‘You want me to be utterly truthful with you, Illustre?’

Khassian swallowed. The doctor’s tone had become even more detached than before.

‘Tell me the truth.’

‘I doubt you will ever regain the use of your hands. The nerves, the tendons, have been damaged beyond hope of repair. The playing of a musical instrument would be completely beyond you. I suspect you will even find it impossible to grip a pen or a conductor’s baton.’

A chill mist seemed to envelop Khassian, numbing all his senses. Somewhere, far away beyond the frosthaze, he heard Dr Magelonne still speaking.

Beyond hope of repair…

Dr Magelonne, attended by two nurses, went from the hot mineral bath to the massage room, stopping only to wipe away the moisture which steamed up his spectacle lenses. He murmured a few words of encouragement to an elderly gout-sufferer, tested the mobility of an arthritic knee-joint, admonished a new patient for not restricting himself rigidly to the prescribed diet.

‘A glass of mineral water on rising, another at midday and yet another at four. No alcohol – and definitely no spirits!’

But all the while, the stricken face of the young musician kept haunting him. It was as if he had read him a death sentence. Maybe he had been a little too harsh… but then, he believed it was better to tell the truth, no matter how painful. It might have been easier to come to terms with Iridial’s condition if the experts could have given him any kind of realistic prognosis…

‘Dr Magelonne.’ The porter came padding down the corridor towards him. ‘You have a visitor.’

‘Now?’ Dr Magelonne consulted his fob watch. Almost noon. He opened his diary, scanning the neatly written entries for the day. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

‘Said it was important. I’ve put him in the waiting room.’

Dr Magelonne opened the waiting-room door. A man was standing gazing out of the window, watching the rain trickle down the panes.

‘I’m Jerame Magelonne. How can I help you?’ he said formally.

The man turned around. He was tall, over a head taller than Magelonne. In the rain-washed light, his grey hair seemed touched with silver – yet his face was a young man’s, burned dark by long exposure to a sunlight far fiercer than that which occasionally melted the rainmists of Sulien. Most astonishing was the blue of his eyes, a steely, penetrating blue, keen as a lance.

‘My name’s Korentan. Acir Korentan.’ The stranger touched his right palm to his heart, an Allegondan greeting, Magelonne noted. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from your work, Dr Magelonne. I wondered if you could spare me five minutes or so…’

‘Are you here on your own behalf,’ Magelonne said, ‘or someone else’s?’

‘Is there anywhere more private that we could talk?’