‘Have you been blind to what’s happening in Sulien? Dissenters are drawn to Amaru Khassian, like wasps to a honeycomb. He’s been plotting his retaliation right under your nose. It could mean the end of all our plans, all our dreams, Acir. He must be stopped.’

‘I – I need time to think.’

“The time for thinking is past. This cell of revolutionaries must be broken up. Crushed. Eradicated.’

‘They’re only musicians –’

Girim moved closer still.

‘Am I your superior officer?’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ Acir said wretchedly.

“Then do not question my orders again. Your vow, Acir.’ Girim thrust out his hand. ‘Obedience. In all things.’

Torn, Acir hesitated – and then slowly sank to his knees to kiss the ring.

‘Come to my apartments in the Palace tonight. I have new instructions for you.’

As Acir emerged from Mhir’s shrine into the daylight, he caught a distant snatch of song that made him stop and gaze upwards.

A single voice at first, from high up in the scaffolding, faint, ragged, as the singer gasped in breath as he worked… and then another joined in, and another, until the melody swelled and soared. The singing was rough, rhythmical – and fervent. And the song – he recognised it, he knew he had heard it before.

‘Silence those men!’ ordered Girim. He could hardly be heard above the singing.

Guerriors went swarming up the ladders to the high platform.

The singing faltered – and died, to be replaced by muffled cries and grunts of pain.

Acir turned to Girim, shocked at the brutality of the punishment.

‘What’s the harm in singing?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t we sing in Enhirrë when we were restoring the birthplace shrine?’

‘But we sang the Psalms of Mhir. This is no work-song but an act of blatant defiance. Don’t you recognise it?’ Girim was regarding him with keen attention.

‘It was too faint to catch the sense of the words.’

‘“Freedom freedom…” by Amaru Khassian. Now do you see what damage your failure to complete your mission has done?’

Girim nel Ghislain had been given apartments in the Winter Palace at the request of His August Highness the Prince Ilsevir.

As Acir made his way to the Grand Maistre’s headquarters, the panelled walls painted in grey and creamy white, the delicate plasterwork adorning the ceiling and cornices with gilded bows and knots of flowers, all presented a significant contrast with the austerity of the Commanderie headquarters where he had first taken his vows.

‘Your orders, Captain.’ A secretary handed a sealed paper to Acir.

‘I thought I was to see the Grand Maistre in person.’

The secretary regarded him coldly over his spectacles.

‘I have no record of an appointment. The Grand Maistre is dining with the Prince tonight.’

Acir broke the seal and scanned the page.

‘Why is this assigning me to the Sanctuary?’ he said, shaking his head in confusion. ‘I understood I was to return to Sulien –’