Dagra Thul’s palatial estate is high in the spires of Tashkent Hive. Up here, above the pollutant-line, Terra still has the heart to snow. I see the dense cloud of white and grey enclosing us through the armaglass viewports in the doors of the Crypsis as Tomo sets the craft down on the landing pad.

‘Keep her cycling,’ I tell the pilot over our discrete comms network. ‘The engines will freeze out up here, otherwise.’

‘As you wish, lord,’ Tomo replies. I hear him start humming before he cuts the link, and know he will be sat with his boots up on the control panel, reading. Tomo is always reading.

The back ramp of the Crypsis eases down onto the snowy landing platform, and a cold rush of air blows in. Snow dashes against my face and armour, and I am reminded of my dream again. Of the cold wind and the rain, and my father’s words.

You need not carry the lantern much longer.

‘Looks like a warm welcome,’ Zoric says flatly, drawing me from my thoughts.

‘And you wondered why I asked for killers,’ I say as we approach the party of three that await us in the storm. Two are bodyguards; gene-bulked monsters with thick brows and overmuscled, tattooed arms. They are armed with gilded shields and shock mauls. The third is a richly dressed, cord-thin woman, who smiles when we hit the bottom of the ramp. Her hair is strung with gold wire, and her teeth are black and blunted.

‘Hello, Viskia,’ I say to her, over the noise of the storm.

‘Madame Ravara,’ Viskia says, with a nod of her head. The heavily augmented cyber-mastiff at her side burrs a growl, its muzzle a mess of frozen drool and necrotised flesh. It stops when Viskia rests one of her thin hands on the crown of its head.

‘Welcome back to the Reverie,’ Viskia continues. ‘The Master awaits you inside.’ Her smile flickers as she takes in Zoric and Yumia. ‘Weapons,’ she sniffs, and I can’t say for sure if she means the two of them, or what they carry. ‘I very much doubt that you will find the need for them here.’

I laugh. It is something I do sparingly, and usually for show. ‘Only a fool would find themselves unarmed in these times.’

There is a pause, but then Viskia laughs, too. It is a ritual as much as anything. There are only two things that Dagra Thul and his staff respect. Displays of wealth, and displays of power. To arrive without weapons would suggest that I lacked in both.

‘Very good,’ she says, before turning for the Reverie, her cyber-mastiff at her heel.

The gene-bulked bodyguards flank us on either side as we follow Viskia through the vast old-oak doors. The incredibly rare true-wood of the doors is just the first sign of extravagant wealth. The inside of Thul’s Reverie is grander than most cathedrals, with overbearing, tasteless gilding and plasterwork cladding every surface. Tapestries hang in heavy columns, and water pours constantly into a decorative spiral display in the heart of the entry hall, the thrumming of it accompanied by the delicate sound of servo-creatures plucking at bone and gold harps with their wastrel arms. Zoric grunts in disdain, though he has seen it before. Yumia is less discreet. She wears her disgust plainly on her face.