‘Healthy labour, confrère! Nothing better to improve the spirit. Keep the body active in the service of God.’

‘But look at them – exhausted, dispirited.’

One of the Sanctuarees began to cough, a racking, shuddering cough that shook his stooping frame.

‘And ill.’

‘We have a dispensary here,’ nel Macy said defensively.

‘Are you feeding them? They look thin. Wasted.’

‘They get two substantial meals a day.’ Nel Macy stopped. ‘Look, Captain Korentan, is this some kind of Rosecoeur inspection? Be frank with me. I am well aware of your long association with the Grand Maistre.’

‘I am assigned here to join your staff,’ said Acir. ‘That is all.’ So nel Macy suspected him to be an agent of the Rosecoeur; all to the better.

A cry rang out across the yard, a shrill cry of pain and outrage. Acir swung around, hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword.

‘Nothing to bother about. They’re just tagging a new inmate.’

‘Tagging him? Like an animal? Why is this necessary?’

‘Identification, confrère. They suffer no more pain than a woman suffers when she has her ears pierced to display her gold and pearl earrings.’ Before Acir could pursue the subject, nel Macy had steered him towards an open doorway, saying, ‘Let me show you the dormitories.’

The dank walls of the old prison had been coated with whitewash but a musty prison smell still lingered. The Governor unlocked a door and showed Acir a bare chamber fitted with bunk beds, six along each side.

‘See? All clean, all functional. Every man has his own sheet and blanket. The Sanctuarees run the laundry. We are self-sufficient here.’

On the far wall, Acir caught sight of a wooden rose, crudely painted crimson and green. The only evidence of the Faith he had seen so far in the Sanctuary.

‘We observe our devotions every morning and every night. Each officer is assigned a different dormitory,’ said the Governor, as though reading Acir’s thoughts. ‘Now – it may happen that one of our charges experiences the desire to convert. He must then undergo a series of spiritual trials. If at the end of this period he is still strong in his convictions, then we open our arms to him and welcome him into the faith.’

‘Does this happen often?’

‘The spiritual trials are, of necessity, rigorous. We have to be certain, Captain. Very certain.’

Acir stood at the barred window of his cell and gazed down into the yard.

How could the dream have turned out like this, in dour prison walls and cowed prisoners, tagged like animals? In the shadow of fear, fear which had settled over the whole city like a chill cloud, which blew through the deserted streets like the cold, dry Fevre wind?