‘You’re teasing me.’ He essayed a little laugh and turned away to the desk to pick up a travel permit. ‘Now with regard to Khassian –’

‘After all Acir’s years of faithful service to the Cause…’ she said. Her voice was brittle as the trembling crystal chandeliers above their heads ‘… you had his body stripped and left unburied. Don’t deny it. I was there. I heard what you said.’

He had no time to argue about insignificant matters now. The Rose had bloomed. He must ride to Sulien.

He straightened up, the travel permit in his hand.

‘If it had not been for you, he would still be alive.’

She was still pointing the parasol at him – directly at his eyes.

‘My dear Contesse.’ Girim put up one hand, backing away. His other hand reached vainly for the bell on his desk. ‘Let’s discuss this. Let’s–’

There was a quiet click and before he could swerve away, the dart entered his eye.

Blood flooded his vision – black blood, streaming down, blotting out the light.

From somewhere far distant he thought he heard a woman’s laughter, crystalline, mirthless, manic.

And then oblivion claimed him.

Girim’s secretary looked up from the letter he was penning.

What was that sudden crash in the Grand Maistre’s room? And, sweet Mhir, who was that laughing?

He put down his pen and crept to the door, trying to spy through the keyhole.

She was standing with her back to the door and her whole body seemed to shake with this never-ending crazed laughter.

It sent a chill through him.

He ran into the corridor and began to shout aloud, ‘Help! Murder! Help!’

Flanked by Guerriors, he flung open the doors.

She turned to face him, still laughing.

And what they saw beyond the Contesse Fiammis made them stop, staring.

Girim nel Ghislain lay on the polished floor. The body still twitched a little – but one look at the ruined eye, pooling blood on to the floor, told that the Grand Maistre was dead.

‘I killed him,’ she said.

The Guerriors seized hold of her, wrenching the parasol from her hands.

She did not offer any resistance.

‘You – you damned murderess!’ said the secretary. He felt sick. He kept finding himself stealing looks at the body of his master – and wishing he hadn’t. Blood trickled sluggishly from the pierced eye, from the ear and one corner of the slack mouth.

‘Murderess? I am only what he made me,’ she said. ‘His creature. And now I am free.’

‘You’ll pay the highest price for this!’ He shook his fist in her face; a furious, redundant gesture. ‘The question. The scaffold. A long, lingering death.’

‘I have already paid – the price.’ Her speech sounded slurred.

‘What?’

‘The venom – went straight to his – brain. It may – take – a little longer – in my case –’ She suddenly slumped in the Guerriors’ arms.