‘Praise be to Him,’ I say, and Ashava and I pass through the barricades and into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

A short distance from the barricades guarded by Ligues and Sandir, we come across the site of the incident.

The still form of a man lies on the deck, a short distance from a discarded laspistol. I only know that he is one of the Vow’s watch officers by his uniform. There is not enough left of his face to recognise him otherwise. Another watch officer stands nearby, his arms folded tightly across his chest as he watches two attending medicae staff wrap the body carefully in black plastek so that it can be moved. A pair of maintenance crewmen clad in coated overalls and heavy aprons are working hard to scrub away the wide, messy circle of blood from the wall that marks the spot where the officer chose to end his life, and above it, the words painted on the wall in black, angry strokes.

All hope is lost, it says. Death is coming.

‘Blasphemy,’ Ashava murmurs.

The crew all stop what they are doing at the single spoken word. At the sight of us. One of the medicae staff drops the corner of the sheet he is holding and makes the sign of the aquila, his eyes wide above his healer’s mask. The other stands and pulls down his own mask. The man is squarely built with the practised neutral expression of a healer on his face. The gold pins on his white uniform mark him as one of the ship’s senior medicae staff.

‘Sisters,’ he says. ‘Please, pass through. We are working as quickly as we can to deal with this…’ he pauses, and glances at the body on the deck, ‘mess.’

The watch officer who is standing by and observing shakes his head. ‘He had a name,’ he says.

The senior medicae turns to look at him. ‘Not any more,’ he says. ‘You know what happens to the names of the faithless.’

The officer laughs in the way of the grieving. A harsh, humourless bark. ‘He wasn’t faithless,’ he says. ‘Not before this.’

‘Your name,’ I ask the officer. ‘What is it?’

He blinks. Blanches.

‘Marton Kallis,’ he says. ‘I am second watch officer for this deck.’ Kallis pauses, and his eyes slide to the body on the deck. ‘First officer, now.’

‘Then this man was your superior,’ I say.

Kallis nods. I see his throat work. ‘His name was Alisdar Van Roys. He had twenty-seven years’ service. Exemplary. Prayers at morning, noon and night.’

‘These words would suggest different,’ Ashava says.