On the third day, after several minutes’ incessant knocking, I opened the door to find Steward Stylee.

‘My lord.’ He bowed, presenting me with an engraved letter adorned with the governor’s personal seal. ‘I would advise you attend,’ he warned before departing.

I read the note. It invited me to join Dolos that afternoon for an excursion to a nearby distillery. The request was framed in casual language, but repeated reference was made to how I had been enjoying the governor’s hospitality, the implication being that it could be swiftly withdrawn.

So, that afternoon, I met Stylee at the château’s rear as instructed, accompanied solely by Kikazar. The invitation had been unclear as to whether the seer-skull was permitted, but I gambled that Dolos would be reluctant to interfere with my duties, and probably desired to show something of importance.

Steward Stylee bowed at my approach, his tapered hat flopping over his face. It was a curious article of clothing, a quality it shared with the long-sleeved black robe that swallowed his scrawny frame. In a different setting, perhaps a dungeon with flanking firebrands, he might have cut a sinister figure. But in the fierce heat of the afternoon sun the garment seemed incongruous, bordering on farcical.

‘Lord Simlex. So glad you could attend,’ he said, his tone at odds with his words. ‘The governor’s private yacht awaits. I will escort you, just to ensure you do not become lost.’

I ignored that last barbed remark, following him across the grounds, my gaze flicking to the bunker where Plient lay comatose. I had broken my isolation to speak once with the chirurgeon, but Plient’s condition was unchanged. The medicines and narcotics utilised by the infirmary were distilled on Bacchus using traditional methods, and their potency could vary significantly.

That was his claim anyway. It was equally possible that he bungled the dosage. How would I know?

The château’s rear grounds held an echo of the estate’s former glory. Two horticultural servitors were trimming the remnants of an ornamental hedge maze. It was a pitiful sight, the mindless cyborgs meticulously shaping the foliage, heedless that half the labyrinth had already been torched, leaving only mud, black stumps and a rather obvious route to the centre.

But we then passed a thick line of trees, and in doing so entered another world.

Or perhaps an older world, one from before Bacchus was at war. The grass was a lush green, the flame-leaved trees trained to form an archway and canopied passage, their leaves offering blessed shade from the sweltering heat. We crossed a glimmering bridge of polished stone, beneath which flowed a stream of crystal-clear water, populated by scarlet fish with shimmering scales. The flow must have been hermetically sealed from the surrounding swamp, but the work was flawless and I could see no join.