In the end, it was obvious enough. The symbol of the Terashova Combine was a leonine head amid a circle of stylised flames, embossed in gold on a crimson ground. That image was recognisable throughout the city, plastered all over their transports and depots and administratum facilities. Here, it took pride of place above an ornate gateway, floodlit even in the middle of the drear day, scrubbed spotless, looking gaudy.

The gate itself had two doors of heavy adamantium, highly burn­ished, and an ashlar-faced pillbox crammed with twitchy-looking guards. Three of them emerged from behind the shutters as the Luxer drew up. The one that came to the window was a big brute in full-body flak armour. His helm was gold-plated, and had an absurd-looking leonine face mask. He carried a pump-action projectile rifle, cradling it like a baby as he swaggered in close.

Zidarov waited a while before winding down the armourglass door-window. It was a hot day, and that armour looked sweaty.

‘Name, citizen,’ the guard demanded.

‘Put your gun away,’ said Zidarov, irritably, flashing the Bastion’s holo-seal. ‘I’m expected.’

The lion-faced guard looked at the seal, grunted, and waved over to his counterparts in the pillbox. The doors began to swing open. As soon as they were wide enough, Zidarov drove through the gap, then down a long, curving drive.

The residence was set amid landscaped gardens. They were spectacular, by any standards – lush, well watered, bursting with floral borders and shaded with mature trees. Watercourses meandered through lawns that glowed with an almost chemical vividness. At the end of the drive was a gravelled plaza surrounded by a vine-strewn colonnade. The residence’s main entrance rose up beyond that – an ice-white marble veranda, barred with columns and crowned with a high pediment.

Zidarov parked the groundcar, got out, and headed up the steps. The scent of flowers wafted over the real grass. As he did so, a man came down to meet him dressed in a crisp white jacket and trousers. He was bald, and his skin was as smooth as all that marble stacked up around him.

‘Probator Zidarov,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Thank you for coming so swiftly. Matriarch Terashova awaits within.’

The two of them went up the steps and into a hallway of polished stone and glass. The corridors beyond were lined with dynastic portraits and extravagant artwork. Zidarov’s boots squeaked on the shiny floors, echoing down long, empty spaces.

Eventually they arrived at what seemed to be some kind of reception chamber, decked out with comfortable organic-fabric sofas and armchairs. A dark wooden floor was covered in a plush rug, while the wall-set lumens were lined with twisted sheaths of brass. Zidarov didn’t know much about art, so couldn’t tell whether it was any good. It was a bit ­flamboyant, he thought.