in his younger days, dabbling in politics and attending all manner of balls had never been something Belisarius Cawl put on his daily schedule.

He had no interest whatsoever in vast profits or easily obtained promotions. He focused only on his ideals.

So what were his ideals?

To serve the Omnissiah with the bottomless devotion of a fanatic, willing to abandon everything for the slightest technological discovery?

To become engrossed in the beauty of machinery, burying himself in the harmony between gears and transmission belts while treating the outside world as though it did not exist?

To adore the mighty power displayed by the Machine God, follow in His footsteps without end, forge guns and cannons, and master ever greater destructive force?

The answer was none of the above. Yet, apart from one person, almost no one had ever asked Cawl this question. Thus, when that person asked him, the Archmagos had even felt somewhat at a loss.

At the time, he had asked, "You won't laugh at me, will you?"

"No." The golden sun within his mind had answered. "I promise you."