Thul waves his hand as if dismissing a compliment. It makes his silken robes stir with a whisper. Thul is ageless in a way that speaks of heavy use of rejuve. His hair is thick and richly dark, and his eyes have none of the yellowing associated with those who live amongst the spires. Unlike Viskia, his teeth are white and even. When it comes to Dagra Thul, all of the rot is on the inside.

‘Just a handful of new acquisitions,’ he says, as if it hardly matters. As if the psykers are little more than gilded statues to be collected. ‘But I am not the only one, it seems.’ He smiles again and nods at Zoric. ‘Your marksman I know, though he was not so damaged before.’

Zoric doesn’t acknowledge the remark. His blunted face is still and set in a practised kind of calm, though I can see the hatred he feels for Thul in the tautness of his scars.

‘But this one,’ Thul says, gesturing languidly at Yumia now. ‘This one is not known to me.’

Yumia is incapable of calm, practised or not. She coils like a mountain-cat beside me.

‘This one is a bladeworker of Illithia,’ she says coldly, ‘and she belongs to no one.’

Thul laughs. ‘Illithia,’ he says. ‘Impressive. From what I hear there are no swifter fighters.’

‘No,’ she says, her voice low and dangerous and her hands tensing almost imperceptibly. ‘There are not.’

I glance at Yumia and her hands relax, though her scowl stays fixed in place. Thul merely laughs again.

‘You always do keep such valuable company, madame,’ he says to me with a tilt of his head. ‘But you are missing a companion, I see. Where is your dream-taker?’

Yumia more than coils beside me this time. She is as taut as tension-wire. Even Zoric shifts his posture a little.

‘She was killed,’ I say. It is an easy lie now, after so many months of saying it. ‘I have yet to replace her.’

The words sound callous, because callousness is what Dagra Thul understands. He sighs and nods his head.

‘An impossible task indeed, to replace such a prize.’

‘Indeed,’ I say, because although the word prize makes me want to spit, there is some truth to what he says. Replacing Sofika Vorros is impossible. ‘But I have not come here to speak of what is lost. I have come here to speak of dreams.’

‘Of course,’ Thul says, showing those white, even teeth again. ‘Please, sit.’

I join him amongst the furs and finery. Zoric and Yumia stay standing, two paces back. Thul’s guardians remain immobile, the veils concealing their faces stirring in the scented air. Thul pours a cup of dark wine from a silver carafe and offers it to me. I take it, and pretend to drink. The scent of the wine is heavy and deep and reminds me of blood.

‘I seek a very particular dream,’ I say.

Thul pours his own cup and takes a drink.