‘You’ve been badly hurt.’ Korentan’s voice was quiet. ‘It takes time to let the wounds heal. And it takes a particular brand of courage to fight back when you’ve lost everything.’

More hurt than you have any capacity to imagine, Acir Korentan.

Khassian regarded the Guerrior through eyes burned dry with anger, an anger that still smouldered like an incurable fever. One foot tapped an obsessive tattoo. Yes, he had been hurt. And now he was seized with a vicious desire to strike back, to hurt those who had hurt him.

‘And now you’re going to tell me that if I have the courage to start out along the Path of Thorns, I’ll find consolation for my injuries. You’ll tell me about your moment of revelation, how your life was changed forever by one flash of insight. Look – spare me the sermons, Captain. Leave me to work through this by myself.’

‘But you’re not alone.’

‘Don’t waste your breath. I don’t want to be consoled. Consolation’s a meaningless concept.’

‘Amar! Amar!’ Cramoisy burst in, then stopped, seeing Acir Korentan there. ‘Oh. It’s you. The Commanderie agent.’

‘My name is Korentan.’ Acir bowed to the Diva. ‘Captain Acir Korentan.’

‘I suppose you think us in your debt, Captain,’ continued Cramoisy, not in the least put out. ‘Is that why you’re here? What do you want of us now?’

‘You are in no way indebted to me or to the Commanderie, Diva.’ Acir’s manner at once became austerely remote. ‘I merely acted on the request of the Grand Maistre.’

‘What,’ Khassian demanded from the bed, ‘are you both talking about?’

‘He,’ Cramoisy stabbed his quizzing stick at Acir, ‘has paid off your bill. Dr Magelonne wants you out.’

‘And what does your Grand Maistre expect in return?’ Khassian said, face immobile.

‘Nothing but your full restoration to health, I assure you, Illustre,’ Korentan said stiffly.

The offices of the Sulien Chronicle were in Angel Lane, housed in a crooked little building with its upper storeys timbered, overhanging the narrow street. A clerk was seated at a desk inside, a pencil stub stuck behind his ear, another in his hand as he busily annotated a handwritten sheet.

‘Yes?’ he said without even glancing up. From somewhere at the back Orial heard the whir of machinery from the printing presses. A tang of ink hung in the air, rich and darkly bitter.

‘I wish to look at the Chronicle for the year ‘85.’

‘Upstairs.’ He gestured behind him to an ironwork spiral staircase which wound perilously upwards to a gallery above. Orial gathered her uniform skirts in one hand and climbed up slowly, step after narrow step.

The top gallery was lined from floor to ceiling with leatherbound copies of the Chronicle. Orial made her way along, craning her head to read the dates in the dim light. They appeared to be in chronological order.