For a moment he thought he had moved Magelonne as he saw a doubting frown pass across the doctor’s face. Then as the constables hustled Khassian out, Magelonne pointedly turned his face away.

‘This man may try to do himself some mischief,’ Fiammis said to the constables. ‘He should be restrained.’

‘As you wish, Contesse.’

They drew Khassian’s wrists together in front of him; the fine lace fell away, revealing the raw-scarred remains of his hands. He sensed them hesitate – then clamp on the manacles. Cold metal chafed his damaged flesh as they forced him back into the closed carriage. Fiammis delicately lifted her dark skirts and climbed up after them, closing the door. She sat, placing her parasol across her lap, smoothing out her skirts, each movement elegant yet precise.

‘At least let me leave word for Cramoisy,’ Khassian said.

‘He will be informed. In good time.’

The carriage rolled out into the silent streets of Sulien, the ring of the iron-bound wheels echoing in the night. Khassian eyed the door, wondering if it would be possible to throw himself against it – and out on to the street. But he was wedged too tightly between the burly constables to make any sudden move. And the carriage was going faster now, leaving the city, making for the border road. Soon it would start the slow, winding climb towards the gorge and the foothills of the mountains.

He was to be handed over to the faceless inquisitors of the Commanderie.

They would order him to recant, to make public confession of his sins. He would refuse – less out of bravery than sheer stubbornness. Then they would work on him mentally, physically, until he broke. And when they broke him, he would lose the last tatters of dignity, of self-respect.

He would rather die than endure the humiliation.

Numb and cold with dread, Khassian began to shiver.

The exchange took place not long after midnight at a lonely watchpost high in the mountains above Sulien.

As the Sulien Constabulary carriage slowed, stopped, Khassian became aware of a mosaic of tiny sounds embellishing the silence of the mountain night: the fretful rattle of nightjars, the distant hooting of a snow-owl, the sighing of wind in the tall cinder pines.

Another carriage stood waiting beyond the borderline. The constables helped Khassian down. One tripped on the rough, stony road, lost his grip – and Khassian ducked free.

Vain fantasies of escape danced through his brain as he ran. And then he caught a rush of movement from the shadow of the pines.

Guerriors.

‘Stay where you are!’ cried Fiammis. Her voice pierced the cold air, keen as a crossbow bolt.

As his eyes adjusted to the night, he saw them more clearly. Half a dozen armed men, grey as night shadows, swiftly closing in on him.

And she stood blocking his way, still clutching that absurd parasol – as though she could fend him off with its laces and ribbons.