He swept the Luxer up to one of the larger buildings, an oct­agonal spire that surged up from a tangle of access viaducts and then rose in steadily contracting tiers into a blustery sky. Flurries of rain gusted at him as he got out and made his way to one of several dozen entrance lobbies. This one had the highest profile, boasting marble walls and a polished floor. Plants – probably real, possibly fake – stood in gold pots outside. When the armourglass doors slid open, more planters were revealed, ­festooned with exotic flowers that looked far too healthy to be natural. Men and women in plush robes glided around the interior, or stood in huddles, or gave instructions to menials in similarly plush tabards and jerkins. A few servitors lingered at the margins – luggage haulers, mostly – though even these looked less wretched than the common run. The mirror-visored security guards prowled in pairs through the crowds, cradling autoguns.

A long reception desk stood at the far side of the chamber, crewed by implausibly young-looking staff, but Zidarov ignored that and made his way straight to the row of elevators. As he neared them, one of the ever-present guards blocked his path.

‘Can I help you, citizen?’ he asked, staring at Zidarov’s less-than-gilded appearance.

Zidarov flashed his holo-seal. ‘Probator, Bastion-U,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

The guard relaxed. ‘All is well, probator. Can I ask your business here? I’ll have to register it.’

‘What’s your duty-ident, officer?’ Zidarov asked.

‘Five-five-six-nine.’

Zidarov activated a credit transfer. ‘Just a little something for you. Go out for dinner. Enjoy yourself. But, see, I’ve really got to be moving.’

The guard checked his slate balance, then nodded. ‘All seems to be in order, probator,’ he said.

‘I’ll be heading to floor four hundred and sixty-five.’

‘His Hand, probator.’

‘His Hand, officer.’

And from then on it was easy. The floors skidded past, the elevator shuddered to a halt, the doors opened, he went down the corridors, walking confidently, attracting attention from none of the many guards he passed on the way.

The rooms up in the high floors were, if anything, more expensively appointed than those below. Every surface was hard and reflective. The air felt cleaner, scrubbed several times before being piped through the interior spaces. It smelled vaguely of crushed petals.

After walking across a wide lobby with a crimson velvety carpet, he reached an archway bearing the Terashova crest. Four figures stood under that archway, clad in dark-red armour and closed-faced helmets, all carrying mauls and stun-pistols. Their livery was different to those in the lobby on the ground floor, and Zidarov guessed they weren’t under the same set of obligations. Still, he was where he needed to be – through the arch he could see more carpet, more doors, more sets of real-looking foliage.