Zidarov followed the directions. Beyond the waiting chamber was a long corridor with many doors branching from it. The smell of chems grew stronger. A number of the doors were of heavy-grade construction and had security locks on them – more than you’d need, he guessed, for just keeping regular narc-heads out. The floor was plasticky but tidy, the walls hung with standard Ministorum injunctions about bodily cleanliness being part of spiritual holiness. One of the lumens flickered in there, too. Was he the only one that noticed these things?

Peravov’s private chamber was behind a standard plastek-panel door. Zidarov went through without knocking, and entered a small room stacked heavily with locked filing cabinets. Somewhat lost in the middle of those was a desk, at which sat Peravov himself. He was a shrewish man with a balding pate and a long, avian nose. He wore medicae robes, which looked just about clean enough. His face was jowly and wrinkled, and he had a pronounced overbite.

It was odd, Zidarov reflected, that rejuve merchants so rarely looked after themselves the way they did their patients. Then again, they knew what was in the elixirs.

‘Probator,’ said Peravov, in a reedy, ingratiating voice. ‘How can I help you?’

Zidarov pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. He looked around him. The room smelled musty. Over the desk hung an icon depicting the Angel Sanguinius, something of a patron saint for medical practitioners. Its mournful painted eyes looked out over a scene of ingrained shabbiness.

‘How’s business?’ Zidarov asked.

Peravov shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Not so bad.’

He was nervous, but that was to be expected. Zidarov saw him struggle not to wring his hands together.

‘I see you’re working in rejuve,’ Zidarov said.

‘Quite so. I have the permissions, if you wish to–’

‘I’m sure they’re in order.’ Zidarov smiled at him coldly. ‘Not that they’re worth much, are they?’

Peravov had the wherewithal to look affronted. ‘I can assure you that–’

‘It doesn’t matter. I might take a look at them later. I want to know about the market.’

‘The market?’

‘The market for your supplies. I understand it’s been difficult. Is that right?’

‘It has been. We try to keep the prices down, but the permits take longer to come through than they used to.’

‘What’s the cause of that?’

‘I’m not a void merchant, probator.’

‘I understand that. What do your suppliers tell you?’

The man looked like he knew he was being manoeuvred into a trap, and spoke cautiously. ‘This is between ourselves, right? I’m no expert. But they tell me the off-world routes are all compromised. Nothing much coming in. Not much going out. I’m talking the sector trade. It happens, from time to time. But it seems worse. Worse than I’ve known it, anyway. Prices for raw inputs are high.’

‘So where do you get your supplies?’