The other singers sprang to their feet, closing ranks. Acir was outnumbered. He would not retreat now; that would be undignified. Open confrontation was inevitable.

He entered the chamber.

‘Korentan.’ Khassian straightened up.

Orial was fanning Cramoisy’s face; she glared at Acir as he walked past her. The other singers closed in around him but he kept on walking until he had reached the keyboard.

‘For one moment then, Captain, I truly believed you had come to kill us,’ said Khassian.

Acir picked up the sheets of music from the keyboard.

‘“Elesstar – Act Three,” ‘he read aloud.’ “Enter Elesstar, distracted.” ‘He threw the sheets down again. The keyboard player grabbed them, clutching them to his breast as if he feared Acir would tear them up.

‘So now you have discovered our secret,’ Khassian said quietly, ‘what are you going to do about it?’

‘There is no law against the practising of music in Sulien,’ Valentan put in.

‘Why do you persist with this opera?’ Acir asked, ignoring Valentan, addressing Khassian alone.

‘Because I have to.’

‘No. Because it’s seditious. Because it warps the words of the poetprophet, bends them to suit your aims. Because you alter Mhir from a visionary to a revolutionary.’

The other singers drew closer still.

‘Some might say that the two were the same. Mhir spoke out against the oppressive rule of the Shultan. What was that if not revolutionary?’ Khassian had turned to the others. ‘Let’s give the Captain a further taste of sedition. The “Freedom” chorus.’

Valentan struck a chord on the keyboard and Khassian began to sing. The other singers glanced uncertainly at each other, and then first one, then the others, joined in until the chamber throbbed to their mingled voices.

‘You can’t stop it!’ cried Khassian. ‘You can kill the singer – but the song will still be sung.’

A sudden thrilling swerve of key brought all the voices in unison, all singing the refrain together:

‘Freedom, freedom!’

Sunset had warmed the roseate stone of the city of Sulien to flame and gold; window panes were afire with the last glory of the dying light.

Acir stood at the railing and gazed down over the darkening city.

Khassian’s music smouldered on in Acir’s mind, dark as holy fire. It had touched his heart, his soul. He had been unprepared for this assault, unprotected.

How could the mind that had conceived and fashioned such ravishing sounds be labelled corrupt?

Amaru Khassian was a true visionary.

‘Good evening, Acir.’

She sat in his chair, one hand resting on the table, the other caressing the handle of the parasol which lay across her lap.

‘F-Fiammis.’ He stumbled over her name, shocked to see her here in his lodgings. ‘How did you –’