‘Music is the most powerful manipulator of the emotions. In the hands of the corrupt, the spiritually warped, it can be a terrifying weapon. My role is to protect the vulnerable, the innocent, the untainted, Illustre. I have to guard my flock from the wolves.’

‘And you’ve marked me down as a wolf?’ Khassian smiled, an ironic smile.

‘If I read this libretto aright, you planned to depict the seduction of the Blessed Mhir by the Angel Messenger sent by Iel the All-Seeing. The carnal seduction.’

‘Mhir’s words are explicit: “Then he put His mouth to my mouth and His tongue was a scorching flame. The fire of His words flowed into –”‘

‘You have no need to quote the holy texts to me, Illustre. I have spent a lifetime in study and contemplation of Mhir’s words. And I find your interpretation a lewd distortion of what is essentially a poetic metaphor.’

‘So you deny the power of the metaphor? Mhir’s metaphor?’

‘I question your motives in portraying literally what was meant to be interpreted metaphysically. I question your motives in portraying Mhir on stage in a work of entertainment. In my opinion this opera of yours is a blasphemous abomination. The anger it arouses amongst true believers is justified.’

‘Oh, so they were justified in trying to burn us alive?’

‘I do not condone the arson attack upon you and your company. But your opera has stirred up strong feelings, Illustre. Dangerous feelings.’

Khassian had focussed his attention on the Grand Maistre’s hands; the nails perfectly manicured, the skin smooth and pale and supple. The hands of an aesthete, one who does not sully his fingers with everyday matters, Khassian thought. Before the fire his own hands had always been stained with ink, the nails chewed: craftsman’s hands; honest hands.

‘Together, Illustre, we could re-fashion your opera into a celebration of Mhir’s life. The aggressive musical language of your recent works would be wholly inappropriate, of course. But a composer as versatile as you would have no problem adapting his style to create a less contentious work.’

Girim was looking at him over steepled fingers. His eyes were colourless; neither the grey of winter skies nor the pale brown of endless sands. For a moment Khassian was balancing on the top of a dizzy precipice; far below the clouds eddied and swirled.

He gasped in a deep breath.

‘Impossible.’

The steepled fingers slowly lowered. There was silence in the panelled chamber; even the scratching pen stopped.

‘I beg you to reconsider,’ Girim said quietly. ‘We can find you an amanuensis.’

‘You understand nothing about music! Even with an amanuensis, it would be impossible. You ask me to compromise my name as a composer, to compromise my own style, my own voice – I will not do it.’

‘So be it.’ Girim turned to the secretary. ‘Let it be set down that I offered the Illustre Khassian the opportunity to recant. And he refused.’