The twilit avenue was filled with a sea of bobbing torches; a procession of citizens was winding down towards the Winter Palace. They were singing, chanting the Psalms of Mhir.

‘What is this? Why are they singing?’

His guards still did not answer; the wagon followed the procession to the Winter Palace.

On the torchlit balcony of the Grand Maistre’s apartments, Khassian saw the figure of a man, clad in a simple white robe. Girim nel Ghislain stood beside him, attended upon by several of the Commanderie.

As the chanted psalm died away, Girim nel Ghislain lifted his arms to the crowd.

‘The unbeliever repents. Rejoice with me as yet another convert is born again into the Faith.’ He turned to the white-clad man beside him who dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of his robe. Girim nel Ghislain placed his hands upon his bowed head – and then raised the man to his feet again, embracing him.

A cheer rose from the crowd and the chanting began again.

‘The moment is drawing nearer,’ Girim cried. ‘The time is almost upon us. But not until all have bowed to the name of Mhir will He know that His city is ready to receive Him again.’

Khassian watched in growing fury.

‘Why insult my intelligence by forcing me to watch this charade? Who ordered me to be brought here?’

‘The Grand Maistre himself. He felt it would prove edifying.’

That night as Khassian lay sleepless in his cell, he saw nothing but the musicians’ eyes – empty of accusation, empty of hope, empty of everything except exhaustion.

So many fine musicians, sensitive, skilled performers, whose only crime had been to make music – his music – condemned to an endless misery of hard labour.

‘Next.’ Acir pretended to be examining the nib of his pen and did not even glance up as the two Guerriors brought Amaru Khassian into the chamber.

‘Sit down,’ he said. He would not look Khassian in the eyes, not in the presence of the Guerriors. He was too afraid he would betray their familiarity – and now everything hinged on his remaining aloof, preserving the appearance of the dedicated Commanderie officer.

‘I prefer to stand.’

Acir flinched, hearing blatant defiance in Khassian’s voice. He looked up and saw what the ravages of Sanctuary life had done to the musician. Hair matted, unkempt, face grimy beneath a ragged growth of beard, Sanctuary overalls stained with slopped food. Only the eyes were recognisable – though now they stared wildly back at Acir, burning with an ungovernable fury.

‘Leave us,’ he said to the Guerriors.

‘The Sanctuaree could be violent, Captain.’

Had they been given orders not to leave them alone together? Exactly what had Fiammis told Girim – and what had the Grand Maistre deduced from her report?

Acir slowly turned around. He allowed his mouth to curve in an ironic smile.

‘I think I am well able to look after myself, confrère.’