Astonished, he looked up and saw that she had flung herself to the ground.

‘Give it here!’ she cried, snatching the parasol back.

Acir hurried over to search for the projectile amidst the weeds and grit. He could see the graze where it had scarred the stone. He prodded about with a twig, sifting through the gravel and dandelion leaves until he caught the faint glint of metal. Parting the leaves, he extricated the tiny dart and gingerly examined it.

‘A clever device,’ he said.

‘A moustiq.’ Fiammis was brushing the dirt from her clothes as she came towards him, hand outstretched to take it. ‘Ingenious little device, isn’t it? It goes in as smoothly as a gnat’s sting.’

It was exquisitely crafted – if something so lethal could be described as exquisite. The impact against the stone had hardly dented its streamlined precision.

‘Oh, and don’t touch the tip. I took the precaution of dipping it in water-snake venom.’

Acir handed it back to her without a word. His palms were sweating. Fiammis – frail, beautiful Fiammis – was a cold and calculating assassin.

‘Girim sent you to kill him.’

She carefully took the dart and, slipping a cachou box from her reticule, opened the enamel lid and placed it inside. Each movement was calculated and precise.

‘Girim sent me to bring affairs to a conclusion. One way or the other.’

‘But murder –’

‘Who would have been able to tell it was not an insect sting? Such things are not unknown. Poisoning of the blood following the sting of an insect – oedema of the body tissues, difficulty with breathing. There would have been no proof,’ She seemed consumed with cold fury, snapping at him in short, stabbing phrases. ‘And look what you’ve done to my parasol! It cost me a fortune to have it adapted. Now it’s ruined.’

‘Fiammis, what’s happened to you?’

‘I learned to survive. That’s what happened to me.’

A waft of the foetid water-lily scent rose on the breeze, cloyingly sweet.

‘Survival meant killing for a living?’

‘Oh – and the men you’ve killed in the name of the Commanderie, that’s different?’

He had no answer to that. She, the stealthy killer, the shadow assassin, had no right to employ that argument against him – and yet he knew his silence acknowledged that the accusation was just.

‘You should be in Bel’Esstar. You have no business to be here. You deliberately disobeyed Commanderie orders – you, the model Guerrior. What hold has this Khassian over you?’

‘Destroy him and you destroy all hope of reconciliation in Bel’Esstar.’

‘On the contrary. One bite from the moustiq and the rebels lose their hero. The rebellion collapses like a burst balloon. I won’t miss next time.’