It was such a naive question that he hardly knew what to tell her. He’d always tried to protect her from the worst aspects of what he did. Perhaps that had been the mistake.

‘The city’s a dangerous place,’ he said, lamely. ‘There’s always a risk.’

She looked at him long and hard, with a kind of portentous seriousness. ‘You shouldn’t have been alone.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Then they should have protected you.’

‘I’ll tell Draj that, when I see him next.’ He shifted in his cot. His chest was killing him – it felt like she’d cracked another rib. ‘But, look, where were you? We were getting worried.’

‘Here and there. Thinking through some things. What you told me.’

‘And what did you conclude?’

‘You let me do the training. It would be a waste, not to use it.’

‘I agree. And there are lots of ways you could do that.’

‘But I have to serve Him, father. That’s the only thing that matters. My life, any life, it means nothing without service. It is our purpose. That’s what you don’t understand.’

As she spoke, a part of Zidarov felt like slapping her. This was Ministorum talk. He’d worried about her falling in with crimi­nals. Perhaps he should have been searching the churches.

‘Your life means plenty,’ Zidarov told her. ‘To me, to your mother, it means everything.’ He reached out, placed his cannula-impaled hand on hers. ‘But we can talk about it later. For now, I’m just glad you’re safe.’

She nodded, though something in her eyes told him she’d rather have continued the speech. ‘I’m glad you’re safe, too. His Hand wards and guides.’

‘His Hand chides and instructs,’ he replied, repeating the lines from the full text.

Brecht came over to the cot then. ‘Naxi, your mother’s on her way. Could you head out to the reception and meet her?’

Alessinaxa leaned over to kiss Zidarov, gave Brecht a nod, then left.

‘Where was she?’ Zidarov asked, once she was gone.

‘Where you thought she’d be,’ Brecht said, making sure the door was closed. ‘Shacked up with friends in some dusty place down towards the old munitions works. Nothing too dangerous. She’d have come home soon, I think – the food they were eating would have done the trick on its own.’

‘And she was all right?’

Brecht hesitated. ‘Fine, I think. She seemed pleased to see me, when I finally tracked her down. Listen, though, do you know what “salvia” is? She was talking about it a bit.’

Zidarov’s scar twitched. ‘No idea. In what way?’