He was a simple soldier, accustomed to hardship and the ways of war. He had spent his years as a Guerrior fighting the Enhirrans to take back the birthplace of the Poet-Prophet Mhir. He could not understand the Sulien Smalltalk about weather, who had won at lansquenet, who had danced the cotillion with whom at the Rooms last night… Had they no idea what was happening beyond the borders of Tourmalise? The world was turning upside down!

At the poste restante, he asked if any letters were awaiting him. One had arrived from Allegonde: he recognised the crimson rose-seal of the Commanderie. He signed for it and took it away to read in private.

It was drizzling again, a fine, cold mist that seemed to penetrate every pore. Acir Korentan shivered and turned up his collar. He could not get used to this dismal climate. After five long years campaigning in the red deserts of Enhirrë, he felt the damp in his bones.

Acir had been wounded on campaign. A scimitar slash across the shoulder in Enhirrë had left him babbling with wound fever for days; an arrow in the thigh at the siege of Ondhessar. Each time, thanks to the skill of the surgeons and his faith in Mhir, he had recovered with only a scar – and this cursed aching in damp weather – as evidence of his brush with death.

A thin, dark-burning smoke issued from behind the steamy windows of the shop opposite. He sniffed. The aroma of roasting qaffë beans was too potent to resist.

He pushed open the door of the qaffë shop and seated himself in an obscure corner, close to the fire. The milky Tourmalise concept of qaffë was insipidly weak compared to the strong, darkly aromatic drink he had come to appreciate in Enhirrë. Maybe it was something in the roasting of the beans… But the qaffë shop, with its dark-varnished wooden booths, would offer privacy and warmth in which to read Girim’s letter.

When the owner had brought him a steaming copper pot of hot qaffë, he poured himself a cup and broke the seal.

‘My dearest confrère…’

Dearest confrère. The words warmed Acir’s heart. ‘A diplomatic mission of the utmost delicacy,’ Girim had said, ‘which is why I have confided in you, Acir, as I can confide in no one else.’

‘I am sorry to read that your efforts on behalf of our friend have so far proved fruitless. Persevere, I beg you.’

Acir drank his qaffë, feeling his chill finger-tips slowly thawing. As he placed the cup back on its saucer and reached for the pot to pour a second cup, he was suddenly riven by the thought that this – even this – simple action was beyond Amaru Khassian.